Zomburbia (15 page)

T
he next morning at breakfast, I got a taste of what the rest of my day would be like. Dad and Bev hovered over me, quick to step in if they thought I needed something, all of it in a way meant to keep me unaware they were there. Holy shit, it was annoying.

At one point, I sat there eating some pancakes my dad made—from scratch! They kept asking if I needed anything, if everything tasted good, if I needed more orange juice. I dropped my napkin and nearly bumped heads with Bev when she swooped in to pick it up. Because, apparently, I was incapable of picking it up myself due to my grief. I felt like Jane Austen's most delicate creation. I fumed at being treated like such a baby. Then I accidentally knocked my OJ over and sent it spilling across the table. Dad and Bev moved in like a pair of firemen at a really big . . . fire. Dad grabbed paper towels, Bev wielded her napkin, and something in my brain broke.

“I can clean up a mess on my own,” I said, pushing my chair away from the table more forcefully than I meant. My plate of half-eaten pancakes clattered and the fork fell on the floor. They both stopped and looked around, guilty, unsure what to do next.

“I know you guys want to help make my day easier. All you're doing is driving me nuts.” I sopped up the OJ with paper towels I tore out of my dad's hands.

“We're just trying to help,” Dad said. I didn't look up from the juice because I didn't want to feel sorry for him. I was too busy feeling sorry for myself.

“I know, Dad, and I appreciate it,” I said. “It's just too much.” I stopped and stood up. I threw away the paper towels, then ran water until it got warm and wet a kitchen rag. “I just want things to be normal,” I said finally.

“Courtney,” he said, “things
aren't
normal.”

“No,” I said, “they're not. They really suck, but we can
act
like they're normal, right?”

“I don't know if that's the healthiest thing right—”

“Sure we can,” Bev said, giving me and Dad this little smile. “For a while, anyway. You gotta face reality sooner or later, though, hon.”

I felt big with liking for Bev right then. I thanked her and looked at Dad for his reaction.

“We will need to sort this out eventually,” he said. “Yes, for now we can let it lie.”

“Thanks, Dad.” A car horn saved me from any more discussions about my feelings. I looked at the wet rag in my hand. “I guess I do need help,” I said, feeling stupid. “Can one of you finish cleaning this up? I have to go.”

Dad chuckled as he took the rag from me. The chuckle could best be described as “sardonic.”

I gathered up my stuff from my room and headed out. I found myself really scoping out the path from the house to the car as I left. There's only one tree in the yard and it's as big around as my wrist, so not many zombies could hide behind it. Regardless, I was feeling extra paranoid. Apparently I took too long for Sherri's liking because she laid on the horn after a few seconds. She made a hurry-up gesture with her free hand.

“What the hell were you looking for?” she asked as I climbed into the car. God bless Sherri. I could always count on her to not spare my feelings. “Did what Willie did to himself make you go simple?”

“What does that mean?” I asked as she screeched the tires and pulled away.

“Just don't let it get to you,” she said. “What happened to him happened because he wanted it to. It's not like he's dead because of some random attack.”

“No,” I said, “but we've seen more of those, right? There was that old lady, and Crystal and I got attacked up by the reservoir.” I didn't bring up the pregnant shuffler who came for me mostly because I was trying my best to suppress that memory.

“There are always attacks,” Sherri said. “Just like there's always car wrecks or drug overdoses or cancer.” She fell silent and I thought we were done talking for a while. Then she started up again and her voice sounded quavery.

“Look behind all the trees you want,” she said, “don't go out after dark, travel in groups. None of it would have saved Willie from himself.”

I could see tears welling up in her eyes, which took me by complete surprise. I started to reach out to touch her arm, then I stopped.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

She looked at me, her eyes red. She didn't answer. Instead she turned back to the road, laid on the horn, and screamed at the top of her lungs. For block after block she screamed and screamed, until her voice petered out to nothing and then she'd take a ragged breath and do it again. The whole time she pushed down on the horn.

I just stared at her, a little scared, mostly sad. I had no idea losing Willie would affect her like that.

We came to a red light and she finally stopped honking and screaming. She put her head down on the steering wheel.

“It's all just so stupid,” she said.

I didn't say anything. I couldn't think of anything
to
say.

She sat up and looked at me with red-rimmed eyes. “Sometimes I feel like doing something stupid.”

“If you kill yourself, I will be totally pissed at you,” I said. “I'll tell everyone at your funeral that you had sex with Coach Santori and you offed yourself because he wouldn't leave his wife for you.”

She barked a hoarse laugh at that, which was good, I guess. The car behind us honked because the light had turned green. Sherri automatically flipped the guy the bird and peeled away through the intersection.

“I wouldn't kill myself,” she said. “Not that kind of stupid.”

“Then what?”

She shrugged. “I'll think of something,” she said.

We reached the school and performed the required security ritual. She parked and we climbed out of the car. I stood there for a minute looking at the school, watching the kids file in. Each one of those kids held a judgmental look or thought for me and soon they'd have a chance to give it to me. Jesus, I sounded maudlin.

I shouldered my backpack. Sherri just nodded and we walked toward the school together. When it was time to part, we said our good-byes.

“Don't decide to do anything
too
stupid,” I said.

“And don't you pussy out and let 'em see you cry,” she answered.

I turned and joined the flow of kids going in through the school's main entrance. I heard the ebb and flow of conversation change around me. Little eddies of whispered accusations swirled around me. I made a promise to myself, almost a mantra.

I will not pussy out.

I will not pussy out.

 

The day turned out to be not as rough as I feared. I got a lot of stares and the whisper brigade was in full swing, though it didn't feel like it carried the malevolence I expected. At lunch, Sherri told me that the school grief counselor had been running interference for me; she'd been spreading the word about what happened. So the folks in the hall weren't suspicious or angry, they were sympathetic. Which was almost worse.

It became apparent after lunch that the hardest part of being in school would be avoiding the grief counselor. Ms. Bjorn had done her bit by getting people off my back, now she could do me a favor and do the same herself. I had a lot of near misses as I saw her standing near my locker or in the halls along the path I used to get to class. I might talk to her next week. There was no way I wanted to pow-wow with her just then.

I made it through the day without having to talk to her. I also went all day without seeing Brandon. He didn't even come and join me and Sherri at lunchtime, which I really thought he would. I knew at least that I'd see him in Journalism.

Except that I didn't. The room fell silent when I entered. I ignored them for the most part and scanned the room. No Brandon. He must have been behind me. I found a seat and watched the door for when he came in. My view was blocked by Phil standing in front of me. Besides Sherri, he was the first person to actually walk up and speak to me.

“I heard what happened,” he said. As socially awkward as ever. I paused for a second to see if he'd say he was sorry about it, or that I was brave for coming to school. Nothing.

“Yeah,” I said, “it really sucks. I wish Willie had reached out to me.”

Then he looked confused. He really had no idea what I was talking about. After a second, I could see a light go on inside his head and he nodded.

“Right,” he said, “your friend killed himself. I forgot.”

Forgot?

“That's not what I was talking about,” he said.

I shook my head bewildered. This conversation was becoming downright Kafkaesque. “Okay,” I said, “what
were
you talking about?”

“I heard Crystal Beals talking a few days ago about you guys being attacked by zombies,” he said. “She told how you fought them off—killed a couple.” He stood there nodding.

“Yeah?” I said.

“That's just pretty freaking cool, is all,” he said. “I had no idea you had it in you.”

Again, I shook my head in bewilderment. “Thanks,” I said.

“I drew a cartoon of you as a badass zombie killer,” he said, and he looked proud—of himself or of me I have no clue. “I submitted it for the paper. Mrs. Johnson killed it. Too raw or something. You want to see it?” He inclined his head toward his desk where I saw a manila folder stuffed full of drawings.

“Maybe some other time,” I said. Read:
Never, not ever, you freak.

Mrs. Johnson came into the room and asked everyone to take their seats. Phil nodded down at me. “Any time,” he said, “catch you later.” And he went over and slouched behind his desk.

Mrs. Johnson caught my eye and gave me one of those sad-smile, head-dip things that means a person is really sorry for what you're going through.

“Hey,” she said, “welcome back, Courtney.”

I gave her a quick smile that I meant to look brave and then willed her to please ignore me. Which she did, thank God.

Fridays are the day when Mrs. Johnson meets with the paper's designers and paste-up starts. That leaves the rest of us to work on stories or, as was the case with most of us, to goof off and talk. I found Elsa and asked her what was up with Brandon.

“I think he's meeting with some recruiters from different colleges,” she said. “The coaches set it up for all the juniors. He said yesterday that he called and left you a message. Did you not get it?”

I could have smacked my head. Instead I just turned and walked away. I knew that Brandon left me a bunch of messages. I never got around to listening to them. I assumed they'd all say the same thing. Man, I needed to have a better relationship with my phone.

I dug it out of my bag and went off to a quiet corner of the room. I could have mapped the progress of the news about what happened just listening to those messages. His first message sounded confused; he'd heard about me being taken out of class and wanted to know what was up. In the next, he sounded a little panicky. He'd just heard that I got led out of the school in cuffs by a cop. He called me after he talked to Sherri the first time. She'd also heard the rumor about me being arrested but didn't know why.

“She said she thinks she knows what's going on, but she won't say,” he said. “Why would she think you could be arrested?” He sounded confused and scared. Oh, Christ, I felt sick to my stomach. Even though she hadn't done it to be mean, Sherri had let the cat out of the bag. There was no way Brandon wouldn't bring up what she'd said. I needed to figure out what I was going to tell him the next time I saw him. I was suddenly grateful he wasn't in class that day.

The next message was after he'd heard what had really happened. He was really sorry; he felt bad for me and told me to call if I needed to talk. Then there were a couple more like that. Finally he called right before I got out of bed last night telling me he wouldn't be in school and why. Then he said I could call him later tonight if I wanted. He sounded sort of pathetic. Now on top of everything else I was feeling, I also felt guilty for not getting back to him. How many bad feelings can someone feel before they just plain overload? I thought I was about to find out.

I wasn't actually ready to talk to him yet. I decided to text him instead. Texting is, of course, the coward's alternative to calling. It's the modern equivalent of the passive-aggressive Post-it note. Even if someone texts you back right away, you can pretend you didn't get it until you're ready to deal with it.

That last bit was a lie. I figured it was a harmless one, though. Maybe if he thought everything really was okay he wouldn't try to contact me until the next day and I'd be able to figure out what to tell him. Maybe I was just kidding myself.

I moved back over by Elsa. She'd been joined by a few other kids. I sat on the periphery and listened, not feeling like joining in. Not feeling like much of anything, really.