Between

by Jessica Warman

  “Yes. I remember you.” I can’t stop glancing at myself in the water, looking from Alex to my body, unable to feel anything but numb horror. As I’m staring, my right boot—which has been loose on my foot ever since I first saw myself—finally slips off. It fills slowly with water. And then it sinks beneath the surface with a gurgle, disappearing as I reach for it halfheartedly. In the water, my bare foot is exposed: bloated and shriveled at the same time.

  Aside from the fact that we went to school together forever, I remember something else about Alex. His face has been all over the newspapers for the past year. Last September, just after school started up again, he was riding his bike home from work after dark—he worked at the Mystic Market, just down the road from my house—when a car struck and killed him. His body was thrown into the sandy brush along the street; even though his parents reported him missing right away, he was thrown so far from the road that they didn’t actually find him for a couple of days. It wasn’t until a jogger happened to go past, noticed the smell, and decided to investigate that he was found.

  “How gross,” I whisper. Again, the thought surprises me. What is the matter with me? Aside from the obvious, it’s like there is no filter between my brain and my mouth. Be nice, Elizabeth. The poor kid is dead. Trying to correct myself, I add, “Well, you don’t look like you got hit by a car.” And he doesn’t. Aside from his mussed hair, there isn’t a mark on him.

  “You don’t look like you just drowned a few hours ago.” He pauses. “You drowned, right?”

  I shake my head. It’s the first time it’s occurred to me to wonder. “I … I don’t know what happened. I don’t even remember falling asleep. It’s like all of a sudden I woke up because I heard a noise outside.” I pause. “I couldn’t have drowned, Alex. You have to understand that. It isn’t possible. I’m a good swimmer. I mean, you know, we practically grew up at the beach.”

  “Then what happened?” he asks.

  I stare at my body. “I have no idea. I can’t remember anything. It’s like … some kind of amnesia or something.” I look at him. “Is that normal? Did it happen to you? I mean, can you remember anything from before you … died?”

  “I remember more now than I did right after I—right after it happened to me,” he says. “I’m not an expert or anything, but my guess is that it’s normal for your memory to be sort of fuzzy for a while. Think of it this way,” he explains. “People usually get amnesia after some kind of a trauma, right?”

  I shrug. “I guess so.”

  “Well, death is one hell of a trauma, isn’t it?”

  “Dead. Shit.” I bite my lip and look at him. “I’m sorry, Alex. I just can’t believe it. It’s a dream … right? I’m asleep, that’s all. You aren’t really here.”

  He stares at me. “If it’s a dream, why don’t you pinch yourself?”

  I stare back. I feel so small and desperately sad, I can barely speak. But I manage to shake my head a little bit, to coax a single word from my mouth. “No.”

  I don’t want to pinch myself. I’m afraid that if I do, I won’t wake up. Deep down, I know I won’t wake up.

  I take a deep breath. I can feel my lungs filling with air; I feel alive.

  “You’re definitely a goner.” He’s so flippant about it, so matter-of-fact, that I almost want to slap him.

  “Okay. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that this is all real. If I’m actually dead, why don’t you prove it?” I narrow my eyes in defiance at him. “Seriously.”

  He’s amused. “The sight of your corpse floating in the water isn’t proof enough for you?”

  “I’m not saying that. I’m saying there’s another explanation. There has to be.”

  “Put your hand on my shoulder,” he says.

  “I thought you didn’t want me to touch you.”

  “I don’t. But I’m making an exception.”

  “Why don’t you want me to touch you?”

  “Would you just—”

  “No. I want to know, Alex. Why don’t you want me to touch you?” And then I can’t help myself; the words are coming out before I have a chance to think about them. “A boy like you? You’re a nobody. I’m Elizabeth Valchar. Any guy would give his pinky finger to have me lay a hand on him.”

  Why am I treating him this way? We’re here together, with no one else in the world to talk to, and I’m being mean to him.

  He stares at me for a long time, but he doesn’t answer. I know I sound conceited, but it occurs to me that what I’m saying is true. That’s right—I’m pretty. Beautiful, actually.

  Alex stares past me, at the water. “You say you feel like you have amnesia. But it’s interesting what you can remember. You know I was a nobody. You know you were popular.” He brings his gaze back to me. “What else do you remember?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

  He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. You will eventually.”

  “What does that mean?” I demand.

  But he doesn’t answer me. Instead, he says, “Just do it, Liz. Put your hand on my shoulder.”

  So I do. Then he closes his eyes, which leads me to do the same. I feel like my whole body is being sucked into a gelatinous vacuum. I almost yank my hand away from his shoulder, but just as I’m about to pull it back the vacuum is gone, replaced by—oh God—the cafeteria of my high school.

  It’s crowded with students, but right away I spot my old table: it’s next to the potato bar, on the far end of the cafeteria near the double doors leading to the parking lot.

  “There you are,” Alex says, pointing at me. “You and the cool crew.”

  I can see myself; it’s almost like being in reality, except not. There I am, and here I am, watching. I’m sitting with my closest friends: Richie, Josie, Caroline, Mera, and Topher. They were all on the boat with me last night. They’re still inside right now, sleeping.

  “Oh God,” I murmur, “look at my hair.” Even as the words are leaving my mouth, I know they sound ridiculous.

  “Your hair is fine.” Alex sighs. “It’s exactly the same as everyone else’s.”

  I realize that he’s right: my girlfriends and I are all wearing our long blond hair with the sides pulled back, a slight pouf at the top of our heads, the result of a good twenty minutes of painstaking teasing and hairspraying in the morning. The look is called a bump, I remember. It was popular a few years ago. The only variation on the look is Caroline’s hair, which is decorated with red and white ribbons, whose shades exactly match the colors of her cheerleading uniform.

  “What year is this?” I ask. “We can’t be older than—”

  “Sixteen. This was sophomore year. You know how I can tell?”

  “How?” I hate to admit it, but even though we might be ghosts, even though I know nobody can see us, I feel awkward being here with Alex. It’s as though I’m afraid my friends will look over at any moment and see me with him, and immediately brand me as an outcast. My God—what would Josie say?

  Why do I feel like this? And what kind of a person was I, anyway? I know that I was popular, but it’s so odd—I don’t remember exactly why, or what I was like in my everyday life. And all of a sudden, there’s a part of me that really, really doesn’t want to know.

  Alex stares at us. “I know we can’t be older than that, because I’m still alive.” He nudges me. “Here I come.”

  I watch as he walks into the room alone. He’s carrying his lunch in a plain brown paper bag.

  “Why didn’t you just buy your lunch?” I ask. “Nobody brown-bags it in high school.”

  He gives me an exasperated look.

  “What?” I ask. It seems like a perfectly legitimate question to me.

  “It’s four dollars a day to eat lunch at school,” he says. “We didn’t have the money.”

  I gape at him. “You didn’t have four dollars a day?”

  “No. My parents were strict. They were really tight with money. If I wanted to spend something—even to buy lunch at scho
ol—I had to earn it myself. The Mystic Market, where I used to work, paid minimum wage.” He shakes his head. He almost seems to pity me. “You don’t know how good you had it. Not everyone just gets whatever they want handed to them. And besides, I wasn’t the only one who brought his lunch.” He points. “Look.”

  We follow Alex across the room, to an empty table not far from me and my friends. At another table nearby, also sitting alone, is Frank Wainscott. Frank is a year older than we are, which would put him in eleventh grade here. He has bright red hair and freckles. He wears a blue T-shirt and ill-fitting jeans that are too short for his legs. And he is, I remember, a major dork. Like Alex, Frank has brought his own lunch. But on the outside of his brown bag, somebody—presumably his mother—has written his name in black marker and drawn a heart around it. I almost cringe with embarrassment for him.

  As Frank unpacks his lunch, Alex and I start to eavesdrop on my friends.

  Caroline is gazing longingly at a shiny red apple, passing it back and forth between her hands. “I’ve already eaten six hundred calories today,” she says. “How many calories are in an apple?”

  “Eighty,” I say to myself. How do I know that?

  “Eighty,” my living self informs her. “But apples are good, Caroline. They have fiber and nutrients. Go ahead. Eat it.”

  She gazes at my willowy body, visibly very thin even though I’m sitting down. I’m wearing a sleeveless shirt, my arms skinny and muscular. “You don’t have to worry about getting fat, Liz. You’ve got good genes.”

  Josie snatches the apple from Caroline’s hands. “I thought you were trying to stick with twelve hundred calories a day. If you eat this, that’s almost seven hundred calories right there. And you know you’ll be starving after cheerleading practice.”

  Caroline frowns. “I’ll eat a light dinner.”

  “The last time I ate dinner at your house,” Josie reminds her, “your mom made homemade pizzas. On white bread.” She pauses for emphasis. “With full-fat cheese.” Josie takes a big bite from the apple herself. “I’m doing you a favor,” she tells a forlorn Caroline, talking with her mouth full. “Trust me, you’ll thank me later.” Josie looks around. “Think they’ve got peanut butter up there? I love apples with peanut butter.”

  “You,” I inform my stepsister, “are going to get chunky if you don’t watch it. Peanut butter has two hundred calories for every two tablespoons, and it’s all fat.”

  Josie stops midchew, staring at me. “You heard what Caroline said. We’ve got good genetics.”

  I don’t respond. I just kind of glower at her, silent. The rest of the table falls into a momentary hush, the awkwardness almost palpable.

  “I thought she was your stepsister,” Alex says to me.

  “She is.”

  “Then why would she say you’ve got good genetics? You aren’t blood related.”

  “Right. I know that. But Josie thinks … oh, never mind. It’s ridiculous.”

  “I want to know,” he presses. “Josie thinks what?”

  I shake my head. “Come on, Alex. You’ve lived in Noank your whole life, right? You must have heard the rumors.” But I don’t have a chance to expand beyond that.

  Alex and Frank are sitting at the only empty tables in the whole lunchroom. Alex starts to unpack his lunch. He slouches in his chair, almost like he’s trying to seem invisible. Frank does the same.

  It works for Alex, but not for Frank. Right away, Topher notices him.

  “Hey, look. It’s our favorite mama’s boy.” Topher’s grin is wide, his teeth an almost glowing white. “Frankie,” he calls, “what did Mama pack you today?”

  Frank doesn’t answer.

  “He’s being so mean,” I mutter. “Why is he doing that?”

  “Because he can. Because he’s a bully,” Alex replies.

  “But Frank’s not doing anything wrong. He isn’t bothering anyone.”

  Alex stares at me, like he can’t believe my confusion. “Liz, the lunchroom was like a war zone. You and your friends used to sit at that table like you were the freaking rulers of the school.” He pauses. “Keep watching.”

  Caroline, Josie, and I exchange subtle smiles as Topher continues to rip on Frank, but we don’t say anything. Only Richie looks uncomfortable.

  “Come on,” he says to Topher. “Cut the kid a break already. It’s not his fault that—”

  “Oh my God.” Topher leans his chair back on two legs, clapping his hands.

  “I wish he would fall on his stupid face,” Alex says quietly to me.

  He doesn’t. Instead, he rights himself, gets up, and strolls over to Frank’s table. Topher turns a chair around, straddles it backward, and sits down next to Frank. He starts picking through the contents of Frank’s lunch.

  My stomach feels hollow with guilt and shame as I watch my younger self, and all of my friends, giggle while Topher torments Frank.

  “Look at this,” Topher says, holding up Frank’s sandwich for everyone to see. “Mommy cut it into the shape of a heart. Does Mommy wipe your bottom for you when you go poo-poo, too, little guy?”

  Sitting at the table, Frank’s face turns a deep red. I can tell he’s trying not to cry. At the next table, Alex is clearly listening, his expression stoic. He’s bothered by what Topher is doing to Frank, I can tell. But it would be social suicide for him to get involved.

  I put a hand to my mouth. “Alex,” I say, “I’m sorry. We were all being mean, I know. But you have to believe me, I don’t remember this.”

  “It doesn’t matter if you remember, Liz. It doesn’t change what happened.”

  “But it’s not like I really did anything … I mean, it was mostly Topher—”

  “You’re right,” he interrupts, “you didn’t do anything. You never did anything to help him. You wouldn’t have dared; it might have made you less cool.”

  I blink at him. “You didn’t do anything, either.”

  “What was I supposed to do? Speak up and get my ass kicked?” He shakes his head. “No thanks. It was enough work just to keep your friends from making my life miserable. I wasn’t going to get involved with Frank’s problems. I had enough of my own, trust me.”

  For a moment, I’m at a loss for words. Finally, I ask, “You don’t like me, do you? Everyone likes me.”

  He stares at me. “You’re right. I don’t like you, Liz.”

  I stare back at him. When I speak, the harsh tone of my voice surprises me. “Then why don’t you leave me alone?”

  “Take your hand off my shoulder.”

  So I do. And just like that, we’re standing beside the boat again, the docks rocking gently beneath us as we glower at each other.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask him. “If I’m really dead, then why are you here?”

  He shakes his head. “I honestly don’t know. Because I’m dead, too, I guess. Because I’ve been around for a year, just waiting for someone else to show up. Believe me, I don’t want to be here either. I’d rather be with anyone but you.”

  For the first time since I’ve found my body in the water, the truth seems real. It seems indisputable. I am not dreaming. This isn’t a nightmare that I’m going to wake up from. I’m dead.

  And then something occurs to me—I don’t know why it wasn’t my first thought. The moment the words begin to come out of my mouth, I can feel myself starting to cry again. Dead people can cry. Who knew?

  “Alex,” I ask, “are there other people … over here? Can we see other people?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Other people who are … you know …”

  “Other dead people?” He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “But you can see me.”

  “I know. You’re my first.” He pauses. “Why do you want to know? Why are you crying?”

  “Why am I crying?” I wipe my eyes, even though I’m not embarrassed for Alex to see my tears anymore. I think of my parents—my dad and stepmother, Nicole—of my friends insi
de the boat, wondering when they’ll wake up and find me. But more than anything, I’m thinking of my mother. My real mother.

  “My mom,” I tell him. “She died when I was nine. I was just thinking that maybe …”

  “You’d see her?” He shrugs. “I don’t know, Liz. Hey—don’t cry, okay?” His tone is less than comforting. If anything, he seems a little annoyed by my display of emotion. “You don’t need to feel sad. I’m not an authority or anything, but I get the feeling this situation—you know, being stuck here—is only temporary.”

  I continue to cry. “And then what?” I demand. “Are you supposed to be my guide or something? Because you’re not doing a very good job, if that’s the case. You haven’t really answered any of my questions.” I pause. “Except for the one about my memory. And you only sort of explained it. But other than that, you’re horrible.” I’m almost hysterical. I don’t feel dead. I feel alive and helpless and so cold. I want to go home. I want my dad and Nicole. And if I can’t have them, I want my mom. Where is she? Why isn’t she here? And how the hell did I end up in the water?

  “This cannot really be happening,” I say, even though I know it is happening. “It’s my birthday. People aren’t supposed to die on their birthday! Especially not me. I’m Liz Valchar.” I’m almost shouting. “I’m very popular, you know! Nobody will be happy about this.”

  His voice is bone dry. “Yes, Liz. I’m aware of your social status.”

  “This isn’t possible.” I shake my head. “No. It’s not real.”

  “Yes. It is.” His tone is flat, bored. “Come on. Take deep breaths. Maybe I can … maybe I’m supposed to, I don’t know, help you.”

  I breathe. I can taste the salt in the air. I can feel the dock swaying beneath my feet, my legs unsteady in my boots. If it weren’t for my own body, not ten feet away, everything would seem normal.

  “I don’t know that much about what’s going on here,” Alex says. “Nobody gave me a rule book or anything. Pretty much the same thing happened to me that’s happening to you. I remember being on my bike, riding home from work. It was a little past ten at night. It started to rain really hard. I could barely see. And then nothing—I woke up in the sand, lying next to my own body.” He shudders. “I was a mess.”