The Death Catchers (16 page)

“Okay,” I said.

Drake moved toward me. He put one hand on each shoulder and looked at me.

“I will not let anything happen to you,” he said fiercely. “I promise. Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” I said. I did trust him. As I peered into his eyes, I felt the same fated connection I'd felt in his room earlier. At that moment, I thought I'd always trust him. The feeling was thrilling and frightening all at once.

“You'd better get out of here before my mom or dad gets suspicious that I'm gone.”

I found my backpack upside down, textbooks falling out of it, and carefully put Drake's rolled-up canvas under my arm.

“I'll take good care of it.”

“I'm sure you will.”

Before I left, Drake wrapped me up in a long hug on the porch. I scanned the street for the black car. It was no longer there.

I turned my thoughts to Drake and our first kiss. I walked home, but I honestly felt like I could've floated there.

Of course, as I crossed Earle Avenue, I didn't yet know about the one thing that would ruin it all—the red journal, with the initials DWOR scrawled on the cover, lay forgotten in the corner of the Westfalls' pool house bathroom.

 

Proofreading

I worry a lot, Mrs. Tweedy. For instance, before I leave for school in the morning, I'm constantly double-checking to make sure I have keys to the house and my homework. But worrying makes me pretty good at proofreading. I usually double- and triple-check to make sure I've spelled something correctly. Also, because Mom is such a syntax stickler (“You didn't go quick, Lizzy, you went quick
ly
,” she's always sure to point out), I'm much better at grammar than most people my age. Proofreading is really about being careful. And I am careful.

At least, I thought I was.

I now know when the red DWOR journal slipped out of my bag, but I'm still not sure how I failed to notice it on the floor as I was packing up my things. I blame the commotion in the pool house—and that kiss. It made me careless.

As soon as I arrived on my porch, I sat down on the steps. I wanted to make note of everything I'd learned at Drake's house: about Damon and his mysterious plans, Drake's father, the magazine I'd found in the bathroom, and the mysterious black car. When I couldn't find the red journal, I flipped out. I dumped everything out and unrolled Drake's canvas. The DWOR wasn't there.

When I replayed the day's events, I remembered the backpack turned upside down in the corner of the pool house bathroom. It was the only possibility. I knew what I had to do.

Scampering back across Earle Avenue, I made my way to the side of the Westfall yard and shoved the gate open. With a single deep breath, I plunged into the backyard, trying to remain calm.

Drake was still there, standing outside the entrance to the pool house. I froze, considering whether I should hide or announce my presence. He held something in his hands … something red. I wanted to scream. It was the DWOR.

I was too late.

I turned around, heading back to the side gate.

“Lizzy?”

I stopped moving, my back now to Drake. I could hear his footsteps behind me.

“Lizzy,” he said again. I had no choice but to turn around. If I ran away now, it would only make things worse.

Drake held the red journal out to me. “What
is
this?”

I wondered how far he'd read. Had he seen page after page of detailed descriptions about what he did, what he ate at lunch, and what he bought from Mickey's Music? Had he read the page devoted to charting his location during recess when he sketched?

There was no way I could explain it. “I came back because I think I left my math book.”

“No … you came back because you left this. What is it?”

I felt a lump rising in my throat. “I … I … I'm not sure.”

“How long have you been following me?”

“Well …,” I stammered.

“Do you even like Operation Ivy? Was any of it real?” Though I wanted to, I knew telling Drake everything, including how he was supposed to die, would only make it certain to happen.

“Do you have anything to say?” Drake looked wounded. He held out the journal for me to take. I could feel my eyelids puff out. Tears would follow in minutes, maybe seconds.

I took the journal from Drake and put my head down as I sprinted to the gate. I ran past the jasmine hedge lining the path, catching my leg on a jasmine bush, crashing into it. I fell to the ground, banging into a low light fixture with my head, crushing the bush under the weight of my body.

“You okay?” I heard Drake question. He didn't move to help me.

“I'm fine,” I said. But I wasn't. Drake had
liked
me—he'd made me a mix and he'd
kissed
me. More importantly, he'd understood me. But it was over before it got off the ground. He would never like me again. I couldn't blame him.

I stumbled around like a dazed bull, careening from the hedges to the side wall of the house until I finally reached the gate. Once in the street, hot tears surged from my eyes down my cheeks. I gulped the cold night air and continued running, gasping, as I retreated to Beside the Point.

I didn't bother opening the door to my house quietly, thinking no one would be in the living room when I arrived. Mom usually went upstairs to the den to read, but there she was, in the living room, sitting on the couch by herself, reading the
New Yorker
. She was wearing a big furry turtleneck and had her hair up in a bun—looking like the quintessential librarian. I was a jumbled mess of tears and blood.

“What on earth is the matter?”

Mom rushed over to me. She put her thumb and index finger under my chin and raised it so she could get a better look. As she did, I could see my reflection in the large hallway mirror. Bizzy probably would have told me that I looked like something the cat brought in. Actually, no self-respecting cat would have gone anywhere near me.

My face was puffy and I had a cut above my left eyebrow that was bleeding from my encounter with the Westfall backyard light. Along with my face being tear streaked, my jeans were splattered with yellow paint. At first I wondered how it could've happened. But then I realized I'd been huddled in the bathroom with all those bottles of paint nearby. I could've easily knocked one over. Right before Drake kissed me.

I tried to stop crying. Mom looked at me, a combination of sympathy and concern. I sniffed all the snot running out my nose back into my sinuses. I dried my eyes with the back of my hand.

“Honey, what happened?”

“Nothing,” I said.

“How did you get that cut?”

“I fell,” I said. My brain was already overloaded with all the details of the past hour. It was hard to come up with a story that Mom would buy. “I was running from Drake's house because I was cold and I tripped in the street and hit the curb.”

Mom slipped on her reading glasses to examine the cut.

“Well, it's a pretty good gash,” she said. “You might need stitches.”

“No, please—I'll be fine,” I said.

Mom frowned at me. She put her hands on her hips. “Well, at least let me clean it for you.” We went into the kitchen together. I sat down as Mom took a warm, wet cloth and mopped the area around my cut. She wiped away all remnants of my tears. The Bactine stung sharply when she dabbed it on my forehead, but at least it distracted me from thinking about Drake.

“Bizzy said that you had dinner over at Drake's tonight.”

“I did,” I replied.

“How is he?” Mom asked as she applied some additional ointment.

“Fine,” I said, hoping she would get the message that I didn't want to talk about it. Mom rummaged through the pantry for a Band-Aid.

“Did something happen between the two of you tonight?” Mom looked at me with knitted eyebrows. I wanted to say something to lessen her worries … to let her know that I was fine, but that I didn't want to talk about it. Yet as I thought of Drake—how elated I'd been when I thought he'd kissed me for real and how miserable I was now that everything had come crashing down—I felt an avalanche of tears reforming. Despite everything, I still hadn't made enough progress in my information gathering. I'd never felt so much pressure.

“No,” I said.

“Does it have anything to do with whatever you were discussing earlier today with Bizzy?” The idea that I was confiding in Bizzy and not her was clearly upsetting Mom. I wanted to explain that it wasn't like that—that she wouldn't understand—but I knew I'd be wasting my breath and might hurt her even more.

“It's nothing … just stupid school stuff.” It was so much more than that, but it was the best I could do.

“All right,” Mom said, forcing a halfhearted smile. “But if you do need some advice, I
was
a teenager—”

“It's okay, I promise,” I said, cutting her off.

Mom studied my injured face for a moment. “Okay.” She continued to stare at me, and as she did her eyes took on a sad resignation. Mom would do anything to help me, but there were limits to what a mother could do for her daughter. She handed me the tube of ointment. “Put this on your cut before you go to bed, okay? I don't want any scar mucking up that beautiful face of yours.”

Mom reached out and hugged me. “I love you,” she said, squeezing tightly. She stepped back from me.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Just doing my job,” she responded, taking off her reading glasses so they dangled from her neck again. She peered at me like she was studying a painting in a museum she was seeing for the first time. “Did you start reading
David Copperfield
?” she asked. I hadn't even cracked the spine.

“I'm not sure it's my kind of book,” I said.

“Then the search for your Right Book continues!” Mom challenged. “Headed to bed?”

“I'm going to go say good night to Bizzy first,” I said. Mom's face blanched.

“Oh,” she said quietly. “Okay.” I knew she was trying desperately to hide her disapproval and pain. But it was dawning on me that I'd ruined any chance I'd had of saving Drake's life. Mom turned around and wandered out of the kitchen without another word.

Mom had worried about me before, but it was different this time. Especially now that Bizzy and I were spending so much time together—planning, discussing … bonding. She felt left out. I wished I could run after Mom and tell her that there was no way she could understand what had been going on with me lately. That I would talk to her if I could. But even saying that would be too much. I vowed I'd straighten it all out after we'd figured out a way to save Drake.

Once Mom was upstairs, I knocked softly on Bizzy's door.

“Come on in,” Bizzy said.

Bizzy was sitting in her wheelchair with a crocheted blanket over her legs. She was reading a book titled
1,001 Deaths, 1,001 Ways to Die
. She was staring at a picture of a woman with a headdress made entirely of fruit.

“You aware that though there ain't one documented case of someone dyin' of stage fright, Carmen Miranda went and had a heart attack while she was dancin' onstage?” Bizzy looked up at me excitedly. She closed the book when she saw my face.

“What in the world happened to ya, Sweet Pea?”

My despair had become anger. “Why did you call the Westfalls and force me to have dinner there, Bizzy?”

“I thought it was a perfect opportunity to gather more information,” she answered, startled by my tone.

“Well, after dinner, Drake found the journal you gave me—with everything I'd written about him in it.”

“Oh my! What did he say?”

“He didn't have to
say
anything. He doesn't want anything to do with me now.”

“It takes two to tango, but only one misplaced foot to ruin the dance.”

“What?” I asked, furious that Bizzy would offer up one of her ridiculous phrases at a time like this.

“Listen to me, Sweet Pea. Nothin' can't be undone. We got ten days to go and I promise we'll figger how to straighten out all this Drake mess.”

“We're no closer than we were a month ago!” I argued. “We don't even know how Drake dies or why Vivienne le Mort keeps showing up or what she is after.”

“But we
will
,” Bizzy said, remaining calm. “Patience's the name a' the game.”

“I don't want to do this anymore. I'm just going to tell Drake.”

“You
can't
do that, Lizzy. Under any circumstances. You'd be puttin' Drake in mortal danger.”

“He's already in mortal danger. Vivienne le Mort is involved somehow, I know it. But I've been thinking about it, and listening to you hasn't really gotten me anywhere. So maybe it's time I stopped.”

I turned around and began walking out the door.

“I'm beggin' ya. Sleep on it. Don't do anythin' rash or you'll surely regret it.” For the first time since I'd found out I was a Hand of Fate, I turned my back on Bizzy. I could hear my grandma wheeling after me, so I climbed the stairs back up to my room quickly, knowing even Bizzy couldn't follow me there in a wheelchair.

I was about to flop down on my bed when I noticed that Mom had left a book and a note on my pillow. I picked up the book. It was her old hardcover copy of
Pride and Prejudice
. I examined the note.

Lizzy—

I was surprised to see
The Collected Works of Emily Dickinson
on your nightstand. I didn't realize you liked poetry. I also couldn't help but notice
Le Morte d'Arthur
(I wasn't snooping, I promise … it was in plain sight). I'm all for the classics, but that's an old book! I would have never guessed that would be something you're interested in … but it just goes to show you that there's no predicting taste. It's a timeless legend, that's for sure. If you like that, you might try
The Winter King
or
The Mists of Avalon
for a more feminist take. Either way, I figure it might be high time you read my favorite classic. I know this might not be your Right Book—but I thought maybe it was the perfect Right Now Book. Sometimes, after all, Right Now Books are just as important.

I'm also writing this because I have to confess something to you. I know you think that I named you after your great-aunt Elizabeth. I told your father that in order to placate him, because he loved his Aunt Elizabeth. I think he was the only one. I actually couldn't stand the woman. She was bossy and mean-spirited—qualities that seemed to sharpen with age. In truth, I named you after the heroine of
Pride and Prejudice
, Elizabeth Bennet. You do the name proud! In your story, there is much yet to be written, but as with your namesake, I know all will end well. You'll see. Keep your head up, okay?

I'm always here to talk to you if you feel like it.