Dead Girl in Love

by Linda Joy Singleton

  Every month I “lunch” with two talented writers

  who inspire and help with my writing:

  Danna Smith

  and

  Linda Whalen

  Thanks for your friendship and support!

  Woodbury, Minnesota

  Dead Girl in Love: The Dead Girl Series © 2009 by Linda Joy Singleton

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Flux, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover models used for illustrative purposes only and may not endorse or represent the book’s subject.

  First e-book edition © 2010

  E-book ISBN: 9780738722108

  Book design by Steffani Sawyer

  Cover design by Gavin Dayton Duffy

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  I pounded on the silk-lined lid over my head, pushing and breathing hard, trying not to panic. But, geez! Who wouldn’t panic in my situation? I’d fallen asleep in my own house, own bedroom, own body. Then in the flash of a promise, I found myself lying flat on my back in some kind of box, entombed in blinding darkness. Not only was I stuck in my best friend’s body, but it seemed I was in her coffin, too.

  Did that mean … that Alyce was dead?

  Or was I?

  “Ouch!” I cried as I pinched myself. Still very much alive.

  But what was I doing inside a coffin? My thoughts reeled with confusion as I tried to get a grip on this new reality. Taking over someone else’s life was hardcore confusing. It always took a while to adjust to a different body—like breaking in new shoes, only worse because I wasn’t walking on soles, I was switching souls. And while I now looked like my best friend Alyce, I had no idea what I was doing here—except for a shivering sense of fear.

  Keep calm, I told myself. Alyce (unlike me) was levelheaded and avoided risky behavior. She researched her teachers before each semester to learn lesson plans; if a guy asked her out, she prequalified him by checking blogs (which was why she never dated); and she wouldn’t drive anywhere without Googling directions. My practical, sensible, slightly neurotic friend never left anything to chance and would never have climbed inside a coffin without a good reason.

  The two most logical “good reasons” were:

  1. Someone locked her in this coffin.

  2. She was hiding from someone.

  Both choices involved a dangerous “Someone” that I had no interest in meeting. Panic rose to crisis level. Move arms, legs, body. Get out! Now!

  Reaching up, I pressed my hands firmly against the silky lid and, fueled with a surge of adrenaline, pushed up with all my energy.

  To my utter and total shock—the lid lifted!

  When light streamed onto my face, I wanted to shout with joy. But that would just be stupid. I mean, who knew who might be listening?

  Grabbing the edge of the coffin, I jumped onto a polished hardwood floor—then stared, open-mouthed. I was surrounded by rows and rows and rows of gleaming copper, wood, and stainless-steel coffins. Obviously this was a mortuary showroom, where luxurious death beds came with two-for-one bargains, warranties, and price tags. But why was Alyce in this place? It would make sense if this was an old cemetery, since Alyce often snapped pictures of creepy gravestones. But this modern mortuary was too cheerful, with its murals of angels, clouds, and daisies floating across sunny yellow walls.

  Most of the coffins (or is the formal term “casket”?) were hinged open for display. A printed tag attached to a shiny silver coffin read:

  Custom “Praying Hands”

  Blue-stitched embroidery, squared corners, adjustable bed and mattress, fully insured product warranty.

  All for a discounted cost of $3,999.99.

  Wow! I’d heard that the cost of living was expensive, but the cost of dying was even worse. Why did a corpse need an adjustable bed anyway?

  The plain wooden coffin I’d been hiding in was the drabbest in the room, without plush cushioning or embroidery stitching. I was about to check its price tag when I heard footsteps and murmured voices.

  Coming toward this room!

  Closer, closer …

  Reluctant to climb back into the coffin, I jerked my head from side to side, searching for a better hiding place. No closets, tables, or drapes. The murmurs increased. At least one man and one woman were heading this way. When the door knob jiggled, I slapped my hand over my mouth to stifle my shriek.

  Quick! Hide now! Sprinting over to the largest coffin in the room, I scrambled behind it and squeezed into the narrow space between wall and coffin.

  “This way, please,” a woman said as the door creaked open.

  Huddling flat against the wall, I watched two sets of shoes enter the room: men’s black loafers shuffled after a pair of girly, blue-heeled pumps.

  “We’re very proud of our showroom,” the woman said in a professional tone. “We have the largest selection of caskets in the state.”

  “I-I don’t think I can do this,” an elderly man’s voice quavered. “She was all I had … it’s just too soon.”

  “That’s understandable,” the saleswoman replied automatically, as if reciting from a script. “Is there someone else in your family who could make these arrangements?”

  “No. Only me,” he added with a sniffle.

  His sorrow reminded me of how I’d felt a year ago, when I found out Grammy Greta had died. Whenever Mom used to give me grief over stupid stuff, Grammy had always been there to support me. Losing her was like having all the lights turned off in the world. But I’d discovered recently, when Grammy and I were reunited on the other side, that “dead” didn’t mean she was gone. Grammy even had an important job overseeing the Temp Life program—which was how I had now ended up in my best friend’s body.

  “Final arrangements are never easy,” the saleswoman was telling the man. “They’re a necessary part of the healing process. Still, we can wait if you’d rather do this later.”

  Yes! I thought desperately. Wait till later! Turn around and leave now so I can get out of here.

  But the man wasn’t leaving. He murmured something indiscernible, then I watched his black loafers follow the clicking heels farther into the room—toward my hiding spot. I scrunched into the smallest ball possible, which was seriously uncomfortable because Alyce’s legs were long and bony with knobby
knees. I held my breath, afraid that even the slightest sound would boom like a fired cannonball.

  The woman’s heels tapped closer.

  Two caskets away from me!

  I struggled for invisibility, afraid to move or breathe. Only I couldn’t hold my breath forever, and when I finally let it out, I was sure I was going to be caught.

  But the saleswoman only heard her own voice as she launched into a sales pitch. “Green Briar caskets are velvet lined and trimmed in lace with matching pillows. The lids are foam-filled with decorative buttons. And our caskets are rot- and insect-resistant,” she boasted. “They’re guaranteed to last a lifetime.”

  Whose lifetime? I wondered, smiling at the irony. It wasn’t like a corpse could jump out of the grave to complain about bugs and mildew.

  But my smile died fast when the saleswoman suddenly gasped.

  “Dear God!” she exclaimed. “What is that doing there?”

  Electric fear shot through me. I braced myself for discovery, but instead of the footsteps coming closer, they click-clicked away.

  “Who left this here?” the saleswoman exclaimed angrily.

  “Is that a dead animal?” the man asked.

  “Of course not. It’s only a tacky kid’s backpack and it definitely doesn’t belong in our sales room.” She seemed to recover and added, “I’ll get rid of it.”

  Curious, I shifted toward a crack between caskets, pushing Alyce’s dark hair out of my eyes to get a better view. A large-boned woman with upswept burgundy hair and a gaudy abundance of necklaces and bracelets was looking down at the floor. Her jewelry jangled as she swooped down to pick up a leather backpack with a ratty rope dangling from its bottom.

  Not a rope, I realized with horror, but a curly, furry tail.

  This wasn’t a random backpack—it was Monkey Bag!

  Alyce had nicknamed her beloved backpack “Monkey Bag” and carried it with her everywhere. She must have dropped it when she climbed into the coffin. The backpack was Alyce’s most prized possession (a gift from the father who took off when she was four) and contained her digital camera, art supplies, cell phone, wallet, and notebooks. Since I was supposed to be Alyce (at least temporarily) I needed to retrieve Monkey Bag. Yet if I stayed here, I would for sure get caught.

  I considered my odds of crawling around the caskets and sneaking out the door. With the saleswoman distracted, I might make it—except I couldn’t abandon Monkey Bag. How could I escape and get the backpack?

  Think of something, Amber! I told myself. Coming up with creative solutions was one of my strongest skills, and would someday help me achieve my dream job as an entertainment agent. A self-help book I’d read called There’s Always a Plan B advised thinking out of the box to create inventive ideas. But crouched in the shadow of a casket, I had zero ideas.

  Plan C: Wing it.

  When the saleswoman (tightly grasping Monkey Bag) led the man out of the room, I jumped up and took off after them.

  Luckily, Alyce wore soft-soled sneakers. My quick footsteps were so silent even I couldn’t hear them. Staying far behind, I pressed against walls and peered around corners before moving forward. I tiptoed down a long corridor lined with pictures of boring-looking people in suits, then past a door marked Restrooms, which gave me an uncomfortable urge to use that room.

  But there was no time for comfort. Monkey Bag was on the move.

  The man said something softly to the saleswoman, his voice choking with a sob. The saleswoman murmured sympathetically, guiding him left at a hall intersection. As they turned, I glimpsed the man’s wrinkled, tear-stained face and my heart ached for him. The poor guy must have lost his wife. I wished I could tell him she would be all right. If she’d gone to the other side where Grammy Greta hung out, his wife was safe and happy.

  They stopped at a door marked Office: Green Briar Mortuary Director. The saleswoman led the man inside, swinging Monkey Bag by its leather straps. The door shut with a sharp bang.

  Now what could I do? I couldn’t exactly knock on the door and ask for my backpack. The fact that Alyce had been hiding inside a coffin was a big clue she wasn’t supposed to be here.

  I need help, I thought, mentally broadcasting an SOS into the universe. When I’d accepted this Temp Lifer mission, I thought it would be easy. Not crazy confusing like the first two times I’d swapped bodies. I hadn’t known zip about those new identities, but I knew practically everything about Alyce. I expected to breeze through this assignment in a few days. After Alyce’s soul had a chance to rest (I visualized an out-of-body beach resort), she’d return to being my wonderful best friend again. We’d have a sleepover and once I explained everything, we’d laugh about my adventures in body-swapping.

  But so far, all I’d had was trouble. And when the saleswoman opened Monkey Bag, she’d find Alyce’s wallet with her driver’s license and Halsey High School ID card. Then the monkey crap would really hit the fan.

  I needed a diversion that would (a) lure the saleswoman and her customer out of the office, and (b) give me enough time to sneak inside to rescue Monkey Bag.

  While I was thinking hard, my gaze drifted up to a plastic sphere fixed to the ceiling. The smoke detector’s tiny light shone green, as if encouraging me to go wild with my ideas. But while I was creating a rather brilliant plan that involved a ladder and a lit match, the office door swung open.

  “Someone’s been in my office!” the saleswoman exclaimed, looking up and down the halls suspiciously. “I have to report this to security. It won’t take long; please come with me.”

  The grieving man nodded, following obediently.

  A break-in? Hmmm … what was that about? Well, not my problem. In fact, this could work out well for me. When the saleswoman left the office, her hands were empty, which meant she’d left Monkey Bag inside. This was my chance! So I went for it—running like I was on fire, ducking behind a wall, my heart pounding and my palms sweating.

  The door was unlocked, and there were papers strewn on the floor and two large drawers of a file cabinet hanging open. And there on the floor was Alyce’s bedraggled, ratty Monkey Bag. I slipped it over my shoulders, a position so familiar that the straps fit as naturally as skin. Then I hurried out of the room, the door banging behind me.

  “Hey, you!” a voice bellowed. “What were you doing in my office?”

  I froze in the hallway, caught in the saleswoman’s suspicious gaze. For a moment, I couldn’t remember how to make this body work. My legs, arms, and racing heart felt foreign. Not my own. But the fear was one hundred percent mine. With a spur of energized panic, I took off running.

  “Drop that backpack!” the saleswoman commanded. “What else did you take from my office?”

  Ignoring her, I ran faster.

  “Stop, thief! Someone catch her!”

  Skidding around a corner, Alyce’s sneakers squeaked like they were screaming in protest. Up ahead was an exit. I sprinted for the double glass doors, slamming them open, blinking at natural brightness. I was outside!

  The sun was disappearing behind the western hills—which surprised me, since I’d assumed it was morning. How long had I been in that coffin anyway? Fortunately, Green Briar Mortuary had more artificial lighting than a shopping mall at Christmas, so I could see just fine. With a quick glance, I took in the lush mowed lawn stretching out to a gated cemetery, the near-empty parking lot, and the startled look of a tattooed gardener as I jumped over the corner of the rose bed he was pruning. He swore, yelling for me to stop.

  But I kept running.

  Behind me, voices rose in anger. I caught the word “police,” which spurred me to run like escaping arrest was an Olympic event and I was sprinting for a medal. I hadn’t done anything wrong … but what about Alyce? If she’d broken laws, she must have had a good reason. Without knowing that reason, all I could do was make sure my best friend didn’t get caught.

  Racing around a corner of the building, I headed for the parking lot. I hoped to find Alyce’s car—but I did
n’t see it. How had she gotten here? No time to wonder, I realized, glancing over my shoulder. The saleswoman had given up the pursuit, but the tattooed gardener—who was younger and faster—was gaining on me.

  Up ahead, a fence spread around the cemetery. I’d once tried to climb a cemetery fence with disastrous results. Not going through that again. I veered away, down the sidewalk of a street so desolate I didn’t see a single car driving by. My breath rasped and my legs ached like they were about to fall off, but I kept running, too scared to give up.

  Hearing a shout behind me, I realized the gardener was getting even closer. I pushed myself faster but knew I couldn’t keep it up much longer, especially with the pounding in my chest and the heavy backpack slamming against my shoulders.

  Attacking footsteps thudded louder, terrifyingly close now. I looked around frantically, searching for a building or yard to hide in. But the paved road, bordered by chain-link fencing and rural fields, stretched on endlessly.

  Then I heard a honk and roaring engine.

  Startled, I glanced back at a familiar blue Toyota zooming toward me. The passenger window was down. A girl with curly brown hair waved at me from behind the wheel.

  “Amber!” she called in a voice I knew as well as my own.

  When the car slowed beside me, I stared in shock.

  At my own face.

  “Hurry! Get in!”

  I hesitated, but only for the micro-second it took me to glance back and see the gardener barely a leap away. Grabbing onto the door handle, I swung myself inside the Toyota (my mother’s car) and slammed the door. My rescuer punched the accelerator and we were out of there. The side mirror flashed a glimpse of the gardener as he flipped me off.

  Turning slowly, I studied my rescuer. Me … yet not me. I had a good idea who was temporarily residing in my body—but still, it was a shock to come face-to-face with myself and realize that she wasn’t me. Like being trapped in a crazy dream where shards of reality swirled into kaleidoscope fragments.

  First thought: No way! I can’t be both the passenger and the driver of this car.