FROM THE DIARY OF JANETTE GALLOWAY – ENTRY #1
Dear Diary –
I don’t write in diaries but there’s nobody else to talk to. This isn’t even a diary. It’s my Biology notebook, but I’m not going to need any of the notes anymore. Biology is over. So is Spanish and Algebra and Music and History—especially History.
They’re all over.
My date with Chuck Peterson is over, too. It’s not like I thought it was going to amount to much, anyway. He’s been dating Trina Light, like, forever, but he asked if I wanted to come watch him play football on Saturday, and he didn’t think she was going to be there, so I said yes.
Yeah, I know. What a messed up thing to do. Now I’m being punished for it. Not only am I not going to watch Chuck Peterson play football, I’m probably never going to watch Ross Allan, Greg Alexander, Zach Brant or any of the other football stars run across the field either.
Sure, I’ll probably see them stagger or crawl, or whatever zombies do—but run? Nope—nada—never going to happen.
They’re all dead. I won’t date dead guys. Not even I’m that desperate.
Still, I really wish I had a chance to go for a ride in Chuck Peterson’s Hummer. It was a really nice car. I like nice cars. I guess I’m going to have my pick of them now, just without the boys.
Oh well, easy come easy go. Hey—it’s not like I’m saying I’m easy or anything. I’m not. Definitely not—but still, I would have liked to go for a ride with Chuck—or Ross, or Greg, or Zach. I would have even taken a ride with Nate Elvin if I had to. I guess he wasn’t so bad, once you got to know him and got past the, well you know, that thing on his nose.
So I guess it’s just you and me, diary, and a whole lot of cafeteria food. After all, it’s my own fault for hanging out so long after school with Timmy Harrington. He said no one would bother us if we stayed out of sight in the back of the library. He said we’d have the whole place to ourselves once the janitor left for the night.
It sounded like a good plan, right? I just didn’t figure the janitor turning into a monster, or taking a bite out of Timmy’s arm, and, well…I guess you can guess the rest of the story.
That’s why I’m locked in the cafeteria. I’m not roaming the school halls at night with Timmy and the janitor, and God knows who else, lurking around the math wing.
Hey – I wonder if any of the boys stayed late after football or soccer practice. Maybe they’re in the boy’s locker room right now? Should I go check?
No. That would be a really dumb thing to do, right? A really, really dumb thing to do.
FROM THE DIARY OF JANETTE GALLOWAY – ENTRY #2
Dear Diary –
Leaving the cafeteria was a really, really dumb thing to do. Contrary to what people think, just because I’m pretty doesn’t mean I’m stupid.
The janitor’s name is Mr. Fitzwilliam. He only has half an arm. I remember before I got to high school, I used to wonder which half, but then I met him, and realized…duh.
Mr. Fitzwilliam is married to Mrs. Fitzwilliam, the librarian at Littleham Public Library. I don’t think she likes me too much because I took out a copy of Harry Potter in something like fifth grade and lost it in my room. I think it’s propping up my Barbie Dream House, but I’m not sure. Did you know that wheelchair Barbie can’t get through the door of my Barbie Dream House? It’s not wheelchair accessible. Someone should write to someone about that—if anyone’s left alive, I mean.
Anyway, every so often I get a letter from Mrs. Fitzwilliam saying that I owe like a thousand dollars in late fees for her stupid book. My friend, Karen Taylor, told me that I won’t be able to graduate if I don’t pay the fine. I don’t think that’s true. I hope it’s not true. I haven’t even read Harry Potter yet.
There are too many words.
Back to Mr. Fitzwilliam. He was standing behind the cafeteria door when I opened it. He freaked me out and I screamed, “Don’t scare me like that!”
Mr. Fitzwilliam said something back to me in Zombie, but I don’t speak Zombie. It sounded like 'Ugggg…uhhhhh…gurgle.’ I asked him to repeat himself, so he said it louder.
I don’t get why people think if you speak another language, we’ll understand you if
you just speak louder. I didn’t understand him the second time, either.
Mr. Fitzwilliam tried to grab me, which is totally understandable, because all the boys want to grab me, but he missed because I think he thought he still had half an arm. Timmy Harrington, however, heard me scream. He was moping around the cafeteria, too, probably
because of unfinished business when we were in the library.
Too bad.
Still, I had to go back in the cafeteria and close the door again. I’ve even dragged a couple chairs in front of it just in case, well, you know.
I wonder if there’s any chocolate pudding here. I love cafeteria chocolate pudding, especially when it comes in those big, yellow, tubs. Some people might think it’s gross, but I don’t. It’s yummy.
I say ‘screw the diet’. Chocolate pudding, here I come.
FROM THE DIARY OF JANETTE GALLOWAY - ENTRY #3
I don’t feel so good.
After all that chocolate pudding, I have to go to the bathroom, but the girl’s room is out in the hall, and that’s where Timmy and Mr. Fitzwilliam are.
Still, my stomach really hurts. How much pudding can you have before you’ve had too much? Whatever the amount, my stomach won’t stop gurgling and the big trash can underneath the window is starting to look good.
I’m just not sure how to squat over it – it’s really tall. Hmmm.
Timmy Harrington keeps banging on the cafeteria door. I only know it’s him because it sounds like thump-thump, thump-thump, instead of thump-empty space where Mr. Fitzwilliam’s half-an-arm should be, thump-empty space where Mr. Fitzwilliam’s half-an-arm
should be.
Timmy’s nice and all, but he’s still a zombie and I don’t know what he’ll try and do to me if I let him in. If it’s anything like what happened in the back of the library, he’ll try and do a lot.
Also, my cell phone’s on the fritz. I mean, it’s dialing, but no one’s answering on the other end. I’m not dumb enough to think that only Timmy and Mr. Fitzwilliam have turned into zombies, but I hope at least my mom is okay.
I’d like to say the same about my dad, but frankly, I don’t really care anymore. Ever since he’s married that Dottie lady, he’s been totally different. It’s like I’m invisible or something. He's all ‘Dottie this’ and ‘Dottie that’. Well, what about ‘Janette this’ and ‘Janette that’? I matter, too, you know.
Mom said this is exactly how Dad would act once he married Dottie, but I didn’t want to believe her. Maybe Dottie will turn into a zombie, or get eaten by one, and things can go back to the way they were before the divorce. Besides, who marries an ex-lesbian, anyway? I didn’t even think people could switch like that. It’s not like we’re chameleons.
Well, if she does end up as a zombie, she’ll be the only one out there with a mullet. How eighties can you get?
Okay—reality check. I’m stuck in the Littleham High School cafeteria with a zombie custodian and another zombie that I almost did it with in the back of the library where they keep all the literary books that no one wants to read, like The Scarlet Letter and Lolita. Sure, there’s food and all, but I can’t stay here forever. I going to have to get out of here somehow and try to make it to my Mom’s house.
Hey—I know I’m a porker for eating all that pudding, but I’m sure I can fit myself though one of those windows over by the long tables where the dorky kids sit. I’ve never really been to that side of the cafeteria before. That’s like social suicide.
Still, pudding or not, I’m sure I can fit through one of those window if I really try.
Dear Diary –
I don’t write in diaries but there’s nobody else to talk to. This isn’t even a diary. It’s my Biology notebook, but I’m not going to need any of the notes anymore. Biology is over. So is Spanish and Algebra and Music and History—especially History.
They’re all over.
My date with Chuck Peterson is over, too. It’s not like I thought it was going to amount to much, anyway. He’s been dating Trina Light, like, forever, but he asked if I wanted to come watch him play football on Saturday, and he didn’t think she was going to be there, so I said yes.
Yeah, I know. What a messed up thing to do. Now I’m being punished for it. Not only am I not going to watch Chuck Peterson play football, I’m probably never going to watch Ross Allan, Greg Alexander, Zach Brant or any of the other football stars run across the field either.
Sure, I’ll probably see them stagger or crawl, or whatever zombies do—but run? Nope—nada—never going to happen.
They’re all dead. I won’t date dead guys. Not even I’m that desperate.
Still, I really wish I had a chance to go for a ride in Chuck Peterson’s Hummer. It was a really nice car. I like nice cars. I guess I’m going to have my pick of them now, just without the boys.
Oh well, easy come easy go. Hey—it’s not like I’m saying I’m easy or anything. I’m not. Definitely not—but still, I would have liked to go for a ride with Chuck—or Ross, or Greg, or Zach. I would have even taken a ride with Nate Elvin if I had to. I guess he wasn’t so bad, once you got to know him and got past the, well you know, that thing on his nose.
So I guess it’s just you and me, diary, and a whole lot of cafeteria food. After all, it’s my own fault for hanging out so long after school with Timmy Harrington. He said no one would bother us if we stayed out of sight in the back of the library. He said we’d have the whole place to ourselves once the janitor left for the night.
It sounded like a good plan, right? I just didn’t figure the janitor turning into a monster, or taking a bite out of Timmy’s arm, and, well…I guess you can guess the rest of the story.
That’s why I’m locked in the cafeteria. I’m not roaming the school halls at night with Timmy and the janitor, and God knows who else, lurking around the math wing.
Hey – I wonder if any of the boys stayed late after football or soccer practice. Maybe they’re in the boy’s locker room right now? Should I go check?
No. That would be a really dumb thing to do, right? A really, really dumb thing to do.
FROM THE DIARY OF JANETTE GALLOWAY – ENTRY #2
Dear Diary –
Leaving the cafeteria was a really, really dumb thing to do. Contrary to what people think, just because I’m pretty doesn’t mean I’m stupid.
The janitor’s name is Mr. Fitzwilliam. He only has half an arm. I remember before I got to high school, I used to wonder which half, but then I met him, and realized…duh.
Mr. Fitzwilliam is married to Mrs. Fitzwilliam, the librarian at Littleham Public Library. I don’t think she likes me too much because I took out a copy of Harry Potter in something like fifth grade and lost it in my room. I think it’s propping up my Barbie Dream House, but I’m not sure. Did you know that wheelchair Barbie can’t get through the door of my Barbie Dream House? It’s not wheelchair accessible. Someone should write to someone about that—if anyone’s left alive, I mean.
Anyway, every so often I get a letter from Mrs. Fitzwilliam saying that I owe like a thousand dollars in late fees for her stupid book. My friend, Karen Taylor, told me that I won’t be able to graduate if I don’t pay the fine. I don’t think that’s true. I hope it’s not true. I haven’t even read Harry Potter yet.
There are too many words.
Back to Mr. Fitzwilliam. He was standing behind the cafeteria door when I opened it. He freaked me out and I screamed, “Don’t scare me like that!”
Mr. Fitzwilliam said something back to me in Zombie, but I don’t speak Zombie. It sounded like 'Ugggg…uhhhhh…gurgle.’ I asked him to repeat himself, so he said it louder.
I don’t get why people think if you speak another language, we’ll understand you if
you just speak louder. I didn’t understand him the second time, either.
Mr. Fitzwilliam tried to grab me, which is totally understandable, because all the boys want to grab me, but he missed because I think he thought he still had half an arm. Timmy Harrington, however, heard me scream. He was moping around the cafeteria, too, probably
because of unfinished business when we were in the library.
Too bad.
Still, I had to go back in the cafeteria and close the door again. I’ve even dragged a couple chairs in front of it just in case, well, you know.
I wonder if there’s any chocolate pudding here. I love cafeteria chocolate pudding, especially when it comes in those big, yellow, tubs. Some people might think it’s gross, but I don’t. It’s yummy.
I say ‘screw the diet’. Chocolate pudding, here I come.
FROM THE DIARY OF JANETTE GALLOWAY - ENTRY #3
I don’t feel so good.
After all that chocolate pudding, I have to go to the bathroom, but the girl’s room is out in the hall, and that’s where Timmy and Mr. Fitzwilliam are.
Still, my stomach really hurts. How much pudding can you have before you’ve had too much? Whatever the amount, my stomach won’t stop gurgling and the big trash can underneath the window is starting to look good.
I’m just not sure how to squat over it – it’s really tall. Hmmm.
Timmy Harrington keeps banging on the cafeteria door. I only know it’s him because it sounds like thump-thump, thump-thump, instead of thump-empty space where Mr. Fitzwilliam’s half-an-arm should be, thump-empty space where Mr. Fitzwilliam’s half-an-arm
should be.
Timmy’s nice and all, but he’s still a zombie and I don’t know what he’ll try and do to me if I let him in. If it’s anything like what happened in the back of the library, he’ll try and do a lot.
Also, my cell phone’s on the fritz. I mean, it’s dialing, but no one’s answering on the other end. I’m not dumb enough to think that only Timmy and Mr. Fitzwilliam have turned into zombies, but I hope at least my mom is okay.
I’d like to say the same about my dad, but frankly, I don’t really care anymore. Ever since he’s married that Dottie lady, he’s been totally different. It’s like I’m invisible or something. He's all ‘Dottie this’ and ‘Dottie that’. Well, what about ‘Janette this’ and ‘Janette that’? I matter, too, you know.
Mom said this is exactly how Dad would act once he married Dottie, but I didn’t want to believe her. Maybe Dottie will turn into a zombie, or get eaten by one, and things can go back to the way they were before the divorce. Besides, who marries an ex-lesbian, anyway? I didn’t even think people could switch like that. It’s not like we’re chameleons.
Well, if she does end up as a zombie, she’ll be the only one out there with a mullet. How eighties can you get?
Okay—reality check. I’m stuck in the Littleham High School cafeteria with a zombie custodian and another zombie that I almost did it with in the back of the library where they keep all the literary books that no one wants to read, like The Scarlet Letter and Lolita. Sure, there’s food and all, but I can’t stay here forever. I going to have to get out of here somehow and try to make it to my Mom’s house.
Hey—I know I’m a porker for eating all that pudding, but I’m sure I can fit myself though one of those windows over by the long tables where the dorky kids sit. I’ve never really been to that side of the cafeteria before. That’s like social suicide.
Still, pudding or not, I’m sure I can fit through one of those window if I really try.