This is Your Afterlife (6 page)

“Jimmy!” I scream.

“Keira,” a far-off, muffled voice calls. It's not Jimmy. I don't know who it is.

Pain shears into my temple. I rip my wrists free of the algae and clutch my head, fearing my brains might spill out if I don't hold it together.

“Keira!”

Two booming claps sound in my ear. I jump, making the chair screech over the floor. The
dry
floor. There's no trace of algae. All the kids, chairs, desks and posters are in their rightful places.

Craven's got hold of my shoulders. Jimmy's standing beside him, wide-eyed and freaked out.

It almost—
almost—
makes me grin to think I've elicited a reaction like that from a ghost who presumably has nothing left to be afraid of.

Did I really scream his name out loud? Judging by the looks on my classmates' faces, maybe I did.

My surroundings return to full focus. Gingerly, Liz leans over and picks up the dog-eared notepad and pen I must have flung to the floor. I give her a weak smile of thanks. I don't dare look at anyone else, though I can feel the burn of twenty-five pairs of eyes on me.

“Are you okay?” Jimmy and Craven say in unison.

I glance at Jimmy when I mumble, “I...I'm... Yeah, I'm okay. Thanks.”

Both give me doubtful looks.

“You've got a few minutes before the next bell,” Craven says softly, taking his hands off me. There's a morsel of kindness in his eyes. “Why don't you go get some air?”

He turns to the rest of the class. “That goes for anybody else who needs it.”

No one moves. My heart rate slows, until Jimmy touches my arm. I stare as goose bumps pop up one by one. Hairs spring up like reeds.

Then that crushing feeling comes back in full force. The headache. The nauseating algae smell.

I grab my stuff and bolt out the door.

In the girls' restroom, I splash water on my face and stare at my blotchy reflection. The dark circles I earned from lack of sleep stand out under the cold fluorescent lighting. Jimmy wanders in without even calling out first to see if I'm alone. I throw more water on my face. It's not going to work miracles, but it feels good anyway.

“Aren't you worried you'll ruin your make-up, Keira?”

“I'm not wearing any.” I press a paper towel over my face, head tilted to the ceiling. “Why are you following me around, anyway? Don't you want to check in on your real friends?”

“I've got my whole afterlife to do that. You're good entertainment value.” He flicks the paper off my nose. “What happened back there?”

“You didn't see the flood? Or get sucked up to the ceiling?”

Squinting, he shakes his head. “I saw you looking like you were getting an electric shock. Were you having some kind of fit?”

I groan as a memory of the algae stench fills my head. Taking in a lungful of air, I say, “I think I experienced...your death.”

His expression freezes. “What was it like?”

“Awful,” I whisper.

“Tell me.” He gazes at the floor tiles. I'm sure they were white when the place was newly built. Now they're gray and mottled and distinctly unhygienic-looking.

“I don't know, Jimmy. Maybe it's a good thing you don't remember.” An echo of that suffocating feeling returns. Sure, I relived his death, but for him, as it was actually happening, it must have been a hundred times more terrifying.

“It doesn't matter anymore. How you got to where you are is irrelevant,” I insist. Though I totally get his curiosity, I think he should focus on happy things in his lifetime. Rainbows and music and kittens. Or in his case, family and friends and football. I can only conclude that his death was so horrific, so painful, that he's blocked it out. Forcing him to remember might cause far more emotional trauma than he can handle.

“Says who?”

“My guru,” I retort, thinking of Grandie. If only she'd had time to explain the finer points of dealing with ghosts who want the how, why, where and all the other gory details of their deaths.

He draws himself up to full height, head and shoulders above me. “I'm not going anywhere till we find some answers, so you'd better get used to me haunting you.”

Voices of girls who don't know the meaning of the word “whisper” carry across the history classroom to me. Just what I need seconds before a mid-term.

“I can't believe that girl in homeroom totally freaked out,” one of them chortles. “She was hysterical. I bet you she doesn't even know Jimmy like we do.”

Her friend scoffs, “She probably had the hots for him.”

My back stiffens. Every inch of me burns with embarrassment.

“Like she would ever have a chance with Jimmy!”

“What's her name again? Mackenzie? Kendra?”

The embarrassment evolves into annoyance. I turn around. The girls sit in the back row, so close their perfectly curled long hair mingles together into one big caramel-colored ringlet. Rapunzel would be envious. Seems they coordinate their hair as well as their outfits—one is wearing a light-pink polo shirt while the other one's in powder blue.

“The name's Keira. And if you even had a shred of decency, you'd be more concerned about Jimmy than you are about whether or not someone had a crush on him.”

The girls gape. I'm sad to say I know their names, but then I
have
been in their class since middle school. Sara Morgen sinks low in her seat. Her friend, Jo Thompson, stares at me indignantly.

“We were having a private conversation!” Jo says, flipping her hair.

Jimmy's leaning on a desk, wide-eyed. “I had no idea those girls were so bitchy.”

“Aren't they your friends?” I ask under my breath. The kid in the next seat, Marty, gives me a funny look.

“Not really. They can't talk to you like that.” He frowns at them. “Hey...you don't really have the hots for me, do you?”

I splutter in a way that attracts more unwanted attention. Face burning, I cough a couple of times and clear my throat. Jimmy watches me with a wry smile.

He is—was—a catch, as Grandie would say. In general, hot guys don't pay any attention to me. And I'm not the kind of girl who goes out of her way to get guys to sit up and take notice. If they really want me, they're going to have to find me.

That probably also explains why I haven't been out on a date in months.

Strangely, I don't want Jimmy to know any of this. I scrawl on a notepad, “In your dreams, buddy.”

He reads the note and nods, but I can't help feel like there's a disappointment in his eyes. He ponders on something for a while, then snaps his fingers. “I can hook you up with someone.”

“Really?” I say in a flat tone. Marty looks at me like I should be in a straitjacket. Wincing, I tell him, “I didn't get much sleep last night.”

“Cramming? I hear you,” he says. “If you ever wanna study together, though...”

I stare at him uncomprehendingly for a second.

He's hitting on me.

Flustered, I try to string a few words together, but end up gulping air.

Jimmy stands in the aisle and gestures at Marty. “If he ever had to choose between you and
World of Warcraft
, you'd lose. Nope, you want someone sensitive, but not a schmuck. Arty. Smart, but not a smart-
ass
. Moody, but not a buzzkill. Genetically blessed with good looks—”

Pressing my pen down as hard as I can, I write, “Can we just focus on the test?”

“Ooh, I've hit a nerve!” He laughs.

I scowl. Jimmy's so transparent. He's just described his own brother. And like always, the thought of Dan brings a rumbling sense of precariousness. Like I'm standing on the edge of a bungee platform. Even though I know every kind of safety mechanism is in place, the fear of falling won't leave me.

The less I think about Dan, the better.

* * *

It turns out three days of cramming transformed me into a modern history genius.

“Impressive,” Jimmy says when I finish writing a complex answer to a complex question on the development of the European Union. Not long afterwards, he drifts to the door. “You've passed so far. I'm gonna check on someone. Be back before the next bell.”

His departure throws me. I've already grown attached to him and the loss actually feels like an acute pain in my chest.

“Problem, Miss Nolan?” asks Ms. Surrey. She stares at me with raised eyebrows.

I take my gaze off the door Jimmy just sailed through. “No, just...just thinking.”

“Eyes on your paper, Miss Nolan. This is an exam, in case you need a reminder.”

I grimace, and read the next question on the fall of the Berlin Wall. Ten questions later, I'm done and Jimmy hasn't made a return appearance.

Five minutes before the bell, I start to sweat. Where could he be? Has he found another clairvoyant—maybe a more popular celebrity clairvoyant—to guide him through these early days of his afterlife? Maybe he saw the Light and decided not to turn back? He somehow mistook my bedroom for paradise and through some strange glitch in the universe, I was able to see him and talk to him, but now he's moving on to something better.

And good for him. Moving on is the right thing.

He could've at least said goodbye.

Keira, where are you?

My head snaps up. That's Jimmy's voice. But I can't see him anywhere. In fact, it sounds like he's...talking underwater.

Oh, God. Where is he? Panicked, I look around the room. All but a few kids are still working feverishly on the paper in these last minutes of the period. We're all supposed to remain quiet until everyone has finished. My chair scrapes as I shift impatiently, earning a sharp glance from Ms. Surrey.

Keira! I need you!

The fear in his disembodied voice makes my blood chill. I glare at the clock above the whiteboard, willing it, daring it to move faster. Is he trapped somewhere, somehow?

It's impossible to sit a second longer. I slap my paper down on Ms. Surrey's desk and bolt like I'm being chased by the hounds of hell. She shouts after me but I don't turn back.

Don't leave me!

“I won't, Jimmy. It's okay,” I whisper. I have no way of knowing if he can hear me. In any case, he doesn't answer directly. He just shouts my name again.

Students migrate from classes and fill the hallway. Their chatter drowns out Jimmy's voice. If I could go somewhere quiet for a minute and try to focus on Jimmy, try to work out where he is... I gravitate toward the red swinging entrance doors. Without bothering to check over my shoulders for hall monitors and teachers, I run out. Nothing outside but redwoods and birds. And the overwhelming algae smell.

“Jimmy?” I call out softly. Pine needles crunch under my feet. Parked by the curb out front is an unoccupied sheriff's car. I give it a backwards glance on my way to the parking lot. Just as well the driver of the cop car is nowhere in sight. I don't want to get arrested for ditching school. Not when a ghost needs my help.

* * *

Jimmy's anguished voice leads me to Camberwell Forest, about five miles out of town. It's a place popular with high school kids. That is, until the megamall was built. With no regard for the faded white lines painted on the parking lot's asphalt, I park askew, almost side-swiping the only other car—a dark blue Mercedes. Rusty door hinges creak as I climb out. Every day I lose a little piece of the VW Bug. The antenna flew clean off last week somewhere over Bridge Street.

The gleaming curves of the Mercedes look positively futuristic compared to my car. Even through the dark tinted windows I can see it's unoccupied. A closer look shows an empty water bottle and pretzels spilling onto the leather passenger seat.

Keira, come quick!
Jimmy sounds crystal clear, as though he's talking directly into my ear. I whip around, but the only visible soul belongs to a sunbaking squirrel.

My attention snaps toward the poorly maintained sign that marks the start of a trail and I run straight for it. I don't have a choice—I'm drawn toward it like a magnet. Deep in the forest is a waterhole. I've only been there once, on a date with a senior named Trav. He had wandering hands and not a lot of skill. I was secretly glad when he didn't call me the next day or the day after that. The most memorable thing about that date was the spectacular waterfall that fed the swimming hole.

Tree roots curl over a track carved out by hundreds of Halverston High seniors over the past decade. This morning's rainfall makes the ground that much harder to navigate.

But I don't stop. Can't. Not until I get to the edge of a clearing, where a gray silhouette stands along the rocky bank alongside the waterfall. The sound of tumbling water roars in my ears. I tentatively take one step and then another. At the same time, the shades of gray brighten into full color. I make out the golden hair. Sun-burnished skin, a result of years out on the football field.

“Jimmy,” I call out in a crackly voice.

He turns and meets my gaze. The relief in his eyes is heartbreaking. His clothes are drenched. He runs for me. “I kept yelling out for you. Why the hell did you leave me?”

His arms encircle me, and amazingly I sense the pressure as if he were solid.

“I didn't!
You
left
me
! People to see, you said.”

He wrinkles his brow. “I...I guess I did. But I didn't find them. I just ended up here again. Somehow.”

I gesture at his wet clothing. “What happened to you?”

“I...I landed in the water. I couldn't stop it.” He chokes on his words before pulling himself together. In a stronger voice, he says, “Come on.
It's
over here.”

The dense trees cocoon us, protect us from the horror that I know is just around the corner. Under our muddy feet, the ground grows progressively rocky.

A shiny black crow circles the trees above, sending a chill down my spine. Grandie always associated crows with death. One of her many superstitions.