The Dead List

by Jennifer L. Armentrout

  clock on the beige walls, I had about two hours before I was supposed to meet up with Dad.

  Throwing off the quilt, I swung my feet off the couch, stood, and then stretched out the tightness in my muscles. I could hear Mom moving around upstairs and smiled. On Saturdays, she’d recently taken to knitting as a hobby, holing up in her room with her needles and yarn.

  I grabbed a class of OJ and then climbed the stairs. Stopping at Mom’s door, I knocked softly.

  “Come in,” she called.

  Nudging the door open with my hip, I peered in. Mom sat on her bed, cross-legged. Holding two needles in one hand, she was trying to untangle threads of bright pink yarn.

  “Morning,” I said.

  She smiled brightly. “You getting ready to meet with your father?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good.” She held up a swath of bright pink and green material. “What do you think of this?”

  I schooled my expression blank. I had no idea what it was that she was holding. One end was uneven and it was about a foot wide. “It’s very… colorful.”

  “Isn’t it?” She lowered her hands, eyes narrowing at her needles. “I’m making scarfs for the girls at the bank. I think it will make a great Christmas present.”

  Yikes.

  Taking a drink, I spun around and closed the door behind me before I admitted that a five-year-old could probably stitch something together better than that.

  I hesitated at my door for a second, and then I forced myself to turn the knob. The room was how I’d left it yesterday, when I’d returned home from school, had stared at my running shoes and then changed into lazy, lounging clothes.

  It was slightly cooler than the rest of the house. Placing my drink on the table next to my laptop, I walked over to the window and opened the curtains, letting the morning sun in.

  As I took a quick shower and came back into my bedroom, it was strange, because I moved around like I was visiting a stranger’s house. With time to kill, I found myself standing in front of my narrow bookshelf, the glass of OJ all but forgotten on my desk.

  I don’t know what made me grab what I did from the shelf, but my fingers skimmed over the thick spines, landing on a thin smooth one. Sliding it out, I didn’t look at what I held until I sat on the edge of the bed. Then I shifted my gaze to the blue and white yearbook-my middle school yearbook.

  My fingers trembled as I cracked it open. Without skimming, I opened it right up to that section. Not the part where I looked like a little doofus. My eyes scanned down the list of names.

  Penn Deaton.

  An ache pierced my chest, forming a ball of remorse, sadness, shame, and guilt. It nearly closed off my throat, but air exhaled harshly from me as my gaze drifted down the row of colored photos, stopping on the fourth one from the left.

  Tears pricked my eyes and I blinked them away as I stared at the young boy smiling back at me.

  Penn… God, he had the best smiles. Big. Toothy. He hadn’t cared that his front tooth was chipped. Not until middle school. He had the prettiest brown eyes, framed by heavy lashes, and hair the color of raven’s wings. He’d always been small, and even in a picture that showed nothing more than his chest and up, his shoulders were slim. Frail. I had no idea how long had passed, but my cheeks were damp and I’d probably ruined the mascara I’d put on.

  I smoothed my thumb over his picture, sniffling. I wished I could go back in time, paid attention to the signs that had been there. I wished I could go back and we didn’t do what-

  Sucking in a sharp breath, I slammed the yearbook closed. It slipped from my hands, smacking off the floor. I pushed to my feet, stepping around it as I hurried into the bathroom. With shaking hands, I grabbed a makeup toilette and hastily wiped under my eyes.

  Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

  Fixing my face so I didn’t look like I was coming out of withdrawals, I tossed the tissue in the little bin and then went back into the bedroom. I picked up the yearbook with two fingers, like it was venomous snake. I shoved it back into its place.

  It was almost time to meet Dad.

  Before I left, I picked up the small jewelry box off my dresser. Sitting down on the edge of my bed, I cracked it open, rooting around for the bracelet Dad had bought me for my seventeenth birthday. It was a diamond tennis bracelet, really too pretty and fancy to wear, but I always slipped it on before I saw him. Seemed like the right thing to do.

  Nudging a pair of hoop earrings out of the way, a frown pulled at my lips. Where was the damn bracelet? Unable to find it, I got up and checked the top of the dresser, thinking I might’ve dropped it on there after the last time I’d worn it, but other than some costume rings and faded receipts, it wasn’t there.

  “What the hell?” I muttered, shaking the box.

  I tried finding it again, but not only was it missing, so was the ring Gavin had bought me two Christmases ago-a white gold promise ring with a tiny speck of a sapphire. It had cost him saving up three months of odds and ends jobs his father had him do to afford the ring. I had wanted to give it back to him when we broke up, because it didn’t seem right that I’d keep it, but he’d insisted.

  Both the tennis bracelet and ring were gone.

  Had I misplaced them? I quickly scoured all the visible surfaces of my bedroom, but I came up empty. It was strange, because I was always careful with them. A niggle of unease gnawed at me as I closed the lid.

  I placed it back on the dresser, lingering just a moment longer, and then I left the room, stopping to close the door behind me.

  Chapter 10

  Saturday lunches with Dad were a biweekly tradition since the divorce. We always met at the same café downtown, sat in the same booth, and ate the same food.

  Dad always ordered a grilled chicken salad—no croutons or salad dressing—and I always ordered a grilled cheese sandwich. We shared our potato chips, and we’d come here for so long that the waitress brought the joint chips out on a separate plate, placing it between us.

  Neither of my parents had been that old when they got married and popped out a baby Ella. Dad had been twenty-one and Mom had been twenty. They’d met in college, fell in love and then fell out of it four years ago.

  “How’s the school year panning out?” he asked as our food arrived, brushing his fingers through the brown hair at his temple.

  Turning out to be the seventh circle of hell all things considered. “It’s looking really good.”

  “Your mother said you started taking self-defense classes?”

  “I did. And that’s going good, too.” I peeled the crust off the sandwich.

  “And you’re taking those lessons seriously, right?” He dipped his chin, pinning me with his best stern look, and my smile turned real. “I still don’t look like I have an ounce of authority, do I?”

  “Nope.”

  “I’m really going to have to work on that.” He speared a piece of chicken. “So, I ran into Mr. Carver at the post office the other day.”

  I could feel the heat spreading across my cheeks.

  “I didn’t know that it was Jensen teaching you self-defense,” Dad continued, and my brain started to back peddle from this conversation. “Mr. Carver seemed really happy about that. So was I. It’s about time you two start talking again.”

  My eyes widened slightly as I stared at the chips.

  Dad chewed thoughtfully. “You know,” he said, pointing his fork at me. “It wouldn’t hurt for you to start doing other things.”

  My eyes narrowed, and if I were a cat, the hair along my spine would be standing straight up. I’d been hissing at this point, too. “What other things?”

  He wisely changed the subject, but I knew it wouldn’t last long. “The mark on your face is almost gone. How have you been with everything?”

  “I’ve been okay.” I popped a chip in my mouth.

  “Your mother said you’re going to be seeing Dr. Oliver next week.”

  Another chip flung its way into my
mouth. “Yep.”

  “I think that’s also a good idea.” He paused, chasing down another slice of chicken. “I also think going away for college right now might not be—”

  I sighed. “Dad, please don’t start. I don’t want to be living here for the rest of my life.”

  “Martinsburg isn’t a bad place, honey.”

  “I know.” Martinsburg was great, but I had to get away. Too many memories clung to this town.

  Dad pushed his fork away. “Part of me can understand why you’d want to go elsewhere, with what happened all those years ago, but that’s in the past.”

  I stiffened. “Anyway.”

  He looked at me and then shook his head. “How’s your mother?”

  “Good. Still single.”

  His look turned bland. “Ella—”

  “What?” I said innocently. “She hasn’t gone out on a single date, and Mom’s hot. You’re losing your window of opportunity there.”

  “Honey, there’s no window of anything there. Rose and I are still together.” He fished out a slice of radish. “And things are serious between us. You know that.”

  Rose.

  She who shall not be named.

  Around six months after my parents legally separated, Dad started seeing Rose. He swears to this day, along with Mom, that there was nothing happening between him and his co-agent at the realtor firm. Rose was a good ten years younger than Dad and seriously could pass as a college student.

  The waitress swung by our table, refilling my Coke. I took a big ole hefty drink of it as Dad eyed me. “Is that diet?” he asked.

  “Nope.” I gave him a cheeky wide smile. “It’s a hundred percent real soda pop with lots and lots of empty calories.”

  His brows knitted. “Do you know how many throw away calories are in that?”

  I shrugged, but I did know. One hundred and forty to be exact. How did I know this needless information? Dad had told me already. Like about one hundred and forty times.

  Dad wasn’t a health nut. To people on the outside, they’d take one look at his trim physique and the OT he put into the gym, and think he was all about the health and fitness. But, oh no, Dad was a fat nut. In other words, he was petrified of getting the middle-aged pouch.

  “I wish you hadn’t give up the running. It’s so good for you,” he began. “You know, I can add you to my gym membership. You can even go with me after…”

  Aaaand I just entered the eighth circle of hell.

  #

  Every year, the Leadership of Blah Blah group partnered with the Future Farmers of Blah Blah group to put together the annual Halloween haunted hayride and farmhouse attraction where all the proceeds were donated to various charities. And every year since I was a freshman and became friends with Linds, I got conned into volunteering.

  The old farmhouse butted up to orchards and during the fall, the whole place took on a creepy transformation as the leaves began to wither and the days grew shorter.

  Parking my Jetta in a lot that was more weeds than gravel, I climbed out, wishing I’d worn something thicker than the thin paisley blouse and capris. The first weekend of September had rushed in cooler temps in spite of the cloudless, sunny sky.

  I moved in and out of the dozen or so cars and headed for the farmhouse next to a wasted looking barn that had seen better days.

  Laughter and conversation floated out of the open door and windows of the bottom floor. Wood groaned under my feet as I walked up the steps and crossed the porch. Peeking inside, I recognized several faces.

  Brock and Mason were standing in front of a pile of fake pumpkins and other autumn decorations with identical confused expressions. Linds was with Ms. Reeds, pulling various gross stuff out of huge boxes. Fake shiny pools of blood. Ropey intestines. Giant rats and bats.

  Linds looked over at me, holding a brain in one hand and a heart in the other. “Hey! You made it. I was wondering if you were going to show up or not.”

  “Sorry. Lunch with Dad ran a little late.” I smiled at Ms. Reed, who was in the process of scribbling in a thick notebook. “So, what do you want me to do?”

  “Hmm…” Linds frowned into one of the boxes. “Right now we’re just going through what we have, what we can use this year, and what we need to buy. Oh, how about this!” Tucking back a few stray curls, she bent at the waist, reached into a box, and pulled out something that resembled basketball netting.

  She dropped it in my arms.

  “What is this?” I asked, staring down at the knotted mess.

  “Cobwebs. There’s probably more than one set in there, but they’re all tangled together.” She bit down on a plump lower lip as she eyed me. “Can you take them apart and see how many are there?”

  “That would be so helpful,” Ms. Reed chimed in, and I pressed my lips together. Looking up at me, the pen she held stilled above the notebook. “Oh, and how are your self-defense lessons going with Jensen.”

  Half the room went quiet, namely Brock and Mason. Oh dear.

  My cheeks heated. “It’s… um, going good. Thanks for that.’

  She winked, and my eyes widened. “I thought it would.”

  Linds arched a brow, and I turned, plopping down on an old stool near the window with my armful of fake webbing that smelled faintly of Halloween makeup. A smell I couldn’t quite name, but it was distinctive, reminding me of what it was like to dress up and go door to door.

  I missed those days.

  I barely listened to the conversation around me, but every so often I’d hear Monica’s name whispered, and it stirred up things I was doing my hardiest not to think about. I’d rather focus on my dad’s unending attempt of getting me to loose fifteen pounds. I kind of wanted to hold onto those pounds. Knowing my luck, if I lost weight, it would come off my boobs.

  A shadow fell over me. Brock stood there, head tilted to the side. “Hey.”

  “What’s up?” I tugged a mess of fake cobwebs. The stringy stuff was balled into one giant knot. Ugh.

  “Nothing much. Just helping out.” Brock knelt next to me. “So…?”

  It was weird. Since his party, he hadn’t talked to me, which I was totally okay with. So now I had no idea what to say to him. I finally found the edge of the webbing.

  “You and Jensen hanging out?” he asked.

  “He’s teaching me self-defense,” I corrected, yanking on the white string.

  Brock chuckled. “That’s a different way of calling it.”

  Frowning, I glanced up. “Huh?”

  He met my eyes with a look that said I knew exactly what he was saying, but it was far over my head. “I can help you out with that, you know.”

  “The webbing?”

  Brock laughed again. “No. With the self-defense stuff. I’m sure I can work in one or two… practices a week with you.”

  Suddenly what he was saying made sense and I wanted to wrap the netting around his neck. Not only was he suggesting that Jensen and I were doing more of a horizontal training, but he thought I’d mess around with him too? Anger moved in a slow burn through my veins.

  I lowered the webbing to my lap. “It’s really sad about Monica. I’m guessing you haven’t heard anything new?”

  His face paled and the blood rushed across his cheeks. “No. I haven’t. But Monica and I weren’t dating.”

  “That’s right. You guys broke up a couple of weeks ago.”

  He stared at me a moment, the hue of his cheeks deepening, and then he muttered something under his breath. Straightening, he walked away and returned to Mason’s side.

  “What was that about?” whispered Linds, coming over to me with a stuffed snake, its red eyes glimmering.

  I shrugged, wrinkling my nose. “You don’t even want to know.”

  “Let me guess. He was hitting on you?”

  “Yep.”