Adventures of a Middle School Zombie

by Scott Craven

  Hard.

  You have to know one thing about Zs (or, as I prefer to be called since learning the term in fourth-grade Biology, the Cardiovascularly Challenged). Oxygen isn’t really necessary. I don’t breathe unless I have to talk, but my lungs work perfectly fine.

  At that point in my life, I was still adjusting to the “blowing out” part.

  I put my lips together and let it fly.

  I should say, “Let them fly,” because when the frosting splattered, hitting a few kids on either side of the cake, I knew something very wrong had happened.

  My lips were tingling, and I was looking around for a mirror as I felt near my mouth to figure out what was going on.

  That’s when I realized my lips couldn’t be tingling because they weren’t there. Which explained why the birthday girl was screaming and pointing.

  I looked where her trembling index finger was leading everyone’s eyes. There was a little circle of hamburger meat lodged in the B in “Happy Birthday.”

  Looking more closely, I put two (missing lips) and two (lips in the cake) together.

  Luke tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Uh, Jed, your mouth,” he said. “It’s bleeding. And I think you lost, well, I’m not sure. But it’s pretty awesome.”

  I grabbed a napkin from the table and plucked my lips from the cake, because I was pretty sure I was going to need them later (I was right).

  “Jed, that was pretty cool,” Luke said. “What else can you do? Wait, blow your nose really hard.”

  Luke was pretty weird that way.

  That was the day everyone knew I was different. Their reactions were less than ideal, involving a lot of vomit (deep blue, thanks to the punch everyone had been chugging). Mom spent the next week going around the neighborhood explaining my medical condition.

  “Clinically, he’s dead,” she said on one porch after another, me by her side with a big smile on my face. “But that’s just a technical term. He’s very nice, and he loves to read.”

  As soon as she said, “He loves to read,” every single grown-up said, “Oh, what a sweet boy.”

  I’m surprised that’s not a legal defense. “He robbed twelve banks, but he loves to read.”

  “How sweet. Not guilty!”

  But at Pine Hollow, there were going to be kids from a million other elementary schools. And every one of them was only going to know about someone like me from Night of the Living Dead or, more recently and way more cool, World War Z.

  I glanced at my reflection on the toaster, which still had the scent of raspberry Pop Tarts (the official breakfast food of zombies, as far as I was concerned). I brushed my hair over my forehead, frowning when a small clump floated to the counter. Great, a gap, but if I just mess it up a little this way—

  “Jed, you’re beautiful, let’s do this,” Luke said.

  “He’s right, time to board the ManVan,” Dad said as we walked out.

  Oh no. I’d forgotten all about the ManVan. Dad had dropped me off at elementary school every day, and, after a couple of years, kids finally stopped teasing me about it. Mom and Dad bought the van when Mom was pregnant, since they were about to be a family and needed “suitable transportation, something that will fit a car seat.” Which meant Dad had to sell his ’72 yellow Camaro with the black racing stripe down the middle of the hood and roof (which I know about because Dad has a photo album titled “My Man Days” that has about a hundred photos of “Jenny,” the car he bought in 1980 and spent another three years restoring; oh, and there’s one photo of Mom—“The only time she was allowed in the driver’s seat,” Dad says, and I’m not sure he’s joking). And one day after the Camaro sold—December 7, 1998, “My own Pearl Harbor Day,” Dad says—they bought the minivan.

  Which Dad slowly turned into the ManVan.

  Luke and I stepped off the porch, and there, in the driveway, was the ManVan. Mom called it the SVU (So Very Ugly) SUV. Luke and I referred to it as the MucusMobile with PhlegmMatic Transmission.

  Dad had transferred the paint scheme from the Camaro to the van, from the bright yellow down to the racing stripe along its length—only he did it himself, so the stripe is more like a billowy ribbon. And he painted reddish and orange circles above the taillights, but didn’t bother to stay within the lines.

  “Thrusters, baby,” he explained. “And those are the flames coming out.”

  According to family legend, when Dad unveiled the repainted van, Mom said, “And I thought Jed was the brain-dead one.”

  We have come to accept the ManVan, of course, but …

  “Dad, can we take the Focus today?” I said. “It might be a little easier to park because I bet the school is going to be really crowded on the first day.”

  “Nonsense,” Dad said. “I’m just going to do what I usually do, pull up to the front and drop you guys off. Don’t worry about it.”

  “But I think the Focus has more gas; Mom just filled it.”

  “The ManVan is brimming too, don’t worry. Besides, don’t you want to stand out on your first day?”

  “Not really. I mean, look at me. Don’t you think I’m already going to stand out?”

  Dad, hand on the passenger side door, turned around. He looked at me for a few seconds. I swear his shoulders slumped as he opened the door. “Jed, we’ve been through this,” he said. “I know this is tough. We all do. But you have to embrace your differences. The sooner you accept who you are, the easier this is all going to be. Besides, everyone in middle school thinks they’re the weird one. It comes with the territory.”

  “I know,” I said. “But I’m not just different. I’m really different. Does anyone else have hair that falls out if you comb it too hard? If they twist their arms just right, do they come off? If they sneeze too hard, does their nose shoot halfway across the room?”

  Luke interrupted. “His nose record is 11 feet, 3 inches. Measured it myself. Oh, and it went all the way across the room. Epic.”

  Dad and I ignored him. We’re good at that.

  “Of course not,” Dad said. “And we all know how different you are. But just as you will swear everyone is looking at you, everyone else will be thinking all eyes are on them. It’s all a part of being thirteen. It’s awkward. But soon everyone learns to be comfortable in their own skin.”

  “Does their skin peel off in the shower? Or get left behind on the toilet? Or, or … ” Dang, I hated getting like this. I felt like such a baby. All I wanted was to not show up in a van that screamed, “Caution, freaks on board.” Was that too much to ask?

  Dad turned to the ManVan, hesitated, and shut the door. “Go ask your mom for the keys to the Focus. But Jed?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Just this once.”

  “You bet, I get it. Thanks. Really, thanks.”

  I turned to Luke and gave him a hard high five. After he gave me my hand back, and I dug out the duct tape in my backpack, I started back toward the house for the Focus keys.

  “One more thing,” Dad said. “Tonight, you will write me a fifty-word essay on good things about being a zombie. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  Chapter Three

  After Dad dropped us off in the plain-Jane, unassuming Ford Focus, Luke and I were among, like, thousands. Most walked in twos and threes through the front gate, which opened into the quad.

  The school was ugly but functional, fitting in with the whole notion of mandatory public education. The front gates were flanked by the office on the left and the cafetorium on the right. The cafetorium was part cafeteria, part auditorium, but sounded like a place where food went to die (and as all of us would soon discover, it was).

  Low, squat buildings surrounded the quad—Halls A to E running clockwise around the courtyard. Looked pretty easy to get around.

  As we headed into the quad, I pulled the crumpled schedule from my pocket, smoothed it out, and studied it, even though I’d memorized it a few weeks ago. Biology, Spanish, Math, Woodshop, Lunch, Social Studies, English, PE. L
ooked like I had a class in every building. Biology was in C Hall, which, according to the map I’d also memorized, was just across the quad. Woodshop sounded … interesting. An undead guy around sharp things. Who knows what could happen?

  “Hey sevvie, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” A high-pitched voice came from behind us.

  I looked up from my schedule and turned around, relieved to see a kid about my size, maybe even a little skinnier. He wore glasses and had brown curly hair spilling from a Boston Red Sox cap.

  “Huh?”

  “Hey, just trying to do you a favor, sevvie,” he said. “It looked to me like you were about to cut across the quad.”

  “Yeah.” The kid nodded toward the quad. “We both have first-period classes in C. And it looks like C is just across the way.”

  “And so it is. But if you keep walking like you are, you’re not going to make it. Well, on time, anyway.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said.

  He pointed to the quad. “Notice anything unusual?”

  Kids walked in packs, a lot of them focused on pieces of paper they held. Schedules, probably. Others walked slowly across the lawns, talking among themselves, and in no hurry.

  “Nope, just looks like everyone is going to class.”

  “Really? Keep watching.”

  After a minute or so, I picked up a pattern. A lot of kids seemed intent on sticking to the concrete paths that crisscrossed the courtyard. The kids with the schedules. Only the empty-handed kids cruised casually across the turf.

  I nodded. “Looks like the, uh, sevvies have to stick to the sidewalk.”

  “You got it,” the Boston Red Sox kid said. “And that is not a rule you want to violate on the first day. I’d rather sevvies learn the easy way. Not the hard way.”

  “The hard way?” I said.

  “Yeah.” Josh nodded toward the quad. “You can see what I mean right over there.”

  Luke and I turned toward the quad, which looked the same. No, wait, there was something going on in the center. Two kids were holding another kid between them, following a fourth kid, who stood a head taller than anyone else. The big kid—who am I kidding, the huge kid—stopped in the center and turned to face his, well, captive. He started to speak, but I couldn’t hear him. But I did hear the whoops and cheers that came next.

  “That’s Robbie,” the Red Sox kid said. “Robbie Zambrano. Badass dude. This is a two-year school, but this is his third year here. Or maybe fourth. Either way, if you’re a sevvie, you stay far, far away from him. He hates sevvies like he hates homework.”

  The cheers died down, and the crowd closed around Robbie, so I couldn’t see what happened next. But as it parted a few minutes later, the kid who’d been delivered to the center now sat in a trash can. All I could see was his head poking up on one side, and his knees slung over the opposite side. He was tightly wedged in there.

  “Guy’s lucky it’s the first day,” Red Sox said. “Usually a sevvie caught on the Eighth-Grade Lawn goes in headfirst. But the first one is usually the warning shot. If it was up to Robbie even the first one would go headfirst, but there are some traditions still to be cherished.”

  The kid in the trash can sat still as if comfortable, and although many students stared at him as they walked past, none moved to help.

  “Why doesn’t he just get out?” Luke said.

  “No doubt Robbie impressed upon him another tradition—once trashed, you remain so until the bell rings.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  Red Sox shook his head. “Bad idea. He gets out before time is up, he violates the trashing code. Anyone helps him, violation of the trashing code. You tell a teacher what happened—”

  “Don’t tell me,” I said. “Violation of the trashing code.”

  “You got it. The penalty is enforced after school. It involves the Dumpster behind the cafetorium. You don’t want to know.”

  “So why are you telling us this?” I said. “I don’t see anyone else getting warnings.”

  “Look, not all eighth graders are like Robbie and his pals,” Red Sox said. “Yeah, most are, but not all. We remember when we were sevvies, too.”

  “You mean last year.”

  “Yeah. And usually resentment of being a sevvie builds up until you can’t wait for next year so you can pick on the new sevvies. A vicious circle. So me and a lot of my friends, we’re just not into that. Sevvies are people too, you know?”

  He stopped and stared at me.

  “You’re him, aren’t you?” he asked. “Because that’s another reason. You’re probably going to be in for a very long year. I got trashed, what, two times last year, and that was the worst. But you, man, you have your work cut out for you.”

  “What are you talking about?” Luke said, stepping toward Red Sox, putting his face an inch from the brim of the kid’s cap. “Why is he in for a long year? Just what are you trying to say?”

  Red Sox stepped back. “We’ve all heard the rumors. The stories. So, you know, we’re all curious.”

  “What exactly have you heard?”

  “About the zombie kid. Um, kinda stumbles around, can’t talk very well, eats, you know, flesh, can’t be out in the sun—”

  “That last one is a vampire,” I interrupted. “And I don’t stutter. I walk just fine, and my favorite meal is pizza. No, OK, steak. Pretty raw. But nothing human.”

  There are so many misconceptions about zombies. I need to get one thing straight—I don’t eat brains. Well, human brains. Not that I’ve ever tried them (or had the need to). Though this one time, my mom, who every now and then kinda freaks out about my “condition,” once served me cow brains hidden among the pastrami in my sandwich. You would be amazed how well cow brains fit into a pastrami sandwich. I took a bite and noticed something different. Moist, intensely meaty, with just a hint of smoky goodness.

  I looked on the kitchen counter and noticed a half-empty package of cow brains.

  “Wow, Mom, what did you do, this is really good … Mom? Hey, you OK? Mom?”

  I began to moan, low and long. “Brraaaiins. Brrraaaaiiiinnnnnnss!!”

  I thought my mom would get the joke. Instead, it took me a half hour to talk her out of the closet. And it was the last time she ever served me any kind of brains. It wasn’t like she wanted to encourage zombie behavior, even when such zombie behavior was not grounded in reality. And by that I mean inappropriate behavior, like moaning about brains. You would be surprised how people buy into the dumbest zombie myths.

  I don’t look a whole lot different from other people. My skin is pale, even a little gray around the eyes, and those who look closely may think I have some sort of skin condition that causes me to flake a lot. Which I do, but I’ve learned to wear light-colored clothing so you’d never really know how much skin I shed every day.

  I’m pretty short and a little on the light side. But I’m not the smallest kid in my class. (Ray, I’m talking about you). I’m double-jointed to the extreme and can do stuff with my arms, legs, and head that I’ve learned over the years can gross people out, or alarm them to the point of dialing 9-1-1, so I don’t do that anymore. When cut I bleed, just not that much. Or very quickly.

  I talk normally and sound pretty smart for my age (because I am). I don’t struggle to find the right words, I don’t stutter, and I know how to use prepositions. When expressing a certain desire, I say, “May I have an additional helping of those tasty brains?” and not, “Me need brains!”

  Unless I was wearing a “Hi, my name is Jed, and I’m a zombie” name tag, you wouldn’t think me a member of the undead.

  And I should be clear that I don’t like the Z-word all that much. Thanks to books and movies and TV shows, everyone thinks zombies shuffle around, wear old rotting clothes, and are so stupid that they can’t figure out the easiest things. Turning a doorknob, for example. In all the Z-movies, have you ever seen a zombie who simply turns the knob and enters? Maybe even says hello? “Hi everyone, saw the li
ght, wondering if you mind if I join you for a while, you know, little lonely since it seems I don’t have the sense to change the clothes I was buried in.”

  Instead, Hollywood’s better-off-undead break down doors. Or insist on coming through windows. They’re too stupid to maintain good posture, yet smart enough not to eat each other. But all they want to do in Z-movies is eat. Why are they always so hungry? For me, a few meals a day is fine. As my dad always said, for a dead guy, I ate OK.

  There are tons more reasons I’m not a big fan of Z-movies. It’s the only way people have learned about us—well, me. Recent movies are a little better. At least they have the Zs running around, not just shuffling as if death took all the energy out of them. But still, those Zs are really hungry, and all they want to eat is people. Me, all I need is a Nacho Cheese Lunchable to take the edge off.

  I try to make it clear on my Facebook page (facebook .com/JedRivers) that zombies are greatly misunderstood. Not that I know any other zombies (though when I was a little-kid zombie, Mom did have to spend about thirty minutes explaining it wasn’t a family reunion, it was just Halloween).

  I’m a zombie, and I’m proud. Most of the time.

  When the kid in the Red Sox hat asked if I was that undead kid, I could’ve said, “No, I just lurch here.” But I am well-bred with street cred and undead, so get used to it.

  “It’s me in the flesh, so to speak. And the zombie kid has a name. Jed.”

  I stuck out my freshly duct-taped hand I had high-fived off that morning.

  “Glad to meet you.”

  “I’m Josh. Hey, you interested in joining the Tech Club? We can always use a new member.”

  Chapter Four

  “Welcome to seventh-grade Biology. I’m Mr. Landrum. Please check your schedules to make sure this is where you should be.”

  Even though I was sure I had first-period Biology with Landrum, I checked the schedule one more time. I heard some metal-on-linoleum scrapes, and three kids stood up and left. Five minutes later, another couple of students entered and took seats—no wonder sevvies had such a bad reputation.