Zombified (11 page)

We chatted as we worked, mostly about school. Given his job, Gene was very interested in what I thought of the school experience. He kept calling it that, an “experience.” Like it was the most depressing ride possible at Disneyland.

At one point, there was a lull in the conversation. I heard dramatic music drift in from the living room, and Diane squealed in fear and delight.

“Diane and I are thrilled that you were able to come over tonight, Courtney,” Gene said, filling the conversational void. Oh, boy, was he about to get all weepy like Diane had earlier?

“I was wondering if you'd mind me asking about your relationship with Phil.”

And with that, I felt a hot ball of lead fall into my stomach. Relationship? Was that what we had?

“What were you wondering, sir?” I asked.

“Oh, God, just Gene, okay?” he said. I nodded.

“I know every parent thinks their child is special,” he said, “and Diane and I are no exception. Especially given the way he came into our lives.” I wasn't sure if I was supposed to ask how that was, but I let it lie. “We know that he can be . . . distant. But that's a mask, or a shell. He's protecting himself.”

“I thought that might be what was happening.”

He smiled at me. “Because you're smart.” It was so matter-of-fact, the way he said it. I was used to thinking that, but not to hearing others say it. “It's part of why he likes you.” He stopped washing for a moment and looked right at me. “You know he likes you, right?”

“I think so,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said, “pretty smart.” He went back to sudsing up some plates. “I just hope you'll be delicate with him. That's all. I know that at your age, everyone believes that they're impervious to harm, physical or emotional, but it's just not true.”

“I don't plan on hurting him,” I said. I felt like I should be angry about this tack, but it just made me feel oddly guilty. Preemptive guilt?

“No one ever plans to.” He said it so quietly, it was almost like he was saying it to himself. “I'm sorry to get maudlin. I know you don't have any plans to hurt him. It's just that he's been through so much already, I want to shelter him from anything more.

“I hope you won't be angry at me for bringing this up,” he said. “I didn't even think I was going to. I guess it's just that you're the first person—the first girl—he's ever brought home. It feels like I'm going through some sort of rite of passage. I'm not sure if I'm doing it correctly.”

I surprised myself by throwing my arms around him, the wet tip of the dish towel slapping against his back.

“I'll be as gentle as I can,” I said.

“I know. Thanks.”

We straightened up and went back to the task at hand, but now there was an awkward silence between us.

I cleared my throat. “How did he come to live with you?” I asked. Hey, things were already weird, so why not go with it?

Gene smiled at me as he pulled the drain plug and water started to gurgle out of the sink. “I think I'll leave that for him to tell. It's his story, after all.”

“Okay,” I said. Honestly, I was relieved that he didn't tell me. Now I had to figure out when to ask Phil.

“Well,” Gene said as he surveyed our handiwork, “let's go see how much more of that god-awful show is left to go.”

 

The show wrapped up pretty quickly after that, and Dad and I said our good-byes. Diane really did tear up as we left; she was just
so
happy we had come over. Phil and Gene both looked a little mortified. Gene gave me a hug this time instead of a handshake. Even Phil gave me a hug, albeit a really awkward one. It was more of a reach-around back pat. I'd take it.

Dad and I rushed though the rain, which seemed to come down harder than ever.

Dad started the car and got us pointed toward home.

“That was nice,” he said. “And I really like Phil's art.” He'd made good on his promise to check it out.

“It was nice,” I said.

“Phil was nice.”

“Phil is nice,” I said. “Gene was nice. Diane was nice. Dinner was nice.” I looked over at him. “Are we going to list every nice thing from this evening, Dad?”

“Well,” he said, “things
were
nice until we started this conversation . . .”

“What is it you really want to ask me?” I asked him. This was one of Dad's pet phrases. I was always looking for a chance to parrot his own psychobabble back at him.

“Clever,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure that you had a good time.”

“I did,” I said. “And, no bullshit, I do like Phil, if that's where this is going.” He grimaced at my swear, but didn't interrupt. “But I don't know how serious it is.
If
it's serious.” I looked out at the rain-slicked streets as they slid by. I've never much cared for the rain, but I always thought that Salem looked better when it was raining. “I want to go away to school. He wants to go away to school. For now, I just want to hang out with him and have fun and stuff.” The “fun and stuff ” part of that sentence—zombie hunting—was likely to give Dad a heart attack.

“Okay,” he said. “I knew you'd have things figured out. I'm not sure why I asked.”

“You asked because you're sweet,” I said. “And because you love me. And I love you for it.” I slipped my shoulder out of the seat belt, leaned over, and kissed him on the cheek. He smelled of Brut aftershave.

“I'm guessing that's the tryptophan talking,” he said. “But thanks.”

After that, we drove on in silence. But it was the furthest thing from uncomfortable.

CHAPTER TEN

D
ad loosened the leash after that, especially if I was going to hang out with Phil (this after a rather intense session where he grilled me about whether or not Phil had been involved with any of my shenanigans—“shenanigans” being a euphemism for me selling drugs). When I assured him Phil didn't know about it until it was all over with, Dad gave me the thumbs-up to hang with Phil after school.

It was kind of crazy to see Phil in daylight hours, and minus deadly weapons. We ate at the Bully Burger—Chacho wasn't working that day, which was a bummer. Phil took me to see a movie at the theater where he worked. His boss, a nice lady who'd owned the place for about a million years, got almost as emotional as Diane when Phil showed up with me in tow. She didn't charge us for the movie or any of our snacks; it was pretty excellent. A definite improvement over the last time I had been there when I had been attacked by a zombie in the ladies' room. I didn't mention that to his boss.

In a weird coincidence, I started to get text messages from Brandon again. I did my best to ignore them, deleting most without reading them. The few I did read were strange. He didn't ask to see me anymore, didn't suggest we get together. He just texted me non sequitur observations. “The light this time of year is so sad” was one. “What do you call it when you miss things you never had??” was another. It was like getting texts from a not very talented Beat poet. I never responded because I didn't want to encourage him. But he was on my mind a lot those days.

A couple of weeks after Thanksgiving, my dad told me he was going to have to go out of town for some conference right before Christmas. Apparently the dean of his department got in a car accident and they needed Dad to fill in.

“But!” I protested and gestured toward our Charlie Brown Christmas tree. “Presents!”

“Truly you have discovered the meaning of the season,” he said in a deadpan. “Don't worry, little drummer girl, I'll be home the day before Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve eve.”

“What am I supposed to do while you're gone for a week?”

“It's five days,” Dad countered. “I suppose you might drive to get groceries or something. Maybe use that time to clean your room.”

That wasn't even worthy of a response.

“I suppose I might throw a raging party while you're gone,” I said while rubbing my chin. I hoped I looked like I was really considering it.

“If I thought you were serious,” Dad said, “I'd stuff you in my carry-on and take you with me.”

“Okay,” I said. “No parties.” Not like I had enough friends anymore for a party. I still hadn't recovered from the seismic shift in social status that dating Brandon had caused. My old clique was still being pretty standoffish. “But can I have Phil over?”

That brought him up short.

“I don't know if I like the idea of you having a boy, any boy, here while you're home alone.”

“You know you can trust me,” I said, thinking that he absolutely shouldn't trust me in this instance.

“I'll think about it,” he said. “I might prefer you visiting him at his place.”

“Think about it,” I said. “Like you said. For now, I'm going to go check my chastity belt.”

“You already have one?” Dad called down the hall at me. “But I got you one for Christmas, you smart-ass.”

I laughed as I disappeared into my room and started to plot out what I'd be able to do with five unsupervised days. Nothing illegal, of course, but still fun. I texted Phil and told him about Dad's leaving and asking what he might like to do, then got settled in to do some homework. My Organic Chemistry wasn't going to do itself.

But I had a hard time concentrating. It felt like an idea was forming, but it refused to emerge. Okay, homework was out, but I needed to distract myself somehow if I wanted the idea to emerge. I cranked up my laptop and opened a web browser. Filling my head with random Internet garbage was always a good way to let ideas flow.

I decided to check my e-mail. I stopped as soon as I brought up the window. What was it about my e-mail? I looked at recent messages. Nothing. Then I started to look through my important e-mail, ones I'd starred to look at later. There it was. The message from Dr. Keller.

So much for not doing anything illegal while Dad was out of town.

I picked up my phone and sent another text to Phil. I told him there was one thing I definitely wanted to do with my free time.

 

It was a few days later, a Friday after a pretty brutal week at school—taking courses for college credit seems like a good idea in theory, but when you do that on top of having a precarious social situation, it can get downright nasty. I'd attempted to make contact with my old friends by approaching Carol Langworthy and Brandi Edwards. They were standing by their lockers chatting as I walked up to join them. Hopelessly naïve, I realized later.

As I walked up, Brandi shifted slightly so her back was to me. I thought it was an odd coincidence, but I decided to power on.

I put on my big, most sincere—I hoped—smile. “Hey, guys!”

And they kept talking as if no one had spoken to them. Was this really how things were going to be? Were we resorting to the tactics of a disgruntled three-year-old? Okay. I'd play along. I pushed my body between the two of them and took a special kind of delight in the look of shock on Carol's face.

“Oh, hey, guys,” I said in mock surprise, “I didn't see you there! How are you?”

“Look,” Carol said to Brandi, “it's Courtney.”

“Is it?” Brandi answered. “I didn't see her.”

I let that stew a minute, but I refused to give in to my anger. For now.

“Very funny,” I said. “You'd think after half a year, you'd be able to cut me some slack.”

Brandi wrinkled her nose. “Why don't you ask your new best friends to cut you something? That is, if you can find them.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” I asked.

Brandi's eyes went all huge and Carol snorted.

“Jesus, Hart,” Carol said, “you never notice anyone but yourself, do you?”

I almost asked her again what the hell she meant, not because I didn't understand her, but because there was no way I wanted to take guff from a pasty-faced bitch like her. Rather than doing that, I looked around. Just by looking at the kids in the hall, I knew there were people missing. I'd been seeing more missing posters in the halls, hadn't I? Mostly for kids in the ruling class.

“It's the time of year people get sick,” I said. It even sounded lame to me.

“Sure,” Carol said. “Tell yourself that. Just be on the lookout for zombies with popped collars.”

“And now,” said Brandi, “if you'll excuse us, we were talking about something
important
before you came over.”

“This was pleasant,” I said. “It makes me remember what I liked about you guys so much. Which was nothing.”

I walked away as they yelled insults at my back.

I hooked up with Phil in the parking lot. He took one look at me and frowned.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I lied.

“No,” he said. “Listen, I'm crap at reading people's emotions, but there's no way I'd miss the fact that you're upset.”

“Pissed off.”

“Pissed off, right.” He opened the passenger side door for me, and that made me feel the tiniest bit better. The fact that he actually had some manners made me feel good.

He got in behind the steering wheel. “So, what?” he asked.

“I had a weird conversation with Brandi and Carol just now,” I said, “that ended with us all trading insults.”

“That doesn't really sound unusual,” Phil said, and I couldn't tell whether or not he was joking.

“Have you noticed more kids than usual not coming to school?” I asked. I intentionally left out the word “missing.”

He sat and thought about that for a minute. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe some of the rich kids?”

“That's what they said. What did it mean?” I wondered.

“I have no idea,” Phil said. “Maybe they've decided that they don't need high school educations. Maybe they're all sick.”

“You don't think they're missing?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Kids of wealthy folks go missing, we'd hear about it. The news would cover it, you know? Not like if kids like us disappeared.”

He had a point. So, maybe they were still around, but weren't showing up to school. But why the rich kids and no one else?

“You're still frowning,” Phil said.

“If me having differing emotions is too much for you right now, just say so,” I said. “I can get my dad to give me a ride home.”

He blinked slowly, then said, “I'm just trying to figure out how to make you feel better, Courtney.”

Well, crap. Now, on top of being angry and distracted, I'd have to deal with feeling like crap because I was such a bitch. I sighed, because a good sigh can buy you five or ten seconds of time before you have to open your mouth and start backpedaling.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “You're trying to be nice to me and I'm a tool.”

“I think you're hard on yourself,” he said.

“Yeah, well,” I said, “someone needs to be, I guess.”

“Maybe you should see what it'd be like if you gave that a rest,” he said. “Just a suggestion.”

I had nothing to say to that.

“I know what you can do to make it up to me,” he said.

“What?”

“Let me buy you something to eat before I have to go to work,” he said. A smile played at the corners of his mouth. He really thought he was being cute, I knew. Lucky for him he was right.

“Anywhere I want to go?” I asked.

“Anywhere you want,” he said, “bearing in mind I earn minimum wage.”

“Let's go to Bully Burger,” I said.

Phil visibly winced at that. “I thought that's what you might say.”

“If you don't really want me to make it up to you, then . . .”

“Bully Burger,” he said, “that's what I was going to suggest. Let's go!” I knew that it was mock enthusiasm, but I'd take any kind of enthusiasm that came my way just then.

Before too long, the familiar, ugly hellscape that was the Bully Burger parking lot came into view. Phil pulled off onto the store's short drive and blasted his horn. A second later, an electric motor whirred to life and the gate slowly pulled open. We drove in and parked. There were just two other cars parked out there; one was the big SUV that the security guards drove. I hoped Chacho was that security guard today.

Rarely have my prayers ever been answered, but someone was smiling down on me that day. Big as shit, Chacho sat in his usual booth reading a magazine. All of his zombie-killing gear was piled on the floor beside the booth. When Phil and I walked in, Chacho looked up, did a double take, then grinned.

“It's my favorite juvenile delinquent,” he said. “Finally came to see me, huh?”

“I've been here a few times,” I said as I walked across the store, ignoring the glares of the girl behind the counter—either Mary-Kate or Ashley, I couldn't tell which. “But you're never around.”

“Yeah,” he said, “one of my boys has been sick, so I took some time off, you know?”

I searched my memory banks: Did I know that Chacho had kids? Something sparked back there, so I guess I did know it.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” I said. “I hope he's okay.”

“He'll be fine,” Chacho said. “He just had to stay home a bunch, and you know, my wife makes more money than me, so I got to stay home with him. I got to catch up on my Bugs Bunny cartoons. Hey, Phil.”

“Hi,” Phil said. “She really has been here looking for you.”

Chacho got this look on his face like he was suspicious. “Why?” he asked.

“Hold that thought while I go and torture Mary-Kate,” I said.

“Ashley,” Chacho said as Phil and I went off to order our food.

“Whoever!”

With every step closer to the counter we got, Ashley's frown deepened. It became so severe, I thought maybe her jaw might become dislocated.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“I don't believe that's how you're supposed to greet customers,” I said loudly enough for the girl I pegged as shift supervisor—a new girl I'd never seen before—to stop what she was doing and check us out.

“Welcome to Bully Burger where we're bully on serving you,” Ashley hissed at us. At me, really. “Now, what do you want?”

“Give me a Rough Rider meal with an RC,” I said.

As she was taking Phil's order, I leaned over the counter and tried to see into the back. I wanted to see who was working the drive-through window. No dice.

As Phil forked over the cash, I asked, “Who's on the window these days?”

“Here's your change, sir,” she said. “We'll call your number when the order is ready.”

“I asked—”

“I heard you,” Ashley said in a low voice. “I may have to serve you if you come in here, but I don't have to talk to you.”

“Your customer service skills haven't improved any since I left here,” I said.

“Yeah?” she asked. She looked to see if the shift supervisor was looking our way. She wasn't. “Well, you're still a piece of trash. Now get out of my line.”

“Say hi to Ashley for me,” I said as I walked away.