Generation Dead

  She watched them walking toward the school. Tommy was very close to Colette, hovering almost, as they made their way up the steps. She saw him knock the smirks off more than a few kids with his glare.

  She hurried off the bus and into the school, trying to catch up. She saw that he'd taken Colette by the arm, and she followed him down the hall as he escorted her to her homeroom. Phoebe knew that Colette's lower degree of functionality meant she'd been placed in remedial classes, even though when she was alive, Colette had been at the top of her classes. But Colette's parents had abandoned her, and Phoebe guessed that no one at St. Jude's Mission really knew how sharp Colette was, or had been.

  Phoebe willed herself to turn invisible as Tommy reentered the hall after seeing Colette into her room. She hid behind a bank of lockers and waited for him to walk past. He didn't even notice her as he continued down the hall, and she saw that his hands were balled into fists.

  She followed him, an easy thing to do, as other students took great pains to avoid close contact with the zombie. He went to his locker, and it sprung open after three steady turns of his wrist. Her poem was the only ornamentation.

  She hugged her books to her as she approached him.

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  "Tommy?" she said. He didn't turn and went about withdrawing his books from his backpack and stacking them in a neat pile on the top shelf of the locker.

  "Tommy, are you mad at me?" she said.

  He turned toward her, his expression unreadable.

  "I'm confused by the way you're acting, Tommy. Did I do something wrong?"

  He stopped to look at her but did not answer.

  "What is it, Tommy? Is it about the dance?"

  His features seemed to soften.

  "They ...murdered ...Evan," he said. He slammed his locker shut with a force that echoed throughout the hallways.

  She didn't understand at first, but when what he was saying registered, a cold ripple passed through her body.

  "Oh, Tommy," she said, and she laid her hand against his cheek, ignoring the snickers of students passing by, making rude comments about the goth girl and her dead boyfriend.

  The only thing she could think about at that moment was Tommy, and right then she didn't care who knew.

  The casket was closed at Evan Talbot's second funeral. Phoebe stood with Adam, Tommy, and Karen, and stared at the black box in the moments before it was lowered into the earth. She was leaning against Adam, clutching his arm and trying to draw strength from him, the tears running freely down her face.

  She half expected the lid to slowly open and for Evan to call for help, his high, sardonic voice echoing in the satin-lined prison. She imagined him popping right out of the coffin the

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  way he had popped out from under the tarp that rainy night they had all gone to hang out at the Haunted House, his orange hair askew and clownish above his grinning face. But these things did not happen.

  She looked over at the Talbots as they clung together at the front of the small crowd that had gathered to pay their respects. Angela and her father, both in well-tailored clothing of the purest black, stood beside them, Alish leaning heavily on his mahogany cane. He was wearing a long, trailing, gray scarf that protected his scrawny neck against the chill wind.

  Phoebe tried to imagine the pain that the Talbots were feeling. To lose their only child, again --how could they bear it? Right then, Mrs. Talbot looked over her shoulder at where Phoebe stood with her friends. She turned back and slouched against her husband, who held her tight and tried to stop her from shaking. He was not successful.

  "The mysteries of death have grown deeper in recent years," the priest said. Father Fitzpatrick was a young, solid-built man who Phoebe had learned was responsible for the St. Jude's Mission. She watched him look each member of the cortege in the eyes before gazing heavenward.

  "No one, save the Lord, knows why Evan Talbot was taken from his parents ...not once but twice."

  Phoebe heard herself sob, from a distance. It was as if she had floated out of her body and was now staring down onto the tops of the heads of the mourners and the lacquered surface of the coffin. She saw Principal Kim standing near the back in a reserved gray suit, dabbing at her eyes with

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  some wadded tissue. Father Fitzpatrick resumed his eulogy.

  "But I would like to think that Evan Talbot helped to play some small part in God's divine purpose, the purpose that He, in his boundless wisdom and endless love, has set for each and every one of us. I would like to think that He would not wish us to dwell on the fact of this boy's second death, but instead reflect upon his second life, which his parents--perhaps touched by that wisdom and that love--chose to take as the gift that it was.

  "We can debate whether or not Evan was truly alive after returning to us. Contrary to the opinions of many, I think that is actually a spiritual question and not one for the scientists."

  He paused. Phoebe thought she could see her own reflection in the glossy finish of the coffin, and she thought of Margi, who had broken down in hysterics by her locker when Phoebe suggested that they attend the funeral together. Reverend Mathers would be quick to agree with Father Fitzpatrick on the idea of the undead being a spiritual question; although, unlike Fitzpatrick, he would be unlikely to find anything positive to say regarding that question. There were plenty of religious leaders within the Catholic Church who would agree with Mathers as well; in performing the funerary right, Fitzpatrick was risking criticism and perhaps even censure.

  Fitzpatrick slapped a knobby fist into his palm, and the sound of the slap brought Phoebe back into her body.

  "One thing cannot be denied. Evan Talbot chose to take his own return as a blessing. Evan Talbot used his second--call it

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  chance, call it life, call it what you will--to try to bring the world a little understanding. He used his return to try to educate those of us who cannot understand what he and those like him are going through. And he tried to be a positive example to those of us who understood all too well. He did this through his humor. His joy. His happy-go-lucky personality.

  "Buoyed by the selfless love of his family and friends, especially that of his parents, Evan tried to make a difference," he said, punctuating each word with another press of his fist into his palm. "And by making a difference, I am certain that Evan Talbot fulfilled God's purpose for him here on earth."

  Phoebe looked at her friends through her tears, searching for some sign that they could believe as Fitzpatrick did. She was having trouble imagining a God that would require such a purpose--dying, rising, and dying again--from a fourteen-year-old boy. Karen and Tommy were like statues, Karen's eyes shrouded behind a gauzy black veil. Tommy's tearless eyes stared blankly ahead at nothing at all, it seemed. Did he also wonder what it was like to be in there in darkness, the smell of wood and satin and rot filling his nostrils?

  Or did he not have to wonder because all he had to do was remember ?

  Adam just looked angry, and he would turn occasionally, as though taking in the rows of headstones spreading out across Winford Cemetery.

  "Let us pray," Father Fitzpatrick said.

  Phoebe turned her head and saw a single tear trickle out from beneath the hem of Karen's veil.

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  For a second time, Phoebe felt as if she were leaving her own body. This time her knees buckled, and she fainted dead away.

  Adam took her to school the next day, and when she climbed into the truck she tucked her long black skirt under her, thinking that she would never be short of clothing that was appropriate to wear to a funeral. She laughed, a bitter sound that echoed in the stale air of the cab.

  "Are you okay?" he asked. When she didn't reply, he turned on the radio. She turned it off.

  "No, I'm not," she whispered. "I'm terrified."

  Adam nodded.

  "It's weird," she said. "All these things you don't think of until you have to. What it all means."

  "I w
as scared when you fainted," Adam said.

  She laughed again, and this time without the harshness. "I didn't even fall, thanks to you. You could toss me over the goalposts if you wanted to, couldn't you?"

  "Yes," he said. "I'm pretty damn powerful."

  He let his words hang a moment, hoping they would make her laugh. They didn't. He wasn't just scared when she fainted. Lately the idea of Phoebe being hurt--it filled him with a vague ache, a frustration that no number of push-ups or reps on the exercise racks were going to take away.

  He sighed. "But I get scared, too. I thought you might like to know."

  "You're a good friend, Adam," she said. "Even if you

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  refuse to be seen talking to me at school."

  He chucked her shoulder--lightly, so as not to launch her bodily through the car door. You're a good friend, Adam --that was the line that made him want to cry, nearly as much as Evan's funeral had.

  "The best. And it isn't you I avoid; it's Daffy."

  Phoebe looked away.

  "Aw, hell," he said. "And I was doing so well, too. Open mouth, insert size fourteen foot."

  "I'm really worried about her. She can't deal with any of this--Evan, Colette, Tommy--I don't know what to do or to say to her. There aren't any scripts written for this sort of thing."

  "I hear you."

  She slapped the dashboard, a decidedly un-Phoebelike move.

  "Who could have killed him?" she asked. "The description in the newspaper was awful, just awful. What kind of monster would do that? Never mind what sort of monster would write that article. They wouldn't have written it that way if he hadn't been a zombie. They didn't even run an obituary."

  "I know," Adam said. The steering wheel squeaked with the force of his grip as his hands tensed.

  "I think I know exactly who killed Evan," he said.

  As she looked at him, realization dawned in her face, and Adam wished he hadn't said anything at all.

  Phoebe set her tray down and slid onto the seat next to Margi,

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  who was picking at a cluster of green grapes. They were in the far corner of the cafeteria and facing the wall, which was painted an industrial gray.

  "Nice view," Phoebe said. Margi ate a grape.

  "Can we talk, Margi?"

  Margi shrugged.

  "Look, I know that Colette upset you," she began, not really knowing where to start, but Margi was already shaking her head.

  "It wasn't what she said. It's what I did." "What you did?" Phoebe said. "What we did. I turned her away, too."

  Margi sniffed. "She was right, what she said." Phoebe nodded, putting her arm around her friend's shoulders.

  "When people die, you always are going to wonder what they went through, you know? You wonder what they were thinking. If they think that you let them down."

  "And now I know," Margi said. "But I knew it all along."

  "Margi, this is different. You get a second chance. You can talk about it with her, if you want."

  "Yeah," Margi replied with little enthusiasm.

  "She doesn't blame you for her death," Phoebe said. "Or me, or anyone. She's just upset with how we reacted to her return. But she'll forgive us, I know she will. She'll see that no friend could ever understand something like that."

  "Yeah."

  "Yeah, really? As in, 'You are so wise and correct, Phoebe,

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  as usual'? 'I'm so glad that you love me and I love you and we're great, forever friends'?"

  "Yeah," Margi said, wiping her eyes. "All of that."

  "We haven't talked for like two weeks," Phoebe said, and gave her a sisterly squeeze. "I miss you, Margi."

  "Me too," she answered. "You went to the funeral?"

  "I did. With Adam."

  "I'm sorry I didn't go with you guys. It's so horrible, what happened to Evan. I can't even believe it. He seemed like a nice kid."

  "It was sad. His parents looked ...they just looked lost, you know?"

  Margi nodded. "I'm sorry I dropped out of the class, too. I'm so good at doing stupid things."

  "I bet you could talk to Angela or Principal Kim. I bet..."

  "I'm not so good at undoing stupid things. Angela called my parents after I dropped out, and they figured that the class probably wasn't doing my mental health any good--my already fragile mental health. You know how they are, Phoebe. They never got the whole goth thing and the music and all, and my sister Caitlyn is such a girlie girl, with the Barbies and the pink dresses and everything." She was quiet for a moment. "I guess I've been spending too much of my time staring at the walls in my room, and my parents got worried. They want to send me to therapy and everything."

  "Again?"

  "Again. It worked so well the last time; look how well I'm adjusting."

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  Margi picked out a grape and popped it into her mouth. Phoebe took two.

  "How is everyone?" Margi said after a time. "I mean, Tommy and the others. How are they dealing with Evan's death?"

  "Today will be hard," Phoebe said. "A few of us are working a shift at the foundation tonight, and tomorrow is the first class after he was ... he was killed."

  "I wonder what they are thinking. The zombie kids, I mean."

  "Tommy and Karen didn't talk about it much."

  "They wouldn't." She gave a little laugh. "Did you see what she was wearing today? Another little plaid skirt, a white blouse, and kneesocks. And I swear to God she's got patent leather shoes on, doing the Catholic schoolgirl routine again."

  Phoebe laughed with her. "She's crazy. It's like dying has given her a license to act however she pleases, to do whatever she wants. Death seems to have frightened some of the kids, but I think it's freed her in some way."

  "She had another apple, Phoebe. I swear to God. She was eating it. What is up with that?"

  "You're kidding."

  "No, I'm serious. Where does the food go ? I mean, I thought their bodies didn't like, work or anything anymore. I thought the scientists figured it was a mold spore or something living in their brains, and that..."

  "A mold spore? Where did you hear that? The Enquirer !"

  "No, seriously, I heard that..."

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  A shadow fell across them, and Pete Martinsburg slapped the table with an open palm. They both jumped.

  He placed a wrinkled and torn piece of paper onto the table, smoothing it out, taking great care not to damage it. He leaned over and stared at each of them in turn. Phoebe drew her black sweater tighter around her shoulders.

  "Hello, dead girls," he said, taking a black Sharpie out of the pocket of his jeans.

  "Leave us alone, moron," Margi said, all traces of the unsure, fragile girl gone.

  He laughed. "Just wanted to express my condolences."

  He took the cap off the Sharpie and drew a single black line on the page about halfway down. He held the paper up to his eyes and nodded with smug satisfaction, the black line visible through the thin paper. It was then that Phoebe realized that what he was holding was the acceptance list for the undead studies class.

  "You're completely heartless, aren't you?" she whispered.

  He shrugged, capping his pen. He folded the list back into a tight square and put it away, leaving his hand over his shirt pocket.

  "Still beating," he said. "Unlike most of your friends."

  Phoebe, her eyes filling with tears of rage, tried to stand, but he shoved her back on the bench, his hands lingering on her for a moment.

  "No, don't get up," he said. "I'll see you soon enough."

  Adam must have seen them from across the cafeteria, because he was rushing toward them through the milling

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  students. Pete aimed an obscene gesture his way and slipped into the crowd.

  "Are you all right?" Adam said. "Did he hurt you?"

  "No," Phoebe said, but she didn't mean it.

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  ***

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
r />   A DAM DRUMMED HIS FINGERS on the steering wheel. He fiddled with the climate controls, unable to find a balance of warmth and fresh air. He checked his rearview mirror for the thirty-seventh time. "Adam, is something wrong?" Phoebe asked. Adam didn't look at her. Even the sound of her voice was now like a sugar rush, and he had taken it for granted for years.

  "Oh, I don't know," he said. "What could be wrong?"

  "I know," she said. "I still can't believe it."

  She thought he was talking about Evan. But the real "wrong" of the day was that the girl that he might actually be in love with had unresolved feelings for a zombie, a zombie who he was bringing her to be with.

  "So we're going to the Haunted House, huh?" he said. "We're just picking him up?"

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  "That's the plan," she said. She tagged him on the arm. "Hey, I almost forgot. Do you have a date for homecoming yet?"

  He swallowed hard. "Yeah."

  Phoebe slapped him again. "Karen? Did you ask Karen? You didn't ask Margi, did you? I mean, she would have told me, I think."

  Adam shook his head. "No, and no." "Oh," Phoebe said, all enthusiasm draining away from her voice. "Whatsername?" Adam nodded. "Oh."

  He wheeled into the dirt turnaround at Tommy's trailer park. Tommy was standing on the little patio in jeans and a chambray shirt. Adam thought that he looked like a well-dressed scarecrow.

  "There's your boy," he said, but Phoebe had already rolled down the window to wave. Tommy waved back.

  Adam watched Phoebe climb out of the truck and sort of half skip to the zombie. He thought she was going to hug him, or worse, give him a kiss, but she pulled up short. Adam swallowed and closed his eyes tightly, but when he opened them, Phoebe and Tommy were still there, together. There was space between them, but Adam thought it was less space than usual.

  "Did you see the white van?" Tommy asked. He was looking at Adam when he said it.

  "White van?"

  Tommy nodded, and Adam thought he seemed excited

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  about the van sighting. "About ten minutes ago. A white ...van turned around ... in the park."