Kiss of Life (15 page)

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that Margi kept on full blast whenever she drove.

How does she keep those patent leather shoes so shiny? Phoebe wondered, her hands seeking warmth in her pockets but finding only a scrap of paper. She withdrew it and saw that it was a carefully folded piece of lined notebook paper, the paper on which she had written her first poem for Tommy. He had written a note at the bottom of it, his words a squat and blocky blue print. He must have slipped her the note when they hugged good-bye.

HOLD ONTO THIS FOR ME,
HE WROTE, I
'M GOING TO WANT IT BACK SOMEDAY.

Margi and Karen were chattering away, and neither noticed as she folded the note back into a tight square and put it back into her pocket. She decided she was not going to be sad about this; Tommy was going out to make the world a better place for zombies everywhere, and she would be helping him to do it. Getting the note back only meant that he intended to return someday.

But I miss him already, she thought, getting into the sauna that was Margi's car.

"It's pretty late," Margi said after they said good-bye to Karen, who headed straight for the woods.

"It is," Phoebe agreed.

"So Karen was already over there, huh?"

"She was."

Margi sighed. "You aren't going to tell me what happened, are you?"

"I'm not," Phoebe said, "at least, not tonight." She knew

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she'd tell Margi in time, but right now she felt too raw, with Adam rejecting her and Tommy going away. Margi, like Karen, was always joking about her many options--and now she had none. She just didn't want to talk about it, Margi shook her head.

"Phoebe Kendall, Queen of the Mysterious Silences. Can you at least tell me if you and Tommy are okay? I mean, it kind of ended quickly between you two, and I know I was weird about it, but he is a really nice guy, and ..."

"Yes," Phoebe said, the paper smooth and cool in her hand. "Yes, we're okay."

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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

PHOEBE, LIVING.
Watched, waited. Margi came driving shock fear Margi driving! Margi and Phoebe left, gone who knows where. Live, Phoebe, live.

FrankenAdam trying. Walking. Talking. Opened door yesterday and this passes for thrills in realm of the undead. Turning a doorknob not so easy. Thinking. I'm thinking. Thinking more clearly, more quickly. Why?

"Are you okay, son?" said Big Joe. STD gone, Big Joe. Watching television, hockey. Like basketball Joe likes hockey we watch basketball. Don't mind. Joe on third beer. Brought him third beer walked opened door got beer closed door walked could not pop tab. Oh well. Next time.

"Okay." Dead but okay. Can do most of Master Griffin's forms. Can bow and raise.

"You seem awfully quiet tonight," he said.

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Laugh! Laugh! Laugh!

Can't laugh. Yet. Turn. Look. Joe watching game, sipping beer. Intent. Comedy unintended. Speak. "Okay."

Much later, knock on window. My window. Bedroom window. Drop book, get up. Tommy.

Walk to the door. Kitchen door. Walk to the door on quiet feet. Tommy makes me feel stronger. What he accomplished. Braver.

Open door. Cold night, no coat. Don't feel it. Join Tommy in backyard. He's got a backpack, looks heavy. Moonlight. Feel smarter, faster around Tommy. Tommy or the night air.

"Adam," said Tommy. And then remember: Tommy is leaving.

"I'm leaving tonight," said Tommy. "I wanted to come to say good-bye. And to ...thank you."

"Thank ...you?" Speaking. A hitch but not a pause. A gap but not a chasm. Night air. Will miss Tommy. Will miss Tommy even though Phoebe is in love with him, not FrankenAdam.

Probably still be alive if never met him. Miss him, maybe. Maybe not.

Tommy nods. "For being my friend, Adam. For accepting me on the ...football team. For standing up for me in the woods ...twice."

Smile. "Phoebe."

Tommy smiles too. "Yeah, I know it was for Phoebe. Mostly. I know what she means to you."

Do you? Think about it. Do you know how much love have

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for her and how much it hurts? Thinking this. Thinking that maybe he does.

"But I know it was for me too. I appreciate it. Which is why I feel ...guilty ...for the favor ...I'm about to ask of you."

"Favor?" Can speak more quickly if just repeat the last thing everyone says. Tommy looks at Phoebe's house, the house where Phoebe is Living. Do you know the feeling, Tommy?

"A favor. I'm asking you ... to watch out for them. Our friends. The ...people ... at the Haunted House. The kids in the class. Watch out for them for me."

"Real ...useful." When alive and "watching out" for people managed to get clobbered with a baseball bat and then next time managed to get killed. Unqualified when alive. Now? Have trouble getting in and out of a car and wants to "watch over" people? Maybe not so smart.

"You are really useful, Adam," he said. "You've got a strength to you ...not just physical. You do what's right. You could really ...help people."

Waited. Wait a lot now.

"What I'm really asking, Adam ...I'm asking you to step up. It's not just because I'm ...leaving. The dead kids ...need strength. You have it. Step up and let them see it."

"Trying."

"I know you're trying," he says. "Sometimes trying is enough, and sometimes it isn't. You need to step up." Want to argue. Throw a punch even. Sort of. Don't. He's right.

"You can do it, Adam," he said. "I know you can do it. But

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more ...important...we need you to do it. Things are going to get ...rougher ...for our people, Adam."

Saw something in his eyes that scared me, scary as the thought of Phoebe living her life without me. Reminded of Smiley.

"We won't be able to ...live ... at the fringe much longer. They won't let us."

"They?" Doing it again. FrankenAdam.

"The trads," he said. "The 'beating hearts.' But also our own people, Adam. Most don't want to stay in the shadows forever, and the others want to see shadows covering everyone."

"Tak." Thinking out loud. Thinking, like the brain energy or whatever making body bend its knees or swing its arms was freed up, free to think higher thoughts and larger concepts. Saw that Tommy agreed.

"Yes, Takayuki," he said, "and he isn't alone."

"I'll step."

"I know you will, Adam. She'll need you to. We all will." He clasped my shoulder.

Shook hands, wished him well on his travels. Watched him walk down the road until the moonlight didn't touch him anymore. When he was gone thought of Phoebe looked up at her window hoped her bed was warm and her dreams untroubled and was thankful very thankful that she was alive. That she was living. Thankful gave my life for her and that despite all the heartache and frustration would do it again in a heartbeat if had a heartbeat to give. Even if she loved but didn't
love
me.

Worked out practiced forms until the sun came up, until red fingers of light reached over frost-covered skin.

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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"TO," PETE SAID,
"do you have a big holiday planned?"

Davidson didn't look up from his magazine. He'd brought in a large stack, which he'd been reading in silence the entire three hours that Pete had been watching the bank of monitors continue to reveal nothing.

"Holiday?" Davidson said, turning a page.
Time, Newsweek, Psychology Today
--Davidson was a magazine-reading fiend. "Yeah. Thanksgiving, in a couple days." Davidson looked up, his pale blue eyes empty of expression. "Oh," he said, "I'm working."

"That sucks," Pete said. "Will your family send over some leftovers, at least?"

He didn't know why he was bothering; talking with Davidson was like talking to a tree stump. But the boredom of staring at the monitors had grown to soul-crushing proportions; the only movement of the whole day was the geek zombie from

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the dormitory taking a short walk from his room outside. Pete had watched him walk twenty paces toward the fence, stop, walk ten paces to his left, stop, and then walk back to the dorm. This took the geek twenty minutes.

"I don't have a family," Davidson said. Pete wondered if he was just pretending to read, because his eyes didn't seem to move at all while the magazines were in front of him.

"That sucks," Pete said. "I feel that way too."

He didn't know why he was running his mouth, anyhow. Davidson didn't give a rat's heinie about his personal problems, and Pete wasn't used to sharing. Thanksgiving at Casa de Wimp was a theater of pain to him; the Wimp had his parents over--they showed their gratitude for his mother's efforts in the kitchen by criticizing every little thing, right down to the way she'd organized the pickle tray.

"You have a difficult home life," Davidson said. Pete couldn't tell if it was a statement or a question.

"Not difficult," Pete replied. "I just hate it."

"Your mother? Your stepfather?"

"My mother's second husband," Pete said, aware of how churlish he sounded.

"Why don't you like them?"

Pete wanted to tell him to forget it, to just read his stupid magazines. "They're weak," he said. Davidson flipped another page.

"He's the biggest wuss on the planet. An accountant that wouldn't ask for his money back if he found rat turds in his dinner at a restaurant. And she's weak for being with a loser like him."

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"And you're strong."

Again, Pete couldn't tell if it was a statement or a question, nor could he tell if Davidson was mocking him. "Strong enough," he said. Davidson looked up again. "Strong enough to go mop the lab," Duke said.

Pete wheeled the mop bucket down to the lab, gaining access to the room via the keycard that hung on a clip from his uniform shirt. The keycard had his name and a mug shot.

The lab was full of odd sounds, random blips, and tones from a host of indecipherable computerized machines that were conducting experiments while the experimenters themselves were at home baking pumpkin pie. Pete wondered briefly what Thanksgiving was like at the Hunter home. Did pretty little Angela make a big bird for her scarecrow of a father? Did they invite a bunch of dead friends over for a gnaw on a turkey leg? Did she sit around psychoanalyzing everyone at the table?

What a fraud, Pete thought as he wrung out his mop and started in the far corner of the lab. He hip-checked a table on which a machine that looked sort of like a coffeemaker was humming, a beaker of greenish liquid cooking or electrolyzing or whatever behind a glass door. He hoped the jostle ruined whatever mad science Alish was trying to conduct, just as he hoped tripling the amount of bleach he normally used on the floor would cause some of the findings to go awry.

When he really thought about it, none of this stuff made any sense to him. The lab wasn't climate controlled--Pete

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knew from experience that it was normally much warmer; today the lab would seem cold if he weren't moving around. He thought that if it was really a scientific lab, people would be here in masks and hairnets and clear plastic gloves and all that, instead of just the too-big stained lab coats that the scarecrow gave to everyone. It didn't make sense.

He mopped a section, then went to work on one of the stainless-steel tables, using a laundered white cloth and some spray cleaner from a bottle he hooked on the edge of his bucket. He spritzed the table in three places, then aimed a forth spritz at a rack of open test tubes before making lazy circles on the table with his less than clean cloth.

"Take it your father didn't call," Davidson said from the doorway.

Pete grunted with surprise, wondering if Davidson was onto his little acts of scientific vandalism. The baleful eyes revealed nothing.

"Isn't anyone worried about these cleaning products affecting the experiments?" Pete asked, ignoring Davidson's question/statement. Of course Darren hadn't called. All Darren called about was to see if Pete had gotten his scar fixed yet, and Pete was pretty sure he'd even lost interest in that.

"I don't think you could ruin any of the experiments if you tried," Davidson said, the ghost of a smile on his bloodless lips. "None of the real experiments are done here."

Pete leaned his mop against the wringer. "What are you talking about?" he asked. "I've seen the ... I've seen Alish take blood or whatever it is from the zom ... from the living-impaired kids."

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"Would people know that you're a murderer just by looking at you?" "What?"

"Or would they have to talk to you a little? Watch you. See the look on your face when a zombie walks into your field of vision, like the look on your face when Cooper takes his pointless stroll? I wish I could hold a mirror up to you every time you see our resident zombie leave his room on the monitors."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Pete said. His palms were sweaty, his mouth dry. His heart was racing and the lab equipment chirped like a field of crickets on a hot day late in the summer.

"Sometimes you have to peel the skin back," Davidson said, and now he really was smiling. "Sometimes you have to go beneath the surface. Sometimes you have to dig."

Pete opened his mouth and then closed it. The look on Davidson's face was like the look on the half-faced zombie just before he'd cut him. It was a look that held nothing, not hatred, not anger, nothing.

"I'm not sure what we're talking about right now."

"You will," Davidson said. "Keep the cleaning chemicals out of the experiments. We wouldn't want you accidentally discovering anything."

He left, leaving the sliding lab door open behind him. Pete heard the arrival of the Undead Studies students down the hall; Pinky's voice was shrill enough to grind steel.

Pete didn't realize he was shaking until he took hold of his mop again.