Adventures of a Middle School Zombie (20 page)

Later that day, as my reinstatement became common knowledge, I received an anonymous text: “Check this out, to the left in the background. You’ll have your answer.” Attached was a video clip.

It was grainy and dark, but the familiar tones of “Thriller” helped me place it. The dance. There I was, doing the zombie. I focused left and looked in the background. There was an adult watching. In a suit. I paused the clip.

Principal Buckley. Had to be. He was the only one wearing a tie that I could remember.

I hit “Play” and saw Buckley put his right hand inside his jacket, but he turned before I could see what he was reaching for.

His elbow rose, as if lifting something. Then his head tilted back quickly, once, twice. He lowered his elbow and turned back to the dance floor, his hand once again going into his jacket.

Wait, there was a flicker of light. I rewound and paused. Something was in his hand. Small. Silver.

Holy crap. It was a flask.

Principal Buckley was getting hammered at the dance. Maybe a leap in logic from taking a swig to drinking heavily, but you don’t bring a flask to a middle school dance to have a sip or two and unwind. I hit “Play” again, and in the final few seconds, Principal Buckley put his arms up in front of him, hands formed in claws, and shuffled his feet.

He was dancing. Sort of. But that was enough for me to hammer the nail into this particular coffin.

The principal was drunk.

I played the video again, studying the scene to see if I could find any clues as to who may have taken it. There were some familiar faces watching, facing the camera, but the shot of me dancing was clear, no one’s head was getting in the way. So it had to be shot from someone standing up front. And right across from the DJ, who was centered behind me.

But who took this? I had no idea.

“Everybody, gather around,” Mr. Stanzer said.

We formed a tight circle around him, making the last adjustments to the belts holding our flags (though we knew from looking at videos of past games that in most cases, flags would be yanked only when the sevvies wearing them were on the ground).

“We’ve had great practices, and if we follow our plans, odds are we won’t get beaten as badly as everyone here expects,” Mr. Stanzer said. “A touchdown, maybe two, isn’t out of the realm of possibility. And you guys can leave with your heads held high—at least the ones who still have their heads.”

No, he didn’t really say that, because coaches aren’t allowed to say stuff that realistic. Instead, Mr. Stanzer gave the usual pep talk about giving a hundred percent, going all out on every play, and leaving everything on the field (our entrails, perhaps?).

It was a beautiful last day of school before winter break (and would have been considered so even if it there had been a tornado bearing down on us, because it was the last day of school, a day so perfect nothing could ruin it). The sky was a cloudless turquoise, the field a rich emerald. Students jammed the metal bleachers. On the eighth-grade side, banners implored its team to “clobber,” “pummel,” and “anialate” (emotion, not spelling, was the priority). There was just one sign on the seventh-grade banner— “Next year is our year.”

Just before the coin flip, Javon stepped into the huddle to say a few words. “We’ve worked up some good plays, stuff that will surprise them, trust me,” he said. “They aren’t prepared for us at all.”

That much was true. Holding to tradition, the eighth graders’ practice had more to do with playing catch or relaxing under the bleachers during their free period. The coach, Mr. Benatar from PE, was OK with that since it had been a winning formula for, well, forever.

“And we’ve got a secret weapon never before seen in middle school,” Javon said, looking at me. “Jed’s body is built a little differently, as you all know. And we’re going to use that to our advantage. And when they finally figure that out, we’re going to air it out. And none of them has any idea just how far Luke can throw the ball.

“I know you are not going to believe this now, but we can win this thing. You guys can make history today, and make sure the eighth graders have their worst holiday break ever. OK, everyone, hands in the center, on three, ‘Sevvies fight proud!’ One, two, three—”

“Sevvies fight proud!” we screamed. A few of us looked over at our opponents, wondering if that had made them mad.

Stepping toward the middle of the field for the coin toss were our team captains: Arden, G-Ray, and computer-whiz Dallas (who had created a football simulation showing us exactly what we needed to do to win, which turned out to involve convincing Peyton Manning and Larry Fitzgerald to play with us).

When it came to intimidation, Arden, G-Ray, and Dallas were up there with Teddy, the eighty-year-old crossing guard who now asked for volunteers to hold up his “Stop” sign. But that was just what Mr. Stanzer wanted.

“Lull them into a false sense of security,” he said. “Well, an even deeper false sense of security.”

Being the designated visitors, we got to call the toss. “Heads,” G-Ray said. The coin twinkled as it revolved in the sunlight.

The coin landed heads up in the deep green grass.

“We’ll take the ball,” Arden said.

As far as I could tell, the eighth graders’ captains, Dwight and Robbie, merely laughed.

“Luke,” Mr. Stanzer said as the receiving team gathered around, “let the ball go into the end zone, let’s take it on the twenty.”

“But—” Luke started to say.

“The twenty’s a great place to start. Now get out there, and let’s play hard.”

Luke settled onto the five and had no worries as the kick sailed over his head and through the end zone.

“Perfect, great job!” Mr. Stanzer called from the sidelines. “OK, offense, get out there.”

We trotted out, huddling as Luke looked at Javon, who, without Mr. Stanzer knowing, was signaling the plays.

“Stanzer’s a nice guy,” Javon had said at practice. “But he knows football for crap. ‘Everyone go deep’ is not a play.”

Luke and Javon developed a system involving scratches, yawns, coughs, and sneezes to call plays. It was pretty ingenious.

With Luke looking at him, Javon coughed (a run) and scratched his right elbow (to the right).

“OK, let’s do this,” Luke said in the huddle. “Z-right on two. Break!”

Yeah, I was Z. Not real crazy about the play-naming system, but I could deal with it. I lined up to the left of Luke, who took the snap and flipped it to me. I ran to the right, and it looked like I was going to get hit for a loss. And then there was Ziggy. Though he’d lined up on the left, he was suddenly taking out two guys, hitting the ground and becoming a human rolling pin.

Wow, Mr. Stanzer was right about one thing. Ziggy was quicker than he looked.

Luke took out one of their linebackers, leaving me one-on-one with Dwight, the safety. Problem was, Dwight knew my best move. So I gave him my second-best one, which I’d been working on during practice.

I slowed, allowing him to get within a step of me. He may have known my move, but I also knew his—he respected the game and played by the rules, meaning he’d go for my flag. And it fluttered weakly in the breeze, easy pickings.

Dwight lunged for it, and, with his hand just inches away, I unhinged my hip and shifted my weight to the right, the flag moving an impossible few inches sideways. Dwight’s hand flew harmlessly past, and, popping my hip back into place, I took off.

And was soon caught by Dwight, but he missed one thing—a trailing G-Ray. I reached back with the ball, handing it to G-Ray as if it were a baton in a relay race. G-Ray grabbed it and took off.

And he really took off. All I could see were puffs of dust coming off his heels as he seemed to disappear over the horizon.

Maybe it’s an evolutionary thing, but the one thing most prey have going for them is speed. From the savannahs of Africa to the playgrounds of middle school, those about to be victims have developed the kind of quickness and agility that keep their species going from generation to generation. And G-Ray was no exception. I’d seen him at lunch, the way he seemed to vanish at the mere hint of trouble. Which is why, although we’d had our differences, I asked him to join the team.

“You’ll still be running from bullies,” I said. “But this time you’ll have a purpose other than avoiding injury. There will also be hundreds of witnesses, so in the unlikely event you are caught, nothing will happen.”

Mr. Stanzer’s recruitment of Ziggy—who no one considered to be a football player—had got Javon and me thinking about other seventh graders who might have a particular talent valuable on the football field. While Dallas’s simulation told us it was impossible for us to win, it did help us find the eighth graders’ weaknesses—slow players, unimaginative plays—and use what we had to target those flaws.

While we had a fair share of decent football players, we also had a handful of kids who never had the chance to play and who turned out to be more than decent.

Only I wish they’d also learned some of the not-so-obvious rules. Like how dancing in the end zone with most of the game still left only made the older, bigger team angry.

“Luke, tell G-Ray to get back to the sideline,” Javon yelled. “And tell him he’s got as much rhythm as crossing-guard Teddy.”

I was just glad Teddy, looking for some help holding the first-down marker, couldn’t hear him. And to why we had an eighty-year-old guy on the sticks, all we had to do was tape his crossing-guard “Stop” sign to the top. The dude was all business. Unfortunately, the point-after kick got no higher than three feet. The problem wasn’t Dustin, our kicker. It was that we couldn’t find a holder unafraid of possibly being kicked in the hand, or even the groin. Dustin had a powerful leg, as well as a condition that caused spasms when his muscles were tensed. No telling what his shoe was going to hit. His leg was true for the point after, but the holder had laid the ball on the ground and was three feet away by the time Dustin’s foot arrived.

Still, it was 6-0, sevvies.

As I walked off the field and our kicking team came on, I glanced over my shoulder to see Robbie screaming at everyone on the eighth-grade sideline. I thought maybe someone might warn him about profanity, until I heard some of the same words coming from Mr. Benatar’s mouth.

“As far as I know,” Javon said as we got ready to kick, “no sevvies have had a lead in this game. Ever. Makes you wonder.”

Dustin’s leg was perfect again on the kickoff, and the ball landed past the end zone, giving the eighth graders the ball on the 20.

Luke also led the defense, but our secret weapon was Erasmus, who probably would have used his middle name if it hadn’t been Jebediah (his parents were historians who studied, and practiced, the ways of the 1850s). Erasmus—Razz for short—was a whiz in physics. He knew everything there was to know about velocity and trajectory. But he also had this trait that freaked some people out. He could always tell if you were telling the truth or lying by looking at your eyes.

Razz was the ultimate safety. Could read a quarterback’s eyes, see which way he was going, and plot the trajectory of the ball. It all made sense on paper.

The problem—Razz was barely five feet tall. So, while he was at the perfect spot to intercept Dwight’s first pass, he needed about eight inches to get to it. Instead, Robbie made the grab, and Ben made the perfect block on Luke. I watched helplessly on the sideline as Robbie ran it in for the score.

Two plays, two scores. Which meant, if my math was right, a final score of a ton to a lot.

The eighth graders nailed the extra point for a 7-6 lead.

“Razz, don’t worry, that was a perfect pass,” Javon said. “Just keep doing that the rest of the game; it will catch up to them.”

Once again the kick sailed out of the end zone, and we had the ball on the 20. The next three plays were Z-left, Z-right, Z-middle, following Javon’s plan. Thanks to Ziggy blocking, and my ability to juke in ways never before seen, we slowly marched down the field. Then a short pass to G-Ray, another to Razz (the kid had great hands, had to give him that). But the drive stalled at the 20.

Mr. Stanzer signaled for Dustin, followed by the kicking team. I ran to the sidelines.

“Coach,” I said, “how about I hold?”

“Can’t risk it, Jed,” he said. “We need you the rest of the game. Don’t want you losing a hand or something.”

“Never happen,” I said. “Dustin’s been perfect so far. We need these points.”

Mr. Stanzer’s shoulders slumped. “OK, get in there. But be careful.”

“Thanks, Coach.”

I barked the signals. It was a perfect snap. I put the tip of the football on the ground, secured the other tip with my finger. Focused on the ball, keeping it steady.

THUMP
!

I felt it, a perfect strike. I looked up and tracked the ball as it punctured the uprights. Beautiful.

The crowd erupted in—wait, screams?

“Oh my God, the humanity!” Yeah, somebody really said that.

Dustin looked down at where I was still kneeling.

“Dude,” he said. “I am so, so sorry.”

“What are you talking about?”