Be the Death of Me

by Rebecca Harris

  “Excuse me?” My eyebrows rise practically to my hairline. “I must not have heard you correctly. I could have sworn you said . . . partner.”

  The Captain’s lined face breaks into a genuine smile. “I did. Did I not mention that before?”

  I fold my arms across my chest and glower. “You seemed to have skipped over that tiny jewel of information.” I set my jaw in an attempt to look fierce, a kitten trying to pass as a lion. “Sorry to burst you bubble, Cap, but I can’t work with a partner. I won’t.”

  “You can and you will,” he states as if the conversation is no more than a giant waste of his time. “It’s one or the other, Foster. Work with someone, or don’t work at all.”

  “But . . . I . . . you . . . you can’t do this to me!” I stammer. “You just . . . can’t!”

  “It’s already done.”

  I know the subject is no longer open for debate. I may as well be arguing with his sky–painted wall. “Well, who is it then?” I pout. I can’t help it. My childhood instincts emerge before I can stop them, leaving me dangerously close to puffing out my cheeks and throwing a tantrum on the floor.

  The Captain chuckles, no doubt amused by the immense amount of restraint I’m showing. “They’re bringing in someone from the sacrifice division. Someone we feel is deserving of a promotion. Not a terrible idea, if you ask me.”

  “Sacrifice?!?” I explode. “Are you kidding me, Cap? Those guys are such martyrs! And why do they get special treatment, huh? What’s up with that? Why do they get rewarded just because they died? Hello? We’re all dead!”

  “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Foster.”

  “If you want my opinion—”

  “I don’t.”

  “—I can do this job on my own. I don’t need someone from downstairs watching my every move.”

  “Oh, now that hardly seems fair,” he smirks. “Better downstairs than upstairs,” he points a malicious finger to the ceiling and I know he’s speaking of the Elders. “Am I right? Or should I ask them to look in on you personally?”

  My mouth gapes open. “No . . . I didn’t mean . . . . I’m sorry . . .”

  “Easy, Foster,” he croons. “Everything will be alright so long as you keep your head down and play nice with your new teammate.” He smiles. “Or should I say, schoolmate?”

  “Schoolmate? What are you talking about, Cap?”

  “You did attend West Rosemont High four years ago, did you not?”

  I nod.

  “As did he. Small afterlife, isn’t it?” He flips through several pages, bending them back over the clipboard. “Ah, yes. Here we have it. Mr. Tucker Reid.”

  The name doesn’t ring a bell. “I don’t know who that is,” I mumble through stunned lips.

  “Then it sounds like you two will have plenty to catch up on.” The Captain pushes a small, black button on his boxed intercom system. “Abby, please send Mr. Reid to my office right away.”

  Mr. Reid? I’ve been here four years and he’s never once called me anything other than “Foster”.

  Steady footsteps resound from the hallway a moment later, coming to a sudden halt just outside the room. The Captain straightens his collar and turns expectantly to the door.

  “Foster,” he says, proving my point. “Meet your new partner.”

  Tucker

  She’s somewhat less than thrilled to meet me, that much is painfully obvious. Steam practically pours from her ears as she storms out of the office and into the corridor.

  Aside from the scowl, she’s just as pretty as I remember, nearly translucent skin, pale blue–gray glow. Her once blonde hair looks almost silver now, sparkling beneath the soft haze that surrounds each of us. Beautiful in life, radiant in death: the unfair trade with which we’ve all come to terms.

  Then again, unfair trades are the currency of this new existence. Hope for complacency. Expectation for obscurity. Possibility for indifference. Years of one–sided deals that sting like a dog bite and last for what feels like an eternity.

  But now, after years of applying for a job as a Guardian, I’m finally getting the chance to prove myself. And maybe, just maybe make up for lost time and past mistakes. True, Billie does have the worst record of any agent in the field, but perhaps that’s why the Captain put the two of us together. I know she doesn’t remember me–I would never be foolish enough to dream she would–but maybe the Captain thinks working with someone she shares a common bond with will put a spring in her step and smile on her lovely face.

  He is so very wrong.

  “Listen,” Billie says suddenly, tearing me from my thoughts. Her voice bounces around the bare, windowless corridor. “Just so we’re clear, I didn’t ask for this. So please don’t delude yourself into thinking this is some cosmic gift, alright? It isn’t fate. It isn’t karma. It’s a mistake. Plain and simple.”

  “I’m Tucker,” I say for the simple reason of forcing conversation. “Tucker Reid.” I sneak a glimpse in her direction, looking down at a shining ring of blonde hair.

  She ignores me. “It’s like Cap has no faith in me. Absolutely zero.”

  “I wouldn’t say zero. More like 50/50.”

  “Well, I hate to break it to him, but the last thing I need is a partner.”

  “Oh, I’m not your partner,” I volley into the rather one–sided conversation.

  “Meaning?” she asks without turning around.

  “The Captain . . . and the Elders . . . well, they think it might be best if I’m charge of this assignment. Not you.” I wait a moment, twisting the end of my tie into a loose knot. “So I guess that means I’m sort of . . . your boss now.”

  If I thought she was angry before, I was horribly, horribly mistaken. The look on her face stops me cold. She stares up at me.

  “What did you say?” she asks through clenched, albeit perfect teeth. She pinches the bridge of her nose like she’s preventing an oncoming migraine. I’ve suddenly lost the capacity to speak. It’s amazing how someone almost a foot shorter than me has the ability to make me feel as if I’m two feet tall. I stall by clearing my throat.

  “I’m . . . in charge?”

  She’s in my face, or level with my chest anyway, in less time than it takes for me to blink. “You’re wrong.” She shakes her head, spilling silver–blonde hair over her shoulders.

  I calmly place a hand on her arm. “Let me ask you something. In the last four years, how many assignments has the Captain given you?”

  She pulls away, either out of shame or lack of annoyance. “Six,” she calls back to me, traipsing ahead.

  I jog to catch up. “And out of those six, how many died under your watch?”

  This time she stops, frozen mid–step.

  “That’s what I thought,” I say, sweeping around to face her. “Listen. I want this to work, and I hope we can get around this particular obstacle, but this is how things are now. I’m sorry. I really am. I’m not trying to take your job, I swear, but–”

  “Don’t say you’re sorry if you’re not. I hate that,” she interrupts. “You’re not sorry you’re in charge of this assignment. You probably think this is great. You not only get promoted from your job in Sacrifice, you also get to be in charge of a Guardian whose boss feels like she doesn’t quite measure up. So do us both a favor, and for the remainder of our time together, just try not to get in my way. Think you can handle that?”

  I know I shouldn’t mess with her, but the opportunity is too much to resist.

  “You ever think that maybe in all the time you just spent giving me that little ‘I’m sorry’ lecture we could have found some common ground and become friends?”

  And then I smile.

  The look on her face is priceless; shock, disbelief, and much to my surprise, amusement, which I see playing around the corners of her lips. A smile flickers into view, briefly, but I see it nonetheless. She stares as if examining me; I can practically see the wheels turning in her head. I know then that she’s debating whether or not I’ll be wo
rth the hassle. I find I’ve lost myself in her gaze until once again, I’m watching the back of her head travel the final few feet to the shiny elevator doors at the end of the hall.

  “So I have a question,” she says as I catch up.

  I grin and slide past, slipping through the double doors. They shut effortlessly, enclosing us. I grin. “Ask away, friend.”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Right.”

  “Don’t take this as genuine interest, but I’m just curious. Is it true that everyone in sacrifice has . . . you know . . . an ability?”

  “Ability?” I laugh. “What, you mean like a superpower?”

  She shrugs, and the elevator jolts slightly. “I wasn’t thinking of anything quite so X–Men, but yeah, some kind of power.”

  “X–Men?” I try and contain an emerging smirk. “I like it. Would you say I’m ruggedly handsome like Wolverine, or a charming bad boy a la Gambit?”

  She just shakes her head and presses her lips into a thin line, squeezing by as the reflective doors slide open.

  “I was only kidding,” I say, reaching her side.

  “Were you?”

  “Not really, but I’m hoping we can look past that.”

  She halts unexpectedly, crossing her arms over her chest. “So?”

  “So, what?” I can tell it bothers her, working with someone who doesn’t cower at the sight of her scowl.

  “So what’s your ability? That is if you’ve really got one.”

  Abilities: consolation prizes for those who die valiantly. Every worker in sacrifice is given one upon their arrival. Gifts meant to brighten the darkness we’ve subjected ourselves to. I jam my hands in my pockets and lope past, a goofy grin pasted on my face. “Oh, I’ve got one.”

  “And?” she calls after me.

  “And it’s really good.”

  Now she’s the one trying to keep up. “That’s it? It’s really good?”

  I have the sneaking suspicion that keeping Billie in the dark will result in one of two possibilities. She’ll either physically assault me, or grow tired of begging for an answer and have no choice but to wait it out. It’s nice to see her curiosity if not her stubbornness get the better of her.

  “Fine,” she says when I don’t answer. “Don’t tell me. Doesn’t mean I won’t stop guessing.”

  “Well, lucky for me, my ability just happens to be the power to ignore overly inquisitive girls.”

  “That’s pretty funny for a dead guy.” She raises an eyebrow and stares up at me expectantly. “So who’s the lucky schmuck we’re assigned to?”

  I unfold the tiny, white slip of paper the Captain handed to me while Billie was busy storming out of his office. “Benedict Ford. Benedict Bartholomew Ford,” I read again. “Poor guy.”

  “Oh, come on!” she practically shouts. “That doesn’t even sound like a real name! Let me see.” She lunges for the paper in my hand. I’m fast in raising my arm over my head playfully, as she leans into my body trying her best to reach it.

  I’m not an idiot and certainly not naive enough to think anything has changed. It’s been so long, how could it? I knew from the moment I walked into the Captain’s office. It hit me like a brick, not just seeing her again, but recognizing the all–too–familiar, indifferent look on her face that told me she had absolutely no clue who I was. Nothing about her has altered since the last time I saw her, beautiful and radiant and so far out of my reach I might as well be grasping for fragments of the sun. So I know I should be grateful for this chance, and thank fate or luck or whatever is watching at this moment, because opportunities like this only come around once every lifetime. Once every after–lifetime. And yet I’m reminded, once again, that no matter how at peace I am, no matter how many times I’ve come to terms with where I am and what happened to me, there are still reasons to envy the living.

  “Come on,” I grumble, allowing my disappointment to get the better of me. “Let’s go save a life.”

  Benedict Ford

  You can do this. You can do this. You can do this. You can do this.

  Who am I kidding? I can’t do this. I won’t. They can’t make me.

  I sit unmoving behind the wheel, invisible to the parade of students passing by the windows of my car, a 1986 Chevette in desperate need of a decent paint job. The earthy moss green is chipped and scratched, battle scars of door–pummeling and keying pranks that got out of hand. But it’s my car, and coincidently, the only thing that can bring me the slightest bit of comfort on a day like today.

  Winter break is over. School is officially back in session.

  Kids swarm the front doors of North Chamberlain, huddling inside for warmth; girls squealing and hugging like they haven’t seen each other in years, senior boys fist–bumping and supplying one another with enough homoerotic ass–slaps to get a blush from Richard Simmons.

  Dean Murphy, homecoming king, basketball star, and idiot savant in all things female, gropes his latest girlfriend by the flagpole. She giggles and slaps at him playfully; the response I’m sure he was hoping for. Poor girl. She probably has no idea she’ll be replaced by a newer model in less than a week.

  A herd of tiny underclassmen squeak by, skipping up the frost covered steps to the archaic brick building like frightened mice. I wonder if I can slip in with them. There are worse things than being mistaken for a freshman.

  Groaning, I step out of the car and into the delicate drizzle of rain. I’m lucky. The weather gives me an excuse to pull up my hood and an opportunity to hide my face. I make it across the parking lot and up the front steps with no problem. I’m sneaky. I’m covert. I am, for all intents and purposes, invisible to the naked eye, the very definition of stealth.

  “Bent–dick!”

  A hand latches on to the back of my hood, pulling it down and exposing my face to not only the rain, but every student within a fifty foot radius.

  So much for stealth.

  I sigh, already knowing who’s captured my coat.

  Logan Cartwright, the single worst thing about life at North Chamberlain. He’s Billy Zabka and John Bender rolled into one, but without the redeeming qualities of Molly Ringwald and her magical diamond earring. With stark, black hair and a neck as thick as his waist, he’s the one kid in school I truly have reason to be wary of. The guy could crush me without even working up a decent sweat. Sure, the others like Dean and his army of jocks taunt with their collection of uninspired insults, steal my lunch from time to time, and occasionally lock me in the girls’ bathroom. But Logan? Let’s just say it’s a good thing he’s not smart enough to come up with ideas on his own.

  I twist and struggle beneath a pair of large hands practically designed for crushing cans against his forehead. My flailing only succeeds in tangling me further inside my jacket, and I soon discover the hood is wrapped around my face, cutting off both vision and air supply. The muffled, though distinct sound of collective laughter rings in my ears.

  “Nice to see you back, Bent–dick,” he taunts, finally releasing me.

  “Nice to see you’ve figured out soap isn’t the enemy, Logan.”

  I’m pushed back, sent flying across the sidewalk. The horde of high school kids smirk and gape, if only to fill the time, already growing bored with the juvenile antics. If only I could just get through the front door . . . Duck. Crawl. Tuck and roll. Anything!

  I’m freed eventually, but not before my backpack is opened and the contents strewn across the front steps. Logan laughs, probably because he can’t think of anything better to do, and heads inside, the throng of students following in his wake.

  It’s good to be back.

  My face flushes as I travel inside, hit with a sudden blast of warmth from the heaters lining the entryway. My jeans cling to my legs, weighted down by the puddle of dirty rainwater I happened to tumble into. I shake one leg like a dog after a bath, hoping I don’t look half as ridiculous as I feel. I debate whether or not to head to the restroom, wondering if I can wring some of th
e water from my pants, but decide against it in the end. They’ll dry eventually, and it’s not as if the rest of my appearance will improve with time spent in front of a mirror.

  I’m not the Elephant Man or anything. In fact, on a good day, when the planets align and all is right with the world, I might even be considered good–looking; dark hair, darker eyes. Not a bad combination. I’m simply a bit awkward for my age. Gangly, I guess you’d call it; skinny–too skinny–for a seventeen year old boy. Protein shakes, trips to the weight room, it’s a losing battle. My lousy genetics refuse to be swayed, determined to sentence me to four years of high school purgatory.

  I slosh to my locker and scuffle with the padlock combination for several minutes before it finally relents, swinging open with a high–pitched whine. Grabbing my books and shutting the door, I head in the direction of the school’s Mathematics wing, absorbed in studying my schedule: Advanced Chemistry, AP English, and (groan) P.E. So absorbed in fact, I’m brought out of my trace only when I plow head first into a fast–moving body. Books and papers fly through the air, and someone swears low under his breath.

  “S–sorry,” a voice stammers, bending to help with the mess. Thin, tan fingers hastily gather my fallen papers, organizing and handing them back to me in less time than it takes me to stoop to help. “I didn’t mean to hit you.” He stands, shaking with the effected twitch of a frightened rabbit.

  “It’s cool,” I offer, regaining my composure and getting my first real look at him. The guy is lean and wiry, though not half as tall as I am. His head is topped with a cotton ball of light brown hair, his features covered by tanned, freckled skin and a nose that seems to take over the majority of his face in a way that is both unusual and familiar. “Don’t sweat it,” I tell him.

  “Maybe I should watch where I’m going, huh?” He smiles, and his face transforms.

  “Nah,” I grin back, relieved to find a friendly face. “My fault.”

  He nods once and is gone, slinking down the hallway to his class.

  The day passes like any other. My classes tick by with neither fanfare nor interruption. Lunch is when things prove tricky. The cafeteria is a miniature version of a small, well–run city, each table its own private subdivision. I figure I have three options, three doors, like that game show Let’s Make a Deal. Behind door one is the option of sitting with the popular kids, Dean and the peons he uses as footstools. This particular choice, however, ends with my lunch being thrown in the trashcan and humiliation at the hands of people with I.Q’s twenty points below mine. Door number two consists of eating with Logan Cartwright and his gang of blossoming neo–Nazis. This scenario ends with me being thrown in the trashcan and humiliation at the hands of people with I.Q’s fifty points below mine. Door number three stands pushed to the side, virtually unseen by anyone not looking for it. Four people sit around a circular table; two creepy looking sophomores I’ve seen skulking around the hallways, a pretty brunette from a few of my classes named Shannon Walters, looking lovely and way out of my league. Much to my surprise, she’s seated next to the scrawny boy I bumped into earlier this morning. He’s probably new, a transfer student or something, brought in during the holiday break. He sits a little off from the others, listening to Shannon’s friendly chatter, huddled around the far side of the table, eating from a crumpled paper bag.