Never Slow Dance with a Zombie - By E. Van Lowe Page 0,3

following as I strolled the carnival grounds on Dirk's arm. The thought had me giddy with delight.

Sybil and I were halfway through the fifteen-block walk to school. We rarely took the bus. The bus was divided into cliques, and was yet another reminder of my failure. The cliques included Amanda and her twigs--a.k.a. the Twigettes or it-girls; the Goths; the emos; the jocks; the girl jocks--a.k.a. girls who think skintight warm up suits with writing on the butt and matching tennis shoes are cute (they're not); the preps (rich kids headed for the Ivy League); the stoners; and lastly the stoner nerds. Stoner nerds are kids who think getting stoned will make them cool. It won't. A nerd is a nerd. When Sybil and I rode the bus there was a ninth clique: two cute girls who were too cool to be subjected to this junk--us.

"Cliques are so unnecessary," said Sybil as we walked.

"I know" was all I could muster. The school's cliques were

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Sybil's one pet peeve. Normally I'd indulge her outrage, but today I was too excited to even fake it.

"You never really gave me an answer last night," she suddenly said.

"Answer? About what?" Yes, I know it's the only thing I'd been thinking about. But I've got my pride.

We were crossing Maple Street when Sybil stopped and eyed me knowingly. "Margot, this is me. I know you've been thinking about it."

"All right, you got me. I can't get it off my mind."

"And?"

And why not ask Dirk out? I thought. If he says yes-hallelujah. If he says no, it would be a request from some strange girl he'd probably never remember. I would be shielded from all embarrassment. I envisioned me and Dirk at the carnival, riding rides, eating cotton candy, holding hands. There was a third person in that imagined picture that made it seem perfect--a person whose jealous eyes would be on me all night.

"All right," I finally said. "Let's do it."

Sybil smiled.

I smiled; then I mentally began preparing myself for gym class, or as I like to call it, forty-five minutes of hell.

"Margot Jean Johnson!" Mrs. Mars, my gym teacher, bellowed in her deep, hoarse tone. "I don't care how many notes you bring from home. If you don't pass the state endurance exam you are failing PE, young lady." She waved my most recent excuse note in my face.

I was very proud of that note. It was my best creative effort so far:

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Dear Mrs. Mars,

Please excuse our daughter and the apple of our eye, Margot, from participating in gym class today. We had dinner at Captain Pete's last night where she accidentally swallowed a fish bone, and we fear all that running and jumping you force the kids to do may cause her to puncture a lung.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Trudi Johnson

"Ow, ow, ow!" I screeched from my perch atop the bleachers where all the girls with notes sat. I clutched at my chest. "Physical activity could kill me." I coughed feebly for effect.

"Poppycock!" snarled Mrs. Mars. "You'll pass the state en-durance exam, or you'll be right back here next semester. Same bat time, same bat channel."

Mrs. Mars was the gym teacher from hell, an ancient leftover from the seventies when breaking rocks with sledgehammers was considered exercise. She dressed in long pleated skirts and industrial-strength tennis shoes as if she were teaching gym class in Bulgaria. Her hair was cinched back into a tight bun, and around her neck she wore a hideous blue scarf. While she may have thought of it as a fashion statement, I was certain the scarf was there to hide the chicken skin that rippled along her throat.

"I want to work out, I really do. But I'm all my parents have got"

A few snickers erupted from the group on the gym floor. I stiffened, knowing who they were from. My eyes moved to Amanda Culpepper and her crew. Amanda tossed back a lock of blond hair and smirked in my direction. She and her crew were already in their gym uniforms.

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The uniforms were hideous, puke-green monstrosities that billowed on our frames like sails, making most of us look like Spanish galleons, sailing across the gym floor in search of treasure--or a decent change of clothes. Yet somehow Amanda managed to look cute in hers. The uniform didn't billow on her frame at all. i bet she starches hers. I find it hard to like someone who can look cute in a gym uniform.

"Margot Jean Johnson," Mrs. Mars called, dragging my attention back.