"That isn't true," Phoebe said, but Karen spoke over her.
"I ...appreciate what you are saying. But you are ...assuming ...that living people want us to act, walk, and talk like them. I don't think that is true."
Phoebe wrote www.mysocalledundeath.com on a piece of paper along with her site login ID and password.
"You don't think that makes it easier for people to listen to you?"
"For some. I think that for others it is harder. The more we act like them the more they are aware we aren't. It makes them paranoid."
"Really?"
"I think it would ... absolutely blow peoples' minds if they couldn't...tell we were dead."
"Hm."
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"Tommy is very creative," Phoebe said, interrupting. "I'm sure that he is," Angela said. "He just doesn't let on that he is."
"That isn't true," Phoebe said. "He has his own Web site." "A Web site?" Angela said.
Phoebe nodded. "And a blog. Dead kids from all over the country read what he writes. So I don't think you should just assume that people aren't creative or socially conscious just because they aren't blabbing about it in class."
"I'm sorry, Phoebe," Angela said. "You're right. I shouldn't make those sorts of assumptions."
"Then again, you make a really good point," Karen said. "I probably should do more to be socially conscious. I mean, it's clear that the younger dead do look up to me, in a certain sense--Colette and Sylvia, anyhow--and I should probably ..."
"What is his Web site, Phoebe?" Angela said.
"www.my--"
"Who knows, maybe I could run for student body president or something. Get it? Student body? I can see the headline: 'Karen DeSonne buries the competition by a landslide.' Get it? Buries? Ha-ha."
Phoebe looked over at Karen, who was not only speaking faster than she'd ever heard a dead person speak, she was speaking faster than Margi, even.
"Phoebe?" Angela said. "The Web site?"
"mysocalledundeath. com."
She could have sworn that Karen sighed when she gave
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the address, but of course the undead didn't breathe.
Angela smiled her ever-present Cheshire cat smile. Phoebe wondered if she'd just made a big mistake.
Adam watched Phoebe and Margi cross the cafeteria, and he saw Margi's hand shoot out in a blur of jangly silver bracelets to grip Phoebe's arm and steer her away from the table where Karen DeSonne sat, alone, her place setting surrounded by a ring of Tupperware.
Karen had spread out a cloth napkin, and on the napkin she'd set a squat Thermos bowl, like the kind a kid would take chicken soup or macaroni and cheese in, and a smaller round container, a bright red apple, and a cup of yogurt. She put out a plastic spoon and popped the lid off the little container. Adam peered over to see a carefully stacked pyramid of carrot sticks. Yet another tub contained sliced strawberries.
Margi steered Phoebe away from the dead girl's picnic, angling over to where Adam sat by himself, munching on the second of his roast beef sandwiches. He watched Phoebe shake free of Margi's grip before they both took seats across from him.
"Hi, Adam," Phoebe said, irritation evident in her voice. Adam nodded, not wanting to stop observing Karen, who sat and stared at the table she'd arranged with serious concentration.
"I can't take it," Margi whispered, slapping her own lunch bag on the table. "I just can't."
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"Gee, she's all alone ..." Phoebe started, but Margi was shaking her head.
"She has food, Phoebe. Food. She has food, and you know they don't eat. I can't take it anymore, it isn't right, it isn't natural..."
"Shhh," Phoebe said. "Keep it down, will you?"
Margi pushed her lunch, and an orange rolled out of the mouth of the wrinkled bag, onto the floor.
Adam looked at them for a moment, filling his mouth with another bite of sandwich so he wouldn't be expected to say anything. Phoebe looked at him, signaling that he should step in, as if they were Margi's parents. Margi was busy acting hysterical. Her hands were shaking, and Adam didn't think that this was her normal melodrama at play here. He swallowed.
"Hey, Daffy," he said. "Are you okay?"
Margi bent to the table, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "She has food , Adam. Soup ...and ...and ... milk ..."
Adam nodded. He reached across the table and placed his hand on hers. "I know. She's got a regular picnic over there. But she isn't eating any of it. See?"
He nodded over at the next table, but Margi would not look up.
"She probably just wants to be normal, Margi. She's probably just trying to act like any other kid in the cafeteria."
"But she can't, Adam! That's what I'm talking about. That's exactly what I'm talking about!"
Phoebe was looking at Margi as if she were the weird one. Adam shrugged.
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"I'm quitting the class," Margi said, slipping her hand out from under Adam's, the cool silver bangles and rings passing under his fingertips like water. "I need to go to the nurse." She stood up and all but ran from the room.
"Gee!" Phoebe called after her. "I'll just bus your table for you, is that okay?"
"She's upset," Adam said. He didn't like to see Phoebe get sarcastic with her friend; it wasn't like her at all.
"And she won't tell me why," Phoebe said. "I could kill her."
"Then you could get her to sit with Karen."
She ignored the joke. "There's something she's not telling me, something about Colette. I got Margi to join the work study because I thought it would help her get over this thing, this fear or whatever it is, of Colette."
"It's hard," Adam said. Over at the next table, Karen was staring at her food like she was trying to levitate it from the table. Martinsburg, walking by carrying a tray, turned to his shadow, Stavis, and said something that made the larger boy laugh. "Death is scary."
"But it doesn't have to be," Phoebe said. "Especially not now."
That didn't make much sense to Adam, but he didn't say so. For a moment he watched Phoebe pull the crust off her cheese sandwich before trying to change his approach. "Are you sure that Margi joined to get over Colette? Are you sure she didn't join because of you?"
Phoebe looked up. "What do you mean?" She sounded angry.
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"I don't know," he said. But he did. It was why he had joined, too.
From the corner of his vision he watched Stavis and Martinsburg sit down a few tables away, still looking over at Karen. They were leering at her.
"Hey, you want to go sit with her?" Adam asked.
Phoebe brightened. "Sure."
They picked up their things and walked over to Karen. She was perfectly still.
"Can we join you?" Phoebe asked, and Karen nodded slowly. Adam gave Stavis and Pete a meaningful look before sitting down. Pete blew him a kiss.
Karen looked up at them, a smile returning to her face as though someone had flipped a switch inside of her.
"Isn't it pretty?" she said. "The red strawberries, the way they glisten, the bright orange of the carrots. I like my navy blue napkin, too."
"It's very nice," Phoebe said.
"I'm so glad that I can still see colors, you know?" Karen said. "I mean, I wonder sometimes if they are muted, like some of the pigments in my eyes washed away when I died, but at least I can still tell that this is red and that is orange and the milk is white. I can't imagine going through life color-blind, can you? All the colors washed out of the world?"
"No, I can't," Phoebe said. Adam just nodded.
"My eyes used to be blue," she said.
"Now they are like diamonds," Phoebe told her. "They might be the prettiest eyes I've ever seen."
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Karen lifted the little cup of strawberries to her nose. "I wish I could smell them," she said. "Sometimes I think I can, just a little. But then I...wonder ... if maybe I'm ...remembering what they smell like. Which is ironic ...because they say that ...smell ... is m
ost closely ...linked ...with memory."
"The soup smells good, too," Phoebe said. Karen made a noise like laughter. "Soup! Yeah, remember soup? Gosh."
Adam couldn't smell the soup because Phoebe was sitting so close to him that they touched, and the scent of her shampoo filled his nostrils. He wished that he had a third sandwich, if only so he could give his hands and mouth something to do. He thought that Karen was freaking out in her own way, just like Margi. Was it possible for any girl, living or dead, to be sane for more than a few hours at a time?
"I can still ...hear. And ...feel." She smiled at them. "I...think."
He wanted to tell Phoebe to hug her or something, but then Karen started putting the lids back on her containers.
"Thank you for sitting with me," she said. "And thank you, Adam, for acting protective toward me. It's kind of funny, the idea of protecting a dead girl, isn't it?" She giggled, and the noise was much more authentic than the previous attempt.
"What...what do you mean?"
"Oh, I saw you. Those mean boys. I'm aware. Hyperaware, really. Might be because I can't ...feel ... as much."
She put her hand on his. Her fingers were cool and smooth.
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"Don't let them hurt the others. They want to, you know. There's something there, something in him, the good-looking one. Something beyond fear." "Who? Pete?"
She nodded. "Just don't let him hurt...the others." "I'll try."
"I know you will," she said. "You always do." She patted his hand twice.
"So, Phoebe," she said, "where is Tommy taking you on your date?"
Phoebe blushed all the way to her neck. Adam would have laughed if he hadn't had a sudden ache at the pit of his stomach, one that no quantity of roast beef sandwiches could fill.
Pete had almost worked out what sort of public spectacle he was going to make of the dead girl, but then Adam and Scarypants sat down and kind of killed the idea. Not that he was scared of Adam--he wasn't--but he didn't want the final showdown with Lame Man to be in the school cafeteria. Pete was as realistic as Adam was big, and he knew that he might not have what it took to beat the big oaf in a fair fight, so he would need to wait for an unfair fight.
Lunch was almost over when Adam walked over to the table.
"Can I talk to you for a minute, Pete?" he said. "Alone?" Pete looked up, smiling. "We gonna fight?" he asked. The Lame Man shook his head. "Only if you throw the first punch."
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"Talk, huh?" Pete said. He smirked at Stavis and a few of the other hangers-on. "Let's go talk."
They went to a corner of the cafeteria, which was beginning to empty. Pete watched Scarypants and Zombina leaving, and he made sure that Adam saw him doing it.
"Pete," Adam said, "this has got to stop."
"What?" Pete said, still watching them as they disappeared into the hallway outside.
"This campaign of hate that's going on. Threatening people."
"Threatening people?"
"Tommy. Karen. Thornton told me that you said you and Stavis were going to stomp his ass some day."
"Not threats," Pete said, smiling. "Promises."
The smile widened when he saw his words get through the armor Adam wrapped around himself.
"Pete ... we were friends."
" Were ," Pete said. "Like you said. You picked your team."
"All because Coach told you to rough up a kid and I wouldn't go along?"
"Not a kid. That's what you don't seem to get. Not a kid. A zombie. A dirty, rotting, bug-infested zombie. That's who you picked over me."
"I don't get it. Why all this hate?"
Pete licked his lips, and he was close, he really was, to telling Adam all about Julie. But he'd never told anyone. No one except his father knew anything about her.
Pete shrugged. "Civic duty."
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"He knocked the wind out of you. So what. And so we had a big fight in the woods. Let it end there. I'm willing to walk away from it now, if you are."
Pete laughed. "Adam, I've got a list in my pocket. It's all the people in your freakin' Zombie Love class. I take that list everywhere I go. And you've got to know, everyone on it, every one of you, is going to get hurt."
"You ..." Adam was so angry he couldn't even speak, which was good for Pete. He was sick of listening to Adam anyway.
The bell rang. Pete turned and joined Stavis, who was watching from the doors.
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***
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
A WKWARD, PHOEBE THOUGHT. She was sitting in the passenger seat of Faith's PT Cruiser. Tommy sat in the backseat, no more talkative than a piece of luggage. Faith was driving them to the mall, where they were going to see a movie.
The evening grew more awkward before it got better. "Do your parents know where you are tonight?" Faith asked. "Urn," Phoebe said, "they know I'm going to the mall to see a movie."
Faith glanced at her, but the brief look fell on Phoebe's conscience like the proverbial ton of bricks. "And do they know how you are getting there? Or who you are going with?"
"Um," Phoebe said.
Faith nodded. "I love my son, Phoebe," she said, "but this will be the last time I'll cover for you. You need to let
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your parents know what you are doing. This isn't fair to them."
Tommy made a noise in the backseat like he was trying to clear his throat. It was a horrible noise, one that Phoebe never wanted to hear again.
"You're right," she said. "I'll tell them."
Faith reached across the seat and patted Phoebe's hand, her touch warm on Phoebe's skin.
"I know you will, honey," she said. "You're a brave girl. There aren't many girls your age who would befriend a living dead boy."
Phoebe returned her smile, but she didn't feel very brave. Tommy was brave. Karen was brave. Adam was brave because he risked getting kicked off the football team for Tommy.
"Mom," came a dry, froglike voice from the back, "I'm not living dead. I'm a zombie."
"Oh you," she said. "You know I don't like that word."
"Zzzzzzzombie," he replied.
Phoebe turned and caught him smiling while his mother laughed.
"I'll pick you up at ten," Faith said, and then she drove away, leaving them at the big neon mouth of the Winford Mall. Phoebe felt even less brave standing there on the sidewalk with Tommy. A woman walked by them, clutching her plastic bag close to her. "Winford Mall" was written in a bold cursive script in pink neon above the doors. Phoebe looked at the letters and frowned.
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"We could go," Tommy said, "if you want." He reached for the cell phone on his belt.
Phoebe shook her head, wiping the damp palms of her hands on the sides of her black jeans. She then held her hand out to Tommy.
"No," she said, "we've got a movie to see."
He looked at her for a long moment, the neon making bright streaks of pink and orange on the flat glossy surface of his eyes.
He took her hand and they went into the mall.
There were strange looks directed their way the moment they entered. A kid in a Patriots jersey turned to his friend and said, loud enough for them to hear, "Hey, check it out! Dawn of the Dead !"
His quick-witted buddy chimed in with, "Yeah, but he hasn't eaten her yet."
They shared a raucous laugh, and Phoebe flushed, but she grasped Tommy's hand more tightly as he tried to step away, his fists clenched.
"Don't," she whispered. They walked on.
Dawn of the Dead notwithstanding, Phoebe knew that actual dead people rarely entered the malls. One didn't see the differently biotic hanging out at the bowling alley or shooting the breeze outside Starbucks. They had no need to go to a restaurant, and apart from Tommy Williams, very few had been seen participating in or observing sporting events. Zombies, for the most part, were homebodies--the few of them who were allowed to stay at home.
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They walked down the hall, past a chain restaurant
and a jewelry store into an open atrium, where they could look over a chest-high railing onto the level below. A cluster of small, frail birch trees grew from a hole recessed into the white tile floor. The crown of the birch tree was about even with the edge of the railing, the thin branches sporting small, dark leaves. As they approached the rail, a small brown bird flew from somewhere in the rafters and alighted on a nearby branch.
"A sparrow," Phoebe said. "Poor thing."
"I know ...how she feels." Beyond Tommy's shoulder, Phoebe saw an older woman standing outside Pretty Nails, frowning at them. Tommy turned just as the woman gestured.
"Did she just throw the evil eye at us?" he asked.
"I think so," Phoebe said. "Or something worse."
Phoebe looked around her. Was she just imagining it, or was everyone staring at them?
Maybe it was all in her head.
Either way, it was a long walk to the theater on the other end of the mall.
They walked past a Wild Thingz! store on the way to the theater, and Phoebe pointed at a small display in the front window that had the Zombie Power ! and the Some of My Best Friends are Dead T-shirts, along with a couple of caps, bandannas, and armbands bearing similar Slydellco. slogans. There were also a few bottles and tubes arranged as part of the display. Phoebe started laughing when she realized what they were.
"Oh my God," she said. "Zombie hygiene products!" There were shampoos, skin balm, and two different toothpastes.
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Her favorite was a body spray that had a large silver Z on a cylindrical black bottle. The fine print read: For the active undead male.
"Maybe I should get some," Tommy said, smiling. "I'm pretty ...active."
"I'm sorry," Phoebe said, still laughing. "I don't know why I think it's so funny."
They went in among the racks of T-shirts and goth gear, Phoebe's mood improving as M.T. Graves's voice wailed from the store speakers. They asked the clerk if they could have a sample of Z. The clerk did a double take at them. She could have been Margi's stunt double except her spikes were purple and she had a wide silver ring through her nose to go along with the bangles and circlets of leather on her arm.
"Oh, wow," she said, smiling. "A real live zombie! Wow, I've been hoping one of you guys would come in, yeah." She explained they didn't have samples but Tommy was free to "take a whiff from the display bottle in the window. He took her up on the offer and asked Phoebe what she thought.