Everlife Trilogy Complete Collection: Firstlife ; Lifeblood ; Everlife

by Gena Showalter

  By the time I go, the world I leave behind will not be the world I was born into.

  I want to leave a legacy of strength, hope and Light. I want what was once my mess to become a message—people matter. Whoever they are, wherever they come from, whatever they look like or believe, they are worth something. They are precious.

  Life is precious, and I don’t want to waste a single second.

  * * * * *

  ISBN-13: 9781488030437

  Everlife

  Copyright © 2018 by Gena Showalter

  All rights reserved. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher, Harlequin Enterprises Limited, 22 Adelaide St. West, 40th Floor, Toronto, Ontario M5H 4E3, Canada.

  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. This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

  ® and ™ are trademarks of the publisher. Trademarks indicated with ® are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office, the Canadian Intellectual Property Office and in other countries.

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  Just how hard did she hit her head?

  Keep reading for a sneak peek into the life of Jade Leighton in

  OH MY GOTH

  Only from Gena Showalter and Harlequin TEEN.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Outward beauty will fade, but the things we do—our cruelties or simple kindnesses—will live forever in the people we hurt or help.

  —From the journal of Miranda Beers

  My name is Jade Leighton, and this morning I staged my own death. Fiona, my stepmom, walked in and just about screamed the house down.

  First: knock, please!

  Second: I think she screamed louder when I opened my eyes.

  Third: I’m pretty sure she’ll need therapy to recover.

  I know, I know. How morbid of me. My actions must have been a cry for help, and I should see a doctor. Why focus on death when life is what matters, right?

  Here’s the deal. I never wanted to be discovered. I’d planned to snap a few photos of my “corpse” to study later—at the suggestion of my therapist, thank you very much.

  Okay, okay. He didn’t suggest I stage my own death…exactly. He said I should face my past head-on so that I can let it go, move forward, and embrace a bright future.

  My interpretation? Recreate my mother’s death—the most defining moment of my life—and find whatever shred of beauty was hidden in the darkness.

  Her name was Miranda.

  When my parents got along, my dad called her Randy, a nickname she claimed to hate. He would say it with a twinkle in his eyes, and Mom would protest while fighting a smile.

  I was five years old when she enrolled me in a ballet class. The day of my first lesson, I remember wearing a pink tutu and feeling like a princess. I twirled all the way to the car and begged Mom to let me sit in the front seat like “a big girl.” The studio was only a few miles from our house, so she decided to humor me. That’s my best guess, anyway.

  I don’t remember what happened to us. I’m told another vehicle slammed into ours halfway to the studio, propelling us off a bridge, that we landed upside down next to a river.

  I do remember opening my eyes and hearing the thunder of my heartbeat as blood rushed in my ears. I remember the scent of old pennies and fuel thickening the air…the feel of my seat belt pinning me in place, the strap cutting into my tiny chest.

  I remember panicking, fighting to straighten as warm blood trickled down my face and splashed onto my mother…who lay beneath me, splayed across the minivan’s dash, surrounded by broken glass.

  One of her eyes had been gouged out, while the other stared at nothing. A metal spike protruded from her torso, and bones stuck out of her collar, an arm, and both her legs.

  Hours passed. An eternity. Later, Dad told me the car responsible for our predicament had taken a dive on the other side of the bridge, and the only occupant had died on impact. No one witnessed the collision, so no one called for help.

  By the time we were found, I’d screamed so loud and long that I’d permanently damaged my vocal cords.

  Dad says I quit being me that day, that I completely shut down.

  He isn’t wrong.

  I’m seventeen-years-old now. Since the accident, I haven’t shed a single tear, or laughed. According to Fiona, I suffer from permanent RWF—resting witch face. (She refuses to curse.) I also haven’t thrown a temper tantrum, or argued about… anything. I haven’t cared enough. I don’t even get excited when good things happen to me or anyone else.

  Why should I? Good things never last.

  I spent many years in counseling. My therapist says my emotional detachment is a protective measure I use to shield myself from a trauma I’m not yet able to handle. He isn’t wrong either.

  I choose not to feel. I like my numbness.

  My dad isn’t so enamored of it. Last year, he asked me to give him a genuine smile for his birthday. I faked it, and he sighed. Then he said, “There’s no sparkle in your eyes,” all kinds of depression in his voice.

  For a short window of time afterward, he tried telling me jokes to “earn” a laugh.

  Where does a sheep go for a haircut? To the baaaa baaaa shop!

  How do you make a tissue dance? You put a little boogie in it.

  What time did the man go to the dentist? Tooth hurt-y.

  Another failure. His depression deepened, and finally he gave up.

  I don’t enjoy hurting him, but I’m not going to change just to please him. My life, my decision.

  The bell for first period rings, drawing me from my thoughts and signaling the start of a new school day. I’ve been seated for over ten minutes. I’m not eager, trust me—I’m just punctual. If you aren’t early, you’re late.

  Mr. Parton takes attendance. He smiles sweetly at Mercedes Turner, teacher’s pet, and glares daggers at me, teacher’s nightmare. When he begins his lecture, comparing triangles, drawing tangents to circles, I hear blah, blah, blah.

  I’ve never liked sitting for long periods of time as someone who hates me explains the ins and outs of a subject I’ll never actually use in the real world. Go figure. The only classes I find the least bit interesting are creative writing, art and anatomy. For all others, I spend my time doodling different parts of the skeletal system in a notebook.

  Today I’ve done a femur, metacarpals and phalanges, a radius and an ulna. Things guaranteed to creep out Mr. Parton if he demands to see what has me so enraptured.

  A douche move on my part. I kind of suck. Maybe my friend Linda “Linnie” Baker is right: How do you know someone has spoken to Jade? They’re crying!

  Linnie offered the quip after I made a junior sob for giving her the stink eye. At school the only people I talk to—besides my friends—are the students who insult my friends.

  I never shout, only warn, but for some reason my calm tone elicits fear. Apologize now, or I’ll cut out your tongue so you’re no longer able to speak such ugly words.

  The thing is, my warnings are not threats but promises. One day I’ll probably end up in jail.

  “Tsk, tsk, Jade. Touching yourself in class,” Charlee Ann Richards says, her voice soft. She’s seated next to me. “How scandalous.”

  I realize that I stopped drawing in favor of tracing my fingertips over the plethora of scars at the base of my neck, courtesy of the car wreck and my seat belt. Thanks to
shards of glass, more scars decorate my abdomen and legs.

  Ignoring Charlee Ann, I pick up my pencil and draw a sternum, then a rib cage. Soon I have an entire skeleton on the page, though the bones are scattered like puzzle pieces that need to fit together.

  As if offended by my lack of concern, Charlee Ann confiscates the paper and mutters, “You are such a freak.”

  I run my tongue over my teeth. I choose not to feel, yes, but I do not like having my things taken from me. However, I remain mute. The moment I speak up, she’ll know how to strike at me next time.

  She learned from a master after all. Her mentor, Mercedes. According to Linnie, Charlee Ann is Mercedes’s clone, and together the two are the most popular girls at Hathaway High.

  I know Mercedes well. Her mom, Nadine, used to date my dad. In fact, Nadine was his first serious girlfriend after my mother died. Dad and Nadine were serious enough to shack up together. Mercedes and I became friends; in elementary school, we were never far from each other’s side. Then, right before our first year of junior high, Nadine broke up with my dad and moved out.

  Like the car accident, the day is forever burned into my mind. Nadine held her bag in one hand and Mercedes’s hand in the other. She looked at me dead-on and said, “You are to blame for this. You’re a bad influence. A budding sociopath!”

  I think my dad agreed with her. That same night, he had a few too many beers and said to me, “Did you really have to ask Nadine how she wanted to die—then explain in minute detail how other people have died? You frightened her.”

  Mercedes and I were never friends again. In fact, we became target practice for each other.

  “Nothing to say?” Charlee Ann asks with a smirk.

  Again, I ignore her. To the rest of the world, I’m weird. So what? So I wonder how people are going to die. Again, so what? The opinions of others mean nothing to me.

  I wish my friends felt the same. Linnie, Kimberly Nguyen and Robb Martinez care a little too much.

  Insults cause Linnie to spiral and seek praise in all the wrong places. Kimberly adds another layer of sass to her attitude, as my dad would say. Robb often sinks into a deep, dark depression and goes mute.

  I might not know how to help them, but I do know how to threaten their tormentors.

  Charlee Ann hands my paper to Mercedes, who is sitting directly behind her. “Look at this,” she whispers. “We should schedule an intervention, yeah? Before she murders us all.”

  Charlee Ann is probably going to kill someone, hide the body but get caught, anyway, and die in prison when another girl shanks her. Mercedes is probably going to have a heart attack at thirty and never recover.

  Mercedes studies my artwork and shudders. “I doubt it will help,” she whispers back. From her coiffed blond hair to her fit-and-flare buttercup-yellow dress, she is the epitome of perfect. “The crazy is strong in this one.”

  Charlee Ann chortles.

  Mercedes knows I’m forced to go to therapy, but she’s never told her friends. Not out of the goodness of her heart. (Does she still have a heart?) She keeps quiet because I have dirt on her, too. For years I’ve watched her struggle with an eating disorder. Whatever goes in soon comes right back out.

  I blame Nadine. (Who is probably going to outlive us all.) The woman constantly criticizes her daughter; nothing Mercedes does ever good enough. Even I admit she’s smart and beautiful—on the outside.

  I should probably feel sorry for her, but sympathy is beyond me. Like her mother, Mercedes tears down others in an attempt to feel better about herself. I think that’s why she’s my only no-emotion exception. I kinda sorta enjoy tearing her down.

  “Keep the paper,” I say just as softly. “It can pass as your new student ID. The resemblance is uncanny, don’t you think?”

  Shock and horror flare in Mercedes’s blue, blue eyes—eyes that quickly well with tears. She blinks rapidly, and the tears vanish. Hey, maybe I imagined them.

  “Shut your mouth,” Charlee Ann snaps, earning a disapproving glance from Mr. Parton, Oklahoma’s worst teacher. She shrivels in her seat. “Sorry. My bad.”

  He nods and continues his lecture. To him, she can do no wrong.

  As cochairs of Make a Difference—or, as I liked to call it, MAD—both Charlee Ann and Mercedes are considered earth angels. They spearhead most school fundraisers and throw parties to encourage students to support each other, no matter their race, religion, gender or sexuality.

  Their next event—Light Night—is three or four weeks away. (I don’t know the exact date because I tune out every time someone starts talking about it.) Tickets are twenty dollars a pop. Twenty dollars to dress up, stand outside during a heat wave, eat crappy hors d’oeuvres and light a candle at the same time as other people? No, thank you.

  Take my money. I’ll keep my time. What Mercedes and Charlee Ann don’t seem to understand? You don’t need to light a candle to prove you support other people, whatever their race, religion, gender or sexuality. You just need to be kind on a day-to-day basis. Yeah, I know. What a shocker.

  And yeah, I get that I’m not always kind to others. I like to think I’m a little less of a hypocrite though, since I get my jollies from bullying the bullies. Or is a hypocrite just a hypocrite no matter the circumstances? Oh well.

  Eyes narrowing, Mercedes leans toward me. “My mother says you’re so heinous because you’re jealous of me. What does your mother tell you about me?” She fluffs her hair. “Oh, that’s right. She can’t tell you anything. She’s dead.”

  Charlee Ann offers me another smirk, clearly assured I’ve been put in my place.

  Why would I be upset? Mercedes spoke the truth. My mother is dead, and she can’t tell me anything.

  Uh-oh. Mr. Parton looks ready for war as he stomps toward us. Both Mercedes and Charlee Ann sit up straighter and gaze at him with adoring eyes, as if caught up in the wonders of his lecture. Talk about false advertising. The only person who adores Mr. Parton is Mr. Parton.

  He stops to pat Mercedes on the shoulder, all You’re such a good girl.

  This world isn’t fair, so he’ll probably die of old age, in his sleep, while having an X-rated dream.

  As soon as he passes her, she withdraws her cell phone to sneak a selfie with Charlee Ann as the two pretend to gag. I’m sure the caption will mention me.

  I’ve never understood the “art” of the selfie or how and why so many people morph into a philosopher on the internet. Every day people post pictures of their faces and caption each photo with “words of wisdom.”

  Can’t let life’s cares get you down.

  Really? So you aren’t obsessing about the number of likes and shares you’re getting?

  Look at this big, beautiful world. Good job, God!

  Problem: your ginormous head is obscuring the beautiful world around you.

  Take time to enjoy every season of your life, guys. Even the storms. Without rain, we wouldn’t have flowers.

  And we can’t understand the profound nature of your advice unless we see you sitting in your car with your hand resting in your hair?

  Why not post pictures with a statement of fact: Look at me. Look at me right now! I look AMAZEBALLS. Sidebar: Aren’t I super-duper SMART?

  I sigh. Linnie says my name suits me perfectly. Jade is jaded, yo. Maybe she’s right. Again. She also says I was born in the wrong century. While my friends consider their cell phones an extension of their hands, I use mine only to send my dad proof-of-life texts.

  To me the internet sucks. There are far too many trolls—fools who think cruelty is hilarious and their opinion is the only right one, who forget that the person they are calling terrible names has baggage, too. Cowards who think they are protected behind their screen, because the other person isn’t nearby to gut-punch and junk-slam.

  Linnie once posted a picture of us eating lunch together, and no joke, someone legit told us the world would be a better place without us, that we should just go ahead and kill ourselves.

 
; She cried for weeks, nothing I said able to comfort her. Unlike me, she still loves the internet. If she’s not in class, she’s on her phone.

  “If Miss Baker will give me the honor of her attention,” Mr. Parton snaps, “I’ll explain the relation between sine and cosine.”

  All eyes zoom to Linnie. Her cheeks turn bright red as she shifts in her chair. I think she’ll die of some rare disease, but only after she’s traveled the world and left her mark.

  She sits several rows ahead of me, at the front of the class. At the beginning of the school year, Mr. Parton separated us so we couldn’t “plot the downfall of the world.” Yeah. He really used that phrase.

  I’m not surprised he’s singled her out today. He tends to focus all his negative energy on one of us each and every day.

  I don’t hate him, but I might cheer if Wolverine smashed through the door and gave him a prostate exam. When we ask questions, he sneers as if we’re dumb for not already understanding something we’ve never before studied.

  To draw attention away from her, I say, “You have my permission to continue, Mr. P.,” and give a royal wave of my hand. “Unless you don’t know the relation between a sine and a cosine?”

  A chorus of chuckles abounds.

  He scowls at me, a vein throbbing on his forehead. I think he secretly hopes I’ll cower in my seat. Too bad, so sad. Fear of him is as foreign to me as happiness and hatred.

  Mercedes raises her hand. She doesn’t wait to be called on but says, “If Jade insists on being disruptive in class, perhaps you should make her stand in the corner by herself. Except then we’d have to look at her, and everyone would probably lose their breakfast.”

  More chuckles abound.

  Mr. Parton smiles before masking his amusement with a stern expression. “That was beneath you, Miss Turner. We must be kind to others, even when our kindness isn’t deserved.”

  Barf. “You’d lose your breakfast? Really?” I ask her. “No wonder you look at me so much. No one enjoys losing a meal more than you, eh, Mer?”