Linda Singleton: Dead Girl Dancing

Was someone out there staring up at me?

Grabbing the blind’s cord, I shut out the night, yanking so hard the cord dug into my palm. But I hardly noticed the pain as I sagged against a desk, my pulse racing. No one could see inside now so I should be safe … only I didn’t feel safe.

It was just a crank message, I assured myself. Still, I had this prickly sensation in the back of my neck — why threaten me? But what was I thinking? This wasn’t about me. This phone belonged to Sharayah. So the text was meant for her — probably a friend messing around or the “shirtless” boyfriend’s perverted idea of flirting.

Yet the words “I M WATCHING U” were stalkerish, scaring me almost as much as when I’d been threatened by a Dark Lifer. I didn’t really expect a Dark Lifer to appear in the dorm room, but fear created paranoia. What if it was a Dark Lifer? Their dark souls were attracted to the radiant glow lingering on anyone who’d recently visited the other side (like me). My grandmother had warned that until my glow faded, Dark Lifers would try to feed on this energy by touching me, drawn to the luminescence like vampires to blood.

Shivers crawled across my skin as I scanned every murky corner in the small room. The creepy “being watched” feeling persisted. I wouldn’t be able to relax until I was sure the threat was a wrong number or sick joke. Not hard to check out — all I had to do was call back the text number.

I got down on my knees, and fished the phone out from underneath a chair … then groaned. Broken.

Now I couldn’t call anyone — including Eli.

Tossing the useless phone aside, I sank on the bed, burying my face in my hands. What was I going to do?

Nothing — except wait for Eli. And I hated waiting. I mean, really hated waiting. To conquer this embarrassing character flaw I’d read a self-help book called Paving the Road to Success through Patience . But there were footnotes and the advice was so boring that I ended up skimming through the chapters, learning only that I really sucked at being patient.

Obviously I sucked at being a Temp Lifer, too. My first act on the job was to break Sharayah’s cell phone — how pathetic was that? And instead of coming up with a plan of action, I was waiting to be rescued by her brother. But what else could I do? Being in someone else’s body without knowing much about them was like driving to an unknown destination blindfolded. Where could I find out more about Sharayah?

With a snap of my fingers, I turned to the two computers in the room. One was a slim, silver laptop propped on a white desk painted with elegant rose vines; the desktop was neat and organized, with metal racks for papers, pens, folders, and books. The only personal items were a pink quartz paperweight and a rhinestone-framed graduation picture of a pink-haired girl with a pierced lip. The roommate, I guessed. The other computer, a black laptop, sat on a dark wood desk, which was so cluttered that the laptop was half-hidden behind random papers, boxes, books, and CDs.

Pushing aside a folder and two textbooks, I plopped into the swivel chair and booted up Sharayah’s laptop, tapping my fingers impatiently. A box popped up asking for my password. I tried combinations of Sharayah’s first and last name and even her birth date (which I found in her wallet), but nothing worked. I was ready to give up when I noticed a fingerprint swipe. Was her fingerprint her password? While this was cool, it was also discouraging, because how could I fake her fingerprint?

Then I slapped my head. Well, duh. I was Sharayah.

Curling the fingers in on my right hand and sticking out my thumb I started to swipe my thumbprint — when there was a knock on the door.

I jerked away from the computer, frozen with panic. Who could it be, so early in the morning? Not Sharayah’s roommate — she’d have a key and wouldn’t bother to knock. What about the shirtless boyfriend? Could he be coming back after his shirt? Or was it the person who’d sent the threatening text? I glanced uneasily at the broken phone with its dead, dark screen.

The knocking persisted, louder and insistent. My dorm neighbors would wake up if I didn’t answer. I stared at the door, biting my lip, wishing there was a peep hole so I could see who was here. Not that I’d recognize any of Sharayah’s friends or enemies. I couldn’t decide what to do.

“Forget waiting,” I muttered.

Then I yanked open the door — and found myself face-to-face with somebody famous. I mean, a real-for-glamness Hollywood star!

She was so famous she only had one name, which was recognizable around the world, and even though she wore sweats with a baseball cap pulled low over her forehead, she looked gorgeous. What had I heard about her recently? Something about a breakdown after adopting her eighth baby and rumors that her hubby was leaving her?

“Don’t just stand here,” the diva snapped in the silky voice she’d used before vaporizing her lover in her last action movie. “Those vile photographers will spot me again and I’ll be mobbed.”

“But you’re … you’re—!” My jaw sagged open.

“Don’t say it! As if I haven’t heard that name a million times too many in the last few days,” she said with a sweep of her hand as she moved past me into the room. “I am so sick of this celebrity crap and I detest all those flashing cameras. This has got to be the worse job in the history of worst jobs. Shut that door already — unless you want to be on every trash newspaper and YouTube around the world.”

I slammed the door then spun toward her. “How did you … I mean … um … have we met before?”

“Not in this lifetime.”

Something about her tone hinted that she was more than a movie star, which only added to my confusion. Maybe hanging out with celebrities was normal for Sharayah, but I had to push down my inner fan-girl and act cool.

“So … um … what’s this about?” I asked.

“We’ll get to that in a minute.”

She whipped off her cap and shook out luxurious black hair that shimmered around her slim shoulders. Even without makeup, her beauty was stunning. I had a strong impulse to beg for her autograph.

Have some pride, I scolded myself. My self-help books advised treating everyone the same, emphasizing that just because someone was considered a “star” didn’t make them more important than anyone else. Still, I found it hard to follow this advice when I was inches away from one of the most famous divas in the world.

“I hope you appreciate all the trouble I went through to get here, and don’t even think about griping because I’m a teensy bit late.” She turned toward the full-length mirror, puckering her glossy lips and finger-combing her hair. “Gawd, I’m a mess. Circles under my eyes, and is that a wrinkle? And I didn’t get any sleep tonight thanks to this assignment.”

“Assignment?” I echoed.

She gave me a look like I was the stupidest person she’d ever met. “Why else would I come all the way here, this early? This was the only time I could slip away without being followed. Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to be famous?”

Actually I could imagine, since I’d read dozens of movie and music star’s autobiographies to prepare for my future career managing Hollywood careers. But I didn’t think that’s what she wanted to hear, so I just shrugged.

“Of course you don’t know — no one can unless they live in this body.” She waved her bejeweled hand at me dismissively. “Running lines, hours in a makeup chair, shooting the same scene a million times, fans sucking up to me like leaches, but the worse is being hounded by rabid paparazzi. Can you believe I drove all the way here before discovering this psycho photographer hiding in my trunk? The idiot couldn’t get out and his banging was giving me a headache. I’m sure someone will eventually let him out.” She rubbed her forehead, then held out a paper to me. “This is for you, Amber.”