Dawn of the Jed (17 page)

Principal Buckley turned toward me.

“Speaking of policy violations, Jed, please come into my office. We have some very important matters to discuss.

Principal Buckley disappeared into his office. I took a deep breath, going over again how I was going to keep Tread’s origin a secret.

But I couldn’t get Chris’s story out of my mind. Rats get up and walk away, but not sleeping rats. I believed him when he said the rats disappeared.

Obviously they had help. But from who?

“Jed, now please,” Principal Buckley called from his office.

I got up from the uncomfortably small plastic chair to face the inevitable.

Anyone who wound up in Principal Buckley’s office noticed two things.

The first was his desk. It filled more than half the room. It was large enough to be its own country, if it decided to declare its independence. Visitors wondered if he was compensating for something.

The second was the map of Pine Hollow on the wall behind his desk/nation. Each wing, every hallway and classroom, right down to the bathrooms, was on that map. It was covered with Post-It notes of many colors. There were pinks, reds, oranges, blues, yellows, and greens, a Technicolor weave of office stationery. On each Post-It was a name. I assumed each was a teacher. A few others were in the cafetorium.

Principal Buckley was staring at the map, his back turned toward me when I walked in.

“Take a seat, Jed; I will be right with you,” he said without bothering to turn around.

I leaned over the desk to make out some of those names. Most were teachers, as I thought. Some were on yellow notes, others in blue. Only a handful in red and green. The cafetorium had a few pinks and oranges, but I didn’t recognize the names. But I did see a small circle in the kitchen that said “Wheel of Meat.” It’s so cool it earned its own place on the map.

“I thought I told you to take a seat.”

I was so focused on the map, I didn’t notice Principal Buckley had turned around, his face stern.

I leaned back into the small, uncomfortable plastic chair, suddenly feeling as big as a three-year-old as my head barely poked over the desk.

“I see you noticed my map,” he said.

Noticed it? It was like walking into a hangar and noticing the 747 parked inside.

“Yes, it’s pretty much right there,” I said.

“Yes, Jed, it’s pretty much right there, what a brilliant observation. And you know why it’s pretty much right there now, and how it wasn’t pretty much right there last semester?”

I made a note to pretty much never to say “pretty much” in front of Principal Buckley.

“Pret—, I mean, yes, I noticed that.”

“Last semester, it seemed things were getting a bit out of hand,” Principal Buckley said. “Nature was out of balance. I am sure you are aware of the part you played in that unbalancement.”

Unbalancement? I let it go.

“No, not really.” Honestly, I wasn’t getting any of this.

“Jed, you’re better at math than that. I’ve seen your grades. Put two and two together. Pine Hollow is doing just fine. The usual disturbances, no more, but no complaints. No worried parents. No calls from the district superintendent asking about industrial accidents in Woodshop.”

I sensed where this was going. Pretty much.

“Then one day our school enrollment includes a zombie,” he said. “Wait, I’m sorry, that’s an unfortunate label. What is it you prefer? ‘
Cardiovascularly challenged
.’ Because undeadness is merely a condition and does not define the person, correct?”

“I think it’s a little more than a con—”

“Jed, please, I am trying to make a point. And the point is, I need to get a better grip on my school. So I commissioned this map, scraping the necessary cash from the recreation budget.”

OK, that explained the growing number of flat basketballs and duct-taped footballs. Yet there still seemed to be plenty of dodgeballs for those rainy days we were stuck inside the gym for PE, resulting in permissible eight-grader-on-seventh-grader violence.

“I made sure not to touch the dodgeball fund, of course.”

Of course.

“So how do I get a better grip on things?” Principal Buckley continued, reaching into his middle drawer. “By keeping better track. For example.”

In his right hand, he held a narrow metal cylinder. He pulled the knobby end and there was a clicking as the cylinder telescoped to three feet. He swiveled in his large, comfortable leather chair and used the pointer to hit the map with a solid
thwack.

“In the cafetorium you will see all three lunch ladies are represented by green Post-Its,” he said. “The color indicates the threat level. The lunch ladies are a threat only to proper nutrition and not me. Thus, green.”

He moved the pointer to Woodshop.

“There is Mr. Anderson’s Post-It, a perfect green. And not just because of his effective use of the Circle of Shame. He is a very predictable, by-the-book instructor. His lines are straight, and his wood is of average quality because he knows how to stay within budget.

“And here,” he said, thwacking another spot with the pointer. “Mr. Landrum in Biology. Orange, for reasons you do not need to know.

“This map allows me to keep tabs on everyone. You see how that works? ‘Tabs’ because they truly are tabs. Of paper. Do you see where I’m going?”

“No, it all seems stationary,” I said.

He went on, not getting it.

“This map helps me keep things in order. And reminds me there is work to be done. Which brings us to you, Jed. Notice you are one of a few students with your own Post-it. And look, it’s red. That’s a very undesirable color. And do you know why you’re red?”

I knew, and I spit it out. “Because I’m a zombie.”

“That’s the easy answer, and the wrong one. You are not red because of what you are, but what you’ve done. You are a frequent rule-breaker, Jed. And don’t think for a moment I’ve forgotten about how you circumvented our disciplinary process at the end of last semester.”

Now this was making more sense. Just as word was spreading around campus that I was a pretty good football player thanks to the benefits of being undead (my loose joints and tear-away limbs made me very hard to catch), Principal Buckley kicked me out of the game because he thought I was a danger to others. Before that, he suspended me for smoking, even though Robbie framed me by tearing off my arm and sticking a cigarette between its (my) fingers when he and his henchmen trapped me in the boys’ room.

Shortly before kickoff, I got word I was back in. I found out later that Anna had a photo of Principal Buckley pouring something from a metal flask into his punch at the fall dance. I don’t want to use the word “blackmail.” Let’s just call it “Timely influence.”

Principal Buckley clearly was not happy being influenced.

He reached into his desk again, this time pulling out a piece of paper and sliding it across his desk.

“This is why you’re red, Jed.”

Finally, what I’d been anticipating since I walked in. It was the NZN Network’s report of the Franken-canine and its creator.

Me.

“You’ve seen that, I’m sure,” Principal Buckley said.

I nodded, skimming through it. “Reliable sources report some puppies were used … unclear of how many breeds … stitches are not enough to keep all its parts on … those with intimate knowledge of the situation say the family’s power bill that month approached four figures … ”

“Would you care to enlighten me about this rather unnerving situation?” he asked.

At the very least, I had to admit to having a dog. Should be no problem. There’s no law against zombies owning dogs. In fact, I was sure there weren’t any zombie-specific laws at all. Yes. So what was wrong with me having a dog?

“I have a dog,” I said. “A Christmas present from my parents.”

“So your parents created the Frankendog?”

“No, it’s not a Frankendog. It’s just a dog. Tread.”

“Tread?”

“His name. Tread.”

“An unusual name. How did you come up with that?”

“He, just, there’s this odd mark on his side. Reminded me of a tire tread.”

“I see. So if this is simply your average family pet, can you tell me about his tail?”

“His tail? It’s a tail.”

“Let me be more specific. I’m talking about the tail he has in his mouth. The tail with the same fur color and appropriate length for a dog that size. It indicates the dog is carrying, rather than wagging, his tail. A behavior you would only see with a Frankendog.”

“And how many Frankendogs have you seen?” I mumbled.

“What? Speak up, Jed. I asked you about the tail.”

“That’s not his tail. It’s a stick. Someone changed the photo. Anyone with a computer can do that.”

Principal Buckley reached across his desk and snatched the NZN leaflet, putting it back in his drawer.

“When these NZN newsletters popped up, members of my staff suggested I ignore them, that it was an anti-zombie smear campaign,” he said. “Against my better judgment, I did just that. After all, while I knew you were a troublemaker and a smoker, I had never actually seen you tear the flesh from an infant’s arm—”

“What? The NZN never accused me of eating—”

“—or attempt to put ‘human brains’ on the Wheel of Meat.”

OK, the NZN did report that, and there was no truth to it.

“But I am inclined to believe its version of the Franken-canine, based on the photo and other eyewitness reports I’ve received from Burger Bucket.”

“Principal Buckley.” I started to protest.

“I can’t tell you what you can and can’t do when you are not at school. But we have a strict zero-tolerance policy when it comes to playing God and bringing inanimate things to life. At least as of last week, when this came to my attention. The new policy was passed unanimously by the board, might I add.”

“Tread is not a Frankendog. He’s just a dog. A terrier mix, I think. He’s a rescue dog.”

“I understand he is many rescue dogs,” Principal Buckley said, “and I would not be surprised at all if it includes terrier in there. While I think there is sufficient proof to suspend you, if not expel you with your prior history, I am willing to reconsider if you are honest with me. For example, did you have help in the gathering, sewing, and bringing to life the various carcasses that make up the Frankendog Tread?”

“No.”

“So you did this all by yourself.”

“No, it didn’t happen at all. There is no Frankendog. There’s only Tread, a normal, regular old dog.” Who just happens to be undead.

“I promise you I will get to the bottom of this,” Principal Buckley said. “Until then, the Frankendog Tread will not be allowed on campus, due to our policy on forbidding any abhorrence of nature. I also want to make it clear that any dismembering and reassembling of carcasses for the express purpose of creating life no longer will be allowed on campus.”

“No longer?”

“We never had a specific rule against it. Didn’t think we’d have to create one, either. So there you go.”

“Principal Buckley, I can’t create life, I swear. Tread is a normal dog. I can bring him. You’ll see.”

That was a big risk, but I was sure what he’d say.

“That won’t be necessary.”

See?

“Jed, if you bring anything to life—I don’t care if it’s a dog, a cat, a mouse, anything that one time exhibited life and has since become inert—you will be expelled. You and your parents will have to find alternative schooling. You will be lucky to find another principal as lenient as I’ve been. Are we clear?”

I looked down at my feet. “Yes, sir.”

“Excuse me? I didn’t catch that. Let’s try one more time. Are we clear?”

I looked up and met his gaze, making sure I didn’t blink. “Yes, sir!”

“Fine.” He swiveled to the map and peeled off the red Jed Post-it. “I am putting you in English. Be there in two minutes.”

I stood from the uncomfortably small plastic chair without another word and started toward English.

I felt as if I’d dodged another bullet. But I needed to know one thing.

Who was holding the gun?

Anna: What are you doing right now?