There is a solitude of space

A solitude of sea

A solitude of death, but these

Society shall be

Compared who that profounder site

That polar privacy

A soul admitted to itself—

Finite infinity.

—EMII.V DICKINSON

Contents

is

the sweatshirt

the bracelet

the purse

orchids

random acts of existence

is

beyond the boundaries of any one life

daddy-daughter dance

gathering ghosts

is

ghost

the underwear

headache

felicity's shoe

is

a penny for your thoughts

is

rattled

cell communication

infected

the spoon

school peas

is

pain's greater plan

witch's nails

pass to class

baby doll

photo in the wind

the ring

losing myself at disney world

is

the pinecone

physics

is

the note

is

un rattled

gathering as a ghost

am

spirits

am

the end

after the end

epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

UNCORRECTED t-PROOf—NOT FOR SAIE

HafflHCMifiji P y bfobss*. -

I'M DEAD.

Not my-parents-told-me-to-be-home-by-twelve-andit's-two-o clock-now dead. Just dead. Literally.

I think.

I can't fee! a body anymore. No hunger—not even a

stomach. No fingers to wiggle, no feet to tap.

So I pretty much have to assume that I'm . . . gone?

No. I can't be gone, because I'm here.

I won't say that I ve "passed on" or "passed away." I don't

remember passing anything on the way here. For that matter,

I don't remember dying, either. There's some saying

about people "dying of curiosity." But I'm just curious about

how I died.

Curious and . . . frightened. This place—wherever it

is—surrounds me with vibrations. It j u s t . . . Is.

Loneliness and mystery hum through me. I feel like I

just woke up in a dark room that has no clock. And even

worse: no people. Where is everyone I knew when I was

alive? Who are they, and do they miss me? What if I'm in

Hell? Maybe instead of fire and brimstone, hell is just the

feeling of loneliness. I don't remember much about being

alive. I don't even remember my name. But loneliness being

hell? That much I remember.

Ahead I see a bright pinprick of light. Can I reach it? It

seems my only chance for company. The prospect of reaching

that light has replaced the throbbing ache of loneliness

with a quivering hope.

I attempt to move toward the light, but the space that

is . . . Is.. . cloaks me in thick, clinging darkness. It sticks to

me like a disgustingly damp pair of jeans two sizes too small.

I fight it out with Is, pushing against its boundaries, discovering

I can get the bubble around me to expand if I try hard

enough. But just as my space begins to grow, a cloud of loneliness

surrounds me. I discover there's a reason the dead are

stuffed into cozy coffins and small urns. This large empty

space I've created makes me feel even more isolated.

I stop pushing against the boundaries of Is, and it shrinks

into a small bubble again. All the energy that is me beats

comfortably against the boundaries. Now that I am dead, I

guess I have a soulbeat instead of a heartbeat.

• • •

Maybe some time passes. .Maybe it doesn't. Hard to tell

in this place. But one way or the other, I discover the problem

with small, safe places.

They're boring.

I can't decide if my curiosity or my fear is the stronger

emotion. And I don't quite understand how I can be feeling

both if I'm dead. They chase each other around, circulating

and percolating in me. Haunting me.

How is that possible? I mean, if I'm the one who's dead,

how can something be haunting me? I'm supposed to be the

one doing the haunting.

Finally, curiosity chases fear to the perimeter. It's time

to explore.

Not that there's much to investigate. Just that bright

pinprick of light.

I push against Is and expand the bubble of my space

again. This time I discover I can intensify my soulbeat until

it fills the bubble's space with energy. I ride the pulse of my

soulbeat into the ever-expanding bubble as I approach the

light.

It is a ring glowing in the dark. It shines against the

midnight black of space like an X-ray. An image of a bracelet.

What is it doing here?

As I get closer to the bracelet, I find myself floating

right through the glowing circle of light. Photons scatter

everywhere. I feel less lonely somehow with all this light

swirling around me.

And because I can see now that there are more pinpricks

of light.

They are little stars amid my dark existence, scattered

across space at great distances. A spoon. A pair of socks,

hair clips, pieces of paper, peas, a cell phone, keys, flowers,

a handbag, a doll's shoe. More and more. They are artifacts

of a life.

Mine?

! don't know why, but they seem to link me to all the

people I sense I should be with.

I find still more: beads, photographs, a ring, a baby's

rattle, and—how odd—a pair of underwear.

All these images are company at last.

But I need them to be closer together so I can spend

time with all of them at once. Is there a way to click and

drag them onto a desktop-sized spacer

No. Apparently Is hasn't picked up on the whole wireless

concept yet, and I will have to go to the ends of the U

niverse to find all my companions. I'd better start now if—

My trip has already come to an abrupt halt. I've hit the

next object. It's a sweatshirt, and I can't bear the idea of

moving and leaving it behind.

I know it should make me feel warm, but its stark white

glow fills me with longing. A sense of missing something—

more intense chan any feeling I've yet had—pounds through

me. And suddenly I know I wasn't meant to be here alone. I

know I expected to find Gabriel waiting for me.

But who is Gabriel?

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT f OR SALE

H«Mtfift!flg&£wbfeftfiH

the sweatshirt

I'M NOT SURF. WHY this sweatshirt fascinates me so much.

Maybe it's the missing smell. I sense that the most important

thing about this sweatshirt is supposed to be its scent,

but there aren't any smells in //. I want to put the sweatshirt

on, but I've got no body here in Is, either.

I try to what it felt like to have a body and imagine

mysel f pulling warm fabric over my head....

And then suddenly everything changes. Knowledge—

not just some strange half memory—rips through me,

scattering me across space and darkness, through nothingness

and shadow. I am propelled toward harsh light. The

sound of voices swells as I come closer and closer to them.

Metal chairs scrape across linoleum, addingan unharmonious

musical accompaniment to the voices. Flickering specks

of me hover, dancing in the air, and then unite into something

not quite solid yet more substantial than I have been.

I have a misty almost-form.

I'm back in the world.

In a classroom. An art classroom. I recognize myself,

standing at a sink a few feet away. I'm trying to get red

paint off my hands. I remember this moment: junior year,

second-hour art class. A sense of joy at being back in the

real world courses like blood through mv almost-being, but

it's strangely mixed with anger: I know that I'm about to

discover that the sweatshirt is missing.

And then I know so much more. Suddenly I'm drowning

in memories that take on half shape s. They fill me with

panic as I founder around in them.

I know my name: Madison Stanton. I remember my

mother, her deep red hair; my father, tall and playful, with a

baritone that rumbles comfortingly; mv house and its smell

of eucalyptus; school; teachers; my best friend, Sandra; my

older sister, Kristen; my pet cat. Cozy; and—Oh, God—

Gabriel. Gabriel whose sweatshirt I am about to lose. All

these memories threaten to pull me under a tide of grief

and loss.

It is the sound of my own laughter that acts as a life

jacket. I float up out of the memories to focus on this

moment, on myself standing at that sink. I'm laughing with

Sandra. I can't remember what about, though. I'm tempted

to move closer.

But first I need to go rescue the sweatshirt. It's about

to be stolen. And I know by whom. I left it on the back of a

chair—so I wouldn't get paint on it—over on the other side

of the partition that divides the room. If I can get to the

sweatshirt before Dana does, mavbe I can keep her from

stealing it.

I try to move toward the partition but have trouble figuring

out how to do it. I don't quite have a body, so the

physics of movement as I'm used to it on Earth just isn't

happening. But I'm also not merely a collection of light particles

the way I've gotten used to being back in Is. Great.

How many diflerent states of existence can there be?

I have to figure out how to use some bizarre combination

of floating and running to move. Just as I reach the

partition, though, I bounce backward. Rubber-band style.

The elastic that holds me to mv real self over at the sink has

stretched too thin. I go shooting backward almost all the

way to the real me over at the sink, who's still busy laughing.

What's the matter with her? Or should 1 say "me"?

How am I supposed to refer to the living, breathing Maddy

Stanton? "Her" seems so not "me." And yet, she's not me.

She doesn't even seem to sense that I'm here. And can't I let

her know how clueless she's being about what Dana's doing

8

my house on Sunday, and I've been making good use of it

ever since. Yesterday he asked for it back. Uh-unh. No way.

He's not getting it back until it's so dirty it absolutely has

to be washed. No use keeping it after it's lost the essential

Essence of Gabriel.

It's been a good few days. I'm thinking about raiding

Gabe's dirty laundry when I have to give this sweatshirt

back.

But when Sandra and I return to the table, the sweatshirt

isn't there. My book bag is still sitting on the seat of

the chair—exactly where I left it. The sweatshirt should be

on the back of the same chair. I glance quickly at the other

chairs around the table, but it's not sitting on the back of

any of them, either.

"What's wrong?" Sandra asks as I start doing a weird

version of Duck Duck Goose with all the chairs, sliding

each out and checking to see if the sweatshirt has somehow

migrated onto its seat.

"Gabe's sweatshirt is missing," I tell her. I'm not holding

out a lot of hope that she's going to sympathize with the

true extent of this tragedy. She's been teasing me for the

past two days about how my obsession with the sweatshirt

is my subconscious attempt to have sex with Gabe.

"It can't be missing," she says matter-of-factly. "It was

on the back of the chair when we went to wash our hands."

I'm cursing myself. I took off the sweatshirt so I wouldn't

in

on the other side of the wall?

I try again to reach Dana, to stop her from stealing the

sweatshirt. No luck. The living Maddy pulls me up short

once again, only this time I get too close to her. She exerts

some kind of magnetic pull on me. And then instantly I

became her.

oge 17

The water suddenly gets too hot on my hands. "Aiya!" I

shriek, reaching to adjust the temperature.

Sandra turns the water off. Ever the conservationist.

"You're not Lady Macbeth trying to wash bloody sins off

your hands, you know."

So Sancra. Thirty seconds ago, we were laughing about

the way her calc teacher got a piece of toilet paper stuck in

the waist of her skirt, then came to class and taught half

the hour without ever realizing it was there. Now Sandra's

making obscure references to Shakespearean tragedies.

She handsme the roll of paper towels sitting on the counter,

flicking water in my face at the same time. "Thanks," I

sav, rolling my eyes.

"Sorry," she says, grinning.

We head back over to the table where we've left all our

stuff. Time to put Gabe's sweatshirt back on. It smells wonderful.

Totally him. I've had it for two days. He left it at

9

get paint on it. What's a little paint, though, when the alternative

is no sweatshirt at all? I've moved on to playing Duck

Duck Goose with the other tables.

No sweatshirt.

There's only one explanation for what could have happened

to it. Dana.

Suddenly I'm so angry that I'm afraid I might turn into

Lady Macbeth with some bloody sins to wash off my hands

after all.

Sandra sees how upset I am. She grabs me by the arm.

"Hey, Maddv, it'll turn up."

"Dana took it. I'm sure she did. I don't know whether

to be mad that she's trying to mess with me and Gabe, or

creeped out by what she might be planning to do with it."

"What do you mean, 'do with it'? What can she do with

k?"

I notice that Sandra isn't trying to reassure me that

Dana hasn't taken it.

"What if she's going to sleep in it or something?!"

"You mean like you do?"

Such. A. Cheap. Shot. "He's my boyfriend," I say defensively.

I can't even begin to express how horrified I am by

the idea of Gabe's ex sleeping in his sweatshirt. "She can't

get over the fact that they've broken up, and I'm sick of it."

Sandra starts rubbing my arm. "Hey, calm down. She's

not going to sleep in it. She's over Gabe."

n

Hardly. She's been a major pain ever since he dumped

her and started dating me.

Sandra has known me since we were live. She can see

what I'm thinking. That's why it's worth having a best

friend. Saves on words. "Seriously," she tells me, "this thing

between the two of you, it's about you and her, not about

Gabe. She doesn't want him back. She just wants to mess

with you. It gives her satisfaction to make you miserable,

because you made her miserable when you started dating

him."

I give her my best skeptical look.

She steps back, flicks her brown curly hair over her

shoulder. This is a sign she means serious business. The

hands even go on her hips. She's got one of those fragile,

thin builds (and. yes, I've been jealous of that ever since

we were about ten and the differences in our body types

became clear to me), but she can generate presence when

she wants to be taken seriously. Like now. "What better way

lo upset you than to take something of Gabe's from you?

Then she gets to watch you go off."

Sandra nods her head over toward where Dana is standing

with some other girls. Dana's smirking in a way that—if

I'm honest—actually scares me. How can someone have the

look of a jack-o'-lantern and a model all at oncer "Look at

her," Sandra says. "She doesn't have the sweatshirt, so she

obviously hid it somewhere around here."

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

tfaD&1 Colli ai.Publi.jhs.rj

the bracelet

THOSE OBJECTS OF LIGHT . . . I know row what they all are:

items I lost during my lifetime. They have found their way

here, to return me to my own life, and—ohmygod—do I

ever want to go back.

It's strange that back in the art room when I became the

living me, she never seemed to realize there was . . . well,

another me—a dead one—hanging around somewhere.

But in a way it was also nice she didn't notice me. When I

became her, it meant I was truly . . . alive.

I want that experience again. I want to be with the people

I loved. To see the things that were part of my everyday

life. To find out more about who I was. I can remember

H

"But where? That means I can find it."

Sandra shakes her head at me. "Don't give her the satisfaction.

She's watching you right now to see what you're

going to do. Come back after school or something and ask

Mrs. Sinclair if you can look around for it then."

The bell rings, and Sandra drags me toward the door.

—•—

Suddenly I am ripped away from myself, thrown back into

the abyss . . . formless again, isolated in a place that just Is.

There's the sweatshirt, glowing mockingly at me, reminding

me it's no substitute for what's really missing. I'd rather

have Sandra and Gabe back.

l i

parts, but not all, of my past. And, as I float here aimlessly

in Is, I'm already forgetting more about my life.

Now. 1 want to go back to my life again. Now.

I propel myself through the vacuum of Is, looking for

something else that will take me home. The closest item to

me is the bracelet, so I move straight toward it.

There it is. A circle of light. A phantom wrist longs to

feel that bracelet encircling it, longs for the soft tinkling of

silver against silver, for the cool brush of chain link against

skin.

Knowledge again tears through me. This time, as I scatter

through space and darkness, I am sucked toward wind

and heat, toward ticklish grass.

I am directly under a tree I have climbed manv times

with Sandra. I look up into the branches above me, and

there she is. An eight-year-old Sandra. Curly dark pigtails

ride behind her in the breeze as she maneuvers her way up

the tree limbs. And that little girl next to her . . . is me.

Sort of. I recognize my face and her crooked teeth from

old photos. But it's hard to believe that I ever moved so

quickly, or with such freedom. I'm bossing Sandra around,

telling her to climb one branch higher. Nothing but this

moment seems to exist to that eight-year-old me. She's cast

an almost magic spell of oblivion around the whole tree.

As the younger me reaches for a higher branch, sunlight

glints off a bracelet dangling from my wrist. The way

n

the sun enchants the charms on that bracelet is fascinating.

Tinker Bell, a kitty cat, a ladybug, a silver star . . .

I can remember the bracelet now. It was a gift from my

mother for my eighth birthday, and I lost it one day while

playing . . . here in Sandra's backyard.

I'm figuring out how this whole object-to-life business

seems to be working: see the object I lost in life, imagine

using it, go back to the moment I lost it. I just have to say,

this seems like a particularly cruel joke. I mean, why all

the focus on loss? Isn't losing my life enough? Why is my

only option for returning to Earth centered on losing something?

Aa I watch eicht-ycar-old Sandra and mywlf, I remember

the temperature—mild with a forceful wind trying to

drive spring into our midst. Earthy spring scents float in my

memory, too, mingling with the feel of rough bark against

my hands. Sandra and I are daring each other to move as far

as we can toward the end of a branch. We are about to—

Fall.

And Sandra is about to break her arm.

I have to do something to stop this from happening. I

need to get Sandra's father.

I attempt that strange floating and running movement

to get to the house, but, just like the last time I tried it, I

discover I'm not allowed to travel far from the living me. I

try to stretch the thread of energy that connects the two of

running. She stumbles over to Sandra. She falls down next

to her and sobs. "What have you done to her? What have

you done to her?"

I try to take in enough air to speak and manage to squeak

out, "We fell from the tree. I didn't mean to hurt her."

Mrs. Simpson is breathing all funny. I've never heard

anyone breathe like that. What if she and Sandra both die?

It will be my fault.

Mr. Simpson comes running up. He tries to get to Sandra,

but Mrs. Simpson just keeps crying and breathing all

funny and won't let him touch either of them.

I want to help him pull Mrs. Simpson away. What if

Sandra's dying and Mrs. Simpson won't let us help her?

"You must calm down, Genevieve," Mr. Simpson keeps

telling her. "You'll have an asthma attack."

Will an asthma attack kill Mrs. Simpson?

He's shaking her and pulling her away from Sandra all

at once. There's finally a space big enough between Mrs.

Simpson and Sandra for him to get into. He kneels by Sandra,

leans over her, touches her neck, and listens to her

breathing. He makes a strange sound. I think he might be

choking on relief. "Sandra'll be fine, but you have to calm

down, Genevieve."

I'm relieved that Sandra is going to be all right. If Mr.

Simpson says she's okay, then she is. I like Mr. Simpson.

I just don't like Mrs. Simpson. And now that I know

us. I strain against it like a dog trying to lengthen its leash

enough to reach a taunting squirrel.

No luck. I'm only allowed any kind of freedom of movement

if I stay close enough to her to see and hear her. She

won't even let me get far enough away to help her best

friend.

Once again, the Universe's rules for this game suck.

Just as I realize this, the tree branch cracks under the

combined weight of two eight-year-olds. We crash through

branches, screaming as we fall. I land flat on my stomach.

Despite all the years that have passed since this moment,

despite even death, I can remember the feel of the air being

forced from my lungs as I struggle co breathe.

I can't help running back to try to help these two little

girls somehow, but I get too close to the living me. She

sucks me i n . . . .

age 8

My jaws have slammed together with a force that leaves

my head spinning. Blood is warming my mouth as it oozes

from a cut, but it takes me a moment to realize this because

I still can't breathe.

Sandra is deathly silent. Is she dead?

Now that I can breathe, I scream hysterically.

The back door opens, and Sandra's mother comes

Sandra is going to be okay, it's fine with me if Mrs. Simpson

dies of an asthma attack. W e l l . . . unless Sandra thinks it's

my fault her mom dies.

I want my mom. She can make things better. She doesn't

have asthma, and she doesn't yell the way Sandra's mom

does.

I want my mom now.

Where is my magic charm bracelet? I reach for it on my

wrist, but it's not there. Where is it? Did all this bad stuff

happen because I lost it?

I want to cry but don't dare.

"Genevieve," Mr. Simpson says, "you have to go to the

house and call 911."

"I thought you said she'd be okay," she protests.

Mr. Simpson whips around on her in anger. 'Dammit,

just go call 911," he growls. I want to cheer.

"I can't b-b-breathe," Mrs. Simpson says, gasping.

Mr. Simpson closes his eyes. He looks just like Mom

when she's counting to ten as she's ordering me to go to my

room to "think about what you've done." When Mr. Simpson

opens his eyes, he touches Sandra's cheek lightly—like

my dad touches mine at bedtime. Then he stands up and

rubs Mrs. Simpson's arms to calm her. When he speaks, his

voice is gentle and firm. "She'll probably be fine, Genevieve,

but we can't risk moving her ourselves. Go call. Now."

Mrs. Simpson stumbles away. I crawl around, looking

13 19

for the bracelet. Now that she's gone, I let the tears stream

down my face, but I try to hide them from Mr. Simpson.

He turns to me and sees the tears. "Are you all right,

Maddyr" he asks me. "Do you hurt anywhere?"

Everywhere, I want to say, but mostly just in my hart

Instead, 1 say. "I'm okay," but not because 1 am. I'm terrified,

but I can't admit it because I can tell Mr. Simpson isn't

reallv thinking about me, and I don't want him to have to.

"So is Sandra, I think," he tells me reassuringly. "There's

a giant goose egg on the side of her head. I think she's just

been knocked unconscious. Happened to me once when I

was a kid. Looks like her arm might be broken, too, but

1 think she'll be okav." He starts feeling gently along her

other limbs. Then he calls into the house, as if he's surprised

to have thought about it, "Genevieve, call Maddy's

mom. She'll have to come pick her up. We can't leave her

here by herself while we're off at the hospital."

Mommy. She'll make everything okay again. I know she

will.

Mrs. Simpson has just started out the door. She gives me

a mean look, and the screen door slams shut as she moves

back into the house. I don't quite understand why she has

never liked me.

Mr. Simpson coos gently to his daughter, sparing me a

glance as I begin turning in circles. "What are you looking

for, Maddyr" he asks me.

I swallow my sobs and try to breathe deeply.

The paramedics carry Sandra off on a stretcher, and

Mom takes me by the hand. We walk in circles around the

tree Sandra and I were climbing u n t i l . . . finally . . . there it

is . . . broken but shining against the grass. Mom picks it up

and lovingly begins to drape it over my wrist. The second

its cool metal touches my skin—

•

I am gone. Ripped from myself. Thrown back into the

abyss . . . formless again, wandering around in a place that

just Is. I want my mom back. I want to see her again.

My longing to touch her, to be with her, is even greater

than the ache I was left with after my first trip back to life.

..'

"Nothing," I say, even though it's not true.

Mrs. Simpson returns to Sandra's side, crying. And

when Sandra's eyes flutter open, Mrs. Simpson squeals

in delight. I feel the same way, but mv glee has to flutter

around inside where it can't be seen or heard. I don't dare

draw Mr. and Mrs, Simpson's attention away from Sandra.

She's alive. And groaning. In pain.

Time passes, and flashing lights speed up the road

toward the house. I recognize my mother's car right behind

them. She stays out of the paramedics' way, trailing behind

them to the backyard, looking for me. She sees me, runs

toward me, pulls me away from all the action, kneels down

in front of me and wraps me in her arms.

My mom. She smells like apples: sharp, sweet, and natural.

"Are you all right, sweet pea?" she asks.

Now that she's here, the tears turn to sobs. I don't have

to hold anything back. But the words I'm trying to say can't

be understood, so Mom just keeps reassuring me, "Sandra's

okay. She was just knocked unconscious."

Finally I am able to get out the words clearly, "I can't

find my chann bracelet."

She squeezes me tighter. "Shh," she whispers into my

ear. "As soon as they've all left with Sandra, we'll look for

it."

If she's going to help me look for it, I know we'll lind it.

She always makes everything all right.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOf—NOI FOR SALE

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the purse

THE FEEL OK MY MOM'S ARMS around me has awakened a

hunger beyond any I've ever experienced.

I wade back through Is, looking for the bracelet. I want to

return to that scene in Sandra's backyard. I want to feel my

mother's arms around me again—even if it means watching

Sandra fall all over again. I refmd each of the objects I have

encountered before—all except for the bracelet. It's gone.

Strange.

The sweatshirt is still here.

The bracelet isn't.

Loss again. I want to scream, but . . . I don't have a

voice.

Is there any other object here that might lead me to rnv

mother? I return to them one at a time, looking for a clue

about which will take me where I want to go, but I can't

remember where I lost these various scraps of existence.

There are the keys, but I don't think they will take me to

her. The cell phone's in the next pocket of space. No, that's

not a gateway to my mother, either.

Then there's the purse. It hums and glows more intensely

than the other objects do when I get close to it.

Is it connected to my mother? I don't think so, but I

can't help feeling drawn in by the intensity of the object's

presence. I want the answers it seems to be offering. .Maybe

those answers will ultimately lead me back to my mother...

and everything else I want to reach. I muster every phantom

feeling11 can to remember carrying a purse. And once

again those powerful feelings rip through me. I am propelled

toward something . .. unpleasant.

I'm in an uncomfortable, stuffy environment, surrounded

by the scent of urine. I realize I am in a bathroom

stall at Overton High School. An alive and seventeen-yearold

me is entering through the bathroom door, getting

closer to me, and I am . . . sucked in.

oge W

When a girl has to pee, she reallv has to pee. I slam the

door of the stall behind me and dump my purse—unusually

heavy today with all the extra change in it—on top of the

roll of toilet paper.

It falls off. Gross. Who knows what this floor has had

on it? Taking a pee will just have to wait until I pick it up.

Why was I stupid enough to bring it with me?

I'm just putting it back when voices bounce off the tiles

of the bathroom wall. I recognize Tammy Havers's voice.

"Anyone in here?" she asks someone.

"I don't think so," comes the reply.

So I'm just unbuckling my belt when Tammy demands

payment from the mystery voice. I realize what's happening

on the other side of the stall door: Tammy is selling drugs.

Damn.

Peeing is going to have to wait. I don't dare make any

noise right now.

Apparently not making any noise is one of those "easier

said than done" things. Especially if you're stupid enough

to set your favorite purse on top of a roll of toilet paper for

a second time and you then back into it. And if said purse

has about three dollars in coins in it because you're stupid

enough to have lost your lunch debit card... well, it hits the

;s

floor with a pretty loud thud.

The kind of thud that alerts the drug dealer there's

someone else in the bathroom.

Tammy wouldn't kick in the stall door or anything,

would she?

And why exactly couldn't this have happened—if it had

to happen at all—after I'd already gone pee? I'm dying here.

Tammy pushes on the stall door and finds it latched.

"Come out of there," she demands.

"Uh, no, thanks," I say.

Fortunately, she doesn't try to force it open.

Unfortunately, she crawls under the partition on the left,

knocking my purse into the next stall.

If I'd had any brains, I'd have realized sooner that my

incredibly heavy-with-change purse would make a good

weapon. I'd have already picked it up and smacked her on

the head with it, hopefully knocking her unconscious. Now

it's too far away for me to reach.

I guess it doesn't matter anyway. The truth is I wouldn't

have actually hurt Tammy. I mean, she and I were friends

until eighth grade. And not only wouldn't I go whacking

her over the head, but I also can't believe she'd truly hurt

me, either.

Well, other than torturing me by sending me to another

bathroom to pee. Ohmygod, would I even make it at this

point?

And wasting time thinking about all this has now left

me completely at Tammy's mercy, because there she is.

Standing in the stall with me. Glaring at me.

She unlatches the door, grabs me by the hair, and yanks

me out of the stall. I want to scream in pain. It really hurts.

But I'm too afraid to do anything more than gasp. So much

for old friendship protecting me from Tammy's wrath.

"What are you doing in here, Stanto n?" She vanks on

my hair for emphasis.

If she yanks on it again, I swear she'll unleash a puddle

of pee right beneath us.

"I asked you a question," Tammy says. "What are you

doing in here?"

Duh. Going to the bathroom, perhaps? But I don't

exactly want to make Tammy any angrier than already she

is, so I try the less sarcastic approach. "I'm just going to the

bathroom."

"Did you hear anything?"

"Hear what?"

Tammy yanks again. Is she waiting for me to confess?

Bravado might be my only way out. "Why are you trying

to torture me?" I ask, reminding myself that I've known

Tammy since we were in preschool.

We were never great friends when we were younger, but

we always got along. Then in fourth grade, neither of us had

any really close friends in our class, so we ended up eating

lunch together every day. We even shared Twinkies.

She only started getting messed up when we were in

middle school. Something went down at home, and she

started getting tougher and tougher. I was sad when it happened.

I liked her. But she wouldn't talk to me about what

was £^>ing on.

Then, in eighth grade, after the whole Ouija board

thing that happened at a sleepover, she stopped talking

to me altogether. Thought I was making fun of her. But I

swear I wasn't.

By the end of eighth grade, she started getting downright

scary. Once I even saw her beat the crap out of some kid

during lunch. I wasn't exactly valiant or anything. No saving

the kid, jumping in front of her with fists at the ready. No.

I was one of the cowards watching the whole thing. Besides,

you couldn't really get in between the two girls. Even then,

Tammy liked grabbing the hair of her opponent. When the

teachers came to break up the fight, Tammy almost ripped

the other kid's scalp right off her head while the adults were

trying to separate the two of them.

Now, I realize, is not the time to be remembering that

Jenny Wilson almost became a scalpless wonder. Think

Twinkies, I tell myself. The image of a ten-year-old Tammy

stuffing yellow cream-filled pastries in her mouth does help

me face off against her. Even if the hair-grip is still killing

me.

how I can never hold on to anything... which is irritatingly

true, I realize, as I practically run the rest of the way from

the bathroom. And that's when . . .

// embraces me again.

I float for a moment, just remembering what it was like

to be Maddy Stanton. It seems that I have found the corner

pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, but I am still trying to find all the

edges. My life is lying in a heap of memories piled on top of

one another, small clips of partial images carved into funny

shapes. They aren't even sorted yet. Which piece do I even

start trying to build from?

Of c o u r s e . ..

The one with the Grim Reaper on it. The one that tells

me how I died. But I don't know where it is yet. I might have

to turn over a lot of pieces before I'm likely to even catch a

fragment of the Reaper's image.

It's time to start now.

I find the coach. If that and the sweatshirt are still here

in Is, why can't I find the charm bracelet? I wade off in

search of the bracelet once again.

Still gone.

What is the difference between the charm bracelet and

the handbag? Between the sweatshirt and the bag?

And then I know.

The real me, the alive me . . . she took the bracelet with

13

As she yanks even harder, I opt for the remember-whenwe-were-friends approach. "Okay. Jesus. Let go of my hair.

I did hear what was happening in here, but it's not like I'm

gonna tell anyone. Get real. We've known each other for

ages, Tammy. It's not as if I'm going: to rat on someone I

used to share Twinkies with at lunch."

"You'd better not," Tammy says. She gives my hair a

threatening reminder of her willingness to hurt me. "'Cause

if I get ratted on, I'm gonna know exactly who to blame."

Adults are always wanting you to tell in a situation like

this. We can protect you. It's for tbe good of everyone, Blab, Nab,

blab.

Right. Adults are so stupid. I can't figure out how they

have managed to live long enough to survive high school.

"I'm not going to say anything," I tell Tammy. I hope I

sound firm, disgusted at the mere possibility. But I hear a

squeak in my voice. She finally lets go of my hair, pushing

me away from her at the same time. "Get out of here."

"Umm . . . could I, like, just get my money first?"

She freezes me with this what-kind-of-an-idiot-nrr-you

stare.

Okay, then. Guess I'll just borrow money from Sandra

for lunch. I want to kick myself. I wouldn't need to borrow

money from my best friend if I'd just admitted to my

mother that I'd lost the lunch card. She'd have gotten me

a new one. But I didn't want to listen to her harping about

>9

her when she left the scene where I saw her. But the bag and

the sweatshirt... I didn't find either of those before I left

the scene. Who knows what ever happened to them? But

somehow I never got them back, and so here they are in Is,

still haunting me.

An idea hums through me: Perhaps if I don't find the

object, I can return to the moment I lost it, but if I do find

it, then I can't get back to that time.

Control.

I might have some control over what moments in my

life I can return to. I just have to keep myself from finding

something.

But wait. I don't know for certain this is how it

works....

Or even if I can change what happens when I return to

a moment.

I realize there's a way to find out.

I wade my way back to the purse and imagine myself

holding it again.

The stuffiness of an enclosed bathroom, the scent of

urine, myself walking toward me . . . it's all there again. I

embrace myself, and we join fluidly....

age 17

I so have to pee.

!l

I set mv coach on top of the roll of toilet paper, but it

falls off. Disgusting. This floor could have had—well, who

knows what—on it. I'm bending over to pick up the purse

when I realize I'm feeling that funny thing again. It's happened

to me a couple times before. I can't explain the feeling.

It's like I'm being spied on. It's creepy. I tried to explain it

to my mom once, and she told me she'd had creepy feelings

like that before, too. Said she'd felt "someone walking over

her grave." Like that makes sense?

Unfortunately, at the moment, it does.

Shake it off, I tell myself.

I set the bag back on the roll of toilet paper and look

around, like I'm expecting to see a ghost here or something.

How stupid is that?

"Anyone in here?" someone says through the bathroom

door. I know that voice. It belongs to Tammy Havers.

"I don't think so," someone replies.

Tammy demands payment.

Great. A drug deal. I pause in unbuckling my b e l t . . . I

so have to pee, but self-preservation? Yeah. Might be more

important at the moment. I think I'll just try not to make

any sound....

Thunk.

My bag. The one with about three dollars in change in

it. Why did I have to lose my lunch debit card?

I really have to pee.

«

"Don't!" I tell her. "Of course I heard you. But it's not

like I'm gonna tell anvone about it. Get real. We've known

each other for ages, Tammy. And even if I do think it's kind

of stupid to be taking drugs, and even stupider to be dealing

them here at school—like, have you heard the word

expulsion? —I'm hardly going to rat on someone I used to

share Twinkies with at lunch."

She seems to give this some thought. "You'd better not.

'Cause if I get ratted on, I'm gonna know who to blame."

"I'm not going to say anything. Trust me." Thank God

I don't sound like I'm begging.

"Get out of here," Tammy says.

She lets go of my hair. I dash into the stall.

"What are you doing?" Tammv asks in disbelief as I

begin searching under the partitions between the stalls.

"Looking for my stusid money." I find it just inside the

adjoining stall. I must have hit it pretty hard with my elbow

when I knocked it off the roll of toilet paper.

"Just get the hell out of here," Tammy says.

"On my way," I say. I grab the handbag—

•

Back in //, I search, propelling myself through miles of

space, looking for the handbag.

It's gone. Just like the bracelet. The moment I touched

each, I was ripped away from life and returned to //.

M

Someone pushes on the stall door. Tammy, I'm pretty

sure, because now she's also demanding that I come out of

there.

"Uh, no, thanks," I say. That creepy shivery feeling

comes over me again. Must be because Tammy is crawling

under the stall now. I look around for my purse. As heavy as

it is, it might even make a good weapon at the moment.

I can't find it. Who knows where it landed?

Then Tammy is there, standing in front of me with this

totally killer glare.

She opens the stall door, grabs a handful of my hair,

and tugs me out. This is way too much. That creepy feeling

invading me, Tammy abusing me, majorly having to pee,

and being interrupted... how much does a girl have to put

up with?

"What are vou doing in here, Stanton?" She yanks on

my hair again for emphasis.

It's like my hair is a pull-string attached to my bladder.

If Tammy pulls on it again, I'll think she'll unleash a tidal

wave of pee.

"I asked you a question," Tammv says. "What are you

doing in here?"

"What do you think I'm doing?" I ask, my anger overflowing.

"I'm taking a pee. Or at least I was trying to."

"Did y°u hear anything?" She starts to pull on my hair

again.

33

Then how did I get back to Is from the moments when I

didn't find the objects? I reflect on the sweatshirt incident,

then try to compare it to the first handbag one. But I can't.

In fact, I can't recall anything that happened the first

time I went into that bathroom. The second time to that

bathroom, touching that handbag and getting launched

back to Is. But my second experience with that moment has

wiped out the first. It has become the new realit/ of my

life.

Is seems to work on a different plane of reality, though,

because I can remember the decision that I made to go back

and change that scene. So while I know there waj a time

when I didn't find the handbag, that time has disappeared

forever.

In a wav, this is pretty cool. It means I can make some

conscious choices about how to change my life. But—

changing my life so I find an object just seems to make it

impossible for me to go back to that moment. Why would I

want to do that:

Will it work the other way around? Can I keep myself

fiuiu linduiu buiiieiliiuu?

Probably . . . not.

Wouldn't I have to know—when I was looking for it—

that I didn't actually want to find the object? Since I can't

remember where the object will take me (or why and how I

lost it) until I've used it to go back to life, that would mean

35

I'd have to find the object, get sent back to Is, and realize I

wish I'd never found the object-By then, the object would already be gone from Is.

Crap.

The Universe isn't nearly as generous as I thought it

was.

Or maybe I'm not supposed to be messing around with

my original life that way.

I can't quite explain what's happened now that I have

changed the outcome in finding my handbag, but something's

different. About me. About my life.

About who I am.

And I'm not sure I like it.

When I went back and made myself find that purse, I

somehow became a new person. Someone who—first of

all—could sense that I was there. That must have been

what the creepy feeling was. My intention to change what

happened in that moment somehow changed everything. I

knew I was there. Well, kind of, anyway. Enough to make

the moment f e e l . . . spooky.

But that's not all. Other things changed, too. I just don't

know what they are. If I never found my coach in the first

version of my life, did I go without lunch that day? Did I

borrow money from someone else so I could eat? I have no

way of knowing, but whatever happened in that first version

created a different life than did the results of my second

16

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF— NOI FOR SALE

HfflRetfo.UJ.QS P.W &.'«!?£«

orchids

I .MISS EVERYTHING about being real. Using these objects to

return to l i f e . . . it's like an addiction. I have to have another

fix. I just can't decide which object to use next. The keys,

buttons, beads, pen, Barbie doll, key chain . . .

In the end, I don't actually get a choice. I come across

some orchids, eerie, almost skeletal in their luminescent

form, and before I know it, I'm remembering that I wore

them in my hair for my sister's wedding. The memory is

enough to earn' me home, to the moment w h e n . . .

38

visit to that moment.

Even being back here in // feels different than it did

before. I'm a whole different dead person than I was.

It's hard to describe what all this has done to me, but

it's as if I were listening to a song and when I got back it

was playing in a different key. Everything jumped up a half

note . . . or something like that.

Who knows what I could be messing with going around

and changing the way things happened in life?

Suppose I could keep myself from dying?

But I can't possibly know which of these moments can

lead to that outcome. At least at this poir.i.

And what if I end up making myself die sooner?

Making decisions in death doesn't seem to be any easier

than making them in life: You never know what the outcome

is going to be one way or the other.

37

Age 16

I am on my knees in the grass, dark night surrounding me.

Gabriel is standing next to me, bent over at the waist, his

hand firmly gripping my upper arm.

"I ry breathing deeply," Gabriel urges me.

It sounds like a good idea, but I'm gulping more than

I'm breathing, and the extra air I'm taking in is making me

feel sicker, not better.

It has been an incredibly long day. I'm now convinced

I'll never consider having a wedding. If I ever want to

get married, I'll elope. What could Kristen have been

thinking?

Her wedding dress was beautiful, but how could she

have dressed me in this horrible, full-length strapless dress?

If she was going to make me be a bridesmaid (let's not kid

ourselves; I had no choice in this; Mom would have killed

me if I hadn't agreed to do it—or, worse yet, she might have

yammered on for days at a time about the importance and

meaning of family, about my lifetime relationship with my

older sister, etc.), why did she have to put me in such a long

dress? I've lived in fear all day of tripping over the hem of

the gown. That walk down the aisle? Nightmare. I almost

stumbled. And how humiliating, having to walk down the

aisle on the arm of Gabriel—one of the most gorgeous

19

guys at school, and cousin to the groom! His firm grip on

my arm kept me from making a complete fool of myself in

front of everyone in the church, but he obviously noticed

my clumsiness. He winked at me and everything. Winked!

Ohmygod. So unfair. Why couldn't I have walked down the

aisle with the groom's brother instead? I mean, he is, like,

thirty, so no attraction there, right? And he'd probably have

pretended not to notice that I was a complete klutz,

To make it all worse, a few days ago Gabriel broke up

with his girlfriend, Dana (who'd been his girlfriend for, like,

two years). I haven't been able to stop thinking about that

all day long. It's the kind of thing that, you know, gives a

girl a glimmer of hope—as if I had a chance with a guy as

hot as Gabe Archer.

Sandra's always telling me that I'm prettier than I think

I am—that my freckles are cute and that my brown hair has

just the right red highlights, but she's my best friend, so she

has to say stuff like that. It's not as if a few halfway decent

features will attract a guy who has absolutely everything

going for him. He's friendly, smart, and has these wide,

wide shoulders that fill out his tux perfectly....

I've been tormenting myself with thoughts like this all

day. Mv mom hasn't made getting Gabe off my mind any

easier, either. She's reminded me—like, seven times—about

the crush I had on Gabe back when I was in sixth grade.

Back then, every girl crushed on Gabe. He had this

eyeballs felt like they were on fire. I started wondering il I

had a fever.

Gabe was sitting next to me. "You don't look so great,

Maddy," he told me.

G e e . . . just what every girl wants some hot guy to say to

her. He realized his mistake right away, and he started stuttering",

"I mean—not that way, just, you know .. . like you

don't feel so good. You look great in that dress and all . . .

v'know. I just meant you . . . are you sick?"

The sound of concern in his voice cheered me up a little

but not much. "I don't know," I told him. "Let's hope not."

We were sitting on a dais at the head table—facing all

the other wedding guests. He glanced out at the crowd of

faces. "Yeah, let's hope not," he said. He dove into his food

with an enthusiasm that made me feel even sicker. The

sounds all around me were ringing in my head, too. All chat

cheering, and the frequent clinking of knives on champagne

glasses . . . way too much for me.

"Ummm, I think I'd better get out of here," I said to

Gabe. "Will you tell Her Highness that I think I'm going to

be sick? Otherwise, she's sure to raise hell about my leaving

right now." Her Highness was Brenda Jackson, my sister's

college roommate, maid of honor, and -Manager Extraordinaire.

I'd been bossed around by her so much in the past few

weeks that I was ready to kill her.

Gabe hadn't had as many opportunities to run aloul of

butter-blond hair that curled into perfect ringlets. He was

shorter than I was, but I had dreams of him shooting past

me in heigh:. My mother laughed the first time she saw him

and figured out how I felt about him.

But she's not laughing anymore. In the years since then,

Gabe has obliged me by growing a lot. He's a couple inches

past six fee: now. His hair has darkened some over the

years, but it's still a shade of blond. The curls are gorgeous,

too. I'd kill to have hair that beautiful. And his shoulders

have filled out.

So, last night, at the wedding rehearsal when Mom saw

him for the first time since sixth grade, she was surprised

how much he'd changed. She's been telling me ever since

how lucky E am to get to walk up the aisle with such an

"attractive" (totally her word, not mine) young man. The

job included the responsibility of being his partner during

the second dance of the evening, too. And I admit the idea

had a lot of appeal.

Until ri^ht between the wedding and the reception—

which is when I started to feel not so hot. I didn't want to say

anything about it to my mom. I mean, what could she do?

She was busy being the mother of the bride. And I wouldn't

want to ruin Kristen's wedding, either.

I thought at first that I was just tired. It'd been a long

morning and afternoon. So I just kept trying to muddle

through. By the time dinner arrived at the table, my

'i

her, but last night she'd been so bossy that even he'd commented

on it. That's when I shared with him my nickname

for her.

Gabe's mouth was full, but he nodded his head vigorously

and then started to stand up as if he were planning

to come with me. Right. Gabe in the ladies' restroom. Not

such a good idea. I held my hand up, and he stopped midmove.

Then I turned and fled off the dais and toward the

bathrooms.

Just my luck, there were, like, twenty women in there,

going to the bathroom or refreshing their makeup.

I turned and ran outside, looking for an inconspicuous

spot where I could have some privacy. I could barely stand

up.

And then Gabe was there, holding on to my arm. By that

point, I was glad he'd followed me, because I didn't think I

could stand on my own anymore. I sank onto my knees.

Now he's holding me tightly against him so I don't do

a complete nose dive into the grass. I wobble a bit and my

hair brushes against his chest. Some of it is pulled out of

its updo. The orchids from my hair tumble to the ground

between us.

He has just gotten down on his knees beside me and is

telling me to try breathing deeply. We hear Her Highness's

voice coming at us across the lawn. "What's wrong with

her, Gabe?"

43

I groan. "Does she have to yell loud enough tor the

whole world to hear?" I ask, just as my body begins to shudder.

I want to throw up, but with Gabe here, I want even

more desperately not to humiliate myself in front of him.

Unfortunately, millions of years of evolution, designed

to help humans combat viruses and food poisoning, causes

my stomach to callously disregard the needs of my selfesteem.

My stomach erupts.

The disgusting taste of bile fills my mouth, and Brenda's

voice reaches me from the background: "Hold her up,

Gabriel! Hold her up! She's going to soil her dress."

Even as I lose the contents of my stomach, a part of my

brain is capable of wondering who ever talks about soiling a

dress. Soiling? I mean, come on.

But that thought is quickly replaced by* the realization

that something horrendous—even more horrendous than

barfing in front of a hot guy—is happening; Gabriel is trying

to hold me up enough to keep me from "soiling" my

dress, but he has forgotten a key law of physics:

The force exerted on Object One (my shoulders) + the

force exerted on Object Two (my strapless dress, which is

trapped beneath my knees) = mortification (when my dress

does not follow my shoulders upward, but my breasts do).

• • •

Her Highness has arrived and seems to realize this

44

"She thinks she has the flu," Brenda tells her. "She said

she hasn't felt well all day."

"You should have said something. I would have tigured

out how to get you out of this situation," Mom tells me,

but not like she's angry or frustrated with me. Just like she

wants me to know it would have been okay for me to ask for

help.

She guides me to my feet and then encourages me to

lean against her as we start to move. "I'm taking you home

right now. Brenda, tell Kristen and John where I've gone,

and that I'll be back as soon as possible. They'll just have to

hold up the bridal dance until I manage to get back."

Mom leads me carefully toward the c a r . . . .

•

Now I know.... It's getting too far from a lost object, leaving

it behind, that launches me back to Is. I can't remain

indefinitely in my life. The Universe only lets me stay there

until I've found the object or moved a certain distance from

it.

But, thankfully, it lets me return as many times as I want

to a moment if I never find the object.

This makes me glad the flowers have been left behind,

I'm able to return and return and return to this moment.

The nausea, the vomiting, the humiliation, all of it's worth

it to reexperience the feel of Gabriel's grip on my arm when

46

situation requires the Maneuvering of an Expert (this is the

first time I have ever been thankful for Brenda's bossiness).

She pushes Gabe away from me (So what if I fall face-forward

into my own barf? Way less embarrassing than leaving

my chest exposed) and starts stuffing me back into my dress

while yelling at Gabe, "Get out of here! Go! Go get her

mother!"

Gabe disappears, my stomach stops ejecting its contents,

and Brenda is ripping up pieces of grass. She uses them to

try to wipe mv face and mouth. I'd prefer to "soil" the hem

of my dress, but Brenda sees what I'm trying to do and manhandles

me into submission. Then she pulls me away from

the barf and gently rests me on my side.

"Madison, have you been drinking?"

The very thought makes my stomach revolt all over

again. I groan. "Nooo . . . I think I've got the flu. I haven't

been feeling so great all day."

She kneels down beside me. "Poor kid," she says, and—

as we wait for my mother—pets my hair like I'm a dog.

Mom runs up to us, her violet mother-of-the-bride dress

(Why do they make those out of such awful material?) fanning

out behind her in the breeze.

"Oh, sweetie, what's wrong?" she asks. She takes over

petting my hair, but she's had lots of practice at it, so it feels

like a mother comforting a daughter. None of that pet-thedog

stuff.

45

I'm falling, and of Mom's hand gently brushing my hair

away from my face when I most need her.

And by the time I've gone through this experience

several times, I discover that as long as I'm not trying to

change anything while I'm there, the living me doesn't feel

that creepy sense of being watched.

Strange, huh?

But here's something even stranger: After about my

fourth time visiting this moment, I actually begin to like

Brenda.

4]

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HwpCTG>lllns.PubHdTera

random acts o( existtence

oqe I)

I'm digging through a little plastic bag looking for a purple

rubber band to attach to my braces. I'm hoping there's one

more. I've already put one on the right side. The colors of

my rubber bands have to match, right? Green, yellow, red.

I'm standing at the end of a row of lockers, and Sandra,

who's supposed to be blocking me from everyone's view,

starts to move away. "Hey, get back here," I say. I don't want

the whole world to see me digging around in my mouth for

the after-lunch-rubber-band-replacement session. What if

Paul walks by?

I find a purple rubber band. I reach for it and start to

48

loop it around the hook on my bottom row of braces.

"Ooohhh . . . Oh, nooo!" The disappointment in Sandra's

voice distracts me. I pull a little too hard on the rubber

band. It snaps and flies out of my mouth.

How humiliating.

Then I see what Sandra's just seen.

Incredible. Awful.

Paul's walking down the hallway with Mary Kramer.

And they're holding hands.

Sandra sees the look on mv face and reaches out to

touch my arm. "I can't believe he'd do that, back to his exgirlfriend

that way."

Sandra might not be able to believe it, but I can. Mar}'

Kramer is about a million times prettier than I am. She

never needs to worry about whether the rubber bands on

her braces match because she has the world's most perfect

teeth and will never need orthodontics.

Sandra's going on. "Besides, you didn't really like him

all that much , did you?"

Past tense. As if I have already slopped liking him.

The irony is that Paul was only my boyfriend for two

weeks. My first boyfriend. And that's more because he

picked me than because I picked him. I didn't even like

him two weeks ago when the rumors started going around

that he liked me. But I wanted a boyfriend, so I gave him

a chance, got to know—and really like—him at Amber's

party a week ago. We even kissed in her basement.

And, wow, I guess that was a huge mistake. It was my

first kiss and I failed at it. Paul laughed at me and said,

"That's not what you do," ri^ht before trying to teach me

the "right" way to kiss—which had something to do with

sharing his gum.

I bet Mary Kramer's a better kisser than I am. That's

probably the number one reason he's back with her.

And now I'm stuck liking him. Probably forever.

Sandra puts her arm around my shoulders. "He's a jerk.

Forget about him. You'll find someone better."

I don't think so. I'm a failure. I'm never going to like a

guy again.

Except—of course—Paul.

Tammy walks by. She sees the look on my face and does

a double take. Almost like she wants to say something to

me. That would be the first time since the slumber party

last month. Maybe she realizes I wasn't trying to make fun

of her when we were playing with the Ouija board. I'm

hopeful for a second.

Then she's gone.

Lately, it seems like I'm losing everyone I care about.

Sandra leads me away from the lockers and toward our

fifth-hour class.

age 6

"Kristen, stop hittintr your sister," Mom says. We are driving

co Florida. I am six, and my parents have promised me a

trip to Disney World for spring break. Kristen is too old to

enjoy the trip. At thirteen, she'd rather be going somewhere

exciting with her friends, but my parents keep reminding

her that she got to go to Disney World when she was little

and now it's my turn.

I grin in satisfaction and say in my head, Yo-it got in trouble,

you got in trouble. I know better than to say it aloud. That

will get me in trouble with Dad, who is already annoyed.

But Kristen can tell I'm making fun of her with my eyes.

She knocks a package of Life Savers out of my hand so hard

that some of them roll along the floor and under the seat. I

start scavenging for them. When I think I have them all, I

stick my tongue out at Kristen. She just glares back.

'Turn on the air-conditioning," Kristen moans for at

least the twentieth time.

It's not all that hot in the car. We're only in southern

Ohio, and it's just the beginning of April. 'Til turn it on

when we get farther south and it's hotter," Dad says.

Kristen makes a nasty snorting sound. Dad likes to have

the windows of the car open, but the wind whipping through

them is messing up Kristen's hair. I just don't see the big

deal. Now getting to see Aurora and Belle and Ariel—that

will be a big deal. I can't think about anything else. I have

all my princess books stacked in my lap.

I flip one open and start reading it. "Want to read with

me?" I offer Kristen. I can think of no greater peace offering.

She glares at me.

"Please. They're good books."

She rolls her eyes at me and pulls out a pillow, then hides

her face underneath it.

Mom sees the hurt look on my face. "Don't worry about

it, Maddy," she tells me. "Just enjoy your books."

"Will you read along with me?" I ask. I want company.

Mom smiles at me. "Next rest stop I'll change places

with Kristen. She can sit up here, and I'll sit back there with

you so we can read the stories together."

"Thank God," Kristen emerges from under the pillow

long enough to say. Then she hides back underneath it. The

next few minutes are peaceful until Dad stops at the rest

area. When we all get out of the car . . .

age II

I'm in Sandra's bedroom. I'm trying to get dressed and pack

my clothes, but I'm missinq a pair of socks.

It's Sandra's eleventh birthday, and we were planning to

have a sleepover. Were is the most important word here.

Sandra's mother hasn't been feeling well lately, so every

time in the past few months we've asked if I could stay

over, we've been told no. Sandra's mother suffers from bad

migraines. Noise makes them worse. So it makes sense to

me that I shouldn't spend the night at her house.

But why Sandra hasn't been able to stay the night at my

house .. - that I just don't get. Every time we bring the subject

up with her mother, she starts saying things like, "If you

really feel you must go, darlin', I understand." Her mother

was raised in the South, and she has this honeyed way of

speaking the word darlin that drives me crazy; maybe that's

because Sandra melts whenever her mother says it. And to

make things worse, her mother adds something like, "I*m

feeling so sick, darlin', that I can understand why you'd

rather be at a friend's house than here keeping me company.

But I'll miss you so much while you're gone. Who will bring

me my cup of tea when I don't even think I can make it out

of bed?"

That just sort of kills any desire Sandra has to stay at

my house.

Sandra and I have been fighting about this stuff a Lot

lately. I keep saying she should stay at my house even though

her mother doesn't want her to. She says she just can't, not

when her mother needs her so much.

Two days ago, when Sandra invited me to her house for

a birthday sleepover, I was crazy excited. It's been ages since

we've spent the night together.

I should have known better. Mrs. Simpson is a mastermind

at ruining my time with Sandra, and I should have

expected her to pull it off tonight, too. Except I guess I

thought that, this being a birthday, her mother would go

out of her way to make it a nice night for Sandra.

No such luck.

Five minutes ago, Sandra's mom knocked on the bedroom

door, stuck her head inside, and said, "I'm so sorry,

girls, but I have a migraine coming on. I'm afraid that Madison

is going to have to go home."

"Please, Mom," Sandra begged. "We'll be quiet. I promise.

We haven't had a sleepover in ages."

Mrs. Simpson started crying. "I'm so sorry, darling. I

wanted so badlv for this to be a perfect night for the two

of you. Maybe Daddy can take me to a motel so I can have

enough quiet to recover. I'd just be so lonely there all bv

myself. Your dad would have to come back here to check on

you. And I get so scared when I'm so sick. I can't get up by

myself if I need to. But I'll call Madison's mom and tell her

not to come get her if your father says—"

"No, Mom," Sandra said. "We understand. We'll do it

again some other time."

Except / definitely don't understand. I want to cry. I'm

feeling ripped apart inside. My best friend isn't really my

S<

best friend. My best friend wouldn't let her mother do this

to her. How can Sandra not see this is all an act on her

mother's part? That her mother wants to ruin our time

together?

Sandra's mother leaves the room, and I look at the devastated

expression on Sandra's face. Her brownish-green

eyes are wide and glittering. She's holding her own arms

like she's hugging herself. Even her normally bouncing,

curly hair seems to drag along the side of her face. Guilt

washes over me.

None of this is Sandra's fault.

The doorbell rings. My mother is here. I still haven't

found my socks. I don't want to leave Sandra here by herself

wearing that desperate expression . . . on her birthday of all

days. But now I can hear my mother's voice in the entryway.

She's asking for me. Forget the socks. I know it's a bizarre

idea, but I figure that they can stay here and keep Sandra

company for the night.

I give Sandra a hug. A sob starts to wrack her body,

but as her mother walks back into the room, she chokes it

down.

"Bye," I whisper, letting go and rushing from the

room.

oge 16

I pull some books from my locker, and a pen slides out. I

try to catch it, but my hands are full. It lands on the floor

and makes a rolling escape toward Sandra, who's standing

right next to me at her locker. She yanks hard on the handle

of the locker's jammed door. It suddenly gives up its fight

to protect her books from the odious duty of accompanying

her to class. But lockers are not above simple revenge.

Books, notebooks, even a pencil case, slide off the top shelf.

She jumps back to avoid the avalanche.

I'm laughing at the bizarre look on her face when I hear

a voice behind me say, " H e y . . . "

Obmygod. Go away, I think. Thankfully, I have the presence

of mind not to let the idea slip out of my mouth. Nausea

rises in my stomach at the sound of Gabe's voice. Must be

the memory of Kristen's wedding.

That and the rumor I heard earlier today that he's planning

to ask me out.

By the time I turn around, he's helping Sandra pick up

the mess on the floor.

"Thanks," she says as he hands her a pile of papers that's

fallen out of a book. I'm such an idiot. Why am I standing

here instead of helping them?

Useless now. They're done.

Gabe turns toward me. As his eyes meet mine, my stomach

lurches craztly.

Gabe says, "So, I hear Kristen and John get back from

the honeymoon in a few days."

I should be able to handle a few sentences of small talk,

right?

My eyes skitter away from his, and I look to Sandra for

help, but she's kneeling in front of her locker, going through

papers on the locker floor. She hasn't bothered to clean anything

in there all year. She's obviously trying to eavesdrop.

She's also obviously not going to bail me out.

"Yeah," I say. I'm such a brilliant conversationalist. I

scour my brain for things to add to this exchange.

"Hawaii... wow, what a great honeymoon."

"Yeah."

"I hat's an encouraging streak," he says.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"A couple of 'yeahs' rio;ht in a row. Shall I go for another

one?"

Dread descends. I know what he's going to ask.

"So there's a party this Friday at Allan Redford's house.

Want to go with me?"

Yeah, I do. Only I can't say that because I also don't

want to go.

Sandra's behind Gabe's back making go-fbr-it-girl gestures

at me.

"Well, actually, I can't. My family has plans and my

mother really expects me to be there. . . . " I can tell from

his face that he's not buying it.

"Oh, well, then. Maybe another time?"

I swallow and this time manage, "Yeah." But then feel

compelled to add, "Maybe."

Gabe doesn't waste any time getting away from me

"Later, then," he says, and walks away.

I turn to face Sandra The look she's giving me is even

worse than the look my mother gave me when I got caught

cheating on a test in seventh grade . "For God's sake, why'd

you do that? Are you crazy? You've had a crush on Gabe

since, what, like, sixth grade?"

"Sixth," I mumbled.

"Which just makes it worse! What are you thinking?"

"It's just, well . . . it's—I'm not so sure. . . . Well, you

know how when you've bsen eating something right before

you get the flu and then every time you even think about

that kind of food—for, like, the next year—you think you're

i^oing to be sick again?"

Sandra looks at me as if I'm crazy. It takes her a minute

to put the pieces together. "Wait. Are you trying to tell me

that Gabe makes you feel nauseated}"

"Uhmm . . . yeah? Well, not exactly him. Just the memory

of him at the wedding."

"Oh, for God's sake, Maddy. Take some Pepto-Bismol

SB

or something. But get over it. That's the stupidest thing I've

ever heard." Sandra slams her locker and glares at me.

I can't quite explain everything to her. She wouldn't

understand that Pepto-Bismol might help with the nausea,

but it's not going to help with all the other things ihat are

roiling inside me.

Like total embarrassment over falling out of my dress

in front of Gabe.

Or fear of picking up a rebound boyfriend and losing

him within days—the way I did in eighth grade. Two weeks

of going with me was enough to drive Paul back to a girl

who'd only been his girlfriend for a couple of months. What

chance do I have of keeping a hot guy like Gabe, who's had

the same girlfriend for two years? And, okay, so she's one of

the witchiest girls I've ever met. Still, she must have some

redeeming qualities if Gabe stayed with her that long.

And then there's that awful kiss I shared with Paul back

in eighth grade. I've kissed a few boys since then, but no one

that I actually liked. They were just guys at a party looking

for someone to make ouc with. What if I kiss Gabe and be

laughs at me because I'm doing it wrong?

I'd rather be lonely every Friday night for the rest of my

life.

Sandra begins to walk away. "Wait! Where are you

going?" I ask. We always walk to class together.

She gives me an "oh, phase" look. "You know exactly

59

where I'm going," she says. Then she turns and starts walking

again.

She's right. I do know where she's going. She'll catch up

with Gabe and tell him not to give up, that he should ask

me out again.

Trying to stop her wil I be useless. I'm both terrified and

relieved by the realization.

I close my locker, noticing that my pen is still on the

ground. I reach for—

age 7

"Kitty, no!" I shout, just as her little irincer paws land in my

carefully sorted piles of beads. Purple, pink, and turquoise

beads scatter across the tabletop before pattering onto the

floor.

At first, our new kitty is startled by the noise. She jumps

backward on the table, bumping into a bowl of fruit. But as

the beads continue bouncing across rhe floor, her ears prick

up and fascination gleams in her eyes.

She pounces.

More beads roll across the table and plunge to the floor,

followed by the soft plunk of a four-pound kitten chasing

them.

"No, no!" I shout again, frantically trying to gather the

beads back together. I'm only halfway through the necklace

' -C

Mom grabs a hanger from the closet next to the kitchen

and starts sweeping it bslow the stove. A rainbow of beads

emerges, and Mom moves on to sweep the area under the

refrigerator.

"I hope I've got then all," Mom says, but I'm not really

paying attention to her anymore. Kristen is setting the kitty

in my arms.

And the kitty is purring. For me. She likes me. Her little,

soft padded paws bat at my cheek. She begins to play

with mv hair.

"Look at that," Mom says in amazement.

The kitty snuggles her head between my neck and

shoulder, settling in for a little rest.

"She looks cozy there, doesn't she?" Dad says.

"Can we name her that?" I ask. I want her to be cozy

with me forever.

"Sure," Mom agrees "That can be her everyday name."

"Everyday name?" Kristen asks. "What's that supposed

to mean?"

"Well, according to T. S. Eliot—"

"Ugh," Kristen groans. Mom loves poetry, but Kristen

can't stand it when Mom starts talking about her favorite

poets.

Mom ignores Kristen. "According to T S. Eliot, a cat

needs three names. One's an everyday name, like Cozy. But

then he says a cat needs a more dignified name. Something

I'm making and if I lose these beads, I won't have enough.

Ine new kitty is batting at the beads, chasing them

around the kitchen. Several roll under the refrigerator.

More travel under the stove.

"Stop it, kitty," I moan.

Mom puts her arm around my shoulder. "It's all right,

Madison," she tells me. "We'll get them out somehow."

"But what if I don't have enough to finish my necklace?"

Kristen and Dad are now intentionally kicking the beads

around the floor, laughing as the cat chases them.

"This is all part of having this cat you've been asking for

for months now."

It's true. I've been asking for a cat for a long time. And

I was so happy a half hour ago. Tiny, furry, blue-eyed . . .

my dreams came true when Mom walked through the door

with her.

But now . . . now I'm thinking this might be a bad idea.

Sure, "hard work" and "responsibility" were mentioned, But

no one thought to tell me a kitten would ruin my necklace.

Kristen picks up the kitty, who starts to purr immediately.

I'm jealous. She hasn't purred for me yet. "Let me

have her," I say.

"In a minute," Kristen says.

"Help me get your beads," Mom says before I can wrestle

the cat from Kristen.

01

that allows it to keep its tail straight up and proud. Something

so unique, no other cat in the world will have it.

Cozycorium is a name I think Eliot would approve of."

The cat's purring vibrates against my chest. It almost

feels like I'm purring, too. "But we can still call her Cozy

for short, right?" 1 say.

"Right," Mom says.

"Wait," Dad says. "You mentioned three names. What's

the third name?"

"Oh, well, Eliot says a cat will have a secret nime that

only it knows. It's a name that we'll never figure out. But

whenever we see that she's deep in thought, she'll be thinking

about her secret name."

"No," I say. "She's not allowed."

"Not allowed to what?" Dad asks.

"Have secrets from us. She can't have a third name."

Kristen laughs at me. "You can't stop her," she tells me.

"Cats pretty much do what they want."

"I can too stop her," I insist. "I'm going to take her

upstairs and show her my room now." I'm already halfway

to the stairs.

"Madison," Mom calls after me, "what about .ill these

be—"

: • . ' b)

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HKKH£&!MQs£wbfefisn

IT SEEMS TO BE a pinecone. It has edges like one, and its

round shape tapers toward the top the way pinecones do.

But I can't figure out how to make this thing work. The

other items that have taken me places have been easv. I've

tried imagining what it was like to hold them. To hand them

to someone, to drop them, to put them on.

Something always works.

But not with this pinecone.

Maybe it's the Lniverse's idea of a joke. Let's put ibis object

with ber that sbt can't quite figure out bow to use, it's thinking.

See bow long it takes ber to go crazy.

Uh-huh. Not long. A person who's dead and conscious

M

and revisiting her life at every opportunity must already be

crazy.

Still. . . it's almost as big a mystery as this whole howdid-I-even-die-any way thing. How many different things

can you do with a pinecone?

Maybe that's not even what it is.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT f OR SALE

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beyond the boundaries

o| any one l i fe

Age 17

Ohmvgod, if I don't find that assignment rigbt now, my

English grade is going down the toilet!

I scurry frantically, pulling things out of my book bag

for the third time this morning. I look everywhere. Everywhere.

I glance at the c l o c k . . . . Twenty minutes until Gabriel

gets here to pick me up for school. I worked so hard on that

paper, and now I can't find it. I did it last night at Gabe's

house and emailed it to myself. I'll have to reprint it.

I switch on the computer quickly, and while I am waiting

66

for everything to boot up, I scramble to the bathroom for

my toothbrush.

When I return, I log into my email account and open

the message I sent from Gabe's house last night.

Ohmygod. Unbelievable. There's no attachment. How

could I have sent an email to myself with the sole purpose of

attaching that paper—then have forgotten to do it?

I grab my cell phone to call Gabe.

No answer.

My eyes smart as they fill with tears. Gan I remember

any of that paper? I'll have to try to rewrite it in fifteen

minutes. I flip open my English textbook. There are the

two poems by Emily Dickinson that I'm supposed to hand

in an analysis of—first hour:

664

Of all the Souls that stand create—

/ have elected— One—

IVben Sense from Spirit— -files away—

And Subterfuge— is done—

When that which is— and that which was—

Apart— intrinsic— stand—

And this brief Tragedy of Flesh—

Is shifted— like a Sand—

When Figures show tbeir royal Front—

And Mists— are carved away,

IS

Behold the Atom— I preferred—

To all the lists of Clay!

1732

My Life closed twice before its close—

It yet remains to see

If Immortality unveil

A third event to me

So huge, so hopeless to conceive

As these that twice befell.

Parting is all we know of heaven,

And all we need of hell.

Reading these two poems this morning causes me to

shiver in a way that I never have before, and I've read rhem,

well, probably a hundred times. Perhaps I'm anticipating

my own exit from this world into the next when my parents

see my English grade—minus this one-hundred-point

assignment.

No time to think about it now. Must write down whatever

I can remember about my original paper.

My fingers fly over the keyboard, rattling away in a

manic rhythm. Memories of words and phrases skitter

through my mind. I wrestle them into sentences: "It is ironic

that Emily Dickinson inquired of the journalist Higginson

68

And about a poem with the line "My Life closed twice

before its close"—I mean, who wouldn't be freaked out

about that?

I ignore the sensation and go back to writing: "Dickinson's

'letter to the World / that never wrote to her' is a

collection of poems that explore the depths of human emotion

and its enduring ability to extend beyond the boundaries

of any one life and into the experiences of humanity. Her

body of work is the atom she left behind after 'this brief

Tragedy of the Flesh.' That atom causes within readers a

nuclear chain reaction of human connection."

P r i n t . . . p r i n t . . . print. It's not printing fast enough.

Gabriel honks the horn at me. I swipe the papers out of

the printer tray and then carefully open my folder. I can't

lose this paper again. I will place it right here in the pocket

where I always keep assignments that are due f o r . . .

I freeze. Then shiver.

There it is. The original paper.

Right. There. In. Front. Of. Me. Exactly. Where. It.

Belongs.

It's staring at me with the all-seeing eye of Emily Dickinson.

How is this possible?

Gabriel honks again.

I'll take both papers and compare them in the car.

I shiver once more as I reach to pull from the folder the

70

whether her poetry was 'alive' when the subject of so much

of her poetry was death. . .. Her obsession with exploring

the nature of individuality in the face of death demonstrates

her belief in the power of the individual to transcend the

boundaries of life itself.... Her poetic narrators face down

a certain knowledge and understanding of their demise

as they grapple, beyond the barrier of death itself, with a

diminishing awareness of l i f e . . . ."

What was that line about the "Tragedy of the Flesh" that

I'd written? Something about how she believed something

atomic lived beyond that tragedy? W a i t . . . no, I closed the

paper with that line, didn't I?

Ten minutes l e f t . . ..

Hold on. I wrote something about how she isolated herself

in life, her reclusiveness being a form of dress rehearsal

for death itself, and its "partings" of hell How did I put

that?

Words continue to patter their way onto the screen.

Organization? What's that? No time to get these thoughts

to build on one another.

Five minutes l e f t . . ..

A sudden sense of deja vu strikes me. It's like I've been

through this moment in my life before, b u t . . .

Must just be the weirdness of trying to write about

death.

Twice.

69

old pa—

•

I shouldn't have done it. And I know it the second I

return to Is.

It seemed like such a small thing, letting myself find

that original paper. Vanity, I know. The first version was so

much better than the second. And, yeah* I wanted the better

grade on it, but even more than that, I wanted my AP

English teacher, Mrs. Bevery , to know how brilliant I was.

I needed to hand in that first paper. I thought.

But now things are changing. A lot. More than they did

when I messed with the whole handbag thing. That time

it felt like the key in my song of life jumped up a half note.

Now it seems like a whole different song is playing. Everything

about space and time seems . . . different. And scariest

of all . . . I'm forgetting who and what I was in the first

version of life, the me who never found the first version of

that Emily Dickinson paper. I'm afraid of losing her . . . that

me.

It's like dying all over again. I'm going to the funeral of

someone who I both hated and loved. And it's scary because

I'm not sure if I'll be as happy with the me I just created as

I was with the old one.

n

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doddy-doughter donee

oqe 7

The music swirls around us. Sandra and I are both wearing

the "spinningest" dresses we could find. We twirl around

on the dance floor watching them spreading out in a circle

around our hips.

Life couldn't be better. We're at the Daddy-Daughter

Dance. There are colored lights all over the communitycenter

gym. Our dads ere both dressed up the way they

usually are when they leave for work. But, right now, our

dads belong just to us.

Daddy is holding bodi of my hands as we sway back and

n

wrong. I tell him and tell him that my ticket is gone, but he

keeps saying, "What? I can't understand you." I try telling

him louder, but he still doesn't understand.

Sandra finally translates for me. "You lost your ticket?"

he asks. When I nod, he pulls me into his arms and lets me

sit on his thigh as he tries to dry my tears.

"We'll look," he promises. "Calm down so we can look."

Daddy, Sandra, her father, and I all look around the

room . . . under tables, on the dance floor, on the chairs.

The DJs are packing up all their musical equipment, and

the janitors are starting to turn out the lights. The gym

feels so lonely. All the magic is gone. Why couldn't it stay?

Daddy tells me we have to go now, even if we haven't

found the ticket.

I cry harder. Daddy tries to comfort me by telling me

that we can make a new ticket when we get home; that it'll

be just as good as the real one, maybe even better. But he

doesn't understand: I don't want to leave my ticket in this

lonely place, all by itself. I'm sure it will be frightened.

Daddy promises me ice cream on the way home. But

that idea doesn't make me feel any better. Mr. Simpson and

Sandra finally leave. We look around the room one more

t i m e . . . no luck.

Daddy finally pulls me, still crying, from the room.

J4

forth to the music. Every once in a while, he winks at Sandra's

dad and they both spin us around again.

Sandra and I giggle.

Next comes the "Hokey Pokey." 1 love this song Daddy

is so silly when he does the "turn yourself around" part. I'm

laughing so hard, I have a sharp pain in my side. Sandra isn't

laughing hard enough, so her dad tickles her.

For the next song, we change partners, and Daddy

dances with Sandra. I dance with Sandra's fathtr. Even

though I like him, I notice he isn't as tall as my dad is. And

he isn't as handsome, either.

Someday, I want to fall in love with a man like my

daddy. Someone who makes me smile and giggle, someone

who twirls me around, someone who knows how to have

fun doing the Hokey Pokey.

When the end of the evening comes, I don't want to

leave. I want to keep dancing, keep playing with Sandra.

Tonight we're pretending to be sisters, and I don't want to

ever stop.

But Daddy reminds me it's time to go, and he helps me

put on my coat. I look in the pocket for my ticket. When we

got here, I put it in my coat. I know I will always keep it. It's

special. B u t . ..

The ticket isn't there.

I look again . . . still not there.

I start to cry. Daddy gets down next to me to ask what's

n

Back here in //, I notice that the ticket is drab. It does not

sparkle in pink and white the way I remember it. Instead, it

just glows with a boring sameness.

Part of me wants to go back and allow my seven-yearold

self to find it.

But I won't. No matter how hard she cries.

When I was alive, I thought I was always losing everything.

But I wasn't. There are so few objects here in Is that

can take me back to my life, I can't part with the ones I do

have.

Lost, this piece of paper is my ticket back to the Daddy-Daughter Dance.

And it has to stay lost to keep me the person the night ot

the Daddy-Daughter Dance made m e . . . .

Emily Dickinson referred to life as a "Tragedy of the

Flesh." Losing that ticket was a tragedy to the seven-yearold

me, but that tragedy shaped the soul "I have elected."

Letting myself find that Dickinson English paper has

already changed that soul some, but now I'm electing to

feed and care for the one I have. I like it.

I swear Emily Dickinson's poetry makes sense to me in

a way it never could have when I was alive.

H

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teOSlftJJins PujDU^fjS'J. _

g a t h e r i n g ghosts

I REMEMBER nils HAIR CUP. I remember when I lost it,

too

oqe I)

We are (all ten of us) at my house. Somehow I've managed

to convince my mother to allow us to have a slumber party

here. We've been banished to the basement so our—as my

mother condescendingly puts it—"girl giggle and gossip"

won't disturb everyone else for the night.

And we are planning to make it through the whole night

without sleeping.

So far, so good. We've watched three DVDs, eaten four

bags of Doritos and three pizzas, and plowed through several

two-liters of Coke (caffeine buzz, anyone?), and we're

having a riot fainting. It's the coolest feeling I've ever had.

Tammy taught us how to do it (don't ask me where she

learned). First, we hyperventilate while bending over (gotta

get all that blood to the head). Then we pull ourselves up

quickly and Tammy presses in this one spot, right between

the ribs, and—out we go.

The first time I did it, I fell backward onto the couch

and lost mv new hair clip. I love that hair clip, and I'm sure

that it's somewhere under the couch or between the cushions,

even though I can't find it. Still, even the loss of my

favorite new hair clip isn't enough to discourage me from

fainting a few more times.

Or maybe even seven more. It's such a great feeling.

It's as if everything in the world disappears. It's like gliding

on space for a few seconds. I feel both conscious and

unconscious all at once, and wish I could stay that way. But

eventually full consciousness seeps across the fabric of my

mind, soaking everything in reality.

As I'm getting ready to faint the ninth time, Tammy

says she doesn't want me to do this anymore. She thinks it

might not be very healthy. Is anything fun ever healthy?

Still, she might have a point. I don't know why I suggest

it, but since fainting appears to be coming to an end, I say,

"How about if we get out the Ouija board?"

Cindy groans. "C'mon, Maddy. It's two o'clock in the

morning. Can you pick a creepier time to do that?"

Amber punches her in the arm. "That's the point,

dummy."

"I think it sounds like fun," Sandra—ever the best

friend—says. "Where is it?"

"I'll get it," I assure everyone. But I'm only halfway up

the stairs before I get a major case of the creeps. I run back

down. "I can't do it," I say. "It's too creepy up there."

Everyone laughs at me, but Sandra says, "I'll go get it for

you. Tell me where to look."

"It's in the family room closet with all the other

games."

Sandra bounds up the stairs and disappears, A flash of

jealousy streaks through me at the way her thin, graceful

body seems to float up the stairs, her thick hair waving

behind her. Not a single clunk or pound on the way up.

Incredible. How does she do that gliding thing?

While Sandra's gone, the rest of us talk about who's

going to go first and what questions we should ask the

board. It takes Sandra longer than it should to come back,

but she finally reappears. As she hands me the game, she

says, "Sorry. I went to pull it out of the closet, and a few

other games came with it. Made a bunch of noise. I had to

pick the other games up, and your mom came downstairs

78

and yelled at me."

I roll my eyes. I can tell we're both thinking the same

thing: My mom yelling at Sandra doesn't even come close

to the way Sandra's mom yells at me. But I don't say anything

about that. Sandra's totally embarrassed by the way

her mother treats me.

Amber and Lacey set up the board. They're going to go

first, and they want—naturally—to ask for the answer to an

important question plaguing the universe: who is Amber

going to go to prom with her senior year? D-O-U-G-P-RE-S-T-O-N the planchette spells on the board. Amber is

outraged. Doug Preston has wanted to hook up with her for

almost a year now, and she's not interested.

"You pushed it," Amber accuses Lacey. "You wanted it

to say that!"

"I swear I didn't," Lacey counters.

Everyone else is laughing. "It's not funny," Amber protests.

"It's her turn to find out who she's going to prom with

her senior year!" She puts a serious and mysterious look on

her face and demands that the board tell her the answer to

this question.

S-C-O-T-T-T-U-R-N-E-R the planchette spells. Scott

Turner is a total dork. No one is ever going to go to senior

prom with him.

"Now you're pushing it," Lacey says.

"Ha, ha. It's not so funny now, is it?"

'9

"Okay, you two, let someone ask it a real question," Sandra

demands.

Cindy and Diane sit at the board, and Cindy asks, in the

spookiest voice she can come up with, "Is there a spirit in

the room with us?"

The planchette creeps its way over to the word yes.

A quarter of an inch from the word, Diane screams and

removes her fingers. Cindy forces the planchette off the

board. "Ohmygod," Diane says, "I swear I wasn't moving

that thing."

"Me, either," Cindy agrees.

"There's really a spirit here in the room with us," Diane

says.

"Whooooaaaahhh." Amber's sarcasm rolls out along

with the ghostly sound she makes.

Diane glares at her. "I mean it. You try asking the room

if there's a spirit here!"

"No, thanks." Amber laughs. "I had my turn, and I

already know how it works!"

"Oh, I'll do it." I sigh.

"I'll help," Tammy offers. "Will you pick up that whatever-it's-called thingy?" she asks Cindy, nodding toward

the planchette. "It's by your feet."

"I'm not touching that thing!"

"Whatfwr," Tammy says, and leans over to grab it. "It's

just a game, you guys."

She places the planchette back on the board and looks

expectantly at me. "Who's asking the questions?" she wants

to know.

"I'll do it," I offer. The other girls gather around us, and

I ask, half joking, "Is there a spirit in the room?"

Tammy and I hold our hands steady, trying to relax to

see if t he planchette will move on its own.

It does.

Really.

I truly don't think Tammy's doing anything to it,

because her face is turning ghostly white. "Stop it," she

whispers to me.

"I'm not doing anything," I tell her honestly.

As the planchette spells out I-S-E-E-Y-O-U, the other

girls become deathly quiet. All jokes have ended.

My fingers are shaking. I don't want to know the answer

to my question, but I feel compelled to ask it anyway. "Who

do you see?" Even my voice is shaking.

M-A-D-I-S-O-N.

It's my turn to glare at Tammy. "You're doing this,

aren't you?"

"No. I swear. I'm not."

And I have to believe her, because her hands are shaking,

too.

"Who are you?" I ask the room.

L-I-K-E-Y-O-U-I-A-M-D-E-A-D.

Cindy screams.

"Shhh!" I yell at her. "Shut up. You're not the one that's

getting told you're dead, all right? So just shut up!"

"Why are you here?" Sandra asks the room.

Tammy stands up suddenly, knocking over the chair.

Sandra takes her place at the table. "Put your fingers back

on the planchette," Sandra tells me. I don't much want

to—at this point, who would?—but I've taken orders from

Sandra most of our lives.

I-A-M-S-O-R-R-Y.

Amber starts giggling. "Way to freak us out, Simpson.

Could we be stupider? Why are we trying to scare ourselves

to death?"

"Sbb" Diane tells her.

"Who are you?" Sandra asks the room again.

T-A-M-M-Y.

The room is silent for a second, and then Tammy yells,

"This is a bunch of crap! You guvs are making fun of me,

aren't you? I'm outta here."

She storms up the stairs.

I jump up to follow her. "Wait! Tammy! I'm not doing

it. Honestly."

She turns on the stairs and gives me a glare like nothing

I've ever seen from anyone. In the fast thirty seconds I

have somehow become her enemy. "You can't go anywhere,

Tammy," I say. "It's the middle of the night. You can't walk

home right now."

"I'm leaving. I'll call my mother from upstairs. She'll

come get me, even if it is the middle of the night. I'm not

staying here with any of you guys. I hate vou all."

She turns again and goes the rest of the way up the

stairs. I run aft—

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HUBflXCfilftU SiM M b£& - _

GRIEF THROBS THROUGH ME.

Because this night is the end of my friendship with

Tammy—at least as we knew it.

It's pretty weird the way all these trips back are helping

me remember most of mv life. I remember now how after

that night with the Ouija board we all managed to convince

ourselves that there weren't really any ghosts in the room.

We got good at turning it into a joke.

But now I know there actually was a ghost in the room.

Because I was there.

And now I know there was another ghost there, too.

Tammy.

There are things that bother me about this moment in

my life. I return to it time and again to t ry to puzzle them

out. I am careful every time I return to never look too hard

for the hair clip. Returning to this moment provides me

with the only true companionship I have in this new existence—

the ghost of Tammy.

Tronic, huh? That night ended our friendship—at least

our living one—but now it seems she's my only companion.

True, she's the onlv other dead person I've met. Apparently

desperation makes the heart grow fonder.

I just wish she'd answer alt the questions I have,

I want to ask her, how did you know I was there? I didn't

realize you were until you revealed yourself. What did you

lose that allowed you to return to that moment? How did

you die? And irben did you die?

There might be a lot of my life I still don't understand,

but I have noticed that no item has ever taken me past the

age of seventeen. That's also where all the memories I'm

now having seem to end. Conclusion? It doesn't exactly

require the deductive powers of Sherlock Holmes to figure

out I probably died around then. And even though that

idea freaks me out, another realization freaks me out even

more: If I can travel to any moment in my previous existence

where I lost an object, then Tammy can, too. That

means she could have I ived long after me. Reached the ripe

old age of seventy-five. And then come back to that slumber

party when we were thirteen just because she lost some stupid

little object there.

It's a creepv thought. Disturbing. More than anything

else in this afterlife has been.

There's another thing, too, that bothers me about this

whole slumber party thing: Why—exactly—is Tammy

apologizing to me?

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ghost

ige 16

It's a terrible habit, this need I have to hold something

familiar whenever I'm nervous. I'm sliding into Gabriel's

car on a warm spring afternoon. The sun has heated the

car to discomfort, and he's whirring the windows down and

turning on the air-conditioning.

Taking my keys out? Bad idea, I tell myself. Don't do it.

But I do. I search my purse to find the keys to my house.

Anxiety overwhelms me. New situation, new guv, first time

in his car. What do we sav to each other? Will this be anything

like the short conversations we've had from time to

87

is

rime in the past two weeks? Courtesy o: Sandra. After I

turned down Gabe's invitation to a party, she told him that

I was totally interested in him and that he just needed to

give me a little time. So, every few days, he's been dropping

by my locker between classes to chat.

Sandra thinks I ought to be on my knees thanking her,

but I'm not feeling all that grateful to her at the moment.

It's because of her that Gabe came to my locker today and

asked if I wanted a ride home. And it's because I can't stand

to be harassed by her anymore that I'm in his car. Well, that

and the way Gabe's blue eyes have these fascinating streaks

of green that sparkle when he looks at me.

I find my keys, pull them out of my purse, then clutch

them firmly in my hand.

"I'll get it cooled off in here pretty quickly," Gabriel

promises as he swivels one of the vents to blow straight at

me.

Pur those keys back, I tell myself. Put ;bem back in your

purse right u<nr before you lose them.

Can he tell how hard I'm gripping them?

Gabe's fingers begin to tap out a rhythm in double time

against the steering wheel. I'd take that for nerves, except

I know it's not. He's a snare drummer in the band's drum

line. Translating life into rhythm seems to be as much a

part of Gabriel as breathing is for the resi of us mere mortals.

I recognize the cadence from footbdl-season games.

3 :

I, on the other hand, do not. My grades are not roo bad:

My GPA is a 3.5. But the only subject I have a perfect 4.0

in is English. I've always been in accelerited English. It's

because words are just so much a part of me. I can't seem to

separate them from who I am or what I think.

I've just never been very excited, though, by any other

subjects in school, so I don't put a ton of effort into homework

for them. As long as I'm getting at .east Bs, I'm fine

with that. I've never felt like I had to prore myself to anyone

by ecttinc perfect grades. Sandra, on the other hand,

always has, so I can understand the mind-set. And I can tell

Gabe has it.

"Okay," he says. "I know when I'm being told to shut

up."

I look at him in surprise. Obviously, he doesn't.

"That's not what I'm saying," I tell him. "I'm just trying

to reassure you that you'll get it all done."

Me glances at me in surprise and then returns his eyes

to the road. We come up to a stoplight, where he looks at

me more carefully. "Sorry. I guess I'm just used to people

being a l l . . . I don't know, competitive . . . about the grade

thing, I mean."

I do know what he means. There's this .ittle world in the

upper echelons of the GPA ranking where everyone pretends

to support one another, but actually they all see one

another as a threat. Somehow, they think their As mean less

He deftly beats out a fight song as he battles the traffic getting

out of the student parking lot.

Some guy driving a Honda Civic is taking too long to

make a left-hand turn. When twelve feel of space opens up

in the right-hand turn lane next to us, Gabe takes advantage

of the split-second opportunity, swings into that lane, and

makes a left from there. As the Honda honks at us, I say, "I

didn't know you were so . . . determined."

He glances at me and smiles. "You should."

Yeah. I guess I actually do. He hasn't given up on me

yet.

Then again, maybe it's just confidence. When he showed

up at my locker after school and said, 'How about a ride

home?" I must have taken a little too long to reply, because

he pulled my jacket off the peg, handed it to me, and closed

my locker. "C'mon," he said, and startec off down the hall

with the expectation I would follow. And I did. It was like I

was attached to him by a string. He moved forward. I moved

forward . . . all the way to his car.

Now he's talking about school—not exactly complaining

(he doesn't really do that, I've noticed, about anything),

but as close as he comes to it. He's talking about how much

homework he has and whether he thinks he can manage to

get it all done on time.

"You always somehow do," I remind him. "You have a

perfect 4.0."

B9

if other people earn them, too.

Not a game I play, but Sandra does. She feels like she

has to make her mother's life easier by being the perfect

child. I wonder who Gabe is trying to prove himself to.

"Hev," he says as the light turns green, "it's a beautiful

day. Wanna go sit by the river for a littie while before we

go home?"

Alone?!

"Uh, sure," I say.

He t;rtns at me and takes a right turn toward the park

that sits along the banks of the Grand River.

It's a short drive, and we talk about memories we have ot

coming to this park back when we were bids.

He pulls into a parking space, switches off the engine,

and takes his keys from the ignition. That's when I reali

z e . . . I'm not holding my keys anymore.

He opens his door as if to get out of the car and then

realizes that I'm looking frantically arcund me . . . seat,

floor, area between the seat and the door. "What's wrong?"

he asks.

"Um, I, well, I was holding the keys to my house when

we got in the car, but I don't know what I did with them." I

hold up my empty hands.

"You mean you'll be locked out of the house and at my

mercy if we don't find them?"

"Well, actually, yes." I'm now dumping all the contents

91

of my purse onto the floor to see if I put the keys back in

there without realizing it. Wait, I remind myself, make sure

yon don't dump out the tampon, too. Everything else is on the

floor in front of me. No keys. I start throwing makeup,

pens, and my wallet back into my purse.

When my purse is sitting back in my lap, Gabe says,

"Here, let me look under the seat for you."

Suddenly his chest and shoulders are sprawled across my

lap. I can feel his muscles moving as he shifts around on top

of me, pulling my legs together then moving them toward

the driver's side. He maneuvers his body farther over mine,

drops his head below the seat, and starts searching under it.

His chest is warm and solid against my thighs, and 1 can't

help wondering what it would feel like to have all of him

lying on top of me this way, t o . . .

He suddenly looks up and gives me this devilish grin

that seems to ask, "Are we having fun yet?"

I can't help it. I smile. The urge to tease him back surges

through me, and before I even have a chance to think about

what I'm saying, out pops, "While you're down there, why

don't you check and see if my underwear is there, too?"

Shocked, his head whips up so suddenly that it hits the

i^love box. "Ouch!" he says. He balances himself on his

hand and then starts to scoot back across me until he can sit

up. He stares at me expectantly, tapping his fingers on the

steering wheel as I make him wait for the explanation.

"Seventh grade, remember? You and some of your

friends dared Sandra and me to go skinny-dipping, and,

while we were in the pool, you stole all our clothes."

He grins. "Yeah, I remember. But we gave them back."

"All except my underwear," I agree. "They've been missing

ever since."

He laughs. "I swear I have no idea why they weren't with

your clothes when we gave them back. And you think I've

had them all this time? No wonder you're scared of me."

"Scared of you! I'm not scared of you."

"Terrified. You wouldn't even look at me when I came

to your locker that first time."

"If I was a little uncomfortable around you, it wasn't

because of my underwear. It had more to do with what you

saw at the wedding."

He holds up his hands in a gesture of "Not my fault,"

then says, "I didn't see anything at the wedding. Honest."

He tries to keep a straight face as he says it, but there's this

mischievous quirk at the side of his mouth that gives him

away. I give him an "Oh, yeah? Try again" look, and we

both burst into laughter.

"Okay, so I saw something," he admits.

We laugh again, and then I say, "When did you decide

you wanted to ask me out?"

"I plead the Fifth."

"Oh, come on," I say. "Just tell me."

A long moment of silence passes, but I figure I can

wait him out. Finally, he kind of grins and says, "Oh, fine

then. It was when we were walking up the aisle together.

You tripped, and I had to sorta hold you up. That's when I

thought, 'Hey, I wonder if this totally klutzy girl would go

out with me."*

"No way," I say, laughing.

"Well, okay, not exactly. But it was kinda cute, y'know?

I mean, the way you grabbed my arm. Then when I looked

down at you, I noticed ''our chest had all these intriguing

freckles. Guess I thought it'd be pretty coo! to go out with

them, and maybe even with you, too. I mean, it's not like I

had fun with you at the rehearsal dinner or anything," he

teases."

"Ohmygod. I can see why you wanted to plead the Fifth.

You and Dana had just broken up and were probably on the

rebound, looking for freckled chests to pass the time with?"

"Urn . . . no. I didn't vant to answer the question because

I thought you'd be embarrassed about tripping on the way

up the aisle. You know, that plus the whole dress-and-barfing-Iater thing?"

Intelligent? Me? No: so much.

S t i l l . . . the rebound thing is a valid point. And I remind

him of that.

"Maddy," he tells me, "/ broke up with Dana. She didn't

break up with me. I'd been thinking about it for a while

anyhow. And the last fight just seemed like, you know .. .

the end. I'm not on the rebound from Dana. Forme, our

breakup was a slam dunk. I knew exactly what I was doing

when I broke up with her, and it was what I wanted."

This sounds great, but I'm still stuck on the :act that

Gabe dated the same girl for two years. That's practically

like being married. Gabe probably knows everything there

is about having a relationship, and I know . . . nothing.

Gabriel shifts in the seat and says, "You know, there's a

place we haven't looked for your keys yet."

"Where?"

"Right here." Suddenly Gabe's whole body is within

inches of mine. He puts one arm on each side of me and

reaches into the crack between the seat back and cushion,

as if searching there for my keys . . .

But then we both seem to get distracted, and—vho cares

about keys?

He's kissing me.

And it's fantastic... The warmth of his lips against mine,

the way our bodies are leaning into each other, the feel of his

shoulder beneath my hand. I don't know how long this goes

on, but eventually Gabe breaks the kiss. My lips suddenly feel

lonely as he leans back. He holds up his left hand and dangles

my keys in front of my face. "Had a feeling these vould be

back there," he says in a husky voice. There's an edge of triumph

in it. Because of the keys? Or the kiss?

I -don't care.

"C'mon," he says, and pulls away from me. Still holding

my keys, he turns toward his open door, and just before I

get my own door open, I hear him say, "No way."

I turn back toward him. "What?"

He has one foot out of the car, but now he's looking

around, even digging in the crack behind his seat. "You

won't believe this, but now I can't find my keys."

I burst out laughing. I've lived my whole life in the Land

of People Who Misplace Items, and finally I have company

there. I know I shouldn't take delight in Gabriel's predicament-. . . I should feel empathy, having just had the same

experience myself. But instead, I'm satisfied to finally know

I'm not the only idiot who can lose a set of keys from her

hand in less than three minutes.

"It's not funny," he says, but he's also smiling.

I start helping him look for the keys . . . the floor on my

side . . . the crack behind my seat (in case he lost his keys

while looking for mine), under my s e a t . . .

"Aren't you going to look under my seat?" he asks.

I stare into his eyes for a moment. The quirk at the side

of his mouth is back. A challenge.

What the bell? I think, and then I sprawl across his legs,

reaching beneath his seat, my breasts pressed against his

thighs.

"I don't see—" I start to say, but Gabe is gently turning

--:

I have only experienced it one other time on my journeys

back to haunt my own life. It was during that slumber party

where a ghostly Tammy was hanging out.

My ghost and Gabriel's made some kind of spiritual

contact, just as Tammy and I did at the slumber party. And

the tragedy is that I didn't realize it at the time, while the

ghostly me was reliving those moments in the car.

And I can't go back.

Neither can he.

We both found our keys.

A profound sense of loss is oddly accented by the presence

of Gabe's companionship.

But I don't want his company now. Not like this. Not in

death. Not as a ghost.

I want him to be alive.

I shouldn't be surprised to discover that Gabe is dead,

too. I've sensed all along that he belonged here with me in

Is. But somehow I've always imagined he was back on Earth,

still living the life I knew him in.

I can't help grieving that I'll never return to that moment

in the car . . . that moment when he First kissed me . . . that

moment where I slid so gently from insecurity at being with

him to the greatest sense of togetherness I'd ever had.

But I'm glad I can't, too. Those other moments that I've

been re-returning to seem to fade a bit every time I go to

them. It's kind of like watching the same movie over and

me over so I am lying across his lap. He's brushing my hair

away from my face, bending over me, kissing me again. I

turn my face into his hand and kiss his palm, feeling against

my lips the lines tracking across his hand. I wonder if my

name is etched somewhere on his lifeline.

I turn my head back to make eye contact with Gabe.

He's smiling. He helps me sit back up. "No keys?" he asks.

"Not under there," I say. "At least, not the ones we're

looking for right now."

We look some more for his keys, and he finally locates

them on the ground just outside his open door. He holds

both sets of keys up to show me that we've succeeded in our

quest to find them.

"Ready to see the river?" Gabe asks, dropping my keys

into my—

•

Back in Is I feel startled—and stalked.

By death.

Gabriel is dead.

Like me.

That moment when Gabriel lost his keys . . . at the time,

I thought the affinity we felt came from finding we'd had

the same experience losing our keys.

But that wasn't the only experience we were sharing.

The tugging, binding, magnetizing pull of that moment...

9J

over. You keep trying to capture what you felt when you

first saw it, but the feelings just aren't ever as . . . magical.

I can't bear to have that happen to this experience with

Gabe.

Not being able to reexperience my first kiss is, in a way,

heartbreaking, but to have never experienced that kiss at

all . . . that would be self-breaking. I wouldn't even be me

without that exact moment.

•i 99

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the underwear

age If

Even though it's dark out, I feel completely exposed as I

drop my underpants onto the ground. The water will be

cold, but I don't care. At least when I'm in that pool I'll feel

more covered up than I do standing here naked. Why was

I stupid enough to play Truth or Dare in the first place?

1 was sure that if I chose "truth," Tammy was going to—

horror of horrors—ask me if I had a crush on Gabe . . . and

he was sitting right across from me. He and Roger had been

biking down the road in front of Tammy's. They normally

don't spend any time with us, but tonight they stopped. And

1H3

First, Roger Myers appears over the top of the fence,

then Gabe follows. More giggling on the other side. I'm

about to scream in outrage, but Sandra smacks me on the

head. Sob! C'mon.'' She pushes off farther into the deep

end to hide beneath the shadows of the diving board. I don't

waste any time in following her.

Roger says, "We're just checking to make sure you're

really skinny-dipping."

"Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod," is the only

thing coming out of my mouth.

"There's no way we're letting you check that out." Sandra

obviously has more presence of mind than I do.

Roger laughs. "No choice. We'll just grab these"—he

bends over and scoops up the pile of our clothing—"and

check to make sure it's all there."

Carrying our clothes, he runs toward the fence. He throws

them over (or tries to; Sandra's bra gets stuck on the top of the

fence), then scrambles up after them. He rescues Sandra's bra

and tosses it on the other side of the fence, then jumps down

after it. Gabe shoots over the fence right after him.

"Oh. My. God." At least I've managed to change the

tempo of mv speech even if I haven't managed to find any

new words.

"It's all here," Tammy announces, barely loud enough

for us to hear. She doesn't want to get caught, either.

Roger's face reappears at the top of the fence. The

in,'

pretty soon they were just hanging with us. Maybe they

were bored, nothing else to do on a warm Saturday evening

two weeks before the end of the school year.

But choosing "dare" was a mistake—definitely a mistake,

I realize now, as I slip into the water as quickly and

quietly as I can. It's freezing, totally freezing.

"I hey better not be watching," Sandra says.

Just exactly what I'm thinking.

"And you owe me for this," she adds.

No doubt about that. Not many friends would be willing

to put themselves through this agony just so their BF

wouldn't have to do it alone. I still can't quite fathom that

Tammy has done this to me. "I dare you to go skinnydipping

in the neighbor's pool," she said at 10:15, just ten

minutes ago. Hard to believe my whole life has changed in

that time: I have become a girl who trespasses—naked—

into someone else's pool.

Can I get arrested for this?

I think I'd rather not know.

We hear muffled laughter on the other side of the fence.

Everyone is checking to make sure we're actually in the

pool.

Humiliating. 1 hank God the pool lights are off. Thank

God no one seems to be home.

The fence rattles.

"Ohmygod," Sandra breathes. "Someone's coming over."

101

muffled giggling from below him is making me feel crazy.

He tosses down our clothes. They rain into a scattered mess

in the dirt; then Roger disappears again, and within seconds

we can hear pounding feet receding into the distance

as a giggling herd stampedes its way back to Tammy's.

Quiet hangs heavy in the air again. The only sounds we

hear are the whorls our limbs make in the water.

"Time to get out," Sandra announces. We stumble over

to our clothes. No towels, of course. Not one of the amenities

offered to trespassers. The clothes stick to us as we try

to put them back on.

"I can't find my underwear," I tell Sandra.

"Forget 'em," she says. "Let's just get out of here." Her

long curly hair has already soaked the top half of her shirt. I

can't help being satisfied with the messy look of it. Sandra's

always dressed a bit too neatly. All her clothes—picked out

by Mrs. Simpson, of course—are too well coordinated. Her

socks, her hair clips, her shoes, everything all goes together.

She sometimes looks like a present that's been professionally

wrapped by someone who doesn't care at all about the

gift inside the box. But as she stands here now, in a wrinkled

and wet shirt, she seems more like the person I really know

she is. "Hurry up," she prods me.

"I can't just forget about my underwear," I protest.

"Sure you can," she insists. She grabs my arm and pulls

me to the fence.

103

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headach

o^e 16

The note comes back to me folded a few extra times.

Thank God. That must mean Sandra had an aspirin.

My head is pounding.

Throbbing. In time to Ms. Winters's voice. Chemistry

class. Just where a girl with a headache and major problems

doesn't want to be.

I unfold the note carefully, and a yellow and red Tylenol

Geltab rests on top of Sandra's writing. Right underneath

my plea tor an aspirin, she's written:

At least Winters is off on one of her tangents. You

won't have to know any of this stuff for c test. That must

help with your headache.

I write back:

It would if she hadn't decided to get distracted by

something so scientific and complicated. Every once in a

while I actually try to get all this stuff to make sense. I

liked it better the time we all managed to get her talking

about her crazy brother for the entire hour. Whose

idea was it to get her going on this quantum mechanics

thing?

I pass the note back one seat to Sandra. We don't dare

talk. We don't want to interrupt her in any way, or she'll

remember that she's supposed to be teaching us about covalent

bonds . . . that she's somehow gotten away from what

she wrote in her lesson plans for today. Quantum mechanics

isn't nearly as thrilling as some of the personal stories

she tells us when her mind starts wandering, but it still

means that in twenty minutes she'll redize we don't have

any of the information we need to do our homework and—

awesome—she won't give us any.

While I'm waiting for the note to come back, I contemplate

trying to dry-swallow this Tylenol. I was hoping for

an aspirin. I hey're smaller. This rubbery thing is likely to

get stuck in my throat.

My day totally sucks.

The note comes back:

10S

Ub . . . that would be your boyfriend who started

asking her bow the rules of particle physics influenced the

bonding of molecules. He was trying to get her off track,

wasn't he?

I take my time writing a response. .Ms. Winters looks

like she'll be going on and on for quite a while.

Probably. Are yon following this whole thing she's

trying to tell us about how subatomic particles can be both

waves and particles at the same time? Those splatter pictures

she's drawing make my head feel like it's going to

explode. I want to throw a whole bottle of Tylenol through

one of those slits and see if we get a particle or wave pattern,

you know? And okay, so maybe it's amazing that

something can be two things at once, and that observing

tbem influences which of the two they are, but I'd rather

set up a study to see how observation of that Web page

influences Dana.

I pass the note back to Sandra. Ms. Winters has moved

on to talking about how everything in the universe is connected

in ways that can't always be seen or understood.

This has something to do with photons behaving like both

particles and waves. She calls this the particle-wave duality

and wants to impress on us its importance: that at the

subatomic level no time has to pass for one particle to know

about and be affected by what's happening to another. At

the smallest levels of the universe, rules of cause and effect

ID!.

become blurred because particles can communicate with

one another simultaneously.

This is enough to make mv brain explode, so instead

of trying to make sense of it, I begin wondering what kind

of interaction two subatomic particles would want to have,

anyway. Might make an interesting short story for English

class. Maybe I can give it a bit of an Edgar Allan Poe

flair. One particle nukes another and then tries to hide

its energy under a floorboard—or maybe in a wormhole.

Thus, the second particle can never be observed again and

have imposed upon it human expectations about whether it

is a wave or particle . . . and therefore it can be neither particle

nor wave . . . or maybe it would still then be both . ..

but the universe's communication about the nuking event is

simultaneous, so does that mean that the universe (and the

humans trying to watch this event) have already taken into

account—at the very moment it's happening—the event

itself? Now, that would seem to take all the suspense out of

the story. I mean, that's sort of like everything is predetermined,

right?

Ohmygod. I can't escape subatomic thoughts. I'm definitely

losing it. If I don't stop, my head isn't just going to

explode, it's going to create nuclear fallout.

Thankfully, the note comes back.

You dont need to set up a study to find that out.

She had a screaming and crying fit in the bathroom and

10:

everyone's talking about it.

Yeah. Everyone.

Except—apparently—me, since I've missed out on all

the good gossip. That's what I get for hanging with Gabriel

between classes.

Someone anonymously published on the Web a list of

spiteful awards for Overton High School girls. Things like

Most Emo, Aberzombie of the Year, and Biggest Babble

Moron. Dana won in the Best-Looking Bitch category. I

can't help feeling satisfaction that someone else has finally

discovered the perfect adjective for Dana—even thouqh I

know that makes me a terrible person. Whoever published

those awards really shouldn't have done it. That was way out

of line. The author is entitled to his or her opinions (especially

when they're so close to the truth), but putting that

out there on the internet? Way unethical.

Still...

Missed all that. Details please.

A few minutes later, the note returns.

She was all crying in the bathroom because who would

do something that terrible to her? She's never meant to

hurt anyone, etc. Guess she was some bizarre combination

of totally hurt and so angry she wanted to kill someone.

Lacey was in the bathroom at the time, and it was enough

to even make her feel sorry for Dana. Maybe this will be

a turning point for her, and she'll start being nicer. Did

you hear that Mr. Patterson already got the website taken

downs'

Is Gabe really worth this? First he earns me Dana's

eternal enmity . . . then he keeps me from hearing all the

good gossip when she's finally managing to get what she

deserves.

I pass the note back:

How'd he manage to do that? I thought be didn't even

know who did it.

It returns:

He called the people v.'ho host the Web page, and they

agreed to take it off. Ob, and he's found out who did it.

Lucky it wasn't you.

What the . . . ? What do you mean?

Dana was telling everyone that you were the one who

must have made the page.

Me?! Oh, crap. The bells rings. I've got to take that Tylenol.

Where is it?!

ID!

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bjms£9JJinsP.wHis!?sa

f e l i c i t y ' s shoe

o$e 8

"Rrrglighgh.'" Cozy's claw slices across my wrist.

"Ouch!" I yell.

Perhaps the hat isn't such a good idea. Even as I think it,

I continue trying to tie the ribbon beneath Cozy's chin.

"If you'd just hold still," I say through gritted teeth, "I'd

have you all dressed."

Felicity, my American Girl doll, lies on the bed next to

me, naked except for her tights. It seems impossible to get

the tights on Cozy, so I haven't even tried, but Felicity's

blue and white summer outfit looks very cute on the cat. An

mi

American Girl pet: perfect. Just what I've always wanted—

well, at least ever since the idea occurred to me ten minutes

ago. I don't understand why the cat won't cooperate with me.

She struggles against me and uses her paw to try to push the

beautiful straw hat off her head. The shoe I've worked so

hard to put on her back paw goes flying through the air as

she keeps struggling.

"Stop it," I tell her.

She caterwauls in response—loud enough for Kristen

to hear. Now she's pounding on my door. "Maddy, what are

you doing to that cat?" she demands. "Let me in."

Mom should know better than to leave Kristen as my

babysitter. We fight all the time when she's babysitting for

me. She won't let me have any fun.

Cozy's still yowling, and Kristen's still demanding to

be let into the room. I try to hold the cat still as I crack the

door open. Kristen pushes her way through, and I slam the

door before Cozy can jump from my arms.

"What's going on?" Kristen asks. She stares in amazement

at Cozy. I think the cat looks great dressed in 1780s

clothing, but I can tell from Kristen's expression that she

doesn't. "You're going to ruin your doll clothes," Kristen

informs me in her best I'm-fifteen-and-you're-only-eightso-listen-to-me voice.

"Will not," I say, even though I can see perfectly well

that Kristen's right. The pretty blue hat ribbon I've tried to

tie below Cozy's chin is now in her mouth, and the sides of

it are getting all icky.

Kristen tries to grab the cat away from me, and now

we're playing tug-of-war with her. She yowls and scratches

Kristen on the cheek. Kristen screams and lets go of Cozy.

The cat slips from my hands, too. She somersaults end over

end and lands squarely on all four feet. Kristen opens the

door to let her out, and Cozy stumbles and trips over the

Felicity dress as she races through the door.

"You did that just to be mean!" I yell. Kristen's always

ruining anything I think is fun. Already today she's denied

me an ice-cream cone, refused to let me swim at the neighbor's

house, told me I couldn't watch TV because she wanted

to watch it, and now this?!

"Oh, stop being such a baby." Kristen snorts.

"I'm not a baby."

"You are, too. If you don't get exactly your own way,

you whine and cry. 'It's no fair,'" she mocks. "That's all you

know how to say."

"Well you stink as a babysitter," I tell her. "I hate vou.

I'm going to tell Mom on you when she gets home."

Kristen laughs. "Go right ahead. Tell her how I spoiled

all your fun torturing the cat. She'll give you a big lecture

about why the cat hates you and runs away whenever she

sees you coming."

"She doesn't hate me!" I yell louder, enraged. Kristen

spins around and leaves mv room. "But / hate you\ I hate

you, hate you, bate you!" I scream after her. When she still

ignores me, I charge from the room, yelling, "Everyone

hates you. You'll make a terrible mother! Your own kids will

hate you. You're—"

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STILL TRYING TO figure out this pinecone thing . . . I try

imagining that I'm putting it on a Christinas tree.

Nothing. I used to paint them for Christmas. I try

imagining I'm doing that. But I'm still here in Is.

Mom used to spray them with cinnamon scent during

the holidays and set them out in baskets around the house.

There's no smell to this insubstantial ghostly pinecone, but

I imagine myself back in a body, back in a place where smell

is possible. And I try to imagine the smell of cinnamon and

pine. I even imagine myself holding the cone close to my

nose.

And I'm still here.

Maybe I played toss with it when I was a kid. I imagine

throwing it back and forth with Kristen. With Sandra.

With Tammy.

Sti/I here.

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r&Kti&uta£Ubft&S&

a penny for your thoughts

oge V

"I think I have enough money," I say, digging around inside

my wallet to check. I'm even counting pennies. I really want

to buy these Robeez baby shoes. They are the cutest thing

ever.

Too much in my hands . . . shoes, change, wallet, purse.

I drop my wallet on the floor, and change scatters everywhere.

"Don't you dare!" I tell Kristen just as she and her eightmonths-pregnant belly are about to btnd over and help me.

"Here, hold these instead," I say, handing her the baby shoes

116

and my purse. I get down on my hands and knees and start

crawling around on the floor, scrounging up my change.

Kristen laughs at me. "You look pretty funny," she

says.

"Yeah, well, so do you," I tell her, but not unkindly.

She grins down at me. "The pregnant body is a beautiful

body."

From down here her stomach looks even bigger. It's a

wonder she doesn't just explode. "One of your pregnancy

books?" I ask.

"Yeah" she admits. "I'm trying hard to believe it. Supposedly,

I can have my real body back someday. Hard to

imagine, though."

It is. But I don't tell her that. I have most of the change.

I can see a penny under the rack, but there's a dust bunny

with it, and I'm not touching that. I'm wealthy enough to

suck up a one-cent loss.

"Just remember—" Kristen starts to say as I stand up.

I've heard this so often I can finish the sentence for her.

"Take extra precautions when you're on an antibiotic."

Kristen wasn't planning on becoming a mother at

twenty-four with only a year and a half of marriage behind

her. She had been taking the pill, but then she had to take

antibiotics to fight an infection. Apparently, they reduce the

effectiveness of the pill, so . . . whammo, she was pregnant.

She's paranoid that the same thing will happen to me.

• l . '

Not that she needs to be.

Gabe and I aren't doing anything that would get me

pregnant. Don't get me wrong. I think we've tried everything

e\se there is to try. We're having... well, a lot of fun.

So much fun, it doesn't seem like we're missing out on all

that much. Besides, just about the time we were thinking

about the whole sex thing, Kristen got pregnant.

All in all, watching your older sister puking every day is

a pretty effective form of birth control. One time when she

was at our house, she vomited so violently that she slammed

her head against the toilet seat and had a giant bruise on her

forehead for, like, a week and a half. Honest. And those first

three months, it seemed like she was in bed with a headache

whenever she was lucky (?) enough no: to be feeling nauseated.

"If you and Gabriel are—" Kristen begins. I know this

offer, too: She's willing to take me to the doctor, to help

make sure Mom doesn't know, yadda, yadda, yadda....

"We're not," I say. Then, to change the subject, I pull an

adorable green baby outfit off the rack "Isn't this cute?" It's

mint-colored and has a doggie and a kitty playing together

on it.

"Since when do dogs and cats play together?" Kristen

asks.

I roll my eyes. "C'mon. Children's clothes teach an

important lesson. This outfit is trying to tell the baby that

everyone can get along together if they just try."

I admire a pretty pink outfit on the next rack over. It

has beautiful combinations of pink and orange and yellow

flowing together in a floral print. "And I love this one," I

tell Kristen. "Too bad we don't know whether you're having

a girl or a boy."

In this day and age, who doesn't know that before the

baby's born? I just don't get why Kristen doesn't want to

know what sex her baby is. I'm reduced to having to find

every possible cute outfit in green—the only color they

make unisex baby clothing in. Well, okay, that's not exactly

true. There are a few yellow outfits that can go either way,

too. But it seems like they all have ducks on them, and how

many ducky outfits can a kid stand?

"What's the point in knowing?" Kristen asks. We've

had this conversation before, so we both approach it a little

wearily.

"Uh .. . let's see . . . planning the baby's room, buying

clothes ahead of time, just knowing what to expect when

you bring the baby home."

"Madi>on, it's not as if I'd know the baby any better just

by knowing it was a girl or a boy. I'm going to have to get

to know ii after it's born anyway. Knowing the sex of the

kid wouldn't really help me know who the kid's going to

be. Sometimes I'll be driving along, and I'll wonder what

this person inside me is going to turn out like, you know?

ii'.

I'll be thinking about the kid riding around in the car seat

and wondering if it's going to fall asleep back there because

it likes the car. Or maybe it'll hate the car and cry. I wonder

what the kid's going to laugh about for the first time. And

none of that seems to have anything to do with whether the

kid's a boy or a girl."

"Yeah," I say, "but if we knew you were having a girl, I

could buy her this way cute outfit."

"Doesn't mean it would look good on her, anyway."

I ponder that. I never thought before about the difficulties

of fashionably outfitting a baby. I mean, hair color,

face shape, all that . . . I suppose you could become obsessive

about wanting the baby to look just right and have the

clothes match the kid's looks. But, I mean, what's the point?

The kid's just going to spit up on the outfit anyway. At least,

that's what's happened with any baby I've ever babysat for.

"You know what amazes me, though?" Kristen is saying.

"Huh?"

"That this person has never been alive before. There

was a time when he or she didn't exist. And now this kid does

exist. So much of its destiny is already being determined

from inside of me. How can that be? I mean, where really

does life come from?"

"Uh . . . too philosophical for me?"

"Doesn't it just blow you away? That someone can not

l , ;

"True. But you have to remember that even if there's no

one else in the world who loves you as much as I do, there's

also no one else who can possibly hate you as much as I've

hated you over the years. That makes me qualified to assess

the situation."

Kristen smiles at me. "Thanks, Maddy. Let's get the

green outfit. If you don't have enough money to pay for the

baby shoes, I'll get them. They are cute."

"I want to get them," I protest. "I'm sure I have enough

money. Wouldn't it be great, though, if I could convince

Mom and Dad to get me a credit card?"

"No way. I know what you'd spend your money on."

We start walking toward the registers. "Oh, come on . . .

I'm not that bad. And then I'd have the money to come back

and buy that cute little pink outfit in another month if you

end up having a gi—"

I,J

exist and then all of a sudden exist} Where was this person

before conception?"

"Is this another side effect of pregnancy?" I ask.

"What?"

"All this wondering about life, the universe, and everything

in it?"

"Maybe. I don't know. Some women start cleaning their

houses frantically. Not me. I still can't stand cleaning. But I

guess I do have some bizarre and deep need to understand

life now that there's another life inside me."

We're quiet for a moment, both looking at outfits.

There's another green one that's a possibility. I pull it out

and show it to Kristen. She suddenly asks, "Do you think

I'll make a good mom? You know, a lot of this kid's life has

already been determined. But there are some things chat I

can still influence. Wonder if I'll do it right."

Okay, I could come up with some kind of smart-ass

remark worthy of the younger sister.

In fact, it's tempting.

But there's something so serious in her expression, so

insecure, so at the whim of fate, that I can't do it. "Of course

you'll make a great mother," I tell her.

"I don't know."

"I do. I've been the understudy for the part of your child

several times. I know what I'm talking about."

"You're biased."

l.'l

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E

A NEW QUESTION OIERGES: Did my sister give birth to a boy

or a girl?

I'm convinced I would remember whether her child was

a boy or a girl, convinced I'd even remember its name—if I

ever knew. After all, so many other things have come back

to me through these visits home, and Kristen's baby is so

fundamentally a part of her that I know I would remember

this baby if I'd ever m e t . . . him? Her?

So what this means is . . .

I must have died before the baby was born.

Kristen was eight months pregnant, so I must have died

some time in the month following that trip to the store.

in

Without ever becoming an aunt.

I think of all the great mysteries that humankind has

made progress toward resolving: the Big Bang, human evolution,

weather prediction, the whole Einstein relativity thing.

The one little mystery I want resolved seems so small

by comparison. I just want to know who my sister's child is.

I want to know about one little person in the whole history

of the world. Why can't I?

Okay, so maybe that's not such a "little" mystery after

all. I mean, maybe that's the entire mystery of life: who we

are, why we exist.

Still, I feel cheated. My life was interrupted right in the

middle of an important plot element.

Back when I was alive, whenever I read ghost stories, the

ghost always haunted other people. It went into the future

to see what was happening in the world as life went on for

the living. It got to find out what happened to the other

characters in its story.

Yeah. Right. I'm imprisoned within my own life. I never

get to see beyond the boundaries of what I have already

experienced.

I can see why the vision everyone alive has of ghosts is

so . . . well, wrong. No one wants to believe life really does

end this way . . . interrupted, unresolved, and unfinished.

I think back to Kristen's musings about the nature of

existence . . . and nonexistence. Her wonder about who and

i,-UNCORRECrED E-PROOF— NOT FOR SALE

ISOMs£pjlinsBiWii!»H

rattled

16 Weeks

Aah, eee, eee, ooo. Aaa-aaa, iii, eee, e, oo-oo. Oh, oom,

heee, eee, ah-ah, eee, ah-ah, ooo, oh, oh, ah-ah, eee, uh, uh,

ooo, ah-ah. Ooo, uh, ah-ah. Hee-hee, oo, uh, ah-ah, eee.

Ennn, ooo, ah, eee, ooh.

• • •

Okay. That one was . . . creepy.

My journeys back to life have been mysterious before this, but

ivhen I've returned I've always I understood what happened. I've

remembered the events I experienced. But this time it is as if I

experienced nothing.

l r :

what her baby was before it existed. Now I wonder the same

thing. Who was / before I existed? Who am I now that I no

longer dor

It strikes me that this death thing is a lot like being in

utero. My niece or nephew was alive inside my sister when

she was eight months pregnant, but that baby didn't have

the freedom to set any of the boundaries of its existence. It

was locked into a small, dark place.

Just like I am now.

And before the pregnancy? Where was that baby then?

Did it e x i s t . . . at all?

Maybe that's the next stage in my trip.. .. I'm going to

arrive at being nothing at all. . . . Death might just be the

opposite of pregnancy... going through this dormant stage

before arriving back to where we started . . . nonexistence.

Where is God?

When I was alive, I wasn't very religious. I mean, I didn't

go to church and stuff like that, but I believed there was a

god.

Now I wonder if there is. I sure want one. I want more

than this . . . n o t h i n g . . . that I'm afraid I might be moving

toward. I want to feel like more than just some subatomic...

thing . . . that can't decide whether it's a wave or a particle

so it's both. Only in my case I can't seem to decide whether

I'm alive or dead.

I'm both.

IH

No, chat isn't right. I have a memory of definitely experiencing

something, but it is .. . s o difficult to put into

words.

Color, sounds, warmth, touch. And there's one word I

knew, even as an infant: ah-ah. It matches a voice and a smell

and a touch I know well.

Mama.

She's the rock and the foundation of this experience.

But what happened in that scene? I must have lost my

rattle. It's the object that returned me to life. Did I cry?

Did my mother pick me up? Comfort me? Soothe me? T h e

rattle is still here, so she must not have been able to find it

for me.

I'm disconcerted by the whole experience and its myriad

mysteries, afraid of being sucked into that black hole by

gravity, of becoming that baby who has no words to express

the impressions of her mind.

There's no way I'm going anywhere near that rattle

again.

l:.'

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HaiK'C?iHnsPu|?li5h^s

cell communicotion

age 16

The door opens. I step across the threshold and announce

the obvious into my cell phone: "I'm here."

"So I see," Gabe replies into his cell and then flips it

closed. I do the same, noticing a strange scent in the house

at the same time. I can't quite identify what it is.

He doesn't exactly look thrilled to see me. L h-oh.

We had plans to go out tonight, but Gabe called me a

half hour ago and said, "Sorry, I just can'c go tonight." I

asked what was up. His voice sounded odd, sort of quavery

and distant, but he wouldn't tell me what was wrong. Just

I f :

He sighs. "Maddy . . . no. No way in hell." He steps

forward and puts his arms around me. "That's not it at all.

I'm j u s t . . . in a bad mood. I couldn't be decent to anyone

tonig;ht." He pulls away as suddenly as he enfolded me.

Strange again.

"But why?" I'm pushing it here, and I know it.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay. I'm sorry. I'll just leave." I turn to go, hoping

he'll stop me, but instead he opens the door to help me on

my way. I'm contemplating how appropriate that saying

is about not letting the door hit you on the way out when

there's a crashing sound upstairs. It's followed by the ceiling

shuddering in protest from whatever's happening on the

floor above. Gabe's dad.

And suddenly everything makes sense.

Horrible sense.

Ohmygod, I recognize the smell that's been bothering

me since I arrived. How could I have been so idiotic? I'm

dense.

Now Mr. Archer is stumbling down the stairs. I want to

flee the house, spare Gabe the embarrassment. But I can't

seem to move.

The smell of alcohol gets stronger as Gabe's father

descends. He appears at the bottom of the stairs, bloodshot

eyes crying to focus on me, I nearly choke in the cloud of

alcohol surrounding us all now.

ill:

said again that he couldn't go, was really sorry, would call

me tomorrow.

Too strange.

I just didn't feel right letting it go. I was worried about

him.

So that's when I made the (possibly bad) decision to

come visit. And I did at least warn him I was coming. (Oh,

okay, so I didn't give him a whole lot of warning about that.

But calling him as I was walking up his driveway was better

than nothing, right?)

Now that I see the frown on his face, I'm thinking

mavbe that wasn't so much better than nothing. He's wearing

a what-are-you-doing-here expression. This deflates

me. I'm used to the you-light-up-my-life one (even if that's

corny, it's true) that usually crosses his face every time I

approach.

.My stomach takes a dive down to my toes. What i f . ..

? How can it have taken me so long to figure out that he

might have ditched me for some other girl?

Maybe even Dana.

Is she . . . here':

My expression must reveal my absolute horror as I ask,

"Is there some other girl?" because appalled shock flitters in

his eyes as he says, "Is that what you think?"

"Well . . . I didn't. But it suddenly occurred to me just

now."

HI

"Is this the new girlfriend, Gabe?" he asks.

I glance at Gabe, but he won't even meet my eyes. "Yeah,

I am," I say. He's never officially called me that, so amid all

this other discomfort I start to wonder if I'm being presumptuous.

Can this situation get any more nightmarish?

Uh . . . yeah.

"Invite her to stay, Gabe," he says. He tries to slap Gabe

on the back but stumbles into him instead.

Gabe still won't meet my eyes. I can tell he wants me as

far away from here as possible, and, okay, let's be honest, I

feel like he's shutting me out.

It hurts.

But so does the pain emanating from Gabe, and more

than anything, I want to make Gabe's life easier.

"Uh, sorry," I say. "I can't stay. My mom's expecting me

home."

Gabe's dad grins. At least I think that's what he's doing.

Hard to tell in his current state.

"Well, then, I'll leave you two to say good-bye to each

other." Now he's trying to give us some kind of I-knowhow-you'II-say-good-bye-to-each-other look. Disgusting.

It would be horrific on any parent, but a drunk one? "I just

came down to g e t . . ."

Gabe's dad remembers suddenly why he made the Great

Trek down the stairs. "Crackers. 1 want some crackers. I'll

get those and go back upstairs." He trundles along, a little

'.ii

extra carefully, to the kitchen.

"Call me tomorrow?" I ask. I'm terrified Gabe will never

talk to me again now that I've intruded into this grim scene

from his life.

He doesn't say anything.

I swallow hard. "Is there anything I can, y'know, do for

you?"

Gabe finally meets my eyes, reaches for my hand, and

says, "Yeah."

I wait. And wait.

"What is it?" I finally ask.

"Stay," he says.

"I thought..."

He puts a finger to my lips to stop me. "I know," he says.

"And you were right. I did want you to leave. But now I want

you to stay."

He leads me into the living room and we sit on the sofa.

He puts his arm around my shoulder, and I lean into him.

"Whv'd you change your mind?" I ask.

"You've already seen the worst."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have just marched over here. It

was just, well, you didn't sound so hot on the phone, and

I thought something was wrong, and, well, it was, but still

I should have respected your need for privacy because I

should have known you wouldn't just dump me lor the night

without some reason, and that you'd tell me if you wanted

feels to me as if Gabe is . . . older than me. "Gabe, I don't

know anything about this, but I do know that I've never

been able to keep my parents from doing something they

were determined to do. Can you actually stop your dad from

drinking?"

He sighs again, pulls away from me, and flops over sideways

on the sofa. "I don't know," he says. At least I think

that's what he's saying. It's hard to tell for sure because he's

mashed a pillow on top of his face.

I try to pull the pillow away from him, but he's strong.

"The thing is," he says, "I know he manages to drink

even when I am here. But how much more would he drink if

I weren't here to try to stop him?"

Obviously not a question I can answer.

"Maybe having to try to hide what he's doing from me

slows him down some, y'know? Then again, maybe I'm just

fooling myself thinking I'm doing any good at all."

I'm still scrambling around in my head trying to find

a reply to this when he says, "Still, if there's a chance I'm

making it better, I have to try."

Seems like a psychologist would have a few things to say

about that. But even if I could figure out that he was taking

on too much responsibility here, it doesn't seem like he's

quite ready to think about that.

I run my fina;ers throuqh his hair. I'm not sure exactly

what I'm managing to say with that, but it seems to work:

1)4

me to know, and—"

"Take a breath," Gabe interrupts.

"Huh?"

He squeezes my hand. "Take a breath. Calm down. It's

not the end of the world. I'm fine. We're fine. And now you

know."

"But I don't."

He looks at me quizzically.

"I don't know at all. What it's like, I mean. To deal with

all this. To be you."

We hear his father stumbling up the stairs.

Gabe sighs. "It's been a year since the last time he had

anything to drink. Then tonight—wham! Well . . . not

even tonight. I came home from school and he was already

blotto. Must've come home from work early. Who knows

how much he managed to drink before I got here? I tried to

throw away what alcohol I could find, but shit—"

Okay, this surprises me. Gabe doesn't swear. At least not

around me. This draws my attention to how worked up he

is.

"—when he gets like this he hides that fucking stuff

who-k nows-where."

Now I'm getting freaked. The F word?

"The thing is," Gabe goes on, "I somehow feel like I can

keep him from drinking so much if I stay here with him."

My heart quivers as I come to understand irby it always

133

He lets me pull the pillow farther away. I stretch out next to

him, and navigate my way between his face and the pillow.

And since we're horizontal anyway...

And since his dad has disappeared into an upstairs stupor

. . .

And since the feel of Gabe's lips on mine and his hands

wrapping around my waist is so fantastic . . .

Yeah. W e l l . . .

At least until Gabe's dad stumbles back down the stairs.

We sit up quickly as he wanders into the living room. Mr.

Archer looks at me all surprised. And even though I know

he's drunk, it's still a little disconcerting to be so easily

forgotten. Makes me wonder what other important things

about his son he forgets when he's like this.

Then Mr. Archer wanders into the kitchen, and things

start clattering out there. Gabe jumps up and start taking

care of Drunk Daddy Dear, so I tell him, "I better go. I told

my mom I wouldn't be gone long."

"I'll call you tomorrow," Gabe promises.

I decide I should call mv mother to tell her I'm on the

way home. That's when I realize I don't know where my

cell phone is because—and this is totally me—I set it down

somewhere when I came in and wasn't paying any attention

to what I was doing. We check every surface in the

iivinq room and the front entry hall. We look under the

sofa. Behind the cushions (no kissing detours there this

85

time, unfortunately). In desperation, Gabe finally uses his

cell phone to call mine. We track the sounds of Beethoven's

"Fur Elise" back into the entryway.

Where my purse is sitting on the entryway table.

Imagine that. For once, I put something where it

belongs.

No wonder I couldn't find it, I think in disgust as I open

the bag to pull out—

m

uriCORRECTED E-PROOf-NOr FOB SALE

rii!B«£9.HLnsP.Hbnste.^ _

infected

oge IS

They're my favorite pair of earrings . . . made from old

watch parts. No one else I know has a pair like them. But

one of my ears has become so infected that turning my head

hurts, so I take the earrings out. I wish I had a convenient

pocket to put them in.

The doctor pulls the bandage away from the ulcer on

Mrs. Simpson's calf. The sight of i t . ..

My earring makes an unscheduled landing on the whitegray

tile of the exam room floor, and the contents of mv

stomach are about to proceed to the nearest exit.

1)7

A few minutes ago, the doctor had said, "You girls should

give us some privacy." Now I understand why. One patient

is enough. Cleaning up after us won't exactly make anyone's

day around here.

But here we are anyway because Mrs. Simpson's reply

to the doctor was, "My daughter can stay. Can't you, Sandra?"

So we stayed.

Unfortunately.

I swallow extra hard—several times—hoping to keep

all previously ingested substances proceeding in an orderly

fashion on their journey through the digestive track.

Why did Sandra's mom encourage us to stay?

I glance at Sandra. She looks... stressed. N o . . . distressed

would be a better word. She wants to take her mother's pain

away. A powerful force of will emanates from Sandra's eyes,

an unexpected strength at odds with the soft green of her

irises. She believes she can heal her mother through willpower.

I'm pretty sure she can't. That would bring the force of

Sandra's will up against her mother's. And Mrs. Simpson

doesn't intend to get better.

That sounds cynical, I know, but I think it's true. Having

an ulcer that mysteriously won't heal no matter what

the doctors do . . . returning to the doctor's office every

week . . . all the attention . . . yeah, this is so Mrs. Simpson's

l)B

thing. She definitely gets off on it. Apparently, the ulcer's

been bad for a while now, but in the last few days, infection

has set in . . . wonder how that happened. Has she been

doing any of the things the doctors have told her will help?

Or is she hoping this ulcer will become bad enough that

she'll need that skin-graft surgery she keeps mentioning?

And, gee, won't that just be such a risk to her life? To hear

Mrs. Simpson talk about it, you'd think it would be. I'm sure

she'll need the entire universe to revolve around her for a

good year after that.

And Sandra doesn't see how badlv her mother wants to

be sick.

So there she is, all sympathy, trying to will away her

mother's ulcer, and I'm the only one her force of will is

working on. My eyes are magnetically drawn to the same

location Sandra's are gazing—the ulcer.

It's as large as my fist. It's mostly raw and bloody-looking—

except for where the infection has started to set in.

That's whitish, and it's oozing pus.

Suppurating.

I remember reading that word once in a book about a

wounded Civil War soldier. I wondered at the time who in

their right mind would ever use that word.

I glance up at Mrs. Simpson's face and see an expression

that terrifies me . . . the pure joy on her face is evil. She's

gforf to see Sandra suffering for her.

I]'-And the word suppurating flashes in my mind again. It's

the perfect word to describe this thing on Mrs. Simpson's

feg.

And the perfect word to describe her soul.

"I'll be in the waiting room," I tell Sandra, then stomp

out of the exam room.

The earring I dropped just doesn't matter anymore.

I-:I

change at all. It'll be just fine for her. Me? Oh, crap. That

walnut in my throat just got even bigger,

I can't stand the sight of the ice cream anymore. Besides,

the whole world-around-me-getting-blurry thing is making

me feel more and more like crying, so I set the ice cream

down on the picnic table behind me. "Don't let me forget to

take that home," I manage to choke out of mv tight throat.

Thank God for something mundane I can talk about. That

makes it a little easier to elude the tears trying to escape.

"Mom will kill me if I leave that spoon here." And don't 1

know it, too? As Kristen and I were leaving for the park,

pints of ice cream in hand, there was Mom trailing along

like a magnet attached to the spoon, warning us, "We're

getting low on teaspoons. Don't you dare lose that. I mean

it. Wait! I'll get you plastic spoons instead."

We were so out of there before she could get back with

the stupid plastic spoons.

"Oh, screw Mom," Krister* says. It comes out in this

completely offhand way, like she's announcing that Mom

will be home from work on time today. It cracks me up.

But the laughter that wanes to escape seems trapped

behind the tears, and suddenly it's all gurgling up to the

surface. Tears, sobs, laughter.

Oh, gross! It's just way too much for my body, and now

there's snot trying to explode from my nose.

Kristen to the rescue with a fast move for the napkin.

I-,

UNCORRECTED E-PROOE-NOt EOfl WLE

Hacps(CojKnsPul)Ji5hers

the spoon

age 17

Ben and Jerry's Cherry Garcia . . .

The best ice cream in the world.

But I still can't eat it. There's a walnut stuck in my throat.

I can't swallow around it, and yet I won't allow myself to cry

because Kristen's trying so hard to make me feel better. I

stab at the ice cream with a teaspoon, making little halfmoon

indentations in it.

"C'mon, Maddy," Kristen says. "I'm sure it's going to

be okay."

Yeah. No matter how this turns out, her life won't

'i

She holds it out to me, and I blow my nose. Well, kind of.

Kristen's trying to hug me, so the blowing thing's not working

too well. I've never really known before how important

balance is to successfully blowing the nose.

"Everything'will be fine. I'm sure it's just your imagination."

Gee, so much for comforting me. Big Sis. Telling me

I imagined all this? When I saw with my very own two

perfectly functional eyeballs that Gabe was walking along

with his arm around Dana's shoulders? Now tbere^s a way to

totally infuriate me. "I saw them, Kristen, and it was not my

imagination. 1 hey were walking along together and he had

his arm around her shoulders. There's no mistaking that. Or

what it means."

"Yes, there is, Maddy. You've always been especially

good at taking what's right in front of vou and drawing the

wrong conclusion from it. Remember that pregnant woman

at the store when you were little?"

Way unfair. Sisters aren't supposed to remind you of

things that happened when you were, like, four years old.

"Oh, come on . . . " I start to say, but it's already too late.

She's off and running with that memory.

"Remember? You saw this pregnant woman standing

in line, and you said, 'Look, Mommv. 1 hat woman has

a watermelon under her shirt." Then when Mom tried to

explain to you that the woman had a baby in her stomach,

14)

you wanted to know why anyone would want a baby watermelon

under her shirt." She's laughing so hard that I can't

help smiling a little myself.

But I resent it.

"That's when Mom decided to buy that funny book for

us that was all about how babies were made. A little late

for ine. But at least you stopped asking about watermelons

under women's shirts."

I remain unconvinced. She can tell. When she starts in

on her next memory, I wish I had just gone along with her

and said, "Sure, I'm an idiot. Gabe with his arm around

Dana is obviously no big deal." But since I didn't, I have

to sit through Kristen's next attempt to convince me that I

suck at drawing the right conclusions from circumstances.

"And then there's that time you stole a candy bar from

Walgreens . As soon as we got out to the van, some police

car went by with its sirens and lights going. You thought

he wns coming for you, so you threw yourself at Mom and

surrendered the candy bar while begging her not to let the

police take you away to jail."

"This isn't the same thing at all. I'm not five anymore."

"I've got bad news for you: Seventeen and in love isn't

any smarter."

This from someone who's been happily married for all of

a year. Could she be any more condescending? I'm about to

tell her that, but my cell phone starts playing "Fiir Elise."

H4

swear, what you saw didn't mean anything. Dana just got

accepted to an acting program that she's been trying to get

into for two years. It means she'll get to go to Europe this

summer. I was just congratulating her."

This is supposed to make me feel better? I swear Dana

is evil. She has it in for me, has ever since I started going

out with Gabe. She's definitely still in love with him. And

she does all these little things to get back at me. Every

time I walk down the hall with Sandra and pass her and

her friends, this nasty laughter breaks out. She also drew

a disgusting caricature of me (how unfair can it he that

she has all this artistic talent she uses to hurt people?) and

hung it on my locker. It was a totally disgusting drawing. I

blush every time I even think about the way she drew my

legs wide open. I ripped the picture off my locker, but there

Dana was, standing just a few lockers down, smugly smiling

at me. On top of that, I've been getting these strange prank

phone calls. They must be coming from her. No one else

hates me enough to call and then hang up on me. Thank

God she only has my home phone number and can't do the

same thing to me on my cell.

So why, exactly, shou Id I be happy that Dana the Demon

can get my boyfriend to physically congratulate her? And

exactly why should I be reassured that she's becoming an

even better actress? It's hard enough to get Gabe to understand

how awful she treats me at school. She puts on a

U6

"Aren't you going to get that?" Kristen asks when—

duh—it becomes obvious that I'm not. What if it's Gabe? I

just can't talk to him right now.

The phone keeps beeping out Beethoven. Then stops.

Then starts again.

"For God's sake, Maddy. Answer it."

"No."

She digs around in my purse and pulls it out. "It's Gabe.

Answer it."

Hello?! Who does she think I'm trying to ovoid right

now—Santa Claus? Kristen's managed to tick me off so

much in the last few minutes that I'm not crying anymore.

She rolls her eyes at me—as if I'm the one being unreasonable

here?—and answers the phone herself. I can onlv

hear half the conversation, but Kristen's not dumb. She figures

out how to let me in on the other half:

"Sandra told you you're in trouble? . . . You really are . . .

Yeah, she saw you with your arm around—what's her name?

Dana?... I know you're crazy about my sister and she's being

an ass . . . Of course she's jumping to conclusions...."

Enough is enough. I grab the phone from Kristen,

who—I hate it when she does this—grins at me knowingly.

She walks away to give us some privacy as I say into the

phone, "Okay, I'm here."

Gabe jumps straight to the explanation. Smart guy. He's

got seconds before I hang up on him. "Maddy, chill out. I

14S

completely different persona around him. She becomes

gee-I'm-such-a-sweet-girl-who's-dealing-so-well-withour-breakup-let's-continue-to-be-best-friends-forever.

And he believes her. Well, mostly. He says he knows she

can be mean sometimes, but he also claims that underneath

all that she's a nice girl.

Right.

Rottweiler nice.

I can't even tell Gabe how I feel about Dana, because

he just doesn't get it. I guess that makes me feel even worse

about the whole thing, because I think that's the only thing

about my feelings that he doesn't understand.

So how, exactly, am I supposed to react to this hey-isn't-itgreat-that-you've-just-misinterpreted-the-whole-situation

news?

Stymied, I opt for silence.

"Maddy?"

Still opting for silence.

"Maddy?"

My throat is killing me now. I'm going to start crying. I

don't want Gabe to know it, so I flip my phone closed.

Ten seconds later, "Fiir Elise" starts up again. I let the

song run for a second, and then I just can't bear the pain I

know I'm causing Gabe, so I open it.

"Why'd you do that?" he asks. He sounds hurt, not

angry.

Ul

"I was going to cry. Still am. Didn't want you to know."

And then, there it is . . . all those mortifying tears.

"Madison, c'mon. I love you. We've been going out now

for a year. In all that time, I've never once thought about

going back to Dana. If I had, you'd know it. I'd be with her.

Bui I'm not, am I? I'm with you. And that's where I want to

stay."

Ohmygod. Now there's a torrent of tears. Somehow I'm

feeling both better and worse. Better because I know he's

right. Worse because I've been stupid.

"Where are you, Maddy? I want to come be with you."

"I'm . . . at . . . the . . . p-park . . . near . . . m-my

house."

"Stay put. I'll be there in ten minutes."

"No," I say. "Let's m e e t . . . at Kristen's house." I know

she'll give us whatever privacy we need,

"All right," he agrees.

I flip the phone closed again, then walk off toward the

merry-go-round, where Kristen is waiting for me.

MB

wrong. I don't have anything against peas, actually. When

I was little, I'd roll them around on my plate, playing a fun

game of tag. I don't even mind the taste of them.

But school peas? Those are an entirely different thing.

They're always overcooked and mushy, and if that's not bad

enough, they taste like a metal can that's been boiled.

So there's no way Sandra and I are going to resist the

urge to smoosh them. We're immediately in a mad scramble

to stomp on my peas. It's sort of like playing a video

game . . . see it, stomp i t . . . see it, stomp i t . . . see it—

Are there any adults watching? Nope? Then stomp

some more.

We both aim for the same pea, and my foot lands on top

of hers. "Ouch!" I say.

Which is funny, because I'm the one who stomped on

her. Isn't she the one who's supposed to have the hurt foot?

We crack up and then start shushing each other.

Which makes me laugh even harder, because she accidentally

spits on me when she's making the shb sound.

"Disgywring," I say, pulling away from her and knocking

my chocolate milk off the table.

Which is hilarious, because now Sandra has a poop-colored

splash on her shirtsleeve. She's trying to say something,

but she's laughing so hard she can't get any words out.

Which is the funniest thing vet because . . . well,

because <wr)'thing is funny right now. This is what I love

UNCORRECTED E-PROOf—NOT FOB SALE

school peas

age II

Sandra stands up too suddenly. Her coat sleeve is under my

tray, and as she tries to pull it out, the whole tray starts to

. My plate slides across the tray, hitting the raised lip

and coming to an abrupt stop.

The peas on top of it, though, continue their journey.

They roll right off the plate and onto the table. Some travel

as far as the table edge and then take a suicidal plunge to

the floor.

Who can resist squashing underfoot one of the most

despicable foods known to humankind? Don't get me

about having Sandra as my best friend. My stomach hurts,

my cheeks ache, I think I'm going to pee my pants, and

there's nothing I want to do more than keep killing myself

with laughter this way.

Uh-oh. We've shown up on the GPS of one of the lunch

supervisors: TROUBLE AT TABLE 4. She's on her wayover

here.

Still giggline, Sandra starts mopping up chocolate milk

with a napkin. I launch myself under the table and start trying

to herd in the peas.

I hit my head on the table.

Which is funnv, because . . . gosh, who even knows?

"What are you two doing?" the lunch supervisor

demands.

"Uh . . . cleaning up?" Sandra says.

"You'd better be. It's a mess over here."

"We are," I assure her through my laughter.

"And stop giggling. You'll just make more of a mess."

She glares at us as she moves off.

"Gee," I say after she's out of earshot, "who put the

lemon juice in her Cheerios this morning?"

Now we're almost choking on our giggles.

Until I see Tammv Havers looking over at us . . . wistfully.

She's sitting at another table with some other girls.

But the look she gives me makes me feel guilty. I can tell

Tammy misses eating lunch with me this year.

lie isi

I have nothing against her, I just want to sit with Sandra.

It's really our onlv chance to have best-friend time together.

We wouldn't be able to laugh together this way if there were

other people around.

But I know that Tammv feels shut out. And I know that

I should invite her to eat lunch with Sandra and me more

often.

"Do you have all the peas picked up?" Sandra asks me.

"Let's go play basketball until class starts."

"All except the ones that are squashed. And I'm not picking

those up."

"Really, Madison," Sandra says in her best Als. Mathison

voice. Als. Mathison is our math teacher, and she doesn't like

me. I don't know why. But Sandra figured out on the third

day of school how to imitate Ms. Mathison's voice. She's

good at it. "And who will clean up after you? Do you think

others were put on this Earth to clean up your messes?"

"No, Ms. Mathison," I say. "But I'm still not picking

them up. They're disgusting. Give me detention if you

want," I fire over my shoulder as I head toward the gym. I

can feel Tammy watching me as I go.

\\l

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT fOR SALE

HarpgrCplJins fti&MteOpain's

greater pIan

age II

"And I can put this here," I say to myself, unzipping the

center pocket of my backpack and placing my new school

planner inside. I'm going to be so organized this year. I've

already pui my whole class schedule into the grid at the

front of the book. And if I ever need co know whether I'm

supposed to be using the word affect or effect, I can just flip

to the back of the planner and . . . there it will be.

Next, I unzip the front pocket and toss in my magnetized

locker mirror. Getting ready for the first day of school

is . . . nerve-racking,

Ii4

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

ttatpfa&^BnsfiABilsn

is

THIS STUPID PINKCONE . . .

I'm frustrated enough to imagine myself smashing it

into pieces.

But it still doesn't take me anywhere.

isa

My stomach is in knots. Middle school is a whole new

thing. Will I like it? Will I get lost in this new, bigger building?

How much more homework are the teachers going to

give us? Will I be able to keep up with it all?

I don't actually want to go to middle school. I liked fifth

grade. I knew everyone. I knew where everything was. I got

good grades. I'm supposed to be excited to be moving up to

a bigger s c h o o l . , , dances and school sports, all that.

No, thanks.

At least I've got a planner to help me stay organized,

right? At least I will if I manage not to lose it—the way I

seem to lose everything,

I'd better check, just to make sure it's where I think it

is . . . but—

It. Isn't. There. Where is it? Where? Where? Where?!

I frantically start unzipping pockets. Not there. Not in

this one. I swear I put it in this pocket. Really. I swear.

"Alommmm!" I'm yelling. "Come here! I need you!"

I hear her charging up the stairs, and then she's standing

in the doorway. "What is it?" she asks.

"I can't find my new planner."

She laughs. "And here I thought you actually needed

something."

I hate it when she does that. Gets sarcastic, I mean. And

I hate it even more when she acts like things that are really,

really important don't matter at all.

IH

"I already put the names and numbers of all my friends

in it," I tell her, and then I burst into tears.

"Oh, honey," Mom says. She comes into the room and

sits on my bed, sighing. "Where did you see it last?"

"I thought I put it in my backpack. Just a few minutes

ago. And now it's gone." I wipe at tears rolling onto my

cheek. I can't stand the way my face feels all tight if I let

tears dry on it.

"Maddy," Mom says, "I don't think you're truly crying

over that planner."

"I am? I insist, sniffling. I suddenly wish I hadn't asked

Mom for help. I can tell from the look on her face that she's

about to tell me how she thinks I'm actually feeling.

As if she would know.

"It's always been hard for you to make changes, sweetie,

and this is a pretty big change. All-new building. New people

from other elementary schools. Teachers you've never

seen before."

"I don't have trouble making changes," I protest. At least

I won't if I have a planner.

Mom makes some kind of noise that sounds suspiciously

like a . . . snort.

"Cut it out. Are you going to help me or what?"

She changes the subject. "All that sadness you're feeling

right now, and all that fear you have about whether everything

is going to be okay . . . all that is good, Maddy. You

m

"No. What's ecstasy?" I ask.

Now she's laughing. As if any of this is funny?

"it means extreme happiness. Giddy happiness. The best

happiness in the world. She's saying that for every moment

of wonder and excitement, you have to pav with an equal

amount of pain."

Somehow, this doesn't seem fair. I don't understand why

God would make you pay for your happiness with pain.

Seems like we should just get to be happy. I tell Mom this.

"Ttmmm . . . " she says. "I can see why you might think

that'd be nice. Maybe the word pay isn't quite the right

description of it. I don't think it's an exchange like that. It's

more that. .. well, the two emotions are connected. They

are one thing. And in coming together they make each other

what they are. Without pain, you wouldn't understand happiness.

And without happiness, you wouldn't feel the pain."

""Let's just get rid of all happiness and feel nothing if it

means we don't have to feel pain," I say.

"You might find that boring," Mom says as she starts

opening up all the pockets of my backpack. Then she's

laughing again and pulling out my new planner. "Here it

is."

"You found it!" I shriek, reaching for it in excitement.

"Just think . . . if you hadn't experienced all those bad

feelings about losing this, you wouldn't get to feel this way

right now," Mom says, handing me—

i.a

should want to feel that way."

Right. It's official. My mother is crazy.

"1 he way you're feeling right now makes you appreciate

all the good times you have. All the pain of change

and loss . . . those make you realize how much you love the

things you have. Emily Dickinson wrote a poem about that,

you know."

Oh, please. Emily Dickinson? My mother and her poets

drive me crazy. None of my friends have parents who run

around pulling out poetry for every occasion. Shakespeare,

Dickinson, Frost, E l i o t . . . sometimes I just want to scream

when Mom starts reading me poetry. I mean, it was okay

when it was about the cat, the fiddle, and a cow jumping

over the moon, but now it's all this deep stuff she reads to

me, and she expects me to connect it to my life.

I scramble to think of something I can say to distract

her, but I'm not fast enough. Mom's already saying, "I'll just

go find that book. . . . " She's on her way out the door.

Why did I ever ask her for help in the first place?

I start looking for my planner again, but all too soon

Mom is back. "Here it is," she says excitedly. "'For each

ecstatic instant / We must an anguish pay / In keen and

quivering ratio / To the ecstasy."'

She looks at me as if I'm supposed to get this. Which I

don't.

"See what I mean?" Mom asks.

•

Yeah. I get Mom's point now. I think I have ever since I

started going back to the Daddy-Daughter Dance. The loss

of that ticket brought pain but also joy.

The Universe wants me to understand that I do have

some choices. One of the most important ones is whether

I accept painful moments and move beyond them. Forcing

pain out of life isn't always the right choice.

How come my mother (not to mention Emily Dickinson)

got to figure all this out while she was still alive?

I had to be dead to get it.

\*i

UNCORRECTED E-PROOf—NOT FOR SALE

witch s nails

age If

"I wish I could gee these stupid nails to stay on my fingers,"

I tell Sandra and her grandmother.

"Yeah, well, at least you don't have to wear this idiotic

wig. It feels like I've got a boat balancing up there."

"And my hat's supposed to be any better?"

We both break out in laughter. We might be complaining,

but we can't wait to get out there and trick-or-treat.

Years of Halloween have already provided us with standard

procedures regarding candy trades. We both keep all the

M&M's we get because we love them. But SweeTarts always

lf.C

around. She makes marvelous cookies, and she compliments

Sandra and me at least twenty times a day. She just

sort of makes me happy to be alive. She's always expected

me to call her Grandma Belle, too, so I do.

"I'd look better if these nails would stay on my fingers,"

I complain.

Grandma Belle picks one of the long green nails off

mv linger and examines the cheap adhesive on its back.

"Hfrmpf" she grunts. "I'M just find us some glue, Madison,

tor those nails of yours. That'll take care of them. They'll

stay on when Grandma Belle's finished with them." She

temporarily sticks the nail back on my finger.

We hear her rummaging around in the kitchen. I try to

straighten Sandra's clown wig. It's sliding off to the left, 3nd

strands of her curlv hair are starting to escape. "How about

a bobby pin?" I ask. "Mavbe that'll keep it on."

I'd volunteer to go up and get one out of the bathroom

for her, but Airs. Simpson is upstairs lying down because—

of course—she's just not feeling well. Another mystery

ailment that the doctor can't identify. When I went up there

to get something ten minutes ago, she emerged from the

bedroom and said, "My, what a lot of noise you can manage

to make, Madison." Then she looked me up and down and

said with a Southern drawl, "What a great witch you are."

And let me tell you, that wasn't intended as a Halloween

compliment. Somewhere along the line, Mrs. Simpson

16.'

go to Sandra. I hate them so much, I never even ask for a

trade. Now, Tootsie Rolls, though, I like enough to demand

an exchange for. I get her Snickers bars for them since Sandra

hates peanuts.

We're in the living room showing our costumes to Sandra's

grandmother before we take off for the evening. She

hugs us both. "Y'all su re look terrific," she drawls.

Sandra's grandmother is fantastic. I'm glad, too. With

the mother Sandra has, she deserves to have—and does

have—the best grandmother in the world. I just don't get

it, though. How could this wonderful woman have been

the parent of Sandra's mother? It's like trying to get your

min-d around the possibility that Mary Poppina could be the

mother of Cruella De Vil.

Grandma Belle, as Sandra calls her (that's short for

Bellerue, her grandmother's last name), is a true Southern

lady. The most important thing in her life is her family, and

she'll do anything to make them happy. [ get to see quite a

bit of her because Mrs. Simpson is always sick (or at least

she thinks she is), so Grandma Belle will fly up to Michigan

and take care of Sandra and Mrs. Simpson whenever her

daughter complains that she has the littlest headache. Mr.

Simpson is polite to her, although Sandra thinks her dad

doesn't actually like having Grandma Belle around quite so

much.

I can't see how anyone could not want Grandma Belle

161

learned the art ofusinga compliment to deliver underhanded

insults. She's the queen of it. And she manages to use a tone

of voice that really lets you know that you're being insulted

behind words that otherwise seem harmless, even friendly.

I can still hear Grandma Belle out in the kitchen rummaging

around for the glue. Then the intercom on the

phone buzzes. Grandma Belle drops everything and runs

upstairs. Her daughter needs her.

"Forget the nails," Sandra tells me. "Let's just go."

She hands me a pillowcase for what I hope is going to be

the mother lode of candy. That's when I notice that another

one of my green nails has fallen off. "Oh, skunk!" I say.

"Another one's gone."

Sandra and I get down on the floor to look for the nail,

but we can't find it. After a few minutes, I say, "Oh, just

forget it. Let's go."

I rip off all the other witch's nails, too, and leave them

sitting on the coffee table in the living room.

Maybe Mrs. Simpson will want them for the tinishing

touches on the costume she should be wearing ever)' day.

'61

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

Hanw.tCa!|it>A.^SJM!??iA __

pass to class

ooe 17

My arm gets tangled up in the phone cord as I'm trying to

hang it up.

Stupid t h i n g . ..

Stupid school policy, too. Why can't we just use our

cell phones? It would be so much easier for me to call my

mother on that than to have to get a pass from a teacher to

use the office phone....

Stupid . . . oh, all right. . . stupid me. I wouldn't even

be making a phone call if I had remembered to bring my

homework to school. I've just had to listen to Mom drone

l;i

on and on about how she was not happy to discover she'd

have lo leave work, drive home to pick up my homework,

and bring it back to me . . . all by sixth hour. I'm certain to

have to listen to more of the same over dinner tonight, too.

I grunt out my frustration as I pull my arm out of the

super-long, must-be-ab!e-to-go-anywhere-in-the-office

phone cord. Vice Principal Patterson's office door opens,

and the air current whisks my pass right off the counter and

onto the floor of the forbidden territory lying beyond the

Great Counter Divide.

Must have pass to go back to class.

Must not cross the border into the sovereign territory of

principals and secretaries.

Now what?

Wait.. .why are the cops coming out of Mr. Patterson's

office? This does not look good.

Tammy follows the police, and Mr. Patterson brings up

the rear.

This looks even worse. Somehow, Tammy's gotten

caught. The question is, at what? She's done enough illegal

stuff that it's anyone's guess. But mine is the whole drug

thing.

My great deductive skills are confirmed when she catches

my eye as she walks through the gate separating the Land of

Office Staff and the Land of Students. Her eyes flash at me

with something so . . . feral . . . I'm terrified. Maybe she's

W

smarter than to threaten my life verbally in front of the

police, but she communicates effectively with her eyes. The

message You're dead stabs me with knifelike force.

I swallow.

I look away.

Tammy follows the policeman out of the office, but even

as the door closes behind them, I can still feel Tammy's eyes

on me through the glass window between the office and the

hall. She thinks I've told someone about what I saw in the

bathroom a few weeks ago.

"Can I help you?" one of the secretaries asks me.

Probably not. Unless you're good in hand-to-hand combat.

Or have a weapon I can use to protect myself. "Ummm,"

I say, "my pass? It fell onto the floor on that side. I need it

to get back to class."

She glances around at the floor. "I don't see it here. Are

you sure it fell on this side?"

"Yeah."

She looks around for a few more seconds and then gives

up and writes me a new one.

All in all, I'm glad it's taken a little extra time to clear up

the pass issue. It's pretty certain that the police have gotten

Tammy out of the building by now.

I'd rather not see her at the moment.

lift

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!&HBgSMiMftfefebgg&

baby doll

age I

"Mommy, play now."

"It's time to go to sleep now, Madison. Lie down. I'll

cover you up. See the Pooh Bear blanket? He's waiting to

cover you up."

"I standing up!"

"I know you're standing up. Lie down now and go to

sleep."

"Play. I play now."

"No, it's sleepy time now. We'll plav tomorrow. There's

a good girl. Lie down now. See how nice it is when Pooh

•i}

Bear covers you up? I love you, sweetie. I'll see you in the

morning."

"Need Baby Sarah Give me Baby."

"She's right there at the foot of the bed."

"Give Baby Sarah. I want Baby Sarah. Please give Baby

me."

"Here you go. Here's Baby Sarah."

"Baby Sarah bad. She not eat all dinner."

"She didn't? You didn't eat all your dinner, either, did

you? Maybe Baby will be good tonight, though, and go

right to sleep."

"Baby no sleep. Baby play. Maddy playing, too."

"Night-night, Maddy."

"All gone Mommv. Baby, Mommy all gone. We play

'gether now. I standing up. Baby. When we ate dinner. Baby

Sarah cry and said I don't want eat dinner. I don't like carrots.

Then Daddy ma:l at Maddy and Baby Sarah. Daddy

said eat. Daddy said ;at carrots 'cause they're good and

make grow. Like milk. Milk make my grow, too, Baby. But

my and Baby said no. And Mommy said. Mommy said when

no cake. Baby make Maddy bad girl.

"I laying down Baby. We sleep. But Baby Sarah isn't

sleeping now. Bad Baby. Bad Baby didn't no carrots. Bad

Babv, time to go sleep, but play instead. Time out, Baby

Sarah. Time out. Sit :here, Baby. Still playing. Baby. But

time out. Bad Baby go under bed. Time out.

"Now, Baby, be good baby. Sleep. Baby sleep . . . 'cause

my a good g i r l . . ."

• • •

". . . Today I go :o babysitter house . . . Mommy take

me. But I not cry 'cause. 'Cause—I not cry 'cause Mommy

come back . . ."

"How's my sweetie this morning? Time to get up and

go. We'll have a good breakfast this morning. How about

some pancakes?"

"Pancakes yes. My love pancakes. Baby. Where Baby

Sarah? Baby breakfast too."

"7 don't knot? where your baby is, Maddy. She was in bed

with yon last night. I dm't see her. Lei's look under the covers...

No. She's not there. Behind your pillow? Not there, either. We

can find her later, swettie. We have to get ready to leave now or

Mommy will be late fo>' work. Come on. . . . Oh, you're getting

heavy to carry."

"Want Baby now . . . want Baby now. Baby can't

find—"

Not so freaky as going all the way back to being a baby.

But still.

Definitely freakyenough. I mean, it's like I know what's

happening but also like I don't know what's happening.

Worth a second try . . .

••:'»

. .. And a third try .. .

• • •

. . . I'm not sure what fascinates me about being two

again. The fee! of that wet diaper in the morning? So not

that. It's almost enough to keep me from going back there.

But not quite.

It must be the way it feels to have Mom pick me up and

carry me away from my bed. Or the feel of falling, falling,

falling asleep.

Traveling back to two is way less disconcerting than

going back to infancy. I can at least name things while I'm

two. I think that's why the baby experience disturbed me so

much. No language there.

This realization helps me understand how being dead

now is different than, well, the last time I wasn't alive.

There had to be such a time, right? I mean, there was a

time before I was born, and my body wasn't alive then, but

I must have had a soul, an energy, a something in existence. I

couldn't have come from, well, nowhere, could 1? According

to physics, energy is never created or destroyed. I'm a form

of energy, so I must have existed in some form before life.

Only, back then I don't think I knew that I existed.

Because I didn't have language. I guess the reward for having

gone through a whole lifetime is gaining language.

Here in //1 still get to use words. Silently only, maybe. But

I still have them.

I guess I'm an old soul now.

Or maybe just not a new one.

Makes me realize how powerful words are. They have

some kind of miraculous ability to make me who I am.

Or was.

No, am. Because I still have them.

UNCORRECTED E-PflOOF—NOT IOR SALE

H^tper Collins Puf>iis_ht.n

photo in the wind

age 17

The scrapbook and folder of pictures is slipping around in

my arms. Too much stuff. I'm bound to drop it and lose half

my pictures in this ridiculous wind. I shouEd have accepted

Gabe's help carrying this stuff into the house.

Too late now. He's pulling out of the driveway.

What's that on the front porch? It's right in my way.

I'm not sure I can manage to step over it while juggling all

this—

"Ohmygod!" I scream, dropping everything, I don't

care what happens co it.

trickled from her mouth at the end. That same mouth with

the scratchy sandpaper tongue she used so many times to

lick ice cream off my lingers.

"Who'd do this?" I choke out around sobs, pulling away

from Gabe.

"No one," Gabe says. "At least not on purpose. It was an

accident. She must've gotten hit by a car."

I can't tell if he's trying to protect me or if he's actually

this stupid. Either way, I'm not putting up with it.

I turn my back to Cozy. I can't stand to see her as I confront

the universe with this cruelty. "She's not in the road,

Gabe. If she'd been hit by a car, she'd be in the road."

"Maybe a neighbor—"

"She's arranged, Gabe. Posed. Someone wanted us to see

her this way." I discover that I'm whispering, trying to protect

Cozy, for God's sake, as if I don't want her to hear the

truth about what's happened to her. As if she doesn't already

know. She was there.

But still I whisper. "A neighbor wouldn't stick her on the

porch for us to . . . to stumble over."

"Maddy, I'm sorry. I know you loved her."

"I've loved her for ten years. Why? Who hates us enough

to kill our cat?"

"I don't know what happened here, Madison. But I just

can't believe that someone . . . someone . . . y'know—"

"Killed her, Gabe. Someone killed her."

Words cannot express the explosion of emotion erupting

from me. It escapes in hysterical screams. I hear them.

They're loud but not loud enough to release this surge of

emotion. That's all I can do: release it. So I throw every bit

of my being into screaming louder, screaming from somewhere

deep inside me that I didn't even know existed.

Gabriel's tires screech on the cement as he pulls back

into the drive. From somewhere far away, I process that

he's coming, running toward me, so I stop screaming and

start crying as he reaches for me and wraps me in his arms.

"It's okay, it's okay," he's saying as he presses my face to his

shoulder and strokes my hair, but then he's swearing—gently,

softly. An obscene lullaby takes shape as he alternates

between reassuring me and expressing his shock in fourletter

words.

My horror converts to anger, and I push away from him,

saying, "It's not okay. It's not. She's dead. Cozy's dead."

And the worst is that "dead" doesn't even begin to

describe what she is.

Mutilated...

Broken . . .

Crushed...

Blood around her head has matted her hair in clumps.

Her legs, broken, are arranged in an unnatural shape. Her

tail, that once-proud flae; proclaiming her cathood, is limp

and bent. The saddest thing I notice is the dried blood that

"No, Maddy, I don't think so. It's bizarre, you're right,

finding her here like this, but it has to be that someone was

stupid enough not to realize this isn't how you bring someone's

cat back after it's been hit by a car. Some kid, maybe,

who doesn't know any better. C'mon."

What he's saying makes a whole lot more sense than

what I'm thinking. I let him pull me back into his arms. I

want to believe him.

But I just can't.

The air around me seems to mold itself into an ominous

shape. It presses against me so hard that I can barely

breathe. I've become prey to a new feeling I've never experienced

before. Something out there is tracking me down.

I can feel it. Something has caught the scent of my blood.

And I don't know how to escape it, because I don't have any

idea which direction the threat is coming from.

Gabe kisses my forehead.

"I never figured out what her third name was," I whisper,

holding him even tighter.

"What?"

I can tell he thinks I'm losing it. Maybe I am. "Never

mind," I say. I wish he understood what I meant, but I don't

have the energy to explain Mom and T. S. Eliot's theory

about cat names—or that I've caught Cozy over the years

contemplating this secret she's managed to keep from me.

Gabe whispers, "Go in the house. Call your mom and

l?S

dad. I'll pick up all those photos and come in to sit with

you."

I do what he tells me.

Because I can't look at Cozy again.

Because even though I don't care about my scrapbook

right now, I know I will someday.

But mostly I do because I'm afraid that whatever is

stalking me will return, and I'm scared to stay out here

any longer. I step through the front door, expecting my

house's crisp scent of eucalyptus to offer some comfort. Dut

it doesn't. I sense that the house is grieving the loss of Cozy,

too.

Is feels emptier than it ever has when I return this time, but at

least I'm feeling some hope: Maybe Cozy never did actually

know what happened to her in those final moments. After

all, I don't know what happened in my hnal moments.

And now I realize something important: .Maybe I

shouldn't want to know so badly what happened to me. 1

remember that trickle cf blood matted along Cozy's jaw,

and then 1 recall the oppressive feeling of being stalked

that hit me just before I went into the house. I'm afraid that

whatever was stalking me . . . found me.

What if...

What if my predator caught Gabriel in its net, too?

Vi

It's an appalling thought.

God, if you're out here somewhere amid all this clutter

from my life, please tell me that whatever happened to

Gabriel, it wasn't that.

v,\

UNCORRECTED E-PRDOF—NOT f OR SALE

e ring

age 17

''You're paranoid," Gabe says.

"I am notl" This whole home-alone-with-Gabe thing

isn't going the way I thought it would. Here I am, with my

boyfriend, in my own bedroom where we could be comfortably

horizontal on the bed together, no parents barging in

(they're with Kristen, helping her paint the baby's room),

and what are we doing? Fighting.

"You are, too," Gabe says. "This is just silly."

Okay, being told I'm silly and paranoid? This takes me

to an all-new level of anger. It isn't helping any that I'm still

1JB

shaking from the car accident—even if it was three hours

ago. I was so upset right after it happened that my parents

weren't going to leave me alone to go do the painting at

Kristen's. I convinced them to go, thinking time alone with

Gabe would help me more than hanging out with my parents

would, but now he's not even concerned about the way

his ex-girlfriend almost killed me.

More than t h a t . . . he's defending her.

"You weren't there, Gabe. I'm not being silly and paranoid.

I'm telling you, she hit me on purpose. We were both

stopped at a stop sign. I had the right of way. She looked

directly at me and then drove that Mercedes straight into the

driver's side of my car. She wanted to hurt me."

"That doesn't even make sense. Why would she mess up

her parents' car?"

"Uh, hello? Because she wants to hurt me? Because she

still wants you back?"

"Jesus, Maddy. You and I have been together for a year

and a half now. It's not like she would think I'm going to go

running back to her anytime soon. And hitting you with a

car wouldn't do anything to get her back with me anyway,

unless she killed you or something. She's not a murderer.

You're the one who's jeal—"

He's just admitted that he'd go back to her if I were

dead, and he thinks he's going to go on happily accusing me

of being silly? "See?! You just admitted you'd get back with

m

her if I were dead!"

"I did not'. How crazy can you ge:, Moody? You know

that's not at all what I meant! Your jealousy is driving me

insane. You've never been able to let go of thinking that I

still have a thing for her. No matter what I do, I can't get

you to let go of that."

"Well, gee, Gabe, it might help if you'd stop defending

her. Maybe then I'd believe that you cared about me more

than you do her."

"I do! But I'm not going to believe that Dana hit you

on purpose with her parents' Mercedes. Sometimes she's

awful. I admit it. But she's not that crazy. And she isn't trying

to kill you."

Okay, I start crying. I can't explain to him how . . . insecure

I've felt since we found Cozy deed on the front porch

a few weeks ago. That strange sense of being hunted hasn't

gone away. It's just intensified. And today, as Dana was pulling

that car straight into me, it was like my predator finally

Lituijhi me. Tune seemed lu slow, lo lauuli al ilie way I'd

been captured.

"This isn't just me being paranoid or jealous, Gabe. I

mean it. She wants me dead. I think she even killed Cozy."

The strangest look crosses his face. It's terrifying to me

because I can tell he thinks I've gone off the deep end on

this one. I feel more alone than I've ever been in my life.

And all those feelings roil inside me with anger. How dare

130

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biitp.?.d;.9illns.Pyfeiis!)Sfj.

o s i n j myself or disney world

oge 6

Hot, . . h o t . . . hot. The sun beats down on us. I love the

Magic Kingdom, but I'm tired of the heat and just plain

exhausted. The sun glares off of everything. And my face

feels gritty with sweat. My hair is soaked. Mom and Dad

have even decided that we all need popcorn to replace some

of the salt we've lost from sweating.

1 like that idea.

I take a piece of popcorn and drop it, watching it fall. It

seems to float slowly in the heavy air. When it finally hits

the ground, I kick it with my foot. This place is so glittering

IBi

he not believe me? I thought he loved me.

I grab a small ring off my vanity (I'd use something bigger

if it were in reach) and whip it at him where he's standing

in the doorway.

The I-don't-know-this-girl look that crosses his face is

too much I'm humiliated. He's right—I am psycho right

now. I owe him an apology, and yet, even though I know

this, and even though humiliation has just been added to

the emotional stew I've been cooking, I feel like I hate Gabe

right now.

And I hate him even more when he turns on his heel

and simply walks away from me. His feet pound quicklv

down the stairs, and then I hear the front door slamming.

Still crying, I wander over to the doorway and get down

on my hands and knees to start searching for the missing

ring. It isn't valuable or anything. It's just a ring that my

grandma gave me for my twelfth birthday. But it seems

incredibly important that I find it right now. I've lost so

much else—iny cat, my boyfi lend, my samly. I LUII'L beai lu

lose this r:ng, too. It feels as if finding it might help me find

all the other things I've lost.

Something metal brushes against—

IB1

and clean, I'm happy to see the lonely popcorn piece on the

ground.

"But 1 want to go back on the Big Thunder Mountain

Railroad ride," Kristen moans.

I kick the piece of popcorn along as we walk. This is

one of my favorite things to do. Walk . . . kick . . . walk . . .

kick...

"We will," Mom reassures her. "But your father wants

to take you on the Jungle Cruise first."

"You said we could go through the Pirates of the Caribbean

ride again," I whine. I feel betrayed. I give my popcorn

piece an extra-hard kick. It skitters off and I lose sight of it.

This. Is. It.

The end of the world. It's too hot. I don't want to see

anything else except the Pirates of the Caribbean ride,

where it's dark and cool. I'm tired. My eyes hurt. My feet

hurt. My head aches.

And now I've lost a piece of popcorn.

A piece that was very important to me.

I can't help it. I begin to cry.

My family hasn't even noticed that they've left me

behind. They keep right on walking. Fine .. . if they don't

care about me, then I don't care about them, either. I'll run

awav and live in the Swiss Family Treehouse that we saw

earlier today. All by myself. Forever.

Only . . . that's not sounding quite so great now that I

193

can't even see my family anymore,

I panic.

I start crying even harder.

Suddenly, Mom and Dad are standing in front of me.

"Madison, stay with us!" my mother starts to chastise me, but

then she notices how hard I'm crying, so she wipes my face

with a Kleenex instead. "C'mon, sweetie," she says. She reaches

for my hand and pulls. I yank my hand away from hers.

"What is i t , honey?" Daddy asks.

"My popcorn," I wail.

"It's right there in your hand," Daddy tries to reassure

me, gesturing to the bucket I'm still holding.

"No," I explain through my sobs. "I was kicking a piece

and I lost it."

A strange silence descends between them, even as all the

noise of the Magic Kingdom surrounds us.

Then Mom says something really strange to Dad, I

hear something that sounds like "object attachment." Even

though I don't understand those words, I know Mom's tone

of voice. It's the one she uses when what she really means is

"Maddy's difficult. I can't wait until she's older"—even if

those aren't the words she's saying.

"C'mon, sweetheart," Daddy says. "I'll give you a piggyback

ride."

I climb on Daddy's back, and we move on toward

Cinderella's Castle.

IS*

But let's face it, I'm not talking about "you" right now.

I'm talking about me.

The same me who—even in death—is incredibly

attached to these things because they take me back to who

I was. Somehow, though, it doesn't seem quite as fulfilling

as it once did to have a relationship with a piece of popcorn

that I'm kicking along on the pavement...

Kicking... I suddenly realize I haven't tried that yet with

the pinecone. I've imagined myself doing every other possible

thing that can be done with it. But I never envisioned

myself kicking it as I walked along. Could that be . . . ?

I swim myself through the currents of space until I find

the pinecone, and . ..

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

is

MOM AND DAD'S COMMENT about "object attachment" suddenly

makes perfect sense. I've always had some kind of

connection to the things I've owned. Losing them left me

feeling bereft because they were linked to everyone and

everything in my life that was important. And unlike the

people I loved, I could control them—at least I could when

I wasn't losing them.

Objects are safe, too. I mean, they don't change much. A

pen stays a pen and a set of keys always unlocks something.

You can go back to the object, hold it, remember who you

were when you loved it. That's something you can count

on.

I:i

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HaggfialllMfafelJslM

the pinecone

age 17

"What am I going to do, Maddv?"

I kick the pinecone along as we walk down the trails

of the park. I know I need to get out of my head, where

the image of Gabe's and my light last week is on automatic

replay 24-7. We still haven't talked to each other, and I can't

stop wondering if this is the end of our relationship. Our

gazes have met across the hallway several times, and I keep

wanting to go up and tell him how sorry I am that I threw

that ring at him.

But I just can't. I guess it's the humiliation. And the

IB' IB.1

fear . .. that he won't accept my apology. And—let's face it,

I'm still angry at him, too, about Dana.

I keep expecting to see him walking down the hall with

her or something.

Only—thank God—he doesn't.

He just looks at me like he wants to talk to me, too, but

can't.

It's hard to stop thinking about all that and pay attention

to Sandra. But I have to do it somehow. She needs me

right now.

Some friend I am . . . only half concentrating on what

she's saying.

And the thing is . .. the decision she makes about this

whole mess is going to have an impact on me. What if I lose

my best friend, too? I can't bear that. It almost makes me

want to give her what I know is the wrong advice. Because if

she does what's right, I will lose her.

Sure, if she moves to Oregon with her dad, she'll still

email me and call. Even come to visit sometimes. But it won't

be the same. Gradually the emotional distance between us

will match the distance between .Michigan and Oregon.

The pain of that realization slices through my obsession

with Gabriel and helps me concentrate on how important

this really is.

"I don't want you to leave, Sandra. / want you to stay

here with your mom, but your mom's . . . well, not quite

her alone will kill her.

"But how can I go off with Dad right now and leave her

by herself? It's like she'd die. Maybe even kill herself."

Too late—obviously. Mrs. Simpson has already convinced

Sandra she's responsible for the life and death of her

mother.

Still, Sandra's comment shows progress—sort of. Sandra's

never admitted before that her mom is this kind of

unstable.

But a response to the comment is also tricky. I'm not

sure exactly how to approach this subject, so I sound totally

stupid as I talk in slow motion. "At least. . . if you go . . .

now . . . you'll have, well, your dad . . . he'll help vou get up

the .. . courage . . . to do it. You'll have him . . . reassuring

you t h a t . . . well, that you need . . . a life, too. And if you . . .

leave with him . . . won't your grandma . . . I mean . . . can't

your mom . . . live with her parents? If you weren't here . . .

maybe she'd . . . maybe she'd move back South . . . with

them."

"She says she won't. She's going to stay right here, and

she wants me to stay with her."

Great. Just great. It's like Airs. Simpson has already

anticipated all mv moves and put her game pieces in place

to defend against them. She's not a woman I ever want to

plav chess with.

Yet that seems to be exactly what I'm doing.

right. You know that. How could you stand to live with her

without your dad there to help you manage her?"

There ought to be a law that says parents can't get

divorced during their kids' senior year of high school. They

ought to have to stick it out until the kids are gone so they

don't disrupt the most important year of our lives.

"But if I stayed," Sandra argues, "it'd only be for the

rest of this year, right? I mean, in eight months I'll be going

away to college."

"Sandra . . . It's hard to figure out how to tell her this.

She's always been so touchy when it comes to talking about

her mother. There's a lot about her mom that she just won't

admit to herself . . . like that her mother's a really sick

woman—and I'm not talking physically. "I'm not sure that

you'll go to college if you stav here with your mom."

"I'm going to college. There's no way I'm not!" she protests.

"Oh, I know you'll take college classes. But, well, I don't

think you'll go away to college. I think your mom will manage

to convince you to stay at home and go to community

college. Or maybe she'll convince you to go part-time so

you can commute to a university. B u t . . . " I kick the pinecone

a little too hard, and it skitters off the path into the

grass. I track it down but have to kick it a couple times to get

it back onto the path. "Can you see your mom living alone?"

I just know Airs. Simpson will convince Sandra that leaving

In frustration, I kick the pinecone too hard again, but

I'm so focused on Sandra that I don't pay much attention to

where it's going. " See? That's what I mean. She'll do that to

you again next year when it's time for you to go to college.

Convince you that she'll be all alone if you leave." I want to

tell her that her mother is seriously crazy, but my credibility

in the judging-people's-sanity category has plunged to an

all-time low. Even Sandra thinks it was nuts that I accused

Dana of killing my cat and trying to kill me. Better that I

not mention anything related to, well, mental health.

We're both silent for a moment as I look for the pinecone

off the path. I don't find it. Sighing, I sit down on

the grass. Sandra's still standing, and as I gaze up at her, I

notice that in the past few months she's gained weight. I'm

surprised. How could I not have noticed until this moment

that she's put on about fifteen pounds? Have I been that

absorbed in my own life? She's lost that birdlike fragility

I've always thought of her as having, and I mourn its loss—

not because she's less pretty than she used to be, but because

the difference in her shows me how much everything has

been changing lately.

"She thinks you'll try to get me to stay, you know."

"What do you mean?" I ask, patting the ground next to

me, encouraging her to sit.

She does. "Whenever we have this conversation at home,

she tells me to ask vou what to do. She thinks you'll try to

m 191

gel me to stay here with you."

I can just imagine those scenes. No doubt Sandra's mom

is crying and pleading. She'll use tuny dirty tactic she can

to keep Sandra tied to her. I'm glad I've managed to think

about Sandra's best interests instead of my own for once.

I know I'm selfish sometimes, but selfish enough to try to

keep Sandra under the spell of her mother?

No. Not that selfish. I'd rather lose my best friend and

have her get the chance to lead a somewhat healthy life than

keep her near me if it means living with her mother.

"Don't get me wrong, Sandra. I wish you could stay. I

wish your dad wouldn't leave. Couldln't he get a job around

here?"

She shakes her head sadly. "He says he has to get away

from her, too. And he wants me to go with him. He thinks,

like you do, that it'll be bad for me to stay here with Mom.

But I don't see how he can just walk away from her like that.

She needs us. She's defenseless without us."

"Or she wants you to think she is. She doesn't have to

be." I don't add that her mother is anything but defenseless,

She's one of the strongest women I know. She uses the

appearance of weakness to get people to do what she wants

them to. "Much as I want you to stay here—and I definitely

do, Sandra—I want even more for you to be happy. And

you'd never be happy here alone in that house with your

mom. You know that, don't you?"

19i

go away. I only kind of got what she was hinting at, but I got

it enough to know I was scared and had to go home."

There's a moment of silence between us. "How often?"

I finally ask.

"How often what?"

"How often does she threaten to kill herself?"

"Oh, I don't know. Sometimes she'll go a couple years

without ever threatening to kill herself. Then suddenly she'll

be threatening her life every day for a couple weeks. Do you

know how many different ways there are to kill yourself? I

do. I think my mom's said she was going to use every one.

The whole thing has always scared me, but not as much as

it does right now. It's somehow different."

I doubt it. "How? How is it different?"

Sandra shakes her head. "I don't know. I can't explain it.

It just is."

I put my arm around her and hug her. There's nothing

I can say to make her less afraid. Right now I have to find

strength I don't think I have to help support her through

this. Her latest confessions have only made me more convinced

that she has to go live with her dad in Oregon.

"C'mon," I say. "Let's go swing."

She glances over at a row of swings where we used to

play together when we were little. "Okay," she says.

We get up slowly and take off toward the swings.

"Yeah, I do," she admits. "It's just so hard to do what

I should. I'm terrified that—" She pauses for a moment,

unsure. Then she plunges ahead. "She's been threatening to

kill herself. I think she might really . . . this time . . . I mean

now . . . How do I tell you all this? There's stuff I probably

should have let you know before."

There's wore?! I suddenly feel betrayed. I guess J

shouldn't have assumed I knew everything about Sandra,

even if she is my best friend, but still I don't like hearint;

that she's been keeping secrets from me. Especially about

her mom.

When Sandra doesn't pick up the thread of her thoughts,

I prompt her by using my knee to nudge hers.

"Well, it seems like my whole life she's been threatening

to kill herself. The first time I remember it, I was in, like,

first grade, I think. She started waving around a butcher

knife while she was having some fight with Dad. Told him

she'd kill herself."

It's not hard to figure out who won that fight, but I keep

my mouth shut about it.

"When I went to camp during fourth grade, remember

how I had to suddenly go home?"

"Yeah. Your mom got sick."

"Well, sort of. She called and told me she had this bottle

of pills that made her feel better while I was gone, but she

thought she'd need to take a lot of them to make all the pain

IV!

UNCORREC r£D E-PROOf—NOt FOR SAlE

physics

age 17

It's a beautiful fall day. Perfect for sitting outside the school

to eat lunch. The leaves are all golden and orange, and a

breeze is teasing them out of their branches so they fall

swirling around my feet under the picnic table.

Too bad I can't enjoy the day's beauty. I'm miserable.

Miserable because I'm feeling lonely without Gabe. We

still haven't said anything to each other since the fight about

my car accident.

Miserable because Sandra didn't even come to school

today. She must be that overwhelmed by the choice she has

US

to make.

Miserable because I didn't manage to finish my physics

homework and it's due in twenty minutes.

Miserable because my sister went into labor this morning,

but my parents wouldn't let me go to the hospital with

her. They insisted I should go to school, since first babies

take such a long time to enter the world.

Can't say I blame babies for that. Who'd really want to

enter this messed-up experience called life?

I'm so intent on all this that I don't realize at first that

I've been playing with my necklace . . . the one that Gabe

gave me last summer. It's silver, and in the center, it has

seven different charms that spell out FOREVKR.

Yeah. So much for that. We aren't even talking right

now.

Tears blur my eyes. Then I'm startled by a soft touch on

my shoulder. I jump and whirl around, gasping.

Gabe.

He holds up his hands in a classic "I'm innocent" gesture.

"Didn't mean to startle you," he says.

"You didn't," I say, so desperate to be nice to him that it

takes me a second to realize how obviously that's not true. "I

mean," I stutter, "I mean, you did, but I'm glad you did."

We just gaze at each other for the longest time. T hen

he finally says, "Did you get number eleven?" He nods his

head toward my physics homework. "I worked on that one

to move forward with you, but I don't want to give up my

past. And even though I know Dana can be a complete pain

sometimes, I can't believe that I'd spend two years going out

with someone who's the kind of monster you keep trying to

convince me Dana is."

I look down at my physics homework. The wind is catching

the edge of it, flipping up the bottom half of it. Only

my cardboard container of uneaten french fries is holding it

down. At the moment, it's easier to look at that paper than it

is to meet Gabe's gaze. I feel so much . . . shame. Everything

he's saying makes sense. But I don't know how to respond to

it, because I stil 1 feel an intense fear of something, but I don't

know what is. I'm not imagining bogeymen here. There's a

real monster out there somewhere, and it's as likely to be

Dana as anyone else.

And yet what if she is just a nonnal girl? What if she

didn't purposefully cause that accident? Then who killed

my cat?

"I'm not sure what to say, Gabe. I love you, too. I've

been miserable without you the last week. I don't want to

put you in a bad spot."

He puts his index finger under my chin and lifts it up.

Then he kisses the corner of my mouth. It's a soft kiss, like

the fluttering of a butterfly's wings, and I want more. I turn

to face him and, putting my arms around him, lean in for

a real kiss. Something greater than either of us seems to

m

for about a half hour last night and never did get it to come

out right."

Great. Just great. And I have, what, twenty minutes to

finish the whole assignment? But physics homework isn't

what I want to be thinking about.

"I'm sorry. I mean, about that whole . . . fight. I shouldn't

have thrown that ring at you. I guess I was way shook up by

that accident." Okay, I don't think that's actually why I did it,

but hey, I'll use just about any fair excuse right now.

"I know," he says. "I should have been cooler about the

whole thing, too. AH my frustration with the thing between

you and Dana just hit crisis point."

He straddles the bench next to me, dumping his backpack

onto the picnic table. "I've been trying for a week now

to figure out what to say to you."

"Me too."

"It's just that . . . Maddy, I love you. I do. And I don't

understand why you don't know it."

"Well, it's just that—"

"Don't," he interrupts. He holds a finger against my lips.

His touch is so gentle, so cherishing that I know, somehow,

that everything will be all right. "I know it would be easier

for you if I just didn't have anything to do with Dana. But

can't you understand she was a major part of my life for

two years? I feel like you're asking me to throw away those

years of my life . . . completely. To write them off. I want

infuse that kiss with power.

"I'm sorry, Gabe," I say when we finish kissing. I'm

being deliberately vague because the truth is, I actually don't

know what I'm sorrv for. Maybe everything. And nothing.

At the same time.

He leans his forehead against mine . 1 like the feel of

his skin.

"I hope we don't ever fight again," I sav.

He smiles wickedly. "The making-up part is pretty

nice."

I grin.

He kisses me again.

Don't ask me why, but I remember the whole physics

thing right then. Not that Gabe isn't the kind of kisser who

can drive mundane thoughts of physics assignments right

out of my head . . . because he is. But I'm prettv wound

up today . . . everything from Kristen's baby to Sandra's

problems are pounding at my consciousness. And for some

bizarre reason, it's the physics assignment that wins the

anxiety war.

"I don't suppose you want to help me with my physics,"

I say.

Another wicked grin. "I thought I was helping you with

physics."

"Different form of physics. That one doesn't help my

grade any in Mr. Martin's class."

•'VI

He sighs. "Okay." He opens up his backpack and starts

to pull out his book.

"Want to come with me after school today to check on

Sandra?" I ask. I fill him in on how she's been struggling

the last week to make this important decision. "Her lather

wants to move by early next week, so she's really stressed

about what she's going to do."

Gabe whistles in commiseration. "Sure, I'll go over

there with you."

"Oh, and Kristen went into labor this morning," I tell

him.

"Hey, well, at least that's good news. Any word?"

"Not yet. I called my mom at the beginning of lunch,

and she said the hospital sent Kristen home to wait it out a

bit more. I heard that some first babies can take more than

twenty-four hours to arrive, so I guess that means she'll give

birth in the middle of the night or something."

"Hmm . . . October thirtieth seems like a good birthday

to me."

"Yeah. Or the thirty-first if it's after midnight. Both are

pretty good."

"Halloween baby."

I laugh. "Don't say that. It makes my niece—or nephew—

sound like Satan's spawn."

"The ancient Celts believed that during this time of

year the boundaries between the worlds of the living and

,u:

the dead thinned so that spirits could enter our world. Kind

of a cool time to be born, actually."

"Hey," I protest, "you're poaching! Samhain and ancient

Celtic legend and folklore . . . that's all stuff we cover in AP

English. That's my area." Okay, so I hadn't actually remembered

Samhain and the Celtic folklore associated with

Halloween until Gabe brought it up, but so what? He can't

be smarter :han I am about evoyibingi can he? "You stick

with physic; and calculus and stuff like that."

He laugis. As he opens his book and pulls his assignment

from it, he pushes aside my carton of french fries

a little too quickly. I he wind whisks away my half-done

homework. *Aahh," I say, trying to leap up from the picnic

table. My left foot gets stuck under Gabe's leg and I start to

lose my balance. Laughing, Gabe grabs my arm to keep me

from nose-diving into the table, but Gabe makes the mistake

of letting go of his own homework.

The wind seems to mock both of us as it picks up his

paper and sends it fleeing in a different direction from mine.

We each run off, laughing, in search of our homework.

,'ji

UNCORRECTED E-PflOOF—NOT FOR SALE

I HAVE A STRANGE SENSE about that moment with Gabe at

the picnic table. It's somehow essential. I don't know why

it is, but it's the centerpiece of the puzzle of my existence.

If I could just figure out what pieces are supposed to be

attached to it, maybe I could . . .

W a i t . . . I do know one of the reasons that moment is

so essential.

Gabe is there.

I mean, the dead Gabe. I could feel his presence there

just like 1 did when we lost our keys. Ic makes sense that he'd

be there, too. After all, he also lost his homework when we

were sitting at the picnic table.

iCJ

I suppose it should be comforting to have him there—to

have the company. But it's not,

Because Gabe's there, but I can't reach him.

I go in search of my physics homework. Is it still here? It

should be. I remember now that we never found our homework.

But one failing grade in physics . . . well, it just didn't

seem that important after we'd gotten back together.

That's all I remember about that day, though. And

it's. . . so near the end. I do know that.

Kristen was in labor that day, and I never found out

whether the baby was a boy or girl. I'm sure of that. If I'd

ever known who that baby was, it would have changed me

somehow, become part of me. I mean, Kristen's my sister.

There's a connection there that can't be broken, even by

this death thing. I'm convinced I'd have the same connection

to her child.

So exactly what did happen that day?

My physics homework is waiting for me, so I return . . .

and return and r e t u r n , . ..

But learn nothing.

Frustrated, I start flinging myself randomly back into

all the moments of my life that I still have access to.

But nothing's changed in any of those moments. It's all

still the same.

Until about my tenth time returning to the picnic table

scene....

; j i

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HMRetCMiO J..?Ait?JSdKB

the note

age W

I'm so intent on my misery, I don't notice at first that I've

been playing with my necklace . . . the one Gabe gave me

last summer. It's silver, and at the center it has block letters

that say FOREVER.

Yeah . . . so much for that. We aren't even talking now.

Tears blur mv eyes, and I look down to see the words /

need to talk to yon written in strange handwriting. Definitely

not mine.

How did that get on this piece of paper?

I'm startled by a soft touch on my shoulder, and I whirl

around, gasping.

Gabe...

,L!

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

lia.tB.e^9.HlPJ.PubJAlb.?.f.J.

15

THE SONG OF MY LIKE has changed again. Even though I

can't now remember what happened on my earlier trips to

that picnic table, I can tell that a significant shake-up has

happened. Something is fundamentally different in my

world because .. . because Gabe left me a note on that piece

of paper, and it wasn't the living Gabe who did it. It can't be.

A ghost has been messing with that moment, and it doesn't

feel like it was rne. The other ghost in that moment was

Gabe.

And he wants to talk to me.

I'm thrilled and full of longing but frustrated, too. I

can't figure out how Gabe managed to leave me a note. My

ghost can't go around leaving notes for other people. The

i-JS

only change I've ever managed to make to my life in a revisit

is finding an object.

For a moment, I'm envious. Why does Gabe get to be a

more advanced spirit than I am?

Maybe it's because he was better at physics than I was.

Maybe it takes some kind of understanding that I don't have

of quantum mechanics . . . all that simultaneous-communication-and-observation-of-subatomic-particles-changingreality

stuff.

Maybe. But probably not. Me always did figure out life

foster than I did (well, except when it came to his dad and

the whole drinking thing). I shouldn't be surprised that he

managed to figure out death faster, too.

So what's he doing differently than I am? I try to recall

how my journeys back to life began. They started with the

sweatshirt. Then there was the bracelet.. . which I found.

Can't go back there to find the answer.

At least not the way I'm used to going back to

moments.

But I can remember that moment. I have a nagging feeling

that something was different about that visit than about

the many others I've made since then. What was it?

Then it comes to me.

Ohmygod. It's been so obvious the whole time.

And I've missed it.

I don't have to be me when I'm experiencing those

iti

moments. I can stay separate from myself... like I did the

first few times I returned to mv life. On my original visit to

the sweatshirt, I stayed back and watched for a few minutes.

I did the same thing when I used the bracelet. It was only

when I pushed myself too close to, well, myself, that I was

drawn back into the experience. Drawn like a magnet to a

lodestone. I could have kept my distance. But I liked living

too much. So every time I returned to a moment of my life,

I lived it again instead of observing it.

For the first time ever in //, I laugh. At least, I think

that's what I'm doing. It's like every subatomic particle in

my being is dancing with delight.

My mother was right. About everything.

The whole object attachment thing?

Right. Even in death, I've still been attached to those

objects.

The whole you-have-trouble-with-change speech she

gave me when I started middle school?

Right again. I haven't been able to let go of life.

My mother knows me so well that she even knows who

I am when I'm dead.

It's time to experiment with observing instead of living.

Who knows what will happen?

I know just the right experience to start with.

: j . '

UNCORRECTED E-PfiOOF—NOT fOR SALE

ttaBsCsUios-SubSsfesra

unrattled

KEEP BACK . . . KEEP BACK, I remind myself. If I want to

watch this all happening, I have to keep my distance from

that baby in the bouncy seat on the kitchen floor. It's difficult

to do. There is a natural pull drawing me closer. I have

to work hard to resist it, but, surprisingly, the longer I do,

the easier it gets.

When the force dragging me tapers off enough for me

to notice what's actually going on in the room, my first

thought is, Ofmiygpd... its Mom, and she looks so young.

My second thought is, Lose the outfit, Mom. Totally eighties

and it's well into the nineties. And the hair. Mom? Definitely

has to go. It s long and curly and, well, bushy.

• CS

be scared of," she reassures baby me. "It was just a breeze

knocking over the plate."

Ha. Just a breeze. As mom puts baby me back in the

bouncy seat, she chucks me under the chin, then moves

toward the kitchen sink where she starts peeling carrots. I

miss her already. Loneliness emanates from a tiny me and,

like smell and sound, floats across the boundary between

us, reaching me in the form of an echo.

Baby me starts fussing, jerking around in the bouncy

seat, and knocks the rattle onto the floor. It slides under the

cabinet. My crying brings Mom rushing over. She says, in

a singsong voice, "What's the matter with my baby? Is she

wet?"

Oh, get real, I want to tell her. I just lost my rattle. Mow

hard is it to notice that?

Apparently, pretty hard. She picks me up, checks my

diaper, realizes it isn't messy, and then starts trying to nurse

me . . . nurse me?! Ohmygod . . . this is so sick. I have to get

out of here. Now!

But how? I have to wait until my body moves a certain

distance from the lost object, don't I?

Thank God the baby me isn't having anything to do with

the whole nursing thing. I keep pulling away, and finally

Mom decides to take me for a little walk down the hallway.

Released. Sent back to //.

Thank God. Or the Universe. Or Whatever.

. -}

Being here but not being me (at least the original me)

is way weird. This is a Mom that I've seen in pictures but

don't actually remember. She is cooing at the baby me, who

(by the way) stinks. I've never been able to stand the smell

of baby. Eau de spit-up, baby powder, and plastic diaper?

Yeah, no, thanks.

Smell, I notice, is a lot different for me in this hovering

spiritual state. It's not as real as when I'm living the

moment. I can still smell things, but it's like all those scents

are coming from a great distance, like they have to cross

some kind of invisible boundary to get to me. That's the

way sounds seem to work, too.

Mom doesn't care that the baby me smells so bad. She's

leaning close, talking nonsense to me and rubbing noses.

It's a habit she didn't get rid of until I was older, so I have a

clear memory of doing a lot of nose rubbing with her.

I wonder if my spirit has any power over things in this

moment. Can I, for instance, knock over that plate balancing

precariously on the edge of the counter? I sort of. . .

will it to happen.

And it does.

Mom, startled, whirls around. "Whew . . ." she says as

she realizes there's no immediate danger. She goes to the

closet to get a broom. She cleans up the mess (I can't help

feeling proud of myself for creating it) and then goes back

and picks me up, snuggling and cuddling me. "Nothing to

m

For the release, but also for graduating me to a new

level in the spirit world. The Universe has actually given

me more power than I thought it had. I can create changes

in my original life from a ghost state, too.

Except...

Maybe this zipping around in and out of life as a spirit

isn't such a cool idea after all. There are some things that we

are not meant to know, understand, or see. Like my mom

trying to nurse me, for example.

Besides, interfering in that moment has changed my

original life again. I'm starting to feel that strange shifting

of self. "It was just a silly plate I broke!" I find myself wanting

to shout at the Universe.

Not that it would care, anyway.

The Universe just doesn't make the best of companions.

I long for something more than it's giving me. I recall the

note that Gabriel left at the picnic table: / need to talk to

you.

Realization tingles through me: I've been too focused

on how Gabe managed to leave me that note. Too focused

on his desire to see me. I've been missing a possible implication

of his words: Maybe we can talk.

I try to imagine how this would be possible. If I return

to a moment that another ghost shares with me, and stay in

the state I used for observation, will I encounter that other

ghost?

I onlv know of two possible moments I share with

another ghost and that I still have access to—the picnic

table scene, and the Ouija board one. I consider both.

What if I'm wrong? What if I can't communicate with

a ghost?

Better to have that happen when I'm expecting to

encounter Tammy than Gabe. If it doesn't work, I'll be less

disappointed.

Where's that hair clip?

r i

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gathering as o ghost

RETURNING TO THE NIGHT of the Ouija board is completely

different from my last spiritual expedition. For one thing,

we're in a basement. The humidity makes the air heavier,

and it's harder for me to move around with this not-exactlycorporeal

body.

But the big difference? That would be sharing space

with another ghost. I mean, a real ghost. Tammy's ghost.

I'm watching things from a distance when she startles me

by more or less saying, "Thought you were never gonna show

up. I was starting to wonder if you were avoiding me."

I say "more or less" because it turns ont that ghosts don't

actually talk to each other in the same sense that living

ili

humans do. I'm not sure what you'd call it. Certainly it's

some form of communication. And clear enough commuaication

that I know what she's telling me. It's just that there

aren't any, well, words. There're j u s t . . . ideas. I'm not sure

how to respond to her, because how can you talk to someone

when you aren't really talking?

Turns out I don't have to worry about it. I'm confused

by her "Thought you were never gon na show up" statement

(since I've been here what seems like a million times) and

think, What's she talking about? She immediately tells me,

"You. Coming here. As a spirit. So I could actually have a

conversation with you."

It's like . . . whatchamacallit—telepathic communication.

We're communicating telepathic ally, and whoa . . . not

such a t>ood thing. I mean, what if somehow she reads my

mind and I'm thinking something that I don't really want

her to know?

"Oh, in time you'll learn how to keep some ideas back

from other spirits. It's just that you have to learn all over

again how to communicate . . . both the truth and lies."

Great. Like learning to communicate the first time

wasn't hard enough?

"Doesn't talce all that long. You'll catch on quickly. This

must be your first attempt at communicating with another

spirit."

..'

"Well, yeah. It's not like I've experienced many moments

where I lost something at the same time some other dead

person I know did. In fact, I've only discovered two other

moments like that, and one of them I can't get to anymore.

I lound the stupid keys that would take me there."

"Oh. Don't worry," Tammy reassures me. "You'll find

more moments like that. You have eternity to do it."

Not exactly reassuring.

"And the more experience you get hanging out with

other spirits, the belter you'll communicate with us."

"Well, my only practice so far has been when I was thirteen

and talking to you through the Ouija board."

"Oh, yeah, sorry about that."

"1 hat reminds me. The whole thing where you used the

Ouija board to apologize? Do you think you could be a little

clearer about that? I mean, what are you sorry for?"

Neither of us has a body. I know this misty whiteness

next to me is Tammy because . . . well, I just do. The same

way I know what she's saying to me. When I ask her that

question, it's like all her whiteness becomes brighter, and I

know this is a form of laughter. I don't find anything here

particularly funny.

"Did you kill me? Is that why you're sorry?"

The glow of laughter disappears. She darkens with what

seems like . . . regret. Just when I'm thinking I have the

answer to my question, she surprises me.

M

"Of course I have regrets. But they aren't about killing

you. I mean, how could you even think it? . would never kill

someone who had once been my friend."

I don't know if I'm more stunned by the loyalty she's

expressing or the way she's kind of left open the possibility

that she might kill someone who wasn't once her friend.

She interrupts my thoughts: "Don't even go there. Of

course I wouldn't kill anyone. I might have made my mistakes,

but murder was never one of them."

"Then what are you sorry for?"

"Thinking you ratted me out. I found out later who did

it, but before that I thought it was you. And I should have

realized you'd never do that to me."

"You're right. You had enough trouble :n your life without

me adding to it. Not that I ever knew what exactly that

trouble was."

"And you never will."

I can deal with that. I mean, not that I have much

choice . . . not having all these mind-reading skills yet that

Tammy has. Still, I have to admit that being dead has given

me something of an appreciation for mystery. I kind of like

that there are things I don't understand.

W e l l . . . except for the whole how-I-died thing.

"Wait, you mean you don't know how you died?" Tammy

asks me. She glows again. Surprise this time.

"\ou mean you do know how you died?*

M

"Of course. I remember it well. Had i car accident."

"How old were you?"

"Thirty-five.''

Whoa . . . she lived to be thirty-five? Something here

doesn't seem fair. The drug dealer lives to thirty-five, and

the good girl dies at seventeen? "Hold on. . .. That means

you . . . you know things that I don't, things that happened

after I died."

"Well, yeah. Of course. What do you want to know?"

Starting with something safe seems like a good idea.

"Did Amber and Lacey actually go to prom with Doug

Preston and Scott Turner?"

"Why would I know that? I'm not omniscient. I only

know what I noticed when I was alive. I couldn't have cared

less who thev went to prom with senior year. Didn't pay any

attention."

"But you said . . . I mean, the Ouija board said that they

went to prom with those two."

Bright white laughter. "Yeah. I was jjst playing a trick

on them."

"A trick?!"

"You have to admit their reactions were kind of funny.

Gotta entertain myself somehow. But senior prom isn't

really what you want to know about, is it!"

"No," I admit. Here goes . . ."Do you know how /

died?"

,i.<

Inside the mist, some kind of strange whirling takes

place. Indecision.

"This isn't a tough question. I mean, you either know

or you don't."

"I know."

This is the moment when she's supposed to tell me the

answer I've been searching for . . . isn't it? I wait patiently,

but she doesn't reveal anything.

"Well? Tell me!"

"I don't think so. Seems like if you were ready to know,

you'd know."

"Oh, I'm ready. Trust me."

"There are some things you have to find out for yourself.

Other people can't tell them to you."

Wonderful. Now she sounds like one of our parents or

something. How did that happen?

"I became one."

"Became what?" I ask.

"A parent."

Okay, this whole mind-reading business is irritating.

"Get out of here. You? A parent?"

"Four kids. Three boys and a girl. The youngest was

less than a year when I died."

In life, this is one of those moments where you have to

fall into the nearest chair because you're so shocked. As a

spirit, you just do this weird kind of separating thing. This

. :

is truly the first time I've understood what it meant that life

went on without me. Even though I knew it would, a part

of me didn't accept that. I was the center of all the stories

I knew. It was even kind of hard to believe, in a way, that

anyone existed when they weren't with me .. . even though

I knew they did. But this . . . this whole life I don't even

know about? How much of the world changed without me

knowing it?

I realize that Tammy hasn't interrupted any of my

thoughts. This is the longest she's let me have a conversation

with myself since I arrived here. Very parentlike, very

let-the-kid-make-her-own-discovery and all that. She isn't

the girl I knew in my life.

"Not true," she argues. "I might be radically different,

but I'm still me."

I rememberTammy's first comment... that she thought

I was avoiding her and would never get here. "Have you

been waiting here for me all this time?"

"Kind of."

"I don't get it. How can you 'kind of wait for me?"

"It's like this: if you don't attach yourself when you come

back to visit your life, if you stand back here and watch without

interfering in any way, then you exist in a separate time

frame from the life events. It's the same time frame that

exists in the space where your lost objects are."

Right. Makes perfect sense. Almost. "Then how are you

H1'

onlv 'kind of here? Don't you either wait or not wait?"

" N o . . . not really. Eventually you'll learn you can be in

more than one place when you're a spirit. Part of me can

hangout here waiting for vou, but other parts of me can go

somewhere else for a while. I've just been keeping part of

me here while also wandering off to do other things, too."

"Are you .. .all here now?"

"Yep." A blanket of longing for the Tammy I knew in

life encompasses me. I can't help being touched that our

friendship meant so much to her that she's been trying this

hard to reach me. "Why did you...why have you been waiting

so long for me?"

"I wanted to make sure we cleared the air about things. I

feel terrible about blamingyou for my getting caught selling

drugs. After you died, I still thought for a few weeks that it

was you who ratted on me. I hated you. Wouldn't even go to

your funeral. Was clad vou were dead, in fact. Until I found

out the truth. I felt incredibly guilty after that. Especially

for hating you even after you were dead. That's what I was

trying to apologize for. Well, that and the way our friendship

ended on the night of this slumber party."

"I was always sorry about that, too. But . . . what happened

originally at the slumber party that broke up our

friendship? I mean, it probably wasn't you apologizing."

"I guess neither of us is ever going to know much about

that, are we? I remember that before I messed with things,

"What do you mean?"

I confess, "I've kind of only had one other experience

where I just watched what was happening when I went back

to my life. All the other times I've used a lost item, I've

always became me in the experience."

"Wow. You've really had a major case of separation anxiety,

haven't you? Really wanted to keep living?"

"Didn't you?"

"Not so much. What I wanted was to know how my

kids and husband were. How they changed over the years.

What became of them. And when I realized I couldn't, I just

stopped caring about living. I almost never do it anymore,

Life gets boring after a while, you know?"

Unfortunately, I do. Reliving something over and over

just isn't the same thing as .. . well, Irving it.

Tammy continues, "I prefer to leave life alone and spend

time in the After."

"What's that?"

The glowing flares up again. "What's attaching you so

strongly co life?"

"How am I supposed to know?" Even as I ask it, I know

it's a stupid question. I'm the only one who would know. "Can

you get back here from the After anytime you want?"

"Of course. Once you get to the After, though, you

won't care so much about being here."

"What's it like there?"

we were playing with a Ouija board. And something did happen

with it that caused us to have a fight. But now the only

reality we can remember is the one where I apologize to you

through the Ouija board. Unless, of course, we decide to go

back and change this whole experience again."

"Probably not a good idea," I say.

"Agreed."

I can't help having second thoughts. "Even though it

might save our friendship if we did . . . ?"

"It also might not, Aladdy. I think the end of our living

friendship was all part of the experience we were meant to

have."

"Meant to have?" I ask. "Is there God somewhere orchestrating

our lives? Because if there is, I haven't me him . . .

h e r . . . yet."

"God . . . well, I guess you could call it that if you want.

There's something beautiful and powerful bevond us, and

that's enough for me. But it doesn't really orchestrate our

lives. We're just meant to be us. So we are. And we're meant

to make the best choices we can. So I do. Apologizing to you

through the Ouija board was one of those choices. I sensed

your spirit was here. Figured the apology would make you

curious enough to bring you back. And you did keep coming

back here. You just wouldn't communicate with me.

What took you so long to decide to finally do it?"

"I didn't know how," I admitted.

.'.1

"You'll just be a pare of everything. All at once. You'll

finally feel as if you belong somewhere . . . at least, I did.

You'll like it. Once you get there. Just go there."

"How?"

"Find out how you died. Maybe that's what's keeping

you here."

"I'm trying. Can you at least give me a hint?"

"Find Gabe. I think he has the answers you want. I don't

know if he'll give them to you, but he might help you find

them."

Gabe.

Of course.

"How -do I get out of here?" I ask. "Do I have to wait

until my real body gets too far away from that hair clip I

lost? I mean, that's how I've always done it before . . . either

that or I've found the object."

I can tell that if she had a head. Tammy would be shaking

it at me in despair. "Stop thinking so much. Just be.

That's enough. Let yourself be what you want, when you

want, where you want. Just decide you want to do something,

and you'll end up doing it."

Sounds easy. Yeah, r i g h t . . . .

Except it is. It works the first time I try it.

M

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telpexCoi(i.Q|P«t?fet?.R_

am

f AM... I AM... I AM... floating. This isn't //. It's Am. I'm

not located here, the way I first thought I was.

I am here. And I'm not trapped here.

For the first time, I realize how beautiful this space is,

how it brims with vital energy.

I'm relieved to discover that my conversation with

Tammy hasn't changed anything about our original

moments of life in that basement. Standing outside an event

and watching it—as long as I don't try to change anything

by knocking over silly plates and stuff like that—seems to

have no effect on my original life.

I don't have to be alone anymore. I can communicate

.•J4

with other spirits when I meet them in moments where we

both lost objects. And I don't have to sacrifice whc I am—

and what I was—in order to do it.

Tammy's right. I need to find Gabe. It's time.

I start looking for my physics homework.

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p ir

THE FIRST THING I REALIZE about the misty Gabe is that I

miss being able to reach out and touch him. And, I know

this sounds superficial, but I miss the way he looks. I mean,

he was boi and now he's just mist. I k n o w . . . I know . . , this

is the kind of thing that keeps me attached to life and makes

me a decidedly unenlightened spirit.

But it's true. And I have to admit it.

The second thing I realize about him is that he's glowing

with happiness to see me.

The third thing I realize—with a tremendous amount

of relief—is that he isn't reading my mind in the same way

Tammy did. Either he doesn't have the ability that she does,

*J6

or . .. maybe he respects my privacy more.

"I still love you," he says right away. I'm glad that came

before anything else he might communicate to me.

"And I still love you," I tell him. "How lone have you

been waiting for me to figure out how to reach you?"

"I don't know. It doesn't matter, does it?"

Maybe. I mean, a girl doesn't want her boyfriend to he

better at everything than she is, does she? "I don't know," I

tell him.

"It doesn't matter to me. I'd wait as long as I needed to

for you."

"Have you been to the After? This place that Tammy

tells me is so great?"

"No. I've heard about it, though."

"From who?"

"My father. I met him in one of the moments of my life.

Like I am with you now."

"Oh . . . I'm sorry. About your dad dying, I mean...."

There's a smile in Gabe's glow. "Maddy, there's nothing

to be sorry about. I can see him whenever I want. I lost

a Star Wars action figure, a Luke Skywalker, when I was

seven. Dad lost some change at the same time."

"You are lucky, then. I mean . . . I haven't run into my

family anywhere. I'd like to be able to talk to them in .. .this

form. But so far I haven't encountered an object that takes

me to a moment when any of them also lost something."

Ill

"Oh, I think you'll run into them somewhere."

"I hope so. You know what the weirdest feeling about

that is?"

"What?"

"Knowing somewhere in all this crazy time they're

already dead. Even when they're alive, they're dead, right?

I mean, that's the way it is with us. We're dead but visiting

this moment where we're also alive, so we're both alive and

dead in the same moment. The same thing is happening to

all the people we knew and loved. Time's all wrinkled up

on itself, like a Kleenex that's been all smushed together. It

touches itself in all these different places."

As reassuring as this is, I hope that my family isn't

stuck somewhere on the edge of the Kleenex, in a place that

doesn't fold back onto any of the creases I'm occupying.

"You'll see your family again, Maddy. I'm sure of it."

He's a mind reader, too? What am I, the joke of the

Universe? The only ghost in the Great Expanse who doesn't

know anything about navigating the spiritual experience?

"You can read minds, too. Just like Tammy." It's an accusation.

I can't help it. I feel a little betrayed.

"Huh?"

I explain to him what happened when I visited Tammy

at the slumber party. He seems surprised. "Well, I suppose

it makes as much sense as everything else I've discovered

since I died," he admits. "But I haven't learned to do that

, . ' H

I'm waiting for you. And you aren't ready."

"Tammy thinks it's because I don't know how I died.

She thinks that's keeping me tied here. She also thinks you

can help me figure out what happened to me. Do you know

how I died?"

"Yes."

"How come you know and I don't?" I demand. I might

be sounding a little like, well, a spoiled five-year-old.

"Your back was turned. Mine wasn't."

I'm so surprised by this statement that my mist seems

to scatter in several directions. I'm in danger of dispersing

into an Expanding Universe. Gabe's mist surrounds me and

keeps me centered enough to fold back in on myself.

"You saw it happen?"

"Yes. And I wish I hadn't."

"Why don't you tell me about it, then?" I ask. "Afterward,

we can float off together into the sunset, or the clouds,

or whatever we float off into to get to the After."

We swirl without communicating for a moment. Finally,

Gabe says, "I think you'll need to see it for yourself. Even if

I wish I hadn't seen it, I think you need to."

"Have you ever been back to that real moment?"

"Yeah. A few times. I never want to go again."

"How'd you get there?"

"The necklace. The one you're playing with over there.

The one I gave you as a present."

.JO

yet. I wasn't reading your mind. I was reading jw/."

"What do you mean?"

"Maddy, how much time did we spend together? I know

you. You're always worried about whether the people you

love will be there for you when you need them. You're always

afraid something will tear them away from you."

"Well, I was right, wasn't I? I mean, here I am, and mv

family's not here, are they?"

"I'm here."

That's so Gabe. Just two simple words, but they mean

everything to me.

"Besides, who knows exactly what we'll find in the

After? Dad says that when you're there, you're with everyone

you ever loved, that they become space and you fall into

them. You'll become them, and they'll become you. Everyone

is there, according to him, even if they're not dead yet,

because they're, well, already dead somewhere."

Who knew Gabe's dad could be so poetic? I bet he's

lounging around in the After with Emily Dickinson and my

mother. They're having great debates about the meaning of

death and loss.

While becoming one another, of course.

Not that I'm bitter or anything. "So if the Afters

that great, why haven't you gone there yet? Can't you get

there?"

"I don't know. I think I could. But I don't want to go yet.

J J ^

I look over to where the living Gabe and I are sitting at

a picnic table talking.

Oh, yeah. Guess I kind of forgot about them. I mean,

us.

I was busy paying attention to the other us.

Gabe continues, "I think it's been with me in Everywhere

this whole time."

"Everywhere? What's that?" I ask, but then I suddenly

know what he's talking about. "Oh. Everywhere. That must

be what I call Is"

"Yeah, Everywhere is kind of an . . . Is."

"Yeah, except lately I've started thinking of it as Am,

because, you know, while I'm there, I just kind of am . . .

well, everywhere, I guess." My brain is starting to get tangled.

"So why would mv necklace have been in Everywhere

with you?" I ask.

"I happened to be holding it just before . . . I mean, I

dropped it a second before we died. I guess that counts as

me losing it."

We. We died. He died with me? I suspected as much, but

hearing it is still disconcerting.

"So how am I supposed to get back to that final moment

of our lives? I need to have lost an object in that final

moment in order to get back to it."

"You did lose something. It's just not exactly an

object."

i l l

"What are you talking about?"

"Your life. You lost it there. That gives you free entry,

my dad says. I've never tried to do it. I have the necklace

with me in Everywhere, so I've never needed to find my lost

life there."

?!?!

Have I wasted all this time revisiting my life when all

along I had access to finding out how I died? Just by finding

my "life" in //?

"And how—exactly—am I supposed to find my life in

Is?" I ask. "I have no idea what it even looks like. Is this

some kind of Peter Pan thing? You know.. . find your shadowy

life and sew it back on so it can't get away again?"

Gabe's presence is smiling all around me. "Maybe it is.

Who knows? But I'm sure you'll figure it all out. Maybe it

has something to do with that whole 'am' thing you were

talking about. Try thinking something, you know, like 'I

am my life.*"

"It's worth a try. Will you come back to the moment of

our death with me?" Facing this alone is terrifying. Besides,

now that I've found Gabe again, I don't want to be without

him for a single second. Even as I'm asking the question,

though, I can tell from the feeling emanating off of him

that he's going to say no.

"My ghost will just be a distraction to you while you're

trying to see what's happening. Besides, I've already been

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

htarpwCtoinnsPubBsbera

QT.

AM ROCKS ME BACK AND FORTH like a baby. I fee! ray soulbeat

pounding against the bubble of space I inhabit here.

I concentrate on the feeling of it, the comfort of knowing

that the energy that is me still stretches its wings, longs to

expand.

/ am my life, I think, and instantly something indefinable

emerges within all the energy that is me. It's not at all

like Peter Pan's shadow, which struggled for its freedom.

That something is happy to be a part of me. It dances and

jumps, filling me with a giddy tingling. We float through

the Am of // on the way to find . . .

04

there, and I don't think I can bear to watch it all again.

Remember you won't be totally without me. The living me

will still be there."

"And after I've seen what happened? Will you meet me

back here?"

"Of course."

I realize I might just as well get on with this whole thing

so I can come back and see Gabe again.

And then move on with him to the After.

"I love you," I tell Gabe.

"I love you, too," he says.

And then I return myself to Am.

,'ii

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Hj.CP?lCaU^P«kl.i£t>ers_

the end

GABE AND I ARE S*I*EPPI\<; out of his father's car. We're at

Sandra's house. It's odd watching action I'd rather be feeling.

I know—but only from a strange distance—what the

pavement of the driveway must feel like under my feet. The

temptation to become me is greater when there's no spirit

Gabe or spirit Tammv to distract me.

"This clasp is broken," the living me says to Gabe. I'm

looking down at the "forever" necklace he gave me, trying

to bend the clasp ring farther open so I can retit the chain

link onto the end of it. Of course I stumble over a rock in

the driveway. I've never been good at walking and trying to

do something else at the same time.

m

Gabe reaches out and steadies me. I look up at him and

kiss him. "Would you see if you can fix this? I don't want to

lose it," I say, handing the necklace to him.

Now that I'm here, I remember all this. But how did

a simple trip co Sandra's house after school wind up being

the final scene of my life? It doesn't make sense. I start

trying to run through everything I remember about living

the experience, only to discover that I'm missing important

things as they're playing out in front of me.

So much for trying to remember. Gabe and I are already

halfway into the house, I have to go all Caspe r and swish

my way through the door while it's still open.

"What's wrong?" I'm asking Sandra. Dressed in old

jeans an ratty sweatshirt, she's standing in front of us,

blocking the hallway to keep us from going any farther into

the house. Th-ere's a strange silence invading everything. A

scary one.

But the look on Sandra's face is even scarier. I've never

seen anything" like it before. The living me knows that it's

a frightening expression, but the misty me recognizes its

depth of desperation in a way I never could have when I was

living. There's something dying behind those green eyes.

"What's wrong?" I ask Sandra.

Gabe is alarmed enough at her expression that he's put

his arm around her shoulders and is trying to lead her to

the living room. "Go get Sandra a glass of water, why don't

leave school your senior year. It's a great solution. Gets

vou away from your mom but lets you stay close enough to

check on her."

"Maddy, whatever. I'll talk to you about it later, okay?

Just go right now." She stands up and leads us back toward

the front door.

Sandra keeps glancing over her shoulder, but the living

me doesn't pay any attention to where Sandra's looking. I'm

so busy trying to convince her to leave with me that I don't

notice Airs. Simpson coming down the stairs.

But the misty me sees her, sees the horrible expression

on Airs. Simpson's face. She's never liked me, and the look

on her face now tells me she's moved beyond dislike. The

current of her hatred is an undertow, ready to pull all of us

into the depths of a furious ocean.

Airs. Simpson keeps moving down the stairs. Both her

hands are behind her back. She follows us toward the door

with frighteningly soft and purposeful steps. Her lips are

moving, but I can't hear what she's saying because the living

me is pleading so loudly with Sandra.

I mist myself closer to Airs. Simpson and hear her

mumbling, "You won't take her away from me. You won't

take her away from me. That's what you've always wanted.

But I won't let you do it."

She's pulling one of her arms from behind her back. She

has a gun in her hand. A ray of sunlight coming from the

you?" he says to me.

I move toward the kitchen, but Sandra starts crying.

"No," she says. "You've got to leave, .Maddy. My mom is

completely losing it."

"Where's your dad?" I ask.

"I don't know. I've been trying to reach him for a few

hours now. He left for work this morning, but he's not there

now, and his cell is turned off. I've just never seen my mom

quite like this before."

Gabe has managed to push her gently into the living

room and has settled her onto the couch.

"Where's your mom right now?" I ask.

"Upstairs. Look, you guys, you need to go."

"Is she threatening to kill herself again, Sandra? Maybe

you should call the police if she is. I mean, we can't really

handle that, you know?"

"Just go, please."

"You have to come with me, Sandra. I can't leave you

here."

"I can't go with you."

"Yes, you can. And you know what? Today I came up

with a brilliant solution to your problem. You can come live

with us for the rest of the school year. I know mv parents

will let you. My mom thinks you're great. And she knows

how crazy your mom is. She won't want you to stay here.

And she'll understand how important it is not to have to

open front door catches the flat black side of the metal barrel.

The reflected beam of light gleams with an incongruent

beauty. Airs. Simpson raises her arm, pointing the gun at

my back as I stand with Sandra bv the door.

The gun's trigger is gold. It stands out against the

deathly black of the rest of the gun. I've never before felt

threatened by anything gold-colored, and yet I understand

what is about to happen. Mv life will end.

Airs. Simpson brings her second arm around to the

front, using a two-handed grip on the gun. I want to shout

at myself, tell myself to run, save my life. I don't have time

to think about whether I should change the past. I have to

do it. I have to save myself and Gabe.

Only it's not that simple.

Gabe has turned and sees Airs. Simpson. He's wearing

an expression of utter shock, whispering, "Jesus Christ." I

can tell what he's about to do, and I have to stop him. I can't

seem to save us both. I don't have time to think . . . it's all

happening so fast.

Gabe drops the necklace and lunges at Airs. Simpson.

She sees him coming and swings her arms around to point

the gun at him. The only thing I have time to do is use all

my energy to push back against the gun, to move its muzzle

so it isn't pointing at Gabe anymore. The gun is in wild

movement as a shot is fired. The shot whizzes toward me,

where I'm standing next to Sandra at the door. Alive.

!)1

For only a fraction of a second longer.

Everything goes blank. Dead. Even the spirit me is not

allowed to see what happens next.

Thank God.

I can't bear to see the expression on Sandra's face as she

realizes her mother has killed me.

L ! J

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a f t e r the end

I'M BACK IN AM, surrounded by all the objects that have

taken me on so many journeys.

Strange...

They don't attract me at all anymore. I don't want to go

back and see any of those scenes of my life.

They all end the same way.

If I changed any of the individual scenes, eventually, it

would all end the same, wouldn't it? I could go back to the

final scene and try again to save Gabe 3nd myself, but I'd

only be prolonging my life. I might find out what happens

with Kristen and the baby. Or who my friends go to prom

with. I might even marry and have children of my own.

i<l

For only a fraction of a second longer.

Everything goes blank. Dead. Even the spirit me is not

allowed to see what happens next.

Thank God.

I can't bear to see the expression on Sandra's face as she

realizes her mother has killed me.

L = J

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t e r t h e end

I'M BACK IN AM, surrounded by all the objects that have

taken me on so many journeys.

Strange...

They don't attract me at all anymore. I don't want to go

back and see any of those scenes of my life.

They all end the same way.

If I changed any of the individual scenes, eventually, it

would all end the same, wouldn't it? I could go back to the

final scene and try again to save Gabe and myself, but I'd

only be prolonging my life. I might find out what happens

with Kristen and the baby. Or who my friends go to prom

with. I might even marry and have children of my own.

it]

But eventually I'd have to die, wouldn't I?

And no matter when I left, I'd always wonder about someone.

Would it be any better to be in Tammy's situation? I

mean, wondering whatever happened to your own children?

I don't think I'm any better off knowing how I died than

I was when I didn't know. Finding out is kind of deflating,

actually. It seems like I haven't accomplished anything by

solving this mystery.

Except... I realize that's not quite true. Because what

I've accomplished is understanding that mystery can be a

good thing. There are some things it's good not to know,

because when you don't, the Universe is full of possibilities.

1 guess I now realize, too, t h a t , , . well, it's okay to

die. I didn't want to die. I'm glad it's not my fault that I did,

but what's happened has already happened. There truly is a

time to live and a time to die. Maybe all that is what I actually

needed to know—not bow I died.

Besides, knowing how I died has brought me pain and

regret, too. I recognize how destroyed Sandra must feel

about what happened, and I don't have any way to let her

know I understand this is not her fault. I can't tell her that

even though I'm dead, I'm fine. Not unless I want to leave

her a note at the death scene, which would probably scare

her half to death and make her think she's losing her sanity.

She probably already thinks she is, anyway. No. A note

would just be too cruel. I have to wait to stumble upon her

.•ii

out here in the Universe somewhere before I can have that

conversation with her.

In the meantime, E have to trust that somehow she'll be

fine. Like I am.

Now it's time to find Gabe. Even though I never saw

what happened after Mrs. Simpson shot me, I know Gabe

died, too, even after I tried to change things. I can sense his

spirit in the universe me. I locate my physics homework....

"Well?" he wants to know as soon as I arrive at the picnic

table.

It feels good to be back with him, but for all my newfound

love of mystery, there are still some questions I

wouldn't mind having the answers to. "How did it happen,"

I ask him, "those final moments? I mean, in the original

version? Because I tried to change how things turned out

and now I wonder what originally happened. Erom the time

Mrs. Simpson raised the gun, I mean."

" I don't exactly rem ember because I changed the moment,

too. I wanted to prevent us both from dying. I remember

that, and I remember going back to change things. Only it

didn't work. We still ended up dead. And when I got back

to Everywhere, I had already lost all my memories of the

original events. I could only remember the new ones—that

and the tact that I'd somehow changed things. And now all I

can remember from that final scene is what happened when

you changed it."

(43

"I tried to save you but ended up killing me. Did she

shoot you right after she killed me?"

"Yeah. I remember that for a split second she seemed

surprised, and then she turned on me and shot me."

"Do you think we could ever change the outcome of

that scene?" I ask him. "Maybe we can work together to

do it somehow." I know, even while I'm saying it, that we

shouldn't, but I need to hear that from Gabe.

"I don't know. No matter what we do, we might end up

dead. The question is, do we want to risk trying again and

again to save ourselves? We could end up killing Sandra,

too."

This is a horrifying idea. I can't believe I didn't realize

it back when I was trying to save Gabe. That wild shot hit

me, but it was only inches away from hitting Sandra instead.

I tell Gabe, "There's no way I'm going to risk that happening.

I know that whatever time Sandra has left to live will be

shadowed by what she saw her mother do to us, but I want

her to live. I know she'll make the world a better place."

"You did, too," Gabe tells me.

I'm taken off guard by the compliment. It's the nicest

thing anyone's ever said to me. "You, too," I say, meaning

it. "But our chance at that has passed. I don't want to spend

eternity trying to change what's already happened. I want

to move on."

I'm ready.

M4

Ready to allow what might have been to remain a

mystery. Ready to check out the After. Ready to find out

if immortality will "unveil a third event to me," as Emily

Dickinson said.

Maybe I can hang out with her in the After .. - her and

my mother and Gabe's father, all of us really understanding

what life and death mean.

"I want to move on with you," Gabe tells me.

We float there for a moment uncertainly. "Do you know

how to get to the After?" Gabe finally asks.

"Do you?"

"No."

Tammy said we'd be able to do it when the time was

right. I think it's like everything else. We just let ourselves

be there."

And suddenly that's what we're doing. Everything hums

and buzzes with peaceful electricity. Warmth without heat,

satisfaction without gain, being everything and nothing all

at once . . . and losing language. I feel it slipping away from

me, but I don't miss it as it floats off on a wave, my life ond

all its wtn I time.

MS

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT fOR SALE

HaaasCsliini .p.Hfcte!s?.is. _

epilogue

APPLICATION ESSAY

Comple:e a personal statement below. Your essay

should answer one of the following questions In 500

words o' less:

1. Why do you feel that Oregon University is the

right college for you?

2. Writs about a person who has been significant to

you, and explain how they have had an impact on

you.

3. Describe the most significant obstacle you have

encountered and how you have managed to convert

that into a positive experience.

I was always a Robert Frost kind of girl. My best friend,

Madison, wasn't. Emily Dickinson was her favorite poet. I

never understood why until Maddy died.

Much of Frost's poetry has a rhythm or rhyme that has

always pleased and comforted me. When he begged me to

think aboui "The Road Not Taken," I believed in the power

to choose. When he observed, "Some say the world will end

in fire, / Sane say in ice" I never minded wondering which

would be the case because he also reminded me that I have

" . . . miles ta go before I sleep."

Emily Dickinson, however, I used to consider downright

weird. Her poems were too focused on death. Full of pain and

even occasionally cynicism, they left me feeling hopeless.

My actitude about all that changed, though, when

Madison died. When I turned to Robert Frost's poetry for

comfort, I found none. His assertion that he had "miles to

go before I sleep" frightened me. After all, I was facing miles

of life without Madison. My world had ended in fire, and I

was left wondering whether I could have prevented Madison's

death if I'd traveled a different road on the day she

died. And then, in the poem "Out, out—" Frost hit me with

a callous truth. Of a dead boy's family and friends, he wrote,

"And they, since they / Were not the one dead, turned to

their affairs." All around me, so many people seemed to

be treating Maddy's death that way. Dates were made for

dances, and teachers went on assigning homework.

In the midst of my grief, it was Emily Dickinson who

comforted me. When I read her poetry, it was almost as

if she were in the room with me. Don't ask me whether I

mean Madison or the poet. I'm not sure. Perhaps they both

were.

There were moments when I was reading Dickinson

when I was horrified. I wasn't sure if the "he" in the following

poem meant Death or God:

He stuns you by degrees—

. . . Deals— One— imperial— Thunderbolt—

That scalps your naked Soul—

I wondered if Madison fblt she'd been dealt an "imperial

thunderbolt" as she lay dying on the entryway floor of my

house. I certainly felt as if my naked soul had been scalped.

The horror these lines made me feel kept me reading more

of Dickinson's poetry, and I discovered Dickinson understood

what I was feeling:

Tbe last Night that Sbe lived

It "was a Common Night

Except tbe Dying— this to Us

Made Nature different

We noticed smallest things' —

Things overlooked before

By this great light upon otir Minds

Italicized— as 'twere.

Dickinson expressed so well the way that Maddy's death

has italicized her life upon my heart: her smile, her support,

our Halloween antics, and our late-night sleepovers. These

small things, so overlooked before, are etched upon my

heart, where Maddy will go on living tor as long as I do.

UNCORRECTED E-PROOf-NOT FOR SALE

HarogCotiina Publishers

acknowledgments

Thanks many times over to my daughter and husband for

putting up with me during the writing, revising, and editing

of this novel. I also want to thank my parents, sister, and

brother-in-law. Your support through the last few years has

been invaluable.

April, Ann, Deb, Kay, Lori, Ruth, and Tim: You really

are the World's Greatest Critique Group; I'd have been lost

if you hadn't adopted me. Special thanks to Donna Dunlap

for being the first reader of this manuscript and encouraging

me to keep up with it. I'm grateful to John Olstad for

looking over my physics sections. Any of the mathematical

incompatibilities between Einstein's theory of relativity and

the theories of quantum mechanics that still appear in this

novel are due to my use of poetic license; he gave me fair

warning.

I'm grateful to my agents, Josh and Tracy Adams, for

believing in this novel. I'd also like to thank my editor,

Donna Bray, for pushing me to make this a better book, and

Ruta Rimas, her assistant, for helping to guide me through

this process.

About the Author

AMY HUNTLY. a high school English teacher, makes her debut as

a novelist with THE EVERAFTER. She lives in East Lansing. Michigan,

with her husband and daughter. She blogs about writing at

www.writebrainers.blogspot.com.

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