Adventures of a Middle School Zombie Read Free Page B

functional, fitting in with the whole notion of mandatory public education. The front gates were flanked by the office on the left and the cafetorium on the right. The cafetorium was part cafeteria, part auditorium, but sounded like a place where food went to die (and as all of us would soon discover, it was).
    Low, squat buildings surrounded the quad—Halls A to E running clockwise around the courtyard. Looked pretty easy to get around.
    As we headed into the quad, I pulled the crumpled schedule from my pocket, smoothed it out, and studied it, even though I’d memorized it a few weeks ago. Biology, Spanish, Math, Woodshop, Lunch, Social Studies, English, PE. Looked like I had a class in every building. Biology was in C Hall, which, according to the map I’d also memorized, was just across the quad. Woodshop sounded … interesting. An undead guy around sharp things. Who knows what could happen?
    “Hey sevvie, I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” A high-pitched voice came from behind us.
    I looked up from my schedule and turned around, relieved to see a kid about my size, maybe even a little skinnier. He wore glasses and had brown curly hair spilling from a Boston Red Sox cap.
    “Huh?”
    “Hey, just trying to do you a favor, sevvie,” he said. “It looked to me like you were about to cut across the quad.”
    “Yeah.” The kid nodded toward the quad. “We both have first-period classes in C. And it looks like C is just across the way.”
    “And so it is. But if you keep walking like you are, you’re not going to make it. Well, on time, anyway.”
    “What are you talking about?” I said.
    He pointed to the quad. “Notice anything unusual?”
    Kids walked in packs, a lot of them focused on pieces of paper they held. Schedules, probably. Others walked slowly across the lawns, talking among themselves, and in no hurry.
    “Nope, just looks like everyone is going to class.”
    “Really? Keep watching.”
    After a minute or so, I picked up a pattern. A lot of kids seemed intent on sticking to the concrete paths that crisscrossed the courtyard. The kids with the schedules. Only the empty-handed kids cruised casually across the turf.
    I nodded. “Looks like the, uh, sevvies have to stick to the sidewalk.”
    “You got it,” the Boston Red Sox kid said. “And that is not a rule you want to violate on the first day. I’d rather sevvies learn the easy way. Not the hard way.”
    “The hard way?” I said.
    “Yeah.” Josh nodded toward the quad. “You can see what I mean right over there.”
    Luke and I turned toward the quad, which looked the same. No, wait, there was something going on in the center. Two kids were holding another kid between them, following a fourth kid, who stood a head taller than anyone else. The big kid—who am I kidding, the huge kid—stopped in the center and turned to face his, well, captive. He started to speak, but I couldn’t hear him. But I did hear the whoops and cheers that came next.
    “That’s Robbie,” the Red Sox kid said. “Robbie Zambrano. Badass dude. This is a two-year school, but this is his third year here. Or maybe fourth. Either way, if you’re a sevvie, you stay far, far away from him. He hates sevvies like he hates homework.”
    The cheers died down, and the crowd closed around Robbie, so I couldn’t see what happened next. But as it parted a few minutes later, the kid who’d been delivered to the center now sat in a trash can. All I could see was his head poking up on one side, and his knees slung over the opposite side. He was tightly wedged in there.
    “Guy’s lucky it’s the first day,” Red Sox said. “Usually a sevvie caught on the Eighth-Grade Lawn goes in headfirst. But the first one is usually the warning shot. If it was up to Robbie even the first one would go headfirst, but there are some traditions still to be cherished.”
    The kid in the trash can sat still as if comfortable, and although many students stared at him as they walked past,