by Amy Huntley
The room is silent for a second, and then Tammy yells,
"This is a bunch of crap! You guvs are making fun of me,
aren't you? I'm outta here."
She storms up the stairs.
I jump up to follow her. "Wait! Tammy! I'm not doing
it. Honestly."
She turns on the stairs and gives me a glare like nothing
I've ever seen from anyone. In the fast thirty seconds I
have somehow become her enemy. "You can't go anywhere,
Tammy," I say. "It's the middle of the night. You can't walk
home right now."
"I'm leaving. I'll call my mother from upstairs. She'll
come get me, even if it is the middle of the night. I'm not
staying here with any of you guys. I hate vou all."
She turns again and goes the rest of the way up the
stairs. I run aft—
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HUBflXCfilftU SiM M b£& - _
GRIEF THROBS THROUGH ME.
Because this night is the end of my friendship with
Tammy—at least as we knew it.
It's pretty weird the way all these trips back are helping
me remember most of mv life. I remember now how after
that night with the Ouija board we all managed to convince
ourselves that there weren't really any ghosts in the room.
We got good at turning it into a joke.
But now I know there actually was a ghost in the room.
Because I was there.
And now I know there was another ghost there, too.
Tammy.
There are things that bother me about this moment in
my life. I return to it time and again to t ry to puzzle them
out. I am careful every time I return to never look too hard
for the hair clip. Returning to this moment provides me
with the only true companionship I have in this new existence—
the ghost of Tammy.
Tronic, huh? That night ended our friendship—at least
our living one—but now it seems she's my only companion.
True, she's the onlv other dead person I've met. Apparently
desperation makes the heart grow fonder.
I just wish she'd answer alt the questions I have,
I want to ask her, how did you know I was there? I didn't
realize you were until you revealed yourself. What did you
lose that allowed you to return to that moment? How did
you die? And irben did you die?
There might be a lot of my life I still don't understand,
but I have noticed that no item has ever taken me past the
age of seventeen. That's also where all the memories I'm
now having seem to end. Conclusion? It doesn't exactly
require the deductive powers of Sherlock Holmes to figure
out I probably died around then. And even though that
idea freaks me out, another realization freaks me out even
more: If I can travel to any moment in my previous existence
where I lost an object, then Tammy can, too. That
means she could have I ived long after me. Reached the ripe
old age of seventy-five. And then come back to that slumber
party when we were thirteen just because she lost some stupid
little object there.
It's a creepv thought. Disturbing. More than anything
else in this afterlife has been.
There's another thing, too, that bothers me about this
whole slumber party thing: Why—exactly—is Tammy
apologizing to me?
UNCORRECTED E-PR0OF—NOI FOR SALE
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ghost
ige 16
It's a terrible habit, this need I have to hold something
familiar whenever I'm nervous. I'm sliding into Gabriel's
car on a warm spring afternoon. The sun has heated the
car to discomfort, and he's whirring the windows down and
turning on the air-conditioning.
Taking my keys out? Bad idea, I tell myself. Don't do it.
But I do. I search my purse to find the keys to my house.
Anxiety overwhelms me. New situation, new guv, first time
in his car. What do we sav to each other? Will this be anything
like the short conversations we've had from time to
87
is
rime in the past two weeks? Courtesy o: Sandra. After I
turned down Gabe's invitation to a party, she told him that
I was totally interested in him and that he just needed to
give me a little time. So, every few days, he's been dropping
by my locker between classes to chat.
Sandra thinks I ought to be on my knees thanking her,
but I'm not feeling all that grateful to her at the moment.
It's because of her that Gabe came to my locker today and
asked if I wanted a ride home. And it's because I can't stand
to be harassed by her anymore that I'm in his car. Well, that
and the way Gabe's blue eyes have these fascinating streaks
of green that sparkle when he looks at me.
I find my keys, pull them out of my purse, then clutch
them firmly in my hand.
"I'll get it cooled off in here pretty quickly," Gabriel
promises as he swivels one of the vents to blow straight at
me.
Pur those keys back, I tell myself. Put ;bem back in your
purse right u
Can he tell how hard I'm gripping them?
Gabe's fingers begin to tap out a rhythm in double time
against the steering wheel. I'd take that for nerves, except
I know it's not. He's a snare drummer in the band's drum
line. Translating life into rhythm seems to be as much a
part of Gabriel as breathing is for the resi of us mere mortals.
I recognize the cadence from footbdl-season games.
3 :
I, on the other hand, do not. My grades are not roo bad:
My GPA is a 3.5. But the only subject I have a perfect 4.0
in is English. I've always been in accelerited English. It's
because words are just so much a part of me. I can't seem to
separate them from who I am or what I think.
I've just never been very excited, though, by any other
subjects in school, so I don't put a ton of effort into homework
for them. As long as I'm getting at .east Bs, I'm fine
with that. I've never felt like I had to prore myself to anyone
by ecttinc perfect grades. Sandra, on the other hand,
always has, so I can understand the mind-set. And I can tell
Gabe has it.
"Okay," he says. "I know when I'm being told to shut
up."
I look at him in surprise. Obviously, he doesn't.
"That's not what I'm saying," I tell him. "I'm just trying
to reassure you that you'll get it all done."
Me glances at me in surprise and then returns his eyes
to the road. We come up to a stoplight, where he looks at
me more carefully. "Sorry. I guess I'm just used to people
being a l l . . . I don't know, competitive . . . about the grade
thing, I mean."
I do know what he means. There's this .ittle world in the
upper echelons of the GPA ranking where everyone pretends
to support one another, but actually they all see one
another as a threat. Somehow, they think their As mean less
He deftly beats out a fight song as he battles the traffic getting
out of the student parkin
g lot.
Some guy driving a Honda Civic is taking too long to
make a left-hand turn. When twelve feel of space opens up
in the right-hand turn lane next to us, Gabe takes advantage
of the split-second opportunity, swings into that lane, and
makes a left from there. As the Honda honks at us, I say, "I
didn't know you were so . . . determined."
He glances at me and smiles. "You should."
Yeah. I guess I actually do. He hasn't given up on me
yet.
Then again, maybe it's just confidence. When he showed
up at my locker after school and said, 'How about a ride
home?" I must have taken a little too long to reply, because
he pulled my jacket off the peg, handed it to me, and closed
my locker. "C'mon," he said, and startec off down the hall
with the expectation I would follow. And I did. It was like I
was attached to him by a string. He moved forward. I moved
forward . . . all the way to his car.
Now he's talking about school—not exactly complaining
(he doesn't really do that, I've noticed, about anything),
but as close as he comes to it. He's talking about how much
homework he has and whether he thinks he can manage to
get it all done on time.
"You always somehow do," I remind him. "You have a
perfect 4.0."
B9
if other people earn them, too.
Not a game I play, but Sandra does. She feels like she
has to make her mother's life easier by being the perfect
child. I wonder who Gabe is trying to prove himself to.
"Hev," he says as the light turns green, "it's a beautiful
day. Wanna go sit by the river for a littie while before we
go home?"
Alone?!
"Uh, sure," I say.
He t;rtns at me and takes a right turn toward the park
that sits along the banks of the Grand River.
It's a short drive, and we talk about memories we have ot
coming to this park back when we were bids.
He pulls into a parking space, switches off the engine,
and takes his keys from the ignition. That's when I reali
z e . . . I'm not holding my keys anymore.
He opens his door as if to get out of the car and then
realizes that I'm looking frantically arcund me . . . seat,
floor, area between the seat and the door. "What's wrong?"
he asks.
"Um, I, well, I was holding the keys to my house when
we got in the car, but I don't know what I did with them." I
hold up my empty hands.
"You mean you'll be locked out of the house and at my
mercy if we don't find them?"
"Well, actually, yes." I'm now dumping all the contents
91
of my purse onto the floor to see if I put the keys back in
there without realizing it. Wait, I remind myself, make sure
yon don't dump out the tampon, too. Everything else is on the
floor in front of me. No keys. I start throwing makeup,
pens, and my wallet back into my purse.
When my purse is sitting back in my lap, Gabe says,
"Here, let me look under the seat for you."
Suddenly his chest and shoulders are sprawled across my
lap. I can feel his muscles moving as he shifts around on top
of me, pulling my legs together then moving them toward
the driver's side. He maneuvers his body farther over mine,
drops his head below the seat, and starts searching under it.
His chest is warm and solid against my thighs, and 1 can't
help wondering what it would feel like to have all of him
lying on top of me this way, t o . . .
He suddenly looks up and gives me this devilish grin
that seems to ask, "Are we having fun yet?"
I can't help it. I smile. The urge to tease him back surges
through me, and before I even have a chance to think about
what I'm saying, out pops, "While you're down there, why
don't you check and see if my underwear is there, too?"
Shocked, his head whips up so suddenly that it hits the
i^love box. "Ouch!" he says. He balances himself on his
hand and then starts to scoot back across me until he can sit
up. He stares at me expectantly, tapping his fingers on the
steering wheel as I make him wait for the explanation.
"Seventh grade, remember? You and some of your
friends dared Sandra and me to go skinny-dipping, and,
while we were in the pool, you stole all our clothes."
He grins. "Yeah, I remember. But we gave them back."
"All except my underwear," I agree. "They've been missing
ever since."
He laughs. "I swear I have no idea why they weren't with
your clothes when we gave them back. And you think I've
had them all this time? No wonder you're scared of me."
"Scared of you! I'm not scared of you."
"Terrified. You wouldn't even look at me when I came
to your locker that first time."
"If I was a little uncomfortable around you, it wasn't
because of my underwear. It had more to do with what you
saw at the wedding."
He holds up his hands in a gesture of "Not my fault,"
then says, "I didn't see anything at the wedding. Honest."
He tries to keep a straight face as he says it, but there's this
mischievous quirk at the side of his mouth that gives him
away. I give him an "Oh, yeah? Try again" look, and we
both burst into laughter.
"Okay, so I saw something," he admits.
We laugh again, and then I say, "When did you decide
you wanted to ask me out?"
"I plead the Fifth."
"Oh, come on," I say. "Just tell me."
A long moment of silence passes, but I figure I can
wait him out. Finally, he kind of grins and says, "Oh, fine
then. It was when we were walking up the aisle together.
You tripped, and I had to sorta hold you up. That's when I
thought, 'Hey, I wonder if this totally klutzy girl would go
out with me."*
"No way," I say, laughing.
"Well, okay, not exactly. But it was kinda cute, y'know?
I mean, the way you grabbed my arm. Then when I looked
down at you, I noticed ''our chest had all these intriguing
freckles. Guess I thought it'd be pretty coo! to go out with
them, and maybe even with you, too. I mean, it's not like I
had fun with you at the rehearsal dinner or anything," he
teases."
"Ohmygod. I can see why you wanted to plead the Fifth.
You and Dana had just broken up and were probably on the
rebound, looking for freckled chests to pass the time with?"
"Urn . . . no. I didn't vant to answer the question because
I thought you'd be embarrassed about tripping on the way
up the aisle. You know, that plus the whole dress-and-barfing-Iater thing?"
Intelligent? Me? No: so much.
S t i l l . . . the rebound thing is a valid point. And I remind
him of that.
"Maddy," he tells me, "/ broke up with Dana. She didn't
break up with me. I'd been thinking about it for a while
anyhow. And the last fight just seemed like, you know .. .
the end. I'm not on the rebound from Dana. Forme, our
breakup was a slam dunk. I knew exactly what I was
doing
when I broke up with her, and it was what I wanted."
This sounds great, but I'm still stuck on the :act that
Gabe dated the same girl for two years. That's practically
like being married. Gabe probably knows everything there
is about having a relationship, and I know . . . nothing.
Gabriel shifts in the seat and says, "You know, there's a
place we haven't looked for your keys yet."
"Where?"
"Right here." Suddenly Gabe's whole body is within
inches of mine. He puts one arm on each side of me and
reaches into the crack between the seat back and cushion,
as if searching there for my keys . . .
But then we both seem to get distracted, and—vho cares
about keys?
He's kissing me.
And it's fantastic... The warmth of his lips against mine,
the way our bodies are leaning into each other, the feel of his
shoulder beneath my hand. I don't know how long this goes
on, but eventually Gabe breaks the kiss. My lips suddenly feel
lonely as he leans back. He holds up his left hand and dangles
my keys in front of my face. "Had a feeling these vould be
back there," he says in a husky voice. There's an edge of triumph
in it. Because of the keys? Or the kiss?
I -don't care.
"C'mon," he says, and pulls away from me. Still holding
my keys, he turns toward his open door, and just before I
get my own door open, I hear him say, "No way."
I turn back toward him. "What?"
He has one foot out of the car, but now he's looking
around, even digging in the crack behind his seat. "You
won't believe this, but now I can't find my keys."
I burst out laughing. I've lived my whole life in the Land
of People Who Misplace Items, and finally I have company
there. I know I shouldn't take delight in Gabriel's predicament-. . . I should feel empathy, having just had the same
experience myself. But instead, I'm satisfied to finally know
I'm not the only idiot who can lose a set of keys from her
hand in less than three minutes.
"It's not funny," he says, but he's also smiling.
I start helping him look for the keys . . . the floor on my
side . . . the crack behind my seat (in case he lost his keys
while looking for mine), under my s e a t . . .
"Aren't you going to look under my seat?" he asks.
I stare into his eyes for a moment. The quirk at the side
of his mouth is back. A challenge.
What the bell? I think, and then I sprawl across his legs,
reaching beneath his seat, my breasts pressed against his
