School of the Dead

by Avi

  The boys nodded.

  Deciding these people were weird, I mumbled, “Sure,” and flushed down my juice.

  There was a silence until Jessica said, “It’s sort of unusual for kids to start after the term begins. How’d you get in?”

  I said, “I was told somebody dropped out.”

  “Right,” Barney said, shooting a glance at Jessica—as if asking for her approval. “Austin.”

  “‘Dropped out,’” said Mac, sneering. “They would tell you that.”

  Jessica said, “Bet no one told you why Austin”—she put up her fingers like quote marks—“‘dropped out.’”

  “Ms. Foxton said it was a sad story.”

  The kids exchanged looks as if sharing some secret. A bell rang.

  “End of recess,” Mac announced. They jumped up and hurried away.

  I remained in my chair, thinking what an odd bunch they were. I even lifted my arm and sniffed, relieved not to smell anything bad.

  Gulping down the rest of my muffin, I got up and found the steps. As if she had been waiting for me, Jessica appeared. “What do you think of our Weird History Club?” she asked as we started up.

  Not wanting to say how uncomfortable they had made me feel, I muttered, “Okay.”

  We continued on without talking. When we reached the second floor, Jessica said, “You asked if bad things happened here. Well, that Austin kid, the one whose place you’re taking, he disappeared.”

  I halted. “Disappeared? How’d that happen?”

  “That’s the purpose of the Weird History Club,” she said. “You know, try to find out what the school hides.”

  Limping slightly, she veered away, but looked over her shoulder, smiled—she really had a great smile—and called, “Got to get a book. Welcome to the seventh year.”

  I finally checked my schedule. Every day was different. It was going to drive me nuts. At the moment I had math. I found the class. Once there I made an effort to follow the lesson—math—but couldn’t and gave up. Instead, I kept thinking about Jessica’s words: that the Penda School had happened because a kid died. I assumed she was talking about the boy in the painting, the one whose eyes were so full of fear. Or had someone else died?

  As the morning went on with science class, I felt increasingly overwhelmed and uneasy. Penda was going to be hard. I also worried that I was not going to fit in. I suppose that made me automatically think of Uncle Charlie, because a moment later I saw him. It was as if thinking I was seeing him was my way of reassuring myself. Yeah. It’s good to see him here.

  Knowing I could call up his memory whenever I needed to, I felt my tension ease.

  Lunch hour came after science class. The science teacher, who must have known I was new, suggested that two kids in my homeroom class, Peter and Sara, take me to lunch.

  Sara said, “So, Tony, what do you think of the school so far?”

  Not wanting to share my depressed thoughts, I said, “It’s all right.”

  “It’s good, really,” said Peter.

  Sara said, “A few losers, but most kids are nice.”

  Catching sight of that blond kid, I spun about. He was gone.

  “Something the matter?” asked Peter.

  Frustrated, I said, “There’s this blond, curly-headed boy in our class. I keep seeing him, but he keeps . . . going away.”

  Puzzled, Peter turned to Sara. “Do you know who that is?”

  Shaking her head, Sara gazed at me with curiosity. Her look was too much like the way Connecticut friends had reacted to Uncle Charlie’s spooky talk. Not wanting to be labeled a weirdo again, I changed the subject. “Who are the losers?” I asked.

  “Try the ones you sat next to in homeroom,” said Sara, moving on. “Jessica and Mac. No one likes them.”

  “The Weird History Club,” said Peter. “Total freaks.”

  “What do you mean?” I said.

  “Dude,” said Peter, “didn’t you notice the black ties and neck scarves? Like, Penda has a dress code, but we’re allowed any color tie or scarf. They have this Wednesday club, the Weird History Club. Always wear black.”

  Sara said, “Bet you anything they sat in class the way they did—an open seat between them—so you’d have to sit there.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “To get you to join their club,” said Sara.

  “Can’t believe Batalie let them,” said Peter. “Don’t join.”

  “Right,” added Sara. “They’re the bad news on the late news.”

  Wanting to learn more about what Jessica had only hinted at, I said, “You guys know what happened to the kid I’m replacing? Somebody named Austin.”

  There was an awkward pause as Peter and Sara eyed each other.

  Sara said, “Let’s get lunch.”

  I couldn’t miss it: something had happened to that Austin kid, but other than the Weird History Club, people were not going to say. How come?

  The cafeteria was much more crowded and louder than at recess. Everyone seemed to know everyone, but the only one I really knew was Uncle Charlie. That he appeared puzzled me, because I hadn’t realized I had been thinking about him. Except I must have been, because when I told myself to stop thinking about him, he went.

  I ate with Sara, Peter, and some other kids, trying to pay attention to the chatter. Not tuned in, I noticed Jessica, Mac, and Barney sitting at their table. At one point, Jessica looked up. Our eyes met. I turned away, not wanting to start at Penda linked to losers.

  Peter leaned toward me. “See that kid over there?”

  I was hoping he was going to point to the blond kid, but it was a tall, athletic boy sitting at the middle of a table, surrounded by other kids all having a loud time.

  “What about him?”

  “Riley Fadden,” said Peter. “Eights. Student Council president. Great basketball player. Ditto lacrosse. Academic Honors Award. School loves him. The perfect Penda student. With him as your role model, you can’t go wrong.”

  “Thanks,” I said, discouraged because I wasn’t that way and never would be. All the same, I thought of that time Uncle Charlie had called me perfect. I never had asked him what he meant.

  The ground shook. Dishes rattled for a few seconds. “What’s that?” I cried, automatically grabbing the edge of the table.

  Peter shrugged with indifference. “Earthquake. Oh, right, you come from back east. California has thousands of earthquakes each year.”

  “Thousands?”

  “Nothing to worry about.” He grinned, amused at my discomfort. “Unless it’s the big one.”

  “What’s ‘the big one’?”

  “The major earthquake they say is going to happen here someday.”

  “Which means . . . ?”

  “The school collapses and we all die.” Peter laughed.

  The thought I’d had before returned: There’s a lot of death attached to this school.

  The day was long, but I got through. At Penda, at three o’clock you were supposed to check in at homeroom before leaving. But when I did, Batalie asked me if I would mind staying after school, saying, “We should go over some things.”

  Knowing I was heading home to an empty apartment, I said, “Sure.”

  “Have you picked a sport?” he began.

  I shook my head.

  “You’ll need to. Along with a Wednesday club.”

  Jessica must have overheard the remark, because as she left the room, she looked at me and smiled. I was flattered by her interest.

  “I’ll be right back,” said Mr. Batalie. “I want to get things you’ll need. Take a look at the class portraits. Good way to know people.” He left the room. In the hallway I saw him chat briefly with Jessica and then walk off.

  I was alone—except for Uncle Charlie, who was looking at me from the back of the room. “Was this place as creepy when you were here?” I called to him.

  When he faded away, I muttered, “Thanks.”

  I stood by the picture wall, which h
ad a headshot of every student in the class. Under the pictures there was a banner, which read:

  ONLY SIGNED POSITIVE REMARKS ALLOWED.

  NO NEGATIVITY.

  Beneath each picture was a sheet of paper on which people had scrawled comments.

  Great response paper. Rich

  Loved your polka-dot neck scarf. Lucy

  Terrific soccer player. Mia

  There were many messages for some people. I guessed they were the popular kids. Others had fewer. Under Mac’s picture, one remark: Your ideas are curious. Jessica

  Under Jessica’s picture, it read: The way you look at things is cool. Mac.

  A second line: You have original ideas. Mac.

  I got it: The Weird History Club people kept to themselves, or were forced to. “The freaks,” as Peter had said.

  I checked for a picture of that blond, curly-headed boy, the one I kept seeing, or thought I kept seeing. I didn’t find him, but there was that blank space. Was it Austin’s? The kid who disappeared? Was it going to be mine? Sort of strange to think I was going to take a disappeared kid’s place.

  Batalie returned, papers in hand. Noticing where I was standing, he said, “I change the comment-board sheets every week. Please note: only signed, positive remarks. Anonymous, negative stuff is forbidden.”

  “Is there a picture of everyone?” I asked.

  “Absolutely. Right, I’ll need to put your picture up. Let’s take one.” He set the papers on his desk, pulled out a phone, and aimed it at me. “Smile.”

  “I don’t, much.”

  “Well, starting a new school in a new town is hard. And someone close to you died. So sorry.”

  How, I asked myself, do all these people know about Uncle Charlie?

  I said, “There’s one kid’s picture I don’t see.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “I don’t know his name. Blond, curly-haired boy.”

  Batalie looked up sharply, alarm in his eyes.

  “You know,” I said. “The kid who looks like the painting in the school office.”

  “Oh, the Penda Boy.” Batalie forced a laugh. “We like to say his spirit is in Penda, but not in class.”

  I was about to reply, But I keep seeing him, but checked myself, since I wasn’t really sure I had seen him. Instead, I said, “Mr. Batalie, I’m replacing someone named Austin, right?”

  The alarm in Batalie’s eyes intensified.

  I said, “What . . . what happened to him?”

  Batalie turned to his desk. “Let’s go over some things. Have a computer?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Good. The school posts daily notices. Homework. School closings.” He began to give me papers. “English assignments for the term. Honesty code. School rules. The usual. Ask Mrs. Z for a list of this term’s teams.”

  I was sure he was racing through things to get me out of there because of my questions.

  “Play basketball?” he said.

  I shook my head.

  “Too bad. I could use your height,” he said. “Field-trip dates. List of supplies for class. School calendar, including holidays. School phone numbers to keep at home. Student directory from the opening of the term, with addresses, email, and phone numbers. Changes made online. Your info will be sent out by the end of the week.”

  I stuffed everything into my backpack.

  Batalie held out his hand. We shook. “Tony, so glad you’ve joined us. Your picture will be on the wall soon.” He smiled. “That’ll make you official.” He was telling me to leave.

  I moved toward the door only to halt. “Can I ask one more question?”

  “Of course.”

  “How come no one wants to say what happened to that Austin kid?”

  Batalie took off his glasses, breathed on them, and cleaned them with a small black cloth. Only then did he look up, fear back in his eyes.

  What he said, however, was, “Let’s just say we’ve all agreed not to talk about it. Tony,” he went on briskly, “you’ve had a great start. Don’t worry about assignments these first few days. Give yourself some time. Have a good night.” He shifted away, ending our talk.

  I went into the hallway. It was deserted, and a deserted school is the emptiest place in the world. What, I asked myself, happened to Austin? How come no one wants to talk about him? The way Batalie had reacted to my questions about Austin and the blond kid made me think they were connected—somehow. Since I was taking Austin’s spot, it made me uneasy.

  I walked down the hall, my feet silent on the carpeted floor. At the top of the big steps, I looked down. The blond boy was at the bottom, as if waiting for me. “Hey,” I called out.

  Some man—he looked like a teacher—stepped out of the school office right in front of the kid. The teacher turned toward me. “Were you calling me?” he said.

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, have a good night.” He smiled, waved, and walked off. The blond kid had vanished.

  I stood where I was. The teacher had acted as if he hadn’t seen the boy.

  I had.

  But it had all been so quick, I had to ask myself, “Did I?”

  When I reached the street, students had gone. Other than a few shallow puddles, no trace of the morning’s storm remained. The air was fresh. Above, the sky was clear save for some high-flying birds silhouetted against white clouds, their wings flapping slowly, like shadows waving good-bye. Cars and trucks rattled by. People passed, going about their business. No one noticed me. New kid. New city. New school.

  Suddenly exhausted, I stripped off Dad’s tie and stuffed it into my backpack. As I stood there, thinking through the day, I looked back at the school. I thought—as I had before—that there couldn’t be many school buildings like it: old and quirky, with all those roofs and towers, the outside sort of like a twisted Rubik’s Cube, the inside like a funeral home.

  My eyes went to the tallest tower, and I remembered what Ms. Foxton had said: that no one was allowed in the towers. But I had seen someone up there. Or thought so.

  I turned for home only to have the feeling that I was being watched. I spun about. Seeing no one, I shifted my gaze back to the high tower. A face appeared behind the highest tower window. I stared. He looked like that blond boy. Next moment he disappeared.

  That’s when I had a new thought: the face in the tower when my parents and I had first looked at the school, the boy in the school office painting, and the kid I kept seeing around the school—it seemed crazy, but they all seemed like the same person.

  I had heard enough ghost talk from Uncle Charlie to make me think that whoever the kid was—here one moment, gone the next—he (or it) was acting like a ghost. Trouble was, I didn’t believe in ghosts. After all, that supernatural talk from Uncle Charlie had just been that, talk—his way of acting like a kid.

  Ghosts don’t exist, I told myself. It’s all a joke. Don’t be stupid. Maybe this was what Ms. Foxton had warned me about: I was being teased.

  But who would be teasing me?

  I used my key to let myself into our apartment, dropped my backpack by the door, and plopped on our old sofa, which we had brought from back east. When I sat, the pillows seemed to sigh, reminding me of Uncle Charlie’s last breath. There I was, sitting in an empty apartment, the walls white and blank, the inside of nothing. It didn’t even smell like home, just paint. I thought, This newness is getting old.

  How different from Connecticut. When I came home from school, Uncle Charlie would be there. We’d talk, do things, have fun.

  Next moment Uncle Charlie, like the genie from a lamp, was standing across the room.

  “What’s going on?” I asked him.

  He smiled and vanished.

  I asked myself: What makes Uncle Charlie appear the way he does? I mean, just now, I had been thinking of him. Then, abracadabra—I saw him. Okay. Memory. Even so, there’d been a number of times that day I had not been thinking of him, and still he had appeared.

  I told myself that having his m
emory around had gotten me through the first day. Fine. Time to move on. I would only think about him—and bring him around—when I felt the need.

  I pulled out the assignment sheets teachers had given me. End of October, a five-page research paper for history. Mid-November, an English paper. Before Christmas break, a science lab report. Heart sinking, I threw the assignment list aside. I had never been asked to write a paper before.

  I took a long shower. Thinking again about what Jessica had said, that I smelled like death, I scrubbed myself hard.

  I went to my room and walked my slackline. When I did, I felt free. Uncle Charlie had told me that walking the line was not of the earth, not of the sky, but what a ghost might feel. How, I asked myself, had he come up with that idea?

  Sometimes when I walked the line, I didn’t think of anything other than what I was doing. If I didn’t concentrate, I fell. In fact, when I heard the apartment door slam, I did fall.

  Dad looked into my room. “How come you’re on the floor?”

  “I stopped being a ghost.”

  “Very funny. Do you like Penda?”

  “It’s fine. How come you’re home early?”

  “It’s your first day. Didn’t want you to be here alone.”

  “I’m good.”

  “Okay,” Dad said, retreating.

  The trouble with most parents is that they believe what their kids tell them.

  I got back on the slackline but kept falling. In a corner, Uncle Charlie reappeared. He was becoming like one of those songs you really love. You know, the kind you can’t get out of your head until, though you love it, it starts becoming annoying.

  Since I was convinced I had not been thinking about him, that question my cousins and I had always asked popped into my head: What’s the deal with Uncle Charlie?

  Telling myself I was being unfair, I changed the question to: What’s the deal with the school?

  Mom opened my door and held up some white foam boxes. “San Francisco has amazing food!” she exclaimed.

  I said, “Hope you got McDonald’s.”

  “Very funny. Chinese. Northern Chinese, thank you. Dinner’s ready.”