by Tonya Hurley
“ ‘Levitation’? ‘Telekinesis’? ‘Phase-shifting’? ‘Teleportation’?” She couldn’t believe what she was reading, but she was definitely intrigued, and fresh out of shock by this point. She skimmed the book quickly as Mike dimmed the lights and the movie, a flickering 1950s-style industrial film, complete with 5-4-3-2-1 countdown and the moralistic voice-over narration, began.
Deadhead Jerry—the guy in Birkenstocks—was already sleeping, only with his eyes opened. As he snored, Charlotte could see Piccolo Pam out of the corner of her eye reach over gently and close his eyes as one would do for a person who had just died.
How sweet, Charlotte thought, acknowledging Pam’s kindness.
As the room went completely dark, Charlotte was startled once again by Prue’s angry rasp.
“You’d better pay attention, Usher,” Prue warned, tapping her shoe loudly on the floor. “We’re watching this again for your sake.”
“I got that,” Charlotte answered, and coughed. Asking to go to the nurse’s office crossed her mind, but there didn’t seem to be much point.
Pam looked over at Charlotte with total seriousness, as if to caution her not to rub Prue the wrong way. From the looks of things, it was already too late. It was crystal clear that “here” Prue was the queen bee, or worse yet, wasp, of Dead Ed, and Charlotte had already felt her sting.
The mystery that still remained for Charlotte was the reason why Prue hated her so much. Prue had barely had time to notice her, let alone to loathe her. At Hawthorne, it had taken some kids a whole semester to really shun her. She was proud of that little statistic. But with Prue, the hatred was instant and seemed to go much deeper than just the way she looked or the things she said.
Up on the movie screen, a Coronet insignia appeared with some old-school signature theme music.
A 1950s-looking teen girl, with short curly hair wearing a navy skirt, flats, and starched white blouse appeared.
A male narrator’s voice called out to get her attention, “Susan Jane? Susan Jane?”
Susan Jane looked around for the source of the voice and appeared disoriented by the classroom setting and the books in her hand.
“Susan Jane will soon find out that even though she is dead, she still has to graduate,” the narrator said.
Susan Jane looked disappointed.
Charlotte couldn’t help but react the same way.
“School?” Charlotte asked. “Great, life sucks and then you die and then it sucks again.”
“I’m dead, not deaf,” Mr. Brain said, admonishing her to be quiet.
Charlotte slumped down in her seat and continued watching the movie.
“How are you feeling, Susan Jane?” the narrator asked.
“Okay, I guess? But now that you mention it, I do feel a little funny,” she responded.
“There’s a reason for that, Susan Jane,” the narrator said.
Next, a split screen of two Susan Janes appeared: one alive and one dead. She looked exactly the same in both states.
“Here are two pictures of Susan Jane,” the narrator pointed out, and as he did, a tiny red arrow pointed to her “before” and “after.”
“Not much of a difference on the outside, you might say, but on the inside her body has gone through a lot of changes,” the narrator continued.
Suddenly, on the screen, the bodies were replaced by outlines, one showing circulation and internal movement with hundreds of tiny red arrows, and one not.
“The most obvious change is that Susan Jane’s physical body doesn’t work anymore, but just because her body doesn’t work doesn’t mean that she doesn’t have work to do,” he announced.
The camera zoomed in on a Deadiquette handbook as the cover was flipping open to the first few pages. The chapter heading “Introduction to Death” came into focus. There were pictures of two simply drawn boys in the book. Billy, who appeared to be a polite, well-dressed, obedient 1950s teen with Bryl creemed hair and then Butch, a more rebellious, disheveled, slightly dimwitted and disobedient ’50s teen.
“This is Billy,” the narrator said as he introduced the “fellows.” “And this, well, this is Butch.”
“In life, Butch and Billy were ‘ball hogs.’ They had to score the winning run, be the coach’s favorite, and be the superstar of their teams. Now, they must learn to be ‘team players,’ and that transition is a hard one to make, especially since they’re dead.”
The film showed the two “fellows” on a school playground. There were two separate groups playing kickball, one living and one dead. The camera closed in on the living game, and the scoreboard revealed the game tied in the final inning.
“Today, Butch and Billy are learning to master tele-kinesis”—as the narrator announced this, a dictionary entry of telekinesis appeared on the screen—“one of the essential spirit skills, through a simple game of kickball.”
The ball rolled toward the kicker’s box and was struck hard to the outfield. Butch telekinetically propelled the ball over the head of the outfielder so that he could make the catch, but instead he caused the other team to score the winning run. The losing team, angry at the outfielder, ran off the field bitter and sad while Butch was left holding the ball and feeling bad. Butch threw the ball and sped off on his motorcycle, angry and ashamed.
“What’s the matter, Butch? Looks like you were way ‘off base’ out there,” the narrator taunted, as Butch sped away.
Meanwhile, the outfielder who missed the play sat on the bench alone, sobbing.
“Now watch Billy. He’s playing with other Dead kids,” the narrator announced with enthusiasm.
On the Dead field everyone was in the same game situation. Billy was playing third base. The ball rolled toward the kicker’s box and was struck hard toward the infield gap between third base and the shortstop. Billy motioned toward the ball, using his powers to guide the ball into the shortstop’s hands rather than to make the play himself. The shortstop made a double play! The game was over and Billy’s team won! The crowd roared. His jubilant teammates formed a victory circle of raised hands and cheering, with Billy propped high above the crowd.
“That’s it, Billy! That’s the RIGHT way,” the narrator said.
“Why didn’t it work for Butch and why did it work for Billy? Well, Butch was up to his old tricks and using his powers to try and stay connected to the living, but Billy, well, Billy overcame his selfishness and used his powers to lead his team to victory.
The two “fellows” were replaced once again by Susan Jane seated at her old wooden desk.
“Well, Susan Jane, are you a Butch or a Billy?” the narrator asked.
Susan Jane shrugged her shoulders as the “fellows” appeared to the side of her. Billy graduated while Butch held a report card with an big fat F on it.
“Remember, these special abilities must be used only to seek resolution so that you can cross over. Your teacher will ‘coach’ you on the skills, but it is your responsibility to use them the right way,” he said.
The music swelled as the Deadiquette book closed. the end was written on the back.
Mike switched the lights back on as the film strip flapped against the metal on the projector.
“Questions?” Mr. Brain asked, singling out Charlotte.
“How do we know what our goal is?” Charlotte asked.
“Everyone in this class is here for a reason,” Mr. Brain said. “You’ve all got an unresolved issue you need to deal with before you move on.”
The bell rang, and Charlotte just sat in her seat. She wasn’t sure if she should get up and risk embarrassing herself as she had during the fire drill. Once all the other students started exiting the room, she gathered her things and began to follow while reflecting on what Brain had just said.
“People! Homework. There’s a dorm meeting tonight at Hawthorne Manor. It is at seven sharp and it is not optional!” Mr. Brain yelled after them as they all scurried to freedom.
Homework? Charlotte thought.
6
Death and Dating
And there was a beautiful view But nobody could see. ’Cause everybody on the island Was saying: Look at me! Look at me.
—Laurie Anderson
Identify yourself.
Charlotte was never really sure who she was, not before and certainly not now. But she was always sure who she wanted to be. The thing is, in high school, no one wants to know who you are, they want to know who you aren’t. It is much easier to categorize and file you that way. She had been filed under “Nobody,” but that was all about to change if she had any say in it. She was ready to see the world though someone else’s eyes. Anyone’s but hers.
Scarlet, Petula’s younger sister, was summoned unexpectedly to the school newspaper office to write an obituary, her first ever, on “some girl who died in school.” She headed to the room as nervous about the assignment as about dealing with Mr. Filosa, a hard-bitten old-timer who ran the school pamphlet, ah, newspaper, like it was the Daily Planet.
“Where the heck have you been, Kensington?” Mr. Filosa remarked impatiently. “We’re on deadline to publish this obituary.”
“I know there is a joke in there somewhere,” Scarlet cracked. “Deadline… obituary…”
Filosa wasn’t impressed with Scarlet’s sense of humor or her stalling. “You don’t really want to do this, do you?”
“Well, now that you mention it, what am I doing on the deadbeat?” Scarlet asked. “I’m supposed to be the music critic.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” he chided, looking her over, “You’re a natural.”
“I’ve never had to do one before,” Scarlet said with surprising diffidence. “Besides, I’m not really good at praising people I didn’t know, or people I do know for that matter.”
“Suck it up, Kensington, and do something nice for somebody for a change,” Filosa barked. “Here are the photos from the… ah… what was her name… Usher, that’s it, the Usher memorial this morning. The layout is on the computer.” He grabbed his straw hat and tweed jacket and slammed the door on his way out.
Scarlet sat at her computer, staring at the blinking cursor. Not a thing occurred to her. She put on her fedora, which had piercings all around the rim, for inspiration, then opened the jpeg folder of the photos from the memorial and noticed not a soul in any of the pictures.
“Where is everybody?” Scarlet said, the tiniest trace of sympathy in her voice.
Scarlet pulled up the police report and reviewed what little information there was in the official file. She was startled when she came to her class portrait.
“Oh no,” Scarlet blurted. “It’s that girl I was mean to the other day.”
Scarlet pored over the picture for a minute, as if to acknowledge the person she’d treated so dismissively before. She decided the best apology would be a nice obituary, even if it might be more of a listing.
“I guess your life is in my hands now,” she said as she began to write.
It was comforting for Charlotte to know that if there had to be school, there was cafeteria time too. A time to leave the classroom setting and take a breather. A time to “pause” everything and digest the first part of the day, everything except the universal pecking order that was nowhere more evident than at the school lunch tables.
This did not escape Charlotte’s notice as she and Piccolo Pam entered the room. Charlotte could barely contain herself when she saw all the Living kids fluttering about as they usually did, enjoying their semi-freedom.
The Hawthorne cafeteria had always reminded her of a Wal-Mart or Sears, broken up into specific departments. It was easy to navigate. Not a lot of crossover. Populars here, Brains there, Jocks over here, Potheads over there. In class, integration was pretty much unavoidable, mandatory even, thanks to alphabetized seating plans. But in the cafeteria, you had a choice—and what more definitive statement could you make than where you sat and who sat with you.
Once you decided who you were, or more likely, who Petula decided you were, it was easy to find your place. Looking at it now, what had seemed so intentional and cruel to her before, seemed completely natural. Maybe “like attracts like” after all. Or maybe death had dulled her envy.
“People aren’t magnets,” Charlotte said out loud, and then, realizing her absent-mindedness, grabbed quickly for her mouth to shove the words back in.
“Don’t worry,” Pam said. “They can’t hear you.”
“Never could,” Charlotte replied sarcastically.
As she scoured the room, she noticed that everyone in there was assigned seventh-period lunch. This was unbelievable to her. When she was alive, she had sixth-period lunch, now she had seventh-period lunch. Lucky seventh-period lunch. This was Damen’s lunch period. Oh, sweet death! At least something good had come out of it.
Distracted by her thoughts, Charlotte accidentally “bumped” into a kid walking with his tray. Actually, it was more like she passed right through him. Piccolo Pam wasted no time in grabbing Charlotte’s arm and trying to stop the interaction.
“NO!” Pam cried. But it was too late.
A look of sheer terror crossed the kid’s face as he froze for a moment, looked around like a scared rabbit, dropped his tray, and bolted for the exit. His face was twisted up so badly that it was almost funny. At the site of the tray hitting the floor everyone in the cafeteria laughed and clapped, making sure that he was totally humiliated in a way that only high school students can.
“Don’t EVER go through the living!” Pam said, scolding Charlotte.
“Sorry?” Charlotte replied, not quite getting it.
“Interacting with the Living in any way is strictly forbidden,” Pam warned. “Most of us know it instinctively when we arrive.”
Charlotte was wounded by Pam’s unexpected dig.
“Why?” she asked innocently. “We can see them. We can hear them. Why shouldn’t they feel us?”
“We coexist with them, but in different realities,” Pam explained curtly. “They mean nothing to us, and vice versa.”
“They mean something to me,” Charlotte said.
“Didn’t you see what just happened?” Pam asked. “Keep your feelings to yourself, Charlotte.”
“Okay,” Charlotte said timidly.
Tugging Charlotte away from the lunch tables, Pam continued, “We’re over here.”
“Here” was a different cafeteria line that she had never waited in before. A line that was set up only for the Dead students. Invisible to the Living.
“Isn’t this segregation of some sort?” she asked. But Pam didn’t respond. She was too busy filling up her tray with junk food.
Suddenly, a girl tried to jump the line. “Sorry, Kim,” she muttered.
“Cuts,” Kim said in an aggressive tone. An uptight girl with long shiny hair and a beautiful profile, Kim sported an arsenal of PDAs. She looked and sounded like she was preoccupied and in a rush, which was really weird, given the circumstances. When Charlotte didn’t move fast enough, Kim became more agitated.
“Can you move it?” Kim explained curtly. “I’m in a hurry and I’m expecting an important call!”
As she shoved her way in, Charlotte noticed something fall into her tray. This was no stray hair—it was flesh. Burnt, decayed flesh. Charlotte stepped back and allowed Kim to have as much room as she needed, all with the kind of forced, big-toothed smile you might use to hold back vomit.
Charlotte’s queasiness was calmed when, out of nowhere, a cell phone started ringing. She looked around and reached for her pockets reflexively, surprised that such a sound was even possible here.
“Somebody gonna get that?” Charlotte asked jokingly.
“It’s for me,” Kim said as she turned her head to the other side, revealing a cell phone protruding from her gaping head wound, which measured from her temple to her lower jaw. Radiation had apparently eaten a big hole out of her head and neck area, leaving it raw and exposed.
“Talk about having a ‘bad’ side,” Charlotte whispe
red to Pam.
“To Call Me Kim, every call is urgent,” Piccolo Pam whispered to Charlotte. “She ignored the warnings about obsessively using her cell phone and look where it got her. Her unresolved issue is to listen when she’s told something and to try to suppress her impulsivity.”
“I thought that the ‘cell phone radiation’ thing was a myth,” Charlotte said, trying her best not to look at Kim directly.
“Apparently not,” Pam said, pointing and shaking her head sympathetically at Kim, who was gabbing away.
Charlotte tried to change the subject but couldn’t stop staring at Kim.
“Hold on,” Kim commanded her phone friend abruptly as she turned to Charlotte and shot her a look. “Can I help you?”
“No, I don’t think you can,” Charlotte answered with total seriousness.
“New students…,” Kim said, rolling her eye and resuming her one-way conversation.
“I can’t figure out this whole ‘unresolved issue’ thing. Maybe I don’t have one?” Charlotte asked Pam.
“Issues are like assholes, we’ve all got one,” Pam snipped.
“Everyone?” Charlotte asked, wondering to herself what Petula or the Wendys might have to resolve except conflicting waxing appointments.
“Look at DJ, for example” Pam motioned over to the “Dead Boys” table. “He seems really cool and together. You wouldn’t think he’s got much to resolve.”
“Right.” Charlotte said in agreement.
“Wrong,” Pam explained. “He considered himself an ‘artiste’ and refused to spin popular songs at this gang house party he was hired to play.”
“So no one was dancing and…,” Charlotte said haltingly.
“Somebody got mad. A fight broke out, and DJ was caught in the crossfire,” Pam continued. “He took ten bullets, one more than 50 Cent.”
“That’s not a contest you want to win, is it?” Charlotte said sympathetically.
“No, it’s not,” Pam concurred. “His arrogance got him killed.”
“No more breakdancing for DJ,” Charlotte concluded, getting Pam’s point.
