As Dead as It Gets

by Katie Alender

  She gave me a look of such utterly honest understanding that a lump immediately formed in the back of my throat.

  “A lot of stuff sucks. But that’s life. Just eat with us.” Elliot mistook my silence for resistance. “I’m asking you, Alexis. Consider it a personal favor.”

  I swallowed the lump and blinked before I could look up at her. “Why?”

  “Why not?” She shrugged. “If you need a reason…it’s bad for morale to have one of our staff sitting all alone by the trash cans. Take one for the team, all right?”

  So the next day, when the bell rang for lunch, I walked past my usual table and took a spot between Marley and Demetrius. Not only was there enough lively debate to disguise the fact that I didn’t have much to say, but there also seemed to be a healthy appreciation for people who were willing to be the audience. And even though I kept looking, I didn’t catch a single suspicious glance thrown in my direction, the whole hour.

  In other words, it was actually…kind of great.

  THE DAY OF ASHLEEN’s FUNERAL, I faked a sore throat and didn’t go. Not that my parents would have pressured me to. Even Kasey didn’t say anything. The truth is, it was simple cowardice: I couldn’t face Mrs. Evans and Ashleen’s brothers.

  For several days after, there was calm. No bright lights. No weird dreams. No new girls went missing. Kendra was still comatose, but the doctors said she could wake up any day. Of course, they’d been saying that for six weeks—but at least she wasn’t getting worse.

  As the early part of February passed, I started to have that weird feeling that I’d imagined everything. School went on as usual, things were stable with Jared, and I avoided making eye contact with Carter. I ate lunch with the yearbook kids every day, and Kasey dialed back her wide-eyed vigilance.

  After school one Monday, I decided I deserved a break. A little fun in my life, for once.

  So I set aside the whole afternoon to organize the kitchen junk drawer.

  I divided the extra paper clips, thumbtacks, and rubber bands into little tin containers with clear lids, tested all of the pens and highlighters and threw away the ones that didn’t write well, and then turned to the stack of takeout menus, random pieces of mail, and old maps that Mom stowed in there.

  We’d lost almost everything when our house burned down—except what was in the cars. Such as, my pack-rat mother’s collection of old maps. She had a glove box full, and after the fire, in her sentimental longing to hang on to anything from our old lives, she’d stashed them away before Dad and I could cull them.

  Today is not your lucky day, old maps.

  My cell phone rang, and I thought about answering it, but it was across the room and I was blissfully elbow-deep in promotional key chains, mechanical pencils, and magnets. So I let it go to voicemail. I knew there weren’t any yearbook shoots that day, and Mom or Dad would just call the house phone if they needed me.

  Then the house phone rang. I checked the caller ID. It was Jared.

  I debated for a moment, then heard the siren song of the new drawer organizer Mom had brought home as a pick-me-up gift when I was sick (or should I say, “sick”), sitting on the counter waiting for someone to place it in a drawer and fill its compartments with tiny items. I could call Jared back later. So I left the receiver in the cradle and went back to organizing.

  I stood facing the kitchen wall, with my back to the world, going through the stacks of papers.

  One of the maps of Surrey was so old that it must have been printed when my mother was in high school. Silver Sage Acres and Megan’s neighborhood weren’t even on it.

  “Well, you can go,” I said, trying to fold it up. But its seams were so old and soft that I couldn’t figure out which way it went. So I just folded it in quarters and took it to the recycle bin.

  As I dropped it in, I noticed something: on the back of the map was an aerial photograph of Surrey, with the elevation changes marked in faint white outlines that radiated out from the hills.

  And there was a small, gleaming white spot on it. Like the bright white light from TV and my photos—only in miniature.

  Which made sense—it was a photograph, after all.

  Leave it, Alexis. Forget it.

  But I reached down into the bin to grab the map back out—

  And that’s when I heard it:

  Vzzzzzzzzzz

  I swung around, my hands gripping the edge of the counter.

  Vzzzzzzzzzz. The sound continued on steadily. I started toward the foyer, hoping I could leave it behind by leaving the room. Or the house, if necessary.

  “Hello?” I called. “Who’s there?”

  As I stepped around the corner—

  “Me,” Lydia said.

  To say I jumped out of my skin would be an understatement. I screeched and slammed backward into the wall, bruising my back on the light switch.

  “Jeez, Alexis,” she said. “You scare easy.”

  For a good five seconds, I could only glare at her. Then I sidestepped around her and stalked to my bedroom, grabbing my camera, my jacket, my purse, and my car keys.

  “Where are you going?” she asked. “Can I come?”

  I turned to look at her.

  “I’m bored,” she said. “Besides, you’ll probably end up demanding my presence eventually.”

  My most innate reaction was to say, No thanks—getting useful information from Lydia was one thing. Having her ride along like some sidekick was another. But something made me hold back. Was it…could it be…my gut?

  “Fine, whatever,” I said. “Come on.”

  I went straight out the front door and locked it behind me, without another word. Then I started down the sidewalk to my car. Lydia was already waiting in the passenger seat.

  I cross-referenced the map with one that had actual streets on it, and followed that (no thanks to Lydia’s horrific navigation skills) to a neighborhood built in the 1950s. The spot where the light was supposed to be was just a run-down brick house with white trim. The hair pricked up on the back of my neck as I pulled into the gas station across the street and looked around.

  Kids were trickling down the sidewalk, alone or in pairs.

  “Is there another high school around here?” I asked.

  “Redmond,” Lydia said. “I almost had to go there after we moved, but my mom gave the lady at the school district a bunch of free haircuts so I could stay at Surrey.”

  “What’s so great about Surrey?” I asked.

  “It’s where my friends are.” She shrugged. “Of course, I didn’t know how many less friends I’d have once we moved to our crappy new house and Mom stopped stocking the fridge.”

  “That sucks,” I said.

  “Yeah, well…I found Aralt. So it didn’t matter anyway.”

  “And look how well that worked out,” I said.

  She snorted. “Tell me about it.”

  I watched a girl stride along, looking totally relaxed and carefree, wearing oversized hipster headphones. A familiar stab of envy went through me. I’d been that girl once, but I’d never be her again. The closest I’d ever get to that kind of happiness was standing there, surrounded by gasoline fumes, watching somebody else enjoy it.

  Then, as she passed the brick house, the girl stumbled and almost fell. She caught herself at the last second and kept walking, glancing around self-consciously.

  “What exactly are you looking for?” Lydia asked.

  I considered not telling her, but it wasn’t like she could say anything to anybody else, right? So I explained about the bright light, and all the times I’d seen it—in my car, on TV, at night in the field, at Jared’s house, in my photographs, and finally on the old map.

  “Wow,” Lydia said. “All that, and you thought it was me?”

  I shrugged.

  “Well, I can tell you it’s not,” she said. “In the first place, too much work.”

  “The light seems related to Kendra’s and Ashleen’s disappearances,” I said. “So if it’s here, I w
ant to know why.”

  “So is it? Here?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I said. “I just want to observe for a minute.”

  What I didn’t want to tell her was that I was afraid of the light. Specifically, I was afraid of attracting its attention and ending up surrounded by the horrible laughter again.

  Then came two boys, walking close together, looking down at a piece of paper.

  Suddenly, one of them reared back, his voice loud and annoyed, though I couldn’t make out his words. And then they were fighting, and all I heard as they continued down the street were their angry voices.

  The next girl was tall, with dark skin and long braids, wearing a green-and-yellow cheerleading uniform. She walked with confidence—until she reached the sidewalk in front of the brick house.

  Then she stopped and slapped at her arm, looking dismayed. She studied her hand, then took several steps back, like something had frightened her.

  She made a sharp turn and crossed the street toward the gas station, walking right up to my car.

  “I just got stung by a bee, and I’m allergic,” she said. “I have an EpiPen, but if I pass out, will you call nine-one-one?”

  I nodded—what else could I do?—and watched as she jabbed a small needle into her thigh. Then she sat down on the curb and dug through her bag for her phone.

  “Do you need me to drive you someplace?” I asked. “To the hospital?”

  “No, thanks. My brother’ll come. He’ll take me if I need to go.…I feel okay so far.” She sighed.

  “All right,” I said. “I can wait here with you.”

  “If you don’t mind.” She studied the welt rising off of her forearm. “I swear, I got stung there last year, too. That house is totally cursed.”

  She went on talking, but I wasn’t listening. I was looking at the house.

  Cursed.

  That was something I hadn’t thought about. Could the bright light, the wandering girls, be part of a curse?

  A few minutes later the girl’s brother pulled up. She thanked me again and got into the car.

  As soon as she was gone, I collected my courage, got the camera out of my bag, and walked to the edge of the road. I kept my distance—I was a good twenty feet from the sidewalk in front of the brick house.

  I took a few pictures, expecting—hoping, even?—to see some kind of troublemaking ghost.

  But all I saw in the frame was a spot of bright white light.

  I stared at the image, trying to make sense of it.

  “What are you looking at?” Lydia peered down at my camera. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Really? Nothing?”

  “What do you see?” She followed me. “What’s in that house?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, hoping no one noticed that the girl with the camera was apparently having a conversation with herself in the middle of the sidewalk. “You’re the one who can walk through walls.”

  “I can, you know,” she said. “I could go look. Want me to?”

  I’d spent the past three months hiding everything from everyone. And now I was supposed to trust the one person who I thought hated me more than anyone else on the planet?

  I sighed. “Sure, why not.”

  She disappeared. A minute passed.

  I caught myself checking the time on my phone, thinking, I hope she’s all right.

  Lydia emerged a few seconds later and hurried across the street, not even flinching when a car drove right through her. She was too eager to share what she’d learned. “There’s an old guy passed out on the sofa. He’s drunk.”

  “Just a regular guy? You didn’t see any other…”

  She blinked. “Any other what?”

  “Ghosts?”

  “No.” She gave me an accusatory glance—almost like her feelings were hurt. “Are you saying you can see other ghosts? I’m not the only one?”

  “If it makes you feel better,” I said, “you’re definitely the most intrusive ghost in my life.”

  She shrugged. “A little better…I guess.”

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Her eyes went wide.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You really want me to ride with you?”

  “Want might be too strong a word,” I said. “But you might as well.”

  Truthfully, though, I guess I did kind of want her there. Amazing how having zero friends and absolutely nobody to turn to could make you look at a person (or a ghost) in a new light. Lydia could be snarky, but it was nice to have someone to talk to for a change.

  As we drove back through town, I thought about Lydia’s willingness to help. Maybe this helpful act was just that—an act, designed to lull me into a sense of false confidence so she could spring some super-duper destructive attack on me when I least expected it.

  I pulled off to the side of the road.

  “Why are we stopping here?” She looked around. “Did you see another ghost?”

  “So if it’s not you,” I said, “why are there always yellow roses?”

  “What? What do flowers have to do with anything?”

  “You had yellow roses at your funeral.”

  “You remember that?” She cocked her head to the side. “Wow. That’s almost kind of—”

  “Answer me!” I said. “Does that mean you aren’t the one leaving yellow roses all over the place?”

  “Of course I’m not.” Lydia sighed airily. “I don’t care about stupid yellow roses, okay? The funeral home picked them.”

  Really.

  The funeral home.

  “But why, Lydia?” I asked. “Why do you keep showing up? Just tell me the truth, all right?”

  She crossed her arms and didn’t answer for a long moment, like she was gathering every ounce of dignity she could muster. “Because…you keep calling for me. You call my name, and it’s like…I figure I should check on you. Honestly, Alexis, you’re like a helpless little baby. Someone has to save you. Are you happy now?”

  With a magnificent harrumph, she faded out of view.

  The thought hit me like a Frisbee to the head:

  The bird charm wasn’t Lydia’s power center.

  I was.

  I STOPPED AT MY LOCKER and shuffled my books. My phone buzzed in my pocket.

  The screen was cracked almost beyond recognition, but the alternative was some Iron Age castoff of Mom’s—another sentimental holdover from our old lives. So I was toughing it out. The phone still worked all right—it was just a little harder to see, that’s all.

  It was a text from Jared: Nature preserve?

  Can’t today, I replied. Have a shoot.

  :( x 1000000

  “Oh, come on,” I said out loud. Call u later, I texted, flipping the phone shut and turning back to my locker.

  “Who are you talking to?” Marley asked, coming down the hall at warp speed and stopping just short of a hard collision with the empty locker next to mine—the one that used to be Megan’s.

  It was February 12, and we were scheduled to cover the final planning meeting for the student government–sponsored Valentine’s Day dance, a.k.a. “The Sweetheart Shindig,” which Elliot had immediately proclaimed the worst title on record for a Surrey High dance (and considering that in the 1990s, a club called the Pseudointellectual Society hosted “The Dead Fish Jamboree,” that was saying a lot). I was, to put it mildly, less than totally psyched about this shoot.

  I slung my camera bag over my shoulder and walked with Marley to the gym. Inside, a bunch of Student Council members were gathered in a ragged semicircle of folding chairs. Zoe was there, as was Carter, and about ten other kids.

  Marley started by making them move their chairs closer to the windows, looking for natural light for my photographs. The pale late afternoon sunlight still wasn’t enough to drown out the sickly green of the overhead fluorescents, so finally she made them carry their chairs outside and sit in a circle on the lawn.

  I looked through my
viewfinder.

  “Excuse me, I can’t sit in the sun!” Zoe complained. “I’ll burn.”

  “How is it?” Marley asked, ignoring her completely.

  “It’s fine, except…” I said, “it reads more ‘drum circle’ than ‘Student Council.’”

  I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around to see Carter.

  “How about over there?” he asked, pointing to a spot on a nearby covered walkway where two stone benches faced each other. Soft, natural light reflected off the white walls, but there was enough shade to be interesting (and to protect Zoe’s milky complexion, which was apparently going to be a priority for all of us).

  “Um…yeah, thanks,” I said, and then without being asked, he busied himself getting everyone arranged and keeping them quiet while I set up.

  Carter was the last one to sit. He planted himself on a bench in full sun—even though Zoe was hiding in the shade. She looked tempted to join him, fragile skin and all, but there were no seats left. So she pouted and stayed where she was.

  “Come to order,” someone said. They started going through their agenda.

  After a month of Elliot’s lightning-fast meetings, where wasting time was the equivalent of robbing an old lady in an alley, their petty back-and-forth bickering made my brain itch. In a yearbook meeting, if we had four minutes’ worth of stuff to cover, the whole thing lasted about four minutes and fifteen seconds. The Student Council kids seemed so entranced by the idea of holding a “meeting” that they could hardly focus on the business at hand.

  On the plus side, it gave me plenty of time to take photos.

  Afterward, the decorations subcommittee went inside—to wander aimlessly and argue, I imagined, based on their snippy discussions during the meeting—and the rest of the kids left, pairing up to gossip about ideas and people they disagreed with as soon as they were out of each other’s earshot.

  Marley and I made plans to meet in the morning, and she took off.

  Then I turned to leave—and saw the circle of folding chairs still sitting out in the grass.

  I might have left them, except that the night’s forecast predicted rain, which would ruin the padded seats. One of Elliot’s pet topics to rant about was the way our school spent tons of money on the athletic department but almost nothing on maintaining the non-athletic facilities and equipment. She’d practically picketed the front office when I told her I’d tried to take a picture of the Literary Society but couldn’t find a sofa in the library that didn’t look like it had been gnawed on by a pack of wild dogs.