The Risen (Book 2): Margaret (3 page)

CHAPTER 4

“A
t this time,” Mrs. Schinder’s voice comes over the school’s speakers and we all stand, programmed to do so by the many mornings spent following the same routine. Today though, the routine is about to be thrown out and the confusion it causes stirs more than just trouble for the teachers. “We will have all staff, excluding teachers and office support, to report to the gym for their vaccinations.”

Just the word finally said aloud by the school’s personnel results in many shuffling and hushed, whispering voices. The elephant in the room has finally been acknowledged and it frees us to speak of it. Some speak, some just start to cry. Someone find something shiny, stat!

“Teachers, please disregard all previous planning for the student vaccinations. At this time, please go ahead and start lining up your students and wait for further instructions.”

The loud sound of the system being disengaged with its loud rattling is the only sound now that is echoing through the painted overly pastel halls. The combination of the words “students” and “vaccinations” has stolen all speech from not only us, but the teachers as well.

Adults have a way of reading between the lines that we have not yet grasped. They no longer spell out words but punctuate the silence with hidden looks and expressions. Something about the sentence, other than the obvious inclinations, is twisting Mrs. Lamb’s normally pretty face into many deep wrinkles of concern. She looks like she may need some busy work now, too.

Rows of eyes are resting on her as we wait for instructions. We are all still standing, waiting for the Pledge that never comes. There is no “Star Spangled Banner” today. There is just a prolonged moment of silence in our confusion.

Mrs. Lamb rearranges the papers on her desk to mask her lack of knowledge that has prompted the schedule change, but she still instructs us just the same. A good teacher is not just one that can lead a class, but also one that can hold control under any circumstance. We learned the first week in the school year that Mrs. Lamb is not afraid of being in control.

“Let’s go ahead and clean up our areas and pack away our book bags under our desks. Go ahead and leave that sheet on your desk. We will work on it later.” Her face may still hold confusion but there is no room for any in her demeanor.

The room becomes alive with sounds as coloring materials are stored in zipper pouches to be packed away. The zipper teeth mingle their sounds with worried whispers and the sliding of fabric along the tiles as bags are secured as instructed. Normally this is where April and I would mimic an airplane flight attendant with the routine line of making sure all trays are in their upright position. There is no comedy to be inspired today though, but our eyes still meet out of habit.

Hers are no longer the soft pastel of teal coloring I am used to seeing. They are faded and dull with worry as the many tall tales are circulating in her mind. We thought we had time to prepare ourselves for this. We should have held the time span of many hours still before forming this line. There should have been time to disprove the rumors, building courage in our over-beating hearts that race as reality is upon us with questions asked to those that went before our time.

It is just a shot, right?
A shot with many needles, from a machine that will force not really dead things into us, making our arms grow numb, unable to withstand the amount of pain that it will cause.

No big deal at all.
My sarcasm has no bounds.

One by one, we make our way to the “waiting wall”. This is where we form the long line of our class before making our way to any place in the building. There is no need for any extra words of caution about behavior. We are somber already, standing silent like an army awaiting a battle to come. Perhaps we are closer to mourners awaiting the march out of the church. Either way, as the line reluctantly grows, we are ready to follow the procedure, even if we are not ready for the results.

Half of us grow anxious as the room grows dark with the lights being turned off in the final count down of departure. The other half grows more somber, retreating into some private place of security to conceal their concerns. I bounce between each half as one moment I am lured into the fears and the next I take deep breaths to escape the panic.

“Maybe we will get cartoon Band Aids.” I whisper to April.

My voice shocks her from her own thoughts and she startles a little from it before turning to me with those still lackluster eyes. “What?” Her voice is paper-thin.

Normally, whispering in line is an art form perfected to avoid the ever watchful eyes of our teacher. Today, we don’t hold the enthusiasm to play the game and are overly bold.

Perhaps being forced to the back of the line would not hold the normal threat today?
I think about it, but the risk to my spotless record will not agree with me.

“Like in the doctor offices. You go in, and they have all these different Band Aids to choose from. I wonder if they will have any.” The look April gives me makes me wonder what has grown on my face while I was talking. She peers at me as if I have just spoken a foreign language and she can either not understand me or believe me. My father gives me that look, a lot. You know, when he remembers me.

“Just trying to find something positive.” I mutter, shrugging with the rejection.

“Do you think the dead things will live in us forever?” April is still holding onto the fears from earlier.

What will happen when she catches up to the needle rumors?

“She said they are not really dead, but even so, how can anything that is any level of dead live anywhere? Isn’t that the whole point of being dead?” My answer only causes more questions.

It is starting to sound like one of those never ending debates on talk shows my father enjoys. The boringly dressed men sit around in overly large black chairs “discussing” a current topic without any of them really holding any real answers to the questions. They just like to talk, my mother tells me whenever I ask what is the point of the shows. To think he prefers those to cartoons still baffles me.

Dancing bears, people, really. Who wouldn’t love dancing bears?
I will never understand the man.

“So they will just be floating inside us forever?” There is no misunderstanding her opinion of that with her facial expression.

“I guess? I haven’t thought much about it.” It is the truth. I am still caught in the net of fears over the needle. My mind has not escaped past that yet.

“It’s just so gross.” April has no other comments to share as she slips back into her inner world of turmoil.

Where do dead things go?
They are put in dark wooden coffins to be placed into deep rectangles of removed earth. Slowly, that earth is replaced, shovel by shovel, sob by sob, securing the dead forever inside. We then place monuments marking the spot to forever remember what we can no longer see. The needle is the coffin. Our bodies are the earth. The scar is the monument. But, we won’t remember. Not until it is time to bury the dead again, anyway.

CHAPTER 5

T
he line moves slowly down the hallways that are refusing the mood of its occupants with its patterned pastel walls. The colors seem overly done with so many dismal steps

being placed on the colorful floor tiles. We are once again locked in a prolonged moment of silence, not out of respect for the rules, but for the fears that whisper into each ear with targeted effects.

Our line joins with other lines like a disjointed train as we make our way to the gym. Leaders become followers time and time again with the continued growth of the train, until due to the length, we are forced to wait along the wall for the double metal doors of the gym to open. They stand with their purple coloring, closed and blocking the sight of our doom that we are all anxiously awaiting.

The teachers whisper to one another as their eyes glide over their charges. There are shared words over and over with each new arrival of “not how we were told” and “anyone know why the change”. Their sentence structure may change each time, but it is always the same thought process. Basically, they all blame Mrs. Schinder. Just as my mother normally does, too.

The sounds of the metal doors opening pulls every head of those in the hallway towards it. It must be unnerving to be the focal point of so many eyes, and Mrs. Tawny and Mrs. Bell stumble from it. We try to peer past them into the hidden room to catch a peek at the hidden secrets within but it is impossible. The doors slide closed, keeping their private information away from us.

The cafeteria’s staff stares at the sea of scared eyes and melts with the emotions encircling them. They still wear their morning coats with the change in timing not allowing them the time to place their personal items in their private areas. They try to comfort us as they pass with smiles and gentle touches, but the emotion never carries into those they reach.

“How bad did it hurt?” Teddy’s voice echoes the thoughts circling in everyone’s mind.

With a smile, Mrs. Tawny removes her coat and rolls up her work shirt to show us a brightly colored Band Aid. My eyes light up seeing the very thing I had hoped would at least be a small bonus from today.

“Told ya’ so,” I whisper to April, pointing at the suggested prize from earlier.

“It only burns a little and then it is over. I promise.” Mrs. Tawny smiles at all the lingering doubts worn like well-fitted gloves on our faces.

“Just a bee sting and then done,” Mrs. Bell offers, trying to support her friend’s advice.

Why is it always bees? Does no other insect ever bite? Fire ants bite, but no one ever says “just a fire ant bite”. It is always “just a bee sting”.
I wonder these thoughts as they roll around in my mind.
What did bees do so long ago to earn them such a bad rap in our eyes? Do the other insects ever get jealous?

“Do you think we should tell them?” Mrs. Bell’s eyes slide over to her coworker with a hidden, sly smile.

“They told us we shouldn’t…” Mrs. Tawny’s words hang in the air like a dare to the powers that be, or for caution to the fact they may be listening.

“I think they can keep a secret.” Mrs. Bell whispers the word “secret” emphasizing the need for discretion making it sound all the more enticing to us.

“I don’t know. Can you keep a secret?” Mrs. Tawny turns to us with mischievous intentions.

The hallway erupts into a chorus of “yes” and “uhuhs” with the idea of a secret being too much to contain the rules of the hallway anymore.

“Well ok, but remember, you can’t tell anyone else.” Mrs. Tawny is now enjoying the game as much as we are as the space fills with our loud agreements in many excited pitches.

With as much mystery that has been injected into the secret, she could tell us that we all have spelling words to write tonight, just as we do every night, and we would still all cheer. Well, for a small moment anyway.

“We were just on our way to start making a very special treat for you today. Mrs. Tawny and I have been storing it in our closet in the back of the kitchen just for today! Any guess as to what it might be?” With the ending of Mrs. Bell’s question the hallway explodes with many guesses being shouted over one another in the attempt to be the first to guess correctly.

Tiny, extended hands wave in the air trying to lay claim to certain guesses before someone else does. I watch it all with mild amusement.

Teachers are needed to contain the many excited voices as they rise with each new guess. Hands clap and whistles are blown to remind us of the rules they have let slide. I would hate to have a teacher with a whistle. That would just make Monday’s unbearable.

“Ok. Ok, those are all very good guesses.” Mrs. Bell is trying to reclaim the calm of the hallway that was destroyed by her game before more than just teachers are alerted to the commotion. “I heard someone say brownies. I heard a cake. I even heard pizza which I know was you, Paul.”

She’s right. It most likely was Paul. The boy loves his pizza. I mean, L-O-V-E-S, his pizza.

“What we have in store for you are some very special, secret recipe, hand made, double chocolate-chip, chocolate cookies!” Her voice grows higher in pitch with each word marking the added excitement to the special treat.

The air around us is almost void with the sudden inhalation of breath the revelation causes. The exhale is a loud celebration of many excited voices. So much chocolate. So many sugar rushes. Totally, unhappy teachers. Yay!

Mrs. Bell and Mrs. Tawny do not even try to help settle the chaos now. They wave like prom queens as they pass through the damage they have caused, smiling at the frustrated teachers as they go. I am pretty certain this is some form of payback with the width of their smiles. The giggles as they turn the corner confirms it for me.

The lunch ladies are proving to be the best style of “busy work” so far this morning. They have successfully removed all thoughts of what lies beyond the double purple doors with the hints of their special treats. Just like Moms that pack special lunches and cook breakfasts into smiling faces, it is all to distract our minds for a few mere moments of comfort. I feel like when Mom figures out the ulterior motive for our actions, but keeps the secret anyway. I keep their secret with a smile as teachers keep it with a glare.