Return of the Jed (4 page)

“My dad took a summer job out of state,” I said.

She squeezed my hand. “Sorry, babe, I know you’re going to miss him.”

She called me “babe.” She’d never done that before. We’d just advanced into new relationship territory—pet names—at the worst possible time.

“That’s just it, um, hon.” Hon? Really? That was the best I could do? Call her a pet name from ancient couplehood times? I ignored myself and went on. “I’m not going to miss him. I’m going with him.”

“Jed, that’s exciting, where are you going?”

“Mexico.”

“That’s a little bit more than out of state. But what a great opportunity. Mexico. I’ve always wanted to go to Mexico.”

“Yeah, about that …” I looked away, knowing Anna could feel the Ooze coming from my palm.

“Jed, wait a minute. You don’t think for a minute that I’d expect to come with you guys, do you?”

“The thought crossed my mind, but—”

“That is so sweet.” Anna withdrew her hand from mine and put her arm around my shoulder. “And so naïve.”

“What? Why?”

She grabbed my shoulders and turned me toward her. “Jed, what father in his right mind would allow his seventh-grade son—”

“No, eighth grade. New grade starts as soon as old one ends.”

“Fine,” she continued. “What father in his right mind would allow his eighth-grade son to go on the road with his girlfriend? And then there’s my dad. His head would explode if I just asked the question.”

Anna saw my disappointment.

“Jed, you didn’t ask your dad if I could go, did you?”

“Pretty much.”

“What happened?”

“His head exploded.”

Anna laughed her unique laugh, a drawn-out guffaw from the belly that should be annoying but was really cute.

“If his head didn’t explode, I’d be worried,” Anna said. “So what about your mom? Is she excited to go?”

“No, she has, uh, problems with traveling,” I said, feeling the need to explain. “When I was three, we went to Colorado. I grazed a tree when sledding, and my arm sheared right off. No big deal, of course, but it was my first dismemberment, and Mom freaked out. Or so my mom has said. I don’t remember being dismembered.”

Mom actually hated to travel. She’d go on overnight trips, and we’d hit the road on long weekends. But that was the extent of her vacation desires. She often said, “I worked years to build this perfect world around me, why would I want to leave?” As much as I wanted to, I never questioned her.

“Even though your mom is staying, I’m happy to come by and take care of Tread,” Anna said. “Go on walks and stuff.”

When Tread heard his name, he stopped sniffing under a bush and turned his head toward us. Anna called him, and Tread abandoned his search to hop over to us. He pushed his muzzle into the crook of Anna’s knee and lifted, Tread-speak for “Scratch me in that special way.”

Anna obliged, rubbing Tread behind the ear, but not so hard as to remove it.

“You are such a good boy, I could just take you home with me if my parents would not be totally freaked by a zombie dog,” Anna said. She looked at me. “No offense. They like you, you know.”

“None taken.”

The disappointment in my voice must have been obvious because Anna said, “What’s wrong?”

Here’s what I wanted to say, “So you don’t want to go a day without seeing my undead, at times, three-legged canine, but I tell you I’m going to be gone for two months, and all you can say is ‘Cool, take care.’ Do you see how that just might hurt my feelings?”

What I actually said was, “Oh, nothing. Just thinking about the trip, all the time away. How much fun it’s going to be.”

“Yeah, totally,” Anna said.

What I wished she’d said was, “I’m really going to miss you.” I folded my arms across my chest, all casual, and mentioned, “Maybe we could Skype or something.”

“We’d better Skype,” she said. “You could show me Mexico.”

“Or just talk.”

“Stay in touch, definitely.”

“Like maybe once a week or something.”

“Or if stuff happens,” Anna said. She smiled. “Play it by ear, you know. Because I really want to know how you’re doing.”

“Cool, then. Maybe we could do it on sort of a regular basis so I’m not interrupting you or anything. We can expect it, and then it’s no big deal.”

“That would work. But you know what I really want? Postcards.”

“I think I’ve heard of those,” I said. “Pictures on paper. You write on them, you put someone’s name on them, put them in a box, and a few days later they show up in another box, one that’s really close to the person whose name is on it. Like teleportation.”

“Exactly! Like texting photos, only in a way that old people understand.”

“Done,” I said.

We hugged goodbye, and I let go way sooner than I wanted. Then again, if I hugged her as long as I really wanted, I’d still be hugging her.

The scene faded, and I was back in the Man Van with Luke, knowing how much I’d miss Anna, and knowing how much that was OK.

We hadn’t eaten for about a million miles, so when Dad noticed a sign saying “Food, drink, gas ahead,” he had a question.

“You boys—?”

“YES!” Luke hollered, since he knew the next word out of Dad’s mouth was going to be “hungry.”

“The rude screams have it,” Dad said, veering to the right and taking an off-ramp that, shockingly, led to more desert. But there at the end of the pavement was an off-white shack (off-white because most of the white paint had gone missing years ago) with a row of windows along the front.

Along a sagging roof that existed only to disprove the usefulness of building codes were four large letters, each one on a steel sheet and losing the battle to rust—E, A, T, and S.

This place looked so familiar. According to Hollywood, it was where stragglers gathered in a last stand against the zombie horde.

Home sweet home. Tires crunched as the Man Van rolled across the gravel parking lot, kicking up a low-lying cloud of dust behind us. Dad steered around the scattered cars and took a spot between a couple of motorcycles because of course a place like this was going to have a few bikers inside. And if the zombie-apocalypse script went as planned, the bikers would be the first to lose their heads, figuratively and literally.

I turned on my phone to check the time, figuring we’d been on the road for at least half the day. My empty stomach said it was around 4:00 p.m., so when I read “11:43 a.m.” on the home screen, I knew something was wrong. No way was it just 11:43 a.m. My stomach couldn’t be
that
far off.

“Dad, time?” I asked.

“Quarter to noon,” he said, glancing at his watch, something only old people still used, like alarm clocks and newspapers.

“Did we go through some time zones? It seems a lot later,” I said.

“No, just crossed into Arizona, and it’s on the same time as we are. Only way hotter, so be prepared.”

I slid open the passenger door and was slapped in the face by air that had come straight from the sun’s core. I climbed out and checked my arms, my legs, my feet. Still intact. Zombies didn’t melt. So far. It wasn’t like I wanted to stay out here for a final determination. Science could wait.

I heard the back door slide open, followed immediately by four syllables that included the king of all curse words.

“Oh my God, do people live here?” Luke added as he climbed out of the van. “If so, why? Some sort of evil punishment?”

“First, it’s just a little heat and why Mother Nature gave you sweat glands,” Dad said, joining Luke and me at the front of the van. “Second, I realize your proficiency in profanity grew exponentially during your time in seventh grade—”

“Whoa, check out Professor Big Words,” I whispered to Luke.

“—but neither of you are mature enough to safely wield such vocabulary, so keep it to yourselves. And thirdly, let’s get inside because it is hotter than a—”

He stopped, and I mentally filled in the same word Luke had used just a few seconds ago. I exchanged smiles with Luke, knowing he was thinking the exact same word.

I reached into the back and undid the latches on Tread’s crate, being sure to clip on his leash before he leapt out of the van. For a split second I worried about his paws on the hot gravel, but if he was half the zombie I was, his flesh wasn’t going to be affected by something as minor as scorching ground. But it was still way too hot to keep him in the van. I’d definitely hear from the SPCUA (the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Undead Animals), if such a thing existed.

Tread pulled me toward the restaurant’s porch. Despite seeing no signs that said “Zombie animals prohibited,” I tied Tread to a convenient hitching post, an addition that didn’t seem odd at all, making a mental note to grab a table by the window so I could keep an eye on him.

Once I made sure his leash was secure, I peered through the window. I thought a fog had moved into the diner before realizing it was a visual effect created by the glass and its fine coat of grease mist.

“Hope you guys are hungry,” Dad said as he steered me toward the door.

“You’d have to be pretty dang hungry to want to eat here,” I said.

“Speak for yourself,” Luke said. “Look at the windows. It takes years of quality frying for that kind of buildup. I’m in.”

Dad turned the dull brass knob that probably lost its metallic sheen by the time the U.S. landed a man on the moon (July 21, 1969, baby; who has two thumbs most of the time and paid attention in history? This guy). As he pulled open the door, a horrible squeak came forth just like in a thousand horror movies.

And all eyes were on us. Four bikers in the corner, in leather vests that probably had skulls on them. Three men at the counter, wearing jeans and cowboy hats. Two old guys at a table, wearing fishing hats, plaid shorts, thigh-high black socks, and sandals. The server stood behind the counter wearing a pink dress with a wide black belt. I couldn’t read her nametag, but I’m sure it read “Blanche” or “Alice” or “Molly,” or some other waitress-appropriate name. And I was sure she called everybody “Sweetie.”

The whole place reeked of stereotypes. So why not join them?

I hunched over, put my arms in front of me, and relaxed my face for the classic, and expressionless, zombie stare.

I took one lurch forward. Another.

“Brains,” I muttered. Another step and half stumble.

I was louder this time. “Braaaiiinnnsssss.”

I snapped my head up, locked stares with Brenda or Mabel. Slowly tilted my head.

My voice bounced off the tiles and linoleum. “Brrrraaaaaaaiiiiinnnnnnsss!”

“I can see if we have any left, but I’m going to be honest, rude behavior is not going to get you very far here,” Polly or Bertha said. “Take a seat anywhere, and I’ll be right with you.”

Putting my arms down and snapping out of undead mode, I noticed everyone had gone back to their own business, chatting and such.

“Troy, another coffee?” asked Ethel or Janice.

One of the bikers answered. “Thanks, Elena, I’m good for now.”

Troy? For a biker? And Elena? What was she doing calling people by their real names instead of insincere endearments? Where were the “Sweeties” and “Hons”?

What the heck was happening to my stereotypes?

“Jed, let’s grab that table over there,” Dad said. We settled in not too far from the old guys, where I heard just enough to realize my expectations were all wrong.

“Glad our kids never stumbled into diners screaming about brains,” one said.

“We raised them right, that’s why,” said the other. “And we didn’t let them play video games all day, rotting their minds to the point where etiquette means nothing. Not to mention making them look as if they never got any sun.”

It seemed the closest thing to a stereotype here was me.

“I’m Elena, welcome to Eats,” the server said, handing us laminated menus. She looked at me. “Before I get started on those brains, would you like anything to drink? A nice hot mug of spinal fluid, perhaps?”

“Oh, dude,” Luke said, laughing. “You got served. Literally.”

“Can I just have a Coke, please?” I said, staring off into a corner. Ooze stains were already building in my armpits. The substance had something to do with making my undeadness pretty viable, but sometimes no Ooze was good Ooze.

Like now.

“You bet,” Elena said, pausing. “Sweetie.”

“This place is really called Eats?” Dad said.

“Of course,” Elena answered. “Maybe you noticed it on the sign outside. Clears up any confusion.”

“I thought that was a generic thing, better than getting all creative out here in the middle of nowhere. With people driving by at seventy-five miles per hour, you don’t want to call yourself The Twisted Goat or something like that. You need something more to the point.”

“Like, maybe, I don’t know, Eats?” Luke chimed in. “I love it in that ‘No services for the next million miles’ vibe.”

“Exactly,” Elena said. “And we weren’t about to pay another $5,000 for another sign just because we wanted to change the name. Eats says it all—” She swiveled her head to look at Luke. “—in that ‘End of the world’ vibe.”

“Exactly,” said Luke, thrusting his fist forward for a bump, Elena obliging him. “These guys just don’t get it.”