“Bye-bye now,” Daphne said.
That Friday, we all went over to my house. It had to be my house. I wasn’t grounded, exactly, but we all agreed it would rock the boat less to keep us in sight of my parents. Mom and Dad didn’t mind—Mom was ecstatic to see me start to come out of my funk, even if it was only by inches.
And Daphne kept our promise. We scarfed junk food, and talked about girls we hated, and we watched Molly Ringwald—though it turned out to be The Breakfast Club instead of Pretty in Pink—and we wore sweatpants. I thought of Zack only once an hour, which, I assure you, was a record, even though every time I did, it tore a fresh hole I knew would never quite heal.
As the night began to wind down, Wanda took me aside with the pretense of going to the kitchen with me. In the darkened hallway, she grabbed my arm and gave me a nervous little half-smile. She reached for her throat, and removed a long silver chain with a cross on it.
I held out my hand and shook my head before she even said anything.
“Just wait,” Wanda whispered. “I…just want you to borrow it. For a while.”
I was touched, but I shook my head. “I’m okay, Wanda—”
“This is my grandma’s…she gave it to me when my dad died,” Wanda said. She looked at the plain little silver cross with watery eyes. “She told me that whenever I missed him, I should touch it, and I would feel a little better. Just knowing…I don’t know…maybe someone was looking after me. I know it’s dumb…”
“It’s not dumb,” I said.
“Well…I want you to borrow it,” Wanda said, and shook her head at my denial. “Please. You have always helped me…saved me. Talked to me, even though I’m kinda a dork—”
“Wanda—”
“Yes, I am,” she said, and gave a self-deprecating laugh. “So, please. Let me help you.”
I bowed my head a little, and she slipped the chain over my neck. I looked down at the little spinning cross and let it settle on my t-shirt. I touched it. I looked up at Wanda. She must have seen it in my face before I even felt it, because she immediately pulled me into a tight hug. I sobbed silently against her shoulder.
When it was over, I leaned back, tried to wipe the tears from my eyes, and thanked her.
“Just give it back whenever, Luce,” Wanda said. “It’ll be okay.”
I nodded. I looked down at the cross, and I pinched it between my fingers, and I drew a deep shuddering breath to try to calm myself.
A little explosion of heat seared my fingertips and slid up my arm. It rushed through me, coated me, warmed me over. I felt a jumble of emotions—sadness, relief, anger, pity…and a shotgun blast of images. Some were of Wanda, but some were of a woman I didn’t recognize and yet
knew
to be Wanda’s grandma when she was young.
I stumbled a little, but Wanda grabbed my arm.
“Are you okay?” she asked me.
I looked down at the little cross with dawning wonder.
“Lucy, just, you know what?” Wanda smiled, clearly trying to lift me up. “I want you to keep it.”
“Wanda, no—”
“Shut up, Luce, okay?” Wanda said, still smiling. “Let me do this.”
I stared at her, then down at the cross, then back up at her.
“Thanks,” I said. “Thank you so much.”
Wanda shrugged, turned, and started heading back upstairs.
“It’s just a necklace, right?”
Just a necklace. I watched her walk away, my thoughts careening together. When she had first showed it to me, she was on the verge of tears just looking at it. And I know how deeply she cared for her grandma, who had just recently passed away. And knowing it helped her get through her dad’s passing…
just a necklace
? She’d even said it with a throwaway tone. Just a necklace.
I looked down at the silver cross, feeling the familiar heat flowing through my body. Essence.
I’d taken it out. The emotions Wanda had invested into it…I fed off it.
And I didn’t hurt anybody.
I tucked the necklace back into my shirt and felt a rush of raw happiness turn my face into a broad grin. I didn’t hurt anybody. Could it be done again? Was it possible for me to live like that?
I bolted into the living room, to my mom’s favorite gaudy Hummel figurine, tucked away in its glass case. I eased the door open, scooped up the little porcelain umbrella girl, and pressed it to my mouth. It felt warm against my lips, and I inhaled with a sharp breath. That heat slid down my throat, warming me a little more. I laughed and dropped the Hummel back amongst its fellows.
I went to the kitchen and made a sandwich, but mostly just to occupy my hands while I thought of the possibilities. I felt light. Elated. I went through the motions on cloud nine. It wasn’t until I turned around that I noticed someone had been standing in the hallway, watching me. I jerked a little.
“Daphne?”
Daphne nodded. Her face was grave.
“No ‘thank you?’” she whispered.
I cocked my head. I couldn’t help but feel a little creeped out. I could barely see her, lurking in the shadows of the darkened hallway. And the serious cast to her face—it looked unnatural on her. Scary, actually.
“What?”
She stepped forward, but the overhead glow actually made her grave features look more frightening. I took a small step backward, clutching the butter knife I’d been using to cut my sandwich. What the hell was going on?
“You’re not going to thank me?”
“For what?”
Daphne had something in her hand. She tossed it to me. I barely caught it, fumbling with the butter knife and either almost dropping it or stabbing my own face off. I turned the object around. A little silver touchscreen phone. Daphne’s new phone, that she had been raving about. The one her father had bought her.
“I don’t get it,” I said.
“Dial your number,” she said.
I lifted the phone, so I could both dial and keep an eye on her at the same time. Some spark gleamed in her eye, but I couldn’t tell what it was. I dialed my number, and my phone began to buzz in my pocket.
“Okay, it works,” I said.
Daphne sighed and tossed her purple-streaked black hair out her face. I flipped it open to answer it.
The number. I knew it right away. The text messages…the ones telling me to run, telling me to get the hell away from Abraham.
I dropped my phone. It made a loud cracking noise, bounced once, and landed on its face.
“Oh, crap,” Daphne said, looking forlornly down at my fallen phone. “Butterfingers.”
I shook my head at her, feeling panic rising.
“What? It was you? How…do you know?”
Daphne smiled an unknowable, mysterious smile.
“We’ve all got secrets, honey,” Daphne said. She raised an eyebrow, walked forward, and plucked her phone out of my hand. I goggled at her as she folded her hands behind her back and gave me an impish grin.
I closed my mouth. I thought it might be scraping the floor soon.
“Are you…like me?”
Daphne shook her head.
“Are you…like Abraham?”
She made a yuck face. A
hell-no
face.
“Takes all kinds, Lucy,” she said. “You think you’re the only freak out there? I’ll tell you what I am. I’m your friend. Now let’s go upstairs and see if we can’t get a pillow fight started.”
She gave me another grin and bounced out of the kitchen with her hands behind her back. I stood, rooted to the spot, trying to regain control of my motor functions. My mind spun like a top, stuffed with more questions than I had time to think about. Daphne. I couldn’t believe it. Worse. I didn’t even understand it.
I looked down and touched my cross. I felt a little spark there, still left, and I took a deep breath and drained it away. My face split into a smile.
I can do this.
I can live.
B.C. Johnson
B.C. Johnson was born in 1985 in Southern California, and hasn't relocated since. He discovered a love for telling stories at seven-years-old, though those consisted of either fabricating expansive lies, or writing mostly plagiarized stories. Between then and now, he's worked a number of odd jobs, including machinist, lighting designer, demolitionist, sound mixer, receptionist, custodian, and museum events manager. He currently works live theater, as the guy calling cues or making the lights flash. He lives in Anaheim with his awesome fiancée, Gina, who may or may not be some kind of angel, and his half-Corgi, half-Jindo dog, Luna, (or Luna-Tuna, to her friends.) When he's not playing video games, drumming on every surface imaginable, or spending way too much time reading tvtropes.org, you may find him writing completely not-stolen (he promises) stories.
Deadgirl is his first novel.
Table of Contents