Adventures of a Middle School Zombie by Scott Craven Page A

almost compassionately, and placed me inside. The window slowly closed in front of me, wedging me inside.
    I realized what happened. I was his trophy, and he was proudly displaying me for all to see. This was not about hurting me. It was about humiliation. And it was far worse than any flares of pain I’d ever felt.
    I turned toward the wall, squeezing my eyes shut and trying to erase the sight of the dozens of kids laughing and pointing as Robbie bragged about his “catch.”
    “We may not be the best in basketball or football,” I heard Robbie say through the glass, “but check out our award for School with the Most Straight-A Zombies. We only have one, but it looks like it will be enough. So let’s give Dead Jed a big hand. Or maybe he can take his off and give it to us!”
    The laughter nearly drowned out the bell. I remained huddled there for a few minutes, then, as one more door slammed shut, I opened my eyes and turned.
    Two things struck me. Getting out of here was going to be difficult.
    And the principal’s office was just across the hall.

Chapter Eight

     
    Mom and Dad know I’ve had rough times. How many times in elementary school did I come home from school with damp eyes? Or just go to my room, slamming the door?
    How many times did I wish I were as dead on the inside as I was on the outside?
    Mom and Dad were very sensitive about my feelings, always asking me if I was all right. And I would tell them about the kids who poked me, wondering what dead felt like. Or the teachers who sat me off to the side, not wanting their students to “catch death.”
    As a result, my skin got much thicker. As I tolerated more, I shared less with Mom and Dad. And by middle school, I just wished they would leave me alone sometimes. Because I could take care of myself.
    But the day I was put in the display case, when I finally wriggled my way out and arrived home two hours before school let out, it was tough to stay dead, even on the outside.
    I ran almost all the way home (endurance is pretty good when you’re not dependent on breathing) and ran right to my room as soon as I slammed the front door, which raised Mom’s suspicion, so I was not surprised when I heard a knock at the door.
    “Leave me alone!”
    “Honey, what happened? What’s wrong? Are you OK?”
    “Get out of here!”
    “OK, I will, I just want to make sure you’re not hurt, that there is nothing seriously wrong because—”
    “I’m fine! GET OUT!”
    “Jed, please, I want to help but—”
    “This is your fault! What did you do? Why did you make me like this? Why am I here, why can’t I just be buried somewhere like other dead people? Why can’t I be NORMAL?”
    “Let me in, hon, let’s talk,” Mom said. “I really want to see you. Please open the door.”
    Most of me wanted to do that, to unlock the door, to hug one of the few people who accepted me as I was. But the rest of me just wanted to punish, to hurt somebody else for once.
    I didn’t say anything. As my mom kept asking stupid questions, I dreamed about being just a regular kid, about how I could go to school each morning without worrying about who was going to stare at me or jump out of my way or make jokes about me or whip me with a towel or dump me in a garbage can or put me in a display case.
    I was so tired of being a freak.
    I must’ve fallen asleep because when I heard Dad’s voice, I opened my eyes and saw that my San Francisco 49er clock by the bed read 6:15. Whoa.
    “Jed, I need you to open your door now. Let’s talk, son.” Dad’s voice was firm but calm. I recognized the “this is not the time to ignore me” tone.
    I lifted myself off the bed and opened the door. Dad, still in his suit, loosened his tie and entered. He pulled out the chair from my desk and sat. I took a seat on my bed.
    “Your mom is worried sick.”
    Under my breath. “Whatever.”
    “Excuse me? What was that?”
    I said nothing, surprised at the anger still inside me.
    “Look, your