{"product_id":"zombie-isbn-9781616950880","title":"Zombie","description":"\u003cb\u003eA zombie movie-obsessed teen is forced to face a dark family secret in this shocking debut literary novel from a talented new author.  \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Wow! A crazy, wicked knock-out of a book!\" -Garth Stein\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eFourteen-year-old Jeremy Barker attends an all-boys Catholic high school where roving gangs of bullies make his days a living hell. His mother is an absentee pillhead, his older brother a self-diagnosed sex-addict, and his father disappears night after night without explanation. Jeremy navigates it all with a code cobbled together from the zombie movies he's obsessed with: \u003ci\u003eNight of the Living Dead\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003e28 Days Late\u003c\/i\u003er, \u003ci\u003ePlanet Terror\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eZombieland\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eDawn of the Dead\u003c\/i\u003e among others.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe code is put to the test when he discovers in his father's closet a bizarre homemade video of a man strapped to a bed, being prepped for some sort of surgical procedure. As Jeremy attempts to trace the origin of the video, this remarkable debut moves from its sharp, precocious beginnings to a climax of almost unthinkable violence, testing him, and the reader, to the core.\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eZombie\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e “If you want to know how teenagers feel and what they say when adults aren’t around, \u003ci\u003eZombie\u003c\/i\u003e—a funny and very authentic, well-written first novel by J. R. Angelella—should definitely be the next book you read.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eJohn Waters, author of \u003ci\u003eRole Models\u003c\/i\u003e, and director of \u003ci\u003eHairspray \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003ePink Flamingos.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eZombie \u003c\/i\u003ewill make you laugh, shake your head in recognition, and go for the aluminum bat in your basement.\"\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eNed Vizzini, author of \u003ci\u003eIt's Kind of a Funny Story\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e “An irreverent and twisted coming-of-age story with one of the most shocking endings I’ve ever read.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eMatthew Quick, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Silver Linings Playbook\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Wow! A crazy, wicked, knock-out of a book!\"\u003cbr\u003e —\u003cb\u003eGarth Stein, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Art of Racing in the Rain \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“It’s simultaneously a bildungsroman à la Salinger’s \u003ci\u003eThe Catcher in the Rye\u003c\/i\u003e, an homage to zombies in pop culture, and a twisted mystery all wrapped up into one utterly original—and darkly delightful—novel.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eBN.com\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A brass-knuckle book, reminiscent in tone to Chuck Palahniuk’s \u003ci\u003eFight Club\u003c\/i\u003e . . . A great choice for readers who are excited by stories with offbeat characters.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—School Library Journal\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eZombie \u003c\/i\u003eis one of the smartest, strangest, and most beautifully crafted coming-of-age stories you will ever encounter.”\u003cbr\u003e —\u003cb\u003eDonald Ray Pollock, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Devil All the Time\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Angelella’s debut novel crackles with energy and attitude.\"\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Your home life's an apocalypse, school's the plague, and you're growing up in a wasteland. To survive this zombie movie of a life is probably going to take more than you've got. But a world where the dead walk is also a world with miracles. Have faith. Read this book.\"\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eStephen Graham Jones, author of \u003ci\u003eGrowing Up Dead in Texas\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Barker is clearly a spiritual successor to Salinger’s Holden Caulfield . . . I haven’t finished a book this quickly since I first read \u003ci\u003eAmerican Psycho\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—The Lit Pub\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eZombie\u003c\/i\u003e basically starts at 10 mph and ends at 100 . . . The book got better and better as I read.\"\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eHello Giggles\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A coming-of-age tale—angry and violent but full of heart—with stellar prose, first-rate dialogue and a cinematic eye for detail.\"\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eShelf Awareness\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Zombie is fierce, brave and entertaining literature.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eOpinionless Reviews\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A superb debut.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Zouch Magazine\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Dark and unforgettable.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Horror News Net\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Overall, \u003ci\u003eZombie\u003c\/i\u003e may be a weird book but it has something to say. It deals with relevant and relatable issues, it has interesting and likable characters, it is humorous, and it subtly underscores flaws in society.”\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eBook Stoner \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"You won’t forget these characters, or the Zombie Survival Code quickly.\"\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eBookshelf\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cb\u003eBombshells\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"When it starts to slip into David Lynch territory, I was absolutely mesmerized . . . The final act is gruesome and cathartic, smart and gripping. I would recommend this book to anyone. This is easily one on of the most entertaining novels I've read in years.\"\u003cbr\u003e—\u003cb\u003eThe Blog of the Living Dead\u003c\/b\u003eJ.R. Angelella has an MFA from the Bennington Writing Seminars and his short fiction has appeared in various literary journals. He and his wife, Kate Angelella, are co-writing two YA novels for Sourcebooks\/Teen Fire, \u003ci\u003eCrossed \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eCursed\u003c\/i\u003e, the first of which will publish in 2012. He lives in Brooklyn, NY. For more information, visit his website at www.jrangelella.com. \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAccording to my father, there are three types of necktie knots: the\u003cbr\u003eWindsor, the Half-Windsor, and the Limp Dick.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Jeremy, I’d bet my hand,” he says, adjusting his seatbelt, “that\u003cbr\u003eevery swinging dick at Byron Hall wears the Windsor.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Could you not talk about dicks first thing in the morning?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The ladies love masculine things,” he says, pinching his silver\u003cbr\u003etie at the base of its knot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Dad, it’s an all guy high school.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s the principle of the thing.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What is?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The size of a man’s knot. His bastion of strength.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t say \u003ci\u003ebastion of strength\u003c\/i\u003e. Gross,” I say, shivering.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s true,” he says. “Fact. Proven.” Dad turns, facing me, and\u003cbr\u003eexposes the flauntingly fat Windsor knot of his silver tie.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWelcome to Necktie 101. I will be your professor today.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAccording to Ballentine Barker, in order to make a Windsor,\u003cbr\u003eyou must cross the long, fat end over the short, skinny one; double\u003cbr\u003eloop through the cross-over; make a tunnel over the loops;\u003cbr\u003eand funnel it through. The Windsor usually makes you look like a\u003cbr\u003efuckwad.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat is that Bible story about the whale and Jonah? Or is his\u003cbr\u003ename Jonas? And Jonah is swallowed whole by some gigantic whale\u003cbr\u003efor whatever reason—I don’t know—and Jonah lives inside the\u003cbr\u003ewhale? And then the whale spits him out. Or is it that he swims\u003cbr\u003eout? Or is it that he gets blown out through the blowhole? Or does\u003cbr\u003ehe die inside the whale? Am I thinking of \u003ci\u003eMoby Dick\u003c\/i\u003e?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe pass a sign on the side of the road that reads \u003ci\u003eBaltimore: The\u003cbr\u003eGreatest City in America. Get in on it.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“When they say that—\u003ci\u003eget in on it\u003c\/i\u003e—what do they mean?” I ask.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That Baltimore is a secret not many people know about,” Dad\u003cbr\u003esays.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A secret?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eGet in on it\u003c\/i\u003e. Be one of the people in the know. Be in on the\u003cbr\u003esecret. A part of the club.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What secret? What club?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s like referring to Baltimore as \u003ci\u003eCharm City\u003c\/i\u003e. The name creates\u003cbr\u003ea buzz where no buzz is buzzing.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Buzzing?” I ask.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDad says, “You ask too many questions.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJackson used to call Baltimore by a bunch of different names.\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eB-town. Charm City. Crabtown. City of Firsts. Monument City. Mob\u003cbr\u003eTown. Murderland. \u003c\/i\u003eHe’d say them mainly to impress girls. They’d\u003cbr\u003estop by the house in the evenings. Groups of them. Whore-ds of\u003cbr\u003ethem. Get it? \u003ci\u003eWhore-ds\u003c\/i\u003e of them? And ask if he was home. They\u003cbr\u003ewould travel from far away. Randallstown. Ellicott City. Columbia.\u003cbr\u003eWestminster. Cockeysville. Perry Hall. Take 81 South to Cold\u003cbr\u003eSpring Lane or I95 to Russell Street past M\u0026amp;T Bank Stadium.\u003cbr\u003eTravel just to see him. They’d stink of perfume, wearing short skirts,\u003cbr\u003etight tops, big hair, lipstick-red lips. Jackson would emerge from\u003cbr\u003ehis room, sometimes wearing only a robe, and descend down the\u003cbr\u003estairs like some Casanova Fuck. “Welcome,” he’d say, “to the \u003ci\u003eCity\u003cbr\u003eof Firsts\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat an ooze.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe drive past a middle-aged woman speed walking in pink\u003cbr\u003eSpandex shorts and a black tank top. She has medium boobs, her\u003cbr\u003ebutt cheeks shifting back and forth with each step. The Spandex\u003cbr\u003ecups her ass and hips such that she might as well be wearing underwear.\u003cbr\u003eI immediately feel guilty, like I just lied to a priest. I think\u003cbr\u003eabout her tits. Amazing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDad taps his horn. “Ballentine likes what he sees,” he says. Dad\u003cbr\u003erefers to himself in third person from time-to-time, including on\u003cbr\u003ehis voicemail messages. I am constantly reminded where Jackson\u003cbr\u003egets his ooziness. “A little beep-beep now and again keeps them\u003cbr\u003efeeling young, son. Lets them know they still got it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Do you think she has kids?” I ask.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Not all mothers are \u003ci\u003eyour \u003c\/i\u003emother,” he says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’m surprised Dad mentions Mom at all, especially on the first\u003cbr\u003eday of school as it always used to be her day. She would get up early,\u003cbr\u003emake a big breakfast of pancakes and eggs and strawberry milk.\u003cbr\u003eAfter, she’d pose me on the front steps of our house for the annual\u003cbr\u003efirst day of school photo. She kept the photos framed in a collage\u003cbr\u003eon the wall, reaching all the way back to my first day of pre-school.\u003cbr\u003eThere’s a black rectangle on the wall where the collage used to\u003cbr\u003ehang. Today there was no first day of school photo. Today there\u003cbr\u003ewas no breakfast or strawberry milk. I wonder where those framed\u003cbr\u003ephotos are now.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Your mother is not here, Jeremy,” Dad says. “I am.” Dad’s car\u003cbr\u003edrifts into the other lane, crossing briefly over the double yellow\u003cbr\u003elines before weaving around a garbage truck. “The size of a man’s\u003cbr\u003eknot,” Dad continues, “indicates his massiveness.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Massiveness? Oh, Jesus.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Language.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Dad, seriously.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Listen. You need to hear this: Windsor equals monster. Half-\u003cbr\u003eWindsor equals babyshit.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Babyshit?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Babyshit.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAllow me to professor your ass with some Half-Windsor\u003cbr\u003eknowledge.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Half-Windsor folds like a paper football, easy with perfect\u003cbr\u003eangles. Personally, I think it’s the best knot. It’s easier than the Windsor\u003cbr\u003ebecause you only make one loop over the cross-over instead of\u003cbr\u003etwo. But getting the length right takes skill, practice, and a sense of\u003cbr\u003epride. Where the Windsor, more often than not, gives you a stumpy\u003cbr\u003ebitch length, the Half-Windsor—if you get it right—hangs sexy\u003cbr\u003eand perfect right to the tip of your belt. That triangular tip of the\u003cbr\u003etie skimming a silver belt buckle. It’s badass. Totally badass. But I\u003cbr\u003ehaven’t figured out how to tie it perfectly yet.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe drive past a private golf course—some members only club\u003cbr\u003esurrounded in a super high fence to keep the wrong kind of people\u003cbr\u003eout. There is a valley in the road, then a hill, which Dad accelerates\u003cbr\u003ethrough, and as we reach the peak, I see Byron Hall in the distance.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDad says, “Survival scenario—you’re in school. English. Zombies\u003cbr\u003ecrash through the windows. Unstoppable. Sick. Savage. Your\u003cbr\u003eschool is under siege. It’s a zombie apocalypse.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Crashing?” I ask.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe loosens his grip on the steering wheel, his fingers spread\u003cbr\u003eopen and relaxed. “Crashing.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m in English class and zombies are crashing through the\u003cbr\u003ewindows?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDad coasts down a straightaway of red brick houses with long\u003cbr\u003edriveways. A man wearing a cowboy hat and mirrored sunglasses\u003cbr\u003enavigates a wheelchair down his driveway to the street and slides\u003cbr\u003eenvelopes inside a mailbox. Dad rides the brake, cutting our speed\u003cbr\u003edown quick, and looks over his shoulder as we pass, watching the\u003cbr\u003eman spin and roll away from the street, retreating in his wheelchair,\u003cbr\u003ecompletely legless.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Dad, you said zombies were \u003ci\u003ecrashing\u003c\/i\u003e through the windows of\u003cbr\u003emy English class?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Right—crashing. They’re crashing.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Through the windows. A zombie apocalypse, you said.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What is your weapon and what is your escape plan?” He looks\u003cbr\u003eat me longer than anyone driving should. “And no Minigun either.\u003cbr\u003eYou always say Minigun. Use another movie other than \u003ci\u003ePlanet Terror\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003eas an example. Think outside the box.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStopped at a red light, I see the Byron Hall campus up across\u003cbr\u003efrom a strip mall, just like the one in \u003ci\u003eDawn of the Dead\u003c\/i\u003e. His turn\u003cbr\u003esignal clicks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Break the glass of one of those emergency panels with my\u003cbr\u003eelbow, grab the axe, and chop my way across the street to the mall.”\u003cbr\u003eI chop my arm from the school across the street to the mall. “Hold\u003cbr\u003eup there. Last-stand style. Barricade the doors with bike locks from\u003cbr\u003ea sporting good store and wait for the cavalry to come. I’d grab a\u003cbr\u003efew extra things—blowtorch, propane tank. If I have to make a\u003cbr\u003ebomb. Blow some shit up. What about you?” I ask.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You couldn’t pay me to go back to high school,” he says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWe pass an empty football field with metal bleachers and two\u003cbr\u003eyellow wishbone goalposts. Dad pulls in behind a long line of cars,\u003cbr\u003ewaiting to turn into the entrance. The sign out front reads: \u003ci\u003eByron\u003cbr\u003eHall Catholic High School for Boys\u003c\/i\u003e. We jerk to a stop at the top of the\u003cbr\u003ecircle where two Christian Brothers greet students as they enter.\u003cbr\u003eThe Brothers wear long black tunics that brush their shiny black\u003cbr\u003eshoes, although if memory serves me correct from when Jackson\u003cbr\u003ewent here the Brothers have the options to wear the long black\u003cbr\u003etunic, or all black suits like a priest or just rock the regular sport\u003cbr\u003ecoat, button down shirt and tie. But not these Brothers. These\u003cbr\u003eBrothers are old school. These Brothers look like hippie priests in\u003cbr\u003etheir tunics. The Byron Hall mascot, an angry fighting blue jay,\u003cbr\u003estands with the Brothers waving his blue-feathered wings at people\u003cbr\u003epassing by. The blue bird is equal parts terrifying and gay.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Well, here we are, son,” Dad says, palming the back of my head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI knock his arm away. “You’re messing up my hair.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe wipes his hand on a handkerchief. “It’s like a fucking grease\u003cbr\u003epit up there.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hair gel.” I lower the overhead visor to see the mirror, to fix\u003cbr\u003ethe brown curls he ruffled out of place, the curls I rushed this\u003cbr\u003emorning to not make him late. I comb a few strands of hair back\u003cbr\u003einto a part and adjust my thin black tie. I aim my shoulders to the\u003cbr\u003edoor, so he won’t see my knot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Look at you,” he says, poking me in the back. He drapes his\u003cbr\u003earm over the wheel. “Barely a freshman and already primping like\u003cbr\u003ea Revlon girl.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Quit,” I say, slamming the car visor up. I grab my book bag\u003cbr\u003eand push open the door when his hand grabs me by my navy blue\u003cbr\u003esports coat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’ll quit,” he says. “Sure. If you turn around.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m late.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m your father.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI know what he wants to see, but it’s his fault for rushing me this\u003cbr\u003emorning, goddamit.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m really going to be late for homeroom. You’re going to make\u003cbr\u003eme late.” Dad’s words from my lips.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDad smells like aftershave and coffee and bleach. He disappeared\u003cbr\u003eagain last night. Showed up at the house early—scattered, paranoid,\u003cbr\u003erushed. Like always, Dad disappeared and no one knows anything\u003cbr\u003eabout it. He thinks he’ll be able to keep it a secret. He thinks he\u003cbr\u003ewill be able to scare people away, but I follow the Code—\u003cb\u003eZombie\u003cbr\u003eSurvival Code (ZSC)\u003c\/b\u003e. The ZSC is a list on how to survive\u003cbr\u003ea necroinfectious pandemic, otherwise known as a zombie apocalypse.\u003cbr\u003eB-t-dubs, it should be noted, that I totally ripped the idea of\u003cbr\u003esurvival rules off of \u003ci\u003eZombieland\u003c\/i\u003e. Big holla to Jesse Eisenberg. I don’t\u003cbr\u003eknow if I heard this somewhere or thought it up myself, but here\u003cbr\u003eis the deal—rules are meant to be broken, but codes are made to\u003cbr\u003ebe followed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003eZombie Survival Code #1: Avoid Eye Contact (ZSC#1)\u003cbr\u003eZombie Survival Code #2: Keep Quiet (ZSC#2)\u003cbr\u003eZombie Survival Code #3: Forget the Past (ZSC#3)\u003cbr\u003eZombie Survival Code #4: Lock-and-Load (ZSC#4)\u003cbr\u003eZombie Survival Code #5: Fight to Survive (ZSC#5)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I asked you to turn around,” he says. “Show me. Now.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You want me to miss first period?” ZSC#1: Avoid eye contact—\u003cbr\u003eI look away.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I want you to obey your father. It’s in the Bible. Now turn\u003cbr\u003earound.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’d been hiding the knot with my sports coat all morning. I refuse\u003cbr\u003eto answer and hope he let’s it go and leaves me alone—ZSC#2:\u003cbr\u003ekeep quiet. I thought I’d be able to get away with it. I know what\u003cbr\u003ehe’s going to say but there’s no avoiding it, so I turn around.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Limp Dick?” he asks, slapping his forehead. “Fuck me. That’s a\u003cbr\u003eLimp Dick.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHey now, hey now—Prof Knot in the house.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe third and final knot—the Limp Dick—is self-explanatory.\u003cbr\u003eThe Limp Dick has no loop, but instead folds in an impulsive\u003cbr\u003emovement from the cross-over to the tunnel and funnels through,\u003cbr\u003edangling down limp-like. Self-explanatory. Limp Dick.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mom wouldn’t care about my knot,” I say\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’re right. She wouldn’t. When’s the last time you saw her?”\u003cbr\u003eDad slips the car into drive, his foot still on the brake. He makes a\u003cbr\u003efist and punches the dent in the dashboard in slow motion with a\u003cbr\u003esound effect of an explosion on impact. “Jeremy. After school. You\u003cbr\u003eand me. Necktie refresher course.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’re such a loser,” I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m not the one rocking a Limp Dick,” he says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Dad,” I say, “where did you go last night?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Spent the night at Liza’s.” He smiles. “Don’t worry so much.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I don’t believe you.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yes, you do.” Then, raising his hands, he says, “Have a good day,\u003cbr\u003eson.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI raise mine too as our hands turn into fists and we bang them\u003cbr\u003etogether like boxers tapping gloves before a fight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e2\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Byron Hall Catholic High School for Boys—nicknamed The\u003cbr\u003eHall—is made up of five hallways. There is no second floor. The\u003cbr\u003eschool has not changed a lick since Jackson graduated four years\u003cbr\u003eago.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOn an aerial sketch of the school, like an architect’s layout, like\u003cbr\u003ethe kind Mom used to spread out on the dining room table, The\u003cbr\u003eHall would look like the number eight on a solar-powered calculator.\u003cbr\u003eThree mini horizontal hallways—one at the top, one in the\u003cbr\u003emiddle and one at the bottom of the school. Two long vertical\u003cbr\u003ehallways on the sides—one with even classroom numbers, one with\u003cbr\u003eodd. Each lined with lockers for 1300 students, lockers so skinny\u003cbr\u003eand tight they would barely hold a broom.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAccording to Jackson, the cafeteria is called \u003ci\u003ethe cafe\u003c\/i\u003e and sits past\u003cbr\u003ethe mini hallway at the top of the school. Jackson told me that\u003cbr\u003eDad said the cafe reminded him a lot of the Marine chow halls at\u003cbr\u003eFort Drum in New York where he was stationed before deployed\u003cbr\u003eto Vietnam. Simple room to describe, really—blue-jay-blue tiled\u003cbr\u003ewalls; eggshell white, linoleum floors; long, boring, brown tables\u003cbr\u003eseating six evenly spaced across an L shape. A sign on the wall reads:\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eFire Occupancy\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003e585\u003c\/i\u003e. I wonder what would happen if all 1300 kids\u003cbr\u003ehad a free period at the same time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen I got my course schedule and locker assignment a few\u003cbr\u003eweeks ago, Jackson volunteered to drive me up to his old stomping\u003cbr\u003eground, a phrase he likes to use like some kind of old man. He\u003cbr\u003eescorted me around like some big dick hotshot, head held high,\u003cbr\u003ewalking with a swaggerly limp. He even got all dressed up—khaki\u003cbr\u003epants, white button-down shirt, plaid sport coat with an all blue\u003cbr\u003etie in a Windsor knot. Tool. It was nice, though, to get acquainted\u003cbr\u003ewith the layout of the school, showing me all of the hallways, which\u003cbr\u003ewere empty as fuck except for custodians pushing mops around\u003cbr\u003eand some people in the front office. No brothers. No students. He\u003cbr\u003eshowed me my locker at the end of the even hallway near the cafe\u003cbr\u003eand had me practice the combo. He told me to always make sure\u003cbr\u003emy lock snapped shut. One of the things the upperclassmen like to\u003cbr\u003edo, apparently, is find someone’s lock undone and put it on backwards.\u003cbr\u003eBefore we left, he pointed to the vending machines in the\u003cbr\u003ecorner of the cafe and said, “I fucked some girl once at a dance over\u003cbr\u003eby the vending machines. Fuck central.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGreat—fuck central.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAt my locker, I look around and wait until I feel invisible. I\u003cbr\u003eslip off my shoe, pull out a piece of paper, and read a small piece\u003cbr\u003eof paper with my combination and quickly apply the three numbers\u003cbr\u003ein perfect left-right-left order. The lock snaps open like a broken\u003cbr\u003ejaw. I slip the paper back inside my shoe and my shoe back\u003cbr\u003eon my foot and the lock back on the locker. I wonder if I’m the\u003cbr\u003eonly student with a combination cheat sheet in his shoe and a\u003cbr\u003eback-up sheet in his bedroom. My backup is in my closet with my\u003cbr\u003eother secrets. I dump the contents of my book bag into my locker\u003cbr\u003eand pick out my books for the day. Western Civilization. Algebra.\u003cbr\u003eChristian Awareness. English Literature. My locker rattles shut with\u003cbr\u003ea good kick. I twist a couple of times to scramble the combination.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI’ve already forgotten the numbers.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA Brother I haven’t seen yet—a small, Asian man, wearing a long\u003cbr\u003eblack tunic and thick black hair slicked back—paces along the back\u003cbr\u003eof the cafe, his hands behind his back, watching the boys at the tables,\u003cbr\u003ewaiting for something to happen. I imagine him to be some kind of\u003cbr\u003edrill instructor, ready to scream at kids to get to class on time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOutside of the cafe is an overhang with metal picnic benches\u003cbr\u003ewhere kids can chill and eat lunch and congregate like felons on\u003cbr\u003ethe prison yard and tell stories that are most certainly all lies—stories\u003cbr\u003ethat mainly consist of fucking girls and drugs and sometimes\u003cbr\u003eschool work, but mostly fucking girls and drugs. They, the boys, the\u003cbr\u003eyoung men, they all look exactly the same, unified, like an army—\u003cbr\u003ean academic \u003ci\u003esiege\u003c\/i\u003e!—with their neckties and wrinkled sports coats,\u003cbr\u003eall crushed together, like a rat king. Then I hear what Jackson calls\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ethe hotness\u003c\/i\u003e—sweet, honey-like voices—slow and smooth and sexy.\u003cbr\u003eBaby, are they sexy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA group of four girls in short plaid skirts and white short sleeve,\u003cbr\u003ebutton-down shirts pass the cafe windows and sit at one of the\u003cbr\u003emetal picnic benches. A gaggle of dudes swarm the girls, sharks\u003cbr\u003eto chum. The guys wear super baggy pants and speak in this \u003ci\u003efaux\u003c\/i\u003e-\u003cbr\u003egangsta accent like\u003ci\u003e they thug life, yo,\u003c\/i\u003e like they’re from the projects,\u003cbr\u003ewhich is funny because they’re probably all from the wealthiest\u003cbr\u003esuburbs just outside of the city, living in mini-mansions owned\u003cbr\u003eby parents who run PR firms and are politicians. It’s that kind of\u003cbr\u003eschool. Retards.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe girls know what they’re doing, how they’re sitting, showing\u003cbr\u003esome serious leg, sitting side-by-side, hips cocked, the ends of the\u003cbr\u003eskirts pulling up past mid-thigh. My God their skin looks smooth\u003cbr\u003elike a baby’s ass, so smooth you want to lick it—the three white\u003cbr\u003egirls with this 2% milk sheen and the black girl a dark chocolate\u003cbr\u003edream. The black girl might just be a super model—I mean she is\u003cbr\u003ethin and tall with an incredibly angular face in a beautiful way and\u003cbr\u003eher big, bold eyes might as well be singing me a song. It’d be hard\u003cbr\u003eto execute any of the five zombie survival rules with these girls.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe hallways swell inside with dudes stopping, pressing, and\u003cbr\u003epushing each other to see the girls, like it was their first time. Once\u003cbr\u003eguys find a clear line of vision, they freeze and hold. There has to\u003cbr\u003ebe a name for this. Is there a word for it? Can I call it something?\u003cbr\u003eHotnified? Yes. Yup. That’s it. We’re \u003ci\u003ehotnified\u003c\/i\u003e. We’re hotnified, watching\u003cbr\u003ethe girls.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMy dangerous daydream continues, the girls white-pantied and\u003cbr\u003estrutting around in slow motion to a rock-n-roll soundtrack, when\u003cbr\u003ethe small, Asian Brother sprints across the cafe, bullet-like, and hurls\u003cbr\u003ehimself through the double doors to the outside area. I expect to see\u003cbr\u003ehim do some kind of back flip or combo leg-swipe kick or crazy\u003cbr\u003emid-air Jujitsu. Instead, it looks more like hand-to-hand combat.\u003cbr\u003eHe grabs boys at their collars and elbows and flings them away\u003cbr\u003efrom the sexy, girl zombies come to infect and devour the Byron\u003cbr\u003eHall Boys. The boys laugh and slide their bags onto their backs and\u003cbr\u003ego back inside the building. The girls are unphased, unmoved, and\u003cbr\u003eextend their hands to the Asian Brother as an introduction.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI push my way through the crowd of horny high school perverts,\u003cbr\u003etheir faces pressed to the doors and windows, practically licking\u003cbr\u003ethe glass, the fucks. I edge my way to the front of these boner\u003cbr\u003eboys and head outside, pulled in like some kind of sexual riptide.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe air is dead outside, breezeless, hot and heavy with humidity,\u003cbr\u003elike the girls brought all of this hot, sexy air with them. I sit\u003cbr\u003eat bench and, smooth as all hell, stoop to tie both shoes that are\u003cbr\u003ealready double-knotted. The girls, still undressed in my head, circle\u003cbr\u003ethe Brother. Seeing girls in short skirts pass by makes my pecker\u003cbr\u003eshiver for sure, so I can only imagine how the entire school of\u003cbr\u003ehorny bastards feels.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ladies, you must leave,” the small, Asian Brother says. “No girls\u003cbr\u003eon school.” He shakes his head. “Three thirty, then you return.” He\u003cbr\u003etaps the face of his watch. “Then girls on campus.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What’s your name, Brother?” a girl asks, a tan girl with dark,\u003cbr\u003ered hair. She looks over at me and without even thinking or anything\u003cbr\u003eI raise my fucking hand and wave to her with a big old goofball\u003cbr\u003esmile on my face. She doesn’t smile back. Fuck me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I am Brother Lee,” he says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“We’re looking for the drama department,” the girl with dark,\u003cbr\u003ered hair says. She hands him a stack of papers. “We are members of\u003cbr\u003ethe drama club at Prudence High, Brother Lee, and are working\u003cbr\u003eon the Byron Hall Fall drama, but we need to turn these in before\u003cbr\u003eauditions.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You bring after school,” Brother Lee says. “I’m no mailman.”\u003cbr\u003eBrother Lee crosses his arms over his chest. “I look like mailman\u003cbr\u003eto you?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No, Brother,” the super model says, “you don’t look like a mailman\u003cbr\u003eat all. They have better uniforms.” She smiles at him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I don’t think this is funny,” he says.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe touches his arm and says, “They are our parental permission\u003cbr\u003eslips. We need to give them to Father Vincent Gibbs.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You wait to last minute,” Brother Lee says, shaking his head in\u003cbr\u003edisapproval, but even Brother Lee is powerless against the plaid skirt\u003cbr\u003eand teenage shaved legs. “Follow me. No walking.” He rushes down\u003cbr\u003ethe sidewalk toward the lecture hall building, herding them away\u003cbr\u003efrom the rest of us, like cattle away from a cliff; although in this scenario\u003cbr\u003ethe girls seem more like the cliff and the rest of us the cattle.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe girls march single file past Brother Lee who follows quickly\u003cbr\u003ebehind them. The girl with the dark red hair looks at me over her\u003cbr\u003eshoulder again, but still without a smile, not at all like in the movies,\u003cbr\u003elike in those RomComs—the movies where two souls are destined\u003cbr\u003eto be together and love one another and get married but for an\u003cbr\u003ehour and a half they keep missing each other, either by chance or\u003cbr\u003efate, or by some kind of bullshit, until one rainy or sunny or snowy\u003cbr\u003eday their lives crash together and they see each other for the very\u003cbr\u003efirst time. The girl passes by the boy and smiles over her shoulder\u003cbr\u003eand the boy returns the smile, maybe adding a wave, but she doesn’t\u003cbr\u003esee the wave because the guy that she’s with is her boyfriend who\u003cbr\u003edistracts her. The smile is what I’m really talking about here, the\u003cbr\u003esmile that says they will meet up again soon. Then, the girl falls out\u003cbr\u003eof love with her fuckneck boyfriend just as the boy is about to settle\u003cbr\u003efor some plain girl who is good enough for him, when in the\u003cbr\u003enick of time the boy and the girl wind up at a public park feeding\u003cbr\u003ebirds, or at a used library browsing books in the same section, or\u003cbr\u003estrolling through a grocery store in the produce section—his hands\u003cbr\u003esqueezing cantaloupe melons as she digs her way through a bin of\u003cbr\u003eavocadoes—and they see each other again, but this time it will be\u003cbr\u003ethe last time they see each other like strangers and the first time\u003cbr\u003ethey see each other as friends.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYeah, this girl that I like doesn’t look at me like that in the\u003cbr\u003eslightest. This girl looks at me like she thinks I’m just another pervert,\u003cbr\u003elike she knows I undressed her, got her completely naked in\u003cbr\u003emy head.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBrother Lee escorts the girls to the lecture hall building as they\u003cbr\u003edisappear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI walk back into the even hallway of the school by the cafe and\u003cbr\u003erealize I am still smiling and when I stop smiling it makes me feel\u003cbr\u003esad for some reason. Because she never smiled back.","brand":"Soho Press","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46302848123109,"sku":"NP9781616950880","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9781616950880.jpg?v=1767744889","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/zombie-isbn-9781616950880","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}