Generation Dead by Daniel Waters Page B
Authors: Daniel Waters
Tags: Fiction, Humorous stories, Death, Juvenile Fiction, Fantasy & Magic, Children's Books - Young Adult Fiction, Children: Young Adult (Gr. 7-9), Zombies, Love & Romance, Monsters, Horror & Ghost Stories, Social Issues - Friendship, Prejudices, Social Issues - Dating & Sex
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like a morning breeze drifting across Oxoboxo Lake.
They stood there without speaking for a minute, each passing second a moment of awkwardness that she felt as acutely as the boys on the field felt their tackles and hits.
"Well," she said, her ears ringing as she was unable to bear the silence any longer, "I've got to go get my ride. Good night."
65
He didn't say anything--anything at all. Her eyes were downcast as she turned and started walking toward where she thought the parking lot was. But standing in the forest with Tommy, giving him her poem, it was so surreal, so bizarre that she wouldn't be surprised in the least if the Oxoboxo woods, lake and all, went spinning off the surface of the earth and into the stratosphere. Whatever electrical magic she'd had was now engulfed by a cold inky wave of embarrassment and fear. She was about to collide with a tree when she thought she heard her name.
She turned. All she could see of Tommy was a pale shimmering outline and his eyes, two pale disks of moonlight, about fifteen feet away.
"I think," he said, his voice soft and flat, more like the memory of sound than sound itself, "you are brave, too."
The tiny moons disappeared and she was alone. There was darkness all around her, but it no longer flowed within her. She was smiling when she joined Adam in the warm cab of his stepfather's truck.
66
***
CHAPTER SEVEN
T HE WEEKEND MOVED ALONG with a tired languor, as though time itself had become living impaired. Phoebe spent long hours sitting on her bed listening to music with her notebook and pen on her lap, writing nothing and talking to no one. Friday night had been confusing in so many ways, but part of her wanted to hold on to that confusion a little longer and analyze it.
Margi called Saturday night, but in typical fashion, the hour of conversation was focused mainly on Margi. Her history report, the show she was watching, the shoes she was planning to wear on Monday, her thoughts on the new Zombicide downloads. Phoebe didn't mind; having a Margi-centric conversation was always entertaining, and it allowed her to not talk about what was on her mind-- Tommy ....
She almost gave herself away when Margi asked her if she
67
was able to accomplish much at the library--she'd forgotten her cover story completely.
"Oh, sure," she said, but really she had just drawn some cartoons in her notebook and flipped through a book she found on the Spanish Inquisition.
"That was convincing," Margi said. "You know, I wish I'd let you talk me into staying, because I'm really having the hardest time doing this history report. Of course, Mr. Adam Lame Man probably wouldn't have driven me home. I swear, Phoebe, he has been crushing on you since the third grade."
"I didn't move here until the fourth grade."
"Well, he probably crushed on you in a past life. Do you ever see him roll his eyes when I tag along?"
"That's ridiculous, Margi."
"Yeah, I know. I'm way hotter than you," she said, and then laughed.
Phoebe had long known about Margi's fascination with Adam, who was the first friend Phoebe made when she moved to Oakvale. They'd hit it off because Adam hadn't known any other girls who liked comic books, and she was a better swimmer and Frisbee player than he was. He didn't acquire his size, or "inflate," as Phoebe liked to tease him, until middle school. Then his taste in athletics started to lean toward contact sports--sports that she had no interest in, despite having a decent outside jump shot.
Adam was a year older but had stayed back in the second grade, so now they were both juniors. High school took them down different paths--Adam was one of the popular ones,
68
Phoebe drifted on the edges. Neither made a big deal of their friendship at school because the incongruity of it confused their individual circles of friends.
That incongruity, as much as the length of their friendship, was what made it so special. Phoebe still felt that there was no one she would rather play
They stood there without speaking for a minute, each passing second a moment of awkwardness that she felt as acutely as the boys on the field felt their tackles and hits.
"Well," she said, her ears ringing as she was unable to bear the silence any longer, "I've got to go get my ride. Good night."
65
He didn't say anything--anything at all. Her eyes were downcast as she turned and started walking toward where she thought the parking lot was. But standing in the forest with Tommy, giving him her poem, it was so surreal, so bizarre that she wouldn't be surprised in the least if the Oxoboxo woods, lake and all, went spinning off the surface of the earth and into the stratosphere. Whatever electrical magic she'd had was now engulfed by a cold inky wave of embarrassment and fear. She was about to collide with a tree when she thought she heard her name.
She turned. All she could see of Tommy was a pale shimmering outline and his eyes, two pale disks of moonlight, about fifteen feet away.
"I think," he said, his voice soft and flat, more like the memory of sound than sound itself, "you are brave, too."
The tiny moons disappeared and she was alone. There was darkness all around her, but it no longer flowed within her. She was smiling when she joined Adam in the warm cab of his stepfather's truck.
66
***
CHAPTER SEVEN
T HE WEEKEND MOVED ALONG with a tired languor, as though time itself had become living impaired. Phoebe spent long hours sitting on her bed listening to music with her notebook and pen on her lap, writing nothing and talking to no one. Friday night had been confusing in so many ways, but part of her wanted to hold on to that confusion a little longer and analyze it.
Margi called Saturday night, but in typical fashion, the hour of conversation was focused mainly on Margi. Her history report, the show she was watching, the shoes she was planning to wear on Monday, her thoughts on the new Zombicide downloads. Phoebe didn't mind; having a Margi-centric conversation was always entertaining, and it allowed her to not talk about what was on her mind-- Tommy ....
She almost gave herself away when Margi asked her if she
67
was able to accomplish much at the library--she'd forgotten her cover story completely.
"Oh, sure," she said, but really she had just drawn some cartoons in her notebook and flipped through a book she found on the Spanish Inquisition.
"That was convincing," Margi said. "You know, I wish I'd let you talk me into staying, because I'm really having the hardest time doing this history report. Of course, Mr. Adam Lame Man probably wouldn't have driven me home. I swear, Phoebe, he has been crushing on you since the third grade."
"I didn't move here until the fourth grade."
"Well, he probably crushed on you in a past life. Do you ever see him roll his eyes when I tag along?"
"That's ridiculous, Margi."
"Yeah, I know. I'm way hotter than you," she said, and then laughed.
Phoebe had long known about Margi's fascination with Adam, who was the first friend Phoebe made when she moved to Oakvale. They'd hit it off because Adam hadn't known any other girls who liked comic books, and she was a better swimmer and Frisbee player than he was. He didn't acquire his size, or "inflate," as Phoebe liked to tease him, until middle school. Then his taste in athletics started to lean toward contact sports--sports that she had no interest in, despite having a decent outside jump shot.
Adam was a year older but had stayed back in the second grade, so now they were both juniors. High school took them down different paths--Adam was one of the popular ones,
68
Phoebe drifted on the edges. Neither made a big deal of their friendship at school because the incongruity of it confused their individual circles of friends.
That incongruity, as much as the length of their friendship, was what made it so special. Phoebe still felt that there was no one she would rather play
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