As Dead as It Gets

by Katie Alender

  So I enclosed my camera in its case, slung it snugly across my body, and grabbed a chair to carry it back inside.

  Then I went back out and picked up another chair.

  This was going to take all day.

  “Here,” said a voice. “Let me help.”

  Next to me, Carter lifted a chair and walked toward the gym. After setting it down inside, he turned around and went back for another. He could have lapped me, but he went slowly, so we were walking together.

  I set down my final chair and rubbed my hands on my jeans to get the feeling back in my stiff fingers. I raised my head to see Carter standing there watching me.

  “Thanks for the help.”

  He smiled. “No problem.”

  Then he just kept…standing there.

  “Carter,” I said. He gave a little jerk, like I’d sneaked up on him. “Can I help you?”

  “Well, I don’t know.” He looked around the gym. “Could you build a time machine, go back to the day I volunteered to help plan this dance, and knock me unconscious?”

  “Aw,” I said. “Not psyched for the shindig?”

  His expression was so dismal that it was funny.

  Then we were both laughing, maybe a little harder than we should have been. But I think part of it was relief—this was the first time in months that we’d managed to break through the tension between us.

  “Are you going?” he asked.

  “To the dance? No, I don’t think so.” My nerves twanged like guitar strings. “Jared—I mean, my…boyfriend—he goes to a different school.”

  Carter raised his eyebrows. “I see. One of those boyfriends.”

  “What boyfriends?”

  “You know, the kind nobody ever actually sees.” Carter smiled so his dimple showed. “I’ll bet he’s an international spy or something.”

  For a moment, I didn’t know what to say. Carter had seen him at various parties, and we both knew it.

  It was almost like he was talking to me, joking around, because…he wanted to.

  “Yeah, totally,” I said. “And he lives in a mansion in Miami, and he’s best friends with Chuck Norris, and he’s a race car driver.”

  “And a millionaire?”

  “Actually, no,” I said. “A billionaire. But I swear he exists.”

  “And I completely believe you,” Carter said.

  “He’s a movie star, too,” I said. “And he’s…” Behind Carter, one of the gym doors opened, creating a blinding rectangle of light. A figure stood silhouetted inside of it. “Um…right over there.”

  Carter looked surprised, then turned around and watched Jared come toward us.

  Right before he came into hearing range, Carter turned to me. “Awk-ward,” he said in a singsong voice, and I laughed.

  “Hey…what are you doing here?” I asked, when Jared got closer.

  “Meeting you,” he said. “What’s the joke?”

  “But you knew I had a shoot.”

  “Yes, but…” He looked at his watch, then looked up at me, perplexed.

  I kept hoping that Carter would slip away into the background, but he didn’t. He looked at Jared and asked, “We haven’t actually been introduced, have we?”

  I gritted my teeth. “Jared,” I said, “Carter. Carter, Jared.”

  They looked at each other for a breath longer than they needed to before extending their hands for a curt, manly shake and doing that mutual chin-raise boy-greeting.

  “I’m just finishing up,” I said to Jared. “But—what do you mean, meeting me?”

  “Nature preserve,” he said. “Like we texted about?”

  I started to reach for my phone. “I thought we texted about not doing that today.”

  “No,” Jared said, his jaw twitching. “You said you’d call me later, so I just thought I’d meet you here.”

  “Yeah, but…” I glanced up at the narrow windows. The sun was on its way down. He must have known it would be too late to take pictures.

  Not to mention that I’d planned to spend the afternoon looking up news stories on Kendra and Ashleen.

  “Sorry. I thought it was clear that we had plans.” Jared shrugged, glancing in Carter’s direction. “But I guess you have more important things to do.”

  He started to walk away.

  I shot a flustered look at Carter and hurried to catch up with Jared.

  “Wait,” I said. “I’m done here anyway. Let me get my stuff, all right?”

  He gave me a chilly look. “Do what you have to do.”

  I walked back to the bleachers, where I’d stashed my backpack.

  Carter was already there, standing next to his own bag. He looked at me with narrowed eyes. “Does he always treat you that way?”

  “No, Carter,” I said. “Usually he beats me with a two-by-four. Does Zoe always treat you like a stuffed animal?”

  “That’s not funny,” Carter said as I walked away.

  “I’m not joking,” I called over my shoulder.

  Jared wrapped his arm around my waist when I reached him. “Don’t be mad,” I said.

  “I’m not,” he said. “I thought I was, but it turns out I’m not.”

  He pulled me close and kissed me—a long, serious kiss.

  I pushed away, blushing and unsettled.

  Because I knew he’d done it so Carter would see.

  “Hungry?” Jared asked. “I can make dinner.”

  We were stretched out on the couch watching cooking shows. I lifted my head off his chest and looked at him. The lines of his face were loose and relaxed.

  “I guess,” I said. “I should call my mom, though. Are you sure you want to cook? You don’t have to.”

  “I’m a very good chef,” he said. “Self-taught. I’m looking for a chance to show off, in case you can’t tell.”

  “All right,” I said, getting up and walking around the room to stretch my legs. “Dazzle me.”

  His arms were around me before I knew what was happening. He dipped me low, like a dancer or Scarlett O’Hara or something, and kissed me until I saw stars.

  He was slender, but his arms were solid, lean muscle. He was strong.

  Stronger than Carter, I thought.

  He lifted me to my feet. I felt a little wobbly.

  “I meant dazzle me with your cooking,” I said.

  His fingers traced through my hair. “I don’t care what you meant,” he whispered. “Is that bad?”

  Breathless, I nodded my head and said, “No.”

  I called Mom to tell her I’d be home later, then sat on a barstool in the corner of the kitchen.

  “Can I use your laptop?” I asked.

  “You don’t want to spend every minute admiring my mad skills?”

  I tried to smile, but the thought of what I had to look up online was weighing on my mind. Jared went to his room and brought back his computer, handing it to me.

  I kept one eye on Jared as he worked. He really did know what he was doing—he chopped vegetables like the TV chefs, so fast the knife was practically a blur. And he always seemed to be finishing one thing exactly when the next thing needed to happen.

  But my real focus was the web browser. I searched furiously for any article that linked supernatural occurrences with bright lights. I followed a few links that led me to dead ends.

  “What are you so focused on over here? Can you be done now?” Jared asked, lifting the back of my hair and kissing my neck. “Dinner’s ready.”

  We sat down to eat at the dining room table, with two steaming bowls of pasta in front of us.

  “Hang on,” Jared said, disappearing into the kitchen and coming back with two glasses of red wine. He handed me one and held his up. “Cheers.”

  I clinked glasses, then set mine down. “I don’t really drink.”

  “Not even a sip?” he asked.

  I took the tiniest sip. The wine tasted like vinegar to me, but I forced my expression to stay neutral.

  “So,” Jared said. “I’ve been thi
nking.”

  “About what?”

  He finished chewing and smiled. “Why you’ve been so tired lately. And I realized—you should quit yearbook.”

  “What?” I said the word with a mouthful of pasta and then had to swallow a too-big bite. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean…what it probably sounds like I mean. You’re overwhelmed, you have a lot going on, you’re tired and busy, and you should quit. It’s not like they’re paying you.”

  “Of course they’re not paying me.” I pinched the bridge of my nose, where a tiny headache was blossoming into existence. “They don’t pay anyone. That’s not how it works.”

  “My school pays the yearbook staff,” he said. “Minimum wage, applied to their tuition, but it’s the principle of the thing.”

  I crossed my arms. “Well, I guess your school has a lot of money.”

  There was a chilled silence.

  “That’s not a bad thing,” I said. “It’s just…I like yearbook. And I don’t think I’m overwhelmed. I’m just busy.”

  He still hadn’t spoken.

  “I appreciate your concern, but that’s not an option for me. I don’t want to quit.”

  Jared took a big swig from his wineglass and shot me a baffled look. “Fine, then. I just thought…since it’s cutting into other areas of your life…”

  “What other areas?”

  “Our relationship, for starters,” he said. “Lately there have been days when I really wanted to see you, and I can’t even get you on the phone anymore.”

  I glanced down at my food. Nothing had ever looked less appetizing. “I’m sorry.”

  “You know what? Forget it. I don’t want to talk about it right now,” he said. “I’d like to enjoy my dinner.”

  I sat back, silent.

  Jared didn’t eat, either. He just stared down at his bowl, holding his fork in a death grip. After a few seconds, he leaned back a little and sighed.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I think that’s what they call an overreaction. Can you forgive me?”

  “Sure,” I said. My nerves were starting to feel like a frayed rope. I reached for my wineglass and gulped down a mouthful before I had time to dislike the taste.

  Jared had softened. “Maybe you should tell me about yearbook. Since you seem to enjoy it so much.”

  So I did. I talked about Elliot, Marley, Chad, Mr. Janicke…all the shoots I’d done. Well, all the shoots except the ones with Carter. I thought that by putting names and anecdotes along with it, I could make Jared understand why it was so important to me.

  By the time dinner was over, I’d finished the entire glass of wine, and my head was feeling fuzzy. I was still shy, underneath my alcohol-loosened tongue, and I suddenly wondered just how long I’d been going on about how cool Elliot was. It could have been five minutes or it could have been an hour.

  “I should go home.” I stood up, but the room swayed around me.

  “Yeah, I don’t think so, lightweight,” Jared said. “You’re going to have to hang out a while.”

  I called Mom and told her Jared and I were going to watch a movie, but I’d be home by ten. The words slipped around my mouth like a wet fish, but Mom didn’t seem to pick up on it.

  “You should probably drink some water,” said Jared.

  I shook my head, which was starting to ache. “I just want to sit down.”

  He helped me to the couch and turned on the TV.

  I put my hand on his thigh. “Sorry,” I slurred. “I guess I’m a featherweight.”

  He half laughed. “A fezzerweight?”

  “Is that what I said?” The words were too thick to come out correctly.

  “No.” He softly swept the hair from in front of my eyes. “It’s not. I shouldn’t tease you.”

  I yawned in his face. “I’m so tired.”

  “But you are a featherweight.” He leaned toward me. “A very cute one.”

  By the time the kiss was over, I was passed out.

  “Alexis?”

  My temples ached like I had a too-tight bandanna tied around my head. I opened my eyes to see Jared standing above me.

  “Ow,” I said.

  “Hello to you, too.” He took my hand and pulled me to a sitting position.

  “I think my brain is full of ball bearings,” I groaned.

  “It’s getting late,” he said. “Are you okay to drive?”

  “What time is it?”

  “Nine forty-five.”

  That opened my eyes. I’d been asleep for two hours?

  “I can take you home. I’ll just drive your car and take a taxi back.”

  “I’m sure I’m fine,” I said. “It was just one glass.”

  He looked sheepish. “Well, it was a generous pour.”

  “But you’re fine?”

  He smoothed my hair. His cool fingers felt heavenly on my skin, and I pressed my face against his hand. “I like wine,” he said. “Dad’s let me have a glass with dinner since I was thirteen.”

  “No, I’m okay,” I said, standing. Then the room whooshed around me, and I sat back down, defeated. “But you have to let me pay for the cab.”

  “We’ll figure that out later,” Jared said. “I’ll get my jacket. Where are your keys?”

  By the time I got home I was ready to pass out again. I totally forgot about paying for the cab. It was all I could do to brush my teeth, change into my pajamas, and collapse into bed.

  Sometimes you wake up because you’re hot, or cold, or thirsty, or have to pee, or hear a noise. And sometimes you wake up because you just do.

  I yawned and stretched and moved my arm out from under my pillow, shaking it lightly to get the blood flowing back into my fingers. My head still swam from the wine, so I snuggled back down on my pillow and closed my eyes again, trying to make the spinning dizziness go away.

  Then I felt the slightest movement across my cheek.

  My fingers touched something soft and wet, and I gasped, slapping at my skin furiously, as if there had been a spider crawling across my face in the darkness. I jumped out of bed and switched on the light.

  On my pillowcase lay a single yellow rose petal.

  I looked around. My head felt stuffy and I could hear the blood in my ears. It made the room seem silent—until I focused a little harder.

  Vzzzzzzzzzz

  “Hello?” I whispered.

  But there was no answer.

  My cheek burned, so I turned to the mirror to see if I’d scratched myself. My body felt weighted down, my mind thick. I was still out of it from being drunk—it was like I couldn’t even force myself to stay alert.

  The sound seemed to be coming from behind me. But I could clearly see in the mirror that the room was empty.

  Without thinking, I reached down for my camera, aiming it at the mirror and shooting pictures of the reflection.

  Looking down at the image, the first thing I noticed was that the exposure was way off. There wasn’t nearly enough light in the bedroom, and I’d been too woozy to change the lens settings, which were adjusted for an outside shoot in the sun. Everything in the picture was darker than it should have been, which meant the image should have been a black, underexposed rectangle.

  But it wasn’t.

  There was something there.

  The air left my lungs completely, and my hands clenched the sides of the camera in a death grip.

  What I had thought up to that moment was a bright splotch of light—in the woods with Ashleen, on the TV screen, and in front of the small house on the far side of town—was a ghost. The ghost of a girl.

  But she wasn’t like any ghost I’d ever seen before.

  She was moving.

  In a photograph.

  Her whole body flickered slightly, like a neon sign about to burn out. The flickering gave the impression of a glow around her, and her form was slightly blurred, like she was making a million tiny movements. And even in my photo…she was quaking.

  She floated directly over my bed
, her body crooked and broken, arms askew and neck bent to a horrific angle.

  The pose looked like she’d fallen—but she was hovering in midair. Her hair swung raggedly in front of her face, almost reaching my pillow. Her left arm hung down, and her left hand held a bouquet of yellow roses.

  And she was wearing the purple dress.

  The same one I saw myself in. The same one Ashleen’s ghost wore.

  Almost in a panic, I crashed into my dresser and then threw open my bedroom door, trying to get as far away from the ghost as possible. I ended up in the kitchen, with my back against the sliding door that led to our tiny patch of backyard.

  “Lydia!” I whispered.

  But Lydia didn’t pop out of thin air. How long did it usually take her to come, I wondered?

  Holding my breath, I looked back at the picture, at the trembling figure.

  And then—she turned her head. The ghost in the picture turned her head. And looked at me.

  Except she didn’t have eyes. Where they should have been were just dark sunken patches of smooth skin, like two round shadows on her face.

  But she saw me—I know she did.

  Through a photograph.

  I stood in shock, my breath coming in tiny puffs. I glanced at the hall, expecting to see a trembling cloud of white light float out of my bedroom.

  Then I heard the sound again—vzzzzzzzz—coming from behind me.

  Before I had the sense not to do it, I turned around and took another picture, looking out the glass doors toward the yard. She was there. And she was closer—she filled almost the whole frame.

  I stared at her waves of golden hair—which, up close, were covered in dirt. Where her hair and skin met, the skin was beginning to shrivel, raisinlike, and was laced with a thin layer of black. The layers of her purple dress were outlined in gray-green mildew, and her bony, desiccated left hand held a bouquet of rotting roses—only held was the wrong word. The stems seemed grafted to her palm, growing out of the skin like some grotesque, malignant tumor.