Better Off Undead Page 7

  “Oh.” I didn’t understand.

  “Something happened to me, Adrian. The way something happened to you.”

  “Just say it, Gia. What happened to you?”

  “You know I’m not from around here,” Gia said. “My mother and I used to live in Virginia.”

  “No father?” I asked.

  Gia shook her head sharply. No father.

  “I loved it there. We had a forest preserve near my house. It had a maze of little wooded pathways. I used to walk in that forest all the time, under the cool shade of trees. I learned all their names: cedar and pine, hickory and cottonwood.

  “The problem is that I’m allergic to bees. It’s not that uncommon. I’m supposed to carry an EpiPen, but after they became so obscenely expensive, we couldn’t afford one. I usually carried around a sandwich bag with some Benadryl pills, but not always. I figured that one sting wouldn’t be that dangerous. Pretty dumb, I guess.

  “One morning I went out for a walk. I never got too far that day. I’m still not sure exactly what happened. I probably stepped on an old stump or something and accidentally disturbed a hive. In an instant, I was surrounded by an angry swarm of bees.”

  “Oh my God,” I said.

  “It was crazy, Adrian. I felt a sting on my arm, then another on my neck. I swatted and ran. But the bees were everywhere, buzzing and stinging. When I tried to take in air, I only heard a whistling sound. I was wheezing, my chest felt tight. It was so scary, I couldn’t—”

  Gia didn’t finish the sentence. Her gaze was far away, remembering the nightmare of that day.

  “I fell to the ground, covered with bees,” Gia said. “And I guess I passed out.”

  “Did someone find you?”

  Gia shook her head. “When I opened my eyes, I was alone. I didn’t know how many hours had passed. It was near dark. The bees were gone. The forest was still. I felt—I don’t know how to describe it—do you know those Greek myths where people turn into swans? Or that guy who turns into a flower?”

  “Narcissus,” I said.

  “Yes, exactly,” Gia said. “Shape-shifters. The old world was filled with those fantastical stories. Tales of men who transform into pigs. Girls who become spiders. A hunter who is turned into a stag, only to be devoured by his own dogs.”

  “What happened to you?” I asked.

  Gia shrugged, pushed the hair from her face. “I woke up. I was alive, and I wasn’t supposed to be alive,” she said. “I felt, I don’t know, strong. Powerful, even. There was no one around. Perfect stillness. That’s when I saw her, the queen bee. She sat on my chest, and I swear, Adrian, we regarded each other in perfect silence, like equals. She saw the real me, staring back at her. And she spoke.”

  “The queen? Spoke?”

  “I know how it sounds,” Gia said. “But I need you to listen. Somehow, some way, the queen communicated with me. Three words. And then she was gone.”

  I waited. “Well, don’t leave me hanging. What did she say?”

  “She said, ‘It all connects.’”

  Pure craziness, right? There was no reason to believe Gia’s story, but of course I believed every word. Maybe I was the only person who could. As Gia said, we were the same because we were different. “So you felt transformed?” I asked.

  Gia nodded. “Yes, changed in all sorts of ways.”

  “How?”

  “I sense things, I feel things. I don’t have the words to explain it,” Gia said. “It’s like … you know when two wires touch? That spark. I feel that connection every day, all day long.”

  Gia tilted her head in the direction of the railroad tracks that ran alongside the river. “For example, I know that something is going to happen down there in a few minutes.”

  “A train?”

  Gia nodded. “Soon. But it’s not the kind of train that runs on a timetable. Most people don’t know when these particular trains come or go.”

  She explained, “It will be tank cars carrying tar sands oil from Canada, or fracked oil from North Dakota,” she said. “This oil is not like regular oil. It’s highly, highly explosive, mixed with methane, propane, and other toxic chemicals.

  “Those old tracks down there are rarely inspected. Many of the train cars that run on them aren’t safe. Everybody knows it. Like soda cans on wheels … one accident and WHOOSH!”

  “Has it ever happened?”

  “Too many times,” Gia answered. “In Virginia, fifty thousand gallons of crude spilled into the James River and burned for two hours, a river of fire. Outside Quebec, massive fireballs incinerated part of a town. Thirty buildings melted into a thick, greasy mass. Cars burned like crumpled paper. Forty-seven people died, and five of those bodies were never found. They were vaporized by the sudden blast of radiant heat.”

  “Vaporized? What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Poof, gone, like the spray out of a perfume bottle,” Gia said. “This is truth I’m talking, Adrian. Facts.”

  “But how do you know all this stuff?” I asked.

  “How do you not know it?” Gia countered. “It’s my planet, I live here. Of course I know.”

  A light appeared in the distance. A long train came rolling down the old track. “Look,” I pointed. Even in the dusky light, we could make out the general shape of the train. I even saw fluorescent yellow logos emblazoned on the side of each car: K & K CORP.

  There’s nothing like the vision of a train carving through the dark on steel rails. It was a beautiful sight, no matter what Gia said.

  Gia lifted her chin to indicate the coming train. “The big oil companies make the profit, we take the risk.” She counted the cars as they passed below us. “Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen … sixty-one, sixty-two … eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety…”

  Suddenly sparks flew from the wheels as the front cars jumped the rails. We heard the grinding clash of metal on metal. The train rolled on like a serpent slithering out of the darkness. Somewhere inside an engineering droid sounded a horn and applied the brakes. This transpired a half mile away, hundreds of feet below us, but the shrill sounds vibrated through my body like a tuning fork. It happened so fast that neither of us uttered a word. We watched as smoke and sparks flew from the wheels.

  And I realized: This is it. This is what Gia wanted me to see.

  The train slowed and trembled to a halt. The first four cars had jumped the track, but they didn’t topple over.

  Nothing exploded.

  In truth, nothing much happened at all until a few rescue trucks rolled up to survey the damage.

  “That was close. If those cars had been damaged, people would have died.” Gia clutched her stomach, as if she was experiencing a sharp pain.

  “You knew this was going to happen.”

  Gia’s face was ashen, her eyes glazed. Sweat beaded on her forehead.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “I have to rest. I’m worn out, Adrian.”

  I helped her up and held her by the elbow as we headed down the hill. She felt frail in my arms, thin and weak. “I’ll get you home on my bike,” I said.

  Gia nodded, not looking up. “I’m just so tired.”

  A NEW DAY, A NEW ME

  I guess you could say I asked for it.

  It started when I complained to Zander about my stupid face. The typical grievances of the undead. Most days I didn’t care what I looked like—or at least I learned how to unlive with it. I avoided mirrors, for example, and even papered over the one in the upstairs bathroom that Dane and I shared. But every once in a while I’d pass by a window or a shiny surface and catch my reflection looking back at me. It always gave me a start, as if I’d encountered a hideous stranger. The truth is, I sometimes forgot what I looked like. I felt … almost normal. But every time I caught a glimpse of my reflection, I instantly understood the physical revulsion that people experienced when they saw me. I felt it, too.

  I was disgusting even to myself.

  “You don’t look so bad,” Zander repli
ed. “There are worse things, you know.”

  “I suppose,” I said, unconvinced.

  Zander stopped in his tracks. “What about people who are starving or kids who are sick in hospital beds? It’s gotta suck, right? Think about it, Adrian. There are way worse things than being a zombie.”

  First Gia, now Zander. My friends were becoming less sympathetic to my situation.

  “You know what you need?” Zander asked.

  Uh-oh. I didn’t like the sound of that.

  “You need a makeover—and I know just the person who can do it. My cousin Clare. She’s in tenth grade and knows all about that stuff. She wants to work in television as a makeup artist after high school. I’ll hook you guys up.”

  “Wait, wait,” I said. “I don’t believe in—”

  “Lighten up, Adrian. Clare’s cool. She’ll give you tips and pointers, find the colors that best suit you, that kind of stuff.”

  “The best colors?”

  “It’s a science—she’s got a color wheel and everything. Who knows? Maybe she’ll dye your hair purple, like Gia’s.”

  “Not happening,” I said. “I don’t want a makeover. It’s stupid.”

  Apparently Zander didn’t hear that part, because the next afternoon he and a girl I’d never seen before were standing on my front stoop. “This is my cousin Clare, the one I told you about. Clare, this is Adrian.”

  I stood at the door, dumbstruck. This was not happening. The first thing I noticed about Clare was that she was big. Possibly the heaviest girl I’d seen in real life. I tried not to look at her body, so instead I focused on her eyes, which were welcoming and wide set. Hazel, I guess you’d call them.

  “Are you going to let us in?” Zander asked.

  “Oh yeah, sure.”

  Clare smelled faintly of lavender. “I’m glad to finally meet you. Zander talks about you all the time.”

  I glanced at Zander, who denied it with an embarrassed shake of his head.

  Claire toted a small travel bag and said, “Are you ready for your makeover?”

  I stammered, “I—um—”

  “Listen, I’m gonna fly,” Zander chimed in. “Probably better if I just leave you two alone.” And before I knew it, my best friend was gone, good-bye. Clare breezed into our living room, set down her travel bag on the table, and asked, “Is here okay?”

  “Yeah, sure, I mean, wait. Look, Clare—”

  “Here, sit.”

  So I sat.

  She opened her bag and began pulling out various jars, vials, brushes, and beauty supplies. “Let me look at you,” Clare said. She gently placed two fingers under my chin, lifting it slightly, tilting it to and fro as she studied my face the way an artist might examine a painting. “First off, I have to say that you have amazing high cheekbones and a strong chin. I love your thick, spongy hair—I’m not going to touch it—the twists are brilliant. I kind of like the wild look. But what I really love is your forehead. It’s a little larger than usual. Elegant, I think.”

  That surprised me. “Elegant? I’ve never heard that before.”

  “Oh yes,” Clare said, still appraising my face. “Faces can be evenly divided into thirds. Up top, there’s the forehead. The middle third goes from the eyebrows to the bottom of the nose. And the bottom third extends from the nose to the chin.” She moved a flat hand in horizontal lines across her own face to demonstrate. “But in your case, I’d say that your forehead is more like forty percent—always a sign of nobility and intelligence.”

  I laughed. “Maybe I’m descended from kings.”

  Clare didn’t take it as a joke. “Perhaps,” she said, as if it might be true.

  “Listen, Clare,” I said. “You seem like a really nice person. I know that Zander asked you to come here today. But this isn’t something—”

  “I hear you,” Clare interrupted. “Before you kick me out, let me explain that I don’t believe in TV-version makeovers.”

  “You don’t?”

  “I hate them,” Clare said emphatically. “Do you have AllAccessCable? There’s, like, thirty-seven different makeover reality shows playing every week—and each one sells a lie. I blame Disney. It all goes back to Cinderella.”

  She took out a small sponge, dabbed something on it. “Do you mind?”

  I decided to accept her help, since saying no didn’t seem to be an option. Besides, I was curious about her problem with Cinderella.

  “I can help you with skin care—taking care of yourself—most boys are horrible at that,” she said. “Do you wash your face every night and every morning? Really scrub it?”

  I closed my eyes and surrendered. “Tell me about Cinderella,” I said.

  “Well, it’s also the Ugly Duckling complex, this idea that you can be transformed into something more beautiful—A NEW YOU!—and then everybody in the world will fall in love with you.” As she worked on my skin, doing whatever it was that she did, Clare spoke in subdued tones, musical as a songbird. I listened, utterly relaxed.

  “Every makeover show is the same,” she stated. “Somebody comes on the show and the experts humiliate that person. Too overweight, too messy, too this, too that. Next: Surgery! Botox injections, makeup, hair extensions, teeth whitening, liposuction, cheek implants, a new butt, thinner eyebrows, and so it goes. At the end of the makeover, she doesn’t look anything like herself. Next, friends and family are gathered for the big unveiling and, guess what, everyone is amazed at the fabulous transformation! They all clap and cheer. Then the transformed person comes onscreen with her fake lips like sofa pillows and fake hair and plastic boobs and talks to the camera.”

  “Yeah, that sounds about right,” I said.

  “The craziest part comes at the very end,” Clare said. “She gushes that this new creation is somehow ‘the real me’! More real than the old self she replaced.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, but how is that different from what you are doing here with me?”

  “I’m not trying to turn you into somebody else,” Clare said. “It’s just common sense. I want to teach you how to take better care of your body—”

  “Such as it is,” I joked.

  Clare shook her head, disapproving. “I can help with your outside appearance, but it’s what’s inside that counts. At least that’s what I try to tell myself every day—despite what some people say.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. I’d never met anyone like Clare before, who was smart and kind and also, I guess, still a little bit frightened. I understood her completely.

  “You’re not that overweight,” I lied.

  “Ha!” Clare laughed. “That’s sweet of you to say. But honestly, Adrian, I’m just trying to be my best self.”

  She paused to write on a notepad. “I’m going to leave you with some instructions. And my number, if you need anything.”

  “Clare?”

  “Yes?”

  “How did you do it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You seem happy,” I said. “Confident. I look at myself and I feel like such a loser.”

  Clare leaned forward, placing a manicured hand on my knee. “I got sick of it, as simple as that. Sick of hating myself. I finally realized that it’s what’s inside that matters.” She tapped her chest twice. “The real me is inside.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed.

  “All those makeover shows have people looking outside for their happiness. The first phase is humiliation, followed by a shopping spree. Buying stuff, that’s always the answer! You have to become your true self, Adrian, even if it’s lonely sometimes.” Clare abruptly stood and announced with a flourish, “Thus ends the sermon!”

  “Do I owe you anything?” I asked. “That stuff must have cost a lot of money.”

  “No, no,” she said, waving me off. “I get most of these products in school. Free trial samples, that kind of thing. Besides, you’re Zander’s friend. He’s the best. I owe him a lot.”

  “Yeah, I guess I do, too,” I said.

&nbs
p; “By the way”—Clare waggled a finger toward the corner of the room—“you left your computer on. Bad idea. That’s a waste of electricity.”

  I saw Clare out the door, thanked her again, and walked over to our big home computer. A red light indicated that it was on. Strange. I had a clear memory of turning it off. I’d been good about it ever since Talal had warned me: “They can activate all the cameras inside our computers.” I sat down, staring at that red dot, frowning. I raised a fist at the screen and powered off. Better yet, I turned the whole computer around so that it faced the wall.

  Have fun spying on that, creeps.

  Upstairs, I tore the paper away from the mirror. To my surprise, I didn’t look all that different; it was almost as if Clare hadn’t done anything at all. My skin felt cleaner, refreshed maybe, but I was still the same old zombie me.

  I wondered if I would ever learn to like the boy with sunken eyes who stared back at me in the mirror.

  TIN MAN

  Sunday night slowly rolled around. It had been one of those quiet, stay-at-home, do-nothing weekends. I tried not to think about Talal and the Bork brothers. Which, of course, was impossible. Had Tal figured out anything new? I’d ask him in school tomorrow.

  “I know what I want to be for Halloween,” Dane announced during dinner.

  “Oh?” my mother said.

  Dane gave a gnomish grin. “The Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz!”

  “Big surprise,” I said.

  “I need some old clothes, a hat, and some straw. Can we get straw, Mom?” Dane asked.

  “Yes, that shouldn’t be a problem. I think Olson’s Farm sells hay bales this time of year.”

  “I need straw,” Dane said, “not hay.”

  I explained, “It’s the same thing, Dane. Hay, straw, there’s no difference.”

  Dane’s lower lip trembled. His eyes grew wet. “It’s not the same,” he argued. “I’m stuffed with straw, not hay. Mom?”

  “It’s okay, Dane, don’t fret,” my mother said. She shot a sour look in my direction, as if Dane’s tears were somehow my fault. “I’ll get you some straw. I promise.”

  “Thanks,” Dane said, instantly cheering up. “Which character do you want to be on Halloween, Adrian?”