Rear View (Peri Jean Mace Ghost Thrillers Book 0)

by Catie Rhodes

  Rear View

  A Peri Jean Mace Ghost Thriller

  Catie Rhodes

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  Chapter 1

  Many Years Before Forever Road

  Peri Jean Mace’s Senior Year of High School

  Cold April wind whipped through the thin but sexy jacket I insisted on wearing and blew my carefully brushed, waist-length hair into a snarl. I stiffened my body to keep from shivering, but Memaw saw everything.

  She leaned over the bench seat of her beat-up LTD sedan. “Told you it was too cold for summer clothes. Want me to bring you a sweatshirt?”

  I shook my head. Behind me, inside the high school, the warning bell rang. Ten minutes until homeroom.

  “Well, all right. Get on in there. I better not have another tardy slip to sign when you get home because you went looking for Chase Fischer.” She narrowed her dark eyes at me.

  “I graduate in two months. I don’t understand why you insist—”

  “Don’t take that tone with me, Peri Jean.” She glared at me until I stared at my feet. “If you hadn’t run off to New Mexico like a wild hare in mating season—”

  How could she not understand? “My boyfriend got to play guitar for an honest-to-God rock band.” I raised my head and leaned into the car. “I wasn’t going to just sit here in the armpit of Texas and miss it.”

  Memaw held one finger up. “If you want me to even think about letting you go to that prom with that damn boy, your attitude better be straightened out by the time I come to pick you up.”

  “I can get a ride.” I gripped the car door, wishing I could slam it in her face but not quite daring.

  “Keep dreaming. You’ve got to earn back my trust.” She put the car in gear. It was either close the door and go to class or let her drag me down the street. Angry as she was, I wouldn’t have put it past her.

  I jogged up the steps and went inside. Once the door closed behind me, I rushed down the hall. If Chase was here, he’d be holding court in the informal smoking area behind the gym. I hit the back door running.

  Chase’s friends met me there, dour expressions on their faces. They didn’t bother to smile if Chase wasn’t around. Teddy Darden, who played drums in Chase’s on-and-off band, was the only one who spoke to me.

  “Chase ain’t with you? Well, that answers that.” Teddy and the other members of Chase’s band and their girlfriends pushed past me without speaking.

  I stood there as heavy loneliness settled over me like a frumpy coat. Memaw couldn’t possibly understand what it was like for me here. Chase was the only person who spoke to me all day, other than teachers. Maybe she did know and thought it toughened me up so I could be just like her. All hard edges and sharp words.

  I loved my grandmother. No question there. With a dead father and an absentee mother, she was the only adult left to take care of me. I could have spent my childhood in a mental institution. Probably would have, if not for Memaw. But her ideas came straight out of the chastity belt era.

  The crush of students in the hallway thinned. Must be close to time for the bell. I couldn’t afford another tardy. I trudged off to class. Social Sciences with Mr. Stubblefield, which doubled as my homeroom, was the one class I had with Chase. I walked with my head down and my shoulders hunched. Did Chase ditch today? Or is he just running late?

  The huge hand in the middle of my back came from nowhere. The shove propelled me down the hallway face-first, my belongings scattering. My head banged into a bank of lockers. My knees crumpled, and I slid to the floor.

  A male laugh came from behind. The noxious stench of Drakkar Noir cologne surrounded me. “Trash like you don’t need to be with normal people.”

  Scott Holze used his knee to slam me into the locker an extra time and walked off whistling. I sat there too stunned to move, the shock of impact turning into a dull ache behind my eyes.

  “Good job, idiot,” Felicia Brent yelled from somewhere behind me. Other students laughed. Their cackles filled the hallway, so loud it sounded like a sitcom laugh track.

  Ignoring the pain as best as I could, I climbed to my feet to face Felicia. Scott was mean, but he was too dumb and unimaginative to come up with ways to torture me on his own. Nothing could have made me believe Felicia didn’t sweet-talk him into slamming me into the lockers.

  “Come at me now, when my back’s not turned.” I delivered my challenge leaning against the lockers, head still swimming. More kids stopped to watch the show, whispering among themselves. “You chicken, Felicia? Come on. Let’s do it.”

  The tardy bell rang. The crowd dispersed like roaches exposed to sudden light. I began searching for my stuff. My backpack and purse had footprints all over them. The contents of my purse lay scattered over the linoleum. I did my best to retrieve everything, cheeks flaming and tears blurring my eyes.

  “Ms. Mace?”

  I tensed at the sound of the overly deep and stern female voice but forced myself to turn around. Carly Holze, high school principal and the mother of the kid who pushed me, stood watching with her hands on her broad hips. The bitch seemed to follow me through Gaslight City Independent School District, first as the counselor for the grade school, then as the assistant principal for the junior high. Some folks hated me just for being alive. Felicia Brent was one of them. Carly Holze was another. She stared at me with her eyes squinted.

  “You’re tardy.” She crossed her arms over her bovine bosom and waited for me to answer.

  I knew better than to make an excuse. She’d just use it as fodder for a lecture she’d drag me down to her office to deliver. I simply nodded, brushed off my backpack, and hoisted it onto my back.

  “Three tardies equal an after-school detention. I checked the records this morning, and you already have two.” Again, she settled her cold gaze on me as though expecting an answer. Again, I did nothing more than nod.

  “Be sure to have Mr. Stubblefield report this tardy.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I knew I wouldn’t have to force him. He’d write me up. Gleefully. This being his second year on the job, he still thought he could change people.

  “I saw Chase Fischer bought two prom tickets and wrote you down as his guest.” She raised her eyebrows and inclined her head ever so slightly, waiting for an answer.

  I nodded.

  “As principal, I can ban you from the prom as disciplinary action. Between your tardies and your fighting, I wouldn’t be out of line.” She sucked in her cheeks. Maybe she thought it made her look like somebody famous. It did no such thing. It made Principal Holze look like she was trying not to dirty her drawers. “Do you think you’d deserve that?”

  There was no right answer. If I said ‘no,’ she’d tell me why I was wrong. If I said ‘yes,’ she’d accuse me of being disrespectful. I dropped my gaze to the scuffed floor.

  “Go on to class then.” Her heels clicked as she walked away.

  I walked to my classroom and opened the door.

  * * *

  Mr. Stubblefield turned around, his eyes behind his thick glasses magnified so he resembled a frog. “Good of you to join us, Peri Jean.”

  I froze. Behind Mr. Stubblefield stood a familiar figure dressed in all black. Mr. Dowthitt. He taught high school history before my time, died on the job, and stayed on in ghostly form. The ghost rushed at me, waving his arms, face contorted in rage. At least I couldn’t hear him screaming. I dodged away from the door, and he disappeared.

  “Look, she’s going into a trance or something.” Felicia’s screechy, nails-on-a-chalkboard voice came
from across the room. “Tell us, Peri Jean. Is it the ghost of your long-lost ancestor, Reginald Mace, showing you where the Mace Treasure is hidden?”

  More kids tittered.

  Body clenched with dread and shame, I went to my regular seat and sat down, eyes forward, seeing nothing.

  “Oooh, I bet she did see a ghost.” Lanelle Wilson clapped her hands. She held the position of Felicia the Bully’s best friend and played her role to the hilt. “Maybe she saw her uncle killing her daddy. All Maces are nutcases, you know.”

  “Maces. Nutcases. Hey, that sorta rhymes.” Felicia snapped her fingers a few times. She and Lanelle sang the line. They sounded like constipated frogs.

  “Enough.” Stubblefield clapped his hands. The ghost reappeared behind him, mouth moving, hands gesturing, teaching a long forgotten class. I stared at the stack of books on my desk, anything to keep from looking. “As I was saying before Ms. Mace interrupted, the time has come to start on your senior project.”

  A chorus of groans greeted his announcement.

  “This project will count for fifty percent of your final grade for this class. But that’s not all.” He said it like a game show host. Nobody laughed. “This year, for the first time, the Gaslight City Council will be judging all projects focusing on Gaslight City.”

  More groans and desk squeaks filled the silence.

  “This isn’t all bad, guys. City Council will give out prizes for first, second, and third place,” Stubblefield droned on. “King Ranch Chicken Plant is donating an all-expenses paid cruise to the Bahamas for first prize. So do your best.”

  The atmosphere in the room went from almost dead to supercharged. The low rumble of a bunch of kids talking all at once filled the room. Everyone knew the senior projects were done in groups. All around me, students asked each other if they wanted to team up.

  “No need to make plans with your pals.” Stubblefield clapped again. He needed a gavel to beat on his desk. “I’ve already assigned groups. There are twenty of you, so that’s four groups of five.”

  “But Mrs. Chastain always lets her homeroom choose their own groups,” Lanelle Wilson yelled. She would know. This was her second senior year due to her living with an aunt in Oregon last year to have a baby she gave up for adoption.

  “You’re not in Mrs. Chastain’s homeroom this year, Ms. Wilson.” Stubblefield sounded about halfway pissed off. My classmates kept shouting arguments at him. “It’s falling on deaf ears, people. Part of my job as your teacher is to prepare you for the world outside these walls.” Now he sounded all the way pissed. “Over the course of this year, I’ve noticed not a single one of you is prepared for a world where you have to work with people who aren’t necessarily your friends. And that’s what the grown-up world is like.”

  “But what if the people in your group make you get a bad grade?” Felicia sounded like the kids I babysat on the weekends when they tried to bargain over bedtime.

  “Then welcome to the real world.” Stubblefield didn’t sound a bit sympathetic.

  Felicia let out something between a grunt and a whine.

  “Please pack up your stuff and push the desks together in four groups of five. Then go stand around the perimeter of the room.” Stubblefield clapped his hands again. “Do it. Now.”

  The low roar of conversation came back as desks scraped across the floors and clanged together. The door swung open and slammed against the wall. I raised my head from pulling my desk across the floor and smiled.

  Chase Fischer strolled in as though he’d waited for the exact right moment to join us. He frowned at the disruption, fingering the silver hoops in one earlobe. I waved to him. He flashed his killer smile and made a beeline for me. Every girl in the class turned to watch his butt twitching in his tight, faded jeans. He leaned down and kissed me on the cheek. The waves of envy coming my way made the morning’s ordeal almost worth it. Almost.

  Tubby Tubman slunk into the room, hands shoved in his pockets and skinny shoulders hunched. So that’s who Chase spent his early morning with. Chase’s few tour dates with Snakebite introduced him to a nasty habit involving expensive brown powder. I wished so hard he’d drop it but knew from experience not to say a word. Tubby sauntered to where Chase and I stood and wormed himself a spot next to me.

  “There’s two more tardies,” Stubblefield sang.

  “Do you have to be so uptight?” Tubby made a face at the teacher.

  “Do you remember the agreement we made when you got out of the Juvenile Correctional Center and had to get consent to be in this class, Mr. Tubman?”

  Tubby slumped and pressed his back against the wall next to me.

  “Mr. Tubman? Do we understand each other?” Stubblefield kept his gaze locked on Tubby’s face.

  Tubby mumbled something that might have been a yes or a fuck off and crossed his arms over his bony chest. His sharp elbow brushed against me, and I scooted closer to Chase.

  “That jacket looks good on you.” He fingered the material on the lapel.

  I smiled. This was why I blew the whole month’s babysitting money on this one clothing item. I knew Chase would love it.

  “Think you can come somewhere with me tonight?” he whispered. “Wear that jacket?”

  “Memaw’s still mad,” I whispered.

  Chase’s lips pursed into a pout, his brown eyes sad as a dog watching his humans eat dinner. He gave me an extra squeeze. “She’ll get over it.”

  She wouldn’t. But I’d work on her and hope to wear her down.

  Chase’s friends crossed the room to surround us. Now, they didn’t mind being within ten feet of me. What a bunch of creeps. They asked Chase where he’d been and tried to act cool for him.

  “When I call your name, please go sit with your group,” Stubblefield yelled over them. “First member of group one, Rainey Bruce.”

  Rainey, the likely valedictorian of our senior class, went to sit at the group of desks Stubblefield indicated. She took out a blank notebook and began writing right away.

  “Mr. Stubblefield, can I be in Rainey’s group?” Scott Holze waved his meaty arm in the air. I glared in his direction, wishing I could do something about him slamming me into the lockers. His father, sheriff of Burns County, insulated him from any real consequences of his assholery.

  “Nope. You’re in group two, Mr. Holze.” Stubblefield called more names and the tables filled up. “Chase Fischer, group one.”

  Chase patted my butt and left my side. His friends went back to ignoring me and started whispering to each other. I put my arms over my middle. Someone nudged me in the ribs.

  “‘Least he’ll pass.” Tubby’s lips curved into a crafty smile, making him almost good-looking. In a scary way.

  Like me, he didn’t quite fit into Chase’s social circle. Too wild. Too dangerous. Despite their black leather jackets and gel-spiked hair, Chase’s crowd came from good homes and parents who’d whup their asses for hanging out with Tubby Tubman. I wanted to ignore Tubby, but I gave him a nod. Being ignored sucked donkey ass. Besides, Tubby was right. Chase spent too many nights and weekends playing guitar and singing. His grades showed it.

  I watched him trying to charm Rainey. He leaned close, spoke, and nudged her arm. She rewarded him with a small smile. Chase sat back grinning and winked at me.

  “Peri Jean Mace.” Stubblefield’s voice broke me out of my thoughts. “Group one.”

  I practically skipped over and took the desk next to Chase. He smiled and took my hand. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all. I smiled at Rainey, whose father I knew well through Memaw, and got a scowl in return.

  Chase opened his notebook and scribbled on a sheet of blank notebook paper. “Let’s you and me sneak off campus at lunch. I miss you.”

  I took his pen and printed, “Somebody’ll tell Memaw. She will have a fit.”

  Chase pouted at me again. I stuck out my lower lip and imitated him. He laughed out loud. He scribbled on the paper again and pushed it at me.

  “I go
t the prom tickets and my tux. You excited?”

  I stared into his dark eyes. He might have been high, probably was, but it did nothing to blunt the way he radiated life. Going to the prom with Chase Fischer was better than anything I could imagine. I wrote three exclamation points underneath his note. He put his arm around me.

  Stubblefield called name after name, some of his announcements provoking a minor uprising, which he quelled with more hand claps.

  “Thomas Tubman, group one,” Stubblefield called.

  Chase clapped and hooted. I joined in, not because I meant it but to make up for turning down Chase for two outings in a row. Tubby pranced over to our group, bowed, and sat down. He and Chase exchanged an overly complicated handshake.

  Stubblefield frowned at his paper, likely realizing he’d paired up Chase with two of his friends.

  Rainey leaned her head back and stared at the ceiling. I glanced up to see if there was anything interesting, but there wasn’t.

  “What is it?” I whispered.

  “He stuck me with a group of losers,” she said at regular volume. Rainey didn’t care who heard what she thought.

  “But we’ll all get good grades.” Tubby grinned at her. “Don’t that make you happy?” Chase and Tubby high-fived over my head.

  Rainey opened her notebook and started writing again, a muscle in her jaw working.

  Tubby took out a pen and opened his battered spiral notebook. He bent over it, writing fast, grinding his jaw like Rainey. Chase laughed and shook his head.

  Stubblefield finished calling names and started writing on the blackboard, running his mouth the whole time.

  Felicia still stood against the cinderblock wall. She shifted foot to foot, smiling at her friends. Stubblefield finished writing on the board and sat behind his desk.

  She raised her hand and cleared her throat. “Mr. Stubblefield?”

  He raised his head.

  “You never called my name.”

  I glanced at the empty chair in our group. Oh, hell no.