All Good Children - Catherine Austen [46]
“Let’s still call them zombies,” he says. “It’s a good word.”
I agree.
“What would you rather be killed by?” he asks. “A zombie or a werewolf?”
“Werewolf.”
“Me too.”
I take out my RIG. “Let’s record people before they’re all brain-eaters. Have you seen Pepper?”
“No. But get the Scorpions.”
We tell our teammates we’re composing a message for the Devils. They growl and roar, gesture rudely at my RIG, shout, “We’re coming for you, ladies!” The bell rings too soon. Montgomery is yards away, teaching a dance routine to the cheerleaders. I raise my RIG high, hoping to record a few moves, but I’m too late. He picks up his coat, hangs it over his back with one hooked finger and heads inside.
His casual happiness lays me low. I’m limp and heavy suddenly, while all these lives bustle by me. Their voices and expressions are so distinct. They strike me down with their joy and bewilderment and lust and fury. I need to collect them in my RIG, but there’s no time.
“Get a grip on yourself!” Dallas hisses as he yanks me toward the doors. “What do you think Graham will do to us if you walk in crying?”
“Sorry. It must be the estrogen.”
He shoots me a look that shuts me up.
Mr. Ames keeps the class in for shots at lunch. He walks the aisles and highlights the absences: Pepper, Brennan and Xavier are all home sick. “You’re not on the list, Maxwell.” He points his finger at me. “You must have had detention yesterday.”
“Yes sir.”
“Were you in detention with Maxwell yesterday?” he asks Dallas.
“Yes sir. I was in detention yesterday.”
“Everyone will remain in their seats as we wait for the nurse,” Mr. Ames announces. “Except Maxwell, Dallas and Tyler, who had their shots yesterday and are free to go.”
The class groans. “It isn’t fair that we lose part of our lunch hour when the recalls who got detention don’t lose anything,” Montgomery whines.
I can’t let that lie, even if he is about to be zombified. “Who are you calling—?”
“You have to do what Mr. Ames says, Montgomery!” Dallas interrupts. He shoots me a warning glance.
Mr. Ames looks back and forth between us. It’s my first morning as a zombie and I’m already arousing suspicion.
Tyler stumbles on his way out and puts a hand to his heart. “I don’t feel well.”
“That’s to be expected,” Mr. Ames says. “We’ll see how you’re feeling after lunch.”
“Stop smiling at the cameras,” Dallas whispers once we’re in the hallway. “Where are you going?”
“Skate park?”
He shakes his head. “We’re not allowed off school grounds till the final bell.”
“Yeah, but we’re not seriously going to stick around, are we?”
“We have to go to the cafeteria, Max.” There’s no expression on his face, but his voice squeaks in exasperation. “We have to follow all the rules.”
The cafeteria is half full. Ninth grade zombies eat their soup in silence. Tyler Wilkins eats a sandwich at a table by himself, rubbing his temples. “This is damaged,” I mutter.
Mr. Graham stands behind us in the lineup, chatting to the cook. “What a nice Halloween dance we’re going to have next week. Have you seen the decorations?”
Beads of sweat cling to the lunch lady’s whiskers. She doesn’t acknowledge the principal’s small talk. She’s like a tall version of my airport molester. She slaps my lasagna onto a white plate. Red lumps of meat slide out from under the noodles and onto my garlic bread. I groan.
Dallas stiffens beside me while Mr. Graham watches closely.
I’d hate to fail so early in my acting career, so I find a reason for the groan. “This lunch doesn’t meet the daily food guide requirements,” I tell the lunch lady.
“Pardon me?”
“It’s every student’s right to have a meal that meets the national guidelines for good health,” I say.
Dallas turns to me with a sparkle behind the eyes in his blank face. “You’re right. This dish does not contain one-and-a-half cups of fruits or vegetables.”
“It’s mostly pasta, which is a grain,” I explain.
“We should get a free salad,” Dallas says. “I want potato salad.”
“I want fruit salad,” I say.
Dallas turns to me with his eyebrows raised. “Did you know that one cup of fruit salad