Generation Dead (21 page)

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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 herself 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."

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"I wanted to show you this," Tommy said, and motioned to the screen.

Phoebe saw that Tommy was on a Web site called mysocalledundeath.com. The home page was decorated with comic book zombies shambling from graves, and menacing pink people, mostly blond and buxom. Some familiar heavy metal mascots were present as well.

"What is this?" she said, leaning over his shoulder. There was a subtle scent to him, one that she could not quite identify. Something outdoorsy. She resisted the urge to touch his shoulder.

"My blog."

"Your blog? No way."

"Way. I've got close to a thousand subscribers."

"Wow." She leaned in closer. When he typed she could see the muscles of his arms move underneath his shirt.

There were a few hot links on the home page: Archive, Deadline, MSCU Alumni, Links.

"I try to write ...every night."

"Can I read some?"

He clicked on the Deadline link, and there was an entry for the day prior. She began to read.

Week three of the Hunter Foundations necrohumanitarian experiment. The class was subjected to the crass but persuasive arguments of Mr. Steven "Skip" Slydell, with whom all of you are by now well familiar, thanks to his being a good years worth of blog fodder. Skip's main thesis seems to be that the zombie

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community can achieve legitimacy through consumerism and sloganeering. He dispensed swag to the class; I myself am now the proud owner of a new
Zombie Power!
T-shirt. There is something almost endearing in his shameless hucksterism, and the gear he showered us with does have a certain radical chic to it. You can't help but question his motives, which almost certainly are profit driven, but at the same time you can't help but be drawn into his circle of "positive transformation." If there is cheesy packaging around a universal truth, does that make the universal truth inside any less valid?

In a perfect universe, we would not need the Skip Slydells of the world to sell us the messages that we should be creating ourselves. But the fact of the matter is, until we as a group are able to fully take advantage of the
DIY
ethic that built this country, we are at the mercy of the Slydells. Until we have a press, a voice, a piece of the media, we need to take what we can get. Until we can get hired and have some economic worth, we need to take what we can get. Many of us by now have been dead for three years, meaning that by human terms some of us are now eighteen and should have the legal right to vote, but of course our death certificates are, for all intents and purposes, a complete revocation of our rights and citizenship.

So III work with Skip Slydell as best as I possibly can. Ill do so knowing that I am selling myself and all of you out, but that such sellouts are necessary to really make change happen.

At the bottom, there was a flashing banner ad that read,
Support Proposition 77
.