Dead Girl Dancing

by Linda Joy Singleton

  Yet the words “I M WATCHING U” were stalkerish, scaring me almost as much as when I’d been threatened by a Dark Lifer. I didn’t really expect a Dark Lifer to appear in the dorm room, but fear created paranoia. What if it was a Dark Lifer? Their dark souls were attracted to the radiant glow lingering on anyone who’d recently visited the other side (like me). My grandmother had warned that until my glow faded, Dark Lifers would try to feed on this energy by touching me, drawn to the luminescence like vampires to blood.

  Shivers crawled across my skin as I scanned every murky corner in the small room. The creepy “being watched” feeling persisted. I wouldn’t be able to relax until I was sure the threat was a wrong number or sick joke. Not hard to check out—all I had to do was call back the text number.

  I got down on my knees, and fished the phone out from underneath a chair … then groaned. Broken.

  Now I couldn’t call anyone—including Eli.

  Tossing the useless phone aside, I sank on the bed, burying my face in my hands. What was I going to do?

  Nothing—except wait for Eli. And I hated waiting. I mean, really hated waiting. To conquer this embarrassing character flaw I’d read a self-help book called Paving the Road to Success through Patience. But there were footnotes and the advice was so boring that I ended up skimming through the chapters, learning only that I really sucked at being patient.

  Obviously I sucked at being a Temp Lifer, too. My first act on the job was to break Sharayah’s cell phone—how pathetic was that? And instead of coming up with a plan of action, I was waiting to be rescued by her brother. But what else could I do? Being in someone else’s body without knowing much about them was like driving to an unknown destination blindfolded. Where could I find out more about Sharayah?

  With a snap of my fingers, I turned to the two computers in the room. One was a slim, silver laptop propped on a white desk painted with elegant rose vines; the desktop was neat and organized, with metal racks for papers, pens, folders, and books. The only personal items were a pink quartz paperweight and a rhinestone-framed graduation picture of a pink-haired girl with a pierced lip. The roommate, I guessed. The other computer, a black laptop, sat on a dark wood desk, which was so cluttered that the laptop was half-hidden behind random papers, boxes, books, and CDs.

  Pushing aside a folder and two textbooks, I plopped into the swivel chair and booted up Sharayah’s laptop, tapping my fingers impatiently. A box popped up asking for my password. I tried combinations of Sharayah’s first and last name and even her birth date (which I found in her wallet), but nothing worked. I was ready to give up when I noticed a fingerprint swipe. Was her fingerprint her password? While this was cool, it was also discouraging, because how could I fake her fingerprint?

  Then I slapped my head. Well, duh. I was Sharayah.

  Curling the fingers in on my right hand and sticking out my thumb I started to swipe my thumbprint—when there was a knock on the door.

  I jerked away from the computer, frozen with panic. Who could it be, so early in the morning? Not Sharayah’s roommate—she’d have a key and wouldn’t bother to knock. What about the shirtless boyfriend? Could he be coming back after his shirt? Or was it the person who’d sent the threatening text? I glanced uneasily at the broken phone with its dead, dark screen.

  The knocking persisted, louder and insistent. My dorm neighbors would wake up if I didn’t answer. I stared at the door, biting my lip, wishing there was a peep hole so I could see who was here. Not that I’d recognize any of Sharayah’s friends or enemies. I couldn’t decide what to do.

  “Forget waiting,” I muttered.

  Then I yanked open the door—and found myself face-to-face with somebody famous. I mean, a real-for-glamness Hollywood star!

  She was so famous she only had one name, which was recognizable around the world, and even though she wore sweats with a baseball cap pulled low over her forehead, she looked gorgeous. What had I heard about her recently? Something about a breakdown after adopting her eighth baby and rumors that her hubby was leaving her?

  “Don’t just stand here,” the diva snapped in the silky voice she’d used before vaporizing her lover in her last action movie. “Those vile photographers will spot me again and I’ll be mobbed.”

  “But you’re … you’re—!” My jaw sagged open.

  “Don’t say it! As if I haven’t heard that name a million times too many in the last few days,” she said with a sweep of her hand as she moved past me into the room. “I am so sick of this celebrity crap and I detest all those flashing cameras. This has got to be the worse job in the history of worst jobs. Shut that door already—unless you want to be on every trash newspaper and YouTube around the world.”

  I slammed the door then spun toward her. “How did you … I mean … um … have we met before?”

  “Not in this lifetime.”

  Something about her tone hinted that she was more than a movie star, which only added to my confusion. Maybe hanging out with celebrities was normal for Sharayah, but I had to push down my inner fan-girl and act cool.

  “So … um … what’s this about?” I asked.

  “We’ll get to that in a minute.”

  She whipped off her cap and shook out luxurious black hair that shimmered around her slim shoulders. Even without makeup, her beauty was stunning. I had a strong impulse to beg for her autograph.

  Have some pride, I scolded myself. My self-help books advised treating everyone the same, emphasizing that just because someone was considered a “star” didn’t make them more important than anyone else. Still, I found it hard to follow this advice when I was inches away from one of the most famous divas in the world.

  “I hope you appreciate all the trouble I went through to get here, and don’t even think about griping because I’m a teensy bit late.” She turned toward the full-length mirror, puckering her glossy lips and finger-combing her hair. “Gawd, I’m a mess. Circles under my eyes, and is that a wrinkle? And I didn’t get any sleep tonight thanks to this assignment.”

  “Assignment?” I echoed.

  She gave me a look like I was the stupidest person she’d ever met. “Why else would I come all the way here, this early? This was the only time I could slip away without being followed. Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to be famous?”

  Actually I could imagine, since I’d read dozens of movie and music star’s autobiographies to prepare for my future career managing Hollywood careers. But I didn’t think that’s what she wanted to hear, so I just shrugged.

  “Of course you don’t know—no one can unless they live in this body.” She waved her bejeweled hand at me dismissively. “Running lines, hours in a makeup chair, shooting the same scene a million times, fans sucking up to me like leaches, but the worse is being hounded by rabid paparazzi. Can you believe I drove all the way here before discovering this psycho photographer hiding in my trunk? The idiot couldn’t get out and his banging was giving me a headache. I’m sure someone will eventually let him out.” She rubbed her forehead, then held out a paper to me. “This is for you, Amber.”

  “Amber?” I grabbed hold of a dresser so I didn’t fall over from shock. “You know my name?”

  “Hel-lo?” She rolled her glamorous eyes. “Haven’t you been listening to anything I’ve said? Why else would I come here at this gawd-awful time with your delivery? All right, so I should have been here right after your switch, I suppose I should apologize, but getting anywhere in this high-maintenance body isn’t easy.”

  “Body? You mean … you’re a Temp Lifer like me?”

  “A Temp Lifer—yes. But an untrained novice like you? No. I have a hundred and forty-three years of experience and I had the wisdom not to volunteer until after I’d been dead a few decades. I don’t approve of using Earthbounders as TLs, but no one asked for my opinion and it doesn’t happen often anyway, usually only when someone pulls harp strings up there.” She pointed upward with a disapproving sniff. “But I suppose nepotism is everywhere.
”

  “I didn’t ask for this job!” I snapped. “It’s horrible not being myself and being trapped in someone else’s body—especially this one! I just want to go home and be myself again.”

  “So why’d you volunteer?”

  “It was an accident. I didn’t know what I was promising when I told my grandmother I’d help out. And I certainly didn’t think she’d switch me right away—but everything happened so fast. I had no idea she’d do this to me without a warning, or at least some instructions. This is the worst thing to happen in my whole life—and considering I was hit by a truck and nearly died last week, that’s saying a lot. I just want to go back to my own body. This is so unfair.”

  “How about getting over yourself?” She tucked her luxurious locks back under the cap. “And while you’re doing that, sign this form so I can get out of here.”

  “Didn’t you hear anything I said? I don’t want to be a Temp Lifer.”

  “There’s no quitting on the other side,” she said with a small shrug. “You want out? Complete your assignment—which means signing this paper.”

  “I refuse to sign anything without reading it first.”

  “So read it—but be quick.”

  I squinted at the small print and legalese. “Um … should I get a lawyer? This is hard to understand. For all I know I’m signing away my soul.”

  “Trust me—you’d know if you were,” she said ominously. “Soul signing is serious business and only binding when using blood ink.”

  “Blood ink? Gross. I am so not cut out for this job.” I groaned. “Can you get a message to my grandmother and ask her to replace me with someone more experienced? I don’t have any idea what to do. I know whose body I’m in, but I don’t know what her problem is and or how to solve it.”

  “You’re such a newbie. The TL job is to replace, not rescue. We give our Host Soul a rest so they can come back refreshed enough to solve their own problems. But you wouldn’t know that, since this is only your first experience in a different body.”

  Her condescending tone made me bristle. “Actually, it’s my second.” I didn’t add that the first time had been a cosmic accident caused by my pathetic sense of direction and I hadn’t known what to do then, either.

  “Seriously?” She arched a skeptic brow. “You’ve done this before?”

  “I … um … helped a girl at school who tried to commit suicide.”

  “They trusted a suicide to a novice? What are the other worlds coming to? Oh well, not my problem. Would you sign already?” She snapped her fingers and suddenly a feather-tipped pen appeared in her hand. She shoved it at me. “Once you read and sign the release form, I’ll give you your Guidance Evaluation Manual—or GEM as we call them—which will tell you everything you need to know. Then I’m so out of here. I can only hope my next assignment is somewhere far from Hollywood and more peaceful—like a war zone.”

  Holding the pen between my fingers, I read the small print.

  As the undersigned Temporary Lifer, I agree to abide by all existing and future rules incorporated in the Guidance Evaluation Manual and agree herewith to offer no allegations against the High Power and all its agencies … blah, blah, blah.

  My grandmother must know a lot of lawyers on the other side, I thought as I skipped down to the part of the page where I signed my life away—an act I hoped wasn’t a bad pun.

  “Great.” The diva snatched the paper and folded it over and over until it was so small that it vanished in her hand. A snap of her fingers and a book appeared, if you could call something no bigger than a Hershey’s bar a book. She shoved it at me. “Study this GEM and do not—I mean do not under any circumstances—break the rules.”

  I nodded, a little uneasy but mostly curious as I palmed the tiny book. When I glanced back up, eager to ask about Grammy, Sharayah, and the many other questions troubling me, the diva was gone.

  For a bewildered moment I just stood there, reeling with disappointment. Then, with a sigh, I went over to Sharayah’s desk to study the little book. The gold cover was blank except for three glittery letters: G-E-M. And when I flipped through the pages, they were all blank. But as I stared, a spot of black, like the tip of a pen, swirled at the center of a page, then curled into wavy lines to create a letter—A. Fascinated, I watched four more letters spell out A-M-B-E-R.

  Talk about personalizing a book! Now the letters came faster, spilling like a vein of ink had been opened, pouring words onto the page to compose a short letter to me.

  Amber,

  Your role as a Temp Lifer is vital to your Host Soul as well as a beacon of redemption for all negativity and mistakes along your personal life path. Earthbounders require care and upkeep when they are in trauma mode. During the soul replacement, you will assume the Host Soul’s life with no interruptions. Your signature has been noted in the Hall of Records as your binding promise to abide by all regulations and obligations of this sacred mission. Adhere to each of the Nine Divine Rules; breaking any Rule could result in serious consequences.

  The ink paused, and the page fluttered to a new page that was no longer empty. It included a single line: Nine Divine Rules.

  The page flipped again to show the first rule.

  #1. Follow through on your Host Body’s obligations and plans.

  It would help to know Sharayah’s plans, I thought as the page flipped quickly to the next rule.

  #2. Under no circumstances should you ever reveal your true identity.

  Oops, blew that one already by telling Eli, I thought, with a glance at the broken phone. Less than an hour as a Temp Lifer and I’d already broken a rule. I hoped Grammy wouldn’t be mad.

  The pages flipped faster now. I had to read quickly so I wouldn’t miss important information.

  #3. Consult this manual with pertinent questions.

  #4. Resist temptation; guide your Host to positive choices.

  #5. If you become aware of Dark Lifers, retreat and report.

  #6. Do not commit acts against your Host’s moral code.

  #7. Respect your Host Body; no tattoos, hair dye, or piercings.

  #8. Your time in a Host Body cannot exceed a full moon cycle.

  #9. Guard your Host Body well. If your Body dies, so will you.

  I reread the ninth rule a few times, my stomach knotting. Why make a rule like that unless it had actually happened? Had an unfortunate Temp Lifer died on the job and lost their real body as a penalty? Talk about on-the-job hazards! Taking over someone else’s life was way too dangerous. I wished I’d never made that stupid promise to Grammy. Did she know I’d already broken the second rule? Not that it was my fault, because I hadn’t even known about the rules when I’d called Eli. And to be honest, I didn’t regret breaking that rule. Even if I’d known it was forbidden, I probably would have called Eli. He deserved to know about his sister.

  Still, rule-breaking made me uneasy … guilty. From now on, no matter what, I wouldn’t break any more rules. Whether I wanted this job or not, Eli, my grandmother and Sharayah were counting on me—and I couldn’t let them down.

  I started to close the book when pages flipped as if caught up in a sudden wind, revealing a page with the most puzzling message yet:

  Inquire here with pertinent questions regarding your Host Body.

  Huh? What did that mean? How was I suppose to “inquire” and where exactly was “here”? I stared, waiting for further instructions, but there weren’t any. And when I flipped back to the beginning, everything I’d already read had vanished.

  “Grammy,” I grumbled with a gaze up toward the semi-dark ceiling, “why are you making this so hard?”

  Holding my breath, I half-expected to hear her reply, but all I heard was the increasing thump of my own heartbeat. And when I looked back down at the book, bold black ink spewed into words.

  Your mission is only as hard as you make it.

  I squinted down at the book, afraid that if I blinked these words would vanish, too. Then I must have blinked, bec
ause the page was empty again. But I was beginning to understand a little. This candy-bar-sized book was my connection to the other side.

  “How am I supposed to help Sharayah?” I asked it.

  Refer to Rule One.

  “But the rules aren’t written down any more!” I argued.

  #1. Follow through on your Host Body’s obligations and plans.

  “Sarcastic book, aren’t you?”

  The page cleared itself of ink again—which was answer enough.

  “Okay, this is starting to make sense. I ask you a question and you give me an answer. Will you tell me anything I ask?”

  The book cover slammed shut.

  “I take that as a no,” I said, frowning. “Can you at least tell me about Sharayah’s crisis? Does it have to do with the boyfriend Gabe, college, or all that money?”

  I waited for an answer, the book cupped in my hands, only there was no flutter of reply.

  “Come on,” I urged. “Open up again and write to me. I need to know about Sharayah’s problems. What am I supposed to do for her?”

  The book flopped open and one word scrawled on the page.

  Live.

  Now that really told me a big fat page of nothing. I already knew I was supposed to live her life, at least temporarily. But did that mean I was supposed to sit around this dorm room until my temp time was up? Or did Sharayah have obligations like a job or homework? I didn’t want to hang around accomplishing nothing—I wanted to be Super Amber and solve all problems.

  Okay, okay … so maybe solving problems might not technically be my job. But Sharayah obviously needed help or she wouldn’t have cut off her family and dumped her former roommate/best friend. There was also the money and the text threat. Why would Grammy say I was good at helping people if that’s not what she wanted me to do? And she must have had a good reason for choosing me for this mission. My knowing Eli couldn’t be the reason, because that was just awkward and complicated my assignment. So why choose me instead of an experienced Temp Lifer? Did I have a unique ability or talent that made me a good match for this job? I couldn’t think of anything.