Dead Girl in Love (4 page)

I missed Eli but didn’t blame him for having fun after a lifetime of being the ignored-little-brother of totally hot Chad. Girls, guys, even teachers were won over by Chad’s megawatt smile, athletic body, and charisma. Eli didn’t know it, but for a few minutes of bad judgment, I’d even fallen for Chad’s charms. But I hadn’t been in my own body, so it didn’t count. Besides, the kiss wasn’t even my idea … not that I’d objected. And I saw no reason to tell Eli, especially since I’d quickly discovered that Chad was an egotistic jerk. Where Chad was fake, Eli was completely real and wonderful, and he deserved his fifteen minutes of fame.

Still, I felt uneasy when Eli didn’t answer his cell. I sent a text, asking him to call soon. Then I gritted my teeth and set to work tackling the equation of a recipe. It was obvious from Eli’s message that he’d talked to Grammy (a.k.a. GG), so it was natural that he wasn’t worried about me. That’s what I told myself, anyway.

Dinner looked great—but tasted worse than moldy carpet.

Mrs. Perfetti puckered when she took a bite but smiled without complaint. She was all sweetness now, asking about my day. I gave some vague lies about places I didn’t go and conversations I never had.

Afterwards, she offered to do kitchen cleanup, so I escaped to Alyce’s room. Once the door shut behind me, I relaxed and felt safe for the first time since body-swapping. I might not be home, but at least this was familiar territory. Yet it was weird being here minus Alyce. I kept expecting to hear her voice or see her walk into the room. When I flipped on the light and caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror, the reality of my situation struck me hard. I really was Alyce. While she was gone, I carried the responsibility of her life with every word and act.

I could ruin her life … or save it.

Opting for the “save it” course, I grabbed Monkey Bag to search for clues.

I flipped the backpack upside down over Alyce’s bed. Papers, pens, containers of film, batteries, black-and-white photos, a compact camera case with camera, textbooks, etc. spilled onto the black striped comforter. I sorted everything out into piles, being extra careful with the camera, which Alyce had worked part-time to afford.

But where was her purple notebook?

There were still three zippered pouches I hadn’t checked because they were too small for a large notebook. I checked them now, finding loose change, a safety pin, a pack of gum, a gold hoop earring, and a folded paper.

Hmmm
, I murmured as I unfolded the paper. It was a list:

1. Red Top

2. Green Briar

3. Liberty

4. Pioneer

Green Briar, the mortuary? What was that about? There was no topic or explanation about this list, only a few notations and dates. Red Top was scratched out with a dark scrawled
NO
. Green Briar’s only notation was today’s date. Liberty had tomorrow’s date with a large, black-inked question mark.

I had plenty of question marks, too.

Was this list for a new photography project? Alyce often took pictures of macabre headstones at creepy cemeteries. But there was nothing creepy about Green Briar, with its gleaming showroom and lush manicured cemetery. So what was the connection between the names (places?) on the list? It looked like Alyce had gone to Red Top at some point, then Green Briar today. I guessed the others were planned for the remaining days of spring break.

Did this have something to do with the GEM’s cryptic message about Alyce searching for “the lost”? How could I find something without knowing what I was looking for?

Frustrated, I began returning things to the backpack, searching meticulously for more information. Alyce had been searching, too—for something at the places on her list. But why? And did this quest have anything to do with her crisis? The only thing I knew for sure was that I completely trusted Alyce and would do anything to help her.

So where was that damned purple notebook?

A flash of purple caught my eye, sticking out of Alyce’s World History textbook. But it wasn’t the notebook—just a folder with a green bush symbol on the label. Looking closer, I recognized the symbol.

Green Briar Mortuary.

A knot formed in my gut, tightening like a noose.

Alyce
had
stolen from the mortuary—and I held the proof in my hands.

Of course, I snooped inside the file.

But scored only disappointment.

Nothing but useless old papers, typed in tiny uneven print that probably came from a manual typewriter, listing names and purchases from customers in 1947. The list wasn’t even complete, only showing Green Briar customers with last names beginning with
B
and
C
. Alyce had to have had a good reason for stealing this. I tried to reconstruct the sequence of events that must have occurred before I replaced Alyce. I imagined her sneaking into the Green Briar office, searching through cabinets until the saleswoman showed up. Then Alyce grabbed the file and hid inside the casket—where I took over.

What was so damned important about these papers?

Night folded around me as I studied the papers, losing myself in confusing thoughts as I flipped back and forth, rereading names that meant nothing to me. All I gained was a headache. Not the kind of mild headache that could be banished with a few Tylenol. Alyce often complained about migraines, and although I sympathized, I’d secretly thought she was exaggerating. I mean, how could a headache be that bad?

Now I knew.

Pain intensified, crashing into my brow and spreading out across my head. I rubbed my forehead, moaning. Dizzily, I leaned back on Alyce’s pillow, eyes closed as I waited for the misery to ease. Not getting any better, either. My stomach reeled with nausea … so awful … sick … OMG!

With one hand on my head and the other on my stomach, I jumped off the bed and ran for the bathroom.

Afterwards, my stomach was emptier and my pain numbed to a dull ache. I was relieved to find a migraine prescription in the medicine cabinet. I also noticed rows of prescriptions for Mrs. Perfetti—for sleeping, pain, and depression. Not a surprise considering her erratic behavior.

Alyce’s migraine pills made me dizzy, exaggerating colors and shapes. As I returned to Alyce’s room, I caught my reflection in the mirror over a long, dark-wood dresser. High, hollowed cheekbones; deep, dark slanted eyes with long black lashes; and long, velvety raven hair. Full rosy lips parted into a startled “O” on a flushed face. For a startled moment, I forgot who and where I was, struck by a guilty sense of trespassing.

The night-black ceiling and dark-red walls crowded in on me; familiar sights taking on frightening shapes. But there was nothing to fear, I assured myself, not in this room I knew so well. Although Mrs. Perfetti clearly didn’t want me (Amber, that is) around, I always came over whenever Alyce asked. Like the time we’d redecorated her room, painting the walls and the ceiling in what Alyce called a “midnight and blood” theme. Mrs. Perfetti freaked out when she discovered that Alyce had ripped off the frothy pink ballet wallpaper and replaced it with collages of black-and-white macabre photographs: a colorless butterfly perched on a skull, a child digging in a sandbox with a syringe, and a large dog hiking his leg on a headstone engraved with two hands clasping for an eternity.

If kids at school saw Alyce’s room, they’d be positive she was on drugs or mental. They already avoided her because of how she dressed and her “don’t give a damn” attitude. But I knew the real Alyce. I’d watched her art develop from sidewalk drawings to experimental photography, and understood that her emotions ran so deep that ordinary art couldn’t satisfy her. I ached with frustration when others only saw her outer layer and put her down for being different.

But I’m here for you always
, I thought to Alyce, hoping she might hear or remember later.

Back to searching for info. I opened drawers, checked shelves and boxes in the closet, crawled under the bed. I found some wrappers from butterscotch candy (her fave) and a crumpled science test (grade: C-).

But no purple notebook.

I understood why Alyce had to hide her important things, although it outraged me that her mother searched her room when she was at school. So Alyce would leave boring stuff out and hide the important stuff. To fool her mother, she’d framed a large photo of her father and hung it on the wall by a large picture window. The word “hate” was not vile enough for Mrs. Perfetti’s feelings for her ex-husband, so she would never touch his picture—which made it the perfect cover for hiding a hole in the wall.

As I reached for the framed photo, I caught a flash of movement through the window. Was someone out there?

Startled, I stared at the gap in the burgundy red curtains but saw nothing. Rubbing my forehead, I wondered if the migraine medication was messing with my mind. Then something moved outside again. Pressing my face against the cool glass, I peered out and saw only the gnarled oak branches and darkness mingled with my own (well, Alyce’s) reflection.

Nothing was lurking out there; must be the wind or my confused imagination, I told myself. Smiling a little at how easily I’d been scared, I started to turn away … then stopped.

Yes! Down in the front yard! Something or someone …

My hands shook as I reached for a wall switch and snapped off the light. With the room dark, I could look outside but no one could see me. Not that I really thought anyone was lurking out there. That would just be paranoid. I’d probably seen a large dog run through the yard.

The damp window pane felt cold against my cheek as I peered down into the dark front yard. There was still no porch light on, and the nearest street light was a house away, giving only enough light to shine a faint golden ray across the yard and driveway. It was hard to see anything except shadowy bushes and trees.

Then a shadow moved.

The silhouette of a man crouched down below my window. As he lifted his head, his face was illuminated. I drew back in shock.

I knew that face—although it wasn’t his own.

His real name was Gabe Deverau.

A Dark Lifer.

GEM Rule:
Retreat and Report
.

But as soon as I saw Gabe, he vanished in a blink of my imagination—leaving nothing outside except inky darkness. And I wondered if I was hallucinating. Grammy said being in a different body confused things; maybe I was having some kind of post-traumatic reaction after my experience with Gabe. When I’d first discovered he was a Dark Lifer, I was terrified. But I softened toward him after he confided how he’d been betrayed by his fiancée, his heart broken so deeply it carried through many long decades after his death, his bitterness binding him to Earth. He’d done bad stuff and I should despise him … yet I couldn’t. He was tortured, charming, poetic, tragic, and intriguing.

My eyes blurred as I stared, waiting to see him again but seeing nothing.

Finally I turned from the window, conflicted by my duty to report Gabe and an irrational desire to protect him. As if a Dark Lifer needed my protection! His survival skills had already protected him for over a century.

Unsure what to do, I reached into Monkey Bag for my GEM.

The book flipped to an empty page. Black ink bubbled, swirling into letters and words that invited me to ask a question.

“Will you give me a straight answer this time?”

Answers depend on perception.

“How about a simple yes or no?”

Truth is never simple.

I sighed, then waited till the black ink faded and the page was clear again.

“Was someone outside?” I asked the tiny book.

Yes.

I was almost more shocked to get a straight answer from GEM than by the actual answer. Still, I swallowed hard before asking the next question.

“Was it … was it Gabe?”

Refer to Rule #5.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demanded.

Report all suspicions.

“But I’m not sure what I saw.”

More black ink scrawled across the page, repeating the
Nine Divine Rules:

#1. Follow through on your Host Body’s obligations and plans.

#2. Under no circumstances should you ever reveal your true identity.

#3. Consult this manual with pertinent questions.

#4. Resist temptation; guide your Host to positive choices.

#5. If you become aware of Dark Lifers, retreat and report.

#6. Do not commit acts against your Host’s moral code.

#7. Respect your Host Body; no tattoos, hair dye, or piercings.

#8. Your time in a Host Body cannot exceed a full moon cycle.

#9. Guard your Host Body well. If your Body dies, so will you.

The fifth rule was in bold, as if the GEM insisted I make an official report. But I’d feel silly if the DDT (Dark Disposal Team) popped in for a false alarm. The flash of a face wasn’t any more substantial than smoke, and without proof, I refused to call an alarm.

As I reached this decision, the words on the GEM vanished and offered a new blank page. I ignored the topic of Dark Lifers and asked about Alyce’s purple notebook.

Dark squiggly lines curved and shaded until there was a picture of a school locker, a big dent on the bottom corner and the number
281
.

“That’s Alyce’s school locker,” I said.

Yes.

“She left the notebook there?”

Yes.

“Thanks,” I said not sure whether to be pleased or discouraged.

Getting into Alyce’s locker would be easy because I knew the combination, but it would not be so easy to get into the school over spring break. Security had been tightened a few years ago after repeated vandalism. Given the locked gates, high fences, surveillance cameras, and security guards, it was impossible to enter Halsey High.

Frustrated, I stared at the GEM even after the words vanished. So I couldn’t get the purple notebook—but I might not even need it. What if I’d jumped to the wrong conclusion? Maybe Alyce’s crisis had nothing to do with her trip to Green Briar. Temp Lifers only replaced people having emotional crises. The key to helping Alyce was figuring out why she’d needed a time-out from life.

So I asked the GEM, “What is Alyce’s crisis?”

An answer spiraled across the page in red flowery ink:

I stared until the word faded to pink, then vanished. But it lingered in my head, pushing away thoughts of a stolen file and graveyards. I thought back to my last conversation with Alyce. She was having a meltdown, depressed and frantic as she begged me to come see her. “I need to talk,” was all she’d say for explanation. I told her I was hundreds of miles away and asked her what was wrong, but she said she’d only explain in person. Her tone had challenged me to prove my friendship, to drop everything and come right away. And I’d failed her.