Passing Strange (31 page)

“Watch those two,” Mrs. Rodriguez was saying to Ms. Quin. Popeye shook his head and began sketching Mrs. Rodriguez, putting her trapped on the third floor of a burning building.

“That’s one way to avoid a beating,” Margi said after she’d left, leaving Miss Quin, who looked queasy behind her desk, in charge.

“What?”

“I’m saying that was a pretty clever way of getting out of the fight.”

Popeye didn’t realize he was pressing down so hard on his drawing until his pencil snapped in half.

“That’s what you…think?”

“Well, sure. He can’t smack you around if he’s sitting in detention with you, can he?”

Popeye tore the ruined page out of his sketchbook and crumpled it. “You are…an idiot,” he said.

When their class was over, TC left without further incident. Popeye watched his wide shoulders as he lumbered towards the door. Popeye got up with the intention of following him into the hall and provoking him, but Miss Quin must have heeded her colleague’s advice because she stopped him at the doorway.

“Chad,” she said.

“Popeye.”

“Popeye, what are you planning?”

He grinned, showing her his pointy teeth. “Why, Miss Quin, whatever do you mean?”

“Why are you provoking him?”

That was the first question that anyone had asked him that day that he felt compelled to answer honestly, the first one that was worthy of real thought. He didn’t get the chance, though, because she wasn’t done speaking.

“You getting into a fight with TC isn’t going to improve things for anyone in the school, differently biotic or otherwise. Whatever the outcome of the fight, it can’t make things any better for you, either.”

“Now that’s…a point…on which we must…disagree…Miss Quin.”

“You have such talent, Popeye,” she said. “Such gifts. Your artwork is really, really special. Those portraits you did…they are among the best I’ve seen in any high school class.”

That’s because you’ve been teaching about eight months, he thought, but didn’t say. Flattery was like chocolate to him, and he didn’t care who was feeding it to him. He knew their words were empty and off-track but he liked them too much to stop.

“I’m afraid that if you continue down the path that you are on those gifts will be squandered. Wasted.”

“Thank you…for your…concern.”

She wavered, but didn’t look away. He didn’t hate her as much as he hated the other bloodbags that ran the school, although he did think she was ridiculous and clichéd in her sandals and her hippie dresses. She didn’t wear makeup and she usually tied her short hair back with a ribbon. She looked, to him, like she put a lot of effort and thought into looking arty and casual.

“I
am
concerned. I really do hope you will think about what you are doing with your life. My door will always be open if you want to talk.”

“Thanks,” he said. Normally he’d close with a sarcastic retort about her “your life” comment, but she was trying to be helpful in her own way. Even if her brand of “help” showed a complete lack of understanding of him and what he was trying to do.

First Derek and now Miss Quin, he thought. Maybe you are growing soft, Popeye.

She had no idea of the bottomless depths of anger swelling inside him, vast oceans of fury that he could feel surging though him even though his blood did not circulate and his heart did not beat. He often wondered why he could have these feelings—what bizarre brain chemistry could create this barely controllable rage, these violent passions for destruction—in a body that was essentially cold, lifeless, and unfeeling?

He used the edge of a copper fingernail to dig at a phantom itch on his wrist as he walked to his final class. On his way he caught a glimpse of TC at the center of a ring of fellow bioists, their eyes shining with hatred.

He blew them a kiss.

* * *

There were three kids besides him and TC in detention, none of them zombies. He sat in the very back of the room, TC in the front. They were supposed to use their time in detention for silent study and homework, but Popeye didn’t feel much like studying so instead he brought out his sketchbook and began drawing TC’s wide back and squat, lumpy head. The proctor of the detention was Mr. Allen, who Popeye thought to be one of the most bioist teachers in the school, miles away politically from beating hearts like Quin and Rodriguez on the necro-friendly continuum, and so he had decided to “behave.” It wasn’t that Popeye feared reprisals or punishments, it was more that he didn’t see much of a point in agitating when he only had an audience of four, and with the others probably being as dull and atavistic as TC was. No sense in wasting good material on clods, he thought.

He reconsidered when he realized that every five minutes or so his enemy would twist in his seat to cast his most horrific stink eye back at him, his cold demeanor and twitching jawline meant to convey how much he was looking forward to delivering a beat-down to Popeye. Instead of replying, Popeye instead drew a series of TCs on his paper; TC hunched over his desk, TC with a Clint Eastwoodesque glare and thin cigarillo, TC with a thick finger up his wide and flaring nostril.

Mr. Allen, heedless of the reasons why the students were in detention, released the detainees all at once when the hour was up. Popeye hurried to catch up to TC on his way out the door, and TC slowed to let him.

“You’re dead,” TC told him.

“You’re very…observant,” Popeye replied. TC looked confused for a moment, and in that moment Popeye saw that Miss Quin was waiting in the foyer, two huge canvas bags lumpy with books and papers at her feet.

TC had recovered his composure. “When we get outside, you better start running. You…”

He stopped when he saw Miss Quin walking toward them.

“Popeye,” she called. “Could you help me bring some things to my car?”

TC sneered at him. “You coward,” he said. “You are only delaying the indelible.”

“
Inevitable
, you utter…moron,” Popeye said. “Tomorrow after…school. Behind…the…concession stand. Bring…friends.”

The look on TC’s face was one of utter shock. Popeye couldn’t have taken him more off guard if he’d turned around and socked him in the solar plexus.

“Popeye,” Miss Quin called.

“I’m gonna mess you up,” TC was saying. “I’m gonna kick…”

“Yeah, yeah,” Popeye said. “Sure.” And then, speaking loud enough for his voice to carry into the foyer and down the many halls that ran off it, he called, “Okay, TC! I…accept…your apology!”

He walked over to Miss Quin, leaving TC fuming like a dormant volcano trying to erupt.

“Why didn’t…you ask…the meathead?” he said to her. “He’s…so much…stronger than…me.”

Miss Quin smiled, although he could tell she was trying not to. “The ‘meathead’ doesn’t need a ride home. You do.”

He was going to protest and tell her than he’d rather walk—it was his policy not to accept kindness from the beating hearts—but to do so would be to waste hours getting home, so he decided to keep his mouth shut.

“Great,” he said, lifting her bags. “Lead…the way.”

* * *

Miss Quin drove a small beige compact car, the bumpers adorned with stickers proclaiming a love of peace, a fondness for certain dog breeds, and a predilection for failed political movements. There was a paper cup from Starbucks in the holder in the front seat and a couple of CDs from earnest coffeehouse-quality singer/songwriters who’d somehow made it big. When she turned the ignition key the radio came to life; Popeye was unsurprised to find it tuned to NPR.

“Do you live at the farmhouse at the edge of town?” she asked. “The one on Fire Street?”

“Yes,” he said. “We call it…the Haunted House.”

“Mrs. Rodriguez told me that it really was haunted,” she said. “She’d had a couple of the children that lived there in class when she first started teaching. There was a tragedy of some sort, and for years it was empty. The locals said it was haunted with…”

Her voice trailed off. Popeye smiled.

“With?”

“With the spirits of the dead,” she said. “Ghosts, I mean.”

“Ah,” he replied.

“What about your family, Popeye?”

“My only family…are the…dead,” he said. “If you mean…my livemeat…family…my parents…we parted ways…before I died.”

“You ran away?”

“I did. I went…to the city…seeking fame…and finding…death.”

“How…how did you die?”

Popeye was surprised at her directness. Most beating hearts did not like to broach the subject of death, feeling that it was a topic too sensitive and taboo to bring up.

“Overdose,” he said, keeping his voice flat.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why? Be sorry that…the drugs…don’t work…for dead people. That’s something…to be…sorry about.”

He hoped this embellishment would curtail further questioning; he thought this story was far more romantic and fitting than the reality, which was that he, weak from not having eaten in days, died from hypothermia on a park bench after trying to beg for bus fare home. The dollar eighty-seven in his jacket pocket was stolen between the time he died and the time he returned as a zombie.

“Do they know…?”

“That their son is a disgusting…zombie? No. But it wouldn’t…surprise them.”

“Have you thought about contacting them?”

“Every…day,” he said. “That’s why…I don’t.”

They drove in silence for a few moments, moments Popeye spent watching the trees fly by his window. The perspective was completely different from the one he saw from his seat on the bus every day.

“Popeye,” she said. “Have you thought about submitting work to the Congressional Art Competition I mentioned in class last week? That winter landscape you did, or any of the portraits, really…I think…”

He cut her off. “I have…no intention…of submitting…my work anywhere.”

“Are you sure? There could be scholarship money involved. You are one of the best artists in the school, and…”

“No,” he said, again interrupting her. “I am…
the
. . . best artist…in the school.”

“So prove it! Get your work into the competition, and…”

“Look,” he said. “I don’t know…why…you are so…concerned…about me. But…understand…this doesn’t…have an after-school…special…ending. You will not…reach me. This is not .. . one of those…stories…where the…tired but…passionate…teacher…breaks through…to the troubled…student…through art and…creativity. Those things…will not…happen. Waste…your time…elsewhere.”

She cycled through a half-dozen expressions in a second or two, finally settling on one that, though weary, was more bemused than defeated.

“You’ve really figured out everything,” she said. “It must be nice. How old are you, really?”

“I’d be nineteen,” he said, lowering his age by two. “I was…seventeen…when I died.” He’d died when he was nineteen, making him one of the oldest zombies in Oakvale, and he “walked the Earth” for about two years after that. He’d be legal now, if zombies had legal status. If he wasn’t dead, he’d be able to drink, vote, and drive a car—but legally he was prohibited from any of those basic rights.

She nodded, as though that confirmed certain suspicions.

“If you change your mind, my offer to talk still stands.”

“Don’t be…angry,” he told her. “I’m just…trying…to be respectful…of your…time.”

“Oh, I appreciate that, I really do. I’m not angry.”

“Okay.”

“Just disappointed. The hardest thing for a teacher to endure is witnessing potential being wasted.”

They were getting close to the Haunted House, and he asked her to drop him off at the edge of the long winding driveway. She complied without asking for an explanation. One could just barely catch a glimpse of the Haunted House through the trees.

She pulled to a stop.

“Oh, and Popeye?”

“Yes?”

“If you need art supplies, just ask me. I’ll get you what you want. Please don’t steal them.”

Popeye didn’t know how he should respond to that, so he kept his silence. He opened the door of her car and stepped out.

“See you in class tomorrow,” she said.

“See…you,” he repeated.

He walked down the driveway. There were two zombies sitting under the large oak tree in the front yard. Popeye ignored them and waved to Tak, who was standing on the slouching porch.

Tak was one of two Haunted House zombies who had elected to not return to Oakvale High once its doors were reopened for their kind—the other being Mal, who had yet to return from the refuge he had found at the bottom of Lake Oxoboxo.

“Learn…much?” Tak asked him.

“Always,” Popeye replied.

* * *

That night Popeye worked on a painting with his stolen materials. He had a single lamp that he ran from a very long extension cord powered by the generator downstairs. He liked working in the upstairs room that contained the Wall of the Dead—which had grown to encompass nearly two walls at this point—and he sometimes incorporated faces and images that he saw there into his own work. He found inspiration everywhere but the Wall was so powerful—it was one of the few works of art he knew of that could make him feel jealous that he had not created it himself.

Unlike his time spent at school, which passed at a slow crawl, his time spent working sped by. School time was like dead time, and time spent creating moved at the speed of life.

“You were a... topic... on the bus home ... today,” Tayshawn said. Tayshawn seemed to enjoy hanging out with him while he worked. Since they’d returned to school, he and Tayshawn were spending more time together, and more time alone. Tak was more of a loner than ever since that business with Karen.

“Do tell,” he said.

“Said that…you…purposely got…a detention…so you wouldn’t get…beaten up.”

Popeye added more burnt sienna to his palette.

“Idiots,” he said.

“Yeah,” Tayshawn said. “I didn’t think…that sounded…much like you.”

“No. . . it…doesn’t. How did you…manage... getting on…the bus?” Tayshawn had been hit by a skidding ambulance; the impact shattered his leg and he’d been limping and unable to put weight on it ever since.

“Thorny…helped me.”

“That’s the…little one? The…beating heart?”

“He’s a…good kid. If he was dead, you’d be…good pals.”