by Meg Cabot
Next thing I knew, he’d straddled the old man and was pounding on his chest.
"Call nine-one-one," he yelled at me.
I just stood there, not understanding. "He was just talking to me," I said. "We were having a totally normal conversation. I mean, he was coughing a lot, but . . . but he was fine. And then all of a sudden—"
The attendant had to say it twice.
"Call nine-one-one! Get an ambulance!"
That’s when I noticed that there was a phone right there in the room. I picked it up and dialed. When the operator came on, I told her that we needed an ambulance and gave her the address. Meanwhile, behind me, the attendant had placed an oxygen mask over Dr. Slaski’s face, and was filling a syringe with something.
"I don’t understand this," he kept saying. "He was fine an hour ago. Just fine!"
I didn’t understand it, either. Unless Dr. Slaski was much more ill than he’d ever let on.
There didn’t seem to be much else I could do to help, so I figured I’d better go and tell Paul his grandfather had had some sort of attack. I got back to the living room just in time to see Kelly, seated beside Paul on the couch, her legs draped over his like a throw, stick her tongue in his mouth. . . . A sight I actually would have paid money to have been spared.
"Ahem," I said, from the hallway.
Kelly pulled her face off Paul’s and looked at me sourly.
"What do you want?" she demanded. Given her animosity toward me, you’d hardly have guessed that we were currently president and vice-president of the junior class, and had to work daily (well, weekly) together in order to decide such important issues as where to go for a class trip and what kind of flowers to order for the spring formal.
Ignoring Kelly, I said, "Paul, your grandfather appears to be having a heart attack or something."
Paul looked at me through eyes that were half lidded. That Kelly sure has some sucking power.
"What?" he said stupidly.
"Your grandfather." I lifted a hand to push some hair from my eyes. I hoped he didn’t notice how much my fingers were shaking. "An ambulance is on the way. He’s had like a stroke or something."
Paul didn’t look surprised. He said, "Oh," in kind of a disappointed voice . . . but more like he was bummed that his make-out session with Kelly had been interrupted than that his grandfather was, for all we knew, dying.
"Be right there," Paul said and started to disentangle himself from Kelly’s legs.
"Paul," Kelly cried. She managed to give his name two syllables, so it came out sounding like Paw-wol.
"Sorry, Kel," Paul said, giving one of her calves a good-natured pat. "Grandpa Gork’s OD’d on his meds again. Gotta go take care of business."
Kelly pouted prettily. "But the pizza’s not even here yet!"
"We’ll have to take a rain check, babe," he said.
Babe. I shuddered.
Then realized what he’d said. As he moved past me to get to his grandfather’s room, I reached out and seized his arm. "What do you mean, he’s OD’d on his meds?" I hissed.
"Uh," Paul said, looking down at me with a half smile. "Because that’s what happened?"
"How do you know? You haven’t even seen him yet!"
"Uh," he said, the smile growing broader. "Because maybe I helped make it happen."
I dropped my hand as if his skin had suddenly burst into flames. "You did this?" I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
Except that I should have. I really should have. Because it was Paul.
"For God’s sake, Paul, why?"
"I knew you’d be coming over to see him after what happened today at the auction," he said with a shrug. "And frankly, I didn’t need the hassle from the old man. Now if you’ll excuse me . . ."
He went sauntering down the hall in the direction of his grandfather’s room. I stared after him, not quite believing what I’d just heard.
And yet . . .
And yet it made sense. It was Paul, after all. Paul, a guy whose morals were more than a little askew.
Feeling numb, I wandered back out into the living room, where Kelly was pulling on her shoes and squawking into her cell phone. "No, I’m telling you, she came busting in here, demanding to know what I was doing with her boyfriend. Well, okay, she didn’t say it quite like that. She made up some story about wanting to talk to Paul’s grandfather. Yeah, I know, the one who can’t talk. I know, have you ever heard a lamer excuse? Then she—" Looking up, Kelly saw me. "Oh, sorry, Deb, gotta go, call you later." She hung up and just stood there, glaring at me. "Thanks," she said finally, "for spoiling what otherwise might have been a really nice evening."
I was tempted to tell her the truth—that I hadn’t spoiled anything. Paul was the one who’d apparently overmedicated his grandfather. At least, that seemed to be what he wanted me to believe.
But what would have been the point? She wouldn’t have believed me, anyway.
"Sorry" was all I said and started for the door.
When I opened it, however, I saw my stepbrother Jake standing there, a pizza box in his hand.
"Peninsula Pizza, that’ll be twenty-seven ninety. . . ." His voice trailed off as he recognized me. "Suze? What are you doing here?"
"Just leaving," I said.
"Yeah, well, you’d better." Jake glanced at his watch. "You’re gonna be late for dinner. Dad’ll kill you."
Yet another thing to look forward to.
"Kelly," I called up the stairs. "Your pizza’s here!" To Jake I said, "Hope you remembered the hot pepper flakes."
Then I left.
chapter eleven
Because of the auction, Andy was late putting dinner on the table, so I ended up getting home just in time. My mom couldn’t understand why I was so quiet during the meal, though. She thought maybe I’d gotten too much sun sitting out at the bake sale table.
"Sister Ernestine should at least have given you an umbrella," she said as she dug into the pork tenderloin Andy had prepared. "That little girl you were sitting with . . . what was her name again?"
"Shannon."
Only it wasn’t me who said it. It was David.
"Yes, Shannon," my mother said. "She’s a redhead, like David. That much sun can be very damaging to redheads. I hope she was wearing sunscreen."
I half expected David to come up with one of his usual comments—you know, the exact statistical incidents of skin cancer occurring in eighth graders in northern California, or something. His head was filled with all sorts of useless information like that. Instead, he just flicked his mashed potatoes around his plate, until Brad, who’d finished all of his own mashed potatoes, as well as what was left in the bowl, went, "Man, are you going to eat that or play with it? Because if you don’t want it, give it to me."
"David," Andy said. "Finish what’s on your plate." David picked up a spoonful of mashed potatoes and ate it.
Brad’s gaze immediately flickered over to my plate. But the hopeful look in his eye faded when he saw how clean it was. Not, of course, that I’d felt like eating. At all.
But I had Max, the family dog-slash-garbage disposal, by my side, and I’d grown expert at slipping him what I couldn’t choke down myself.
"May I be excused?" I asked. "I think maybe I did get a little too much sun—"
"It’s Suze’s turn to put the plates in the dishwasher," Brad declared.
"No, it isn’t." I couldn’t believe this. Didn’t these people realize I had way more important things to do than worry about household chores? I had to make sure my boyfriend died, like he was supposed to. "I did it last week."
"Nuh-uh," Brad said. "You and Jake traded weeks, remember? Because he had to work the dinner shift this week."
Since this was indisputably true—I’d seen the evidence myself over at Paul’s—I couldn’t argue anymore.
"Fine," I said, scooting my chair back, nearly running over Max in the process, and standing up. "I’ll do it."
"Thank you, Susie," my mom said with a smil
e as I took her plate.
My reply wasn’t exactly gracious. I muttered, "Whatever," and went into the kitchen with everybody’s plates, Max following closely at my heels. Max loves it when I have plate-clearing duty, because I just scrape everything into his bowl, rather than into the trash compactor.
But on that night, Max and I weren’t alone in the kitchen.
Even though I didn’t notice anyone else in there right away, I knew something was up when Max suddenly lifted his head from his bowl and fled, his food only half finished, and his tail between his legs. Only one thing had the power to make Max leave pork uneaten, and that was a visitor from beyond.
He materialized a second later.
"Hey, kiddo," he said. "How’s it going?"
I didn’t scream or anything. I just poured Lemon Joy into the pot Andy had used to cook the potatoes, then filled it with hot water.
"Nice timing, Dad," I said. "You just stop by to say hi, or did someone on the ghost grapevine alert you to my extreme mental anguish?"
He smiled. He looked no different than he had the day he died. . . . No different from the dozens of times he’d visited me since then. He was still wearing the shirt he’d died in—the shirt I’d slept with for so many years.
"I heard you were having some . . . issues," my dad said.
That’s the problem with ghosts. When they aren’t haunting people, they sit around in the spectral plane, gossiping. Dad had even met Jesse. . . . A prospect I found too horrifying to even contemplate sometimes.
And of course, when you’re dead . . . well . . . there isn’t a whole lot to do. I knew my dad spent a goodly portion of his free time basically spying on me.
"Been a while since we had a chat," Dad went on, looking around the kitchen appreciatively. His gaze fell on the sliding glass doors and he noticed the hot tub. He whistled appreciatively. "That’s new."
"Andy built it," I said. I started in on the glass dish Andy had roasted the pork in.
"Is there anything that guy can’t do?" my dad wanted to know. But he was, I knew, being sarcastic. My dad doesn’t like Andy. At least, not that much.
"No," I said. "Andy is a man of many talents. And I don’t know what you’ve seen—or heard—but I’m fine, Dad. Really."
"Wouldn’t expect you to be anything else." My dad looked more closely at the kitchen counters. "Is that real granite? Or imitation?"
"Dad." I nearly threw the dish towel at him. "Quit stalling and say what you came to say. Because if it’s what I think you’re here to say, no deal."
"And what do you think that is?" Dad wanted to know, folding his arms and leaning back against the kitchen counter.
"I’m not going to let him do it, Dad," I said. "I’m not."
My dad sighed. Not because he was sad. He sighed with happiness. In life, Dad had been a lawyer. In death, he still relished a good argument.
"Jesse deserves another chance," he said. "I know it. You know it."
"If he doesn’t die," I said, attacking the potato pot with perhaps more energy than was strictly necessary, "I’ll never meet him. Same with you."
Dad raised his eyebrows. "Same with . . . oh, you mean you thought about saving me?" He looked pleased. "Suze, that’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me."
That did it. Just those ten little words. Suddenly, something inside of me seemed to break, and a second later, I was sobbing in his arms . . . only silently, so no one else in the house could hear.
"Oh, Dad," I wept into his shirtfront. "I don’t know what to do. I want to bring you back. I do, I really do."
Dad stroked my hair and said in the kindest voice imaginable, "I know. I know you do, kiddo."
That just made me cry harder. "But if I save you," I choked, "I’ll never meet him."
"I know," my dad said again. "Susie, I know."
"What should I do, Dad?" I asked, lifting my head from his chest and attempting to control myself—his shirt was practically soaked already. "I’m so confused. Help me. Please."
"Susie." Dad grinned down at me, still tenderly brushing back my hair with his hands. "I never thought I’d see the day when you, of all people, would actually admit you need help. Especially from me."
I used a fist to swipe at the tears that were still rolling down my face. "Of course I need you, Dad," I whispered. "I’ve always needed you. I always will."
"I don’t know about that." My dad, instead of stroking my hair, rumpled it now. "But I do know one thing. This time-shifting thing. It’s dangerous?"
I sniffled. "Well," I said. "Yeah."
"And do you really think," Dad went on, the skin around his eyes crinkling, "that I’d let my little girl risk her life to save mine?"
"But, Dad—"
"No, Suze." The crinkles deepened and I could tell he was more serious than he’d been in a long time. "Not for me. I’d give anything to live again"—and now I saw that, along with the crinkles, there was moisture there, as well—"but not if it means anything bad might happen to you."
I gazed up at him, my eyes as bright with tears as his own.
"Oh, Dad," I said, unable to keep the throb from my throat.
He reached up to lay a hand on either side of my wet face.
"And I wouldn’t presume to speak for Jesse," he said, tilting my head so that we were looking straight into each other’s eyes. "But I think I can safely say that he’s not going to like the idea of you risking your life to save his any more than I do. Knowing him, in fact, he’ll probably like it even less."
I reached up and placed my hands over his own. Then I said, "I get it, Dad. Really, I do. And I won’t go back for you if you really don’t want me to. But . . . I still can’t let him do it, Dad. Paul, I mean."
"Can’t let him save the life of the guy you supposedly love," Dad said, not looking too happy to hear it. "Something’s very wrong with that picture, Suze."
"I know, Dad," I said, "but I love him. You know it. You can’t ask me to just sit back and let Paul do this. If he succeeds I won’t even remember having met Jesse."
"Right," my dad said reasonably. "So it won’t hurt."
"It will," I insisted, "It will hurt, Dad. Because deep down, I’ll know. I’ll know there was someone . . . someone I was supposed to have met. Only I’ll never meet him. I’ll go through my whole life waiting for him to come along, only he never will. What kind of life is that, Dad, huh? What kind of life is that?"
"And what kind of life," my dad asked gently, "is it for Jesse to spend all of eternity as a ghost—especially if something goes wrong and you end up dead right along with him?"
"Then," I said with a feeble attempt at humor, "at least we’ll be able to haunt people together for the rest of eternity."
"With Jesse having to live forever with the guilt of knowing he’s the reason you died in the first place? I don’t think so, Suze."
He had me there. I stared up at him, unable to think of a single thing to say in reply.
"Suze, your whole life," my dad went on, not without sympathy, "you’ve always made the right decisions. Not nessarily the easiest ones. The right ones. Don’t mess that up now, when you’re facing what’s probably the most important decision you’ll ever have to make."
I opened my mouth to tell him he was wrong . . . that I was making the right decision . . . that I was doing what I knew Jesse would want . . . .
Only I knew there was no point.
So instead I said, "All right, Dad. But there’s just one thing I don’t understand."
He nodded. "Why Maroon 5 is so popular?"
"Um," I said, grinning in spite of myself. "No. I don’t understand why, if you feel that way . . . that you had a good life and that you’ve learned so much since you died . . . If you really feel that way, then why are you still here?"
"You should know," he said.
I blinked at him. "I should? How?"
"Because you said it yourself."
"When did I—"
"Um . . . Suze?"
&
nbsp; I whirled around and found myself looking not into my dad’s gentle brown eyes but David’s anxious blue ones.
"Are you okay?" David’s pale face was pinched with concern. "Were you . . . were you just crying?"
"Of course not," I said, hastily snatching up a dish towel—seeing, as I did so, that my dad had vanished—and scrubbing my cheeks with it. "I’m fine. What’s up?"
Um . . ." David looked around the kitchen, his eyes wide. "Are you . . . are you not alone?"
Outside of my dad, David is the only one in my family who knows the truth about me . . . or at least, most of the truth. If I had told him all of it . . . well, he’d probably be able to handle it, with his scientific, orderly mind.
But I don’t think he’d have liked it.
"I am now," I said, knowing what he meant.
"I just came in for dessert," David said. "Dad said . . . Dad said he made a fruit tart."
"Right," I said. "Well. I’m through here. I’ll just be going upstairs."
I turned to go, but David’s voice—it had changed lately, gone from squeaky to deep in the course of a few months— stopped me by the door. "Suze. Are you sure you’re all right? You seem . . . sad."
"Sad?" I looked back at him over my shoulder. "I’m not sad. Well, not that sad. Just . . . there’s just something I have to do." Because I had already decided that, despite my dad’s concerns, I wasn’t giving Jesse up just yet. Not without a fight. "Something I’m not exactly looking forward to."
"Oh," David said. Then his face brightened. "Then just do it quick. You know, like pulling off a Band-Aid."
Do it quick. I’d have loved to. But I had no way of knowing when Paul was going to make his trip back through time. For all I knew, I could wake up tomorrow with no memory of Jesse whatsoever.
"Thanks," I said to David, managing a semblance of a smile. "I’ll keep that in mind."
But I wasn’t smiling a half hour later, when I finally managed to get Father Dominic—my last hope—on the phone.
Father Dom wasn’t exactly as sympathetic to my plight as I’d hoped he be. I’d thought the information I had to impart—about Paul buying Felix Diego’s belt buckle, and then possibly drugging his own grandfather—would spark a little righteous indignation in the old guy.