chapter Eighteen
"Watch her head." "I got it." Thump. "Owl"
"I told you to watch her head."
'You're not the boss of me."
This back-and-forth went on for a full five minutes as the two zombies--or whatever they were--transported me away. By the time they set me down on a chair and removed the hood, I recognized one of the voices.
"Hello, beautiful," Baron Chomsky crooned as the hood came off. It was a poor attempt at sounding cool, but I didn't care how geeky he sounded. Baron Chomsky had saved my life.
"Baron!" I cried, looking around, trying to make sense of what was happening. "You're not a zombie."
"Nope," he said, grinning at me.
"You're not a zombie, either, and we want to know why," came the voice of the other boy in the room--Milton Sharp. The
cartoon character on the T-shirt he wore today was a cricket, standing upright like a human, with a bad case of the shakes.
"We know why," said Baron, turning to Milton. "Leave her alone."
We were in a dusty old storage room in the basement that had been converted into a science lab.
" 'Leave her alone' said the big-shot know-it-all. Well, homie, you may have just signed our death warrant. I hope you're happy," called Milton. He paced quickly back and forth, eyeing me suspiciously.
"What's going on?" I asked.
Milton stopped pacing. "Why aren't you a zombie?" His eyes tore into me. "I'll tell you why, because you are the zombie master. And now you know where our hideout is, and you're going to bring your friends here to kill us." He wagged an accusing finger in my direction.
"Milton, that's ridiculous."
"It's the reason we threw the hood over your head," Baron said. He seemed embarrassed for his friend. "Sorry about that, but he wasn't sure about you, so he didn't want you to know where our hideout is."
I looked around at the room. "Hideout?"
"Big mistake removing that hood, homie,"Milton called.
"Ignore him. He's read one too many comic books."
"And it's a good thing I have, otherwise we wouldn't have found the cure." Milton started pacing again, eyeing me with contempt. "Didn't know we had an antidote, did ya?"
I shook my head, turned to Baron. "Can somebody please tell me what on Earth is going on here?"
"Why did she say 'Earth'?" Milton asked, his voice rising with suspicion. "Is the zombie master an alien?"
"Idiot!" cried Baron. "If she had control over them would we have had to rescue her?"
Milton stopped, his face twisting into a pout as he thought about this for a moment. "Don't call me an idiot. I have a four-point-oh GPA."
"And you never let me forget it."
"You guys aren't zombies, either," I said.
"Not yet!" said Milton. "But now that you're here " he added, rolling his eyes.
"We believe the transformation happened at the carnival. And since we didn't go that night we were spared being infected," said Baron. "We've been roaming the school ever since, hiding and studying the zombies while we searched for a cure. This storage room is our base of operation."
"I didn't go to the carnival, either," I said. "Sybil and I went to the carnival grounds the night after to look for clues, but the carnival was gone."
"See?" Baron said. "She's on our side."
"You were at the location where Patient Zero got infected?" Milton asked, eyeing me skeptically.
"Patient Zero?"
"That's who he calls the first person to get infected."
"Oh." Baron was smiling at me. I smiled back. It felt good talking to a real person other than Sybil or Principal Taft for a change.
"I don't believe her," Milton said suddenly. "I've been watching you. You sure act like you're in charge of them, parading around school like ... like the zombie master. I think you're behind it."
A tiny bit of the anger from the choral room reared up. "Why do you keep saying I have something to do with the zombies?" I
barked, advancing on him. He wasn't expecting my sudden aggression and shrank back.
"Because," he said, his voice turning whiny and defensive, "you're not one of them." He took a few more steps backward, making a cross of both his index fingers and thrusting them at me as if to hold me at bay.
"Neither are you!" I took a step toward him and his silly cross. "By the way, crosses are for vampires."
"Okay, stalemate," called Baron, jumping between us. "We believe somebody released a microbe into the air."
"Who would do such a thing?"
"Who indeed!" chimed Milton.
"Look, we're all here for the same reason, to find a way to make our classmates normal again. I'm glad you're not one of them," Baron said, his voice softening. I could feel myself beginning to blush--which didn't make any sense since the sweet sentiment was coming from a geek.
"So you have a cure?" I said, changing the subject.
"Yes!" exclaimed Milton.
"Not exactly," said Baron. "We're working on the antidote."
"Dude! Do not give military intelligence to the enemy," Milton whispered through his teeth.
I turned to Baron. "Your friend is a real pill."
"I know, and the worst kind of pill--a pill with a four-point -oh GPA."
I smiled at him. It was the first time I could ever remember me and Baron agreeing on anything. Go figure.
"Say what you want, but we're on a mission to turn our classmates normal again, and you had better stay out of our way." Milton was staring at me, trying to look ominous, and failing miserably at it.
"Knock yourselves out," I replied. "And as far as being in your way goes, you brought me here."
"He brought you," Milton said, pointing to Baron. "And now it's time for you to go."
A short time later, they returned me to the choral room, where I found Sybil and Dirk as I'd left them. I told Sybil about the zombie attack, the rescue, and the fact that Baron and Milton were still among the living.
"Really? Where are they now?" she asked.
"I'm not sure. They dropped me off outside the door and took off."
"Uh-huh. I wonder why they didn't stop in."
"One of them said something about remaining in hiding." The truth is, Baron had said, "We're stealth bombs for justice, baby." Then he had tried to kiss me on the cheek, but that corny line didn't deserve a kiss.
"And you have no idea where their hideout is?" I could tell from the tone of Sybil's voice she thought I was lying.
"No. They put a hood over my head." I explained Milton's paranoia.
"Right. The geeks who rescued you from the zombies put a hood over your head because they thought you were the zombie master. Makes sense to me."
"Sybil, it's the truth."
"Of course it is, Margot. I'm sure you're not saying it just to make me feel sorry for you so I'll let you have your way." She patted my hand. "I know you wouldn't do anything like that." She shot me a sarcastic smirk. "Now, while you were on your adventure, Dirk and I went over the carols he knew."
She handed me the sheet of loose-leaf paper she'd been
writing on: "0 Come All Ye Faithful," "0 Little Town of Bethlehem," "0 Tannenbaum."
0-0-0. We were right back where we started.
"A marvelously merry Monday morning to you, young ladies."
Sybil and I were in Principal Tart's office. We had just finished the morning announcement.
"It is a merry morning," I said with a smile. I was now the school's fashionista, dressed in a hot pink, skintight, hoodie warm-up suit with green writing on the butt. And there was no one around to tell me I looked fat in it.
"I think this whole zombie thing is going rather well." Principal Taft beamed at us. "So, how's the Holiday Pageant coming along?"
"Urn... excellent," I said. Sybil rolled her eyes.
"You do remember Pennyfield is coming?"
"Yes, sir. And he will never suspect that anyone m the pageant is a zombie."
"Good." Taft turned to Sybil. "And how are things going with you?"
"Very good, sir. The cafeteria is running like a well-oiled machine. With me on patrol, everyone is toeing the line." Her words hung in the air as she thumped her gum foil badge to punctuate the statement. I rolled my eyes.
"Excellent, excellent, excellent," Taft said with a big grin. He rubbed his hands together. "I knew you were the right girls for the job."
"And we have a wonderful group of carolers this year," Sybil suddenly said. "You should hear Snookie's bass. It's enough to make you cry."
My head snapped around. "Snookie?"
"I saw you rolling your eyes at me," she said with a pronounced glare.
"Well, excuse me, Marshal Mulcahy. What are you going to do, ban me from brunch?"
"You think you're so smart. And I thought we didn't like girls who wore skintight warm-up suits with writing on the butt?"
"For your information this is a holiday outfit, and holidays get an exemption."
"Of course they do, Amanda--I mean, Margot."
"What did you call me?"
"If the skintight warm-up suit fits ..."
"Ladies! Is everything okay between you two?" Tart interrupted.
"Yes!" we both barked.
"Because it sounds like it isn't."
I looked at Sybil, wondering if she was going to tell him about our caroling issue, and that I had no idea what to do for the Holiday Pageant.
"No, we're cool," she said. I breathed a sigh of relief.
"Yeah," I said, "just a little fashion disagreement."
Principal Taft's eyes moved from me to Sybil and back as he tried to determine the depth of the rift between us. We stared back, blank defiance on our faces. We'd both been here with adults before, including parents and teachers. What happens between kids stays between kids.
And now a brief note to adults about trying to read our minds: This is a potentially dangerous activity. 1 once heard of a parent who figured out how to read her daughter's mind. When she finally got inside, the poor woman's head exploded--literally. Her brain couldn't handle the weight of all
those mixed-up teenage thoughts. True story. So adults, please, stay out of our heads. It's for your own good.
Anyway, after a few moments staring into our blank faces, Principal Taft gave up. Finally he said, "I can't wait to see what you've done for the Holiday Pageant."
"That makes two of us," said Sybil with a sarcastic smile.
I wanted to smack her.
The fall semester was drawing to a close. Mrs. Mars stepped up her campaign to get us in shape for the state endurance exam. We ran, jumped, and did push-ups all period long. The woman was fixated on us all passing the silly exam.
One day when I got to the gym, the ropes had been made ready for us to climb. Four thick, braided ropes hung from the ceiling to the floor. I gaped at them in horror.
While the zombies had all made a feeble attempt at running around the track, not one of them had the ability to climb the rope. One by one they each stepped up to the rope, and failed miserably at any attempt to climb.
Finally it was my turn. I stepped up to the rope.
Mrs. Mars looked up from her clipboard. "Climb all the way to the top, touch the bar, and shimmy back down," she barked.
"Why do I have to climb? None of them did."
"I judge each student on her individual ability, Miss Johnson. Now, climb."
I looked up. The ceiling had to be forty, fifty feet off the floor. "I don't have the ability to climb, either," I snapped.
"Margot Jean Johnson, get on that rope, and get on that rope now!" Mrs. Mars said, her face turning red.
The zombies around me inched back.
I gripped the rope and began to climb. Pain seared through
my fingers and up my arms. My puny muscles were like kindling that had just been set on fire.
"Higher!" Mrs. Mars called.
I looked down, I was only a foot and a half off the floor when I realized I could go no farther.
"I can't!" I cried.
"Higher!" she insisted.
I tried pulling myself up, but my arms gave out. I dropped back to the floor.
Mrs. Mars eyed me with contempt. "Is that the best you can do, Miss Johnson? That's pathetic."
"I tried, Mrs. Mars, I really did."
"Same bat time, same bat channel," she rasped. Then she turned her attention back to her clipboard. "Next!"
The next time I had gym I didn't change into my uniform. Instead, I went right to the bleachers.
"Margot Jean Johnson, aren't you lonely up there in the bleachers all by yourself?" Mrs. Mars called.
"I am lonely up here," I called back. "But what can I do? Read my note."
Dear Mrs. Mars,
Please excuse our generous daughter, Margot, from participating in gym class today. Yesterday after school she was doing volunteer work at the hospital, where we fear she may have picked up a touch of the Ebola virus. We have been advised to keep her off strenuous activity so that she doesn't bleed out and die. Your help in this will be greatly appreciated.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Trudi Johnson
"You need to stop with these notes, Margot You need all the work you can get," she said, and then she turned her attention to the class.
To my surprise, Sybil was really getting into the strenuous activity. She said it was because she didn't want an F in Phys Ed on her record.
That permanent record stuff some teachers try to pull on us is a hoot. Like there's really a record following us around from grade school throughout our lives--please! Well Miss Wonderful you've fed the world's homeless, ended all war, and cured cancer... Wait! What's this? You shot a spitball at Tommy Salami in the third grade. Tut-tut I'm afraid we cannot give you the Nobel Peace Prize. Yeah, right.
Yet Sybil claimed she was worried about failing gym. I didn't believe it. Sybil was reacting to the fact I had a boyfriend and was achieving my dreams. This was just another display of her jealousy. As much as I didn't want to admit it to myself, our friendship was slowly coming to an end