B.C. Johnson - Deadgirl

Ugh. I leaned over and breathed evenly and steadily until my stomach quieted.

“Gonna vomit?”

I shook my head, pulling long tugs of air deep into my chest.

“Yes you are.”

I nodded.

She grabbed me by the shoulders and ran me to the bathroom. She even held up my hair when I threw up. By the time I cleaned up, which she thankfully didn’t help me out with, Morgan and her mom, Cheryl, were already standing in the kitchen. Cheryl wore a long coat over her nightgown, and her keys dangled from one hand.

“Lucy,” she said. “I don’t like this.”

“Mom,” Morgan said. Clearly her mom was breaking some agreement.

“I’m sorry, baby, but…” Cheryl turned to me. “I don’t like this.”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Veers,” I said. “It’s not fair to ask you not to tell them. It’s just…I need some time, that’s all. Just time to figure this out.”

She sported the look that I’d begun to despise, a look I had no defense against. A look of pity mixed with a look of…what? Fear, maybe? Or relief? The knowledge that someone you know has gone crazy, and the secret underlying relief that it isn’t you.

But I had no defense, because I’d earned it. Ten times over I’d earned that look.

“Lucy Day,” Cheryl said. “If the cops find you in a ditch or in some rusted out car…tell me how that won’t be my fault?”

I felt the tears again. Stop it. Stop it, you stupid girl. I sighed to steady myself, squared my shoulders, and looked her in the eye.

“I don’t have…it’s not like that. I don’t have a death wish or whatever you’re thinking.”

This time Morgan spoke. I don’t think she could help herself.

“Then what is it?”

Funny story, actually, Ms. Veers. When I sleep, I get beamed like Captain Kirk to a spooky beach with monsters and nice old mute men—oh, and this is weird—how far I travel in this imaginary place corresponds to how far I travel in real life. Also I’m dead and I partially ate a car crash victim.

“I don’t know.”

Another lie. An understandable one, I think , but another lie. You’re getting better at least, Lucy .

I felt the warmth in my eyes, the wet feeling of a puddle of tears clinging to my eyes, getting ready to rain. No. Stop.

I sneaked through the back door of my house—it was always open, because Mom was a ditz. I expected Mom and Dad to be sitting in the arm chairs in the living room, with the lights off, getting ready to bust me and ground me forever. It didn’t happen. They were asleep.

God bless Morgan’s cool mom for the benefit of the doubt.

I went up to my bedroom and tore off the clothes that were making it feel like a sauna. I laughed at myself as I jumped into bed. I kicked off the huge quilt, pulled the thin sheet over my bare legs, and sat back against my headboard. Just hours ago, in that bed, I’d been praying for just a hint of warmth. Now I found myself half-naked and still sweating like a…well, like me in a Calculus class .

The sheet began to cling muy grossly to my sweat-soaked legs, so I kicked it off in a fit of extreme tantrum.

I didn’t feel tired. In fact, I felt more awake then I had been in a while. Well, that and sleeping meant being taken to the beach, where a monster wanted to eat me. I’ll pass thanks .

I thought of Puck, that weird, oddly playful, old mute. I knew he was fine—he’d seemed a hundred times more capable than me. But what about the man in the car? Had the paramedics arrived in time? I felt like I was bashing my head against a wall for answers. I closed my eyes and tried to calm down.

I grabbed the book from my nightstand— Sabriel —and dug into it for at least the third time.

I read until morning.

The next three days went by in a blur. School was beginning to feel normal again—people were beginning to feel normal again. Fewer looks of confusion and worry, less hugging. Just normal Lucy, back to normal school, doing normal stuff. The morning of the first day, Morgan had flashed me a look she had earned—a look that said, “Okay, Luce, take your time, but I’m not forgetting.” I nodded at her, and that was it.

I did my schoolwork, I did my homework—well, at least in their normal percentages. Zack stayed mostly at his group during lunches, but every once in a while he’d float over and say hi. The flirting in Spanish had ratcheted up a few blissful notches, and we were getting in trouble daily with Mr. Halloway.

My only reminder of my incident was one Ms. Marian Crane. Old Nosy. She scooped me out of one of my classes daily and took me back to her office for counseling. She asked me run of the mill, getting-to-know-you questions. She asked about my parents, my family, my classes. What I wanted to be when I got out of college. What I wanted to study in college. My favorite part about high school, my least favorite. If I showed interest in boys—or girls, which I’m pretty sure she only said to show how hip she was—did I hear voices, you know, the usual. While I knew her intentions, I was having a hard time relaxing in her office. I just kept wondering when she was going to lay me out—when the dreaded questions were going to hit. Questions I didn’t want to answer. Questions I couldn’t answer. But she never asked. I left her sessions feeling gradually more relieved. Maybe she just wanted to check to see if I wasn’t on drugs or joining a cult or something.

I still hadn’t eaten—my calendar marked off more days than I liked. Still, I wasn’t hungry, and I had a morbid urge to see how far it could go. Not an anorexic urge—as far as I could tell, I wasn’t losing an ounce of weight. I checked on my scale a few times, and I hadn’t changed a bit. Too bad, really.

I spent the nights reading or surfing the internet or playing solitaire or watching old TV shows. Sometimes all of those things, sometimes none. But I never slept, and I never allowed my eyes to close for too long. The grey beach had been a strange place at first, but after the second appearance of the light-thing, it was off-limits. I had no desire to see it ever again.

On the third night, I felt the cold returning.

The scorching heat had been fading steadily, something I’d written off as acclimation. Thursday, just after school, it disappeared completely. I pulled my jacket around myself, but I felt no warmth.

Morgan asked me to come over to her house after school—the only place she was allowed to be outside of class. I wanted to go with her, but I canceled last minute. I thought of Kent, and I thought of the black ring around his wrist and the things I’d taken.

After school Thursday I ran up to my room. I pulled up Google and typed in a name I had no business knowing— Kent Isaac Miller, Anaheim, CA.

The first page that came up was a class reunion website, and then a recent article in the Register. I went to the OC Register site first. It was a tiny piece, just a blurb near the back of the paper that had been faithfully reprinted in the Local News section. Still, the headline caught my eye—CAR ACCIDENT TURNS MEDICAL MYSTERY.

I took a deep breath and began to read:

ANAHEIM—A local high school History teacher who crashed into a telephone pole early Tuesday morning also suffered from frostbite, doctors at St. Elias Hospital say.

In the early hours of Tuesday morning KENT MILLER, 33, who teaches History at Kennedy High School, allegedly lost control of his vehicle and collided with a telephone pole on the corner of Broadway and Gilbert in West Anaheim. An unknown bystander—

I stopped reading. I took a long breath. I blew out frost. Not good.

An unknown bystander made a call to Miller’s wife, MARIA MILLER, 34, who called 911 with the location of the accident. Emergency services arrived to aid the wounded man and brought him to St. Elias Hospital’s emergency room.