Kiss of Life by Daniel Waters
"I'll ...walk ...with you."
"So now you want to move," she said, her anger flashing, the words out before she could stop them. "What?" "Forget it."
"No," he said, "what...did you mean?"
The anger engulfed her like a hot wave pitched by a boiling ocean. She felt it wash over her and carry her out to sea.
"I said, now you want to move! Now all of a sudden you can move!"
She was shouting, and everyone in the hall stopped what they were doing to stare. She didn't care. They'd stared when they were dating, when they touched hands in the hallway. The only difference now was that they stared openly, instead of hiding behind books and locker doors. Hypocrites, every last one of them, a world full of hypocrites.
"Phoebe, what ...?"
"You didn't move, Tommy! He pointed the gun right at me and you didn't do anything!" "I..."
"All you had ...had to do was ... move," she said. "It
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wouldn't have hurt if he shot you. But you just stood there, and ...and Adam's dead! He's dead, Tommy!"
She looked at him, her eyes blurry with tears. He'd stopped trying to talk, and the mask of concern had fallen away from his face as he stood there.
Just stood there.
"He'd be alive if it weren't for you, Tommy," she said, whispering so the gawkers wouldn't hear.
He'd be alive, she thought, and you and I would be together. Tommy didn't try and stop her as she fled down the hall.
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CHAPTER FOUR
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY," Gus Guttridge, the lawyer, said with all of the warmth of a day-old cup of coffee.
"Gee, thanks," Pete replied.
"Cheer up. If you were born a few months earlier you could be tried as an adult instead of a juvenile, and then the circus would really come to town. We're in good shape."
Guttridge sat down at the head of the table facing Pete, his mother and her husband, the Wimp, and the social worker. They were in a conference room at the Winford Juvenile Detention Center where Pete had been living for the past two weeks. There were two wrinkled posters in the room, one that said drugs were Uncool and one that said gang violence was Uncool. Pete didn't mind the detention center. The food was better than what he got at home, and they delivered it right to his room because he wasn't allowed to mix with the other
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kids being held there. Other kids would probably think that was Uncool, too, but Pete thought it was pretty Cool.
"The downside is I don't think you returning to school is an option at this point," Guttridge said. "The best we can hope for is that you'll be sent home, remanded to your mother's custody, and homeschooled by a state-appointed instructor."
Pete thought the downside was looking up. He ran the tips of his fingers along the scar on the left side of his face, the tips of his index and middle fingers tracing the ragged stitch marks where the zombie had cut him. The wound was still capable of flaring into a sudden pain or a steady dull throb, but Pete didn't mind either sensation. The time when his cheek was numb and he was drooling all over the place was worse.
"Typically, murder by a juvenile offender means you get tried as an adult," Guttridge said. "The fact that Mr. Layman is still able to walk into the courtroom himself means that the court is already thinking that this isn't really a murder. We can work with that."
The Wimp, motivated no doubt by a desire to posture for his wife rather than by any real feeling for Pete, asked a question, but Pete wasn't listening to him. He was listening to the voice of the scarred zombie in his head.
"Did you think I would kill you?" the zombie had whispered, its fetid breath like the air from an open grave. "Death is a gift."
In some ways Pete was glad that the zombie had maimed him, because his scar was visible proof that worm burgers were
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evil monsters that delighted in the pain and disfigurement of the living.
"Well, Mr. Clary," Guttridge was saying, "the idea is that Pete should not be tried for manslaughter, because Layman doesn't meet the legal definition of 'dead.' He's differently biotic, but if he is still 'biotic,' he's alive and therefore Pete did not commit manslaughter. Assault, maybe. But I think even that's a stretch at this point."
One of the stitches was protruding from Pete's cheek like a small thorn or the sting of a hornet. He worked the stitch back and forth, ignoring the sharp bright pain that accompanied the movements. He realized that the lawyer, Guttridge, was saying his name.
"Mr. Martinsburg? Pete?"
Pete looked up. His mother and the Wimp were sitting with looks of false concern as Gus Guttridge tried to get his attention. Pete leaned forward in his chair.
"Sorry," he said, "what were we talking about?"
"We were discussing what should and should not be said on the stand."
"Right," Pete said. "Right. Just be honest, is what you said."
"Correct." Guttridge said. Pete didn't trust guys with beards, and Guttridge had a hell of a beard, a big wooly thing as thick as the curly hair on his head. But Guttridge was his father's choice, and his father went with the best that money could buy, so Pete went with the flow.
"So, again," Guttridge said, "you understand that when Ms. Lainey asks you a question, it is in your best interest to give her short, succinct answers."
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"Succinct, right." Pete felt his fingertips drawn back to the loose stitch like a magnet. They'd come out in a week if everything went as planned, and good old Dad Martinsburg was going to pick up the tab for whatever cosmetic surgery Pete required to get rid of the scars. Pete wasn't so sure he wanted to be prettied up just yet.
"Yes," Guttridge continued, his baggy blue eyes regarding Pete. "So when Counselor Lainey asks you why you went to the property on Chesterton Road, how will you respond?"
"I heard there was a party there."
"Were you invited to this party?"
"No," Pete said.
"Were you under the influence of drugs or alcohol?" "I had a few sips of schnapps. Peppermint." "Were you drunk?" "No."
"So you went to crash the party?"
Pete sighed, his fingertips drifting once again to the cut on his cheek.
"I heard that the zombies were having a party and that some real people were going to be there too, and I didn't like what I heard the zombies were going to do."
Pete watched Guttridge pooch out his lower lip as he peered down at him through his glasses. The glasses were light frames of gold wire, the kind a lot of overweight guys with big faces wore.
"Don't call them zombies," Guttridge said. "Say 'differently biotic.'"
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"They call themselves zombies," Pete said, just to see if he could get a rise out of Wooly Face. No luck.
"Doesn't mean you can. Don't say 'real people,' either. If you could remember to say traditionally biotic it would be helpful also. Understand that you may hear me use other terms, but that doesn't mean you should. You need to project Wholesome and Respectful. Let me do Outraged, if I need to."
"Why should you have all the fun?" Pete tapped the edge of a fingernail on the heavy tabletop.
Guttridge gave him a thin smile. "Because you already had yours. Now, back to business. Did you go to the party alone?"
"No."
"Who were you with?"
"TC Stavis."
"I see. What did you and Mr. Stavis do, once you arrived at the party?"
"We parked the car at a turnoff a half mile down the road, and then we walked through the woods until we got to the house, and then we waited."
"Don't volunteer the info about the car unless asked a direct question," Guttridge said. "Why were you waiting outside?"
"We weren't invited."
Guttridge frowned. "Very funny. Please answer the question."
"We were waiting to see if Phoebe was at the party." "About Miss Kendall," Guttridge said, shuffling a file to the top of his deck.
"Morticia Scarypants," Pete said, smiling.
But Guttridge's well of patience seemed bottomless, probably because good old Darren paid him by the hour. "Please forget you ever invented that name," he said, "unless you want to be tagged something similar when you get sent to prison."
Pete laughed, and he could feel the skin around his stitches grow taut with the movement. "What happened, Your Honor, is that I saw Julie with the differently biotic boy, and I remembered what he told ..."
Guttridge lifted his fleshy hand, cutting Pete's thought short. The ring on Guttridge's finger was the size of a cherry tomato, with a large onyx set in the center.
"Another thing," Guttridge said. "You need to stop calling her Julie. There is no Julie I see associated in any way with your case, and the last thing you want is anyone in the courtroom to be confused. Don't confuse them. Call her by her first name. Phoebe."
"Phoebe," Pete repeated. He wasn't smiling any longer, but he wondered if the scar and its stitching made him look as though he was. Julie had been his girl back in California, but she died. She died, and she did not come back. Life wasn't fair sometimes. "Yeah, Phoebe."
They sat there, a patient and concerned audience, and he told his version of what happened on that night.
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CHAPTER FIVE
"We're ready, right, Adam?" Joe said. "I mean, you don't want to wait, do you?" Nod. Nod open mouth no Joe don't ask two questions wait until first answered patience all need patience not ready but ready as can be can't wait around right leg can't stay in room any longer go more insane than already am left leg freaking leg Frankenstein must go to foundation could help mouth open speak speak speak. "Red ..."
Speak right leg Joe open the door don't just stand there waiting waiting to speak not used to you paying attention easier when you ignored go see Tommy go see Karen learn learn how they do what they do did what they did left leg goal walk normal one week no three speak speak speak.
"Dee."
Joe opened the car door, frowning. "You sure?"
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Speak speak no stop speak nod nod right arm hold door left leg step left knee bend bend push left arm right leg damn body push damn teenage Frankenstein.
"You need some help?" Joe asked.
Help Phoebe help see Phoebe at Undead Studies see Angela Alish move body move left leg see Kevin Sylvia not Sylvia see Thornton see Margi Colette help learn bring back help push Joe yes FrankenAdam am too big heavy push shoulder yes push.
Ignition gear miss driving goal two months no two years driving accelerate stop turn miss friends miss football miss baconandeggs miss karate Master Griffin miss Frisbee God miss Frisbee goal one month no three months.
"Are you nervous?"
Nervous not nervous stop miss Frisbee spinning arc disc flying across surface of the moon topspin backspin overhand underhand Astroturf miss running Phoebe running hold out hand the hand obeys hold out your hand catch spinning floating thing don't let it get away pull it close into the body.
"Phoebe said she'd meet us at the front," Joe said. "I told that girl there, Angel? Angie? I told her I wouldn't be coming in. That okay with you?"
Nod. Nod speak stop speak miss Phoebe miss Phoebe sad Phoebe waste time with teenage Frankenstein myriad of problems heh Phoebe sad said change needs to live not live with teenage Frankenstein miss Phoebe help Hunters help.
"That girl has been such a help to us," Joe said. "Not a bad little cook either."
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Miss Phoebe said unsaid pity unsaid too late waited too long to live Karen right too late Phoebe become who you always were not what you are now spinning disc Phoebe why why didn't anyone take the bullet out of my heart?
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CHAPTER SIX
"WELCOME BACK, Adam," A Angela said as Phoebe led him into the classroom by the hand. Phoebe realized that despite its radiance, Angela's megawatt smile could not bring the dead back to life.
And I had such high hopes, she thought. The Hunters, Angela and her father, Alish, were watching Adam with undisguised interest. Phoebe couldn't help but think that they were wondering how they could use Adam's murder and return from death to advance the stated aims of the Hunter Foundation, which were to "integrate the differently biotic into American society and culture through the application of the sciences." Phoebe knew that Angela had real concern for Adam, but she still found their scrutiny creepy.
She led Adam to the wide vinyl chair he usually occupied in Undead Studies class. She supported him as he bent at the knees, falling back into the chair with a heaviness that drove all
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the air out of the cushioning. Phoebe didn't let go of his elbow until he craned his neck upward to look at her.
She was aware that everyone in the room was focused on them.
"Thank ..." he said, and she could feel him concentrating on the word, concentrating on making his lungs move and his mouth open, his tongue like a piece of cold rubber as he tried to form the word. She could feel his awareness of the seconds ticking by into minutes as he tried to complete his sentence. The trad kids in the class were used to being patient with the db kids' mode of speech--Adam himself had been infinitely patient-- but she knew that his patience would not extend to himself.
He's so helpless, she thought, and hated herself for thinking it. She couldn't understand why Adam wasn't coming back faster. Even terminally slow Kevin Zumbrowski, who sat next to Colette on the futon, was more "returned" than Adam. Colette was changing, her limbs were more pliable, her skin less ashen. Her hair was closer to the dark brown it had been when she died. Phoebe knew that Margi was spending a lot of her time with Colette. The time together seemed to be doing both girls good. Phoebe was happy for them, and she did her best to tell herself that she wasn't a little jealous too.
In contrast to the slowly returning, there were Tommy and Karen, whose stillness now seemed more like a mark of maturity than a sign of death.
"...you," Adam said, finally completing his response.
Phoebe sighed with relief. She saw that Angela's smile, at least, was free from the pity she'd seen on so many other faces.
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Adam could take the disgust and hatred, but she knew that the thought of someone pitying him filled him with fury he was not capable of releasing.
Angela nodded. "You're welcome."
Phoebe looked up at the sound of a shuffling noise coming from the hall outside, and wondered if a new student was joining them--the ranks were certainly depleted from the last time that Adam had been in class; even with Margi back the class was still down a few people. It was like an episode of some bizarre prizeless reality show; Tayshawn Wade dropped out, Sylvia hadn't come back yet, and Evan Talbot would never be returning again, thanks to Pete Martinsburg and his cronies. They'd reterminated him and got away with it.
Alish Hunter, his lab coat hanging loosely over his spidery, skeletal frame, entered the lounge. The old man's rubber-soled loafers slid along the thin beige carpeting in short, arthritic movements. Phoebe watched his feet and wondered at the static charge the old man must be building; in her mind's eye she could picture him throwing his hands to the sky and shouting "Life!" as he shot Adam with a bolt of pent-up static electricity from the metal head of his cane.
"My boy," Alish said, his bushy gray eyebrows knitting as he stared down at Adam. "I'm glad to see you haven't left us. We can learn a lot from you, Mr. Layman."
Adam didn't even try to respond to that.
"Welcome," Alish said, beaming as though he were reuniting lost relatives over an expansive meal. He led two new students, zombies, into the room. They sat next to Thornton
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Harrowwood on the long orange futon. Thorny, who still played on the football team even though Tommy had quit and Adam was no longer able to play, looked especially glad to see Adam back in class. Thorny was the smallest kid on the team, but Phoebe'd heard he was getting a lot of playing time, not only because of the Undead Studies kids dropping out, but because Pete Martinsburg and TC Stavi
"Welcome, students," Alish was saying. "Please help yourself to refreshments. We have coffee and soft drinks."
Phoebe watched the two new zombies. The boy looked typical enough as far as zombies went, a pale, thin kid with gray-black hair, wearing a flannel shirt, jeans, and scuffed work boots. The girl next to him was different, starting with the mass of hair that billowed around her head like a bright red cloud. It reminded Phoebe of Evan, the only other zombie she'd known with red hair. His had been a faded red, but the new girl's was rich and coppery. But that wasn't even the most striking thing about her.
She was wearing a mask. A bone white mask that covered her entire face; it was similar to one of the comedy and tragedy masks that Mrs. Dubois, the drama teacher, had hanging in her office, except this one had no expression at all, the thin lips a carved straight line.
"I'd like to introduce to you Melissa Riley," Alish said. Melissa was wearing a long brown skirt that went past her knees, and a heather green sweater that bunched at her wrists. She sat with her hands folded in her lap and her head bowed,
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her eyes hidden behind the almond-shaped eyeholes of the mask. Phoebe could see pale beige dots, the ghosts of freckles, on the backs of her hands. Next to her on the couch was a whiteboard the size of a large notebook, and a black marker.
There was a bright chorus of welcomes from the students, but Melissa did not lift her head or respond in any way. Alish waited a moment before continuing, his smile unwavering despite Melissa's apparent shyness.
"And this young man to the far left is Cooper Wilson," Alish said, and as Alish gave a fluttery wave toward the boy, Phoebe noticed that the old man had pale brown spots on his hands as well, but his were liver spots.