As Dead As It Gets

Then came two boys, walking close together, looking down at a piece of paper.

Suddenly, one of them reared back, his voice loud and a

The next girl was tall, with dark skin and long braids, wearing a green-and-yellow cheerleading uniform. She walked with confidence—until she reached the sidewalk in front of the brick house.

Then she stopped and slapped at her arm, looking dismayed. She studied her hand, then took several steps back, like something had frightened her.

She made a sharp turn and crossed the street toward the gas station, walking right up to my car.

“I just got stung by a bee, and I’m allergic,” she said. “I have an EpiPen, but if I pass out, will you call nine-one-one?”

I nodded—what else could I do?—and watched as she jabbed a small needle into her thigh. Then she sat down on the curb and dug through her bag for her phone.

“Do you need me to drive you someplace?” I asked. “To the hospital?”

“No, thanks. My brother’ll come. He’ll take me if I need to go.…I feel okay so far.” She sighed.

“All right,” I said. “I can wait here with you.”

“If you don’t mind.” She studied the welt rising off of her forearm. “I swear, I got stung there last year, too. That house is totally cursed.”

She went on talking, but I wasn’t listening. I was looking at the house.

Cursed.

That was something I hadn’t thought about. Could the bright light, the wandering girls, be part of a curse?

A few minutes later the girl’s brother pulled up. She thanked me again and got into the car.

As soon as she was gone, I collected my courage, got the camera out of my bag, and walked to the edge of the road. I kept my distance—I was a good twenty feet from the sidewalk in front of the brick house.

I took a few pictures, expecting—hoping, even?—to see some kind of troublemaking ghost.

But all I saw in the frame was a spot of bright white light.

I stared at the image, trying to make sense of it.

“What are you looking at?” Lydia peered down at my camera. “I don’t see anything.”

“Really? Nothing?”

“What do you see?” She followed me. “What’s in that house?”

“I don’t know,” I said, hoping no one noticed that the girl with the camera was apparently having a conversation with herself in the middle of the sidewalk. “You’re the one who can walk through walls.”

“I can, you know,” she said. “I could go look. Want me to?”

I’d spent the past three months hiding everything from everyone. And now I was supposed to trust the one person who I thought hated me more than anyone else on the planet?

I sighed. “Sure, why not.”

She disappeared. A minute passed.

I caught myself checking the time on my phone, thinking, I hope she’s all right.

Lydia emerged a few seconds later and hurried across the street, not even flinching when a car drove right through her. She was too eager to share what she’d learned. “There’s an old guy passed out on the sofa. He’s drunk.”

“Just a regular guy? You didn’t see any other…”

She blinked. “Any other what?”

“Ghosts?”

“No.” She gave me an accusatory glance—almost like her feelings were hurt. “Are you saying you can see other ghosts? I’m not the only one?”

“If it makes you feel better,” I said, “you’re definitely the most intrusive ghost in my life.”

She shrugged. “A little better…I guess.”

“Come on,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”

Her eyes went wide.

“What?” I asked.

“You really want me to ride with you?”

“Want might be too strong a word,” I said. “But you might as well.”

Truthfully, though, I guess I did kind of want her there. Amazing how having zero friends and absolutely nobody to turn to could make you look at a person (or a ghost) in a new light. Lydia could be snarky, but it was nice to have someone to talk to for a change.

As we drove back through town, I thought about Lydia’s willingness to help. Maybe this helpful act was just that—an act, designed to lull me into a sense of false confidence so she could spring some super-duper destructive attack on me when I least expected it.

I pulled off to the side of the road.

“Why are we stopping here?” She looked around. “Did you see another ghost?”

“So if it’s not you,” I said, “why are there always yellow roses?”

“What? What do flowers have to do with anything?”

“You had yellow roses at your funeral.”

“You remember that?” She cocked her head to the side. “Wow. That’s almost kind of—”

“Answer me!” I said. “Does that mean you aren’t the one leaving yellow roses all over the place?”

“Of course I’m not.” Lydia sighed airily. “I don’t care about stupid yellow roses, okay? The funeral home picked them.”

Really.

The funeral home.

“But why, Lydia?” I asked. “Why do you keep showing up? Just tell me the truth, all right?”

She crossed her arms and didn’t answer for a long moment, like she was gathering every ounce of dignity she could muster. “Because…you keep calling for me. You call my name, and it’s like…I figure I should check on you. Honestly, Alexis, you’re like a helpless little baby. Someone has to save you. Are you happy now?”

With a magnificent harrumph, she faded out of view.

The thought hit me like a Frisbee to the head:

The bird charm wasn’t Lydia’s power center.

I was.

I STOPPED AT MY LOCKER and shuffled my books. My phone buzzed in my pocket.

The screen was cracked almost beyond recognition, but the alternative was some Iron Age castoff of Mom’s—another sentimental holdover from our old lives. So I was toughing it out. The phone still worked all right—it was just a little harder to see, that’s all.

It was a text from Jared: Nature preserve?

Can’t today, I replied. Have a shoot.

:( x 1000000

“Oh, come on,” I said out loud. Call u later, I texted, flipping the phone shut and turning back to my locker.

“Who are you talking to?” Marley asked, coming down the hall at warp speed and stopping just short of a hard collision with the empty locker next to mine—the one that used to be Megan’s.

It was February 12, and we were scheduled to cover the final pla

I slung my camera bag over my shoulder and walked with Marley to the gym. Inside, a bunch of Student Council members were gathered in a ragged semicircle of folding chairs. Zoe was there, as was Carter, and about ten other kids.

Marley started by making them move their chairs closer to the windows, looking for natural light for my photographs. The pale late afternoon sunlight still wasn’t enough to drown out the sickly green of the overhead fluorescents, so finally she made them carry their chairs outside and sit in a circle on the lawn.

I looked through my viewfinder.

“Excuse me, I can’t sit in the sun!” Zoe complained. “I’ll burn.”

“How is it?” Marley asked, ignoring her completely.

“It’s fine, except…” I said, “it reads more ‘drum circle’ than ‘Student Council.’”

I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around to see Carter.

“How about over there?” he asked, pointing to a spot on a nearby covered walkway where two stone benches faced each other. Soft, natural light reflected off the white walls, but there was enough shade to be interesting (and to protect Zoe’s milky complexion, which was apparently going to be a priority for all of us).