chapter Thirteen
From there the day proceeded uneventfully until I got to gym class. I'd been looking forward to gym, figuring Sybil and I could use the free period to work on themes for the homecoming celebration. I entered and climbed into the bleachers as I always did.
"Margot Jean Johnson, where do you think you're going?" It was the unmistakable throaty rasp of Mrs. Mars.
I wheeled around, surprised to find a very much alive Mrs. Mars standing in front of the class, a class consisting of zombies dressed in ugly green gym uniforms. The zombies leered up at me with hungry eyes.
"Be careful, Mrs. Mars. They're dangerous," I warned softly.
"Who's dangerous?" she bellowed.
"Why... them." I pointed in the direction of the zombies.
She shot the ghouls an incredulous stare. "What's Miss Johnson talking about?" she rasped.
Surprisingly, all the zombies took a step backward, as if they were afraid of her. Then it dawned on me. Sense memory, of course. These girls had been afraid of Mrs. Mars since
before they'd come to Salesian. Her evil reputation was legend in every junior high and middle school in the area. As humans they'd never dream of challenging her. Now that they were zombies, something in their bones told them she was way more dangerous than they were.
"Remember our little pact? Note or not, you're mine." She wheezed.
"I think you need to check with Principal Taft." My voice rose with indignation. "I'm sure he'll tell you I am exempt from gym for the rest of the semester."
Cackling laughter burst from her lips. "Principal Taft?" The zombies all took another step back. "Principal Taft has no jurisdiction over my PE class."
"But... but... he's the principal."
"We're hitting the track in preparation for the state endurance exam this morning. I expect you'll be joining us, won't you, Miss Johnson?"
I wanted to scream, Who cares about the state endurance exam? The school is overrun with zombies who eat live mice, and Principal Taft promised me I'd never have to participate in gym class ever again.
Mrs. Mars was staring at me, her beady eyes boring into me. "Time's a wastin', Miss Johnson."
I looked at the zombies. While they were afraid of Mrs. Mars, they were beginning to eye me like a meaty meat burger. So without another word, I zombie walked to the locker room and changed into my uniform.
The state endurance exam consisted of four disciplines: abdominal strength, upper-body strength, endurance and flexibility, and aerobic capacity. For abdominal strength we did sit-ups, for flexibility we stretched, and for both endurance and aerobic
capacity we ran around the track. However, to build upper-body strength, Mrs. Mars subjected her classes to the most archaic exercise known to man--climbing the ropes.
The ropes was an exercise probably invented in the sixteenth century by pirates, for their children to swing on to practice attacking ships. Unfortunately, Salesian is an old school, built way back in the days when teachers still thought of pirating as a viable occupation. Over time, most gym teachers had abandoned the exercise, but not Mrs. Mars. She must have gotten some sadistic pleasure from watching young, modern girls hoist themselves up to the ceiling on thick braided rope.
As much as I hated all exercise, I found the ropes downright insulting. Talk about a useless discipline. When does a high-powered business executive ever need to climb ropes? Well Miss Hufferwinkle, your corporate responsibilities will consist of overseeing the World Trade Bank, managing the Trump portfolio, and, oh yes, the ropes. You do know how to climb the ropes, don't you? Ridiculous.
Gym class that day was a grueling forty minutes of hell. Mrs. Mars ushered us out to the track, where we stretched and then zombie ran in a tight pack around the quarter-mile oval, with her yelling, "Pick it up!" and "Get the lead out!" for the entire period.
On the bright side, I was able to observe a very important fact about zombies. They can't run no matter how hard they try. Even with Mrs. Mars spurring us on, the zombies moved stiffly around the track, their legs locked at the knees, their arms outstretched as if they were doing a bad imitation of Frankenstein. I thought back to my earlier crisis with the zombies in the corridor that morning.
Note to self: If you're ever in a tight spot with a zombie again--run.
That night Sybil and I sat on the edge of my bed going over the events of the day, everything from the mouse incident to the grueling gym class--and let's not forget about lunch.
"You know, I do believe I'm the best lunchroom monitor ever."
Now that Sybil had some power I couldn't shut her up. She had become the lunchroom Nazi.
"The cafeteria is usually so noisy you can't hear yourself think, but not with me on patrol. No siree. Have you ever heard the cafeteria so quiet?" She looked at me expectantly.
"No," I replied. Do I point out that everyone in the cafeteria is a zombie, and that zombies don't talk? And that zombies by nature are predictably passive unless something dismpts their pattern? "You were great," I added.
"Thank you very much," she said. A self-satisfied smile spread across her face. I should have left it at that and moved on to more important things. But my mouth had other plans.
"1 didn't know being lunchroom monitor was such a big deal for you. When you first mentioned it I thought you were joking."
The smile vanished. "Excuse me? Joking?" she said through tight lips.
"I mean... lunchroom monitor. It's ... kind of... dorky."
Her eyebrows pinched together; her lips turned down. "Why? Because you're not lunchroom monitor?"
I knew if I kept going things would only get worse. Agree with her, agree with her, agree with her, agree with her. But instead I said, "Why would I want to be lunchroom monitor? Puh4eeze!"
"Margot Jean Johnson, you just can't be happy for me, can you? I am always happy for you when you get things you want."
It was true. Sybil was always there rooting for me, cheering me on. And I was getting everything I'd ever wanted--Yearbook Committee, Homecoming Committee, head cheerleader, prom queen. It should have been enough. It should have been easy for me to be happy for her. She was a lunchroom monitor. We weren't competing. But the darkness that had risen inside me could only be happy for me.
"That's because the things I want make sense," I heard myself say.
She winced.
"I mean... come on, Syb. Lunchroom monitor?"
"I'm not just lunchroom monitor. I'm head lunchroom monitor. There's a difference!" she exclaimed. ' I have a larger vision here. You just can't see it yet,"
I couldn't believe it. I was in my second fight with my best friend. I took several deep breaths.
"Urn, uhh... Sorry," I said. "Head lunchroom monitor-- that's a big deal. I can't wait to see your vision." There! My mouth was finally back under my control.
"You ought to be sorry," she snapped. She sat at the edge of the bed sulking. The damage had been done. It was too late for a mere apology.
And now for a brief note about compliments: Everyone appreciates a good compliment: "Your hair looks lovely today." "My, how that new dress flatters your figure." But we girls take compliments to a whole new level. We live for them. And it doesn't matter if the person paying the compliment is lying and we know they're lying. All that matters is the compliment itself. We can't help ourselves. Compliments are our drug of choice.
I faced Sybil and said, 'You're right. I am jealous. But can you blame me? You've whipped that cafeteria into amazing shape."
Compliment.
"I did?"
"Oh, yeah. And the look on your face when you're patrolling between the tables ... Wow."
"Wow?" she repeated, trying to read my face, wondering if I was going to get her on the hook and then burst into laughter.
"Double wow. And where did you get that little badge?"
"I made it out of foil from gum wrappers." The corners of her mouth turned up into a small smile.
"You made that? Wow again."
Compliment!
"You like it?"
I nodded. "You're like the sheriff of the cafeteria." Well I wasn't going to sit there and call her the lunchroom Nazi~duh!
Her smile broadened. "I was kinda cool today, wasn't I?"
"Cool? You had those zombies eating out of your hand
Well, not eating out of your hand because if they were eating out of your hand they'd probably eat your hand, but you know what I mean. I could never do that. Sorry," I said with even more sincerity.
"It's okay, Margot. I understand." She patted my hand. "If you had become head lunchroom monitor I'd be jealous, too."
I stifled a snort. Hurtful words were bubbling up inside me, another attack of verbal diarrhea rising in my throat. I jumped up. "Be right back," I managed to say.
"Where are you going?"
I didn't answer. I couldn't. My teeth were pressed firmly against my tongue. I pointed, grunted, and zombie walked to the bathroom. As I moved away I realized I needed to keep the dark thing inside me under control. No telling what kind of trouble I'd find myself in if I didn't.