I shake my head. “No. Not until I find Sam.”
Her eyes flash. She mutters something under her breath and manages to jerk one arm free. I let her go, hoping she has calmed down enough to give me some answers.
“You said I was Fresh Dead,” I say. “What does that mean?”
Her expression turns to one of thinly veiled disgust. “You are so Fresh Dead you do not even know what Fresh Dead means. Si, you must leave. Ahora! Ahora! Now. You leave now.”
I roll my eyes. “Would you stop saying that? I am not leaving until I find Sam. Can you get that through your thick head? If you want me to get out of here so bad why don’t you help me? The quicker I find Sam the quicker I leave.”
Her lips purse as she considers it. Finally she gives a hard nod and sighs. “Fine. I will help you find this Sam. Who is he? Your boyfriend?”
“No,” I say quickly. My cheeks flush. I hope she doesn’t notice. “He’s my guide.”
“You have lost your guide?” Her eyes widen. “How did this happen?”
I am halfway through retelling the story of how Sam and I came to be separated when Francesca wraps her hand around my wrist and brings one finger to her lips. “Shhh,” she says. “We cannot talk here. Many ears, si? Follow me, Fresh Dead. I will keep you safe.”
I start to tell her my name is Win, but the fierce glare she tosses over her shoulder seals my lips. Staying close, I follow her as she leaves the bathroom and weaves through the bar. Music pumps all around us, playing some sort of upbeat rap song I don’t recognize. People crowd in from all sides, their bodies bumping and grinding with the music. The floor is slick under my feet with sweat and spilled beer. Someone pinches my butt. A ridiculously tall woman with ebony skin and a head full of elaborate corn rows slams into me from the side and spins off without bothering to apologize. I cling to Francesca’s arm and let her half pull/half drag me through the throng.
We fight our way across the entire bar to a set of narrow steps. Francesca climbs them quickly, no easy feat in her four inch stilettos, and I stumble after her. At the top of the stairs is a door which she unlocks with a gold key procured from a necklace I had not noticed her wearing before.
She motions for me to go through the door first and stands in the threshold for a moment, her eyes flicking back and forth before she closes and locks it behind us. “Sit,” she says.
I take a quick glance around the room. It is small, more like an attic really. Someone has taken the time to decorate it with bright throw pillows, colorful rugs, and huge movie posters. I stop in front of the first poster. A kid my age stands next to a futuristic car, checking his watch. I am not so oblivious to pop culture that I don’t recognize a young Michael J. Fox, or the title of the movie: Back to the Future. I think I even saw it once upon a time. My eyes drift down the long line of posters. Some titles I recognize, some I don’t. The Goonies. The Breakfast Club. Sixteen Candles. Dirty Dancing. The Princess Bride. Ghostbusters. Splash. All famous movies, yet nothing new. Nothing recent. It makes me wonder, but I don’t ask. Not yet.
Francesca flops theatrically into one of the four bean bag chairs scattered across the wooden floor. It folds up around her, giving her the absurd appearance of being swallowed. “First of all,” she says, peering up at me beneath her heavily gooped up lashes. “You know you are dead, si?”
Forgoing a bean bag chair, I sit cross legged on the floor and prop my chin in my hands. “Unless this is all some kind of bad dream I haven’t woken up from yet,” I say dryly.
Francesca frowns.
I hold up one hand. “Joking. Just joking.”
“Death is not something to ha ha about,” she says. Gold chandelier earrings swing from her ears as she tosses her hair and matching bracelets clink on her wrists. I wonder if the gold is real. If that is even possible here. Is there wealth in the After?
“It is good you know you have died,” Francesca concludes after a moment of thoughtful silence. “Many Fresh Dead do not know this.”
“What is a Fresh Dead?” I ask in exasperation.
“Your Sam did not tell you this?”
“First of all he’s not my Sam. I mean, he is my guide. He’s just not… We’re not… We’re not together or anything.”
Francesca arches one eyebrow. “Do I say you are together?”
“Well, no. I guess not. You know what, just answer the damn question.”
Francesca’s face tightens. She leans forward out of her bean bag chair and fixes me with a glare that could have turned a weaker person to stone. “You will not be rude to me, Winnifredi Coleman.”
I guess not. A new sense of grudging respect blossoms for Francesca of the sparkly red shirt and excessive gold jewelry. “Sorry. I’m just – I just really need to find Sam.”
Apparently satisfied with my apology, Francesca slouches back into her chair. She crosses her arms and turns one wrist inward, studying her nails as she says, “A Fresh Dead is someone who has just crossed over.”
“How do you know I’ve just crossed over?”
“Because,” she says, her gaze withering, “you smell.”
“I do not!”
“Si, you do. It is not your fault. All Fresh Dead smell.”
As inconspicuously as I can, I lower my nose towards my armpit and take a quick sniff. I catch the lingering scent of my deodorant. Fresh blossom and sweat pea, the same kind my mom used to wear. Curious, I ask, “What do I smell like?”
Francesca’s nose goes up and down like a rabbits as she inhales. For a fleeting moment the mask of toughness she wears like a second skin wavers, revealing the sadness and longing hidden beneath. “You smell of the living,” she whispers. “Sunshine on a summer day. Laundry in the breeze. Un jardín lleno de flores.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad,” I say.
Her jaw hardens, her mouth curls, and just like that Francesca the horrible is back. “It is bad,” she says sharply. “It makes you stick out like a thumb sore. It makes it easy for demonios to find you. This is no good. Your Sam should have been more careful.”
Demonios. You don’t need a degree in Spanish to figure out what that means. Still, I need to be absolutely certain Francesca and I are on the same page. In this topsy turvy world where up is across and down is left, I can’t leave anything to chance. “Are you talking about the Unknowns?” I ask.
“Si,” she says, nodding slowly. “Demonios. Demons. Unknowns. It is all the same.”
I like Francesca’s word for them better. The bloody pulp of human flesh with the black, squinty holes that attacked Sam and I was a demon in every sense of the word. Calling it an Unknown is being too generous. Calling it anything other than an ‘it’ is being too generous. Maybe the Unknowns were human once, but they aren’t anymore. Craven is more than enough evidence of that. “Are there any here? In the bar?” I ask, remembering how quick Francesca was to lock the door.
She shakes her head. “No, but that does not mean they cannot be called. This is a bad place for fresh dead, Winnifredi. A bad place. You should do as I say before and leave.”
“Just call me Win, and not until I find Sam,” I say stubbornly. “And what do you mean, called? Are you saying people would actually bring them here?”
“Through Jump Doors, si.”
A quick, nervous flutter jumps to life in my belly. “Why?” I breathe.
“Many reasons. To offer up Fresh Dead, for one. Fresh Dead are slow and stupid. Easy to catch,” she says, looking meaningfully at me. “And everyone in the After, even demonios, have something to trade.”
It is alarming to think that someone would actually bargain with an Unknown. More alarming still to think they might bargain over me. Now I am more certain than ever that Ellie sent me to the wrong place. Sam would never have come here. He might if he thought you weren’t going to go after him, a little voice whispers. I shift uncomfortably on the hard floor.
Sam had to know when he sent me through the Origin door that I would come back for him, didn’t he
? Maybe not, I admit to myself. Maybe I finally managed to drive him away in the end, just like I’ve done with everyone else close to me. My father. All my friends at school. My teachers. Even Brian, to some extent, except instead of going away he just clung harder.
Brian. My dad. Just thinking about them brings tears to my eyes. I clench my teeth hard enough to send a little zing of pain up through my jaw. I can’t think about them now. I have to focus on finding Sam. When I do, he can take me to see my family. I will need him there to remind me how cool it is to be dead when I see how happy everyone is without me.
“Sam is about four inches taller than me. Light brown hair. Gray eyes. He has black glasses and when I last saw him he was wearing a button up shirt,” I tell Francesca.
“He sounds cute,” she says, her smile coy.
I recognize the little twist of jealousy low in my belly for exactly what it is and I don’t like it. Not at all. “He wears sweater vests and loafers. Not your type at all, Fran. He only has a normal shirt on because his sweater vest got torn to pieces by Craven.”
Francesca goes absolutely still. “What name did you say?” she whispers.
“Craven,” I repeat. “I thought I told you his name before, in the bathroom.”
“No, you did not say this. I am sorry. I cannot help you.” Abruptly she stands and heads for the door. I scramble to my feet and manage to grab a hold of her hand an inch from the lock.
“Hold on a sec!” I protest. “You said three seconds ago you would help me find Sam.”
Every muscle in her body has gone rigid. “Let me go, Winnifredi.”
I hold fast to her wrist and say, “Not until you do what you promised.”
“I do not promise you anything. Let me go or I will scream,” she threatens.
I let her go. What other choice do I have? Francesca is not the Fresh Dead in the room. She thrusts her necklace key in the lock and starts to turn it, but something makes her hesitate before it clicks all the way over.
“Please,” I implore her desperately. I have never begged anyone before. I used to think it was because I was too proud; now I know it is just because I never wanted anything enough to beg for it.
Slowly, finger by finger, she takes her hand away from the lock. “If I help you…”
“I’ll do anything you want,” I say immediately. “Anything. I just need to find Sam. I have to.”
She turns to face me, her expression guarded. “If I help you find your Sam, you must take me with you.”
Of all the things I expected Francesca would ask, this one never crossed my mind. “Take you with us? What are you talking about? You want to leave here? Why?”
A sigh whistles softly through her lips. She brushes past me to gaze up at the Back to the Future poster, a troubled smile curving her mouth. “How did you die?” she asks.
“I drowned,” I say without hesitation. Funny, how I can describe my own death in two simple words.
Francesca reaches out and touches the side of Michael J. Fox’s face. “I died here,” she says. “In this bar. In this room.”
I take an involuntary step back, pressing against the door as I see the room in a whole new light. Not as an old creaky attic, but as a young teenager’s bedroom. Posters on the wall to showcase her favorite movies. Throw pillows and bean bag chairs for girlfriends to sprawl on during a sleepover. Colorful lamps to chase away nightmares. “I’m really sorry,” I say lamely.
Her shoulders move up and down in a quick jerk. “It was a long time ago. There was a fire. No one made it out.”
My chest clenches tight. “You mean… all those people?”
“Si,” says Francesca. She pivots on one four inch stiletto to face me. Her long hair swings in a graceful arc before settling nearly around her shoulders, not a strand out of place. “Now we cannot leave, so we stay here. Every night is the same. Every day is the night. Some make bargains with demonios to escape, but this I will not do. You will take me with you,” she says firmly, as if the decision has been made. “And I will help you find your Sam.”
I should have asked her why she couldn’t leave. I should have asked her why she was terrified of Craven. I should have asked a hundred questions, but all I could think about was Sam, so I just nodded my head and sealed the deal with a handshake.
I should have run screaming in the opposite direction.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
We head back down into the crowd after Francesca makes me change into a neon green tank top, pokes gold hoop earrings through my ears, and pulls my hair into an impossibly high ponytail.
“You will blend in better this way,” she says, her brown eyes sparkling.
“Yeah,” I say doubtfully, tugging the hem of my new top down a few inches until it actually covers my belly button. “Whatever you say.”
I follow Francesca like we’re joined at the hip as she navigates her way through the cluster of bodies that are bumping and grinding to the loud rock pouring through the speakers. This time I am a little better at staying out of the way and only get beer poured on me once, a miraculous feat given the number of drunken idiots we have to walk past. We end up at the far end of the bar and Francesca nods for me to hop up on a vacant stool while she sits on the one right next to it.
“Brown hair, black glasses?” she asks, shouting to be heard above the music.
I shrug and nod. Close enough.
She leans on the bar and waves her hand to get the attention of the bartender. He ambles over, his hazel eyes lighting up when he sees Francesca. Tall and muscular, he looks to be in his early thirties and is balder than a cue ball. He has an easy smile though, the kind that lights up his entire face and distracts from his lack of hair. Even white teeth and two matching dimples round out his wholesome appearance. He is the last person I would imagine to be serving drinks at a place like this. I wonder what he would look like if he was alive today. What he would be doing. Still bartending or something else? Would he have a family? Children? A dog? It’s depressing to think about, so I don’t.
“What can I get you two ladies?” he asks, sparing me only the briefest of cursory glances before he focuses solely on Francesca.
“We are looking for someone Peter. At least,” she says, pausing to roll her eyes towards me, “this one is. A boy, her age. Brown hair. Black glasses. Have you seen anyone like this?”
“Who is she?” Peter asks, looking at me with mild interest.
I open my mouth to reply, but Francesca answers for me.
“No one important. A friend of a friend,” she says, drawing Peter’s attention with a toss of her hair and a flicker of her eyelashes. I suppress a smile. Alive or dead, men are idiots. “Have you seen this boy she is looking for or not?”
Peter picks up a glass from under the counter and begins to polish it with a gray rag. “Yeah,” he says, nodding thoughtfully. “I think I just might have. Tall, gangly looking kid? Blue shirt?”
“Yes!” Ignoring Francesca’s sudden grip on my knee, I all but crawl across the top of the bar to get closer to Peter. “Yes, he was. Have you seen him? Where is he? Is he still here? Did you talk to him?”
“Sit back,” hisses Francesca, but it is too late. The damage has been done.
Peter’s nostrils flare out. Slowly he sets the glass he was cleaning aside and slaps the rag over one shoulder. His eyes sharpen, his lips thin, and suddenly he doesn’t look so wholesome anymore. “You brought a Fresh Dead here?” he asks Francesca quietly.
“What?” she says, her voice an octave too high. “Do I look estupida? You are crazy Peter,” she scoffs. “I told you this girl is no one. A friend of a friend. Nothing more.”
I can tell by the way Peter’s muscles tense along his broad shoulders that he does not believe her. From across the rooms someone calls out his name. He ignores them. Right now he only has eyes for us. “You wouldn’t be lying to me, would you Princess?”
“Listen,” I interrupt when I feel Francesca stiffen beside me. “Just tell me where you saw
my friend, okay? Then we’ll leave. No big deal.” I realize it is the wrong thing to say the instant the words leave my mouth. Quick as a snake Peter’s hand shoots across the bar and wraps around Francesca’s wrist. To her credit she doesn’t cry out.
“Cerdo,” she spits in disgust.
I don’t know what the word means, but I can tell it certainly isn’t a compliment. “Yeah, what she said!” I fold my arms up quickly before Peter can grab me too. For a bald dead guy, he is remarkably fast.
A smile draws his mouth back. It is an ominous smile, the kind that does not showcase his matching dimples. A serpent’s smile. “I didn’t think you had it in you, Princess,” he says, staring hard at Francesca. “Finally got tired of playing by the rules, huh?”
“Release me or I will call my father,” she says.
Peter’s grin turns slightly maniacal, my first hint that he’s not quite all there. His fingers squeeze hard around Francesca’s wrist. Her face goes white and right before I get ready to launch myself across the bar and hit Peter over the head with a beer bottle – if it works in the movies surely it will work here – he lets her go and steps away, hands held out in a gesture of peace.
“We can share her,” he says. His tongue flicks out to swipe at his bottom lip and my stomach gives a queasy flip. The guy is a serious creeper.
I wait for Francesca to tell him to go to hell, or to ask him again where Sam is. The last thing I expect her to do is lean forward and say, “Share her? Do you have a demonios?”
“No,” says Peter, his eyes glowing with greedy delight. “But I can get one.”
“Wait a second,” I interject, not liking where this conversation is going one bit. Whose side is Francesca on, anyways? Not mine, if she is seriously thinking about going along with Crazy Peter. “No one is getting any demons or Unknowns or whatever you call them. I just want to find Sam, got it?”
Under the table something pinches my thigh. I peek down to see Francesca’s red tipped fingernails. They hold tight, a silent warning, and slowly release.
The Mysterious Death and Life of Winnie Coleman Page 14
