The Everafter

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

  HaiBafellins£H!?.iJsb.?is

  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