Generation Dead

  Martinsburg ripped the roster off the wall, tearing a corner where the masking tape held. He folded the list twice and put it in his shirt pocket.

  "Everyone on this list," he said, "is going to regret ever hearing about this class."

  He walked down the hall, and Phoebe watched him go, tears of frustration and shame gathering at the corners of her eyes. She could go in the office and tell someone what just happened. She could find Adam, and he would probably want to have a chat with Martinsburg. But in the end, all she did was wipe her eyes and wonder what Martinsburg was going to do when he saw Adam Layman's name on the bottom of the list.

  Margi found Phoebe in the hall. The flush in Phoebe's

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  cheeks must have subsided since Margi was back to her usual chattering self, relating a brief tale of an atrocity committed by Mr. McKenna in Spanish that morning, something about his failure to announce a pop quiz.

  "Isn't that why they're called pop quizzes?" Phoebe asked. "Because they're surprises?"

  "Still, it isn't fair. Speaking of surprises, when are they going to post the list for the work study? I mean, not like I want to do it or anything, but I am your best friend, and I guess it will look good on a college application. And they can't be grading very hard. Can they? I mean, the grading is just a formality with these things, right? I don't want to take it if I'm going to get a bad grade."

  "They posted the list. It got ripped down."

  "Really? Who would do that? Some moron who couldn't get in? I better not say that; what if I didn't get in? Do you know who got in?"

  "You got in. Me too."

  "Yay," Margi said with false enthusiasm, clapping so that her hundred bangles clinked together in a soft tinny rhythm. "Who else? Anyone as cool as us? As if that were possible."

  "Tommy, Adam," Phoebe said, smiling when Margi made a face. "Colette. Thornton Harrowwood is taking it, for some reason. I saw that living impaired--that differently biotic--girl on the list: Karen with the unpronounceable last name. They only accepted thirteen people."

  "Once again, the elite," Margi said, touching Phoebe softly

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  on the shoulder that Martinsburg had just shoved. "Of course, only thirteen people applied."

  The thirteen became twelve before the first bus ride from Oakvale High to the Hunter Foundation, which was a short drive through the woods near the Winford line.

  "I heard that her parents refused to sign the permission slip to let her come," Margi said about the last-minute deletion.

  "Is this precognition again?" Phoebe said. "Or telepathy?"

  Margi shook her head. "It's called divination if you can reveal something that already happened. But no, it is really because I overheard one of the school secretaries telling Ms. Kim."

  "Well, that was progressive of her parents."

  "These are progressive times, Pheebes my dear."

  In homeroom they discovered that they would be missing their seventh period class--which for Margi was a study hall, so she was none too pleased to be attending an orientation. The feeling that Phoebe carried around with her was similar to the one she'd had in the days and hours leading up to the seventh grade talent show. Sometimes the butterflies were there just to make you queasy; sometimes the butterflies were there to let you know that something good was on its way.

  The dead kids were waiting when she walked down to the library for orientation. She saw them through the streaky windows in a loose ring of chairs in the study area. Principal Kim was waiting at the door with a clipboard.

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  "Hello, Phoebe," she said, handing Phoebe the clipboard. "Please sign on the line next to your name."

  Phoebe did. The dead kids had signed in already. Not known for their fine motor skills, their "signatures" were mostly block printing that looked as though they'd slashed the letters across the page with the pen. Tommy's name was the only one that was within the lines provided, and the letters were even and uniform in height.

  "Hey, Pheeble," Adam said, taking the clipboard out of her hand, startling her. The old Adam was known more for his lumbering than for his stealth, but it gave him no end of amusement to sneak up on her.

  "Mr. Layman," Principal Kim said, "please ..."

  "Sign on the line that is dotted, yes, ma'am," he said, scrawling out a name that wasn't much neater than the marks left by the living impaired kids.

  "Why don't you two have a seat?"

  Phoebe watched Adam as he scanned ahead into the room. If he was apprehensive, he was doing a good job of not showing it, but she did note the slight shrug of his shoulders as he motioned for Phoebe to follow him into the room.

  Tommy was sitting in one of the creaky wooden library chairs, his shoulders back and his head straight. Phoebe thought of the last time she'd been in a ring of living impaired kids and recognized a few of them: Colette sat on a cushioned futon next to the girl with streaky white-blond hair who Phoebe'd seen out in the forest.

  "Hi, Tommy," Phoebe said. "Hi, Colette." She waved at the

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  other kids, making brief eye contact with each. The girl with the white-blond hair returned her wave with barely a pause.

  "Hello, Phoebe," Tommy said. "Adam."

  "Hey, Tommy. Hello, everyone." Adam took the last of the lime-green lounge chairs, leaving Phoebe one of the wooden ones. Her chair squeaked when she sat on it. He laughed, and she made a face at him.

  Margi entered the silent lobby like a small black-and-pink twister, her skirt flapping, her spangles jingling. "Ohmigawd, that was the longest history class ever. I think I actually became a historical figure in the time it took for that class to end."

  She pulled up short, as though it had just dawned on her where she was and who she was there with. Her greeting of "Hullo, everyone" was mumbled, and she looked relieved when Thornton Harrowwood entered and demanded high fives, first from Adam and then from Tommy. There was a tense moment when Tommy regarded Thorny's raised hand as though he was wondering what it was for, but then he gave a light slap.

  Thornton had been the last to arrive, which meant another person had dropped out. Principal Kim led Angela Hunter and her father, Alish, into the room. Ms. Hunter wore a pale blue skirt that ended at her knees, and Phoebe thought her legs could probably cause even a dead kid's heart to race. Tommy was watching her cross the room. The chair did not even creak when she sat on it.

  "Well," Principal Kim said, "I must say that I'm quite surprised and pleased to see two football players in this program.

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  I'm glad to see you boys taking an interest in something other than football. And I have already spoken with Coach Konrathy, so he knows that you will be missing one practice a week."

  Adam nodded, and Thornton puffed up as though he had been named running back of the year. Phoebe noticed that Adam hadn't looked up from the spot on the carpet he'd been staring at since he sat down. She looked down. Moss green, slightly variegated with some dark green strands. There was a stain that might have been coffee near the leg of the futon where the two dead girls sat, but Adam didn't seem to be staring at that.

  "Three."

  She looked up. Everyone looked at Tommy, including the principal.

  "There are ...three ...football players here."

  The principal smiled. "Three. Of course. Thank you for reminding me, Tommy. First, let me thank you all for signing up to participate in what we expect will be a very exciting program for the Oakvale school system. The Hunters are here today to discuss the program in a little more detail with you, as well as to set expectations--yours and those of the school and the foundation."

  "Thank you, Principal Kim. And again, thank you for joining our program! I look forward to working with all of you!

  Angela's smile, like her legs, could bring the dead to life. Margi was squirming on the seat next to Phoebe.

  Alish spoke next, and his voice was one suited for libraries:

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  dry, raspy, and so
ft. He smiled, but there was none of his daughter's restorative power there.

  "Yes," he said, and Phoebe thought she could hear an extra "s" in the word, as though the word had been hissed. "Thank you all for choosing to work with my foundation. I am Alish Hunter. I fully expect that the work you do here will change your lives, if not the lives of all persons, differently biotic or not. I know it will change mine."

  More smiles from the Hunters.

  "I have your files, but I would like to hear from you. I gather some of you are friends, but it will be in the interest of the foundation if we could all become friends. So please, let us all introduce ourselves. And when we do so, let us each give a little of ourselves by saying our names and also something that we like to spend time doing. I'll start. My name is Alish Hunter, and I enjoy wearing a lab coat and conducting experiments like a mad scientist."

  There was some polite laughter, mostly from Thornton and Angela, who went next. Contrary to what Phoebe expected, Angela's hobby was running, and not lounging around on Misquamicut Beach in a string bikini.

  Thornton liked football. The dead girl with streaky white-blond hair was named Karen DeSonne (de-sewn, Phoebe noted), and she liked to paint. There was almost no pause at all between her words. Adam liked karate. Colette took a full minute and a half to let the group know that her name was Colette Beauvoir and that she liked walking in the woods. Margi liked music. Kevin Zumbrowski was nearly as slow as

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  Colette, and he liked chess, which Phoebe figured probably worked out just fine for him. Phoebe said that she liked to write, as did Tommy Williams.

  "Wonderful," Alish Hunter said. "See that? We've already found some things in common."

  Evan Talbot, who could not have been much older than fourteen when he died, confessed to being a science fiction fan, especially Star Wars . He was wearing a Darth Vader T-shirt and had a shock of wiry orange hair that stood up from his head like a wick. He was pretty quick, too, much quicker than Sylvia Stelman, who agonized in telling the group that she liked her two cats, Ariel and Flounder. Tayshawn Wade told everyone that he liked to watch movies.

  "What sort of movies?" Angela asked brightly.

  "Action," Tayshawn replied, giving the word an extra syllable, "and ...horror."

  Alish laughed like it was the funniest thing he ever heard. Phoebe expected clouds of dust to billow out of his mouth from somewhere deep in his lungs.

  "Well," he said after a moment, "we are about out of time. Angel has a folder for each of you with more information. There is homework inside, as well as another permission slip that says your parents will allow you to be transported from the school to the foundation and back again. There is also a confidentiality agreement for each of you to sign with your parents. There are some other forms that you should be familiar with. Please read everything and have your parents read everything. Provided that Principal Kim receives all of the necessary

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  documents by the end of this week, we will see all of you next Tuesday at the foundation. You will be leaving after lunch, so please remember to schedule time for yourselves to make up any assignments you might miss. Thank you, and see you next week."

  Principal Kim stood and walked the pair to the door after telling the students they were dismissed.

  Margi sighed beside Phoebe.

  "What a lizard," she said.

  "Aw," Thornton said, flipping through his sheaf of paperwork, "we've got to write an essay on why we wanted to do the work study."

  A thin pink sheet escaped from his folder. Phoebe watched Adam pluck it out of the air with liquid grace and hand it back to Thornton just as Thornton dropped his pen.

  "Be interesting to hear what some people write on that one," Adam said, looking at Phoebe.

  Karen was the first to rise. She lifted a slate-gray backpack that had a small pink stuffed dog hanging from the zipper. The dog's tongue, equally pink, drooped from the line of stitching that was its mouth. The eyes were closed, making the dog look as if it were sleeping or hanging from a rope. One corner of Karen's mouth twitched up.

  "Don't worry," she said. "Only one ...page. I think you'll survive."

  Phoebe watched Karen walk away. Her blond hair looked almost soft under the bright library lights, and she moved without the hitch that was present in the gait of most of the differently biotic.

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  There might have even been a calculated sway in her khaki-clad hips.

  "She's the one who wears short skirts," Margi whispered.

  Phoebe nodded. She saw Tayshawn helping Colette off the futon. "We should talk to Colette."

  Margi grabbed her forearm, her hands freezing cold. "We should. And we will. But not now. I really want to get out of here," she said, tugging her toward the door.

  Phoebe turned long enough to wave at Tommy. Tommy waved back.

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  ***

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  T HE FIRST GAME OF THE season was against the Norwich Fisher Cats, which was one of the major rivalries for the Oakvale Badgers. Phoebe had read that this was the first year in many that the game was being played in Oakvale. For a long time the game had been played in Norwich as their homecoming game in accordance with the long-standing tradition of giving the Fisher Cats a team they could demolish for that spirit-building event. But now, with Adam on the team, the Badger's were actually competitive.

  Phoebe's dad had agreed to drive her and Margi to the game, and Phoebe noticed as he pulled on his threadbare Fordham sweatshirt and an old ball cap, that he might have been a little too eager to volunteer. She knew how much he liked to spend time with her, and he liked spending time with her and Margi even more--mainly because he loved to try and

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  embarrass them. "Bring some color to those pale, pale cheeks" was how he liked to describe it.

  "So Margi," he said, "are you as excited as Phoebe is about this Undead Studies thing?"

  "Dad!" Phoebe said. "Study for the Advancement of Differently Biotic Persons. Didn't you read the paperwork?"

  He looked back at her in the rearview. "I feel like all I've been reading lately is paperwork."

  "I'm with you, Mr. Kendall," Margi said. "Too much paper."

  "The newspaper called it the Undead Studies Program," he said. Phoebe wished that he would just watch the road.

  "Don't believe everything you read," she said.

  Her father laughed, and despite the lines around his eyes, he looked younger than his forty years.

  He managed to look away from her just in time to notice the stop sign up ahead. "Good advice for everyone, I think."

  Margi giggled, and Phoebe hit her with an elbow and a dirty look. "I think it will be interesting, Mr. Kendall. One of the de ...differently biotic boys likes horror movies."

  "Really?" he said. "Nice to have something in common."

  "Sure." Phoebe wondered why everyone thought that commonality was the lynchpin to the whole "why can't we all just get along" deal.

  She could sense the next question on his lips. She knew he was about to ask about Colette, but then they turned the corner and there was the school. There was a crowd of maybe twenty people near the front steps, some with poster board signs. A few

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  police cars were parked in the loop where the buses would wait on school days.

  "Those don't look like football fans," her dad said.

  Phoebe read some of the signs: SPORTS ARE FOR THE LIVING; DEAD = DAMNED; LIFE, LIBERTY, AND THE PURSUIT OF HAPPYNESS; and in bold red letters, BURY YOUR DEAD.

  "Nice," Margi said. "Look, they spelled happiness wrong."

  "Maybe this isn't such a good idea, kids."

  "No, Dad," Phoebe said, "we can't let people like this win."

  "Win what?"

  "Could you please just drop us off in the student lot? We'll walk up."

  "I don't know."

  "Dad, we'll be fine. It's just a couple of nuts with signs." She knew what was going on
in her dad's head. Visions of bombs under bleachers, handguns in belts, vials of acid tucked away in overstuffed purses.

  "Phoebe--"

  "Dad," she repeated, "we'll be fine."

  "Maybe I'll see the game with you after all," he said. "I've always wanted to hear Armstrong speak."

  "Right." At least she'd get to see the game.

  There were protestors inside the game as well. Many of them wore latex monster masks, even though Halloween was still a few weeks away.

  "Are they actually chanting 'Out of life, out of the game'?" Margi asked.

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  "I'm afraid so," Phoebe said, selecting seats in the heart of the Oakvale boosters section. She and Margi would normally be huddled together in a corner, away from everyone, each wearing earbuds jacked into the same iPod; but the people who normally seemed insane to them now seemed safe and comforting compared to people who actually were insane.

  "I could think of some better cheers," her dad said.

  "Please don't."

  Phoebe had seen only one game last year just so that she could tell Adam she'd seen him play. Adam's role seemed to be to keep the opposing team from tackling Denny Mackenzie, the quarterback, and from what Phoebe could tell, he was very good at it. Denny had gone untackled for the game she'd watched, except for a few plays where he'd run downfield from his blockers. With a routine nonchalance, Adam had blocked or knocked down the one or two people who had run into him.

  A young girl in a star-spangled dress, her hair done up in a loose mound of blond curls, skipped out to sing the national anthem, the crowd joining in with a sort of restrained mania. Some of the voices were belting out the words, as they held special significance for the day's events.

  The announcer asked everyone to please welcome the Honorable Steven Armstrong, state representative. A trim-looking man in khaki pants and a navy blue windbreaker walked to the microphone where little Kayla Archambault had just finished singing about the land of the free and the home of the brave. The applause became listless and interspersed with booing as soon as the little girl was out of sight.

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  "A man of the people," her father said. "Excellent."