Dead Wednesday, Page 3

  At the end of fourth period most Deaders have to be kicked out of school, it’s so much fun. By the time they hit the sidewalk, half of them have torn off their black shirts and dumped them in a trash can or in the gutter.

  The payoff is supposed to start the next day, Thursday. After being dead for a day, you’re supposed to be scared straight. You’re supposed to say no to all that bad high school stuff. Yeah, right. Like Dead Wed is going to stop you from having a beer. Not that Worm is into beer or drugs or any vice but his beloved Nuke ’Em ALL Now! video game, if you want to call that a vice.

  And anyway, who ever heard of a reckless worm?

  8:29 a.m.

  Time drips like a slowly leaking faucet. Worm ticks off all the things that are not happening….

  Not: Mrs. Truitt closing the door, facing the room with her arms out like a group hug, and belting, “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen!” It’s corny, but the kids secretly love it and always send back a boisterous “Good morning, dear teacher!” And then she takes the roll, and then she updates them on the latest escapades of her twin toddlers, Amy and Ashton. The Masters of Disaster, she calls them.

  Not today.

  Not: The vice principal’s voice coming through the ancient speaker box above the blackboard, leading them in the Pledge of Allegiance. Through the open door Worm can hear seventh graders reciting the pledge in the homeroom across the hall. But the speaker in room 113 is mute.

  Otter, three seats ahead of Worm, can’t take it anymore. He stands, plants his hand over his heart, and begins, “I pledge allegiance to the flag…,” then collapses, giggling, into his seat. Mrs. Truitt doesn’t seem to notice.

  Not: Announcements. They should be coming now: what’s going on today, who needs to be where, all that. A voice in Worm’s head fills in for the vice principal: Fight…twelve-thirty today…all eighth graders…at the cannon…be there!

  8:31 a.m.

  A voice.

  “Mrs. Truitt?”

  Everyone turns to the back row. It’s Claire Meeson, shyer even than Worm, and the most law-abiding of them all, hand in the air, speaking without being called on. “Mrs. Truitt?” she peeps again. “I think maybe the PA is turned off?”

  All heads swing to Mrs. Truitt at the window. If she’s heard Claire Meeson, she’s not showing it. Claire cannot retract her hand fast enough. She’s devastated. Her lip quivers. Poor clueless Claire. Worm feels like smacking Mrs. Truitt.

  Worm returns his attention to the twenty-three Wrappers. Boys and girls. All seem to be looking at him. Some photo trick. He wants to look away but can’t. Most are smiling, no clue they’re about to be dead. Worm wonders which one he’ll get.

  Nothing moves, yet something catches his eye. Two rows over. Mean Monica Biddle. Like everyone else, she’s facing the Wrappers, but her eyes are closed and her lips are moving.

  His pocket pings. Worm has no intention of answering, but just to give himself a break from all this weirdness, he decides to take a peek:

  You wont have to PLAY dead if you dont come home straight after school.

  Reluctantly he gives his mother a point for a funny threat.

  8:35 a.m.

  The bell rings.

  Everyone flinches, but nobody gets up. Well, David Ott—of course—walks to the end of his aisle. But he’s joking. He one-eighties, flops back into his seat.

  All eighth graders have been told: Stay in your homeroom till you get your black shirt.

  Squealing sixth and seventh graders stampede past the black-draped doorway, fascinated eyes gawking at the roomful of Deaders. In time the commotion drains into first-period classrooms…doors close along the hallway…quiet again.

  And now Mrs. Truitt is moving….

  She opens the top center drawer of her desk and pulls out a white sheet of paper. Her movements are those of a robot. She does not look at her students. She looks at the clock above the door…waits…waits…and begins to read: “ ‘The teacher will call one name per minute. Your name is under your seat. You may get it now.’ ”

  Worm has heard of various ways of getting your Wrapper’s name, but never this one. He’s been sitting on it the whole time. He joins twenty-two hands reaching under seats. He feels it. He pulls it off, a three-by-five-inch card that’s been taped to the underside of the seat.

  He looks at the card. There’s information on it, but his eyes go no farther than the top, the first line, the name:

  REBECCA ANN FINCH

  The teacher continues: “ ‘When a card name is called, the student holding that name shall leave the room. In the hallway you will find a rack of black shirts. Put one on and proceed to your first-period class. Memorize your card. Become your card. Wear your black shirt for the rest of the day until you go to bed. Speak to no one. You are dead.’ ”

  Worm feels a chill.

  8:37 a.m.

  “Donald Thomas Benchley.”

  Everyone looks at their card. Nobody moves. Now, in the back row, Kathy Wishart gets up and heads for the door. Otter half whispers, “Go, Donald.”

  Worm can hear hangers sliding on a metal rack outside.

  It seemed odd at first when Worm saw that his dead person was a girl. Now it seems less odd, since Kathy Wishart has a boy.

  Kathy returns. She’s buttoned her black shirt all the way to the top. She has forgotten she’s supposed to go on to her first class. Mrs. Truitt says nothing. Otter jabs a finger at the door, barks: “Out, dead one!” Kathy’s hand flies to her mouth. She turns and scrams.

  “Raven Esther Ortega.”

  This time it’s Nicole Fizzano—Fizz to everybody. True to her name, she’s bubbly. “Yeah!” she pipes, and zips up the aisle, high-fiving along the way.

  Worm takes the opportunity to look at the card he’s supposed to memorize. There are four lines below Rebecca Ann Finch’s name—well, five if you count the nickname:

  “Becca”

  Age: 17

  Hometown: Elwood, Pennsylvania

  Cause of death: Auto crash

  Personal: Bottles lightning bugs

  And one other thing: in the upper right-hand corner of the card, like a postage stamp, a picture of Becca Finch.

  Worm is barely aware of the next person leaving to the name of “Melinda Abigail Potts,” uttered in Mrs. Truitt’s new, atonal GPS voice.

  Worm studies the little picture, finds Becca Finch among the posters. He tries to spot signs of drinking or a crashing car or death, but all he sees is a girl, short hair, not blond but not real dark either, big smile for the camera…which makes Worm think of Beautiful Bijou on the bus. The dazzling smile has both thrilled and confounded Worm—because girls do not smile at him. Not like that.

  It’s no big mystery. He knows exactly why: the pimples. Acne. They showed up in sixth grade, about the same time he discovered girls, about the same time he became famously shy. He understands. In a school full of peach-cheeked boys, what girl would want the inflamed, pink-pebbled facescape of a kid doomed to pits and craters? He hates cloudless days. He hates fluorescent lighting. He hates mirrors. He hates getting a haircut. He hates cameras.

  And yet—insanely—the Smile seemed to say: I like what I see.

  “Wilma Sally Krebs.” He catches this one after missing several, lost in the Smile.

  Now it’s Claire Meeson’s turn. Otter calls, “You da chick!” No more half whispers. Otter has quickly learned this is a day without penalty. Plus, he loves to rag on Claire Meeson, so timid she’s known as Meeson the Meek.

  Claire scoots out to the hall. And now something incredible happens. Instead of disappearing like the other Deaders, suddenly here she is, spotlight-shunning Claire Meeson, standing in the doorway, the black crepe paper framing her like a portrait of doom. She’s draped the black shirt over her shoulders like a
cape. She just stands there, staring at them, a look on her face that is goofily un-Claire-like. She balls her fists and pumps her arms like a cheerleader and yells, “Hip! Hip! Hooray!” and is gone. Worm has heard of something called the Dead Wed Effect. Maybe this is it.

  The frosty teacher drones on….

  “Murray Grey Olinik.

  “Paul DeFord Kappelmeyer.

  “Elizabeth Eve Patrick-Quarles.”

  I like what I see. Worm lowers himself into the thought as he would into a bathtub of warm water, works the thought into a lather, and soaps himself.

  “Winsome Helen White.

  “Wilson Boyd Billicoe.”

  Ah…Otter. “Finally,” he groans, gets up, goes out. Everybody tracks his sounds: shuffling at the rack, finding the right size…footsteps…door opening across the hall, sixth-grade class…Otter’s graveyard voice…“I’m back from the dead—BOO!”…squeals and giggles from the class. Worm would have expected a clap or two from Otter’s homeroom, but there is nothing. Worm has seen this coming. Blame it on the posters. The faces of the Wrappers. The teacher’s back. Her lifeless voice. Room 113 has become grim city. He wonders when the fun will begin.

  The class is getting smaller.

  8:45 a.m.

  “Louis Petty Van Dorn.

  “Brittany Grace Fong.”

  Worm is getting uneasy. Over half the class is gone now, and he’s becoming more and more visible. He can’t possibly be the last one of all twenty-three.

  Can he?

  “Katherine Louise Hite.”

  It’s Monica Biddle. Worm’s first thought is: Poor dope. You got screwed twice. First you’re dead. Now Mean Monica’s got your card.

  But Mean Monica surprises him. She doesn’t get up. She just sits there. She’s crying! Not quiver-lipping like Claire Meeson, but the real thing: hand to the mouth, sobbing, tears.

  Mrs. Truitt mercilessly repeats: “Katherine Louise Hite.”

  Monica Biddle pushes herself up from her desk and races from the room. Worm can hear her running down the hallway. He may have discovered girls at twelve, but that doesn’t mean he understands them. All girl mysteries default to Eddie’s one-word-fits-all: chicks.

  “Morgan Billie Fornance.

  “Wilson Robert Schultz.”

  He wonders how it’s going up in 214, Eddie’s homeroom.

  “Anthony John Ciardi.

  “Rachel Eva Morgan.”

  It’s down to himself and three others. Worm is still not sure if he believes in God or not, figures there’s plenty of time to work that out. But in the meantime he prays a lot. It seems to come naturally.

  “Brent William Meyer-Hunsberger.”

  Don’t let me be last.

  “Voya Innabe Swain.

  “Ronald Mark Johnson.”

  He’s last.

  9:00 a.m.

  Only two other eyes remain in the room, and they’re not even looking at Worm. Still, he feels scalded. This whole time Mrs. Truitt has been holding the paper with the names, looking nowhere else, like it’s the only thing in the world that matters. He hates Mrs. Truitt. He hates Dead Wednesday. For the last time her mouth opens and her robotic voice speaks:

  “Rebecca Ann Finch.”

  He gets up. As he turns at the head of the aisle, he is surprised to find the teacher looking at him. She seems human again. Something he can’t read passes between their eyes.

  One black shirt remains on the rack. He grabs it, puts it on. It’s way too big. He rolls up the sleeves, does not button it, will not be dead. Will not play any more of this stupid game than he has to.

  Silence…closed doors. Alone in the hallway. It’s happened before, like going to the boys’ room. But he’s never gotten the creeps before, never gotten the feeling he’s not as alone as he thinks.

  9:04 a.m.

  And now terror: Worm’s throat turns to ice. He’s approaching room 101. His first class. Health and Safety. Should he just hang in the hallway? He wants to. He wants to do anything but open the door and become the instant target of a roomful of eyes.

  He knows what Eddie would do. Eddie would stroll up and down the hallways and stairwells, a free man. Maybe pop his head into a class or two.

  But Eddie is bold. Worm is not.

  He stands before the frosted glass and the number 101. The terror is digesting him when his left hand decides on its own to reach out and knock on the door. He wants to kill the hand.

  The door opens. It’s the teacher, Ms. O’Neill. She leans over his shoulder, looks up and down the hallway, retreats a step, and closes the door in his face.

  He stares at the frosted glass. What should he do? Knock again? Just walk in? It’s not easy getting the hang of being dead.

  Suddenly the door opens again….

  9:07 a.m.

  Surprise! It’s not Ms. O’Neill. It’s Claire Meeson the Meek. She’s now wearing her black shirt. Gone is the goofy face that yelled “Hip! Hip! Hooray!” in the homeroom doorway. She is somber. She is soft. She lays her hand on his arm and says, not in a whisper, “Come in, Worm.”

  OK for one Deader to talk to another, Worm figures. Still, she’s brave.

  He follows her into the room—and can hardly see. The lights are off and the window shades are down. He can barely make out the row of kids on the far side of the room.

  He navigates to his usual desk. The door opens and closes. Ms. O’Neill has left the room. But nobody takes advantage. Nobody acts up. Not a whisper. The black shirts darken the darkness.

  It’s creepy. Worm thinks: World’s biggest coffin. Thinks: Score one for the school district. Enough of this and he really might think twice about drinking at sixteen. (Not that he plans to anyway.)

  Something is happening up front, at the blackboard. The room’s night has puddled in the form of a human. Tall. Boy? Girl? He can’t tell. He can hear chalk moving across the board. Apparently finished, the form chucks the chalk into a window shade but does not return to a desk. It crosses the front of the room. The door opens and closes. In that moment of light, Worm thinks he sees something that makes no sense: raspberry-colored pajamas.

  The bell rings.

  Yelps. Whistles. The door’s flung open to a hallway in riot. Dead for forty-four minutes, the class storms out.

  Worm turns on the light. There are two enormous words on the blackboard, each letter reaching top to bottom:

  DEAD SUCKS

  But what gets his attention even more is not so much the dark chalker and the words on the blackboard, but the fact that nobody else seemed to notice.

  9:22 a.m.

  The hallways are nutso.

  Worm remembers this from the previous two years, but now he’s the one with the black shirt. He feels he should step into his role, do something wild, but he knows it’s not in him. He hopes no one will notice he’s acting normally.

  Some Deaders are lurching pigeon-toed down the hallway like zombies. So are some of the bolder sixth and seventh graders. He feels a poke in the back, now another. Little runt underclassmen are poking Deaders and chirping things like “RIP, dead meat!” and “Get back in your coffin!” All year long the underclassmen have been grass under the eighth graders’ lawn mower. Now the grass is getting its revenge.

  Not that the Deaders care. They’re too busy having fun, getting the most out of this incredible gift from the town and school district of Amber Springs.

  Frisbees are flying. A girl’s shoe has become a football. Black shirts are drumming on lockers, moose calls and farts trumpet a snappy rhythm: it’s a concert!

  Worm pauses at a water fountain. He practically chokes on his mouthful because he gets hip-checked out of the way. “Move it, sonny.” A girl’s voice, but he doesn’t know whose. She’s gone in a flash of p
ajamas. Raspberry. He moves on.

  And now a booming voice that rattles the hallway: “KNOCK IT OFF!”

  Frisbees clatter to the floor. The rest is silence. It’s Mr. Haliburton, the principal. He’s new this year.

  “PEOPLE DIED! SHOW SOME RESPECT!”

  Everyone is frozen. Even upstairs, footsteps stop.

  “Fun’s over! Get to class!”

  Movement in the halls resumes.

  Well…poop. One growl from the new boss and the good times are over. Worm isn’t sure how he feels about that. Even though he was never a participant, it’s been fun to watch.

  At the bottom of the stairwell Worm meets Eddie, as always, and together they head up to Science. At the turn Eddie stops. He whips out his Wrapper card and shows Worm. It’s a gorgeous girl. Long black hair. Her in-quotes name is Kat. Worm looks up to find Eddie grinning at him. He’s proud. “Well?” says Eddie.

  Worm isn’t sure what Eddie is getting at. He shops around for something neutral, safe. He nods, pretends to study the card some more. “Yeah…yeah…OK.”

  Eddie thumps him. “O-kay?” He snatches the card, points at the picture. “Hottest Wrapper ever, that’s all.” He holds it in front of Worm’s eyes for another look.

  Worm knows now what’s expected. He puts on his girl-evaluation face, nods. “Yeah,” he says firmly. “Totally.”

  Satisfied, Eddie returns his card to the pocket of his black shirt—and whips out Worm’s. Worm knows instinctively this is a game he does not want to play. Thankfully, Eddie only glances at the card and hands it back with a dismissive sniff: “Not impressed.”

  They resume their climb to the second floor, and every step lifts Worm closer to what may become the most fateful forty-four minutes of his life. One of his classmates in Science will be Beautiful Bijou Newton.