As Dead As It Gets

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Hello to you, too,” I said, getting bread and peanut butter out of the pantry.

He sighed. “Hello. I called a few minutes ago. What were you doing?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I just got home.”

“I wanted you to come over tonight. Dad’s working late.”

“I can’t,” I said, pulling the jelly out of the fridge. “I have plans.”

“What plans?”

“Nothing special. Just some research stuff I have to do.”

I’d noticed that Jared made this impatient little sniffing noise when he was aggravated.

Sniff.

“Jared,” I said, “I have to get this done.”

“What is it? Look it up online. Or maybe I can help you. What’s the topic?”

A list of dead girls and a ghost that hisses at me.

“I’m sorry,” I said, spreading peanut butter on a slice of bread. “I can’t.”

“But you’ll definitely come over tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Come on.”

“I don’t know if—”

“Say yes.”

Fine. Whatever. “Yes,” I said.

“Promise?”

“Sure, I promise,” I said. “Now I have to go.”

“Okay,” he said. “Work hard.”

I hung up the phone and leaned down, burying my face in my hands for a moment.

“Lexi.”

Kasey stood in the hallway, hand on her hip.

“Oh, hey—I didn’t know you were here.” I studied her face. How long had she been there? Long enough to hear me calling for Lydia?

“I just got home a minute ago. I was quiet because you were on speakerphone.” Her voice was carefully even. “We need to talk.”

I assembled my sandwich and started cutting it into quarters. “About?”

I expected her to say something about ghosts.

But she said, “About Jared.”

“Or we could talk about you minding your own—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she said. “I should mind my own business. But I’m not going to. So what’s he mad about this time?”

“It’s complicated. I don’t expect you to understand.” My head was starting to throb.

“Lexi,” Kasey said, softer, coaxing, “do you think…maybe there’s a chance he’s a tiny bit…controlling?”

“No,” I said, rubbing my temples.

“But the way he talks to you—I mean, the way I hear you talk to him—”

“No,” I repeated. “You know, if you would spend more time cleaning up your dirty clothes and wet towels in the bathroom, and less time eavesdropping, you could save both of us a lot of trouble.”

I meant it as a joke, but she gave me a wounded look. “It’s just…when you talk to Jared, you sound like you’re trying to pass a test or something. You never sounded like that with Carter.”

“Yeah, and that landed me in ‘happily ever after,’ didn’t it?” I said. “Besides, your boyfriend is three years older than you. If anyone has control issues, wouldn’t it be Keaton?”

She looked hurt. “Keat’s only sixteen. He skipped fourth grade. And he would never make me feel bad for not wanting to spend every waking moment with him.”

“Kase, I appreciate that you care,” I said. “I really do. But you’re totally wrong.”

I slipped my sandwich onto a plate and started for my bedroom without even putting the peanut butter and jelly away.

Before I could close the door, she said, “Wait!”

I stopped.

She took a deep breath, then said, “Why did you have those bruises?”

Instinctively, I turned my face away.

“Last month. There was one on your neck and one on your face. You tried to cover them up, but I saw them.”

I blurred my eyes and stared at the dim rectangle of sky visible through my window.

“Tell me the honest-to-God truth, Lexi,” she said, suddenly hoarse. “Is it Jared?”

“No.” I cleared my throat. “I swear.”

I wanted to make her feel better, but what else could I say? If I hinted at a ghost, she’d insist on knowing everything. She’d want to be part of it. And then she’d be in danger.

“Kasey, please,” I said. “It was nothing—I just fell. You worry too much.”

Then I reached out and ever so gently closed the door in her face.

Fifteen minutes later, Lydia and I were in the car, headed to the library to look up the names from the funeral home. She leaned away from me, her arms crossed in front of her chest. She’d been quiet for the whole drive, shooting me weighty glances.

“What?” I asked. “What is it?”

“I know you don’t want to hear it, but your sister’s right.”

“Seriously, Lydia. I’m not going to talk about this with you,” I said. “You know nothing about relationships. You’re dead, remember? Anyway, I know what I’m doing.”

“Oh, sure,” she said. “You’re totally in control, as always, right?”

I couldn’t reply.

“I’m just saying, check yourself before you wreck your emotionally vulnerable little self, Alexis.” Lydia shrugged and looked at herself in the passenger-side mirror. “It’s obvious you’ll take affection from whoever’s willing to throw it at you right now.”

“Can we not do this?” I asked. “Please?”

She threw her arms in the air like I was the one being stubborn and frustrating. “Have it your way.”

“Thank you.”

“Or, you know, just have it Jared’s way. As usual.”

I gritted my teeth and pulled into the library parking lot.

As great as the free office supplies were, having a mom who worked at a place that sold computers and software was actually a major hindrance to my ability to get any research done at home. Mom had access to the best software consultants—and the best internet monitoring software. That is, when she left her laptop home instead of carting it around with her.

It seemed everybody’s parents were clueless but mine. We had an old computer that we could use for typing papers, but internet access was highly restricted. Sometimes I wondered what on earth Mom thought we’d do if she didn’t stop us—order ourselves some Russian mail-order brides? Send money to fake Nigerian princes?

It’s not that I thought she was so wrong—and not like I was dying to create an online life for myself (just another place to not have any friends)—but it was inconvenient, to say the least.

If I ever had kids—which I wouldn’t—I would make it a point to stay a little clueless about technology. Just to be nice.

Lydia hovered over me as I sat at one of the public computers. “I can’t believe you didn’t write them down.”

She meant the names of the other girls whose funerals had been held at Henry-Gordon. To be honest, I couldn’t believe it, either.

“I was a little stressed out,” I whispered. “I had to carry on a conversation with him. Why can’t you remember them?”

“That is not my responsibility,” she said. “You know, technically, I don’t even have a brain.”

“I am definitely going to quote you on that at some point.”

The guy at the computer next to me glanced over in mild alarm.

“Not you,” I said to him.

So far, between the two of us, we’d come up with four of the seven names.

“Claudine, Rachel, Qui

I stared at the monitor. Something with a G. Gabrielle?

No—Grace.

I typed “Grace + Henry-Gordon Funeral Home.” The first result was an obituary. Lydia leaned in closer to read.

“Twelve,” Lydia said. “Too young.”

And she didn’t look anything like the superghost, either. Dark straight hair, not blond.

Out of all the girls, the only one who came close was Rachel. She was seventeen and had medium-length blond hair. But I didn’t see how Rachel could have become a ghost. According to the news articles, she was driving along when she was blindsided by a truck that ran a red light. Witnesses said she never saw it coming. Doctors said she died instantly.

No time to be afraid or angry or traumatized. Just here one second, gone the next.

Not a good recipe for a ghost.

Di