School of the Dead (7 page)

Defensively, I said, “Please don't write any more comments under my picture.”

“Wasn't me,” she said, and the three went off.

Shaken, I sat there thinking:
It can't be a ghost.
I don't want anything to do with ghosts.
I shut my eyes. When I opened them, Uncle Charlie was sitting opposite me.

Frustrated, I said to him, as firmly as I could, “Okay. From here on, I am
not
going to remember you. Get it? I'm on my own.”

He went.

I headed for class, not sure what I felt more: angry, annoyed, or just creeped out.

Right before lunch, Batalie called me up to his desk. “Ms. Foxton asked that you stop in her office during fifth period. You can be late for science.” He handed me a late slip.

My mind still churning over what Jessica had said, I felt lousy and had no desire to see Ms. Foxton. Not having a choice, I went.

Mrs. Z greeted me. “Ms. Foxton will be with you in a minute.”

I sat down on the office couch and stared at the painting of the Penda Boy. Absolutely, he was the kid I kept seeing. My big question kept coming back: If he was a ghost—as Jessica said—how come I was the only one seeing him?

“Ms. Foxton is free now,” said Mrs. Z.

As I entered her office, Ms. Foxton stood up behind her desk. “Tony,” she said, “so glad to see you again. Please, have a seat.”

She sat, clasped her small, well-manicured hands, and smiled. “How are things going?” she asked.

Preoccupied by thoughts of the Penda Boy, I just sat there.

“Getting on with Mr. Batalie?” she prompted. “The other teachers?”

“I think so.”

She waited a moment, then said, “Have any impressions to share?”

“Not really.”

“Any problems?”

“Nope,” I said. For a second I thought of telling her about the Penda Boy. Not wanting her to think I was nutty, I didn't.

“Do you think you'll be happy here?”

“I suppose,” I said mechanically, wanting only to leave.

She frowned. My blank responses were frustrating her. I was hoping she would dismiss me, but she said, “I know that developing friendships is one of the most important things one can do at a new school. In addition, you're also new to the city. Have you had the chance to make friends?”

She waited for me to speak, so I felt I had to say something. What popped out was the first name that came into my head. “Well, Jessica, sort of.”

“Jessica Richards?”

Hearing alarm in her voice, I was sorry I had spoken. Besides, I was not sure I wanted Jessica to be my friend.

Ms. Foxton gazed at me, fright back in her eyes. “Tony,” she said with care, “one's choice of friends is always important in one's school life. No doubt, Jessica has her . . . good points. I'm just not certain,” she went on, her voice dropping almost to a whisper, “that she's your best choice for a friend.”

“What's wrong with her?” I said, not believing she was actually telling me who I should be friends with.

“Jessica has been known to . . . create . . . problems.”

“What . . . what kind of problems?”

“Well . . .”

I made my own connection. “You talking about the Weird History Club?”

The fear in Ms. Foxton's eyes deepened. “Ah,” she said,
“you know about . . . them.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Do you . . . intend to join?”

Having no idea what I'd do, I shrugged.

“What has Jessica told you?”

Not wanting to talk about ghosts, I said, “The kid I replaced—that Austin kid—the club is trying to find out what happened to him.”

Ms. Foxton's hands gripped together so tightly the tips of her fingers turned white. “Tony,” she said, her voice low with tension, “let's just say that Jessica has a reputation for creating difficulties. For instance, telling . . . fanciful stories. I'm afraid . . . truthfulness is not one of her better character traits.”

She
was
telling me who my friends should be.

This time Ms. Foxton actually whispered. “Tony, I need to be as direct as I can: We want you to be happy here. But we also need to know you can be a positive member of the Penda family. What you choose to do with your . . . friendships is a big part of education and . . . your life.”

Upset, I just sat there. As if coming to my rescue, Uncle Charlie stood behind her.

Ms. Foxton gazed at me for a while and then said, “The great Greek philosopher Aristotle said, ‘A friend is one soul
in two bodies.' When choosing a friend, you might ask yourself: Do you wish to share souls with that person?”

Uncle Charlie grinned.

“I'll think about it,” I said, not sure what she was getting at. Besides, I was angry.

“Please understand,” she went on, “my responsibility is the well-being of Penda.”

“Right. Respect the past—protect the future.”

She paled and suddenly stood. “Thank you for coming, Tony.”

Dismissed, I hauled myself up and hurried toward the door.

“Tony,” Ms. Foxton called—I heard apology in her voice—“if you can think of any way I can be helpful, my door is always open. I mean that, sincerely.”

I walked out, ignoring how Mrs. Z looked at me—as if she had overheard and disapproved of the conversation.

I headed up one of the big stairways toward science class. All I could think was:
Why was Ms. Foxton warning me about Jessica? What is she worried about? Why is everyone so evasive about Austin?

I looked across to the other steps. The Penda Boy was there, his eyes full of pleading, as if desperate to say something to me.

Feeling a bolt of anger, I called, “What do you want from me?”

A student came bounding down the steps.

The Penda Boy vanished.

I stood there, trying to make sense of it all. I couldn't. All I had was what Jessica had said: the boy I kept seeing was not just a ghost. He was my enemy.

For the rest of the day I made sure not to be alone
.

At three o'clock, I couldn't get out of school fast enough. On the sidewalk, kids were milling around, sorting out plans for the weekend. Having no plans, I felt like a weed in a fancy garden. I looked around for Jessica, wanting to talk to her some more. Not seeing her, I figured she had gone home. But to my exasperation, I saw Uncle Charlie. I swung away only to see a kid come right toward me.

“Tony?” he said.

It took a second for me to realize it was the kid who had been pointed out to me as “the perfect Penda student.”

“We haven't met,” he said, holding out his hand like a professional greeter. “I'm Riley Fadden, Eights Student Council president. You've probably heard of me. Glad to welcome you to Penda.”

“Thanks.”

“Problems with the school, whatever, come to me. I'm Mr. Fix-It. Or there's a council rep in the Sevens. Peter Schotter. You can always talk to him.”

“Okay.”

He edged closer. “Give you a tip,” he said, as if I was some special friend. “Keep away from that Weird History Club. I mean, that Jessica”—he grinned—“she's awesome pretty, but”—he punched me lightly on my shoulder—“honest. She's trouble.”

He walked away, calling, “Have a great weekend.”

That did it. They were all worried about Jessica because she was trying to find out school secrets. Okay, I had to know a lot of things:

First, that old question: What's the deal with Uncle Charlie? Why did he keep coming into my head? He was like an assigned guide—nice when you first get to a new place, but then you want to be on your own. I reminded myself that he was just a memory. Memories can fade.

He was different from the Penda Boy, right? But that gave me the second question: Was I really seeing the Penda Boy's ghost, or just imagining him?

Third, if the boy
was
a ghost, how come
I
was the only one seeing him?

As far as I could tell, the only ones who could give me
answers were the Weird History Club. The school losers.

So, fourth question: Should I have anything to do with them?

At dinner that night, my parents tried to get me to talk about school. “Pick a sport?” Dad asked.

“Think it will be Ping-Pong,” I said.

Dad said, “That's sure to get you an athletic scholarship to Stanford.”

“That's why I chose it.”

“Tell us about your new friends,” said Mom.

“Ms. Foxton warned me about having the wrong ones.”

“Who did she mean?”

I shrugged.

Mom looked at Dad, then back at me. “Is this going to be a problem?” she asked.

“I'm good.”

Back in my room, I snatched up the school student directory, flipped to the seventh-grade listings, and found Jessica's name, address, and phone number.

I called. “It's Tony, the new kid.”

“You going to join us?” was the first thing she said.

Avoiding the question, I said, “That kid, Austin, the one I'm replacing—how come no one wants to say what happened to him?”

She said, “Guess how many kids have disappeared from the Penda School over the years.”

“Disappeared? What are you talking about?”

“Like, twelve.”

“You serious?”

“That's the whole point. The school doesn't want anyone to know. The Weird History Club tries to find out the truth. If you join us, you could help us find out.”

I said, “Ms. Foxton warned me about becoming your friend.”

“Idiot. Bet she won't last long in the school. Heads never do.”

“Riley Fadden warned me about you too.”

“Total jerk. Anyway, let me know if you want to join. You'd be great.”

Flattered but uneasy, I didn't know what to say.

“You don't like to hear it,” she went on, “but there's something dead about you, okay? Just be careful.”

“Careful?”

“I read somewhere that the way people smell has a lot to do with relationships. If a ghost wanted you for a friend, you smelling like death might be a good place to start, right?”

“I thought you said he was my enemy.”

“Hey, enemies start off pretending to be best friends.
Right? You keep asking about Austin. Okay: the ghost in the tower—the one you saw—we're pretty sure he's the one that caused Austin and all those others to disappear.”

Abruptly, she hung up.

I sat there thinking,
The ghost—if he is a ghost—is not going to be my friend. I don't want to disappear like Austin. And I don't want to see Uncle Charlie again. I want to be on my own.

I walked my slackline. I went forward. I went back. I didn't fall. Then I went into the living room, where my parents were working.

I said, “Forgot to tell you I need more things for school.”

Dad, still working his tablet, said, “Like what?”

“I need more ties. Including a black one.”

“A black one?” said Mom. “For goodness sake, why?”

“It's the insignia for a club I'm thinking of joining.”

“What club?” Dad asked.

“A history club, sort of.”

Dad looked around. “Why black?”

“History is about dead people, isn't it?”

I walked the slackline for a long time. It was a relief to think of nothing.

That weekend, my family worked on the apartment, throwing out old stuff, making lists of what we needed, buying
new things (including school things), putting pictures on the walls, books on shelves. All Saturday I couldn't stop thinking about Jessica, the Weird History Club, and the blond kid I kept seeing, the Penda Boy, the ghost.

By Sunday morning, it was as if I had made a turn on the slackline, moving in a new direction, a direction
away
from Jessica and her club. I knew why too—those warnings, Ms. Foxton's, Riley Fadden's, plus the things other kids said: keep away from Jessica. She was forceful. She made trouble. But mostly it was what she'd said to me, that the ghost was after me in some way, trying to make me disappear, like that Austin kid. I kept telling myself it wasn't true, and I didn't want to hear it.

I considered bringing up my memory of Uncle Charlie. Maybe he could help me. Then I told myself I needed to handle things on my own. As far as I was concerned, it was time to forget him. If I could ease him away, I could do the same with that so-called ghost.

That was why, over the next week, I just went from class to class, avoiding Jessica and the club. Same time, I tried to be with people. Tried out the science Wednesday club. Not interesting. But just doing new things seemed to work. I didn't see Uncle Charlie. Good. I was managing him. Though I did see
that blond kid, it was only a few times. I was more convinced than ever that it
was
just me. I was upset with Uncle Charlie's death, the new city, and the new school. Things seemed to be getting better.

Then Friday came.

It was three o'clock. School was over. Kids gathered on the street. I hung around as people made plans to get together or told one another what they were going to do that weekend. Since the only plans I had were with my parents, I was hoping someone would invite me to do something. All of a sudden, I remembered I had left my backpack in class.

I tore up the steps and into room seven, my homeroom. Soon as I got there, I saw the blond boy sitting where I had been sitting. My backpack was in his lap, and it looked like he was putting something into it
.

“Hey!” I shouted. “Don't touch that!”

Next second Mr. Batalie walked in.

When he did, the boy vanished, and
my backpack fell to the floor.

“Did you forget something?” asked Mr. Batalie.

“Backpack,” I managed to say.

“Have a nice weekend,” he called as I ran out.

I got into the hallway and opened my bag. On top of my school junk was a piece of paper on which was scrawled
Please talk to me.