The Essay
By Monika M. Segally © 2006
What I Did On My Summer Vacation
By: Jason P. Smeely
Well Mrs. Paulson…summer sucked. Being dead is not all it's cracked up to be. You know getting run over by Mr. James the last day of school really kind of set the mood for the whole stupid vacation. I mean really—how much can a dead guy do? Sure can't cruise the girls in this condition but I did manage a few of them. They just didn't realize it was me. That was kind of neat. When Marybeth's bikini top mysteriously washed away at the beach…well yeah, that was me. Man she looked good and it was worth being dead just to see it. And Angela? I'm the one who made the elastic pop on her dress at Jack's graduation party. I know my buddies loved that one! They toasted me with beers that night that Mr. James had provided.
Oh and Mrs. Paulson? I killed him—Mr. James I mean. And no one knows it but you. He deserved it and you know that better than anyone else. He wanted to shut me up, and you wanted to let him and did. Shame on you. Did you guys think you could keep it a secret forever? One of us was bound to figure it out. You teachers never give us enough credit and think we are all stupid. And you're right for the most part, but my stupid mistake was telling Mr. James that I knew what he did to my brother and thinking he was the only one involved.
I knew Billy wouldn't have run away. I knew it. It's why I started digging up the football field. It didn't matter it was school property and that Old Mr. Calhoun kept suspending me. I learned my lesson and started digging at night. I found his jacket. His letterman's jacket. I was shaking in the moonlight when I pulled it out covered with earth. And I cried. I cried the tears that couldn't come since he disappeared last fall. I saw where the sleeves were ripped to shreds. I saw the blood and all of my suspicions turned into this clear cut vision of what Mr. James had really done. And you let him. It didn't surprise me to learn that after he killed me.
I looked in the pocket of Billy's jacket. You are the stupid ones to not check his freaking pockets. I found the vial. Only a drop was left. Deep in the hole were the other vials that had spilled out of his jacket and shattered in the ground. He must have known what was happening and wanted to leave some kind of proof.
“Just think son; just think what the world will have.” Mr. James probably told him the same lie he told me. “All for the sake of science. You can be something bigger than this back woods town. The whole world will know you.”
He never told us we would be monsters. I don't even think you and Mr. James knew what we would be by the end of it. And I never made it to the end of the experiment and for that I guess I am thankful, that's if the dead can truly feel gratitude. It seems these days all I feel is alone.
I know Billy must be somewhere on this earth wandering around. There isn't anywhere for him to go. I have spent this summer vacation looking for him everywhere I can think of. I call his name out in the woods until I hate the sound of my own freaking voice. Those are the times when the hunters stop to listen thinking they are hearing an unusual bird when it's really only me. The only one who ever answered was that girl with the blonde hair who disappeared a year ago. I remember the rumors saying she got pregnant and ran off somewhere. Now I know she was probably one of your guinea pigs too. I only saw her that once and she ran when she saw me and I don't know where she went no more than I know where the hell Billy went off to.
This summer has been hell with all the wandering. I really have no idea where I should go. I went home a few times right after I died. My mom sat in her chair in front of the picture window. I think she is still waiting for Billy. No one ever found his body, (ain't you lucky Mrs. Paulson because someone may have done an autopsy and figured out how you and Mr. James altered him) She saw my body crushed into the asphalt and knows better than to wait for me. There wasn't much to speak of for anyone to bother looking at what was happening to my body before I was so conveniently killed. You made my mother alone in the world. You made me alone in the world.
I learned a lot this past summer—more than I ever learned in one of your stupid boring classes. See Mrs. Paulson, when the two of you tried to change us, you changed our souls. You left us in this world with no heaven or hell to go to. God made us perfect, our souls perfect—it's why the damn devil is so anxious to take normal people. He wants perfection because he lacks it. And now my soul is damaged. And no one wants me because there is no place for me, not the devil—and definitely not God. My soul is gone and I linger here because without it, God has forgotten I existed. I finally know what the undead are and they are not vampires. They are me and Billy and that blonde haired girl. We are the deadest of the undead. But—there are some perks to this dead thing…
Mr. James didn't know what was happening when I wrapped my fingers around his to help him make the noose. He was so frightened and whimpered when I made his hands tie one end to the rafters in his garage. He cried like a baby when I lifted his legs onto the chair and he begged God for mercy as the tips of his toes grazed the back of the chair when it fell over. He could just almost see me as his eyes bugged out of his head and his tongue swelled up and filled his mouth. I was laughing. Yep, Mrs. Paulson, revenge is sweet.
When you assigned this paper last week I thought it was just one of your usual dumb assignments. I didn't realize I would actually enjoy myself writing it. You know how all week you keep glancing to the empty desk in the corner of your classroom? It isn't empty Mrs. Paulson. I've been watching you all week and I know you felt me. Sometimes I've waved to you from the back row and you were puzzled because you could see the breeze move the faded posters on the wall. It's made you jittery. You keep dropping books and papers, not knowing what is wrong with you. It's me, Jason P. Smeely. I am what's wrong with you. It's me pushing your hand across the desk as you write my assignment. It's me telling you—your next Mrs. Paulson and you deserve it for ruining my summer vacation.
The end
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