This is the first chapter of my NaNo Novel. I've edited, but there are some really drawn out description in this first chapter, and I would appreciate any kind of comments or criticism or help on pretty much anything about those parts or ZD in general.
Zombie Days
(Second Draft: 12/11/08)
Chapter One: Welcome to High School, This is Your Life
Fourth period French felt less like an exercise in patience and more like a cueing up for the middle ring of the Seventh Circle of Hell. Not that Prof Z wasn’t a pretty nice guy with his anarchy and German punk-rock, but fourth period was right after break and right before lunch, and should have been more aptly named ‘nap-time’.
There was something about being stuck in a bland, portable classroom, which felt just like one of those fifth wheel trailers if it had been made out of particle board and Elmer’s glue. The air conditioning never really worked, which probably was part of the reason Dylan found it so hard to stay awake. The air conditioning panel itself was one giant idiot test, you could press the buttons and the numbers would go up and down, but the numbers never actually matched the temperature of the air being pumped or not being pumped into the room.
Prof Z was in the middle of writing the longest word in the French language something about tugboat skippers’ widows on the Rhine River when Dylan found herself rudely jostled from the half sleep, half daydream she had nestled into. She raised her head and gave her best ‘you woke me from my precious me time with sleep’ death glare at the person who had stolen nirvana from her.
That person just happened to be Brian Merritt, best friend and current destroyer of dream worlds. He was twisted in his seat so that he faced Dylan. He shrugged his shoulders when she scowled and pointed at the scribbled mess of prefixes and conjugations on the whiteboard before turning to face the board. She could see that some of his fingers were tangled and turning curlicues in the brown hair on the back of his head.
Dylan scowled and attempted to seclude herself from the world around her. She liked French and Prof Z well enough, but something about the ordinal number four made her grumpy and sleepy and not a very nice person, and just about half way through the class, (right on schedule), Prof Z’s voice went from mildly interesting to a Peanut’s Parents in about 0 to 60. After that point, Dylan did not hold herself responsible for either her own learning or her own actions. Colin Farrell was far more interesting than conjugating verbs.
In retaliation for waking her from her nice nap, Dylan reached forward, and jabbed Brian in the side. Dylan pouted when Brian’s yelp was smothered by the bell.
With much glee, Dylan grabbed her backpack, jumped up from her desk, and dragged Brian out of Classroom 332 by the stiff of his shirt collar. Brian let Dylan drag him only so far before jerking his body away and adjusting his clothes and backpack.
When they were completely outside the classroom, Brian rolled his coffee colored brown eyes at her.
“He could have called on you, you know.”
Dylan cracked a devilish smile, “Actually, no, I don’t know. As if PZ ever called on a sleeping student.”
Brian shook his head, “Sometimes, once in a blue moon.”
Dylan grinned when those words came out of his mouth. “You are so busted, man.” Her eyes sparkled with mirth.
Brian frowned. “For what?”
As Brian and Dylan had been talking outside the portable classrooms which adorned the school’s blacktop, a brunette, with her hair pulled back in a ponytail and wearing a red t-shirt and jeans, joined them and eased into their conversation.
“You’ve been watching Grey’s Anatomy again, haven’t you, Brian?” Sasha, the girl, grinned as she said this.
Dylan stuck out her hand to swipe it alongside Sasha’s also outstretched hand, and then Dylan made a vertical fist (like her hand was holding up an ice cream); Sasha did the same so they could bump knuckles together—in short, a version of their own personal handshake.
“Ten points to Sasha,” Dylan called out.
“Did you do anything fun in French?” Sasha asked.
Brian shrugged, “Yeah. As usual Dylan slept.”
Dylan mock punched Brian. “No, I didn’t. I didn’t sleep, I napped, for just a little bit.”
Both Sasha and Brian spoke in synchronous tones then: “Of course, you did.”
“Pshaw! Screw the both of you. And, no,” she glared at Brian, “that wasn’t an offer.”
Brian shook his head in response.
“So, where do we want to go to lunch?” Sasha asked.
They stood there, or, as in Dylan’s case, lounged against the lone picnic table that had somehow been dragged halfway across the campus from the quad to side of the school where the blacktop was. The picnic table was cobalt blue and plastic, and it had many, quarter sized, holes in it.
Sasha was the first to break the silence. “We could go to the Mall,” she suggested.
Dylan looked at Sasha; she had one eyebrow raised. “You expect me to make a decision about this, guys. You know I’m only good with the sarcastic remarks.” Dylan glanced from Sasha to Brian and back again.
Sasha snorted and then glared at Dylan but only just a little.
Dylan caved quickly. “Okay, okay. Mall it is.”
Both Dylan and Sasha stared at to Brian, who easily caved under their scrutiny: “Mall.”
Dylan and Sasha grinned at each other. “To the food court.”
*
Dylan knew the only reason they were going to the mall food court was because Sasha needed her daily fill of greasy American food, like pizza, before going home to crazy ethnic food that Dylan’s tongue could never pronounce properly.
The food court at the Libertyville Westfield Mall was always crowded, and lunch hour was no exception. People were rushing this way and that; some with full trays of food from the various vendors, some with empty ones, some trying to find a seat in the overly stuffed hall. It was a regular day for Dylan, Brian, and Sasha though, and they expertly found their way around and through people; they were regular experts at crowd weaving by now—three years of living through high school would do that to a person.
They were standing in line at Great Khan’s waiting from their over greasy stir-fry, breathing in all the wonderful, spicy, savory scents, when Brian froze. Dylan seeing him clam up looked around for the cause. Following Brian’s line of sight, she saw the local high school lacrosse team heading towards them, in the center of the group was Marshall Whelan. The tall, handsome, senior was the captain of the team; and, he resembled quite the conquering hero archetype in blue jeans, with deep blue eyes and perfectly rumbled hair-do.
Dylan nudged Brian. “Oh, Brian. You know, you’re staring.”
Brian whipped his head around from where he was staring at the Libertyville Wildcats Lacrosse Team Captain, his mouth opened, but he didn’t say anything. He shifted nervously from one foot to the other, and moved his head from side to side: shifting his gaze from Dylan to the floor and then back to Dylan again. Then, he lowered his gaze to the ground, hung his head low, and sighed.
At last, when Brian’s food was finished cooking on the skillet he took the white take-out box, with the smiley face indented on the lid, from the little, Asian lady at the pickup station. He silently put it on his red tray next to his soda and headed to the table Sasha was saving for them.
Dylan followed a few moments later when she too received her food from the little, Asian lady, all the while chuckling to herself.
Brian was already sitting down when Dylan got to the table. He ignored Dylan’s arrival and seemed fixated on meticulously consuming his food. Twirling the noodles in his stir fry with his fork and politely putting the fork into his mouth, and consuming his food with no sound at all.
“Is Brian okay?” Sasha mock whispered to Dylan when she sat down.
“Yeah, he was being the little, space cadet we know and love, and I called him on it.”
“Staring at pretty boy toys again was he?”
“Mmmhmm. Me thinks our little Brian has a crush on the Big Bad Wildcat Lacrosse Captain.” Dylan grinned at Sasha and they both started to laugh.
Brian placed his fork down decidedly on the violently red tray. Dylan could see his chest heaving and his nostrils grow wide. His face had turned a nice shade of pink. “Hey, I’ll have you know I’m right here.”
Dylan stared at his very distraught face; his dark brown eyes wide and furious, and the tendon in his neck was stretched out and twitching, as well.
“Hey, honey,” Dylan said, her voice now soft, “We were just kidding, you know that.”
In her last efforts to prove they were just poking fun, Dylan winked, and she watched as Brian visibly relaxed the muscles in his neck, hands, and back.
Dylan sighed and shivered happily, and then gulped down some of her Diet Coke before stuffing her face with food.
After she got some food in her stomach, Dylan looked to Sasha, and asked, “So, Sasha ready to wow us with your Russian literacy?”
They all had English after lunch together, and Dylan knew that Sasha had a presentation project on some type of literary criticism.
“Umm, Dylan, you know Sasha’s not Russian, she’s Polish,” Brian added in.
Dylan scoffed. “Well, duh, Brian. I’m only slightly stupid, you know.”
). So well done there Cal.
