Tonya Hurley_Ghostgirl_03 (2 page)

Scarlet concentrated on the carving for a long while, trying to determine how much it actually resembled Charlotte. She ran her hand gently and deliberately along the chiseled curves of Charlotte’s cheek, her brow, her nose, her lips—features she literally knew like the back of her own hand. She wondered what Charlotte would think of the tribute.
Charlotte’s life really had been short, and she was going to miss all the changes that, for better or worse, are a part of growing up and growing old. It occurred to Scarlet for the first time since she’d visited Charlotte on the afterlife intern campus that this might be the only place she’d ever see Charlotte again.
It seemed as good a place as any to leave Charlotte, well, mail, Scarlet thought, pulling a damp, sealed white no. 10 envelope from her bag. A stamp seemed unnecessary. She was pretty sure that Charlotte was one place the post office wouldn’t deliver. Instead, she put it in a plastic bag and tied the bag tightly to one of the thorny rose stems. Good enough.
She raised the heart-shaped arrangement, framing Charlotte lovingly in the center of it, gently draped the wreath around her swanlike neck, and stepped back to admire the beauty of both. Scarlet bent down, as if to pray, but instead pressed her hand down, leaving her handprint in the moist soil.
“I hope you’re okay,” she whispered sincerely, then got up and plodded away.
Chapter 2 Kiss Them for Me
Whisper you mean it, say you’ll stay
Hold my heart till brighter days
—Bat for Lashes
Sometimes you have to go it alone.
No guts, no glory. Like a kamikaze, there are times when you may be required to leave the life you knew behind and give it over to a greater purpose. The costs can be high, to your heart, soul, and reputation. Whether or not what you gain will ultimately outweigh what you gave is impossible to know, and really irrelevant. Your comfort comes in the knowledge that some things are worth sacrificing for.
"Charlotte,” a gentle voice called out, “It’s time to wake up now.”
“Wake up?” Charlotte thought, still groggy and submerged in sleep.
The voice was sweetly familiar, one that she had archived in her memory as well as her heart but that still could only barely penetrate the wall of sleep she’d built around herself. It seemed to come both from everywhere and no place in particular. Charlotte felt it more than she heard it, and she’d been “feeling” it much more often now that she was so prone to oversleeping.
“Come on,” the voice pleaded a bit more urgently. “You’re going to be late.”
As Charlotte came to, she realized that she really hadn’t been sleeping so much as resting. Not for the sake of her body—that need had passed along with her life—but for her mind. She was happier than she’d ever been, but also nervous, jittery, and preoccupied, the way you feel whenever a major change approaches.
It was the kind of feeling of both relief and expectation she’d had at the end of every school year. No more pencils, no more books. No more teachers, classmates, hall monitors, lunchroom ladies, bus drivers, or dirty looks. Summer was coming, full of freedom and possibility. The only difference now was that summer could last forever. In fact, she was counting on it.
“Charlotte Usher! Get up this minute!”
Charlotte’s eyes flung open as if a ripcord had pulled them. She looked around the room and let out a sigh of relief.
I’m still here, Charlotte thought. It’s all still here.
It was the same thing every morning. She would hear the voice and then question if it was real or if everything was just some crazy dream. If she were still alive, she might have thought she was becoming demented, but the nice thing about being dead was that she didn’t have to worry about losing it. So, scratch that.
Maybe, Charlotte thought, it was just that she’d been filled with longing, even pain, for so long that she wasn’t used to being happy. Not that she was one hundred percent elated all the time, though. As wonderful as her reunion with her parents had been, it had come with certain disadvantages. She’d gotten used to being alone and had always prized her autonomy, which was more and more in dispute these days. She was increasingly accountable now, not only to her parents, but also to her intern supervisor, Markov, and the hotline hysterics. It was a lot of change to process.
“Charlotte!” the voice rang out again, this time in a tone that was very, very real.
“I’m up!” she yelled, pulling the drapes back.
The only thing that made waking up easier these days was the knowledge that it would all be over soon—the early mornings, the depressing phone calls, and the responsibility. Today was the last day at the afterlife intern office.
“Charlotte, sweetheart,” her mother spoke as she planted herself down on her bed, “Is everything, you know, okay?”
Her mother wanted so much to impart wisdom whenever she could, seeing as she’d missed out on a lifetime of it, but she’d learned not to press too hard. They hadn’t had the day-to-day conflicts that plague many mother-daughter relationships, but that didn’t change the fact that there was still a warehouse full of emotional baggage that Charlotte had yet to unpack. And more than a carry-on of it was family-related.
Charlotte turned slowly from the window and faced her. “Mom?” she asked, as if she wanted to hear herself say it but still wasn’t used to it.
“Yes, monkey puff?” Eileen eagerly replied, with just a trace of worry in her voice. She tried to make up for a lifetime of terms of endearment, which often resulted in mushy mash-ups.
Charlotte took a deep breath and her eyes widened.
“Never mind,” she said, and hurriedly headed for the door. “Love you.”
“Love you too,” Eileen called after, the closing front door clipping her farewell and their conversation.
On the way to the intern office, Charlotte picked up Pam and Prue, just as she did each morning. They were old friends by now, honest with each other to a fault. The no-holds-barred girl talk, which was as eye-opening as a cup of espresso, was always the best part of her day. As they walked, Charlotte filled them in on her morning.
“Don’t you feel comfortable enough with her yet to open up about your boyfriend?” Pam asked.
Pam was hoping Charlotte’s mom might drum some sense into her about Eric, the new boy she’d been “dating.”
“Did she try to have ‘the talk ‘?” Prue asked, bursting into laughter.
Charlotte felt bad about the fact that she had never gotten “the talk” or even had a reason for it until now.
“I just didn’t feel like discussing my love life with my mother, that’s all,” Charlotte said as they made their way to the phone bank once more. “It’s just weird.”
“Is it because he’s older?” Prue teased.
“He’s not really older,” Charlotte said. “We’re almost the same age; he’s just been dead longer.”
“Oh, well, that explains it,” Prue sneered sarcastically.
The fact that he’d been dead longer was actually a big part of his appeal to Charlotte. She’d always thought of herself as an old soul, even when she was alive, and there was a realness about Eric that she found missing in most guys she’d known, Damen excluded, of course. Eric was a throwback to another time, not very long ago, in fact; and that, to her, was not a bad thing.
“Have you kissed him?” Pam asked, wanting to hear some juicy, revealing details.
“Don’t encourage this, Pam,” Prue jumped in. “You know she can’t have a real kiss with him.”
“Maybe not a living kiss,” Charlotte replied defensively, “but we can still be close.”
Yet another downside of being dead, Charlotte thought.
“Do you love him?” Pam asked, poking around to see how far gone Charlotte was.
“Yeah, I think I do,” Charlotte admitted out loud for the first time.
“But Charlotte,” Pam chided. “You barely know him.”
What Pam actually meant to say, Charlotte thought, was we barely know him. She was just being protective, as a good friend should be. The fact that Eric had transferred in after they’d arrived, pretty much taking that sneaky saboteur Maddy’s open seat, made the other interns a little suspicious, no matter how nice he seemed. That he had been a musician in life didn’t exactly score him a lot of brownie points with Pam and Prue either.
“Never mind him,” Prue said, skeptically. “What do you know about love?”
It was a fair question, but not one that Pam or Prue could answer either, and Charlotte knew it. Not that it stopped them from badgering her.
“I don’t know anything about it,” Charlotte shot back. “But I know what I feel.”
“Well, I feel like we’ve been down this road before,” Prue barked, her disapproval showing.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Charlotte quizzed indignantly.
“It means you’re carrying on just like you did with Damen,” Pam said. “You’re obsessed. Again.”
“Look where that got you,” Prue reminded. “And this guy is no Damen.”
Charlotte held her tongue and thought for a second about what the girls were trying to tell her. It was true; Eric was nothing like Damen on the outside. Actually, he was almost the exact opposite. The way he dressed, his lifestyle, his ambitions. Not the kind of guy Charlotte would ever have considered as a soul mate.
She’d gotten to know him though—the real him, she liked to say. And underneath the leather, chains, and spiky hairdo, Eric was sweet and kind. He was also monopolizing more and more of her free time, which is what Charlotte thought this whole chat was really about anyway.
“I think you’re both jealous,” Charlotte fired back. “That I finally found someone.”
“Don’t be so defensive,” Pam said. “We’re just looking out for you.”
“I’m not being defensive,” Charlotte complained. “But here I am telling you how happy I finally am and you’re both lecturing me like I’m a child.”
“Maybe that’s because you still haven’t learned your lesson,” Pam chided.
“Which is?” Charlotte pressed.
“Love is for the living,” Pam answered. “It’s one of the first discussions we ever had, remember?”
“You said that’s why they call it a love life,” Charlotte recalled. “I remember.”
“You’ve made so much progress,” Pam said sweetly, “and now you’re jeopardizing it for a guy you just met.”
Everyone took a breath to reload. Pam and Prue knew Charlotte well enough to know that she was nowhere near ready to concede.
“I know he got electrocuted onstage by his own amp while he was playing his music in a storm,” Charlotte dug in. “He definitely understands commitment.”
“Maybe he should have understood a little more about meteorology,” Prue cracked.
“That’s mean,” Charlotte said. “Why are you guys being so negative?”
“You have nothing in common with him,” Prue went on. “He’s a musician. A wanderer.”
“Pam was a musician, too!” Charlotte retorted, realizing instantly it wasn’t a very good comeback.
“Not like him,” Pam joked, spreading her legs wide and turning a few air-guitar windmills to make her point.
“You make him sound so shady,” Charlotte responded. “Like he has a girlfriend in every town or something.”
“Maybe not, but I half expect to see groupie ghosts hanging all over him every time I look at him,” Prue added for good measure.
Prue may have stepped over the line, but she was also persuasive. So far, Charlotte’s relationship had been smooth sailing, but the girls were really raising some suspicions that she’d been harboring anyway. Eric did look like a guy with a reputation, but Charlotte couldn’t decide whether that marked him as too easy or too hard to get.
“He just doesn’t look like the type to settle down is all,” Pam said, a little more sympathetically. “We don’t want you to be disappointed or hurt.”
“Guys are only as faithful as their options,” Prue spouted. “Keep that in mind.”
Since it was so new, Charlotte was still really sensitive about the relationship, and ordinarily she would have been angry and hurt at Prue’s digs. But knowing Prue’s history with guys, and how she died, Charlotte was willing to cut her some slack.
“I think that maybe this could be forever,” Charlotte pondered hopefully. “You never know.”
“Of course I do, Charlotte, and so do you,” Pam said. “Everything has an expiration date.”
“And everyone,” Prue added. “We’re proof of that.”
“Everything,” Charlotte admitted, “except love.”
Pam and Prue just shook their heads in exasperation. They clearly had not made a dent in Charlotte’s stubborn romanticism.
The threesome arrived at the phone bank and were pleasantly surprised by how different everyone looked. Happy, rested, and at peace. Even CoCo had a relaxed air about her, and not from her flatiron either. After a few tears and hugs and kisses, Charlotte thought, they’d all be off for a hard-earned afterlife of leisure and an eternity with friends and family. They’d all remain close, of course, and if not, there would always be reunions, she was sure. That would be heaven.
The only downside for Charlotte was that she’d been getting to see Eric in the office every day. Now she’d have to be lucky enough to run into him around the compound or, just maybe, find another way to spend even more time with him. Charlotte scanned the room quickly—she didn’t want to be obvious—and noticed his office was empty, along with Mike’s and DJ’s.
“Late again,” Pam noted to Charlotte.
“Predictable to the end,” Prue complained.
“Metal Mike and DJ are bad influences,” Charlotte whispered, excusing Eric from blame. “Too many late-night jam sessions, that’s all.”
Markov cleared his throat, signaling for quiet. He was not the sentimental type, so no one expected a gooey farewell speech.
“I’m glad you are all here,” Markov began. “Well, almost all of you.”
As he was about to continue his remarks, the interns heard a familiar rumbling of footsteps that quickly grew into a stampede as what appeared to be a little tornado of souls burst in. They turned toward the door, overhung by the sign that read Docendo discimus (We learn by teaching).
“Sorry, yo,” DJ hollered.
“D.O.A.,” said Mike.
“You’re tardy,” Markov admonished.
Just because it was their last day didn’t mean he was going to give Eric, Mike, and DJ a pass. He considered tardiness not just disrespectful to him, but dangerous to all those callers who were counting on them for guidance.
“Oh,” Eric said casually as he took his seat, in a tone that might have conveyed either arrogance or curiosity, depending on one’s point of view. “Did we miss something important?”
Eric was rough around the edges, rocking a choppy punk haircut, Wayfarers, a black leather jacket, red high-tops, ripped skinny black jeans, and an attitude to match. He could be coarse but was always charming and hard to dislike. Even for Markov, who cracked a knowing smile.
“I’d like to think that everything I say is important,” Markov replied sarcastically. “Otherwise I’d be wasting my breath.”