zombies. While they were afraid of Mrs. Mars, they were beginning to eye me like a meaty meat burger. So without another word, I zombie walked to the locker room and changed into my uniform.
The state endurance exam consisted of four disciplines: abdominal strength, upper-body strength, endurance and flexibility, and aerobic capacity. For abdominal strength we did sit-ups, for flexibility we stretched, and for both endurance and aerobic
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capacity we ran around the track. However, to build upper-body strength, Mrs. Mars subjected her classes to the most archaic exercise known to man--climbing the ropes.
The ropes was an exercise probably invented in the sixteenth century by pirates, for their children to swing on to practice attacking ships. Unfortunately, Salesian is an old school, built way back in the days when teachers still thought of pirating as a viable occupation. Over time, most gym teachers had abandoned the exercise, but not Mrs. Mars. She must have gotten some sadistic pleasure from watching young, modern girls hoist themselves up to the ceiling on thick braided rope.
As much as I hated all exercise, I found the ropes downright insulting. Talk about a useless discipline. When does a high-powered business executive ever need to climb ropes? Well Miss Hufferwinkle, your corporate responsibilities will consist of overseeing the World Trade Bank, managing the Trump portfolio, and, oh yes, the ropes. You do know how to climb the ropes, don't you? Ridiculous.
Gym class that day was a grueling forty minutes of hell. Mrs. Mars ushered us out to the track, where we stretched and then zombie ran in a tight pack around the quarter-mile oval, with her yelling, "Pick it up!" and "Get the lead out!" for the entire period.
On the bright side, I was able to observe a very important fact about zombies. They can't run no matter how hard they try. Even with Mrs. Mars spurring us on, the zombies moved stiffly around the track, their legs locked at the knees, their arms outstretched as if they were doing a bad imitation of Frankenstein. I thought back to my earlier crisis with the zombies in the corridor that morning.
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Note to self: If you're ever in a tight spot with a zombie again--run.
That night Sybil and I sat on the edge of my bed going over the events of the day, everything from the mouse incident to the grueling gym class--and let's not forget about lunch.
"You know, I do believe I'm the best lunchroom monitor ever."
Now that Sybil had some power I couldn't shut her up. She had become the lunchroom Nazi.
"The cafeteria is usually so noisy you can't hear yourself think, but not with me on patrol. No siree. Have you ever heard the cafeteria so quiet?" She looked at me expectantly.
"No," I replied. Do I point out that everyone in the cafeteria is a zombie, and that zombies don't talk? And that zombies by nature are predictably passive unless something dismpts their pattern? "You were great," I added.
"Thank you very much," she said. A self-satisfied smile spread across her face. I should have left it at that and moved on to more important things. But my mouth had other plans.
"1 didn't know being lunchroom monitor was such a big deal for you. When you first mentioned it I thought you were joking."
The smile vanished. "Excuse me? Joking?" she said through tight lips.
"I mean... lunchroom monitor. It's ... kind of... dorky."
Her eyebrows pinched together; her lips turned down. "Why? Because you're not lunchroom monitor?"
I knew if I kept going things would only get worse. Agree with her, agree with her, agree with her, agree with her. But instead I said, "Why would I want to be lunchroom monitor? Puh4eeze!"
"Margot Jean Johnson, you just can't be happy for me, can you? I am always happy for you when you get things you want."
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It was true. Sybil was always there rooting for me, cheering me on. And I was getting everything I'd ever wanted--Yearbook Committee, Homecoming Committee, head cheerleader, prom queen. It should have been enough. It should have been easy for me to be happy for her. She was a lunchroom monitor. We weren't competing. But the darkness that had risen inside me could only be happy for me.
"That's because the things I want make sense," I heard myself say.
She winced.
"I mean... come on, Syb. Lunchroom monitor?"
"I'm not just lunchroom monitor. I'm head lunchroom monitor. There's a difference!" she exclaimed. ' I have a larger vision here. You just can't see it yet,"
I couldn't believe it. I