Free Zombified by Adam Gallardo Page A

swallow it. “Columbia University,” I said instead. “The Mailman School.”
    â€œCourtney, you know that’s not part of the plan right now,” he said. Not part of what plan? Whose plan? It sure as hell was a part of my current plan.
    â€œWhat does that mean?” I demanded.
    Dad sat on my bed and patted the place next to him. I chose to stand, even though I felt bratty doing it. He sighed.
    â€œI thought you’d go to Chemeketa for the first two years,” he said and then held up his hand to stop me. Chemeketa was the community college where he taught. “And then we might see about you transferring somewhere.”
    â€œThere’s no way I’d be able to transfer to Columbia after attending community college for two years,” I said. Dad frowned. He hated it when I talked down about his place of employment. He didn’t understand why I didn’t jump for joy at the chance to go to something just a step above vo-tech.
    â€œAnd how would we afford it?” he asked. “There’s no guarantee you’d be able to get enough in scholarships. I know you’re brilliant, but that’s an awful lot of money.”
    â€œScholarships? Money?” I heard the edge of hysteria in my voice, but I wasn’t able to control it. “There’s a whole brick of money in your sock drawer that says we can afford it!”
    All of the air got sucked out of the room. Dad opened his mouth, then closed it again. He took off his glasses with his right hand and pinched the bridge of his nose with his left.
    I knew I’d said the wrong thing, but, dammit, it was true. Last year I earned nearly seventy thousand dollars selling Vitamin Z out of the drive-through window at Bully Burger. Now it just sat in Dad’s dresser in a gallon-sized Ziploc.
    â€œMaybe you’re not so brilliant after all,” he said. He replaced his glasses. “The fact that you might suggest using that money—money you got from selling poison to people—tells me that I may have been granting you too many freedoms. What makes you think it’s okay to use that money?”
    â€œWhy else haven’t you got rid of it?” I asked. “I thought you were keeping it around so that I could use it to go to school.”
    â€œI’m keeping it around because I can’t figure out how to give it away to a charity in a way that doesn’t end with us both going to jail!” His face darkened and the cords on his neck bulged out. Dad almost never got so mad that he raised his voice. I kept all of my rebuttals to this argument firmly inside my big, fat mouth.
    â€œMaybe I should just burn it,” he said.
    Every scrap of energy and joy I’d felt just a few minutes before drained out of me. I walked across the room and slumped into my desk chair. I put my feet up on the seat so my knees were under my chin, then hugged my legs. I wanted to be as small as possible.
    â€œSweetie . . .” Dad said, then stopped. He looked around the room like maybe he was seeing everything for the first time. “Your mom didn’t cause the zombie invasion, you know?”
    â€œWhat?” I said. This new tack surprised me so much, it shocked me into speaking to him. Something I didn’t think I’d ever do again.
    â€œYou heard me,” he said. “Your mother dropping out of Columbia did not cause the dead to rise up out of their graves.”
    â€œWell, it didn’t help keep them in the ground, either.” I felt petty even as I said it.
    â€œI guess not,” Dad said. “There was a lot going on at that time. She and I had just started dating seriously. She was already questioning whether or not she wanted to be an epidemiologist. She’d also been accepted to the California Institute of the Arts, did you know that?” I shook my head. “She wanted to be a painter. She was a great painter.” He lay back on the bed and threw his