Linda Singleton: Dead Girl Walking

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.”