7 Clues to Winning You

by Kristin Walker

  I didn’t argue, even though my room looked fine. My clothes from yesterday were on the floor, there was some stuff on my desk from last night, my curtains were half-closed, and I was presently in the unmade bed (the horror!), but those things would take two seconds to fix.

  It didn’t register with Mom, though. Ever since our house went on the market, she’d developed a black-and-white attitude: a room was either picture perfect or it wasn’t. It didn’t matter whether there was a pile of laundry on the floor or just a pair of socks, her reaction was the same.

  “I’m up,” I said, pushing myself up on one elbow to prove it. I squinted at the bright slivers of sunlight cutting through the thready clouds and skewering my eyeballs.

  “I want everyone out of the house by ten o’clock. This room had better be in order.” Then almost as an afterthought, she said, “Where are you going before you need to be at Shady Acres?”

  The question caught me off guard. I hadn’t made something up to cover the fact that I planned to spend all morning stalking cemeteries. My sleep-fuzzed brain wasn’t functioning at full capacity yet, so I just started babbling random excuses. “I’m meeting Tara. Um, at the library. To research. A paper. She, uh, has to … research one too.” So lame! “We have to have some book sources. I mean, I do. For mine. I don’t really know about hers.” Stop talking!

  I faked a yawn and watched my mother for signs of suspicion. She was focused on the state of my bookshelves, though, so she didn’t seem to notice my string of poorly executed lies. “Just make sure this room is decent,” she said, and walked out.

  I fell back on my pillow even though I wasn’t tired. My spontaneous lying had flipped every switch in my body to the On position. My heart thudded in my throat, and my eyes were open so wide that it felt like the lids had retracted completely inside. I took a long breath and let it seep slowly from my lungs.

  When I’d finally settled down, I got out of bed and immediately made it. If Mom came back to check on me, which she most likely would do any minute now, at least that much would be done. She’d be satisfied with even a little progress because it meant that the job had been started.

  I threw on some jeans and a gray hoodie that both looked like they could belong to any generic teenager who might be wandering around in graveyards on a Saturday morning. I finished perfecting my room, grabbed some breakfast, and was out of the house along with everyone else by ten o’clock. Once I had driven out of sight of my family, I pulled over to the side of the road. I grabbed my iPhone and went to the webpage with the names and addresses of the six cemeteries in Ash Grove. I mapped them, and the closest one was at First Lutheran Church, so I set its address into the GPS in my phone and hit the gas.

  Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the church parking lot. I did a quick scan of the cemetery. It was empty. Aboveground anyway, ha ha ha. I got out and pulled my hood over my head so I’d be less recognizable if anyone else showed up. Plus, there was a damp wind slicking down the back of my neck. The sky couldn’t seem to decide whether it was cloudy or sunny. There were swaths of cirrus clouds here and splotches of cumulus clouds there with patches of blue sky behind. Some insistent rays of sun burst toward the earth, and the next moment, it would be dark as dusk. Changeable weather typical of March and mischief.

  I entered the cemetery gate and noticed that all the head-stones appeared fairly modern. Sharp angles, crisp engraving, twentieth-century dates. I wandered deeper into the field, thinking that maybe the older stones were toward the back. That wouldn’t make sense, though, because the Lutherans would’ve started burying people close to the church and worked outward. Sure enough, the farther back I went, the more recent the dates became. Hold up, when was this church built?

  I trotted back to the gate and climbed the front steps to the stone church. Just to the right of the arched wooden double doors was a plaque that read, Dedicated June 5, 1953.

  Argh! Why didn’t I think of checking that first?

  I dashed back to my car and searched on my iPhone for each individual cemetery and the church it was affiliated with, if there was one. Two more of the four churches were dedicated after 1903. The two public ones and the cemetery at the Catholic church were each older than that. I typed the address of the nearest one into the GPS and drove off again.

  It was one of the public cemeteries: Oak Hill Cemetery. When I got there, I saw three or four teenagers out among the graves. I couldn’t tell whether they were other juniors, but when they turned in my direction, I instinctively ducked down below the dashboard so they couldn’t see me.

  Why? Why would I hide? Why didn’t I want anyone to know I was doing the Senior Scramble?

  Part of me was worried that they’d think I’d be cheating by having the inside scoop with Luke. That was so unlikely, though, since Luke was well known and trusted. Another part of me wanted to keep the competitive edge of stealth. If I got ahead, I wouldn’t want anyone to know it. But there was something else. Something more sinister.

  It was shame. I felt ashamed. My father would be so disappointed in me, and as mad at him as I was, I still cared what he thought of me. I guess I wasn’t such a rebel after all. Maybe I had to work up to it in small amounts. I wasn’t turning back, though. Once I made a commitment, I followed through with it. That tidbit looked great on college applications as well.

  A few minutes later, I peeked up over the dash and the kids were gone. So was the maroon sedan that had been parked at the far end of the parking lot. I crossed my fingers that all of them had left. I pulled my hood tighter around my head, slipped on a pair of sunglasses, and crept out of my car. Right away, I felt tiny droplets of rain start to dab my face and dot my sunglasses. Perfect.

  I hustled up the path through the graves toward the older stones. I crested a small hill, but still there was no lake anywhere in sight. No section or path named Lake. Even nothing with a proper name of a lake, like Superior or Tahoe. I hugged my arms tightly to my chest and stooped over against the spitting rain.

  Way at the back of the cemetery, I found a section with death dates from the beginning of the 1900s, but I didn’t see any with the dates 1812–1903, nor any stones mentioning anything remotely to do with a lake. Beyond the fence were thick woods, and I realized how far I’d have to hike back to my car.

  The rain fell heavier. Low thunder rumbled in the distance. I knew I was standing in a pretty stupid spot to be in a thunderstorm, so I marched swiftly back up the path. Just as I reached the top of the hill, the sky lit up and thunder exploded over my head. I jumped, and my arms and legs shot straight out like a cartoon cat who’d just stuck his tail into an electrical socket. When I landed, I didn’t even take a moment to recoil. I sprinted down the hill, across the parking lot, and flew into my car exactly as I would if I were being chased by a velociraptor.

  I cranked the engine and turned the heat on full blast. My clothes were soaked, and I was damp and cold right through to my bones. I held my icy fingers to the vents, but the engine wasn’t warm enough yet, so I cupped them around my mouth and blew on them. My phone rang. My hands shook so much, I could barely answer. I checked the ID. It was Tara.

  “Hey T.”

  “Hey chica, what’s up?”

  “N-n-not much-ch.” My teeth were chattering like a jackhammer.

  “Wanna come hang? My place?”

  Of course I couldn’t; the Senior Scramble clock was ticking. I didn’t want to hurt Tara’s feelings, though, so I tried to sound interested, at least. “I’d love to, but I can’t. Stupid … school project.” Wow. Not only did I spontaneously lie to my best friend, but I also immediately tried to convince myself that it didn’t count as a lie since it was a project and involved school. Both of those things balled up into another hot lump of shame in my belly.

  “Need any help?”

  Yes, I thought. Tara would be a huge help. But then I’d have to explain to her why I was doing this and who Luke was and why I kept thinking about his eyes and why I was trying to fit in
at Ash Grove after Tara and I and everyone else at Meriton had been bad-mouthing that white-trash school for years. Plus, I had to keep the Senior Scramble a total secret. Even from her. There was no way I could risk having word about it leak out and be traced back to me. “I wish. But no, it’s cool. Thanks, though.” In a rush to ease my mounting guilt, I added, “If I finish quick, I’ll give you a shout and come over or something.”

  “Sounds coolio. Talk to ya soon.”

  “’Kay. Bye.”

  I hung up and dropped my phone on the seat like it was a dead rat. Who was I all of a sudden? Why was I acting like this? I told myself that I was acting like this because I was trying to survive in a hostile environment. I was a refugee. I was an insurgent. I was a junior at Ash Grove High School, and I had a grave to find.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE RAIN CAME DOWN LIKE IT HAD A POINT TO PROVE. There were none of those wavering moments of maybe-letting-up. It was angry, loud, and unrelenting. It was resolute rain. It was taking no prisoners.

  I’d been sitting in the Oak Hill Cemetery parking lot for twenty minutes without being able to see the hood of my car through my windshield. Imagine going through a car wash, only the car wash is at the bottom of a flooding ravine. That’s what it was like. There was no use even trying to drive. While I waited, I pored over the satellite maps of the last two cemeteries to see if I had missed something. The Catholic cemetery was ginormous, so I decided to leave that one for last. Maybe the weather would dry up by the afternoon.

  I entered the address in my GPS for the last cemetery, Ash Grove Memorial, the other public one, at 122 South Jefferson Avenue.

  Earlier, I’d read that Ash Grove Memorial was the original town cemetery. Looking at the satellite map, I could see that it sat close to the center of town and took up an entire block. I zoomed in and could see how closely the graves were packed in. There wasn’t an empty spot anywhere, from Jefferson Avenue on the south to Ridge Road on the north or from Huron Street on the west to Adams on the east.

  Wait a second.

  My brain tripped over something. What was it? There was a thought drawing toward me like a fuzzy black-and-white movie slowly coming into focus. Then it was right there, in full clarity.

  Huron Street. As in Lake Huron.

  The place I am is right beside a lake. The grave could be somewhere along that fence line. Right beside Huron Street. Right beside a lake.

  Up yours, rain! I slammed the car into gear and started to drive, hoping to God that my GPS would tell me if I was about to run off the road or speed through an intersection. My windshield wipers thumped away at full tilt. With each swipe, I got a millisecond of sight. Just enough to get me the next twenty feet or so. Foot by foot, I edged my way the entire four miles to Ash Grove Memorial.

  Despite the stupidity of driving any more than necessary, I circled the cemetery to get an idea of the layout. There was street parking all around and a gate in each one of the four sides of the black wrought-iron fence. I could have parked on Huron, but I wanted to keep out of sight. I parked on the north side of the cemetery, on Ridge Road, just before the corner where it intersected with Huron. I was pretty sure that when the rain let up, I’d have a clear view down the entire line of graves that bordered Huron. I’d make sure no one else was there, and then I’d sneak in.

  After cursing myself for not keeping an umbrella in my car and idling at the curb for another fifteen minutes, I started to worry about the gas situation. If I turned the car off, I’d have no heat. If I let it run, I’d have no gas, the car would die, and I’d still have no heat.

  I was delaying the inevitable; I had to go out in the rain again. On the plus side, if this was in fact the cemetery with the answer to the clue, then the storm would probably keep the other contestants away. I cranked the heat to warm myself as much as possible before I left and cinched my hood tight around my head. I stretched out my right leg and slipped my phone into my front pocket. I pulled the hem of my hoodie down over it in an attempt to protect it from getting wet and kicked myself again for not having an umbrella. I rubbed my hands in front of the heat one more time, turned off the ignition, and bolted out into the storm.

  In less than ten seconds, I was saturated. There wasn’t any point in trying to stay dry any longer, so I stopped shielding my head and hunching over. Without the windshield to splatter the sheets of rain, outside I had a better view of the churning sky. Shades of dark and pale gray mottled and smudged into each other like an impressionist painting. Especially if the artist was suicidal. The smell was anything but depressing. It was that warm, earthy scent of expectancy that only spring rain carries. The scent of something coming. A comingling of promise and warning.

  For a moment, I had this tantalizing impulse to stretch my arms wide and race through the rain, shouting to the clouds like a madwoman. I reminded myself that I was on a covert mission, though, and kept my head down. I crossed through the wrought-iron gate and headed straight for the line of headstones along Huron Street.

  One by one, I checked the dates. At the same time, I tried to concoct an excuse for why I was there, in case I ran into anyone who knew me or if someone asked why I’d decided to visit a grave during a monsoon. I wanted to have my story straight. Okay, I’ll say it: I wanted to have my lie well rehearsed.

  I stepped from grave to grave, lining up excuses and shooting them down. Was today my dear departed’s birthday? Nah, I’d never find a gravestone with March 17 on it. Was I doing research on genealogy? That was hardly something so urgent it couldn’t wait until the rain stopped. Was I just out walking and got caught in the storm? What, and sought shelter in a graveyard rather than any of the stores within fifty feet of here? Yeah, right. Plus, anyone could have seen me get out of my car. This whole lying business was a lot more difficult than I’d anticipated.

  My attention drifted. How great would it be to have an online forum where you’d say, “I need a lie for X situation,” and people all over the globe would post suggestions?

  “Blythe?” The voice was female.

  I froze. I didn’t look at her, because the immediate status was that she wasn’t sure it was me, and I didn’t want to be all, “Hey! Look at my face!” So I did the only thing I could think of. I collapsed at the foot of the headstone in front of me and pretended to bawl inconsolably. “Why?” I moaned. “Why did you have to go? I miss you so much my dear, sweet, uh …” I peeked at the name on the stone. Oh, crap. “… Ebenezer! Why did I have to lose you?” I glanced at the dates and realized this guy died in 1897. Oops. I hurled my arm over the front of the stone to cover the date and pretended to cry into it.

  “Oh my God, you so need medication,” a male voice said. I peered under my arm and saw a thick-soled black boot park its toe on my hip and then shove me over into the soggy, brown grass. I looked up at Cy and Jenna grinning at me. A guarded relief washed through me. Maybe I didn’t entirely trust Cy and Jenna, but at least it wasn’t yogurt-douche guy or the skank with the bedazzled fingernails who first called me the booger girl.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Cy asked.

  I scrunched up my face like I was confused about it myself and raised and blinked a few times. “Nothing,” I said, and shook my head vigorously to emphasize the point.

  They both burst into laughter. Jenna cried, “Blythe, you are the worst liar on the entire planet!”

  I pouted. “Well, excuse me. I haven’t had a lot of practice.”

  “Lemme guess,” Cy teased, “that was your very first one.”

  I pushed myself up on my hands and knees and stood up as I said, “As a matter of fact, I happen to have told some very convincing lies just yesterday.” I wiped off my hands and stuck my chin out at Cy. “To my parents, no less.” At the same time, they both went, Ahh! and nodded with approval. I smirked.

  “No offense,” Cy said, “but your father’s not exactly a polygraph machine. We’ve been lying to him for years and he has no idea.”

  “The irony is,” Jenn
a added, “whenever we’re telling the truth, he thinks we’re lying.” Her tri-color hair stuck to her face and neck beneath the rim of a wet, woolen cap. The eyeliner on both of their eyes ran down like black tears. She glanced at Cy. “Except for yesterday.”

  “What happened yesterday?” I asked, digging the fingers of each hand inside the sodden sleeve of the opposite arm like a Chinese finger trap.

  Cy scratched his head. “Yeah, so yesterday after school, as soon as I get to detention, he calls me down to the office and tells me that I can go home. My detention’s canceled.”

  “No way, it is? Awesome!” I cried.

  “It seems someone tipped off your dad about the other kid who threw the Tater Tots at you,” Jenna said with exaggerated innocence in her voice. She meant me. Luckily, she seemed to be thanking me—and not calling me a snitch—which was a huge relief. “When your dad checked with the lunch lady, she confirmed it. Since Cy wasn’t the instigator, he was off the hook. Right, babe?” She beamed at Cy. He leaned in and kissed her full on the mouth for an eternity of awkwardness for my part.

  I was getting used to Cy and Jenna so I said, “Helloooo? Could we perhaps table the foreplay for some future moment when I’m not standing next to you in a raging thunderstorm?” As if on cue, a crack of thunder tumbled across the sky. Cy and Jenna broke apart and laughed, still looking into each other’s eyes. They were so in sync. They didn’t even need to speak.

  I wanted that.

  Lightning flashed nearby and brought me back to reality. Thunder followed almost instantly, and I had to get moving. I didn’t want to admit to Cy and Jenna that I was doing the hunt, though. I thought for some reason that it would lower their opinion of me. I was struggling to find something to say when Cy pointed to his left and said, “The guy’s down there. Next to that one stone with the cross on top.”

  I felt my eyes open too wide. “What guy?” I asked, my eyebrows going up and down like a couple of spastic caterpillars. “What are you talking about?” Jenna tried not to laugh, but it spurted out of her anyway. Cy just shook his head and gave me a half smile.