Free Special Dead by Patrick Freivald Page B

Romero. The less you know about Jennifer Picknett, the better. Period.”
    Ani tried not to look at the camera on the wall as
she finished the next iteration of the song.
    Her mom spoke up. “That’s strange, baby. What’s it
called?”
    “I don’t know.”

 
     
    Chapter
    11
     
     
    The following Monday
Mr. Benson interrupted independent reading time, stomping through the door with
one of the long poles like they’d used to steer around Mr. Cummings. The dour
man scowled at them all before his eyes locked on Ani. “Miss Romero, come with
me, please.”
    Ani looked at Sam, who
shrugged. She stood and approached the door. Mr. Benson twirled his finger in
the air, in what looked like a sarcastic “whoop-de-do.” She gave him a puzzled
look, and he did it again.
    “What—”
    “Turn around, Miss Romero.”
    She turned toward the class and
felt weight on the back of her helmet as he latched the pole into place.
    “Is this necessary?”
    “Probably not,” he said. “But
it’s the rules. Individuals in the special program are either to be chained
together or led with catchpoles.”
    She tried to be nervous but
couldn’t summon the energy. She wasn’t sure if the lack of adrenaline was a
blessing or a curse. Maybe it’s both. As he led her out the door, she
realized just how easy she was to steer around. With no leverage and her ankles
shackled together, she could probably be controlled by a third grader despite
her inhuman strength.
    “Where are we going?” she asked
as Mr. Benson twisted her neck to the left.
    “Guidance Office.” 
    “May I ask why?” She smiled at
a black-clad kid who nodded at her from inside the Global Studies classroom. At her, not to her. There was too much reverence for a simple “hello.”
    “Sure. You’re always welcome to
ask.”
    “Why?”
    “They don’t tell me.”
    Ani snorted. “Nice.”
    They passed through the hall in
silence. As they entered the guidance office, the old lady behind the reception
desk forced a smile. The result looked something like a white-haired bulldog
trying not to throw up in terror. “Go right in.”
    A little under six feet tall,
with brown hair just touched with gray, Mr. Murphy looked exactly as he had the
last time she’d sat in his office, two years before. He even wore the same
horn-rimmed glasses. Without hesitation or any sign of nerves he shook her hand
and gestured to the loveseat.
    Mr. Benson unfastened the
catchpole and closed the door, then stood at ease in front of it, his hand at
rest on his pistol grip.
    “How’s things?” Ani asked.
    Mr. Murphy shrugged. “Not bad.
Busy, what with all the transfers in and out.” He leaned forward and put his
elbows on his knees. “How about you?”
    She chuckled. “It’s freaking me
out a little that you’re not more freaked out.”
    He smiled and gave a short nod
to Mr. Benson. “I think I’m safe enough, and I’ve known you forever.”
    Ani smiled back.
    You’d never
survive a real outbreak....
    “You dodged my question,
though. How are you?”
    She leaned back, squirming a
little in the seat to shift the cushions. “Frustrated.”
    “I understand things are...restrictive.
But it’s necessary.”
    She snorted. “That’s not what I
mean. I’m used to restrictions, that’s no big deal. The problem is Mr. Foster.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “He’s nice enough, he just
doesn’t know enough math or science. Or economics. He’s not qualified—”
    “He’s certified in Special Ed—”
    The coffee table cracked as she
slammed her hands down. Mr. Murphy gave a nervous glance at Mr. Benson, who
looked bored.
    “And I’m not a goddamned special-education
student. Do you really think we belong in there with Kyle-freaking-Lee? The kid’s
a freaking idiot. Lydia’s not exactly a hundred-watter, either.”
    Or Teah. Or
Mike.
    “We’ve got Mr. Cummings and
Mrs. Weller—”
    “The only reason we have them
is because they’re dead, too. So yeah, we’re set with