I prop myself on my elbows, then reach up slowly. My fingers pass through the floorboards. I lie back down for a few minutes, then move back onto my stomach and close my eyes before crawling out.
The house looks as real as any of the other places I've been.
I walk around the porch to the side of the house proper. A curtain ruffles and my cat, Miss Whiskers jumps into view. My heart races as I wait for her to notice me, but she doesn't. She looks right past me in search of something furry to daydream about tracking. So much for cats being better psychics than humans.
My fingers pass through the glass. Then they pass through Miss Whiskers. And my vision goes blurry from tears.
I turn and walk away. Quickly.
I keep walking until I find myself at Cris's house. Am I trying to hurt myself or something? What happened with Miss Whiskers didn't hurt enough?
Cris's porch steps support me, though I sink a little. It feels like the steps sag, but when I look down I see the bottoms of my feet sunk halfway though them. I look away from that fast and rush through the door. Walking down the hall to Cris's room reminds me of being in a bouncing castle, minus the little kids making the ground buck and heave. The floor has more give than it should, but I don't fall into the crawlspace under the house, so I call it a win.
The first time I saw Cris's room, I found the chaos a little appalling. It boggled my mind that he'd brought me there without bothering to pick up at least some of the dirty laundry, used dishes, and empty soda bottles. But then I convinced myself it was a good thing that he was comfortable enough with me to let me see how imperfect he was.
It occurs to me now that maybe he just didn't care enough.
He's sprawled over his bed, sound asleep, and the only part of him visible from the mass of blankets heaped on the mattress is one lonely foot. My hand goes to it, passes through it. The mound shivers and the foot slides up under the covers with the rest of Cris.
I try to lay down with him, but his bed isn't there for me, so I have to settle on the floor, between a crumpled sweater and an empty chip bag. I lean back against the wall and stare at the ceiling. When will he figure out I'm dead? What's my death going to do to him? Will it crush him or slide right off his back like water on a duck?
His phone rings after a while and his hand slinks from the blankets to grab it. The phone vanishes for a second, falls silent, and gets tossed back onto the nightstand unanswered.
Whoever it is calls back right away. “I'm sleeping,” Cris says before hanging up on them, still without emerging from his cocoon.
The third time it rings, he sits up, eyes livid, and jams his finger against button that picks up. “Back the hell off! I'm sleeping!”
He blinks, then runs a hand through the mess of his hair. “Oh. Hey, Drew. Thought you were someone else.”
It's me. He doesn't seem too happy about that. Looks nervous. Who was the other caller? A girl? The idea makes my stomach clinch. But I'm jumping to conclusions. It could be one of our out-of-town friends or one of Cris's drug connections. He's the leading supplier of just about everything illegal in our school.
“No,” he tells the me on the phone. “I just feel like ass.” His hand rubs over his face as he listens to whatever I am saying. “No, it's not about that. Although I don't appreciate your attitude.”
He doesn't appreciate my attitude. A classic Cris sort of statement. There's an intensity behind the words that I find hot, although the other me reacts with yelling.
“We've been through this,” he says. “I gave you the bag Monday. I remember doing it.”
The bag... They're arguing about misplaced weed, like they were at lunch the other day. I wouldn't have taken it. Sure, I'll share when he offers, but I've never been the one to suggest getting high and it's not something I do alone. Undoubtedly, he misplaced it. Possibly while stoned on something else. He never could admit when he's been a dumbass.
Cris hangs up the phone after a curt goodbye and stomps into the shower. I resist the urge to follow him. That seems wrong. More wrong than hanging out in his room without him knowing it.
While he's gone, my eyes drift close. When they open again, Cris is running madly around the room. His mother yells from down the hall that he's going to be late for school and that he's grounded if he gets any more detentions. “Yeah, right,” he mutters under his breath, knowing full well it's an empty threat.
The phone rings again and he grabs it quickly. “Hey, Babe,” he answers in a sexy purr.
My teeth bite into the side of my cheek. I don't think he's talking to me. It could be more conclusion jumping, but I'm fairly sure he's still too mad at me to use that seductive tone.
“No, I was about to leave the house.” He laughs. “Naw. I have a test in calc this morning. Still on for this weekend though?” In the mirror, he gives himself a smile and pulls on a leather jacket. Black with lots of zippers. We bought it in Asheville a few weeks ago.
He's obviously not talking to me or he would have said we have a test in calc. We. Plural. So, who is he talking to? Without thinking about it, I grab the phone and pull it from his hand. It comes out, but I can't hold onto it. It rushes to the floor, smacking against the boards with an ominous crack.
Cris curses himself. Then he curses the hardwood floors, claiming if the phone had hit carpet, it wouldn't have broken. He messes with it some, trying to get it to work again before tossing it into his backpack in disgust.
“Crispin!” his mom calls.
He curses her too before yelling back. “Yeah. I'm out.”
I don't leave with him but sit down on the floor and try to reason with myself. Okay, maybe he was talking to another girl. No. He was definitely talking to another girl. The only alternative would be that he was talking to another boy and he just doesn't swing that way. But so what? He's not my boyfriend, so he can't be cheating on me. But if he's not doing anything wrong, why's it hurt so much?
Chapter Five
Calculus is probably my least favorite class. Not only does it make zero sense to me, but I don't have any clue how any of this is going to make my life even slightly better. But it was important to my dad that I take it. Important enough that if I pass the entire year, he's promised me a car at graduation. A used car, and not one I get to pick out, but any wheels at all would be an improvement over my current life. Of course without classes like calc, I might be able to get a job and buy my own car, but it seemed easier to go along with Dad's plan than to listen to him complain about me wasting my potential for the rest of my life. That was back when I had no idea how short my life would be. If I'd known I wouldn't survive the school year, there's no way I'd have wasted my last months fighting with derivatives.
It's not surprising that the other me doesn't look happy to be in calculus, but she seems more upset about Cris than the class or the impending test. She's trying to talk to him but he's ignoring her so completely that she could be me. I lean against the wall behind them and shake my head. “Give it up, TOM.”
Cooper Finnegan looks up from a page of notes to squint at me.
“The Other Me,” I translate for him. “TOM.”
He raises and lowers his eyebrows, then goes back to his cramming.
At the front of the room, the teacher clears his throat and tells the class to be seated. In theory, he's talking to the whole room but TOM and I are the only two standing. She sits. I stay where I am in the dim hope he's now going to say, “I told you to sit down, Drew. Hey, why are there two of you?” But he just produces a stack of papers from inside a briefcase and starts handing them out.
TOM looks sick, then wings a lethal glare at Cris. She obviously didn't know there was a test today. Maybe if Cris hadn't been so busy being a jerk to her and hitting on other girls all weekend, he'd have told her about it.
The living start to work and I hover over TOM's shoulder. She's completely bombing this thing even though it's multiple-guess, but I know how to do it. Is it something I'm remembering or could she have pas
sed if she wasn't upset and nervous?
I let out a groan of frustration as she falls for one of those traps math teachers love to set up to exploit common mistakes. “It's D, you idiot. It could only be A if x isn't zero. Which it probably isn't, but you don't know that.”
I fall silent when I realize Cooper Finnegan's staring at me. His mouth opens a little and he looks away. His eyes narrow on his paper and then close as he shakes his head.
“You missed it too, didn't you?”
He nods, then continues to work further down the page.
“Well, change it.”
He shakes his head again.
Though it leaves a string of people shivering in my wake, I cross through the rows to his desk. “You'd have noticed when you went over it. You always ace these things.”
Cooper Finnegan just shrugs and keeps puzzling out a later problem. Guess one question isn't all that important to him anyway. But then I pay attention to his answers. He has at least as many wrong as I do. What the hell? “Forget to study?”
He shoots me an annoyed glance.
“Sorry. I'll just let you get back to failing then.”
I go lean against the wall next to TOM again, but my eyes keep drifting back toward Cooper Finnegan. He doesn't look right. He's too pale and there are huge circles under his eyes. His hair's clean and combed, but it lays flat and lifeless, looking depressed. His nails are chewed off. His clothes are looser than usual, more casual, more skater-influenced and less preppy than what he normally wears. Is he alright?
He looks at me when he tosses his test on the teacher's desk. The other me bristles and glares. He looks away from her, stares at the floor for the rest of the period, then rushes from the room.
Cris gives TOM a haughty look before he departs, but she doesn't notice because she's frantically circling random answers.
“Drew,” Mr. White says gently. “You forgot about this test, didn't you?” He lets out a long breath. “You can do better than this.”
Not a good thing for him to say if he really wanted to talk to me. Anyone who deals with teenagers on a daily basis should know that. TOM rolls her eyes at him. “Whatever,” she grumbles before thrusting the paper at him and stomping out into the hallway.
“Drew?” Tanya Stewart scampers behind me. Tiny, blonde, blue-eyed, and never seen without a cross around her neck, Tanya's not someone I'm used to paying attention to. She pushes at the bridge of her discount store glasses, nearly dropping her books in the process. “I could help you.”
She pales when TOM's disdainful glower hits her, but swallows and continues. “I'd really like to help you. Please?”
“With calculus or with finding God?” TOM asks. Tanya always dresses in clothes any preacher would approve of and never smears a trace of sinful make-up on her skin. Over all, she reminds me of one of those church-run homeless shelters. Sure, they'll give you a bed and a decent meal, but they'll make you listen to their gospel in payment.
“Either,” Tanya whispers, her voice nearly lost in the din.
“Well, I'm good on both.” TOM shoves by her would-be savior and walks quickly away.
Tanya shoulders droop and she lets out a long sigh.
“No saving some folks,” Ricky Woodman says behind her, making her jump, though she doesn't do anything as horrible as curse. Ricky's the head of the Campus Crusaders, a ultra-conservative group bent on annoying me as much as possible.
“I don't believe that,” Tanya says. My mouth almost gapes. I don't think I've ever seen Tanya openly disagree with anyone before, let alone with Fort Jesus VIP Ricky Woodman. And she's doing it in defense of me?
Ricky shrugs, not caring what she thinks. “You should. It's true and she's a prime example of unsavable.”
A day later, he's spouting completely different lines while he harasses people between first and second period. He beams at TOM. “Sign the pledge?”
She glowers at him and makes a wordless grumble of annoyance. She knows the spiel already, having overheard it twice while she searched her locker for a missing notebook. It's put her in a pissy mood, even though she spent the night in my bed and I spent it on the cot in the nurse's office. If you ask me, I'm the one with a reason to be in a foul mood.
“Come on,” Ricky wheedles, waving a clipboard in her face.
TOM narrows tired eyes at the wannabe evangelist. “I could take this harassment to the Supreme Court, you know. You're not allowed to shove your religion at me in school.”
Ricky reaches behind his head to scratch at the back of his neck and his face goes slack in what might be honest bewilderment. “But there's nothing religious. It's just a vow to respect yourself enough to retain your virginity.”
“You're a moron,” she informs him. He doesn't appear bothered by the information.
“Virginity's not a bad word!” Ricky follows her as the other me starts to walk away from him. He taps the clipboard against the back of his free hand in time to their matched steps. “Come on. Sign the pledge. Everyone's doing it!”
TOM stops in order to glare more effectively. “A. No they're not.” She holds up one finger, then another. “B. You're too late.” A third digit goes up. “And C. No.”
Ricky pulls out a booklet from his back pocket and waves it around. “Your virginity can be born again!”
TOM and I both laugh. And so does Cooper Finnegan.
Ricky blinks, looking to where Copper Finnegan stands watching us in ratty jeans and a Pine Ridge football t-shirt. “Jesus forgives those who ask it,” Ricky says with the eerie overtone of someone who believes what they're saying just a little too much.
The other me rolls her eyes and moves on, not acknowledging that Cooper Finnegan just saved her from Ricky's pathetic hounding.
“Of course, he does.” Cooper Finnegan gives him an easy smile. “But the fact a sin can be forgiven doesn't mean the history of it was erased.”
Ricky thinks about that and I expect him to refute it with a quote, but Cooper Finnegan starts to walk away without waiting for him to find one. “Hey, Finn! Sign the pledge?”
“Nope.”
The curt answer surprises Ricky enough that he stops walking. “But... Aren't you..?”
“None of your business,” Copper Finnegan calls back.
I snicker as I trot after him. “What happened to you?”
“None of your business either.”
My mouth opens for a second before I start to grin. “Careful. You're almost acting human.”
“Surprised you'd know about that.”
He manages to look serious for two steps before grinning over at me.
I shake my head and smile back until the details of his appearance click in my head. His eyes are bloodshot and the circles under them are heavier than they were yesterday. His skin's more pale. His hair's more unkept. In short, he looks more dead than I do, despite the ridiculously goofy expression in his face. “You haven't been sleeping, have you? You're punch drunk.”
“Maybe.” He shrugs.
“You'd better start or you're going to blow the last game of the season Friday.”
He shrugs again. “Trying to care. Failing.”
“Who are you talking to?” someone we pass asks.
“Blue Tooth,” Cooper Finnegan says without missing a beat. The other guy gives him a strange look, then seems to assume the ear piece is in the ear he can't see and moves on.
Another schoolmate passes through my arm while I'm busy staring at my medium. “Seriously, Cooper Finnegan, you're acting very strange.”
“Thanks for noticing.” Halting, he turns to look at me. “Why do you do that? Use my full name?”
“I don't know.” Which is true. It's just what I've always done. “I think it's because that's how you were introduced to me. People gushing about, 'Oh my gosh, Cooper Finnegan this,' and 'Cooper Finnegan that,' and, 'Oh, Cooper Finnegan is so cute,' and 'Cooper Finnegan is just so much more wonderful than anyone else.' It's how they talk about you, even though it isn't
how they talk to you.”
He looks at me for a few moments, a frown clouding his face. “No wonder you hate me. Put like that, I hate me.”
There's not much I can say. I could deny the allegation, claim not to hate him. But he wouldn't buy it. He may be an idiot, but he's not stupid.
The silence between us is broken by my sister, who rushes up to Cooper Finnegan with a hint of desperation in her eyes. “There you are, Finn!”
“Yeah.” He doesn't take his eyes away from me, doesn't seem to notice how low cut Bobbi's top is, even though she's all but shoving her tits in his face.
“You look tired. Are you alright?” she asks.
He lets out a sigh and nods. Then he looks at her, jerking a little when he notices what she's wearing. “I'm fine.”
“You'd better rest up.” Bobbi leans forward to better show off her boobs, then droops when the result of the maneuver is her prey redirecting his eyes to the hall. “We need you at your best against Yancy.”
“Yeah, I know.” He shifts like he's trying to figure out how to leave without running over her.
“There's going to be a party at Casey's afterwards.”
“Is there?” Judging by the trapped look on Cooper Finnegan's face, I'd say he caught the not-so-subtle hint that my sister's after a date to this party. And judging by the continued look of optimistic adoration on hers, she wasn't catching on to his lack of enthusiasm.
“Yeah...” Bobbi wraps a strand of hair around her finger and bats her eyes in a vapid way likely meant to be coy. “So... I was thinking...”
“Maybe I'll see you there,” Cooper Finnegan says, then darts around her and rushes away as I laugh at his panic. What happened that was so horrible it made him border on likable?
Bobbi's friends rush over. “What did he say?”
“He hopes to see me there,” she says with a toss of her hair.
Not an exact quote.
The friend looks disappointed. “So you're not going together?”
I'd Rather Not Be Dead Page 4
