Cornered (38 page)

BY
L
ISH
M
C
B
RIDE

“I'
M SO BOOOOORED
,” Brooke's voice drew out the last part making it about a billion syllables. When I didn't look up from my book, she flopped around the dining room, knocking over stacks of books and singing the Muppets theme song at the top of her lungs. She was good at making a general nuisance of herself, so I just bent closer to the pages, holding the edges down so she couldn't muss them.

She popped her head up in the middle of the table, her blond ponytail swaying and her wholesome smile aimed right at me. She would look more at home in a dairy commercial or a Swiss Miss hot cocoa ad then an entity jutting out of a piece of furniture. But Brooke's a ghost, and she can do that sort of thing. It's kind of her schtick.

“C'mon, Fraaaaaaannnk.” She drew my name out like she had with the word bored.

“I need to finish reading this. We have a lot to catch up on.” We'd all only just found out that things like ghosts were real. Brooke becoming one had been a key component of that. My friend Sam learning he could raise the dead being another. I
was the only part of the team who didn't have some cool power to add, so I'd thrown myself into research. Like most nerds, books were my only friends for a long time.

“That book isn't going anywhere, but I might die again if you don't help me. I'll croak from extreme ennui and it would
so
be your fault. I'd be so mad I'd haunt you twice as much as everyone else.”

I sighed and carefully closed my book. Brooke had her mind set on something; therefore, complete surrender was really the only workable response. Besides, I couldn't say no to Brooke. When she was alive, I'd had something of a crush on her. And not just because she'd been
crawl-through-broken-glass-I'll-do-anything-for-you
hot. Well, that was part of it, but the real reason was because Brooke had actually talked to me.

Me.

No one talked to me. Not nicely at any rate. So though she'd become more friend than manic-crush, I still had a gooey-soft spot for her. When Brooke asked, I always said yes. There really was no other answer.

• • •

The bad side of being dead—besides what immediately pops to mind—is that it's kinda hard to get places. The floaty-misty thing gets old, and Brooke tells us it's exhausting to go great distances on her own. That's why so many ghosts stay put in one place. Especially if they spend all their energy appearing in front of people and saying, “Boo,” which Brooke of course loves
to do. Brooke says it's about endurance, which takes time to build—unless of course, you have someone like Sam around. If he were here, he could make Brooke corporeal and give her a body, because Sam's a necromancer and he can do suave things like that. But he was out on a date so Brooke was stuck with me, and I am not suave.

Sam figured out how to do enough mumbo-jumbo so that we could
see
Brooke, giving her a physical presence—which was fine in the house, but we were going into town, and that made things tricky. Brooke's death had been pretty publicized, and there's nothing like a dead girl walking the streets to get some attention. So no presence. Just me and my invisible friend. Which is probably for the best. I look like the kind of guy who'd have invisible friends.

Brooke picked a car from the garage, which was like a mini-museum for classic cars. The kinds that most guys don't get to touch until their mid-life crisis when they hock their retirement fund for one shiny, metal dream from their youth. And even then it's only one, but Sam had so many everyone in the house could play bumper cars and we'd still have some left over. Brooke climbed into her favorite, a 1957 baby blue Karmann Ghia. Never mind the fact that every time I drove it I spent the whole trip in a panic-sweat. You try driving around a classic car that you don't own and see if you have a different reaction.

Not that Sam would do anything to me. Even if I crashed it he'd probably just shrug. No, I was afraid of the butler, James,
and if you'd ever met him, you'd understand why. As if summoned by my thoughts, a black and white cat leaped onto the hood of the car. He sat down, tail flicking in irritation, his silver eyes at half-mast. I don't speak cat, but I do speak James. Sort of. I'm learning. His manner said
and what do you think you're doing?

“We're going to get Ramon a present,” I said.

“Do you want to come with us?” Brooke asked, ever the peacemaker. James jumped off the hood, and before I heard his paws hit the cement, he started to shift. There was a billow of smoke. Not “poof” like with magicians and escaping villains, but like the slow twist of cigarette smoke. A few seconds later and the cat was gone. In his place stood . . . oh good, a dragon. In this form he was closer in size to a medium weight dog.

“You have three forms and you think that's the one to wear to the video store?” Brooke asked, her tone so dry it crackled. She could get mouthy with James. What would he do to her? But I kept my mouth shut. James was a little scary.

There was more smoke, and then he held his hand out for the keys. If he packs a lot of menace into his kitty form, he has even more as a human.

“No way,” Brooke said, leaning against the dash. “If you wanna go, you better climb into the back.” I expected him to argue, but he just stared at Brooke for a minute, then walked around to her side and got in. Cats are naturally fussy, and James carried that into human form. He brushed some lint off his shoulder, pushed back the lock of black hair that had
tumbled forward while he was adjusting everything, and then sat up straight and elegant. He caught me watching him in the rearview mirror and his eyebrows raised in a
What?
type expression. I knew better than to say anything, so I adjusted the mirror and kept my mouth shut.

I buckled myself in, and Brooke did too, even though she didn't need it. Her blue eyes were bright and shiny and her blond ponytail bobbed as she bounced excitedly in her seat.

I couldn't help but grin at her. “So, where are we going?”

“Scarecrow Video. We need to get a proper present for Ramon when he gets home from the hospital. A welcome home gift.” She was very firm about the when part—there was no possibility of “if” for her. Her friend was coming home safe and that was that.

I wish I had her faith.

• • •

Scarecrow Video is a local icon—two stories of movie geek wonderland. They had films so rare it took a five-hundred-dollar deposit just to take them out of the store. Everything was separated into sections. I'm not talking comedy, horror, and so on. What I mean is if you go in and ask for a Japanese zombie film, they will take you to that specific
section
. Sometimes they are organized by director, or country, or themes like awards or subjects. You practically need a degree in film just to find anything. Or the guts to approach one of the employees and expose your ignorance to the world.

Especially if you were me. And especially if the employee was Maren.

She was on shift when I walked in, and my pulse did that little fluttering skip I've come to associate with pretty girls. She was wearing boots today with a short tartan skirt held together with safety pins, her black tights the only nod to the outside temperatures. Her T-shirt was worn and faded, the words
FLIGHT OF THE CONCHORDS
almost unreadable. When I look at Maren, I sometimes think of the angry Japanese school-girls you see in Anime. She's petite, she's cute, and I'm pretty sure she could end me if she wanted too.

She pushed her jagged-cut bangs to the side, her face set in a grimace of concentration as she tried to explain something to her coworker, Andy. Maren had added pink to the two inches of blue tipping the black strands of her hair. It made her contrast even more with Andy, who still dressed as he had in high school. Dapper, like someone out of a really expensive cologne commercial.

Brooke leaned in and whispered in my ear. “If you were a cartoon, there'd be little hearts above your head right now. Maybe even some sparrows.” I don't know why she whispered it. No one could hear her but me. James, thankfully, had wandered off to look at a display. The last thing I wanted to do was give James even more ammunition for mockery. “You going to talk to her today?”

I sighed but didn't respond to her. Nothing quite like talking to yourself to make an impression.

We ambled around the store, trying to decide what Ramon would want. I was staring at the cover of
Incubus
, a movie I thought he might appreciate because of its use of Esperanto and the inclusion of a very young William Shatner. At the very least it would be good for him to experience some classic film history. Or I could get him
Mega Piranha
. Black-and-white horror indie film or giant, poorly animated killer fish? I pondered the difficult choice until I felt someone bump me, hard, as they walked past. Out of reflex I looked up and saw the lean back of someone I knew well.

Tyler.

• • •

Back in school we only had those little half lockers. They said it was to accommodate all the students, but I think it was to make it impossible to stuff people into them. I had mine open, looking for my AP English binder, when I heard someone pound their fist into the locker next to mine.

I'd come to know that sound. Other kids like me, the rodents lurking at the bottom of the social food chain, all knew it for what it was: the death knell. Nature's way of announcing a predator in your midst, like the roar of a tiger or the scream of the hawk in the cloudless sky. It was the predator's way of getting you to run, to start the game.

You flinch when you hear it.

And then you bolt. You make for the bushes, the trees, the safety of the undergrowth. Or you freeze, hoping the call
wasn't for you but another trembling mouse in the grass.

I could hear the other students as they scurried away. There was nothing I could do but reach my sweating palms for something else—anything else—that wasn't my AP folder. I actually needed that next period and I knew that whatever I grabbed might meet an unfortunate end. What didn't I need? Math . . . Science . . . my book report. Yes, my book report. I had that on a flash drive in my pocket. I could just print out another one; it wasn't due until tomorrow.

My hand wasn't trembling when I pulled out the slim folder. Not that it didn't feel like shaking like a clichéd leaf. It's just I had a lot of practice pretending I wasn't terrified. Tyler hadn't said anything yet. He was just unpleasantly looming. I'm pretty sure he rehearsed hovering ominously at home in front of a mirror right before he kicked puppies and chased baby ducks back into the water. He mastered the ability of being ominous.

Tyler was one of those depressingly average kids. He wasn't good at sports nor did he have a spectacular intellect. Tyler didn't hang with the popular kids and he wasn't a miserable freak. He wasn't ugly and he wasn't pretty, he just
was
.

His hair and eyes were a nondescript brown, and he had all the charisma of a ham sandwich on plain bread. He was the kind of quiet, normal kid who either ended up managing a chain store or became a serial killer.

I really think he could go either way.

Right then, as he stared me down, I was leaning toward
serial killer. He reached over and yanked my book report out of my hands.

“Thanks,” he whispered. Then he held his hand out, patient. When I didn't move fast enough he reached into my pocket and yanked out my Thumbdrive. I closed my eyes, feeling a bead of sweat roll down my temple. I might be able to control the shaking but I'd yet managed to control my body's sweat response. Maybe someday. It was good to have goals.

He slid around me and mumbled the word, “
Freak,”
under his breath. I didn't open my eyes until the tardy bell rang. I knew I'd get in trouble, but I'd take the demerit in exchange for the safety of the empty hallway. My hand trembled as I reached for my AP binder. I guess I haven't totally mastered the not-quaking-in-fear thing. It took two tries to get my messenger bag open before I could push aside my backup Thumbdrive and slide my binder in. I had a third Thumbdrive on my desk at home too. It wasn't my first rodeo. Tyler took anything that wasn't nailed down; I was on my third cell phone, second backpack, and too many binders to even count.

Being a social rodent was expensive.

• • •

I stared at Tyler's back as he walked through Scarecrow, my fingers tightening on the plastic cover of
Incubus
until I felt the edges biting into my skin. Once you leave high school, it should be illegal to run into your former classmates. There should be support groups available for those that need it, like
soldiers with PTSD. Or maybe some sort of program like Witness Protection where you're whisked away to somewhere else—new name, new identity, the works. A fresh start. That's all I wanted. To just walk away. Maybe it seems cowardly, but I'm not a fighter. I'd like to say I'm a lover, but I'm not that, either, which is both depressing and sad.

Brooke skipped up. “They have a whole section for that one guy—the one who made all those movies with the clay special effects creatures? You know, the one you made me watch a marathon of?”