"Thank you. That means a lot, really."
"Not yet, anyhow," she said, returning his stare calmly. Evan gave his one-note bleat of a laugh.
"Fair enough," he said, laughing himself. He peeled back one of the tablecloths like a magician about to reveal a trick. "Angela told me that you kids ...you undead kids ...like to call yourselves zombies, too. Is that right? Anybody can answer."
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"Yes," Evan said.
"Do the same rules apply? You guys can say zombie, but you might get mad if somebody--somebody living says it?" "Depends," Tommy said.
"On what?" Skip asked, nodding at him with encouragement.
"Depends on how they say it."
"Okay," he said, turning to the other half of the room, where the living kids sat. "What about you all? Don't just sit there like zombies, especially when the zombies are giving me all the answers! What do you think?"
"About what?" Adam said, the irritation evident in his voice.
"About the word zombie ! Do you ever call Thomas Williams a zombie?" "No."
"Well, why the hell not?" he said, throwing his hands in the air. He'd really worked himself into a lather now.
"Because I respect Tommy. I wouldn't say or do something that possibly could hurt him."
Slydell nodded. "What about you, Williams? You care what Mr. Layman calls you? Would you get all pissed off if he called you a dead head or a zombie?"
Tommy shook his head.
"Why?"
"Because Adam ... is my friend."
"Hallelujah!" Slydell yelled, staring up through the ceiling. "You see that? Do you see that, everyone? Layman here won't
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call his pal Tommy a zombie because he respects him. And ole Tom wouldn't care if Adam did because he considers him a friend. You see that? Do you understand where I'm going here?"
He walked in front of Zumbrowski with his hands on his hips. "Do you know what those two are doing, Kevin? Sylvia? Margi? Those two are transforming the culture, and that is what it is all about."
He picked up his mystery gear on the table and began unfolding what looked like a black T-shirt.
"How'd you get to be friends, guys? Was it the football?" "Yes."
"Pretty much."
"So it took a radical act--that of a zombie putting on the pads and helmet--for that to happen, didn't it?" "I guess so," Adam said.
"You guess so? You guess ? You'd better know, son, because you and Tommy are on the bleeding edge of a new society. You guys are it. Transformation always requires radical action . Do you follow? Transformation always requires radical action. If Elvis Presley had not taken the radical action of singing a style of music traditionally sung by black people, we may never have had the transformation that rock and roll enacted on modern society. If Martin Luther King had not taken the radical action of organizing and speaking around the cause of civil rights, we may have never undergone the transformation from an oppressive state to one of freedom and equal opportunity for all. And that transformation is not yet
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complete. You kids are living--or unliving, as the case may be--proof of that."
"What radical action did Michael Jordan take?" Thornton asked.
Slydell smiled at him. "Wise guy, huh? No radical action. He was just radically better than everyone else. That alone transformed the game. And that's what we're all about. Transforming the game."
Phoebe wondered how he could just talk and talk like this without ever pausing for breath. She thought that it would be fun--and exhausting--to watch him and Margi have a conversation, if only Margi was in a better mood.
"Okay. A little more philosophy. Then I'm going to get into how you can help me. And when I say how you can help me, I'm really saying how you can help society. How you can help yourselves. Help me do that. Okay? Now--you two, Adam and Tommy. You're friends. Did you have any dead friends before Tommy, Adam?"
"Not really, no."
"How about you, Tomás? Any blood bags you would call friends?"
Tommy's gaze drifted toward Phoebe. "A few."
"A few. Well, okay. But in this case it took a radical action on your part to transform Adam. Without the radical action, the transformation would not have occurred. Adam would have no undead friends."
"Hold up," Adam said. "You can't assume--"
"Stay with me, Adam. We'll get to your thoughts in a
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moment. Without the radical action, transformation would not have occurred. Was everyone as thrilled with this action as Adam was? Did everyone embrace Tommy Williams onto the football team and everything was just hunky-dory? No? No! As I recall, it was protest in the streets! If the newspapers were accurate, as we all know they so often are, there were signs, placards, chants! Thrown fruit!"
Phoebe looked over at Adam, sitting slightly apart from the group as he always was. His hands were folded and his elbows on the tops of his knees. He was staring at the floor.
"That's the second necessary ingredient of culture change, people. The second key to transformation. Conflict. Radical action coupled with radical response. Only then can we get true change. There was a reason that I used strong words with you, impolite words like 'zombie' and 'undead' and 'blood bag,' and the reason was not because I wanted to be offensive. I used those words because right now they are radical words, and I wanted to provoke a radical reaction in you. Some of you are cool with using 'zombie' to refer to yourselves. Some of you are not cool with using the term at all. All apologies to Angela, but I need your help in figuring out a term we can all be cool with, because 'differently biotic' is not going to cut it. Too cold, too many syllables. No panache. Frankly, it just ain't sexy enough. Now, zombie ... I personally think that makes a statement. The first step toward transforming a culture is to give names and definitions to the transformative aspects of that culture. You are zombies , kids. And you need to use that term with pride, regardless of the reaction that it provokes."
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Phoebe wondered if any of the other kids realized that Skip had given them about three "first steps" in his talk. But he was like a train racing to get back to the station before sunset; Colette had raised her hand at some point during the unifying-effects-of-team-sports speech, and Slydell had still not allowed her to speak.
He unfurled the T-shirt he was holding. It was basic black with the words DEAD ...AND LOVING IT! in greenish lettering that probably glowed in the dark. The word dead was written in a creepy movie-poster font, and the rest was in emphatic capital letters.
"What do you think of this shirt?" Skip asked. "How does it make you feel?"
"I...think it is cool," Evan said, his mouth twitching.
"Good. It's yours," he said, throwing it in Evan's face. "What about this one?"
The shirt was gray with a white fist and the words zombie power! in the same creepy font as the first. The skin stretched tightly on the cartoon fist so that the knuckles were clearly visible. "I've got a few of those." He tossed one to Tayshawn, one to Sylvia, and one to Thornton.
"This one is a little risky," he said, "a little more radical. Let me know what you think."
The shirt was black with white no-nonsense lettering. It said OPEN GRAVES, OPEN MINDS above a stylized image of an open grave in a cemetery.
"I like that one," Phoebe said at the same time as Karen.
"Really?" Slydell said. "Cool. I've got two."
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There were a few other items. Hats, wristbands. Temporary tattoos that would work even on the rubbery skin of the dead.
"Okay, kids," Skip said, "here's my point. Don't be afraid to be who you are. And don't be afraid to tell people who you are, either. Understand that these things I've given you have been designed to provoke a reaction in people, and that the reaction will not always be pleasant. You have to be brave. But being brave is the first step toward transforming the culture."
There it was again, Phoebe thought, another first step. She ran the soft cotton of her
new shirt through her hands. It was a cool shirt....
"Last thing," Slydell said, "and then I'm going to get out of your hair. As you know, when I started talking to you today, I said I was going to need your help to make a change, and I do. Like it or not, one of the quickest ways to evoke a culture change is to get the message into the hands of the young and the hip. I need a street team, in other words, to help me get this message out. Many of these products are going to be carried in Wild Thingz! stores and at select music outlets. We're putting together a music compilation as well, one that will have the Creeps and The Restless Souls and other bands that you are probably familiar with. I'm leaving you with some homework. What I want you to think on, and write some ideas down to discuss, is what other products--be they fashion, entertainment, whatever--you think we could put out that would help us get our message of radical transformation out there, and really start changing the world. So think on that, and we'll have
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some fun kicking it around when the delightful Ms. Angela invites me back here. I'll have some more swag for you to take, too. You can e-mail me at
[email protected]. I'd love to hear from you. I'm out of time, and I'm outta here. Thanks!"
Phoebe watched him leave the classroom. A few kids clapped, and without turning, he lifted his hand above his head as though in triumph. The lounge felt drained and empty now that it was no longer filled with his words.
"We've still got some time," Margi said, glancing at her cell phone and looking bored.
"Hey, Daffy," Adam said, "you didn't get any loot."
Margi shrugged. She was still the quietest one in the group; she spoke even less than Sylvia or Colette, and did so only when called on, a fact that boggled Phoebe's mind.
"Maybe she's unclear as to what exactly our message ... of transformation is," Karen said. "I know I am."
Margi looked ticked off, like she thought Karen was making fun of her. But before Phoebe could intervene, Adam spoke.
"I think the message is that we can bring attention to the plight of the differently biotic by getting our friends to buy T-shirts."
Evan, who was wearing both the shirt and a black baseball cap that read, simply, DEAD, laughed his abrupt and disconcerting laugh. He looked even paler with his red hair encapsulated by the black hat.
"The way to social change in America is through conspicuous
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consumption, hmm?" Karen said. "That zombie theme goes way back."
She paused, and then winked at Phoebe.
"Cool shirt, though."
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***
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
P HOEBE DIDN'T LIKE LYING to her parents, but sometimes it was a necessity. No matter how progressive they might consider themselves to be--and Phoebe had to admit they were pretty progressive--there was no way that they would allow her to spend time alone with a dead boy.
She was sitting in the cafeteria with Adam and Margi, both of whom were staring at her with a mixture of concern and anger.
"God," she said, "you two look so much like my parents right now it scares me."
"I hope not," Margi said. "I'd like to think you'd tell me and Lame Man the truth."
"Now that you have ensnared Daffy and me in your impenetrable web of lies," Adam said, "go over again what we're supposed to say?"
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Phoebe sighed. "I went over to Margi's to listen to some new music," she began. "Ah. The old standby."
"Right. We listened to some music, and then Adam called to see if we wanted to go to a movie."
"Yeah, that's likely," Adam said. "What movie? I don't even know what's out."
"Wait a minute. Why would we go out with Adam?"
Phoebe sighed again. "Because we need to get out of your house in case your parents talk to mine. "
"Why involve me in the first place?" Margi said. "Why didn't you just tell them you were going out with Adam?"
Phoebe shrugged. "I didn't think about it. You know how these stories kind of get away from you."
Margi made a disgusted noise and slapped the remains of her cheese sandwich down on the table.
Adam was shaking his head. "So basically, to cover your tall tales, I need to vacate my house for the evening, lest your dad peek out the window and see the STD's truck sitting in the driveway."
Phoebe shrunk in her seat. "You don't have plans, do you?"
"I was going to get a jump on my English homework. I was going to read Wuthering Heights and have a nice bubble bath."
They laughed. "Seriously though, I hope I can get the truck."
"So what am I supposed to do?" Margi said. "Go hide in the woods with your other zombie pals?"
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"I was thinking that maybe you and Adam could go to a movie. That way you could tell me the plot when Adam gives me a ride home."
Margi blinked at her and threw her dessert, a wrapped Hostess snack cake, which bounced off Phoebe's chest.
Adam looked at Margi and then back at Phoebe. "You're paying," he told Phoebe.
Margi had a few more questions for Phoebe on the bus ride home.
"I can't believe you just assumed I'd lie for you," Margi said, her pink spiked bangs grazing the window as she made a point of not looking at Phoebe.
"Yes, you can. That's not what is bothering you."
"Oh really, Miss Telepathetic? What is bothering me, then?"
Phoebe closed one eye and touched Margi's temple. "I sense confusion ...and anger ...and worry."
"Of course I'm worried, dummy! He's a dead kid!"
"Shhhh!" Colette was sitting three seats in front of them, with Tommy across the aisle.
"Don't shush me, Phoebe. It's weird and you know it's weird. Look, I have goose bumps! Feel my arm."
Phoebe did. "Yep, those are goose bumps. Or a bad case of arm acne. Or as I call it, armcne."
At first, her stupid comment failed to generate the laugh she'd intended, but Margi could no longer choke it back and snorted, shaking her head.
Phoebe clapped her on the back. "Now will you please be
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cool? He's just a friend and we're going to his mom's house, okay? His mom gets home at four." "A lot can happen in an hour."
"Puh-lease. Like you would know." She poked Margi in the ribs and Margi giggled, which only made her more irritated.
"It's creepy."
"Have an open mind."
"Ick."
"Go home and put on your Zombie Power! T-shirt."
"I didn't get one of those. I got Some of My Best Friends Are Dead, and only because Angela made sure that I didn't go home empty-handed."
"That's lame."
"Very."
"I've been thinking of some good ones for next week: Life Is Just a State of Mind, He Who Dies With the Most Toys ...Is Sitting Over There."
"Funny," Margi said without enthusiasm. "Phoebe."
"Yeah?"
"Be careful."
Margi's stop was early on the line. Phoebe stood to let her out.
The bus rolled to a stop at the foot of the Oxoboxo Pines Mobile Home Park. The coarse driveway sand crunched beneath Phoebe's boots as she walked beside Tommy, who hadn't spoken since they disembarked.
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"Where does Colette live?" Phoebe asked, then caught herself. "Stay, I mean?"
Tommy smiled. His mouth seemed more pliable lately; instead of the slight twitch on one side, both corners of his mouth stretched upward.
"The Haunted House."
"Really? When her parents moved ..."
"The laws ... do not always protect ...the dead. And sometimes they do. A parent is no longer legally ... responsible ... to take care of their ...deceased children. Colette was abandoned. As were many of us."
Phoebe thought about Colette's parents, of a day trip they had taken to the beach the year before Colette died. Phoebe remembered being wedged in the backseat between Colette and her brother on the long ride to Misquamicut. Mrs. Beauvoir spent the day sunning hers
elf while Peter tossed the Frisbee back and forth to her and Colette, who had no aptitude, even then, for the game. Mr. Beauvior slept in a lawn chair the whole afternoon. After Colette died, he took a job somewhere down south, and they moved, sans Colette.
"How does she get away with it, though?" she said. "I mean, if I tried to go live in an abandoned house somewhere, they would come and get me and put me in a reform school or something."
"You aren't dead."
They arrived at a mobile home with blue shutters and a well-tended yard. There was a plastic awning above a walkway that led to the front steps. A number of plants and
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flowers sat in hanging pots from the frame and sitting along the ground.
Tommy withdrew a key from his pocket, a process that was much more involved for him than it would be for a normal kid. Phoebe watched him, unsure if she should offer to help.
"We are ...inconvenient. No one knows what ... to do with us. We do not know what to do ...with ourselves."
He unlocked the door and they entered the living room. There was a couch and a television, and plants were everywhere. There was a small round table with four seats in the corner near a beaded curtain that separated the room from the kitchen. A fat black cat trotted over to them and sniffed at Phoebe's boots. Phoebe bent to pet the cat, and it arched its back in appreciation.
"That's Gamera," Tommy said. "He hates dead people."
Gamera enjoyed having his neck scratched. Phoebe looked up at Tommy, who was smiling.
"There's a shelter in Winford that many ...zombies ...stay at. St. Jude's Mission. It is run ... by a priest who is sympathetic ... to our cause. Colette stays there sometimes and ...Kevin. It is not a home. The Haunted House is better, for most."
Phoebe rose, smoothing some cat hair off her jeans. Gamera twisted himself around her boot. "Where do the other kids in the work study stay? Karen and the others?"
"Karen ... is with her parents. Evan also. Tayshawn stays with his grandmother, but the situation is ...different. Sylvia is ... at the foundation."
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"She lives there?" she asked. Tommy smiled. "You know what I mean. I thought you said she was staying at the Haunted House."
"We wanted her to stay at the Haunted House. But her need is ...great. And the foundation is ...well equipped." "Huh."