“Now, I know dear ole Emily had a habit a’ writin’ a depressin’ rhymin’ couplet or two, but it ain’t all bad,” Bizzy said, craning her neck toward me. “No mistakin’ it, the job we got handed is no easy task.” Emotion was gathering in Bizzy’s voice. Her eyes misted over. “What you must realize, honeychile, is that death is a part of life … and sometimes there ain’t nothin’ we can do about it. No use lyin’ to you: I’ve lost a couple a’ tough ones in my day.” Bizzy paused for a few seconds. “But there ain’t no way I’m gonna let one of your first specters slip through our fingers.” She clamped her jaw shut and sniffed. The sentiment in her voice had all but drained away. She blinked many times in a row until her eyes returned to normal. “You hear me?”
I heard her, and I wanted desperately to believe her. My grandma was a force, a dynamo, a woman not to be trifled with. But she was also newly out of the hospital, wheelchair bound, a public menace, and over seven decades old. I turned back to the wall.
“What now?” I asked.
“Well, first thing we gotta do is gather more information,” she said. “The cannery was a start, but I’m talkin’ some ole-fashion observation. A person’s death is most often intimately tied to his life. Which means, for a spell at least, you’re gonna have to be on Drake like white on rice.”
I nodded. I clutched the small journal Bizzy had given me.
“Things aren’t as clear when they’re inside your head as they are when you write ’em on a piece of paper. So, when you learn somethin’ ’bout Drake, it’s real important that you write it down right away.”
That I could do. As long as it didn’t mean I’d have to talk to him.
The Analysis
Mrs. Tweedy, you know how you told us that with any good story, there’s always more going on than just the words on the page? How if we take the time to analyze and question what the author means and how it affects us, we’ll begin to understand on a deeper level? “Our impression of the words matters more than the words themselves,” was how you put it.
Anyhow, I’m pretty sure all that applies to people, too.
Watching what someone does or says is the first step to knowing a person. When you start thinking about why someone says or does something—that’s when things really get interesting.
The first few weeks Jodi and I tailed Drake Westfall, we only observed him. We learned that Drake always parked in the same spot in the lot. He had a postcard of a Salvador Dali painting hanging in his locker. He liked graphic novels and had a different one in his backpack every week. As part of Jodi’s plan, after school we went to her apartment and we would play her mom’s punk and ska albums, as Jodi carefully instructed me on the details.
After a week of careful monitoring, Jodi decided that I was ready for some “forced serendipity.” Basically, I was supposed to purposefully bump into Drake when he was alone and pretend it was an accident.
We decided my best chance was recess. Drake’s recess behavior was very unusual. As soon as the dismissal bell rang, Drake would get in the cafeteria line and buy a Dr Pepper. Then he would walk out to the edge of the grass, beyond the soccer fields, and stand near the fence of the high school. He’d check to make sure no one else was around. He would take out a small slim notebook and write in it, sipping his Dr Pepper. Sometimes, he’d stare off into space and not write anything at all.
Jodi named the red journal that Bizzy had given me the DWOR, which stood for Drake Westfall Observational Research. In it, we’d sketched out Drake’s exact location during recess and the path for my approach. We considered it an airtight plan.
There was a cluster of trees in the corner of the field near where Drake liked to stand. There was a bench in front of the cluster. If I arrived there and hid behind the trees while Drake was waiting in line to buy his Dr Pepper, I’d have the perfect lookout point. Once Drake was standing near the fence, I would slip out of the trees and sit on the bench. I could then start a conversation and pretend I’d been there the whole time and he hadn’t noticed me.
Once the bell rang, Jodi wished me luck and I sprinted toward the trees. I thought about Bizzy’s latest advice.
“No one finds anythin’ out by bein’ shy,” she’d said one morning, trying to encourage me. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with bein’ bold and brazen.”
I arrived at the cluster of trees and I stood behind one, testing how much I could see of Drake’s usual spot. I had a perfect view, about ten feet away. I didn’t have to wait long until Drake came striding up. The crack of the Dr Pepper can opening echoed through the field. Everything was still, though I could feel my pulse quicken. I tried to breathe quietly. Drake rustled through his backpack ten feet in front of me. I was sure he was pulling out his notebook. I closed my eyes. Swallowing hard, I resolved that in four seconds, I would take my first glimpse from behind the tree. Four … three … two …
“Lizzy?”
Startled, I let out a little yelp and jumped to my feet.
I was standing eye to eye with Drake. He was in front of the bench and I was behind it.
He scrunched his eyebrows together and looked at me curiously. “Are you hiding out?”
“Maybe,” I said. My stomach burned, an inferno of ignited nerves. It felt like someone was holding a hot poker to my left hand. Drake’s name was on fire. I slid the new wide-band watch I had bought down my wrist, making sure it covered my brightly glowing palm. Then I looked down at Drake’s hands—he was clutching the slim notebook in one and a pencil in the other.
He sat down and motioned for me to sit next to him. I walked around the bench and sat, leaving less than a foot between us. I couldn’t believe I was so close to Drake Westfall.
“What are you hiding from?” he asked. His eyes gleamed even though it wasn’t sunny out. He tightened his grip on the notebook.
“Everything, I guess,” I finally answered. “If I sit in the middle of the trees, I can pretend I’m somewhere else, put my headphones in, and zone out to Operation Ivy.”
“You listen to Op Ivy?” Drake questioned.
“Is that so shocking?” I asked.
“Well, it’s not exactly normal for someone like you …”
“Someone like me?”
“I just mean that I’d never expect law-abiding Lizzy Mortimer to listen to Op Ivy.”
“Well, if we’re talking about the East Bay ska scene, the Dance Hall Crashers are a little more my style. I like the female vocals and they don’t scream as much.”
As soon as I brought my eyes up to Drake’s, he looked down and dug one foot into the ground, as if he were trying to make a small hole. His tan skin and gold-flecked hair were as perfect as I remembered them. He looked at me again. This time he smiled widely. At me. I could hardly believe it.
“Apparently, you’re just full of surprises,” he said.
“If you say so,” I said. I still couldn’t believe I was talking to Drake alone like this. “Hey, why are you out here?”
“I’m always here at this time,” he said.
“That’s not answering the question,” I said, emboldened by Drake’s teasing. “What’s in the notebook?”
“Nothing,” he responded, clutching the journal to his chest.
“If it’s nothing, then can I look at it?”
“No,” he said, laughing as he held the notebook closer to his chest.
We stared at each other. It was one of those stares where you start wondering if the other person is thinking the same things you are. As I was thinking how completely handsome Drake was when he smiled, his dimples and turquoise eyes flashed all at once. Without saying anything, Drake held the journal out in front of him. The gesture confused me at first. I soon realized that he was holding it there for me.
I carefully took it from him as he watched, his eyes wide like an owl’s. Our index fingers touched as I grabbed it. I felt something less than a shock but more than a tingle pass from his finger through mine. The red letters of Drake’s name began to throb on my pa
lm. I looked down, almost ashamed, though I knew Drake couldn’t see them.
I flipped to a random page. It was a sketch of Breeze in the Trees, my favorite house in Crabapple. Breeze in the Trees is a giant tree house, complete with rope ladders and circular windows. The wood shingles blend in with the knotted trees that grow out of every corner of the lawn. It looks as if elves live there. The penciled-in detail of Drake’s sketch was astonishing. I flipped to another page. It was a sketch of Mrs. Bowman. Mrs. Bowman taught European History and had tormented Jodi for much of the year. (Maybe since she’s a coworker of yours, Mrs. Tweedy, you think she’s nice. But you should know that most of her students can’t stand her.) Drake had made Mrs. Bowman’s head too big and her eyes too small—but entirely realistic. I began flipping faster. It seemed Drake had sketched almost every noteworthy location in town, along with a few of Crabapple’s best-known teachers. I was astonished by both the number of drawings and their quality. The drawings had an exaggerated character that brought them to life.
“What is all this, Drake?”
Drake shrugged his shoulders. “I’m out here because it’s the only time I have a couple of minutes to myself to draw,” he said.
He slid toward me on the bench and gently took the journal out of my hands. He lowered his head and began tracing the spine with his finger. When he spoke again, it was in a lower tone.
“I read that when Michelangelo was young,” Drake said, looking out at the ocean beyond the school yard’s fence, “his dad was a banker and then worked for the government. He sent Michelangelo to school where it was assumed he would learn to do something practical. But he was constantly sneaking into churches—he didn’t seem that interested in his school classes. He would plant himself in the pews and sit there for hours, trying to create exact copies of the masterworks that hung on the walls. I like to think church was the one place he could practice without anyone bothering him.”
“Have you read The Agony and the Ecstasy?” I asked. Mickey had told us the Michelangelo book was Drake’s most recent book purchase. I remembered it because Jodi had written it down in the DWOR and quizzed me on it at lunch.
Drake was astonished. “You listen to Op Ivy and you’ve read The Agony and the Ecstasy?”
“No, no … I haven’t read it,” I said, thinking quickly. “My mom’s talked about it, though. She’s kind of a book nut.”
“Oh yeah, I knew that,” Drake said, sticking one of his long arms out behind me, resting it on the top of the bench. I pretended not to notice. “The last time I ran into her outside my house, she pulled a book called Fever Pitch out of this huge bag and handed it to me. She said I would like it because it’s about sports.”
I put my hand over my face to indicate my mortification. “Did she also tell you that the solution to every one of life’s problems can be found within the pages of a good book?”
“Yeah, I think she did,” Drake said.
“I’m so sorry. It’s like her personal mantra. She’s obsessed. It’s her goal in life to find every person in Crabapple a book they love.”
“It’s fine,” Drake said, his arm hovering above my shoulders. “The book’s actually really funny. I liked it.”
“That would probably make her month.”
“I’ll have to let her know the next time I see her, then,” Drake said.
“Please don’t. She doesn’t need any encouragement. It’s not healthy, trust me.”
Drake let out a laugh.
I knew it was stupid, but I wished that the tardy bells would stop working. I wanted to stay out there, talking with Drake. I looked through the chain-link fence and saw the ocean, a strip of dark blue against the light blue sky.
“So, this is your church?” I asked, motioning to the area around the benches and then the notebook.
“Something like that,” he said.
“Your sketches are really good.” I knew I should have said something deeper or more meaningful, but it was all I could think of. They were.
“Not really,” he said. “But I think it’d be cool to be an artist for graphic novels.”
“They really are good. In fact,” I said, letting out a small laugh, “the one of Mrs. Bowman looks so real, when I first saw it, I honestly thought the drawing was going to start yelling at me.”
“You’re a good liar,” Drake said, smiling at me again, without any restraint.
“If by ‘liar’ you mean ‘truth teller,’ then yes,” I said, mocking him. Without thinking, I reached out and pushed Drake’s shoulder playfully. Our eyes locked.
Drake was still smiling. He let his arm slip off the top of the bench. It was warm against the bare skin of my neck.
I was so lost in my own pool of nervous thoughts that I didn’t notice when she appeared.
Her dark black robe swished as she stalked across the grass soccer field with her hood up. She marched right for us. I squeezed my eyes as tightly as I could. I opened them once more.
She was closer still. Vivienne le Mort was so close, in fact, I could make out the bloody color of her eyes.
“Drake,” I said, the fear embedded in my voice. “Do you see that woman?”
I tried to turn toward him. But I couldn’t.
I was frozen and so was he.
The Antagonist
When it comes to antagonists or villains, Mrs. Tweedy, I think the most chilling ones are those with seemingly no motivation at all. I’m sure there are more horrific things than finding yourself unable to move while a paralysis-inducing sorceress responsible for “cutting the threads of mortals” approaches, but at the moment it happened, I couldn’t think of one. It wasn’t merely her imposing height, her yellow teeth, or the fact that she’d managed to freeze Drake, too. Vivienne le Mort terrified me, in large part, because I had no idea what she was after.
I also seemed to be the only one who could see her.
Drake was as still as a stone next to me on the bench. Vivienne approached slowly. With her long robe dragging on the ground, she floated above the Crabapple High School soccer field. I halfheartedly tried to scream, but knew it was no use. She was less than a foot away when she stopped in front of us. Vivienne scrutinized me for a brief second before taking a large step to the side.
She bent down in front of Drake, until she was eye level with him. Though I couldn’t turn my head to look at her, out of the corner of my eye I watched Vivienne take her bony hands and place them on each side of Drake’s face. She tilted up his head, staring into his eyes as if she might be brainwashing him.
I would never have guessed that she was only trying to identify him.
Then, as suddenly as she appeared, she vanished, leaving behind a rising whirlwind of black smoke in her wake.
“Then what?” Jodi asked.
The day after Vivienne le Mort’s visit, Jodi and I were at our familiar spot at Cedar Tree Park. I’d already told her the whole story of what happened between Drake and me (with a few necessary omissions) at lunch the day before, but Jodi wanted to write it down. She had the red DWOR journal in her lap and was taking detailed notes. For the second time, I recounted my conversation with Drake during recess the day before.
Even then, I recognized how strange it was that both my grandmother and my best friend were so intent on gathering information about Drake, but for very different purposes: Jodi to make him fall in love with me and Bizzy to prevent his death. I couldn’t quite pinpoint what my interest in Drake was, other than that it was more than just saving his life—I was beginning to feel like our fates were intertwined somehow.
“Then the bell rang and we went to class,” I said, keeping quiet about Vivienne le Mort. When Drake and I could finally move, he reacted the way Jodi had when Vivienne touched her. He didn’t mention seeing anything or feeling frozen and I began to wonder if I had a brain tumor all over again.
“Things are moving along,” Jodi said. “At this rate, you two’ll be married by June.”
“Oh, stop it,” I said.
All this explains why, when his black Ford truck screeched to a stop in front of Jodi and me as we biked home from school, my heart fluttered. My Hand of Fate burned once more.
“Hey,” Drake said, leaning out the window when we caught up to him.
“Hi,” Jodi said first, grinning.
“Do you girls want a ride home?” He was wearing sunglasses.
“We have our bikes,” I objected.
“You can just throw them in the back of the truck,” Drake said.
“This is where Lizzy and I separate,” Jodi said. “But thanks for offering! See you tomorrow, Lizzy.” Jodi didn’t wait for me or Drake to respond. She took off pedaling down Dolores Avenue toward Miss Mora’s Market.
Drake bounded out of his truck and with one swift movement put his hands on my hips and hoisted me right off my bike. It was as if I weighed nothing at all in his strong arms. He set me down on the sidewalk and put my bike in the back of his truck. Drake grinned at me as he climbed back in the truck.
“Well?” he asked.
I couldn’t even pretend to resist. I ran around the front of the truck and jumped in on the passenger side. Drake accelerated down Delores Avenue.
“Do you feel different?” Drake asked, his sturdy hands on the wheel. I thought about how they felt on my waist.
“Different?” I repeated.
“Now that you’re a confirmed law-breaker,” Drake said. “It really didn’t take all that long to corrupt you.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I have a plan. If we do get pulled over,” I said, smiling as I glanced at him, “I’m going to explain that you stole my bike and the only way I could pursue you was by getting in the truck. I’m sure the police will understand.”
The Death Catchers Page 13
