The Heart That Stopped Beating by Jenna (classic books for 11 year olds TXT) 📕

~Torian~

Breathing hard, I waited for him to say something. Anything. Because, frankly, the awkward silence was killing me. He seemed concentrated on my fingers, which were resting lazily on middle C.
“Well,” I snapped questioningly, my tone one of impatience and anger.
“Well

?”
He raised a dark brow. His green eyes met mine and I tried my hardest not to strangle the smart-ass right out of the kid.
“Andrew,” I cried, throwing my hands up in frustration. He smiled devilishly.
“Yes, Torian?”
His voice had a fake syrupy tone to it that made me wonder if he was mocking me. A wild lock of curly ash blond hair had escaped from behind his ear, and I had half a mind to tuck it back in place.
“You were okay,” he admitted after a few moments, savoring the look of pure disappointment on my face.
“What?! I just poured my heart and soul into that piece and you completely-”
“Terrorized it? Yeah, I know. You were choppy… again. It‘d be okay if you were thinking about putting it into Chainsaw Massacre or Nightmare on Elm Street.”
I growled and rolled my eyes. Of course, degrading me for my piano skills was one thing. Comparing what I thought was a beautiful, melodious piece to the theme song of some stupid thrasher movie was something else completely though.
“I’ve been going at this one piece for-”
“Two hours and thirty-six minutes. I don’t know how many times you’ve screwed up, but it’s probably a new record. You need to slow down- meld the notes together- and listen to the music,” he insisted for the millionth time. I was considering calling him Polly, for all the times he’s ever repeated himself.
“Break time, please? My fingers are going raw from all that ‘melding’,” I muttered with an eye roll. Andrew may have been an amazing pianist- he was applying for Julliard in the fall- but he had no actual schedule. It was just practice, practice, practice.
“Fine. But get your skinny ass back here in ten minutes, or I will hunt you down.”
I knew he would stick to his promise and jumped from the old, worn piano bench. Stretching my fingers and limbs, I arched my back to hear the satisfying pop. Andrew shuddered.
“That’s disgusting,” he frowned, shaking his head as I cracked my knuckles.
I stuck out my tongue and reached for my bottle of water. The slow shuffling of feet outside the door made a chill creep up the back of my neck.
“No, that’s disgusting,” I insisted, taking a swig of my water and pointing towards the door. The dragging of feet could be heard from the other side of the music room. Andrew faltered for a moment before nodding solemnly. His sister had been Changed a few years before, before anyone knew what ‘being Changed’ even was.
“I, um… I’ll give you fifteen minutes. I have to fit in lunch,” he mumbled hastily, gathering his music and nodding at me before rushing to the door. I blinked as he opened the creaking door, the slow shuffling of feet even louder than before.
‘You always know the perfect thing to say, huh, Torian,’ I thought to myself as I shook my head and grabbed my sheet music. The clang of the door closing announced my lonesomeness and I considered chasing after him and apologizing, but then I realized I would actually have to apologize. Huffing, I hurried to the door. It swung open with a satisfying creak and I looked around the empty hallway. Nothing. Stepping carefully into the corridor, I looked around for any Changed. None. No dragging feet or low moans.
I smiled and turned the corner, rushing through the halls. I was lucky today. Most of the Changed would loiter in the halls, the smell of death following them. And then there were the Others.
Skittishly, I scampered through the halls, a wave of paranoia setting in. I glanced over my shoulder and heard the scuttle of feet, which only made me quicken my pace. As I turned the corner, making my way to my locker, something grabbed me from behind. I spun around, expecting to see a Changed or something worse. I almost screamed, but Derek covered my gaping mouth with his hand. My hand went over my fluttering heart and I let out a sigh of relief.
“You scared the hell out of me,” I cried, my expression still frozen in shock, as he chuckled.
“You should have seen your face, Tor. I swear, you looked like you about to pee yourself,” he laughed. I swatted his arm and furrowed my brow.
“Derek, that wasn’t funny,” I insisted, my heart still racing from the scare.
He shrugged, a smile placed on his pink lips. “I thought it was pretty hilarious.”
I had managed to crack a smile and he wrapped his arm around my shoulder.
“Don’t worry, I’ll protect you if any zombies are roaming the hall,” he laughed. I stiffened.
“You know we’re not supposed to call them-”
“What do you want me to call them,” he interrupted. I faltered.
“I-I don’t know,” I admitted. Something flickered in his hazel eyes and we stopped as we reached my ugly, bright orange locker.
“Whatever. Hey, Sterling and I are going to lunch. Want to join?”
Just like that, the awkward anger diminished. I mulled the thought over before nodding.
“I only have fifteen minutes though.”
Derek nodded in understanding. “That hard-ass Andrew is just working you to the bone, I see,” he teased sarcastically.
“Well, can you play Rachmaninoff Prelude Op. 23 No. 5?”
He faltered and looked at me as though I spouted out fluent alien.
“Touché. I have taught you well, young grasshopper,” he joked, bowing dramatically, his forehead almost reaching his knee. I laughed and grabbed hold of his arm, jerking him from the ground. We made our way to the courtyard in front of the school to find my brother, Sterling, waiting in his car, all the windows rolled down and blaring music. In the front seat was his girlfriend, Madison, fixing her lip gloss in the mirror and fluffing her bright blond hair.
“Took you long enough! Come on, I’m starved,” Sterling cried impatiently as Derek and I scrambled into the backseat. I rolled my eyes as my brother sped out of the parking lot. He never liked it when something got in the way of him and his food.

~Nick~

I cleared the plates painstakingly slowly. The laughter of humans and clanking of silverware echoed through my ears. But I didn’t hear it. Or at least, I didn’t try to.
The weight of the dirty dishes seemed almost unnoticeable as I lugged around the tub of dirty plates and silverware. I had to keep focused on moving my arms, and not thinking about anything else. My ‘new’ limbs moved slowly, at a speed that, at one time, would have left me in a frustrated fit.
People in the slightly crowded restaurant watched me with a type of strained wariness. I remember when I used to look at the Changed that way too.
They had that look of disgust and pity melding in their hardened eyes. They stiffened as I drew closer, even though I moved at a speed that would have made a turtle get road rage. The stereotypes about ‘zombies’ weren’t true.
They… We

didn’t live off of brains. We didn’t eat.
We didn’t moan and groan, crying ‘brains

’ when we spotted a human.
There was no zombie apocalyptic end for all of humanity.
But there was segregation. And bullying.
Against

the ‘flesh-eating’ zombies that ‘terrorized’ the town.
School was the worst.
I had grown up with most of these kids, and then suddenly I’m an outsider.
My friends, the ones who had moved on, were my enemies.
I was still good at it, school I mean, but I didn’t talk.
Or rather, I chose not to talk. The words didn’t come off my tongue as they were supposed to. They seemed scrambled around in my brain until the thought just became too hard to voice.
My writing had become a process of shaking and praying it was slightly legible.
But then there were pictures.
I could still take pictures, with my uncle’s old camera.
I could still capture a moment, a second, before it was gone.
That was one thing I was grateful of.
The tinkling of the bell, above the door of the restaurant, snapped me out of my concentration. I dropped the glass cup and it fell to the floor with a shattering noise. The room grew quiet. I bent down slowly, slower than usual, and brought my fingers to the glass. In the glare, I caught a glimpse of my reflection.
Pale skin, the color of milk. Haunting dark eyes that looked somewhere between a murky blue and a grey.
I didn’t look like me anymore.
As I picked up a handful of glass, ignoring the sting because picking it up with my fingers would have been even harder, I heard the steps of someone else. At first, I thought they would just step over me, not bother.
But then, I looked over to see a familiar girl, crouching by my side, picking up shards of glass with her slender fingers. Honey blond hair fell in her face, so I couldn‘t get a good look, but something about her stance was familiar.
Before I could register anything else, a shadow loomed over us.
I looked up to see my manager, Mr. Darby, his face redder than his hair.
He was a tiny man, who only stood to about my shoulder, and wore a bowtie, as if he were on some fifties throwback.
“Nick, what do you think you’re doing, making this poor girl clean up your mess? You big oaf, I should-”
“It was my fault,” the girl said quietly. Her ice blue eyes flickered to the door. “I, uh, tripped him. I thought the least I could do was help.”
Mr. Darby scowled and shook his head. “Clean up this mess, busboy. I swear, one more mishap and it’ll be the end of your job here,” he hissed snidely.
The girl, who didn’t even bat an eyelash, pursed her lips. “Mr… Darby,” she paused, reading his nametag, “I really am sorry. It wasn’t his fault.”
Darby finally looked at her, his scowl softening slightly. “It’s okay. How about a discount? Accidents happen, right?”
She nodded uneasily.
Embarrassment washed over me. The girl, the stranger, had lied for me because she felt sorry...
Of course Mr. Darby would play the nice guy act now, in front