“Wow,” I hear him murmur breathlessly. He’s staring down at our hands as well, eyes wide in amazement, and I can’t help but wonder what he feels from his end. “I’m shaking hands with a ghost.”
“How do you think I feel? I’m touching someone with a pulse!”
He releases me slowly. “So you’re hanging around all day then?” he asks. Several heads turn in his direction, amused by the crazy boy talking to himself, but unlike earlier, he hardly seems to notice.
I nod. “Looks like it. Tuck said he’d meet us later to take the afternoon shift.”
Ford’s first class is only a few doors down, and judging from the writing on the massive whiteboard at the front of the room, dedicated to math. I groan inwardly and watch a smile form at the corner of his lips.
“Excited for trig?” he mutters under his breath, opening a rather ominous looking textbook and taking a seat at the back of the room. With the exception of a petite brunette with spiky, cropped locks, who waves enthusiastically to Ford when we enter, no one so much as notices him. I slide down along the side wall, stretching my legs in front of me and resting my head against a filing cabinet. It’s going to be a long morning. The teacher, a middle–aged woman wearing a purple sweater vest and far too much makeup, drones on for what feels like eternity. I laugh at the irony. Forever with the Captain, or eternity in math class? I can’t decide which sounds less painful.
The bell screams our release an hour later. The class rises as a unit, and Ford begins cramming his book haphazardly into his bag. I notice his movements are slower than his classmates, all of which are now violently shoving past one another to escape. He lingers behind, clearly in no hurry.
“Ready?” he asks, hitching his bag over his shoulder. We exit together, merging with the flow of students making their way to their next classes.
“Bent–dick!”
Ford doesn’t turn, but I can tell from his expression the voice is not exactly welcome. A quick glance over my shoulder reveals a Goliath of a boy at the far end of the hall. He looks like any average high school guy, jeans, t–shirt, overly styled hair. The big difference is the seams of his clothes appear as if they’re straining to stay together, like they’re going to rip apart any second and he’ll transform into the Incredible Hulk. His biceps are easily the size of my waist, a visual that both impresses and horrifies me at the same time.
“Bent–dick!” he calls again, his heavy voice echoing over the constant, unbroken rumble of kids. “Where you going?”
I giggle quietly. “Bent–dick?” I ask, trying not to smile. “Anyone I know?”
“Ignore him,” Ford hisses out the side of his mouth.
I do as he asks, listening to the taunts die away as we turn into another wing of the school. “Who is he?” I say.
An unfamiliar growl rumbles deep in Ford’s chest. “He’s no one.”
“Doesn’t look like no one.”
“He’s an idiot. But you may as well get used to seeing him because he seems to show up everywhere I go.”
“I’m pretty sure he shows up wherever anyone goes. The guy’s the size of a bus.”
The remainder of the morning goes well enough; the classes creep by. There comes a moment around lunchtime where I see perhaps a welcome break in the monotony. The same brunette waves at Ford from across the cafeteria. Her smile is visible from the other side of the room. To my confusion, he walks past, either ignoring or not seeing her hello. Lunch is spent in the school library with Ford insisting he has a project to work on for his next class and that he’s not hungry though I secretly suspect he’s not being one hundred percent honest with me. His stomach lets out a deafening rumble, and the librarian shushes him from her warren of books across the room.
At sixth period, we make our way to the gymnasium. Ford smiles sheepishly at me as he exits the boys’ locker room in his assigned shorts and t–shirt, lining up across the basketball court with the rest of the class while the teacher splits them into teams. The look on his face is nothing short of controlled panic, like he knows it’s only a matter of time before he runs screaming from the gym in terror.
And after a few minutes of watching him play, I understand why. The boy’s athletic prowess can easily be narrowed into either repeatedly running up and down the court, or trying his best to keep out of the way of other players. The ball only comes into contact with his hands for seconds at a time, quickly dropped after a misguided attempt at dribbling, or shot far left of the hoop the one and only time he tries to make a basket. The opposing team laughs and thanks him for playing while his own teammates turn on him, yelling in colorful, less–than–friendly terms for him to stay out of the way. Ten minutes into the game he looks ready to either pass out or cry. Is this what he deals with every day? I almost wish he would fight back and chuck the ball into the back of their large, melon–sized heads. The game ends and Ford is the first out of the locker room, shooting out the door, hair wet and clothes slightly askew. I can’t imagine that he would want to stay in there with his teammates for long, although I did volunteer to go in myself and protect him. My suggestion is met with an emphatic no.
I laugh the way I do anytime I have the privilege of making him uncomfortable, and the good cheer continues until we reach his final class.
I freeze beneath the door frame, watching students dump their bags beside clean, white countertops. Wooden cabinets encircle the walls while a case filled with long, empty vials rests near a sink in the back corner. There’s a microscope on each table, tubes, Bunsen burners, flasks, and bottles of every shape and size glistening clear on the corner of each countertop.
And then the beakers explode, shattering into a multitude of angry, deadly pieces. The diamond hard glass cuts into my face, the sharp edges digging into the soft skin below my eyes. White hot flames lick closer, burning, searing, melting into my flesh as I fall blindly to the floor. Someone screams.
Ford turns to me in horror. The other student’s go about their business, unable to see the terror or hear the screams, and it’s only then I realize the gut–wrenching cry I hear is one issuing from my own throat. I’m back in the hallway in a flash, passing through several students as they file into the room, each shuddering uncontrollably from the sudden inexplicable rush.
It isn’t a moment before Ford catches up with me. “What’s the matter?” he gasps, reaching my side. He wheels around crazed, half expecting someone to jump out and attack him.
I bend at the waist, putting my hands on my knees, closing my eyes.
“Billie,” he tries again. “What’s going on? What happened back there?”
The halls are almost completely empty now, the only sound coming from Ford’s continual questioning and the occasional hurried clanging of a locker. I try to answer him, taking a final moment before attempting to straighten up. I wonder briefly if it’s possible for a ghost to vomit, because that’s exactly what I feel like doing.
Ford takes my hand and leads me around a nearby corner, opening what appears to be a janitorial closet and pulling us both inside.
“Now,” he says once the door is firmly closed behind him, “tell me. What’s going on?”
The room is wide enough to distance myself from him, so I choose a large, overturned bucket and sit. The last thing I want is for him to see me behaving like a total loon. A little mischief every now and then won’t hurt anyone, but if Tuck or the Captain ever found out something like this happened, well, I’d rather not think about the results.
“It’s just,” I begin, putting my head in my hands, letting my long hair cover the majority of my face. “I didn’t know . . . I just didn’t expect . . .”
A tiny furrow forms between his eyes. “What was all that about?”
“The room . . . the lab . . . I can’t go in there.”
He laughs with a degree of uncertainty. “Is it the smell? You get used to the formaldehyde after a while, trust me.”
“No,” I moan. “That’s not it. I can’t smell anyth
ing.”
He looks surprised. “Nothing at all?” I shake my head. “Wow. Weird.”
“Not really the point, Ford.”
“Right.” He stares down at his feet and bites his bottom lip. “So . . . what is the point?”
I notice my fingers shaking as I run them through my hair. “It’s just that room. It reminded me of . . . something. I don’t really like talking about it.”
“What sort of thing?” he asks.
“A personal thing. An accident.”
“An accident?” He forces a smile. “That’s no big deal. You know, I was almost in a lab accident a couple of years ago.”
I grimace. “Yeah? Well I was in one.”
“Really?”
“Oh,” he says. “Oh!” He takes a step toward me as comprehension finally dawns. “God, Billie, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. I just wasn’t . . . It surprised me, that’s all.”
He’s silent for another minute. “So is that . . . where it happened?”
I shrug to regain control. “It was at my old school. They’ve torn the entire wing down by now. I guess they figured once kids started dying in the classrooms, it was time to start from scratch.” I laugh bitterly, the only thing I can do since tears aren’t an option.
To my surprise he leans down and places a firm hand on my shoulder; his strange heat radiates through my t–shirt. “It’s okay,” he says. “You died. That’s gotta be rough.”
It’s the sincerity that finally makes me smile; the heartfelt earnestness with which he says those ridiculous words. I laugh before I know what I’m doing, and it isn’t long before I begin to feel like myself again. “Thanks,” I tell him. “You know, Ford,” I say after another minute of silence, “maybe it’s just my inner teddy–bear coming out, but I find you almost tolerable.”
“You’re a sweet girl.”
“I’ll be okay. Really. Just give me another minute.”
“No problem,” he says. “I’ll wait with you.” Overturning a second empty bucket, he sits, his legs far too long to be comfortable in the musty broom closet. “You know, you’re not half as scary as you’d have me believe.”
“That’s what you think?”
“That’s what I think. Guess it’s that inner teddy–bear. Why, I remember this one time you called me almost tolerable.”
“You mean thirty seconds ago?”
“It was awesome.”
We sit, content with merely the silence and one another, at least for the time being. I busy myself by playing with the frayed fabric at the knee of my jeans.
Maybe Tuck is onto something. It’s possible. In the last few days, I’ve managed to overcome the complete disgust I had at being forced to work with a partner, and my initial fear at having an assignment who could see me. Tuck and I are getting along better than I expected, while Ford and I are on our way to at least landing at a reluctant truce.
Cap would be so proud to see it.
I shoot Ford a quick look from behind my hair only to find his dark eyes looking back at me. Embarrassed, he drops his eyes back to his hands, and resorts to once again biting his bottom lip. It’s then I realize, Ford and I are no longer alone. Our duo has become a trio. I look up and grin.
“Hello, Tuck.”
Tucker
“Hello, Tuck.” She greets me with a smile.
Mark one in the win column. It isn’t often I find Billie in a good mood, and I’m thankful leaving her with Ford hasn’t cast a shadow over what little ground I’ve managed to gain.
“Hey guys,” I say, keeping it light, shooting glances back and forth between the two of them. “Is . . . uh . . . everything okay here?”
Billie nods and stands, leaving Ford sitting on an overturned bucket.
“Yeah, everything’s fine,” she answers breathlessly. “Why do you ask?”
“I just thought . . . Are you sure?” I look to Ford. If something has happened, I know I’m more likely to get a straight answer out of this skittish teenager than I am Billie.
But Ford only shakes his head. “No, man. Everything’s great.”
I glance around. “Then why are you in a broom closet?”
“Because,” Ford starts in again with a lightning fast glance at Billie. “Because I was having some trouble with a couple of guys in my gym class, and I . . . hide out in here sometimes to get away from it all. Billie only followed me because it’s her job. Isn’t that right?” He stands, and to my surprise, puts a casual arm around her shoulders.
It’s alarming for two reasons. One, because it proves Ford can touch, and not just see us. The revelation frightens me, though I can’t put into words exactly why. And two, maybe this guy is braver than I gave him credit for. But to my surprise, Billie doesn’t launch him into the nearest wall, or dump a bucket of dirty mop water over his head. She doesn’t shy away from his touch, but stands there, leaving his arm fixed securely around her.
And suddenly I’m the one who wants to throw Ford through a wall.
“Yeah, what Ford said,” Billie says. I sense that she notices the abrupt awkwardness between the three of us. “Just doing my job.”
“Good,” I say. It looks like these two could use some time apart. “Good. I’m glad there was no problem.”
“How did you know where we were?” Ford says.
I throw a quick wink in Billie’s direction. “Wasn’t difficult. I asked a few of the locals if they’d seen a scrawny kid in what I can only assume are his grandmother’s pants running around with a dead girl. Everyone seemed to point to the supply closet, so–”
“He got a read on you,” Billie interrupts with a shove. “A mental picture that lets us know where you are at any given time. He probably saw you and phased on the fly.”
She’s wrong of course. It wasn’t Ford I got the read on. It was her. It’s always her. “Well, since I’m here,” I say, “I may as well go ahead and start my shift. Make sure to stop by headquarters on your way back. The Captain wants to see you.”
She groans, and to my relief, steps away from Ford. “Again? What is his deal?”
I focus on trying not to laugh. I would never in a million years tell either of them this, but I think when Billie died, her cantankerous old boss finally met his match.
We stand for another minute before Billie sighs in resignation. “Well, you boys have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem.”
She shoots us both a final wink, and is gone.
“So, Ford,” I say when I’m finally capable of tearing my gaze away. “What’s next on the agenda? Got any big plans for—?”.
The question catches in my throat, the words dying before they hit my lips. I know that look, the one he wears now. The familiar grin reaching to his eyes, the pull of his mouth, I know it. I’ve mastered it. I practically created it, all for the girl that disappeared from our midst.
Houston, we have a problem.
“Hey, Ford.” The words come out sharper than I intend them.
He turns to look at me, a crooked, silly grin stretched across his face; a strange expression for a guy who claimed to detest the same girl not long ago.
“What?” he asks, the smile disappearing almost immediately.
I take a step forward, using my height to its full intimidation advantage. “Listen,” I tell him, trying very hard to remain professional. “I don’t know how to say this exactly; it’s not really my place. But it would be in your best interest to stop thinking whatever it is you’re thinking.”
He smiles again, though the result isn’t quite as warm this time around. “You’re right,” he replies coolly. “It isn’t your place.”
I chuckle without humor and square my shoulders. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. Billie’s my friend, and friends look out for one another.”
His laughter bounces around the narrow closet. “Your friend?” he smirks with another amused chuckle. “I don’t think so. How you feel about h
er couldn’t be more obvious if the words I love Billie were stenciled across your forehead.”
“Do not push me, Ford. I know I wanted us all to get along, but I swear I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” he interrupts. “Grit your teeth and make scary faces at me from behind her back? Your job is to protect me. You won’t let anything happen. You can’t. You’re the one who told us to get along, remember? And now you’re mad because you didn’t anticipate the one order Billie might actually follow would be the one you secretly didn’t want her to listen to.”
Damn. He has me cornered, and he knows it. I continue to glare at Ford as the seconds tick by.
“Is this awkward for you yet?” he asks. “I mean, you do realize we’re just two guys hanging out in a broom closet now, don’t you?”
He may have a point. I gesture to the exit. “After you.” I follow him out, not bothering to phase through the door.
“Bell’s gonna ring,” Ford mutters to himself as soon as he’s outside, checking his watch. He must have it timed to the second, because a screeching, high pitched bell blasts through the hallways the instant the words leave his mouth, followed by the thunderous noise of a hundred different doors opening simultaneously and the rush of students fleeing their classes. The corridors flood with kids, and in the stampede, Ford is pushed against a wall of lockers.
The chaos abates eventually, and the hallway is left deserted yet again. Ford brushes himself off and picks his backpack up off the ground.
“So where to now?” I ask as soon as he’s settled. “Have a chess club meeting to get to?”
“Why? You interested in joining? Sorry, but there aren’t any ghost girls for you to try and impress in there.”
“A word of advice,” I say without a trace of a smile. “Don’t piss off the guy trying to keep you alive.”
He slings his bag over his shoulder, walking down the corridor backward so he can face me. “You got any other pearls of wisdom you’d like to share?”
Be the Death of Me Page 8
