by Susan Hatler
Agh! How could I get it off me? Out of me. Did it think it could just ditch my body and. . . .
Oh, dumbness. My body was empty.
I threw myself at my physical body as hard as I could. This time the wall was warm, thick liquid and I passed right through it.
And was me again.
Chapter Four
I stared at the ceiling, blinking, adjusting to seeing the room through my eyes and not my mind. Each sensation felt more complicated than I remembered. It took more effort to see and move using my body. Not that I was gonna complain. At least I’d gotten myself back.
Wait, where had the zombie gone?
I jumped up from the bed, crouched, and held my fists up—ready to fight if the zombie tried to invade my body again. No prickly sensations along my skin. No feeling like someone was watching me. I straightened. It must not be here. Oh, right. It had muttered about going somewhere to think, or whatever it said it wanted to do.
Brrring! The jarring sound of my phone made me jump out of my skin—not literally, thank goodness.
An idea came to me as I stared at the black plastic handset as it shrilled again. The zombie had called someone. A woman. What if she was dialing me back? Not like I wanted to speak to anyone associated with the spirit who had zombied my body.
After three rings, the answering machine picked up.
“Hey, it’s Amy. You missed me. Leave a message, or not.” Beep.
“Hi, Amy. This is Owen Jenner from school—”
My eyes widened and I snatched up the receiver. “Owen?”
“Yes.”
Clipped sentences from Owen’s U.S. Government speeches popped into mind. The artificial army. UFOs. Alternate galaxies. His knowledge of zombies couldn’t be that far off. “You have no idea how glad I am that you called. Are you, uh, busy right now? Can you come over?”
“Absolutely,” he said, his tone strong and energetic.
Uh oh. I should have thought about Brynne before I asked him over. He probably thought I’d just asked him on a date. I didn’t want to lead him on, but I had my body back and felt desperate to keep it. Since Brynne had actually helped the zombie, she wasn’t exactly going to be an asset in my current sitch. And Nicole was probably grounded by now for triple-piercing her ear. My mom would only find a reason why this was my fault—not helpful. Owen was my only shot.
I squeezed the handset. “How soon can you get here?”
“Well, I just got home from school. So I have to fertilize and mow our lawn first, but that should only take me one to one-point-five hours. I can drive to your house after I’m done.”
No way. I wasn’t losing my body again so grass could grow.
“It can’t wait, Owen. I need you now,” I blurted. Oh, great. That came out so wrong. Brynne would never forgive me.
He paused. “Why?”
I said the first thing that came to me. “It concerns the U.S. Government.”
Talk about dangling a carrot.
“I’ll be right over,” he said.
“You rock, Owen. Thanks.” I hung up the phone and had no idea how to relate body snatching to the government. Oh, well. At least help was on the way.
The zombie had said it needed to think. That we were in this together. Maybe if I could figure out what this was, I could solve its problem, then it would get out of my life forever. I wasn’t much for detective work, but I was gung-ho about keeping everything out of my body except for me. I sighed. And to think on Friday I’d thought my life was finally going to fall into place. Talk about a slight misjudgment.
My gaze darted to the phone. Since I needed to get this thing out of my life for good, I knew there was one clue I couldn’t afford to ignore. So, I picked up my phone, then punched the REDIAL button. It rang three times before going to voice mail. “You’ve reached the Millers. We can’t come to the phone right now . . .”
The Millers? The zombie had used my phone to call the Millers—whoever they were. It wasn’t an uncommon last name, but I couldn’t think of anyone I knew who had it. Yet, something familiar nagged on my brain.
A buzzing sound came from behind me and I whipped my head around. Just my laptop. It had gone into hibernation mode—a picture of Brynne, Nicole, and me bounced across the screen.
Wait a minute. The zombie had searched the Internet, read something, then freaked out. I strode over to my laptop, wiggled my index finger over the mouse pad and the screen came to life. An article appeared in black letters:
Youth Killed in Traffic Accident
A five-car pile up resulted in the death of sixteen-year-old Jonathan Jacob Miller this morning. Jonathan was on his way to Hillsborough High School when a big rig rear-ended him at approximately fifty miles per hour—over twice the posted speed limit. The district attorney says charges have not yet been filed.
Jonathan is survived by his father, Maisy’s Meow comic creator Jacob Miller, his mother, Margaret Miller, and his sister, Danielle Miller. Services will be held this Monday at 10:00 a.m.
What the . . . ? The creator of my favorite comic book series had a son who just died in a car wreck? How sad. The date of the article was last Friday, so the funeral was this morning. Did my body hijacker know this Jonathan Miller guy?
There was a picture of the boy at the top of the article. Emerald green eyes, framed with jet-black lashes, stared back at me. His smile, complete with adorable dimple on one side, radiated confidence, like he was sure about who he was and where he was going in life. Dark hair swept across his forehead and he wore an baseball jersey. Underneath the photo was his name, Jonathan Jacob Miller, the date of his birth, and the date of his death—last Friday.
Tearing my eyes away from the photo, I read the article again. Jonathan Jacob Miller. As in, You’ve reached the Millers. We can’t come to the phone right now. . . .
The zombie must’ve called this poor Jonathan’s grieving family. Was it feeling guilty because it had somehow caused that accident? Maybe it had taken over the body of the big rig driver and then crashed?
Hmm. I rubbed my palm against my forehead, trying to fit the pieces together. After the zombie had read that article and made that phone call, it had gone berserk. But why? I pressed my fingers to my temples, starting to get a headache. Being a detective was so not my gig.
The sound of the doorbell drifted up to my room, breaking my thoughts. Owen. I raced down the stairs, crossing my fingers that Mr. UFO also knew a thing or two about body snatchers.
****
I opened the front door to find Owen standing on my porch holding a handful of freshly picked flowers.
He shoved the small bouquet toward me. “These are for you. I hope you aren’t allergic.”
Was this his idea of romance? I’d have to warn Brynne that if she ever went out with him, she needed to be prepared for his scientific approach to human relations. “Uh, thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He stepped inside, then put his hands behind his back. “They’re not bugged.”
“Good to know.” I nodded, thinking his need to clarify that was just one of the many reasons why Owen Jenner was known as the king geek at school. I shut the door. “Let’s go upstairs to my room.”
Owen ran a hand through his mop of blond hair, sending it up in gawky spikes. “I’m not comfortable with that just yet. I wouldn’t want your parents to think I had forward intentions.”
Oh great. Obviously another colossal word mistake had spewed from my mouth. I mentally whispered apologies to Brynne, then said to Owen, “My parents aren’t home from work yet, buddy.”
He shifted from one foot to the other. “Even so. What would that tell you about me if I went to your room on our first date? You wouldn’t respect me and respect is essential to any relationship.”
I sighed. Time to burst his intergalactic bubble. “Let’s get a few things straight. You’re a nice guy. But you and me? It’s never gonna to happen.”
His brows came together. “Why not?”
I couldn’
t tell him about Brynne and the undying love she’s had for him since second grade. I put a hand on each of his shoulders, which were shockingly muscular. “Because I’ve got other things on my mind.”
The corner of his mouth rose. “The government.”
“Yes, Owen.” Well, not really. But at least it had his attention. “What I’m about to tell you is top secret. You can’t tell anyone.”
His eyes lit up. “I’ve got your back.”
This secret government talk was starting to feel like a geek version of flirting. Ew. “I’m gonna level with you because you’re the only person I can trust.”
Make that, the only person who’d believe me.
He nodded. “I’d never betray you.”
I took a deep breath. Here went nothing. “Two hours ago, my body was taken over by something. I was seriously and completely zombied. To be honest, I don’t know if the government is responsible.” The government was quite a stretch, but I couldn’t rule it out. The idea seemed to capture his interest. “I was knocked out of my body at school and I was stuck floating in the air until the spirit-thing vacated my body and I was able to get back inside it.”
A crease formed between his brows, then his expression froze as if he was in shock.
To tell the truth, after listening—well, half-listening—to Owen’s U.S. Government speeches this year about artificial bodies and UFOs, I really thought he’d take the body snatching news in stride. “Owen?”
He didn’t appear to be breathing.
I snapped my fingers in front of his face. “Uh, Owen? You still with me?”
Finally, he shuddered—then he shot toward the door.
I grabbed his arm. “Wait. Where are you going?”
“You said this had to do with the government,” he said, narrowing his eyes as if I’d lured him here under false pretenses.
I shrugged. “It might.”
He sucked in a breath. “Look, Amy. I like you and all, but I don’t know anything about demonic possessions. What you need is a minister.”
The word “demonic” echoed through my mind several times. “And a minister would do what?”
His jaw muscles tightened. “He can exorcise the demon from your body.”
A burst of laughter escaped, then I realized he wasn’t joking. I cleared my throat. “First of all, it’s not in my body right now, okay? It’s off floating somewhere.” I waved a hand in the air. “And second, my body wasn’t taken over by a demon.”
His jaw worked back and forth. “How do you know?”
Good question. “Because it didn’t feel evil, okay? Not in a demonic sense anyway.” I pictured how it had scratched up my purse, chugged a half gallon of o.j., and stuffed its face full of bologna. “It was less evil and more rude.”
He crossed his arms. “All right, then. If your body was taken over two hours ago then how can I be sure it’s really you talking now? For all I know I could be standing in front of an alien and Amy Love’s essence is in a jar somewhere.”
Man, this guy’s brain moved fast. I raised my palms. “It’s really me, Owen. I swear.”
His eyebrow arched. “That is exactly what someone who wasn’t you but wanted me to think you were you would say.”
My head spun and I guffawed. “If I were an alien then why would I confess to taking over this body, huh? All that would do is give away my secret identity.”
It was hard to believe I was having this conversation.
He squinted his eyes and fingered his chin. “You’re right. There wouldn’t be much benefit to admitting the takeover if you weren’t really Amy.”
I sighed in relief. “Now that we have that settled, I want to show you the article that’s on my—”
“Wait.” Owen held a hand up as if he were trying to stop traffic. “I want to be clear that I am committed to helping you.”
“Thanks, Owen. That means a lot.”
His palm went higher and his index finger pointed upward. “On one condition.”
My forehead wrinkled. “There’s a condition?”
“Oh, yeah.” He nodded and then stepped toward me.
****
“This is ridiculous,” I said, as Owen tied my hands behind my back with his dirty shoelaces. I tried not to think of how many times he’d mowed the lawn in those shoes—and all the doggy poo he might’ve stepped in.
His fingers worked with speed around my wrists. “I’m going to help you, but I’m not taking any chances with my personal safety. A significant part of me still thinks we need a minister.”
I rolled my eyes. “If I were a demon, would I be letting you tie my wrists together? Ouch!”
“That should do it.” He bent over and picked up the bouquet of flowers I’d set on the stairs. “Now, where can I find a vase?”
My body could be taken over at any minute and he was worried about the flowers wilting? Owen Jenner was not normal. Which seemed ironic, since he was the only one who was crazy enough to believe all this. I sighed. “There’s a vase in the kitchen cabinet.”
He pointed to his right. “Through here?”
I automatically tried to point left and the shoelace tightened on my wrist, reminding me that I no longer had the use of my hands. “I’m pretty sure you’re cutting off the circulation to my hands. You’re gonna pay the medical bill when they end up amputated.”
“Don’t worry. I watched my dad set a tourniquet in the emergency room. This isn’t in the vicinity of tight enough.” He gestured toward several cupboards. “Here?”
“To the right of the fridge.” I tripped over my backpack, which was still lying on the floor where the zombie had dropped it. Books and papers were scattered across the floor. “I’d pick all this up if, you know, I had the use of my hands.”
“Messiness doesn’t bother me.” He shrugged, then opened a cupboard. “As long as everything’s sanitized, I’m good.”
“Can we get back to helping me with my, uh, situation?” My eyes flipped to the air above me. “The zombie could return at any moment.”
He lifted a vase from the shelf, then stuck it under the kitchen faucet. “Why don’t you tell me everything you know about the demon? Start from the beginning and don’t leave anything out—even if you think it’s inconsequential.”
“It’s not a demon.” I took a deep breath. “A spirit or something zombied my body. This morning, I was in history class and Mr. Gillespie was giving this really boring lecture on how, back in the day, England wanted money from us even though we didn’t get a say in what’s what—”
“Taxation without representation. Go on.”
“Yeah that.” I watched him arrange the flowers, then set the vase on the kitchen table. “And I started thinking, who cares? I’m only sixteen. It’s not like I can vote and England doesn’t tax us now so whoopty-doo on this taxation representation thingy.”
Owen gave me a blank stare.
I blew my long bangs out of my eyes. “You said to be detailed.”
His eyes widened. “You may continue.”
I leaned back against the dining table, fingers wrapping around the edge to support myself. “So Mr. Gillespie was rambling on and I remembered the first edition Maisy’s Meow comic book in my backpack. I bought it at a thrift store after school last week for twenty-five cents.”
“First editions can be worth a lot of money.”
“Really?” I thought of that antique show on TV where people bought old, ugly furniture from a garage sale and it turned out to be worth tons of cash. I shook my head. “No way. I’m not selling. My book’s priceless.”
“Interesting,” Owen said, making me wonder what he found interesting.
I glanced upstairs, trying to focus. “Should we continue this up in my room?”
Owen shrugged. “I’m amenable to that.”
Part of me wanted to ask what happened to respect and the sanctity of my bedroom. But, I wanted to show him that Internet article so I headed for the stairs. “Anyway, I tucked the Maisy’s Meow b
ook between the pages of my history book so Mr. Gillespie couldn’t see it. I was deep into the cartoon where Maisy gets a pedicure but the nail tech thought she wanted to be declawed—when I had that feeling you get when someone’s watching you. You know the one I mean?”
To my surprise, Owen nodded as he marched up the stairway beside me. “This feeling you’re referring to is part of a sixth sense that scientists and the medical field seem to be afraid to look at in detail and discuss.”
Anyhow. . . .
“So I got that sixth sense thingy.” Eh, if he could believe my body had been zombied, I should give some credit to his theories too. “I thought maybe Mr. Gillespie was watching me read Maisy’s Meow, but when I looked up Mr. Gillespie was still gabbing on about the English. By the time I got to my English class, I knew—just knew—that there were spirits or something buzzing around me.”
I strode into my room, sat down fuzzy zebra-striped blanket lying at the foot of my bed, and was about to finish my story when I noticed Owen had stopped in the doorway.
He was studying me intently with his hands in his pockets, then he shook his hair out of his eyes. He had a great tan and his tousled blond hair gave him the appearance of a nerdy bad boy, if such a thing existed. No wonder Brynne was so slatheringly in love with him.
Suddenly a strange heaviness filled the air. My head buzzed a little. Goosebumps popped up along my arms and my chest heated. I tried to keep my focus, but the world started drifting off. I locked gazes with Owen, and tried to make my mouth form words, but instead my jaw just sort of hung half-way open. Fuzziness filled my head.
Owen rocked back on his heels, the right side of his mouth curling upward. “This is why it wasn’t a good idea to come up to your room.”
Wait, what did he mean by that? He didn’t think I wanted to. . . .
Owen strode directly to me, his gaze still firmly fixed to mine, but his eyes had all warm and gooey.
No. No way. Part of my mind was still intact, but my body no longer functioned properly and I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Then Owen bent down, placed his mouth on mine, and I couldn’t even stop him from kissing me.
