“So they try to prove you’re not as good as you think you are,” I filled in softly.
Mark nodded. “But you didn’t do that,” he said. “Instead, you did your assignment. I appreciate that, and I figured it meant I owed you one. Hence, the giving of advice.”
“So few people actually use the word hence in conversation these days,” I said. “It’s kind of nice to meet a guy who doesn’t regard English as a second language, even when it’s his first.”
Mark laughed again, the sound open and delighted. “You know what, Calloway? You just may be all right.”
“Save it,” I said with a laugh of my own as I opened the car door and got out. “Advice I may take. Flattery will get you nowhere.”
“Who says it was flattery?” Mark inquired, getting out in his turn.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m getting out of the car.”
“I can see that,” I said. “Why?”
“So I can walk you to the office and see what kind of reaction you get,” Mark said simply, his eyes dancing with wicked laughter. “Why else do you think I offered you a ride in the first place?”
I should have known, I thought.
“London, I can’t believe you are such a jerk.”
“That’s only because you barely know me, Calloway,” he said as he came around to my side of the car. “We can fix that.” Before I knew quite what he intended, he reached down and captured my hand.
“You know, I think I might want to hold onto this after all.”
I gave my hand a jerk, but Mark held on tight. “This is not funny, Mark,” I said. “Let go.”
“Excuse me, did I hear you say Calloway?” a voice behind me suddenly asked.
For one split second, every single cell in my body simply froze. I barely even noticed that Mark London let go of my hand. Slowly I turned to face the person who’d spoken. That voice I’d have recognized anywhere.
“That’s right,” I said, pleased when my own voice came out clearly and steadily. “I’m Claire Calloway. I’m here from the Royer paper for the journalism exchange.”
“Welcome to Beacon, Claire.”
I looked up at him then. I could see his eyes widen in surprise as he took in my face, but it didn’t stop him from extending his hand. A thing he’d done once before. The day we’d first met. The day I’d fallen in love with him.
“I’m student body president Alex Crawford.”
Sixteen
You may as well stop wondering how I made it through the next few minutes. I can explain it in four words.
I do not know.
To this day it’s all some bizarre and slightly painful blur, like swimming in a heavily chlorinated pool with your eyes open but without your goggles.
I’m pretty sure the obvious must have happened. I introduced Mark to Alex, and Alex to Mark. Then, promising to meet me in front of the school later that afternoon, Mark headed back to Royer. I have a vague recollection of him gunning the engine and of tires squealing as he pulled out of the parking lot. But by then I was well on my way to being in the grip of déjà vu. Once again I was arriving at Beacon as a “new” student, and Alex was showing me around.
The weekly student council meeting would be our first stop, Alex informed me as we made our way through campus gathering more than our fair share of stares as we went along. Though it could hardly be considered a part of every student’s curriculum, the editor of the Beacon paper had thought the council meeting might be an event that I would like to cover.
The purpose of the meeting was to consider the various memorials proposed for recently deceased Beacon student Jo O’Connor.
“Before the meeting starts, there’s something I think you should know, Claire,” Alex said as we approached the classroom where, unbeknownst to Alex, I knew perfectly well the student council meetings were always held. He hesitated a moment, as if uncertain how to continue.
He’s trying to figure out how to tell me I look just like his dead almost-girlfriend, I thought.
“You may have noticed we got some strange looks as we came across campus,” Alex went on.
“Yes, I did. Look, Alex,” I said quickly. His name felt strange inside my mouth. “In all fairness, I think you should know that I’m aware that I . . . somewhat resemble Jo O’Connor. My editor at Royer pointed it out.
“I’m hoping nobody here will find the fact that I look like Jo too disturbing. I don’t want to make anyone more upset than they already are. And I . . . ”
Just say it, I thought.
“I know the two of you were close. Before we go any further, I want to say I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” Alex said simply. “And I’m glad you already know. I was trying to figure out how to break it to you gently, I admit.”
He gave me a somewhat ragged smile.
All of a sudden I felt like a total creep. I probably would have come clean right then and there if it hadn’t been for the fact that doing so would have endangered my father.
“Thanks for being so nice about it,” I said. At this, Alex seemed to relax. He actually gave a chuckle.
“It’s not as if you can help it,” he said. He opened the door to the student council room. “After you.”
“It is now official,” I declared. “I am no longer living in the Twilight Zone. I am way past that. I’ve moved on to the Outer Limits.”
“The outer limits of what?” Elaine asked.
“When I get there, I’ll let you know.”
It was late Friday afternoon, the end of my first week back at Beacon. By prior arrangement the day before, Elaine and I had met after school. We were doing the grocery shopping. With my father confined to the apartment, a lot of extra errands that he had taken care of were now falling to me.
As if I needed my life to be any more complicated.
Though we’d deliberately selected a store between our two neighborhoods, I had my notebook out as Elaine and I marched up and down the aisles. You never knew who you’d run into. If anyone saw us together, I could always claim I was conducting an interview.
One more.
In the week I’d been back, I’d already conducted what felt like about six thousand. The number of people wanting to talk about Jo O’Connor, or, more specifically, her ghost, had been nothing short of astonishing.
Actually it was really starting to creep me out and depress me, all at the same time. People actually wanted there to be a ghost. As far as I could tell, the fact that she’d died and come back from the dead was the thing people found most interesting about Jo O’Connor.
And then there were the memorials. The list up for discussion at Monday morning’s student council session had contained ten ideas. By unanimous vote, the council had approved every single one of them.
One of the seats in the Little Theater already bore a plaque with my name. The botany club was busy with a Jo O’Connor Memorial Herb Garden, the centerpiece of which would be a letter J comprised entirely of rosemary plants.
Rosemary. That’s for remembrance, in case you’ve forgotten. The reader board outside the school, which announced important activities for all to see, soon would bear my name. As would yet another plaque, this one at the base of the flagpole.
My favorite mid-morning treat at the snack bar, a chocolate donut and a Coke, was now called Jo’s Special.
When I wasn’t counting my blessings that no one had, as of yet, proposed to name one of the girls’ bathrooms after me, or, even worse, one of the actual stalls, I was tearing my hair out over the fact that, in perpetuity throughout the universe, incoming senior chemistry students would be performing an experiment in my name. One involving chemicals that smelled just plain awful. Though I did appreciate the fact that my name wasn’t attached to any of the biology dissections.
Yet.
“I just don’t get it,” I said as I tossed a bag of my favorite corn chips into the shopping cart. “So maybe
I wasn’t that high profile when I was a student here,” I said. “But am I really more interesting dead than alive?”
“You don’t seriously expect me to answer that, do you?” Elaine said.
“Yes. No. I don’t know. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I’m really touched that people want to remember me. It just all feels so unreal, somehow.”
“Well, there is that part about Jo not really being dead.”
“Elaine,” I hissed. “Not so loud!”
“I just don’t know what you’re complaining about,” Elaine hissed back.
“I’m not complaining,” I said. I pulled open the cold case and added a carton of milk and a large container of low-fat raspberry yogurt to the cart. I was so upset, I almost shut the door on my hair.
“I’m just trying to say that none of the memorials feels like it’s really about Jo O’Connor. I mean when she was alive. It’s all about the ghost.
“Do you know why they’re putting a bench in the herb garden? So Jo’s ghost will have a congenial place to sit when she visits the campus. Suzy Neptune actually said that, right out loud.”
“I admit that is a little weird,” Elaine said.
“You’re not kidding. But you know the weirdest thing of all?”
“No, but I have a feeling I’m about to be enlightened.”
“Alex. Alex is the weirdest thing of all,” I said. I leaned against an entire rack devoted to who knows how many different kinds of tortillas, and expelled a breath I hadn’t even been aware I was holding in. “I can’t believe I just said that. But it’s absolutely true. He talks about her all the time.”
“Why shouldn’t he talk about her?” Elaine asked, and I could tell by her tone that she was upset. “Jo was important to Alex, in case you’ve forgotten.”
“Of course I haven’t forgotten,” I said. “But Alex is just like everybody else, only more so. He doesn’t talk about Jo O’Connor, living, breathing human being. Okay, formerly. He talks about her ghost. Doesn’t that seem just the slightest bit odd to you? Does it sound like the Alex you know?”
“Under ordinary circumstances, no,” Elaine said as we headed for the checkout line. “But the present circumstances are far from ordinary, you have to admit. Alex is probably coping the only way he can. I think it’s hypocritical and selfish of you to criticize him for it, particularly as it’s all your fault.”
“What do you mean, it’s all my fault?” I said.
“Well, you’re the one who showed up dead in the first place.”
“And you’re the one who agreed with him when he said he’d seen a ghost. How come it’s not your fault?”
“I didn’t start this,” Elaine said.
“Well, for your information, neither did I. What, exactly, do you think I did when my dad told me we had to fake our own deaths? Jump up and down and say, gee, Dad, that sounds like tons of fun?”
“Of course not,” Elaine said quietly. “I just don’t see why you had to come back, that’s all.”
“That’s a horrible thing to say,” I said.
We reached the checkout stand. In appalled silence, I piled my selections onto the belt, paid for the purchases, then snatched up the bag and headed for the door. Elaine trailed after, waiting until we were clear of the store before she spoke again.
“Jo . . . Claire.” She stomped her foot with a cry of frustration. “Whatever your name is, stop where you are.”
“I thought you’d be glad to see me,” I said as I swung around to face her, horrified to feel tears behind my eyes. “I thought you’d be glad we could be friends again!”
“I don’t mean now,” Elaine said. “I mean then. Why did you have to come back then?” Without warning, she threw up her hands in disgust. “Oh, this is ridiculous. I can’t even get straight what we’re arguing about.”
“That makes two of us,” I said.
We stood for a moment in the parking lot, the grocery bag growing heavy on my hip.
“Of course I’m glad to see you,” Elaine finally said. “But not this way. It feels . . . dishonest.”
“You’re right. You’re absolutely right,” I said. “I shouldn’t have gotten angry. I’m sorry.”
“God, I hate it when you do that,” Elaine said.
“Do what?”
“Tell me I’m right before I have the chance to trounce you during the course of the argument.”
We looked at each other for a moment.
“I should probably head for the bus stop,” I said.
“Okay,” Elaine said. She fell in step beside me. “Where’s your usual ride? What’s up with that guy, by the way? What’s his name again?”
“Mark,” I said. “Mark London. He’s the Royer paper’s star reporter. He was the one who was supposed to do this whole exchange in the first place, until everybody got all excited about how much Claire Calloway looked like Jo O’Connor.”
“I’d keep your eye on him, if I were you,” Elaine warned. “He looks at you all the time. As if he’s waiting for something.”
“Probably for me to screw up.”
“I don’t think so,” Elaine said thoughtfully. “Or, at least, not entirely.”
“Could you be more cryptic?” I inquired.
Elaine smiled.
“Actually, he probably is watching me,” I said glumly. “While I’m over here having the exchange experience, he’s back at Royer doing background research on Jo O’Connor.”
“Uh-oh.”
“You’re not kidding,” I said. “To tell you the truth, it’s actually sort of a relief when he comes to pick me up. At least I know where he is. I’m starting to feel as if I spend every waking moment waiting for the other shoe to drop. I don’t think I’ve felt so out of control in my entire life.”
“Which life?”
“I’m thinking that would be my point.”
“Does your dad know about the whole being-sent-back-to-Beacon thing?”
I shook my head.
“I just don’t know how to tell him,” I said. “I honestly think he’d freak if he knew, and Detective Mortensen would have a heart attack. If I can keep a low profile for the next couple of weeks, the exchange will be over and things will get back to normal. Or as close to normal as things can get until after the trial is over.”
“What happens then?” Elaine asked.
“I don’t know. Dad and I haven’t even talked about it. He’s definitely sending out the don’t-ask-questions vibe. Actually, I’m kind of worried about him.”
“It’ll be all right,” Elaine consoled. “Isn’t that what you said?”
“In a moment of insanity,” I acknowledged.
Elaine reached over and gave my shoulders a quick squeeze. “Think positive,” she said.
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll do my best. What are you going to do this weekend?” I asked, trying to steer the conversation back to more normal channels.
Elaine hesitated.
“Actually, I’m going to spend some time with Alex. He said he just wanted to hang out, maybe catch a movie or something. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Why should I mind?” I asked. Though I did, of course. Elaine spending time with Alex because he was upset was one thing. Catching a movie sounded an awful lot like a date.
“I don’t know. I just thought . . . ” Elaine’s voice trailed off.
“Unless you’re trying to tell me I should mind.”
“No, of course not. Don’t be silly,” Elaine said quickly.
“Because in that case I’d have to turn you into a ghost too.”
“At least that would even the playing field,” Elaine muttered.
I stopped. “What did you just say?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“It didn’t sound like nothing to me.”
“I was trying to reassure you,” Elaine said, her voice just a little too loud. “There’s no way Alex will even look at another girl as long as he thinks Jo’s dead. Particularly not now that he’s seen her ghos
t. So you don’t have to worry about things like that.”
“Why are you doing this?” I asked.
“Doing what?”
“Trying to make me feel even worse than I already do.”
“I’m trying to make you feel better,” Elaine protested.
“Well, it isn’t working so knock it off!”
“You know what? I’m leaving,” Elaine said.
“Fine, you do that. Have a nice weekend.”
“I intend to.”
Whirling around, she moved off quickly down the street. My anger kept me going until my bus arrived. I stomped on, paid my fare, and found a seat in the very back. No sooner did I sit down, though, than all my angry energy deserted me. I deflated, like a balloon with an air leak.
Great job, Calloway/O’Connor, I thought. Alienate your one and only friend.
Things were definitely getting way out of hand. With so many events out of my control, what chance did I have of making things right again?
That night I had a dream.
In it, I was being haunted by myself.
As is often the case, even with nightmares, the details of my dream were grounded in reality. I went shopping for my prom dress. Posters for prom had recently begun to decorate both the Royer and Beacon walls. Girls were whispering in corners. Guys were looking hunted. Big Date fever was in the air.
What could be more natural than that I’d dream of shopping for the perfect prom dress?
What could be more unnatural than dreaming I was doing it at the Jo O’Connor Memorial Shopping Mall?
In order to get there, I’d taken Jo O’Connor Drive.
Even the vehicle I was piloting was dedicated to me. You know how sometimes you see those big SUVs with somebody’s actual name on the back? That’s what I was driving.
It was when I went to order that Seattle standard, a double tall latte, and the barrista asked me if I wanted to take home a pound of their new Jo O’Connor blend that I woke up. I jerked myself awake, heart pounding as if I’d just taken that pound of coffee and eaten it like it was a bowl of cornflakes.
This has got to stop. I’ve got to do something, I thought.
I had get rid of Jo O’Connor’s ghost.
How Not to Spend Your Senior Year Page 9
