Call Me Grim (17 page)

She doesn’t answer. Her hands curl into meaty, white fists and then relax as her brown eyes narrow down to slits.

“I knew this was a mistake.” She bends down and hooks her arms through the handles of her bags. “Forget it. Forget I told you anything. I really need to get home now.” She stands, hoisting the bags off the floor. “Thanks for the ice cream.”

“Wait.” I grab the handle of one of her bags.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.” She takes a step back. I have to let go of her bag or risk falling flat on my face.

She weaves her way through the crowded tables to the door. A bell tinkles as the door swings open and Mrs. Lutz rushes out, leaving me alone in the ice cream shop.

I push the front door closed with my foot. I drop my purse on the table inside the door, the same place I’ve kept it since I was old enough to carry a purse that didn’t have rainbows and princesses on it.

It’s strange coming home. I thought I’d never see this place again. This morning, I left knowing I was going to die today. But now, as the door clicks into place behind me, I feel like I’m in a bittersweet dream, buffeted by the soapy scent of lavender.

“Libbi? Is that you?” Mom calls from upstairs.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to hold my emotions in check. This morning I thought I’d never hear her voice again, and here she is calling to me from the bathroom.

“I’m in the tub,” she says, but the smell of her lavender bubble bath already told me that. “Are you going to be here for dinner tonight? I was thinking of making spaghetti.”

“Yeah. Sounds good.” I hope she can’t hear the tears in my voice. She saw enough crying from me this morning.

I trudge into the living room, plop down on my favorite fluffy chair in the corner, and sigh. It’s not even five o’clock and I’m exhausted. My muscles ache and it takes a lot more effort than it should to keep my eyes open. My mother’s soft singing drifts down the stairs, soothing and familiar, even if it is a touch off key. I could take a nap while I wait for dinner. I could pull my legs up under me, wrap myself in the quilt hanging over the back of the chair, and sleep.

But I can’t. Accepting Aaron’s job may have bought me a seven-day extension of my life, but that doesn’t mean I have tons of time. If anything, I feel more short on time than I did when I only had a few hours.

I sit up straight and rub my eyes vigorously with the palms of my hands. I can’t sleep now. There’s too much to do. In seven days I have to figure out why Haley’s pissed at me and make up with her; I need to stop the chain reaction that will eventually lead to Kyle’s suicide and heal his mark; and I have to train to be a Reaper and work out the mystery that is Aaron Shepherd. Well, learning Aaron’s secrets is something I
want
to do more than I have to do, but still.

Time slips away fast. I can’t doze on my favorite chair, listening to my mother’s throaty rendition of “Bad Romance.” I need to do something.

I reach into my jeans pocket for my cell phone. Kyle said I could text him later, if I remembered. Well, it’s later, and there is no way I’m forgetting him this time. My thumbs fly over the screen.

Me: See, I didn’t forget. Did u talk to Haley yet? Any idea why she’s mad?

I drum my hands on my thighs as I wait for his response. My phone lights up and skitters across the coffee table as it vibrates.

Kyle: She won’t talk 2 me about it.

Great. That confirms my suspicion that she thinks I lost my virginity without telling her. Haley tells Kyle everything. The only thing she’s ever kept from him was that night with Mike. I back out of my conversation with Kyle and find Haley’s number. She may not respond, but I know she’ll at least read it if I text her.

Me: I don’t know why ur mad, but if u think I hooked up with someone, I haven’t. I would tell u. U know that.

Expecting to wait a few minutes while Haley decides if she wants to respond, I sit my phone on my knee. It vibrates within seconds and I jump.

Haley: SRSLY?

A few seconds later, my phone vibrates again.

Haley: Leave me alone, Libbi.

Me: Y? What did I do?

A full five minutes passes before I decide she’s not going to respond. Fine. If she wants me to leave her alone, I will. For a little while, anyway. I can’t waste my valuable time trying to convince Haley to talk to me when there are other, more important, things to worry about. Like Kyle and his mark.

I exit out of my conversation with Haley and go back to Kyle. My mind goes blank as I stare at the blinking curser. How should I approach this? I’ll sound insane if I say, “Hey, Kyle! I noticed you have a black, oozing hole in your face that you can’t see. Wanna talk about it?” But I have to do something or my promise to take over for Aaron will be for nothing.

After a few false starts, I type out my message and hit send. It takes a moment, but when it appears on the conversation screen I know it’s the best thing—the only thing—I can say.

Me: Can you come to my house later tonight? We need to talk.

There’s no way I can figure out why Kyle wants to commit suicide via text. I need to be with him and talk to him. I need to look in his eyes and hold his hand or hug him, if he needs it. I can’t do any of those things with a cellphone and a pair of thumbs.

Buzz, buzz.
My phone dances across my thigh.

Kyle: Can’t 2nite. Have plans.

“Bullshit!” I say to my phone. I know a cop-out when I read one. He doesn’t want to see me. Not that I blame him, I’ve been pretty awful to him lately, but still.

Me: O rly? What r u doin 2nite?

I’ll play along. Sure, I’ve done a few things to tick him off, but I didn’t think it was so bad he’d lie so he didn’t have to see me. Maybe if I go along with it I’ll get some clue why my best friends are both acting like I’m recruiting child soldiers for the Antichrist and it’s Armageddon time.

Kyle: Going out.

Me: Can I come?

Kyle: Can’t. Family thing.

“That’s complete crap,” I tell the empty living room. “The Dennises would invite me.”

Me: What about 2mar nite? R u busy?

Kyle: Can’t. Have plans. Battery is about to die. Turning off my phone.

My hands fall to my sides. The cell phone slips from my loose fingers and thumps to the floor, but I don’t pick it up. What’s the point? My friends don’t want to talk to me.

What the hell did I do? In all the time I’ve known the Dennis twins they have never acted like this. Sure, we’ve had disagreements, arguments, and a few all-out fights, but they usually pass quickly. I can’t remember a time when a fight lasted longer than forty-eight hours, and I’ve always had at least a hint of why we were pissed at each other.

Not so much now. With Kyle, I sort of understand why he’s mad, but it’s not like him to hold a grudge like this. As for Haley, I’m completely clueless.

I expect stubbornness from Haley. It’s actually one of the things I admire about her, when she’s not using it against me. But Kyle?

Kyle’s the referee. He’s usually the one standing between us girls, trying to get us to see the other’s point of view. Sure, he gets mad, but when he does, he usually goes off and bangs his drums for a couple of hours and then he’s better.

What happened?

As I approach the last curve in the tracks, I realize I’m exactly two minutes and thirty-three seconds late. The time-telling power. Aaron must be close if I can tell time this accurately without a watch. I glance down at my hands to see if my skin has the same bright glow it had yesterday when we were together. As if on cue, my arms, hands, and fingers surge with eye-burning light.

Shared light, shared abilities. I can use his powers now, and he can use mine.

The crisscrossed supports of Jumpers’ Bridge slowly appear from behind the trees. Aaron leans against a pile of half-rotted railroad ties at the edge of the forest, watching me.

I smile and wave as I step off the tracks and skid down the gravel hill to the grass, but he scowls. What did I do now? Is everyone in my life pissed at me?

“You’re late,” he says when I’m close enough to hear him.

“Only by a couple of minutes,” I say. I tug at the front of my T-shirt and hot air billows my face. I should have worn a tank top. It’s only nine o’clock in the morning and sweat already drips down the middle of my back and wets the waistband of my jean shorts.

“Only a couple of minutes?” His frown deepens and he crosses his arms over his chest. “As a Reaper, it’s your job to be on time, Libbi.”

His icy eyes bore into me and I know I’m supposed to apologize and grovel at his feet or something, but I won’t. I’m only a few minutes late. He needs to get over himself.

“Give me a break, Aaron. It’s my first day,” I say. “And I don’t have that handy-dandy time-telling thingy when you’re not around.”

“I suggest you get a better watch then.” He fixes me with a disapproving stare.

“All right, all right.” I pull my hair away from my face and off of my neck and twist it into a loose bun. “I’ll be on time next time.”

“Not just the next time. Every time.”

“Fine. Every time,” I say. “I’ll even be early.”

“Good.”

He gives me one last glare, pushes away from the wood pile, and marches along the base of the gravel incline, heading toward the bridge. I jog to catch up.

This morning, as I followed the rails to Jumpers’ Bridge, I had decided to confront Aaron about Mrs. Lutz and his sister and the murders. Even now, as I watch him angrily swipe the dirt from the seat of his jeans, his brow wrinkled by a deep frown, I repeat the words I plan to use in my head.

I talked to Mrs. Lutz and I know about Sara and the murders. I talked to Mrs. Lutz and I know about Sara and the murders.

My lips part, the words ready to spurt from my mouth.

“So, I guess being on time is really important to the job,” I say instead, and I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the tense, angry curve of his lips. Or maybe it’s the sadness that pulls at the corners of his eyes. I don’t know the reason, but I know I’m not going to bring Mrs. Lutz up today. I’ve already upset him enough.

“We wouldn’t have the power to tell time if being on time wasn’t important.” He glowers over his shoulder at me and I offer him my sweetest smile in apology. He doesn’t smile back, but his frown relaxes, returning his brow to its natural smooth texture. “We need it to keep track of scheduled deaths so we know when to show up.”

“Isn’t that what that headache is for?” I say.

The railroad cuts a clear passageway through the thick forest and widens into a meadow just before the bridge. The tumbling white water of the falls spills over the lip of the cliff above us, blanketing the field in mist.

“Think of it like this.” Aaron moves away from the tracks and follows the line of trees at the edge of the woods. Despite the heat, I shiver when we pass the little tree where Makenna spread out her blanket and Aaron literally scared the Hell out of a rapist. “The headache is the alarm on an alarm clock. It’s annoying and will wake you up when you’re sleeping. But our ability to tell time is the clock itself. An alarm can be helpful, but you need a clock to plan ahead.”

“Okay,” I say. “But why? What does it matter if I plan ahead? The headache will warn me when someone’s about to die, right? Why can’t I wait for the headache and then just show up?”

Aaron stops at a trio of ten-foot-tall boulders at the edge of the woods. They jut out of the ground at all different angles, like gigantic snaggleteeth.

“You could do that, but it’s awfully risky. And potentially cruel. A soul can only stay inside of its dead body for a few minutes before it becomes torturous for them. If a Reaper isn’t there in time to remove the soul from the body, they won’t be able to stand the pain and will try to get out on their own.”

“So, they can’t get out of their bodies without us?” I say as soft mist swirls between us and wraps a thick band around Aaron’s waist.

“No, they can’t,” he says. “As the pain becomes unbearable, the soul literally rips itself apart trying to escape. Then, all that’s left is scraps. The shreds stay close to where the body lands, memories that replay over and over. The smell of the person’s perfume or cigars. The sound of their footsteps. But the soul itself is gone, destroyed.”

“That’s so sad,” I whisper, and Aaron nods. “So it’s kind of like a ghost?”

“It’s exactly like a ghost,” he gives me an approving nod. “That’s why so many hauntings occur at the scenes of murders and suicides. A murder is an unexpected change in the Death Plan. There is no warning before it happens, no alarm-clock headache. A Reaper might not realize someone is about to commit suicide or murder until it’s too late to collect the soul. The victims destroy themselves, trying to escape their bodies and leave nothing but scraps of memories behind. Ghosts.” He smiles arrogantly and swings his hair out of his eyes. “But since I took over as Reaper, I haven’t missed one.”

“Really?” I swipe sweat from my brow. “How do you know when to be there?”

“The mark.” He leans against the closest of the three boulders and slips his hands into his pockets. “I can feel when someone gets marked. I follow them, watch them closely, and so far I’ve always been there to collect the souls when they do whatever it is they’re going to do.”

“But what about Mrs. Lutz?” I say without thinking. So much for not bringing her name up today. “She doesn’t even know she was involved in a murder. Why is she marked?”

I think Aaron cringes, but it’s so quick I can’t tell for sure. I know he won’t look at me, though. He runs his fingers through his hair, keeping his eyes locked on a point over my shoulder. His voice softens and I lean in to hear him over the roar of the waterfall.

“She didn’t know what she was doing, but if Margie hadn’t helped the killer, the victim wouldn’t have died, therefore she was indirectly involved in a murder. And now she’s marked.”

“That’s so unfair.” I shake my head to dispel the memory of Mrs. Lutz’s mark—the mark Aaron’s responsible for—from my mind.

“You’re right. It isn’t fair. It’s the most unfair thing I can think of,” Aaron says to his shoes, “but it is what it is and I can’t change it. It’s already done.”