Adventures of a Middle School Zombie by Scott Craven

But that whole pull-my-finger thing went a little too far.”
    “I know, sorry,” I said, returning her smile. I may be a zombie, but I don’t want to turn into a drama queen. “So, Robbie?”
    “Sorry, Jed, nurse-patient confidentiality prevents me from giving you further details,” she said. “Let’s just say I wasn’t too concerned, and rubbed the spot with hand sanitizer, telling him four out of five dermatologists recommended it in case of zombie contact. He bought it. I must say, this Ooze is very strange indeed. I know it’s covered extensively in your medical records, but I have a hunch there’s far more we don’t know about it than what we do. The gray color of—no, I’ve said too much. Let’s leave it at that.”
    So, Robbie was scared of a few shades of gray, huh?
    Cool.
    Robbie had been avoiding me, but maybe it was time to seek him out, go a little undead on him.
    It would have to be something special. Carefully planned but way over the top. Maybe one night put on my dad’s clothes from the 1980s (his parachute pants are really scary), put some dirt on as if I had just come fresh from the cemetery, and visit Robbie late one night, scratching at his window.
    But then I’d just be living up to stereotypes, putting the zombie movement back years. Not that there was a zombie movement, but as its only representative, I felt a certain responsibility to be a good role model. And that meant no midnight lurchings.
    But there was something in all this I could definitely use to my advantage. And in school, so everybody would see.
    I was feeling so good about all of this that a few days later, walking across the quad, I hadn’t thought about being a victim in quite a while.
    Luke and I were bragging about our World of Warcraft accomplishments (that sounds pretty stupid when I think about it), and I was just happy the towel incident was behind us. Just as I was bragging about hitting Level 17 and attaining Supreme Wizard status, Robbie appeared. As if he’d been beamed in by the Bully Transporter.
    “Well, if it ain’t Dead Jed,” Robbie said. Ben and Joe were there too, part of the same particle beam that had delivered Robbie. “How’re things hanging? About six feet under?”
    Ben and Joe giggled, the laugh tracks that they were.
    “I don’t want any trouble, I just want to go to class,” I said.
    “You want to go to class, I want to go to class, we all want to go to class,” he said. “I’m just here to remind you that even though your life is over—at least biologically—this thing between you and me is not. But for now, you are free to go. And make sure all your work is clearly visible to interested neighbors because I have it on good authority that there’s a pop quiz in bio today.”
    His sources were right, and I wish I could say that in class that day, I rebelled. That I covered my paper because I’d had enough. And that was what I fully intended to do—right up to the first answer, when I dipped my right shoulder to give Robbie access.
    Sometimes I hate me, too.
    Even more so later, wedged into the display case. Robbie nabbed me between third and fourth period, in the middle of a very crowded A Hall, where our rather empty trophy case resided. One second I was unzipping my backpack to get my notebook, the next my feet were swept from underneath me, my backpack falling to the floor. Then I was floating, gently, down the hall, a sea of kids parting in front of me. Robbie carried me as if I were no heavier than a cloud (when you’re dead, it’s hard to keep the weight on).
    “Put me down,” I said. “Please.”
    “I will,” he said. “Trust me.”
    We continued down the hallway. I pushed my legs down and arched my back, wriggling my torso. His arms remained firmly clamped.
    When we turned toward the wall, our destination was clear. The sliding glass door was open (I could swear it had been locked when I passed it a few minutes before), and Robbie lifted me considerately,