Zomburbia (13 page)

“That's rough,” Brandon said, and I parsed his response to see if he was being sarcastic or insincere. The amount of genuineness in his reply surprised me.

After a minute, Brandon rapped his knuckles against the table. I looked up at him.

“We should do something, go get some burgers or something, and invite him along,” Brandon said. “You know, make it up to him and make him feel included.”

“I think he probably needs some alone time with me,” I said, “but I appreciate you thinking of him.” And I meant it.

“Okay,” he said. He looked at his watch and stood up. “I guess we should be getting to class. Can I walk you?”

“Um, yeah,” I said. No boy in the history of History had ever asked to walk me to class. Was he going to ask to carry my books? Lay his coat over any puddles we came across? Hunt and gather something for me?

We walked across the back field and into the school. The crowds already thinned out as the beginning of class approached. More than one head turned as people saw Brandon and me walk down the hall together. Was I about to become an item of high school gossip? We could be a blind item in the school's paper:
Item: What first-string quarterback was seen canoodling in the halls with a certain loser female who may or may not be a lesbian?

“You have really pretty eyes,” Brandon said, and I stopped dead in my tracks. “But you know what would bring them out even more? If you toned down on the . . .” he made circular motions around his own eyes “. . . black eye makeup stuff.”

“My eyeliner?” I said.

“Yeah, your eyeliner.”

“Gee, thanks for the advice, Mr. Blackwell,” I said.

“I don't know who that is,” Brandon said, “but it looks like you want to hide how nice your eyes are or something.”

“That is the shittiest delivery of a compliment I've ever heard, Brandon,” I said.

“What?” He looked seriously in the dark.

“Nothing,” I said. “It's too early to be complimenting me anyway.”

“What does that mean?” he asked. “ ‘Too early for compliments'?”

“It means I don't know you well enough for that yet,” I said, “and it makes me suspicious that you're throwing around I-like-your-eyes comments already.”

“Suspicious?”

“Yes,” I said. I noticed again that people were watching us, which annoyed the hell out of me. I pitched my voice lower when I spoke. “And I have to tell you, Brandon, that I can't believe I have to bring this up to you. It's like you weren't socialized in the American co-educational system or something.”

“I didn't mean to make you suspicious,” he said, desperate, “I just, you know, like you and wanted to say something nice. And see if you liked me, too.”

“I like you fine,” I said, and then paused. “Or I will like you. I am on the road to liking you. Just take it down a notch, okay?”

Now it was Brandon's turn to be frustrated. “Maybe there's a website you can point me to that has a timeline of appropriate behavior, Courtney.”

The class bell rang and the last few stragglers made their way to class.

“Listen,” I said, “we don't have time for an Oprah-style talk right now. Don't worry; you're doing fine, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, doubtful, still a little pissed.

“Let's just go to class and we'll talk later,” I said.

He nodded and we walked on.

I couldn't believe this was happening. Not only did a boy outside my social genus and species like me, now I was having to coach him about how to behave in the situation. I headed toward AP Chemistry.

As we walked past the school's trophy case, I caught a look at myself and paused for a second. I found myself wondering if I did wear too much eyeliner.

Goddammit.

I
t's always weird to be called into the office from class. There are two ways it can happen. One is the intercom. You'll be sitting there taking notes or writing on the board and suddenly there's a loud hiss of static and then the voice of God, or Mrs. Schoen, the school's secretary, comes on and announces that you're wanted in the office. Everyone else in class snickers and points and makes “oooh” sounds. It's all very public and somewhat humiliating. I guess it's better than the alternative.

The alternative is when Mrs. Schoen quietly enters your class with a folded piece of paper in her little hands. A hush spreads across the room as people catch sight of her and she approaches the teacher and hands them the slip. The teacher opens it and reads and there's always this moment before the teacher announces whose name is on the slip and everyone gets to sit and silently assess their slate of sins. Have I done anything office-visit worthy; is it me? It's all very
Hunger Games
as we sit and wonder if we'll be this year's tribute . . . No one laughs or whispers to the person sitting next to them. Everyone watches in silence as the condemned gathers his things and skulks out of the room followed closely by that five-foot-tall-in-heels executioner, Mrs. Schoen.

It's even worse when you really have been involved in some major-league bad shit. You know, like when you sell drugs in your off-hours. That's what happened as I sat in AP Chem class (AP Biology would come next year), writing a short essay about ionic equilibria in aqueous solutions and the door to the room opened. There was Mrs. Schoen. She looked a little sad, resigned to serve as the principal's henchman. She handed Mrs. Ellis the slip. My heart began to drum. I thought back to Friday and my run-in with Astrid. Had she said something to campus security because I'd refused to sell her any Z? That vindictive bitch.

I told myself to calm down, odds were that the note was for someone else. I was really careful. I never sold on campus. Heck, I'd never even sold to a fellow student out at the Bully Burger as far as I could tell.

I knew I was in the clear.

“Courtney,” Mrs. Ellis said as she looked up from the note. “Would you go with Mrs. Schoen to the office, please?”

I kept my gaze straight ahead as I put my books and pen in my bag. My heart beat so loud in my ears, I wondered if the others heard it. I stood and approached the secretary. She gave me a sad half-smile and opened the door for me. We stepped out into the hall.

I kept my head down and I watched my feet making their way across the floor. Beside me, I saw Mrs. Schoen's tiny steps racing to keep up with me. I chanced a look up at her.

“Do you know what Mrs. Ibrahim wants with me?”

She gave me another sad smile. “Sorry, hon, I don't.”

I went back to looking at my shoes.

I reviewed every move I'd made in the last few days. Who had I sold to? Had I revealed anything when I talked to Astrid? Maybe my dad found my stash of money . . . I felt like I was going to be sick.

When we got into the office, I finally tore my gaze away from my shoes and looked through Mrs. Ibrahim's opened door and I saw a Salem city policeman in there with her. My head swam.

“Are you okay?” Mrs. Schoen asked.

Of course I wasn't. Even as barely socialized as I am, I knew I couldn't say that. “I'm fine,” I said. It was becoming my personal mantra.

She nodded like she understood. “Well, go ahead on in.” She motioned me toward the door to the office. Almost against my will, I shuffled in that direction.

Mrs. Ibrahim motioned for me to sit down as soon as I entered. The cop, who had been standing behind her desk, walked around and closed the door as I slumped into the chair. He walked back and stood with his arms crossed over his chest. He held a manila envelope in one hand. I stole quick glances at him. Tall and beefy, with dark hair that stood up like a brush, he also had one of those ridiculous cop molestaches. Is it a rule that you have to have one before you join the force? Do women officers and those with a testosterone deficiency get waivers? He met my gaze and I went back to staring at the floor.

I needed to think of something to say when they confronted me about the drugs. Maybe I could claim I didn't know that Vitamin Z was illegal? Would they buy that?

“Courtney,” Mrs. Ibrahim said, and paused. I caught my breath and looked up at her. She looked so sad. She must have been so disappointed in me. “This is Officer Rey, Courtney, and he needs to speak to you.”

They shared a look. Oh, man, he looked really unhappy, too. I would've thought he'd be super-psyched to bust a teenage drug dealer, like he'd get a bonus that month or something.

He cleared his throat. “Hi, Courtney,” he said. I was surprised by how high his voice was. “Were you friends with William Luunder?”

I sat up straight. This wasn't about me? This was about . . . ?

“Do you mean Willie?”

He looked at whatever he had in the folder and frowned, then he made a note with the pen from his breast pocket.

“We didn't know he had also been called Willie, but yes, that's him.”

I tried to conceal my sigh as I sat back in the chair. This wasn't about me and my second job. This was about Willie. What had Willie done to get himself in trouble?

“Wait a minute,” I said as things began to sink in. “Did you say, ‘were you'?”

Mrs. Ibrahim blanched and coughed. The cop frowned even more deeply.

“That's right,” he said. “I'm really sorry to tell you this, Courtney. William, Willie, died in a zombie attack sometime last night.”

“That can't be right,” I said. “I talked to him just yesterday morning.” I felt like I couldn't draw a deep enough breath.

“You talked to him this morning?” Rey asked. “Monday morning?”

“No,” I said, “yesterday. Sunday.”

He exchanged a glance with the principal. Then he turned back and cleared his throat again.

“Right,” he said, “and the incident I'm describing happened sometime last night. Or early this morning.

“You said you spoke with him yesterday?”

I was too busy concentrating on the word “incident.” I sometimes made fun of Willie, but he wasn't dumb enough to get caught up in some damned
incident
. Officer Rey had to ask me again.

“Uh, yeah,” I answered. “I talked to him yesterday around, like, nine in the morning.”

“Did he seem depressed to you?”

That stopped me short. Depressed? Yeah, he was depressed as hell. But I didn't get what him feeling mopey had to do with anything. I asked why that was important.

“We have reason to believe that William's death was a suicide.”

I actually felt my mouth fall open. That made no sense whatsoever. It just couldn't be true. I tried to say that, and my voice refused to work.

“A murder-suicide, actually,” Officer Rey said. “His mother and father also died in the attack.”

My head swam. I dropped my books and I think I started to slump forward because the next thing I knew, the cop was kneeling right next to me and Mrs. Ibrahim stood behind her desk.

“Should I get the school nurse?” she asked Rey.

“I think she'll be okay,” he told her, and I wondered if that was the truth. I felt tears welling up in my eyes and there was no way I wanted to cry in front of these two. Unfortunately, I didn't think I had a choice.

“That's so crazy,” I said through a constricted throat. “Why would you even think that? Willie would never hurt himself like that. Why are you telling me like this?” The last bit came out in a whine. It felt so unfair. They were torturing me for no reason. Were they going to do this to all of Willie's friends?

“Courtney, we're almost positive it was suicide,” Rey said. In response to my hysteria, he seemed to be growing more calm. God, I wanted to smash him in the face for being so collected. “He left a note. The reason we have you in here,” he went on, “is because the note is addressed to you.”

I squeezed my eyes shut against the tears and shook my head back and forth. I started to chant, “No, no, no,” but I knew it must be true. Willie somehow killed himself and his parents and he got some zombies to do it. I stopped as something occurred to me. My sudden stillness startled Officer Rey.

“What about his sister?”

“She's fine, Courtney,” he said, calm again. “Willie made sure that she was safe.”

The thought of Julie all alone in the world really opened the floodgates. I started to openly sob. Huge gasping breaths tore through me. I heard Officer Rey ask for the nurse then, and soon she was there trying to give me a sedative. Normally the school doesn't hand out so much as an aspirin, so they must have been really freaked out.

I started to feel more calm. No, that's not right. There was a part of me that still screamed inside. I just felt more distant from it. Like I could watch that part of me and it didn't affect me personally. If that makes sense.

As I got my shit together, Officer Rey sat in a chair next to me and Mrs. Ibrahim sat back down.

“Courtney,” Rey went on, “if you feel up to it, I need you to tell us what you two talked about. It might have some bearing on what happened.”

Through the fog of whatever it was they gave me, I told them about having plans with Willie and blowing him off accidentally. I told them about hanging with Brandon and his friends and calling Willie on Sunday and the talk we had. When I got to the part about Willie's mom harping on about the fish, Officer Rey got a weird look on his face, but he didn't say anything.

I told them everything that happened Saturday through Sunday morning. I even told them about all of us drinking up at Brandon's dad's cabin and the zombie attack.

When I finished talking, the two adults were silent. I don't know what they thought. The cop probably wanted to fit all this new information into his theory about the
incident
. I bet Mrs. Ibrahim wondered if she should pursue my admission that we'd been drinking illegally. Whatever. It didn't matter to me just then.

“The part about the fish makes sense.” Rey scribbled into a little reporter's notebook.

It took a lot of concentration to turn my head and look at him.

“What?” I asked.

“We think that William attracted the zombies into his home somehow,” Rey said. “The smell of rotten fish might have done it.”

So now zombies were like goddamned raccoons? This situation was reaching a level of absurdity that threatened to make me puke. What next? The shufflers also dug up his yard and knocked over the trash cans? I needed to get out of that room.

“Do you think, based on your conversation, that William was despondent enough to kill himself?”

I didn't have to think it; it was obvious he was since hewent ahead and killed himself! I didn't say that. Instead, my foggy mind clutched at something the officer said earlier.

“You said there was a note?”

“Um, yes.”

“I want to read it,” I said. Rey exchanged a look with Mrs. Ibrahim.

“I don't know,” Rey said.

Mrs. Ibrahim cleared her throat. “He wrote it to her,” she said, “she should be able to read it.”

Rey nodded and rooted around through the notes in his file. He handed me a photocopy of a piece of ruled notebook paper, like Willie had been writing a school report instead of a suicide note.

Willie

I read through the note a couple of times. He said not to blame myself. Come on, how could I not? And don't be angry? I was furious! What the hell was he thinking? If he had talked to me again, we could have figured something out. Now we'd never have the chance to do that, to talk, to figure stuff out.

Tears streamed down my face. The pill they gave me earlier was keeping me from flipping out, but it couldn't keep back all of what I felt. Through all of the frustration, anger, and sorrow, what I felt was a gaping hollow space where Willie used to be. Big, dumb Willie. Willie who was always there without me having to think about it. Well, that just wasn't true anymore.

“I think that's enough, don't you, Officer Rey?” Mrs. Ibrahim looked like she was crying, too, and somehow that helped. I wanted the whole world to feel as bad as me right then.

“Of course,” he said, and he stood up. After fumbling through his pockets for a second, he handed me a hankie. Jesus. Him being nice to me just made me cry even harder.