Adventures of a Middle School Zombie (12 page)

“Is that zombie blood?”

“Did you swallow any?”

“Robbie’s gonna be a zombie.”

“Robbie zombie.”

“Cool.”

Robbie fought through the crowd, trying to get to the exit, bouncing from one person to another until he was clear to run for the door.

Chris appeared at my side.

“Dude, what, why is your, did you … ?” Chris said. “Is that your finger on the saw table?”

“Yeah, it sure is.”

“Then why are you smiling?”

“Zombie pinball.”

“Could I please borrow your stapler?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your stapler. Just for a second.”

Principal Buckley let out a little “hmph” and nodded toward the stapler perched on the edge of his desk. I reached into my left pocket and took out my right middle finger, which I’d wrapped and taped tightly in a paper towel. I picked at the tape, but to no avail, since my longest fingernail was rolled up inside.

“Scissors?” I said.

“What?”

“Scissors? Just for a second.”

Principal Buckley leaned over, disappearing for a moment behind his immense desk (if I stood and bent over it, I still wouldn’t be able to touch him, no doubt its intention). I heard some scraping sounds, a soft thump, and then he popped up with scissors in hand—the blunt-tipped kind for preschoolers.

“Uh, thanks.”

The scissors were useless, but I managed to pull away the tape, unroll the paper towel, and reveal my finger, which looked no worse for the wear. Putting the scissors and towel on the desk (and ignoring Principal Buckley’s scowl, since that was how his face looked all the time), I slipped the severed finger under the business end of the stapler, lined it up carefully with the stump, and then slammed a staple home with a metallic
ka-
CHUNK
. I turned my hand over and stapled the finger together on the other side.

A gentle tug revealed it would hold for now, but would need sturdier staples and duct tape to heal completely, probably in a week or so.

Principal Buckley’s face had softened a bit, and he seemed a little pale. He kept looking at my finger, so I put it on my lap.

After ten seconds of silence, he cleared his throat.

“You know why you’re here.” It wasn’t a question.

Yeah, I pretty much knew why. But I didn’t want to come out and confess. That was like asking for the maximum sentence. One time Dad was pulled over after going probably 80mph on the highway. The whole time Mom was telling him to slow down, but when the cop came to the window and said, “Do you know why I pulled you over?” Dad looked him in the eye and said, “No idea, officer. I’m pretty sure I was adhering to all applicable traffic laws.” He got off with a warning.

Besides, I was the one with the severed finger. And I was not afraid to play the undead card.

As soon as Robbie had run out of Woodshop, Mr. Anderson walked over (he never rushed anywhere, even when blood was flying), looked at me, looked at the finger near the saw, looked at me again.

“Circle of Shame,” he said. “Now.”

“But I just cut off my finger!” I said. “I should be going to a hospital.”

He picked up the severed finger and brought it to about three inches from his left eye, examining it for a few seconds. He handed it to me.

“That finger’s been torn, not cut,” he said. “I have seen enough zombie movies to know the undead can survive such an inconsequential injury.”

I silently cursed Hollywood, especially George Romero.

“You’ll live,” Mr. Anderson said. “And you will clean this up. You will make sure to dispose of it in such a way that it poses no danger to others. You will then spend the remainder of the period in the Circle of Shame. And if due to your carelessness I have another zombie in my class, you will be spending the rest of the semester in the Circle of Shame. Any questions. No. Good.”

After cleaning the floor and band saw, then wrapping up my finger, I spent the rest of the period in the Circle of Shame, probably the only kid in Pine Hollow history to be punished for losing a finger. Chris came over when Mr. Anderson wasn’t looking and gave me a fist bump.

“That’s a game changer,” he said. “I just hope it works out in your favor.”

When the bell rang, Mr. Anderson told me to report to Mr. Buckley’s office “for further debriefing.”

Now I faced Principal Buckley.

“I will ask you one more time,” he said. “Do you know why you are here?”

“No, sir. All I know is that I suffered a horrible accident in Woodshop and since then I’ve been punished.”

“Well that’s, as you know, you are not … ” he stammered. “You are a special case. Due to your, eh, medical condition, I must take other aspects into consideration.”

“What do you mean, my ‘medical condition’?”

“Mr. Rivers, when you came to this school, everyone was briefed on your unique physical state,” Principal Buckley said. “I do not pretend to understand it, but I do know it gives you various, hmm, abilities, which other students do not possess.

“For example,” he continued, looking at a pile of papers in front of him, “in third grade, you demonstrated an ability to bend back your fingers until they touched your wrist. Three students suffered broken fingers when trying to emulate your stunt.”

I really hadn’t understood then what it meant to be undead. I’d had to send each of those kids apology notes and visit their parents to explain how I never meant to hurt them and would never do that again.

“In sixth grade, a similar incident occurred, and one boy broke two fingers and dislocated his thumb.”

OK, I had meant that one. This kid Bruce had been riding me all year, not because of what I was, but because I pretty much sucked at sports at the time—once he even paid a kid to take me onto his basketball team in PE, just so Bruce’s team wouldn’t get stuck with me. His catchphrase was “Zombies can’t jump.” Which is true, but after one game I made up this stuff about how the farther you could bend back your fingers and thumb, the better you would be at sports when you were an adult. He lost.

“In fifth grade, you were witnessed jumping off the top of the jungle gym after telling those nearby to ‘Listen for the splat.’ You suffered … let’s see here.” He flipped the page. “‘Traumatic injuries to knees, hips, ribs, and internal organs that ordinarily would have required immediate surgery.’ Yet the children present said you rolled up your pants to expose bone.”

I laughed.

“Excuse me?”

“You said I exposed bone.” I laughed again.

“Mr. Rivers, I use this to point out that you feel little if no pain, and there is certainly no evidence in any of these records of any profuse bleeding. Yet I am told that today … let me see … that ‘blood spurted as if from a fountain.’ You can see my problem with these inconsistencies.

“Mr. Rivers, would you please roll up the sleeve of your left arm.”

Crap. There was only one thing to do. Time to play the zombie card.

“Mr. Buckley, even I don’t know why my body does the stuff it can,” I said. “I wish I did. More than anything, I want to be normal. And I just want to be treated normally, like every other kid in this school. I mean, if this had been anyone else, wouldn’t I be in the hospital by now?”

“Mr. Rivers, I think that is beside the point—”

“Is it? Isn’t that just the point? That you treat me based on who I am, not on my disabilities?”

“But they’re not really disabilities.”

Got him.

“But Mr. Buckley, each year I get to skip the physical at school. And for annual photos, I was the only boy allowed to put on makeup so I would blend in more. My mom says it’s because of the American Disability Act—”

“You mean the Americans with Disabilities Act.”

“So you
have
heard of it.”

I swear I saw a thin sheen of sweat break out on Principal Buckley’s forehead.

“Look,” he said, putting the papers into a pile and closing the file folder. “I never agreed to have you at this school. But I didn’t have a choice. You were shoved down our throats. So let me make this clear, Mr. Rivers. I will tolerate you because I have to. But that does not mean I have to welcome you. I will be keeping a much closer eye on you. And the next time you step out of line, you will be punished to the limit, particularly if it means suspension. Or expulsion. So watch yourself. Now you’re excused. I have to get to the hospital to visit Mr. Zambrano.

“Remember, this is not over.”

“He did what again?”

“Ran out. Screaming.”

“Like a little girl.”

“Yeah. But that’s an insult to little girls.”

Anna smiled in a way that seemed like it would protect me from whatever evil was going to come my way for finally standing up to Robbie.

We sat at a picnic table in Make-Out Park just a little ways from school. Its real name was McSouderman Park, named after some guy who might as well have invented playground equipment, for all we knew. Everyone called it Make-Out Park, and I probably don’t have to explain why.

It seemed like days had passed since a blood-covered Robbie ran screaming like a little girl out of Woodshop. But it was only that afternoon, a few hours ago.

“Did it all work just like we tested it?” Anna said.

“Pretty close,” I said. “It took me a little longer to get the blood flowing, but after that it was even better than I could have imagined.”

“Then it must have been amazing, because you were imagining a lot.”

I was. I was imagining even the most gloriously stupid stuff. Like, what if I
was
able to turn Robbie into a zombie?

“What if I really could turn Robbie into a zombie?”

“Huh?” Anna lifted her eyebrow as if to say, “Are you crazy?” But all I saw was a girl who looked even cuter when she raised an eyebrow.

“How else would he know how I felt unless he took a few steps in my shoes? Slow, lurching steps?”

As I’d walked to the principal’s office after I sent Robbie to the hospital, I pictured what a Rombie would look like. Dull, stupid, gray.

Just like Robbie. But gray.

“Think about what you’re saying,” Anna said. “Let’s really imagine a school where Robbie is a zombie. But first, I want to tell you about Monty and Tran.”

“Never heard of them.”

“Right, which is why I am going to tell you about them if you’d stop interrupting.”

The raised eyebrow again. Cool.

“Monty and Tran were foreign exchange students at my old school last year. To make them feel at home, they had the same teachers, the same English tutor, the same after-school activities. They were put together to do all sorts of projects on China. At lunch, the cafeteria lady would wait for them at the end of the line and hand them chopsticks. But the real kicker was near the end of the year when we had Chinese Appreciation Day and—”

“All that sounds nice,” I said.

“What did I say about interrupting?” Arched eyebrow again. OK, I’m good.

“Sorry.”

“Chinese Appreciation Day. Everyone was waving Chinese flags during the assembly as Monty and Tran went onstage to talk about their home countries. Monty told us all about Vietnam. Tran talked about growing up in South Korea.”

“I thought they were Chinese.”

“So did everyone. Turns out Monty and Tran had very little in common and really did not like one another all that much. They had a miserable school year.”

“Why are you telling me this? What does this have to do with Robbie being a zombie?”

“You two would be the only zombies in school. One zombie is an oddity. Two is a minority. You guys would be homeroom buddies. Lab partners. You’d have your own table at lunch. You’d be together in every class. You’d be the only two members of the Zombie Club. Because that is what school administrators do. To make you feel comfortable.”

“You’re right,” I said. “I don’t want Robbie to be a zombie. I can’t imagine anything worse.”

For a second or two, I hoped Robbie was OK. Even fully recovered.

“Besides,” Anna said, “I am sure there is better zombie company out there besides Robbie.”

I wasn’t really paying attention to what she was saying. I was still thinking about Robbie, wondering if maybe I shouldn’t have pranked him like that.