by Scott Craven
“OK, see ya.”
So much for meaningful conversation.
Luke slipped out the door and was gone, leaving me alone with my thoughts. And the first one was, You are going to be late to class.
My thought was right. I still had to shower and change.
It wasn’t until I looked at my watch that I noticed the time—and it was time to panic.
The watch wasn’t there.
My dad had given me a Walking Dead watch, featuring a couple of zombies on the face. Though it offended my zombie sensibilities—I was on a permanent flesh-free diet—it was pretty cool. And my dad loved the irony, telling me, “You can set the alarm for noon, so when you get hungry, you will know it’s lurch time. Get it?”
The watch must have come off while Robbie tried to turn me into scrap parts. I scanned the mat, but no sign.
Nothing on the floor or along the walls. I noticed several tables that had been pushed into the corner, rolled out each day for lunch. There was plenty of room for something to slide underneath and out of sight.
I put my cheek to the floor and saw dust, hair … a taco! Too bad Luke left.
Something else. Small, black. It looked promising.
I reached as far as I could, felt plastic, put my hand over it, and slid it out.
My watch, thank goodness. But trapped below it was a piece of paper.
A bold headline across the top caught my attention. “Do you have a brain?” Right below it, in slightly smaller type, was, “If so, beware of zombies looking for a snack.”
Not good. I scanned the rest. I hadn’t seen such anti-zombie propaganda since Night of the Living Dead. I folded it and tucked it into my back pocket, realizing Robbie wasn’t my only worry this semester.
What the heck was the NZN Network? And what did it have against the undead?
Chapter Two
There are three reasons zombies tend not to blend in well at school.
First: No amount of spray tan can hide the gray pallor.
Two: I can bathe ten times a day and still give off a slight whiff of ZO (zombie odor).
Three: Bullies consider detachable limbs to be a party game.
That’s why I was in a pretty good mood when school let out the week before Christmas. The sevvies had beaten the eighth graders for the first time ever, and Anna and I had patched up our troubles. She was honest about first being interested in me when she thought I could bring her over to the undead (my mom’s lectures about eating well and cleaning up after yourself had a much better chance at turning someone into a zombie).
But I believed her when she admitted becoming interested in me as a person rather than someone with detachable body parts. I had that effect on people when I turned on the charm.
But the best thing about being on break? Two blissful weeks living in a world where I would not have to encounter those “Beware of flying limbs” signs that were posted in and around Pine Hollow Middle School in the final week of the winter semester. Apparently the administration considers flying limbs a health hazard, rather than the bullies who hurl them.
But none of that was on my mind when, with happy (if non-beating) heart, I sat down with Mom and Dad for our annual exchanging of the Christmas lists, which again took place on my first day of winter break.
Since I was at the time blissfully unaware of what the next semester held (and my future role as wishbone), I grinned as Mom, Dad, and I took our spots at the kitchen table. I clutched my list nervously, since once again it contained an item I’d always dreamed about.
Tradition dictated that Mom went first. She started as she always did, with the origin story.
“As the Rivers clan gathers once again to make sure Christmas morning is not the disaster it once was, let us reflect on the horrible holiday gifts past,” she started, looking squarely at Dad. “Because those who are not shamed by history are doomed to repeat their bad choices.”
No matter how many times I heard this, I still loved it.
“It began long before the arrival of the Rivers’ first-born, in 1989, our first Christmas together,” Mom continued. “It was a vacuum cleaner, a horrid choice no matter its seventeen detachable tools and fifteen-amp motor.
“Hon, in my defense—” Dad began.
“SILENCE!” Mom yelled. “You know the rules.”
Dad put his head down, his broad smile remaining.
“Let us recall the George Foreman grill of 1994, given to me in my vegetarian phase,” Mom said. “Then the tickets to Phoenix for a flight in July, when my trip to the ER for heat stroke wiped out savings from the low rates hotels there charge to get people to visit when it’s deathly hot. And the gym membership of 2000, which gave me my answer to the eternal question: ‘Does this make me look fat?’”
“I ate George Foreman-grilled celery for a month after that,” Dad whispered to me, as he did every year.
“I do not have to mention the coffeepots, the garish jewelry, and the various clothes purchased in stores that fashion-sense forgot,” Mom said. “Which brings us to the reason for this unbreakable tradition. The exchange of gift lists.”
Mom started with her list. It was tradition, and the gentlemanly thing to do.
“A pastel blue sweater, medium, with long sleeves and V-neck,” she said. “Slippers, white, with terrycloth upper, size six. Angel Beauty perfume, four ounces with spray mist, purchased alone, not in a gift pack with soap, foot lotion, and hand sanitizer.”
She looked at Dad. “No matter how much of a deal the clerk says you’re passing up,” she added.
I leaned over to my dad and whispered, “I’ll take the perfume.” He nodded.
“In addition,” Mom continued, “here are links should you want more details, or to order them online. Go off the list at your own peril.”
Mom glared at Dad, then winked at me. This was part of tradition too. She trusted me to go off the list, like I did last year when I gave her a hand-painted plate that showed my version of the family around the tree. It was awful, but moms eat that kind of stuff up. She has it in a stand near her bed, which is cool because my friends never go in there.
Dad held out his list and cleared his throat. Mom and I were prepared to cringe.
Throughout the year, Dad took notes as he watched TV. Infomercials, mostly. Products that roasted or trimmed or juiced or cleaned or sliced and diced, he took it all down in detail. Each year Mom and I would get one thing on his list, but no more. We learned “As seen on TV” items hardly ever worked as seen on TV.
“First, I would like The Amazing Bottle Cutter, which turns ordinary bottles into everything from everyday glasses to beautiful works of art,” he said. “I’d also like the Tumblestoner.”
He reached into his pocket and placed a chunk of gravel on the table.
“It takes millions of years for nature to turn a piece of gravel into a polished gem,” Dad said, who’d seen the commercial so many times he’d memorized it. “But the Tumblestoner does the same in just six months thanks to its patented tumbling action. Mount your new gems on the included tie tacks, necklaces, and earrings, and prepare for the envious looks of your friends.”
I wanted to say, “Prepare to be unfriended on Facebook after giving everyone a rock,” but I knew not to interrupt Dad when he was on a roll.
“Finally, I’d like the Flopchopper. Flop it to chop, flip it to chip. Its diamond-sharpened blades are easy to clean with the enclosed safety gloves. But wait, there’s more. Your first emergency room visit is covered, and up to seven stitches included for free.”
I was leaning toward the Tumblestoner. The fewer sharp things around Dad, the better.
“Jed, your turn,” Mom said. “Or do we really need to ask?”
“No,” I said. “Same as last year. And the year before. And the year before that, and that, and that.”
“We get it,” Mom said. “And you know what will happen. Same as last year. And the year before. And the year
before that, and that, and that.”
“I figured. But it doesn’t mean I’m changing my mind.”
For as long as I can remember—and I recall when I was three and stuck a fork in the electrical outlet and felt this weird thumping in my chest for a few seconds—I’ve wanted one thing more than anything else.
A dog. Nothing as fancy as a golden retriever, or as smart as a border collie. If it had four legs and fleas, I’d be happy. I was almost to a point where if I got a hamster, I’d put a collar on it and call it Fido.
“A dog is just not a good idea now,” Dad said. “We both work, you’re at school. You don’t want a dog moping around the house all day. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“So having him mope at the pound is better?” I said. “At least until someone decided his time was up and—”
“We know what can happen, and we can’t be responsible for what happens to every dog unfortunate enough to be homeless,” Dad said. “You also know that’s not an argument that’s going to get you a dog.”
“So what is an argument that will get me a dog?”
Mom sighed. “Jed, honey, this is just not the best time. Dogs require so much work and we’re at capacity right now with your condition and—”
“What? My condition? My CONDITION?”
“God, Jed, that’s not what I meant, you know that,” Mom said. “There are just other things we have to think about that other families don’t deal with.”
“You mean my condition. Just like you said. Maybe if I was a normal kid, a dog wouldn’t be out of the question. But since I tend to spend so much of my time being dead, a dog might not be a good idea. He could chew my arm off and bury it somewhere.”
“Jed, I will not be talked to in that tone.”
“Then you’ll have to call school and say, ‘I’m sorry, my zombie son seems to have misplaced his arm and he won’t be in today. He’d misplace his head if it wasn’t screwed on, and of course we’re not really sure it is.’”
“Stop that now, young man, do you hear me!” Dad shouted. “Your mom and I deserve your respect, and you will give that to us now.”
I shrunk in my chair. I’d spent days planning for this moment. Had a list tucked into my back pocket: Ten Reasons Why a Dog Would be a Cool Member of Our Family. I was going to be calm, confident, and convincing. The three Cs of getting a dog.
But my condition? Is that what they thought I was? A condition? All this time I’d appreciated them not treating me any differently than the billions of normal kids on the planet.
“My condition?” I said in a very small voice. “Really?”
I knew what was coming next, so before the order was issued, I pushed back from the table, stood up, and went to my room.
I shut my door, kneeled, and reached under my bed. My hand felt the comforting softness of the dog bed I bought about a week ago, after saving up months of allowance.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. I was going to be calm, confident, and convincing. And just when they were actually considering the possibility, I was going to lead them into my room and pull out the dog bed and show them where he would sleep. That way when he needed to go out in the middle of the night—
But there was no sense thinking about that anymore.
That’s when I found out that even though I had a body incapable of making many tears, I didn’t need them for a good cry.
Chapter Three
Waking up the next morning, the previous night’s argument with Mom and Dad still left a bad taste in my mouth. It was different than the normal bad taste in my mouth. Zombie morning breath can clear a room. Trust me.
Turning over to look at the clock, I noticed my left arm was numb. Not just numb, because such things don’t happen to zombies. At some point, the arm detached itself, but it had to be close. Arms just don’t get up and walk away. Legs, maybe. But not arms.
I lifted my sheets with the one arm still with me, and looked toward the foot of my bed. There it was, bent at the elbow looking like a fleshy boomerang. There also was a thin trail of Ooze. Ooze kept me alive. For anyone else, losing a limb was a pretty big deal. We’re talking doctors, hospitals, surgeries, months of rehab. And the medical bills? You could buy a mansion on the beach for what it cost to reattach just a hand. Me? All I need is thirty-eight cents in duct tape and staples (I did the math for a paper on America’s health care crisis, concluding that if everyone were a zombie, the country would save enough money to buy Canada, if it wanted to buy Canada).
Now that the sheets sported a small Ooze stain, laundry was my first chore of the day. No problem since years ago Mom found the only detergent to get out Ooze. I wrote to the company about a year ago offering to do a commercial, saying it was the only soap that removed zombie-based stains. Never heard back.
Lifting my right leg, I snagged the wayward arm with my heel and dragged it toward me. Then I had another problem.
My foot had joined my arm in peaceful detachment. These were the times I’d give an arm and a leg not to be a zombie. Because I just had. Sort of.
I tend to shed limbs under two conditions. One is due to stress. The first time I remembered it happening was in fifth grade. I sat behind Erica, staring at her long, brown hair and wishing she would turn around and say, “Hi, I’m Erica, want to help me with homework?” Or at least “I’m Erica, and it would be nice if you put on deodorant every now and then.”
She was the most beautiful and popular eleven-year-old in our row, if not the whole class. One day when the teacher was passing out a history quiz, Erica reached back with the papers and our fingers brushed. The good thing was I didn’t have to take the quiz. The bad thing was I had to bring my arm to the nurse’s office for reattachment. And Erica demanded to move.
The second condition involved the physical removal of a limb. Robbie developed a twist-and-jerk motion that was very effective. Once he learned I couldn’t turn anyone into a zombie, Robbie made limb-detachment a science. He could pull off an arm faster than plucking wings off a fly. And he probably had a lot of practice at that too.
I’d lost limbs while sleeping. Maybe they got tangled in the sheets; maybe I tore one off during a nightmare.
But nothing had come off as easily as my foot did.
It had to be nerves, and the argument played a huge role. The dog bed was still in the middle of my room. I’d hoped Mom or Dad would have come up to apologize, see the dog bed, and have a change of heart. But no. They left me to stew in my undead juices.
Fine. Whatever.
I kicked off my sheets. Carefully. With the foot that was still where it should be. I sat up and grabbed my phone off the nightstand.
Attaching my foot was easy. But putting my arm back on was going to require assistance. No way was I asking Mom or Dad.
I texted my best buddy Luke, who’d also gained a bit of sevvie fame with his awesome quarterbacking in the football game.
Jed: You up?
The clock said 10:12 a.m. No way Luke was up.
The phone chimed.
Luke: Ya. What up?
Jed: You awake?
Luke: No. Still sleeping. Course I’m up. Idiot.
Jed: You busy? Need a favor.
Luke: What
Jed: Arm.
Luke: OK. 10 min.
Jed: Thx.
Luke: Ya.
This had happened so many times that Luke needed no explanation. Every now and then I timed him. His record reattachment was twenty-three seconds when he put back my left arm at the elbow. “Elbows are the easiest,” he said. “Joint is easy to find, couple of staples. When you lose an arm, I’d appreciate it if you did it at the elbow.”
Luke was going to be one unhappy medic when he saw the shoulder separation. It required at least a dozen staples, and wrapping the tape just right was very difficult to do.
Then I imagined what would happen if Luke had lost an arm. Forget about staples and duct tape. We’d need a tourniquet
to stem the bleeding, microscopic nerve and vein reattachment, at least fifty stitches. The whole time he’d be whining about how much it hurt. And blood is a lot harder to get out of sheets than a little Ooze.
Then again, his arm probably wouldn’t fall off in his sleep.
I hopped to the bedroom door on my good foot, opened it, and heard Mom and Dad talking in the kitchen.
“Are you going to get to that leak in the basement sometime today?” Dad asked.
“I’m going to have to pick up some solder first,” Mom said. She was the handyman around the house. If repairs were beyond her skill level, Dad’s chore was to call for professional intervention. “I have other shopping to do today too, so it may not be until tomorrow.”
After the argument last night, Mom and Dad dared to talk about usual stuff. I had hoped to hear this:
Dad – “I think Jed deserves a dog.”
Mom – “After treating him so horribly last night, it’s the least we can do. I’ll cook his favorite dinner too.”
Dad – “Good. I’ll take him down to the Buy-Porium and let him take the Man Van for a spin around the lot. If he does well he can drive home.”
Mom – “And maybe buy him his own car, one with a halter in the back so he can take his new dog around.”
It was my fantasy, and I’d exaggerate if I wanted to.
I shut the door and hopped back to bed. Opening up the nightstand drawer, I pulled out the staple gun and roll of gray duct tape and went to work on my foot. A few minutes later I was done. Not good as new. A bit wobbly. “Good as new” would take a day or two. Better than any non-zombie could do.
I texted Luke.
Jed: Coming?
Luke: On my way
A pause.
Luke: Anna there?
Jed: No, she’s out of town. Why
Luke: Curious. See you in a few
I debated whether or not to tell Luke about the talk I had with my parents. Luke knew I wanted a dog. He warned me to keep it under twenty pounds.
“Dude, if you are walking that dog and it sees a cat, you don’t want anything big enough to go racing down the street with your arm bouncing behind it.”