Linda Singleton: Dead Girl Walking

And for what?

Utter humiliation.

I wanted to turn invisible and slink away. But I couldn’t abandon Trinidad, no matter how much she deserved it. Anger pushed me out of hiding. I stepped away from the potted plant, where anyone could see me, then stomped over to the table.

Folding my arms across my chest, I faced Trinidad.

“I’m leaving,” I said in the calmest voice I could manage.

“So soon? Is something wrong?” Trinidad pushed Tristan’s hand off her arm and stood. “Amber, are you sick?”

“Oh, I’m sick all right. Of fakeness.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not anyone’s ‘geek slave.’ Go home with him.” I pointed at Tristan, not wanting to say his name.

“Were you spying on us?” Tristan narrowed his eyes.

I glared, holding tight to anger so I wouldn’t cry.

“You heard us?” Jessica sounded a little scared. “We were just messing around. I’m sorry, we didn’t mean—”

“Save it, Jess,” Moniqua interrupted. “Don’t apologize to her. Eavesdroppers hear exactly what they deserve.”

“Yeah,” I agreed sadly. “The truth.”

Then I left the party.

* * *

I could hardly see out of the windshield through my tears.

To shut off my thoughts, I amped my radio full blast and sang at the top of my lungs. I didn’t even know the words to the song, so I messed up the lyrics … like I’d messed up my life. I hoped a truck would smash into me or a bolt of lightning would strike my car. But there wasn’t a cloud, much less a lightning bolt in the sky, and all the trucks on the road were wise enough to avoid me.

It was almost a surprise to make it home safely.

Only I couldn’t bring myself to get out of the car. Why bother? My life was over. The fact that I was still breathing was a cruel irony.

There was no going forward or backwards, only sitting here in limbo land. I couldn’t bear to talk to anyone, so going into the house was out of the question. Mom would take one glance at my face, know I was upset, and pepper me with questions. Then she’d tell my father and insist we discuss it over a family meeting.

So I just sat there, with the car running, drowning in dark, hopeless thoughts. I glanced down at my lucky bracelet, tempted to rip it off my wrist.

Lots of luck it brought me — all of it bad.

By Monday morning, whispers and gossip would have spread around school. Basket Case … Basket Case! Is that really what everyone thought of my club? Of me? Were Alyce and Dustin my only real friends? Was everyone just laughing like I was a pathetic joke? I could never return to school. I’d have to transfer to another school or drop out. But dropping out would mean never going to college and having a big career. If I asked Mom about home schooling she’d just say no, because she was already crazy busy raising the triplets. So what could I do?

I couldn’t just leave school — yet how could I stay?

Hearing a car, I looked up at the mail truck slowing in front of my house. The mail lady, Sheila, saw me and waved. She and I had gotten to be friends after I’d sent off tons of scholarship applications that sent me rushing out to meet the mail truck daily. But I didn’t want to talk to her today and hear about her chronic back pain and how her sister’s husband was in jail again. So I hunched down in the car and prayed she’d leave.

Sheila waved again and called out my name.

Just what I didn’t need.

But she kept shouting for me, and if I didn’t go over my parents would come out of the house. I wiped my tears, arranging my hair so it partially hid my face. Then I walked over with a fake smile.

“Amber, check out my new wheels!” Sheila said happily.

“You finally got a new mail truck?” I said with forced cheerfulness. “Cool.”

“Isn’t it a beaut? Except that it’s a manual and the gears are all wonky. I’m still getting used to it. But hey, enough about me.” She reached for a letter on her lap. “I have good news for you! That scholarship you were waiting for!”

They’re probably rejecting me , I thought, but I didn’t want to ruin Sheila’s upbeat mood. So I kept on smiling and took the letter.

“Well, open it up!” Sheila urged.

I hesitated, then shrugged and ripped into the envelope. The opening lines jumped out at me: Congratulations! We are happy to offer—

Ohmygod! I got the scholarship!

Next thing I knew I was jumping and crying for joy. Sheila laughed and congratulated me, and then said she had to finish her route. I heard an awful clunk of gears as her car jerked forward, tires squealing.

I read the letter, then read it again. Congratulations! We are happy to offer you a scholarship to a California State University of your choice. We have evaluated your application …

I’m sure my eyes were as big and round as all those lovely zeroes. I nearly fell to my knees and kissed the pavement.

Totally, totally amazing! All my dreams come true and folded neatly into an envelope. Grammy Greta was so right. I did have a future — and a great one! I could go anywhere and be anything I wanted.

I was hugging the letter, poised to rush into the house and tell my parents the good news, when I heard an engine roar, the screech of wheels, and a scream.

Then Sheila’s brand new mail-mobile, which was careening out of control in reverse, ran right into me.

And I died.

Golden light shone so brightly my eyes should have hurt, yet they didn’t. Nothing hurt.

I didn’t even itch!

Surrounded by the dazzling clouds of light, I felt incredible, amazing joy. I wasn’t anywhere in particular, yet I was somehow everywhere, which made no sense at all.

Dreaming. Yeah, that had to be it. Floating, flying, sweet dreams soaring. There was music, too, an orchestra of crystal-pure angelic music. And when the clouds cleared, a woman glided toward me with arms outstretched, smiling wide. A smile I loved dearly and had never expected to see again. Not on Earth, anyway.

Could that mean I was …?

“Not quite,” Grammy Greta told me, squeezing my hands and peering deep into my heart. Strangely, she had no wrinkles and her hair was dark brown, not silvery gray. She wore beige slacks and a striped shirt with a cat embroidered on the pocket. Not the starchy yellow cotton dress I’d seen her wearing at her funeral.

Funeral … buried in the ground … over a year ago.

I blinked at Grammy, then looked down at myself, searching for some clue to what was going on. I was still me, in ripped jeans and Dustin’s baggy shirt that barely covered my nettle bumps and reddened scratches. I ran a finger along an old scar on my right thumb, where I’d been snagged by a hook on my first (and last) fishing trip with Dad. The scar felt real and so did I — yet how could that be?

“Am I dreaming?” I lifted my gaze from my hands to Grammy’s beaming face.

“Dreams and reality are elementally the same.”

“I don’t get it … but it doesn’t matter. If this is a dream, it’s a great one and I’m in no hurry to wake up. Oh, Grammy, I’ve missed you so much!”

“I’ve missed you, too.” When she squeezed my hands she felt real and alive and wonderful.

“How is this possible?” I asked, marveling at the misty ground swirling around my very ordinary sneakers, scents of mountain and ocean breezes, and the amazing woman standing in front of me. “I can’t believe we’re together. I never thought I’d see you again.”

“But I’ve never been far away, and I see you all the time. Remember the card you received on your birthday with no signature?”

“Sure. The cute black dog on the front looked exactly like Cola. I tacked it on my bulletin board. I couldn’t figure out who sent …” I stared at her widening smile. “You?”