Linda Singleton - Dead Girl in Love

Dinner looked great — but tasted worse than moldy carpet.

Mrs. Perfetti puckered when she took a bite but smiled without complaint. She was all sweetness now, asking about my day. I gave some vague lies about places I didn’t go and conversations I never had.

Afterwards, she offered to do kitchen cleanup, so I escaped to Alyce’s room. Once the door shut behind me, I relaxed and felt safe for the first time since body-swapping. I might not be home, but at least this was familiar territory. Yet it was weird being here minus Alyce. I kept expecting to hear her voice or see her walk into the room. When I flipped on the light and caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror, the reality of my situation struck me hard. I really was Alyce. While she was gone, I carried the responsibility of her life with every word and act.

I could ruin her life … or save it.

Opting for the “save it” course, I grabbed Monkey Bag to search for clues.

I flipped the backpack upside down over Alyce’s bed. Papers, pens, containers of film, batteries, black-and-white photos, a compact camera case with camera, textbooks, etc. spilled onto the black striped comforter. I sorted everything out into piles, being extra careful with the camera, which Alyce had worked part-time to afford.

But where was her purple notebook?

There were still three zippered pouches I hadn’t checked because they were too small for a large notebook. I checked them now, finding loose change, a safety pin, a pack of gum, a gold hoop earring, and a folded paper.

Hmmm , I murmured as I unfolded the paper. It was a list:

1. Red Top

2. Green Briar

3. Liberty 4. Pioneer

Green Briar, the mortuary? What was that about? There was no topic or explanation about this list, only a few notations and dates. Red Top was scratched out with a dark scrawled NO . Green Briar’s only notation was today’s date. Liberty had tomorrow’s date with a large, black-inked question mark.

I had plenty of question marks, too.

Was this list for a new photography project? Alyce often took pictures of macabre headstones at creepy cemeteries. But there was nothing creepy about Green Briar, with its gleaming showroom and lush manicured cemetery. So what was the connection between the names (places?) on the list? It looked like Alyce had gone to Red Top at some point, then Green Briar today. I guessed the others were planned for the remaining days of spring break.

Did this have something to do with the GEM’s cryptic message about Alyce searching for “the lost”? How could I find something without knowing what I was looking for?

Frustrated, I began returning things to the backpack, searching meticulously for more information. Alyce had been searching, too — for something at the places on her list. But why? And did this quest have anything to do with her crisis? The only thing I knew for sure was that I completely trusted Alyce and would do anything to help her.

So where was that damned purple notebook?

A flash of purple caught my eye, sticking out of Alyce’s World History textbook. But it wasn’t the notebook — just a folder with a green bush symbol on the label. Looking closer, I recognized the symbol.

Green Briar Mortuary.

A knot formed in my gut, tightening like a noose.

Alyce had stolen from the mortuary — and I held the proof in my hands.

Of course, I snooped inside the file.

But scored only disappointment.

Nothing but useless old papers, typed in tiny uneven print that probably came from a manual typewriter, listing names and purchases from customers in 1947. The list wasn’t even complete, only showing Green Briar customers with last names beginning with B and C . Alyce had to have had a good reason for stealing this. I tried to reconstruct the sequence of events that must have occurred before I replaced Alyce. I imagined her sneaking into the Green Briar office, searching through cabinets until the saleswoman showed up. Then Alyce grabbed the file and hid inside the casket — where I took over.

What was so damned important about these papers?

Night folded around me as I studied the papers, losing myself in confusing thoughts as I flipped back and forth, rereading names that meant nothing to me. All I gained was a headache. Not the kind of mild headache that could be banished with a few Tylenol. Alyce often complained about migraines, and although I sympathized, I’d secretly thought she was exaggerating. I mean, how could a headache be that bad?

Now I knew.

Pain intensified, crashing into my brow and spreading out across my head. I rubbed my forehead, moaning. Dizzily, I leaned back on Alyce’s pillow, eyes closed as I waited for the misery to ease. Not getting any better, either. My stomach reeled with nausea … so awful … sick … OMG!

With one hand on my head and the other on my stomach, I jumped off the bed and ran for the bathroom.

Afterwards, my stomach was emptier and my pain numbed to a dull ache. I was relieved to find a migraine prescription in the medicine cabinet. I also noticed rows of prescriptions for Mrs. Perfetti — for sleeping, pain, and depression. Not a surprise considering her erratic behavior.

Alyce’s migraine pills made me dizzy, exaggerating colors and shapes. As I returned to Alyce’s room, I caught my reflection in the mirror over a long, dark-wood dresser. High, hollowed cheekbones; deep, dark slanted eyes with long black lashes; and long, velvety raven hair. Full rosy lips parted into a startled “O” on a flushed face. For a startled moment, I forgot who and where I was, struck by a guilty sense of trespassing.

The night-black ceiling and dark-red walls crowded in on me; familiar sights taking on frightening shapes. But there was nothing to fear, I assured myself, not in this room I knew so well. Although Mrs. Perfetti clearly didn’t want me (Amber, that is) around, I always came over whenever Alyce asked. Like the time we’d redecorated her room, painting the walls and the ceiling in what Alyce called a “midnight and blood” theme. Mrs. Perfetti freaked out when she discovered that Alyce had ripped off the frothy pink ballet wallpaper and replaced it with collages of black-and-white macabre photographs: a colorless butterfly perched on a skull, a child digging in a sandbox with a syringe, and a large dog hiking his leg on a headstone engraved with two hands clasping for an eternity.

If kids at school saw Alyce’s room, they’d be positive she was on drugs or mental. They already avoided her because of how she dressed and her “don’t give a damn” attitude. But I knew the real Alyce. I’d watched her art develop from sidewalk drawings to experimental photography, and understood that her emotions ran so deep that ordinary art couldn’t satisfy her. I ached with frustration when others only saw her outer layer and put her down for being different.

But I’m here for you always , I thought to Alyce, hoping she might hear or remember later.

Back to searching for info. I opened drawers, checked shelves and boxes in the closet, crawled under the bed. I found some wrappers from butterscotch candy (her fave) and a crumpled science test (grade: C-).

But no purple notebook.

I understood why Alyce had to hide her important things, although it outraged me that her mother searched her room when she was at school. So Alyce would leave boring stuff out and hide the important stuff. To fool her mother, she’d framed a large photo of her father and hung it on the wall by a large picture window. The word “hate” was not vile enough for Mrs. Perfetti’s feelings for her ex-husband, so she would never touch his picture — which made it the perfect cover for hiding a hole in the wall.