Linda Singleton: Dead Girl Walking

“I’m ready, too,” I said.

“Thanks for everything,” Leah told me. “Your grandmother’s explained what you’ve done. I don’t even know you … but I guess you know a lot about me. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Just read your journal when you get back.”

“Grammy says my body — the one you’ve been living in — will remember some of what happened while I was gone. Thanks for taking care of me. I couldn’t handle it on my own.”

“I’m glad to help,” I said, and I sincerely meant it.

Grammy Greta touched my cheek. “That’s part of what makes you so special.” In this strange, dreamlike place, we faced each other. “You’re so good at helping others; you’re the right person for Temp Lifer missions. Don’t be surprised if you’re called on to help when you least expect it.”

“Really?” I asked, flattered. “You’ll let me help?”

“Count on it. It could happen sooner than you expect, but if it does, don’t worry. Rest assured I’ll watch out for your real body. I’m always close by for you.”

“I know that now,” I said giving her a hug.

Then all the bright light swirled around like a shaken snow globe. I saw Leah waving and felt my grandmother’s touch slip away.

I thought excitedly about my body, eager to be me again — and to kiss Eli “hello” for real . It would be so cool to hang out with him at school, holding hands and saying all the corny stuff couples said to each other. I felt myself falling, spinning, diving forward to the life I loved.

Somewhere nearby, a dog barked.

Then everything faded …

… to black …

My eyes flew open.

I stared up at a heavy metal poster plastered on the ceiling.

Huh? I wondered. What was a poster doing on a hospital wall?

Something felt … odd.

I lifted my head, wisps of straight hair tickling my face. Not curly hair? I reached up and realized that my hair was shoulder length. And the hand that flashed by my face had thin fingers with square French-tipped nails. This was not a hospital room.

Fear shot through me. Where was I?

But that wasn’t the most important question.

Grammy Greta — what have you done to me?

Slowly, I sat up from a twin bed I’d never seen before. I stepped across discarded clothes I’d never worn before. And I stood before a mirror to ask the dreaded question.

Who was I?

The face staring back at me was familiar — but we’d never met. She had dark spiky hair, wide blue eyes, and rounded cheekbones. She was older than me — at least twenty-one — with an edgy aura that hinted at dark secrets.

I’d seen her face only once before — in a photograph on Eli’s wall.

My new name was Sharayah Rockingham.

I was my boyfriend’s sister.

The End.