Free Zombie by J.R. Angelella Page A

unbuttoned, and says very little. Instead he quietly walks along the sideline, watching his men and examining the drills before huddling with what look to be assistants, dispatching orders to be carried out.
    Like clockwork, Brother Lee appears through the front doors and the girls point to the lecture hall building on the even side of the building, and he escorts them, herding them away from the boys.
God, save the boys!
The administration hates it when girls visit The Hall, unexpectedly.
    “Fine, fine honeys,” the black kid I sit next to in English says, also a poor bastard. He aims a fancy high-tech camera at me while I watch the girls—
click, click, click
. He wears a gold stud in his ear, a neon green tie knotted in a Limp Dick, and a red shirt.
    “Honeys?” I ask, pretending I haven’t noticed the girls, pretending I haven’t even noticed that he’s weirdly been photographing me.
    He lowers his camera.
    “The ladies in plaid—they’re nice. You know what I mean, little man?”
    “Don’t call me that,” I say. Mom calls me
little man
, but he doesn’t need to know that.
    “Meant nothing by it.” He extends his hand, like Mr. Rembrandt did to Dad. “Michael. You sit next to me in English.”
    “I like the way you said that,” I say, shaking his hand.
    “What the hell are you talking about?” he asks.
    “You said it like an asshole—
you sit next to me
, instead of
I sit next to you
, but whatever makes you feel like the boss.”
    “It’s always all about me,” he says.
    “I’m Jeremy,” I say. “And that?” I ask, meaning his fucking camera.
    “My hobby,” he says, snapping another picture. Still staring through his camera, he says, “You were late to class today.”
Click, click, click
. “What’s the deal with that?”
    “Fuck off,” I say, looking for my girl again. When I find her, she walks with a shake-and-bounce, entering the lecture-hall building, leaving Brother Lee behind to return to his office.
    “She’s a drama chick,” Michael says.
    “You don’t even know her,” I say.
    “No,” he says. “You got it wrong. You always get things wrong.”
Click, click, click
. “Those girls, those beautiful bitches over there, including the one you want to marry, they’re
all
in the drama department.”
    “That shit’s off the chain dizzle,” I say, but haven’t the faintest fucking idea what I just said, much less why I said it, and immediately believe with all sincerity that Michael is going to beat the living white hell out of me.
    Instead, he laughs in barks. “You’re a funny little man,” he says, taking a picture of a crushed can of soda in the gutter that looks like it has been used to smoke weed.
    “I said don’t call me that,” I say.
    “I’m heading over there,” he says, thumbing at the lecture hall.
    “Then head,” I say.
    “You have that bad of a day?” he asks. “Or you just on your period?” he asks with another
click, click, click
.
    “You wouldn’t understand,” I say.
    “Want to hear a secret?” he asks.
    “Secrets make me nervous,” I say.
    “I’m African American.” He laughs. “I’m black, except it’s more like
yo, yo, yo, I’m black
,” he says, thugged-out and gangster-licious. “People picture me slinging dope down in the tenement villages across from Camden Yards.” He slaps me on the back. “Lighten up and laugh, Jeremy. Their ignorance gives me more swagger.”
    “Can you make me black?” I ask.
    Michael laughs. “Sorry, little man.”
    “You aren’t going to stop calling me that, are you?” I ask.
    “I’m not.” He swings his camera to the side and shows me a stack of postcard-size flyers. “Let’s go. You’re coming with me. We’re going to meet those girls and hand out these flyers.” He hands me astack. “An exhibit of my work.” The flyer has his name spelled different than I expected, Mykel, printed with the event information over top of a collage of photos cut and spliced together.