Zombie Caesar

 

THEIR FRONT YARD looked like a furniture store. Dad had moved the Coach around the corner to make room for the yard sale traffic, and a steady stream of cars and pickup trucks had been pulling up to the curb since six o’clock in the morning, a full hour before the yard sale was supposed to start.

“If you build it, they will come,” Dad said, standing in the driveway between their L-shaped leather sofa, the one they curled up onto each week for Friday movie night, and the matched set of wingback chairs from the formal living room that no one ever sat in.

It was a line from some old baseball movie, and Odette became instantly angry when Dad said it. Today wasn’t about building—it was about destroying.

“Would you take two dollars for this?” asked a lady with a ridiculously high ponytail. She was holding a blue glass vase that was clearly marked five dollars.

“No way,” said Odette. “Five dollars.”

The woman put the vase down on a table full of knickknacks.

Triumph surged through Odette, as if she’d just won a small but important victory.

“We’re trying to get rid of things, not scare away the customers,” said Mom.

Odette shrugged. “That thing is worth way more than five dollars.”

“There’s no room for it in the Coach,” said Mom. “It’s worth whatever someone is willing to pay for it.”

Odette wanted to say something mean—she hadn’t quite found the words, but she knew exactly the tone she wanted to use—but then Rex came barreling out of the house with another box of his toys and all of Mom’s attention shifted immediately to him.

“Hey, buddy,” said Mom. “What’ve you got there?”

“I wanna sell these, too,” Rex said.

Odette could see that the box was full of Rex’s miniature animal collection. Last year he’d been obsessed with Cubes—clear plastic boxes sold at the zoo gift store, each filled with a different collection of animals. Farm animals, dinosaurs, sea creatures, safari animals, on and on. Each Cube cost $15.95. Rex had wrangled a deal with Mom where she bought him a new one each month. She and Rex visited the local zoo together every fourth Saturday. It was their “special time,” Mom called it.

“Are you sure, buddy? You’ve been collecting these for a while,” Mom said.

“Yeah, I’m sure,” said Rex. “I’m not really into them anymore. I want money. Lots of money.”

Mom laughed and patted Rex’s shoulder. “Okay,” she said. “How much do you want for them?”

Odette turned away. She wasn’t interested in hearing their pricing structure. There was Dad, helping an old guy load a table saw into the back of a truck. Odette hadn’t even known that thing buried in the back of the garage was a table saw, so it wasn’t like it was special or anything, but still Odette hated the old guy for buying it and found herself hoping that he’d cut through his finger the first time he used it.

She flopped into one of the wingback chairs. It was stiff and upright, not comfortable like their couch.

The day was beautiful. Big bright sky. Warm air. The branches of the willow tree across the street bobbed and danced. Car after car pulled up to her house and left with her family’s stuff.

Odette’s phone vibrated in her pocket. A text from Mieko saying she was coming over. Odette couldn’t muster the energy to text back.

With every knickknack, plate, piece of furniture, and book that got loaded into a stranger’s car, Odette felt the reality of her situation deepen. Everything. She was losing everything.

Yesterday had been the last day of school. A big party, lockers being cleaned out, excited chatter and laughter all around her. Everyone was passing around yearbooks, writing stuff like See you next year! And Let’s hang out this summer!

Odette had picked up her yearbook like everyone else. But she’d just shoved it in her backpack. Half the people would write stupid stuff about how much they’d miss her, when they didn’t even know her. The other half would want to hear about where she was going and why she was leaving, which Odette didn’t want to talk about. Which Odette didn’t completely understand herself.

For Odette, it felt like a funeral. The end of everything.

That afternoon, when Odette was officially no longer a sixth-grader, Grandma Sissy had called to congratulate her on finishing the school year. “How’s my adventurer?” Grandma Sissy asked. Her voice sounded like it always did, and Odette had wondered if maybe her parents were using Grandma Sissy’s sickness as an excuse to make it okay that Dad was leaving his job and they were selling the house.

“I’m okay,” Odette had lied. “How are you?”

“I’ve had better days, but I’ve had worse,” Grandma Sissy said. “Tell me everything.”

Odette didn’t feel like talking, but she told Grandma Sissy about the yard sale plans, about the last day of school, about the Jamboree.

“Are you excited at all?” Grandma Sissy asked.

Odette shrugged, which she knew Grandma Sissy couldn’t see through the telephone line. She didn’t have words for the way she felt.

“Even in the bad,” Grandma Sissy had said, and Odette recognized this as the beginning of one of Grandma Sissy’s sayings, “there is opportunity for good. Odette, darling, you may feel powerless over what is happening to you right now—”

“Detters!” Mom called from where she was sorting clothes and blankets for the yard sale. “I need you to come keep an eye on your brother!”

“I’ve gotta go,” Odette said, half glad to hang up. She didn’t much feel like hearing Grandma Sissy’s good advice.

But now, watching her family’s stuff turn into other people’s stuff, Odette wondered how Grandma Sissy had planned to end that sentence. You may feel powerless over what is happening to you right now . . . What could she have said, after that? A conjunction, probably, followed by uplifting promises. You may feel powerless over what is happening to you right now, but it will all turn out for the best. Or, but you’ll see that things aren’t really so bad. Maybe, but the future is full of surprises.

After a while, Mieko appeared on her bike. She rode standing up, pedaling hard for a few strokes and then gliding, her back tall, her legs locked straight.

Odette would recognize Mieko even in shadow, from the way she rode her bike. She was both graceful and powerful, and she steered through the crowd of cars and bargain-hunters as if she were their queen.

“Hey.” She hopped off her bike. She unclipped her helmet and hung it on the handlebar. “This is crazy!”

Odette nodded. Her cheeks and eyes felt heavy—her whole face did. Actually, her whole body, as if she were subjected to more gravity than the people around her. It felt maybe like zombification—numbing, slowing down, petrification.

Mieko flopped into the other wingback chair. “It’s funny that we never sat in these when they were inside your house.”

Odette nodded. Speech took too much energy.

Mieko pursed her lips as if she was going to say something important. Odette sighed and resigned herself to hearing it.

“It’s not like I’m not going to miss you, Odette,” Mieko began. “Summer is going to blow without you. And I can’t believe you won’t be there for seventh grade. But this is cool too, you know. You act like it’s all so terrible, but you get to go on an adventure! And no more real school! That’s pretty awesome, right?”

Odette either nodded or shrugged. She wasn’t paying very close attention to what Mieko said, or to her own response. She’d been through it all, lots of times over the past three months—with Mieko, with her parents, with herself. They’d be getting the chance to have a good long visit with Grandma Sissy. They’d spend time together on the road. “Real time,” Mom had said, as if all the time they’d spent in this house didn’t count.

Opportunity, adventure, freedom. Blah, blah, blah.

Odette watched a lady and her teenage son load her family’s television into the back of a minivan and wondered how much they’d paid for it. Then she saw her mom pocket three dollars in exchange for the blue vase. At least the high-ponytail lady wasn’t buying it. It was Mrs. Murdoch, their neighbor two doors down.

But then that made Odette kind of mad, even though Mrs. Murdoch was a widow whose kids barely ever visited. “Don’t you think that sucks?” she said to Mieko. “That our own neighbors are talking my parents down on stuff? I mean, they all know my dad lost his job and that we’re selling our house. They’ve seen the Coach that we’re moving into. And still Mrs. Murdoch wants to pay three dollars instead of five for a vase?”

“I guess.” Mieko scratched a mosquito bite on her knee. “But probably they’re not thinking about you guys, you know? I mean, everyone wants a deal at a yard sale.”

“Yeah,” said Odette. She felt the sting of tears behind her eyes.

“Up, up, up, girls,” said Dad. He was grinning and held a fold of bills in his hand. “Those chairs are now the property of this nice woman.”

Odette groaned. High-ponytail lady stood just behind Odette’s father, tapping her sneaker on the brick path. “Can you load them into the back of my car?”

“Will do,” said Dad. “Come on, girls, give me a hand.”

Really? It was too much to ask of her. But Odette stood and grabbed one side of the blue toile armchair. Mieko hefted the other, and together they crab-walked to the lady’s car. It was one of those ridiculous, overpowered SUVs built for off-roading or safaris or something, but Odette would bet it had never left the wide highways of Orange County, California, except for the occasional weekend trip to Big Bear or Vegas.

When the chairs were loaded and the lady had driven away, Odette’s dad said, “Hey, Mieko, stick around and help out for the afternoon, why don’t you? I’ll pay you twenty bucks.”

Mieko grinned. “Sure, Simon!”

“Et tu, Brute?” mumbled Odette, too soft for Mieko to hear. They’d watched Julius Caesar in Language Arts just a few weeks ago, and that line had stuck with her. It was the last thing Caesar said as he was being assassinated—to his best friend, Brutus, who stuck a knife in him along with everyone else. It meant, “You too, Brutus?”

If Julius Caesar had come back as a zombie, like in a sequel or something, Odette wondered if he’d go after Brutus or if he’d just be too bummed to even try. If he’d just wander aimlessly, zombie leg dragging, away from everyone.

 

THE SALE WENT on until close to five p.m., when at last the traffic had dwindled to the occasional drive-by. All the furniture had sold; Rex had found a home for his whole box of Cubes for the tidy sum of thirty-five dollars (taking a ginormous loss, Odette figured, as there were a dozen Cubes, each costing $15.95 plus tax, but no one wanted to hear that); and then Mieko rode home, waving cheerily, a twenty-dollar bill tucked into her back pocket.

“I feel lighter and lighter,” Odette heard Mom telling Dad. He was reboxing loose plates and cups, getting ready to take a load to the thrift store.

“Me too,” he said, and his smile looked genuine, even though his eyes were tired. “Lighter and lighter.” He set down the box and then they kissed, and Odette watched, even though she wanted to look away. She couldn’t remember ever seeing her parents like this—all kissy and huggy and touching nonstop. It was so gross, the way they were acting like all of this was a good thing. Like they weren’t losing everything, like they weren’t just throwing their lives away—and Odette’s, too.

“Detters,” said Mom when the kiss ended. “Want to go with your dad to drop off the leftovers at the thrift store?”

“No way,” she answered, turning away before the tears spilled. The yard looked terrible—the grass was flattened where blankets full of clothes had been spread, and half-empty cardboard boxes littered the driveway.

Her parents felt lighter and lighter, thought Odette. But all she felt, watching her life disappear piece by piece into the arms of strangers—was emptier and emptier.