Dead Girl Walking (2 page)

I half-walked/half-crawled up my makeshift ladder. When I reached the top, I swung up and straddled the curved iron saddle-style, with a leg dangling on each side. Holding tight, I huddled there for a moment, breathing hard.

When I could breathe normally again, I lifted my head to look around. Not so bad, even kind of cool if you were into old tombstones and monuments shaped like angels, saints and temples. There were no flower vases or other offerings from loved ones. Obviously this cemetery was so old even the loved ones were dust and bones. If Alyce were here, she’d snap pictures for her “Morbidity Collection.” She gathered images of the grim side of life, and aspired to be a famous starving artist or get rich from publishing a best-selling photo journal.

But morbidity was not my idea of fun—and the ground seemed so very far away. On the cemetery side there were sharp chunks of concrete from a crumbling sidewalk. Jumping into the cemetery would be suicide. Mom could save up to buy another phone, but I couldn’t buy a new body at Wal-Mart.

Defeated, I prepared to climb back down. But my leg swung too hard and banged into my board-ladder. The board wobbled, slid sideways, and landed on the ground with a poof of dust.

Now what was I going to do? Stranded high on the gate, I slumped against the cold iron. I’d lost my Big Chance. I’d never make it to Jessica’s now, and she’d think I was a loser. Trinidad would never accept a ride or anything else from me.

Diagnosis: Depressed and ready to give up.

I should just jump, end it all now—except I hated messes and really hated the idea of ending up a concrete pancake. I could wait for Trinidad to notice I was in trouble or jump to the softer ground in front of the gate. If I landed on my ample butt, I had a fifty-fifty chance of survival.

I had almost worked up the courage to jump, when I heard a sound that would change the direction of my life forever.

Mom’s cell phone!

Ringing!

Startled, I whipped around on my narrow perch toward the sound. Bad move. My hips shifted and swayed. I lost my balance. My leg shot out from under me, my hands slipped then flailed in empty air.

I was screaming as I fell toward the concrete.

When I opened my eyes, my first emotion was surprise. Somehow I had missed the concrete and landed in a scratchy bush.

Good news: I was alive.

Bad news: The bush was full of stinging nettles.

Pain kicked in like stabbing knives. I jumped away from the bush. Quick body inventory: no broken bones, but the mint-green shirt I’d bought with hard-earned babysitting money was mortally wounded. And tiny red bumps swelled in an ugly mass of welts across my arms and legs.

I couldn’t dwell on it, though, with the phone ringing.

Was it my parents? Dustin or Alyce? Psychic police coming to my rescue?

Hobbling and itching, I eased my way down the sloping road. As I grabbed the phone, the ringing stopped with a silence more painful than the stinging nettles. The signal bar flickered on and off. For better reception, I needed to move higher. An angel statue atop a steep granite podium with stairs looked promising. When I reached the angel, the sun peered through dark clouds and Mom’s phone flashed on. This had to be a good omen from the heaven—or from my Grammy Greta, who I often sensed watching over me.

Before I could dial an SOS, the phone rang again.

I hit the green answer button. “Who is this? Dustin? Mom, Dad, whoever—you have to help me!”

But the voice that replied wasn’t familiar. Or human.

“Good afternoon, I’m calling from Ledbottom Mortgage International,” droned a computerized recording, “and I can save you a ton of money by offering you a limited low rate to—”

I. Could. Not. Believe. This.

Punching disconnect, I started to call Jessica when I heard a scream. I looked over at the car and saw Trinidad yanking off her iPod and rushing toward me. She’d finally noticed I was in trouble—but too late.

“Ohmygod! Amber!” She stared through the gate incredulously. “What are you doing?”

“I have a phone signal.” I waved the phone feebly.

She gaped at my ripped, dirty clothes and the outbreak of red bumps. My too-curly brown hair was a disaster, too. I must look ridiculous, perched on the angel’s halo with my arms stretched out like a giant bird. Not the professional image I preferred.

“I’ll call my friend Dustin,” I said quickly to cut off any more questions. “He works part-time for a locksmith and can unlock the gate. I’m sorry we’ll be late for the party, but we should make it in time for dessert—which is always the best part of a meal, anyway.”

“Uh … sure. The party.” She nodded at me like she was afraid to make any sudden movement that might send me completely over the edge. She reached down and plucked a leaf off her silver crossed-strap sandals. “Um … I’ll go sit in the car and listen to my tunes until you’re … um … ready.”

Sighing, I leaned against the angel’s stone wing and called Dustin.

“Hey Amber.” He picked up right away, his monotone hinting at distractions. I imagined his gaze glued to one of his monitors as he swiveled in his chair, kicking aside discarded papers and snack wrappers in his self-named “Headquarters,” walled in with bookshelves overflowing with science fiction and political novels.

“Dustin, thank God you’re there!”

“Where else would I be? Wassup?”

“Me.” I stared far, far down to the ground. “Don’t ask.”

He asked anyway, and I told him.

“Okay, stop laughing,” I said. “This is serious.”

“Sure, sure,” he said, still chuckling.

“I mean it. Trinidad thinks I’m crazy.”

“Aren’t you? But in an interesting way.”

“Thank you very much for being so sympathetic.” My arm ached from holding the phone at an awkward angle.

“Oh, I’m completely sympathetic, but you have to admit it’s hilarious. Someday you’ll laugh about this, too.”

“Never. Stop laughing. Hurry and get me out of here!”

“Yeah, yeah. Already leaving my room and heading outside. Getting in my car. Starting the engine. Be there in twenty minutes.”

“You know how to get here?” I asked, astonished.

“Sure, the old Gossamer Cemetery. Used to be a historical landmark until
they
shut it down and rerouted the roads when
they
put in the Gossamer Estates.”
They
referred to politicians or the word that Alyce coined and Dustin preferred: “Corrupticians.” He loathed politicians and commented regularly on anti-government blogs.

Dustin kept talking as he drove, spouting street names that meant nothing to me.

Fifteen minutes later he arrived in his Prius. He simply walked over to the fence and pulled a huge key ring (bounty from his part-time locksmith job) out of his pocket. He tried over twenty keys before there was a click, and the cemetery gate opened.

Trinidad applauded. “That was amazing.”

“I told you Dustin would get me out.” I gave Dustin a quick hug. “Thanks for being my hero. If I ever win the lottery, I owe you half. Now we can head on to the party.”

Dustin just looked at me with a pitying expression. He didn’t make any jokes about my lack of direction or my appearance. But his gaze said it all—with footnotes. His blatant pity made me angry and tempted to point out his mismatched brown and black socks. But I’d never sink that low, especially since he worked so hard to hide his secret. He was colorblind.

“Do I look that bad?” I grimaced at my ripped jeans and dirt-stained shirt.

“Bad would be a compliment.”

“He’s right.” Trinidad pointed to my arms. “What are all those bumps? A rash?”

“Nettles.” I rubbed my itchy arm. “Ouch.”

“You should see a doctor,” Trinidad said sympathetically. “You better get home right away. A party is no big deal—we can go some other time.”

“We’re going. I’m fine.” I made myself stop scratching.

“You’re going to a party looking like that?” Dustin asked with disbelief.

If we were alone, I would tell him honestly how important this party could be to my future. I might never get a chance like this again. Maybe he read my mind, because he sighed and offered to lead us to Jessica’s house. “I’m not risking your getting lost again and ending up on one of those missing-persons TV shows,” he said.

He also gave me the shirt off his back—literally. “It’s too long for you, but at least it’s clean and the sleeves will cover your bumpy arms.”

“Thanks, Dustin. You’re the greatest.” I rose on my tiptoes to give him a kiss on the cheek. Well, the chin, actually since I couldn’t reach his cheek. He blushed. We’d tried dating once, but it felt like dating my father. Dustin was unusually mature—like someone in his forties rather than seventeen, as if he’d aged in dog years.

The drive to Gossamer Estates was amazingly quick. I’d been much closer than I’d realized, only missing Jessica’s street by one left turn. Her home wasn’t a house—it was a gleaming white stone mansion with perfectly groomed lawns, shrubs shaped like animals, and a spouting, Grecian-styled fountain at the center of the circular driveway.

Dustin gave me a thumbs-up as he drove away.

I won’t lie and say I felt comfortable surrounded by wealth and elegance. But I could get used to it. Although if I lived in a house this big, I’d probably get lost on my way to my own bedroom, which meant a lot of walking—and I hated any form of exercise.

My smile was wide and confident as Trinidad and I climbed a mountain of polished granite steps. But once I reached Jessica Bradley’s door, my hands started to shake.

To hide my nervousness, I silently did a ritual that always calmed me: Grammy Greta’s Good Luck Chant. My grandmother had been gone for only a little over a year, but I still missed her so much. Thinking about her made me sad, but happy, too, because she’d been so great. She’d said I could achieve anything, if I worked hard and listened to my heart. A week before she died, she told me she’d had a premonition that my dreams would come true.

“Impossible,” I’d argued, because I’d just found out that my parents had used my college fund for fertility treatments. They’d promised to pay it back, but the cost of raising triplets was insane.

“Believe,” Grammy Greta told me. “I have a direct line to wisdom on the other side, and know that great things are in your future.”

Great things? Did she mean I’d get a scholarship to a prestigious university and become a successful entertainment agent? That I wouldn’t be stuck living at home forever, taking care of the triplets or flipping burgers?

Then Grammy handed me a rainbow woven bracelet like something you’d pick up at a dollar store. “This is a lucky bracelet,” she said with a mischievous wink. “Twist it three times and repeat the magical chant.”

“What chant?” I’d asked, playing along.

She leaned so close I could smell her wintergreen mouthwash. When she whispered a familiar poem about a bear in my ear, I tried not to giggle. Only Grammy would choose such a corny chant: “Twist the bracelet twice to the right then once to the left, and seal the luck with a kiss.”

I felt really stupid kissing a bracelet, but I did it for Grammy.

Then she reminded me that this was our secret and not to tell anyone.

“I won’t tell anyone,” I promised, “except Alyce.”

Grammy chuckled. “Of course. Don’t tell anyone except Alyce.”

When we hugged, I had no idea it would be the last time I hugged my grandmother.

Now as I stared down at the bracelet I smelled roses—Grammy’s perfume. I turned my bracelet to the right two times, the left once, whispered the chant, then turned my back to Trinidad so she wouldn’t see when I sealed the magic with a kiss.

And it was the craziest thing—but I imagined I heard Grammy’s voice saying “believe.” I felt my courage rising.

After that everything was a glamorous blur.

A maid ushered us into an imposing “foy-yay” with gilt-framed portraits, a standing coat rack, and an elegant oval wall mirror. She checked our names off an official list, then escorted us across a gold-flecked marble floor, past a formal dining room with a crystal chandelier the size of a refrigerator. A curved mahogany staircase arched overhead.

The maid’s heels made hollow clip-clip sounds on the tile while my sandals clunked and left a dirt trail. Please, no one notice, I prayed.

We were led to a garden patio with lovely hanging flower baskets and golden crepe streamers. Round tables with white tablecloths and glowing candles were arranged on the faux-grass lawn. Buffet tables oozed with exotic delicacies and a sparkling pink punch waterfall. Way cool!

A band played on a cement podium where a few kids danced. Most guests were my age, but there were token adults, too. Everyone was talking and laughing in cozy groups, or sitting at the tables with heaping plates of food. I recognized some kids from school, either because we’d shared classes or I’d welcomed them with a HHC basket.

“Trinidad! Amber!”

I turned and there was Jessica Bradley, gorgeous in a sapphire-hued sundress that enhanced her blue eyes and smooth olive skin. Waving her multi-ringed hand, she glided over to us and air kissed our cheeks. I almost pinched myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming. This so felt like some glam moment from a movie.

“You made it! I’m so glad,” Jessica said with a sincerity that put me at ease. Well, almost. I was more used to family parties held in a crowded living room. A mansion, maid, caterers …
Wow!
Why couldn’t my real life be like this?