Gabrielle Zevin: Elsewhere

"Actually, Liz, you can't help but be on time. 'Now' being a relative term and all," Thandi says.

"Do you want to come?" Liz asks.

"It's probably best you go alone."

"Suit yourself." Liz is still annoyed with Thandi and is secretly glad to be by herself.

"Besides, I've already been," Thandi admits.

"When were you there without me?" Liz asks.

"Sometime," Thandi says vaguely. "Don't matter."

Liz shakes her head. As she sees it, she is already late and doesn't have time to further question Thandi.

On her way out the door, Liz turns to face Thandi. "Heroin," says Liz. "That's what those marks on Curtis's arm were from, right?"

Thandi nods. "I thought you didn't know."

"In the magazines, there were always rumors that Curtis Jest was a junkie," Liz says, "but you can't believe everything you read."

The Observation Deck is on the top floor of the ship. Although Liz and Thandi have explored the Nile extensively, they have never gone all the way to the top. (At least not together, Liz thinks.) Now Liz wonders whythey never went up. All at once, Liz needs to get there. She senses that when she reaches the Observation Deck, something definitive will happen.

Liz races up the many flights of stairs that separate her cabin from the Observation Deck. She finds herself chanting the line from the poem Mrs. Early read in class: "I met a traveler from an antique land; I met a traveler from an antique land; I met a traveler from an antique land." When Liz finally reaches the top, she is covered in sweat and out of breath.

The Observation Deck consists of a long row of binoculars, the kind that resemble stick-figure men without arms, or parking meters. Each pair of binoculars is coupled with an uncomfortablelooking metal stool. The people using the binoculars are consistently rapt, although their individual reactions differ wildly. Some laugh; some cry; some laugh and cry at the same time; some simply stare straight ahead, blank expressions on their faces.

The binoculars are labeled sequentially. Filled with equal parts fear and curiosity, Liz locates Binoculars #219 and sits on the metal stool. She removes the strange coin from her pocket and places it in the slot. She puts her eyes up to the binoculars just as the lenses click open. What can almost be described as a 3-D movie is playing.

The movie is set at a church. Liz recognizes it as the one she attended whenever her mother felt the intermittent need to "enhance Liz's spiritual life." In the back pews, Liz sees several kids from her high school dressed in black. As the camera moves forward through the church, Liz sees other, older people; people she only knows from long-forgotten holiday meals and dinner parties viewed from upstairs after her bedtime. Yes, these are her relatives and her parents' friends.

Finally, the camera stops at the front of the church. Liz's mother, father, and brother are sitting in the front row. Her mother wears no makeup and clutches her father by the hand. Her brother wears a navy blue suit that is already too short for him.

Dr. Frederick, her high school principal and a man Liz has never spoken to personally, stands at the pulpit. "A straight-A student," says Dr. Frederick in what Liz recognizes as the voice he uses for assemblies, "Elizabeth Marie Hall was a credit to her parents and her school." Liz laughs.

Although her grades ranged from decent to very good, she never made straight A's. Mainly, she made B's, except in math and science.

"But what can we learn from the death of a person so young, with so much potential?" Dr.

Frederick bangs on the lectern with his fist for emphasis. "What we can learn is the importance of traffic safety." At this point, Liz's father erupts in an explosion of breathless, hysterical sobs. In her whole life, Liz has never once seen him cry like that.

"In memory of Elizabeth Marie Hall," Dr. Frederick continues, "I challenge you all to look both ways before you cross the street, to wear a helmet when riding a bicycle, to fasten your seat belts, to only purchase automobiles that include passenger-side airbags ..." Dr. Frederick shows no signs of stopping. What a windbag, Liz thinks.

Liz pans the binoculars to the left. Beside the lectern, she notices a rectangular white lacquer box with tacky pink roses carved into its side. At this point, Liz has a fairly good idea what, or rather who, will be in the box. Still, she knows she must see for herself. Liz peers over the lid: a lifeless girl in a blond wig and a brown velvet dress lies in a bed of white satin. I've always hated that dress, Liz thinks. She sits back on her uncomfortable metal stool and sighs. She knows what she had, until now, only suspected: she is dead. She is dead and, for the moment anyway, she feels nothing.

Liz takes one last look in the binoculars, checking to make sure that the people who should be at her funeral are there. Edward the cross-country runner is there, manfully blowing his nose on his sleeve. Her English teacher is there, and so is Personal Fitness. She is pleasantly surprised to see World History. But what happened to Algebra II and Biology? Liz wonders. (Those were her favorite subjects.) And she can't seem to find her best friend anywhere. Hadn't it been Zooey's fault she was at the mall to begin with? Where the hell is Zooey? Disgusted, Liz leaves the binoculars before her time is up. She has seen enough.

I am dead, Liz thinks. And then she says it aloud to hear how it sounds: "I am dead. Dead."

It is a strange thing being dead, because her body doesn't feel dead at all. Her body feels the same as it always has.

As Liz walks down the long row of binoculars, she spots Curtis Jest. Using only one eye, he is looking in his binoculars with decidedly tepid interest. His other eye spots Liz immediately.

"Hello, Lizzie. How's the afterlife treating you?" Curtis asks.

Liz tries to shrug nonchalantly. Although she does not know exactly what "the afterlife" entails, she is fairly certain of one thing: she will never see her parents, her brother, or her friends again.

In a way, it feels more like she is still alive and the only guest at the collective funeral for everyone she has ever known. She chooses to respond with "It's boring," even though that answer doesn't come close to expressing what she feels.

"And the funeral, how was that?" asks Curtis.

"It was mainly an occasion for my high school principal to discuss traffic safety."

"Traffic safety, eh? Sounds divine." Curtis cocks his head, slightly puzzled.

"And they said I was a 'straight-A student,' " Liz adds, "which I'm not."

"Don't you watch the news? All young people become perfect students when they kick the bucket.

It's a rule."

Liz wonders if her death made the local news. Does anyone care if a fifteen-year-old girl gets hit by a car?

"The Great Jimi Hendrix said, 'Everyone loves you when you're dead: once you're dead, you're made for life.' Or something like that. But he's probably before your time."

"I know who he is," Liz says. "The guitar player."

"I beg your pardon, madam." Curtis mimes tipping his hat. "Care to have a look at my funeral, then?" Curtis asks.

Liz isn't sure she is up to looking at anyone else's funeral, but she doesn't want to seem impolite.

She looks through Curtis's binoculars. Curtis's funeral is far more elaborate than Liz's: the other members of Machine are there; a famous singer sings his most famous song with lyrics especially rewritten for the occasion; a celebrated underwear model sobs in the front row; and, bizarrely, a juggling bear stands on Curtis's coffin.

"What's with the bear?" Liz asks.

"The bear was supposed to be in our next video. His name is Bartholomew, and I was told he is the best bear in the business. One of the guys in the band probably thought I would like it."