But for now, I’m at the mercy of a vindictive and vengeful queen bee who also happens to hold my popularity in her hands.
“So,” Bella continues, “what do you really think of her? Do you really want a cow like that on your squad? She can barely pull off a back tuck.”
I know this is a test. If I say I like her, my cool factor plummets. If I throw her under the bus, I score points with Bella, but who knows what will happen after that.
Actually, I do know, at least the dead me does. I shake my head and will the buzzing to stop as I watch freshman me take the safe route. “You’re right. She’s a total pig. Who in the world would want to toss her? And the weak arms aren’t the worst part. She sweats so bad. It’s gross.”
The words make me cringe because I know they are going to come back to haunt me. And much sooner than I can imagine. Later in the day, Bella is going to run into Whitney. She’ll tell her everything I said. Unfortunately, I won’t know this when I try to talk to her in class and she gives me the cold shoulder. In fact, it won’t be until tryouts that I learn the truth behind the hurt look on her face. When Whitney doesn’t show for practice, Bella gives me a very public high five and praises me for helping to weed out the undesirables.
There’s a long pause between clips and I pull my knees up to my chest to contemplate everything I’ve seen so far.
Where are the fun times? What about the sleepovers where my friends and I give each other makeovers and prank call boys we like? What about the Thursday night bonfires before Friday night games? The older I get the more hateful this video is making me look. There’s no way I was that mean. Is there?
Before I can decide if this is really me or typecast editing, the screen blinks back to life. It’s my junior year of high school. I can tell because now I’m wearing my Varsity cheerleading uniform, which means my coach doesn’t know about my grades yet and I’m still on the team. The other clue that it’s junior year is that I’m flirting with Dave, Felicity’s stepbrother.
I know it makes her crazy that we’re hanging out all the time, but that’s part of the fun. As much as I call Felicity my bestie, the truth is, we’re only friends because we know too much about each other to be enemies. It’s a relationship of tactical means.
My mind turns to what my friends must be thinking about my death. I’m sure they’re all in shock, but are they doing anything? At the very least they should be organizing a candlelight vigil or some other form of group mourning. I bet Felicity is getting plenty of face time in front of the camera. After all, the news has got to be all over this. When a pretty, popular girls drops dead for no reason, everyone makes a big deal about it. I really hope no one thinks it’s an overdose.
Hey, wait a minute. How did I die? Obviously I know the truth, and when that gypsy does arrive in the Afterlife, I will be more than happy to give her a piece of my mind. But what did the doctors say was my cause of death? Maybe, when I’m done with this replay of my life, someone can tell me.
Oh man, I’m missing an entire scene that’s playing on the disc now. All I see is the end and my friends laughing. Of course I miss a happy memory. Apparently a short attention span carries over into the Afterlife.
The next scene has to be the last. It takes place a few months before I see the gypsy. It’s a party at my house with the whole gang. We’re talking about this scholarship kid at school who’s got a rare form of cancer. Her parents don’t have much money and the local news had some story on how the family’s medical bills are so big the bank is about to foreclose on their house. I’m pretty sure it was a wine cooler–induced moment of compassion, but I come up with the idea to do a charity auction to help them out. Before the night is over, I fire off an email to my high school principal telling him about our plans.
On Monday, he comes up to me smiling and going on and on about how great he thinks it is that we’re going to do something to help out a classmate. At first, I have no idea what he’s talking about. Then it starts to come back to me. I smile and tell him we can’t wait to start.
Fast-forward several weeks and we’re back at my house. This time, there are no wine coolers to be seen. The auction has been more successful than any of us thought it would be. After expenses, we’re three thousand dollars above our goal.
“You know,” Dave says, “I think we should have a party to celebrate. Maybe hire a band and get my older brother to buy a couple kegs.”
“And where are we going to get the money for a party like that?” I ask, running my fingers through his thick curls.
“From there,” he says, gesturing to the checking account my mom insisted we set up. “We write it off as expenses and then party our butts off.”
Several people around the table nod in agreement.
“Yeah, but Madeline’s family needs this money,” I argue. “And besides, what if someone finds out? We could get in a lot of trouble.”
“We made enough for them to keep their house,” Felicity chimes in. “I bet they’ll be so grateful they won’t even notice. Besides, like Dave says, we write it off as expenses and no one’s going to question us.”
I watch myself thinking it over and I remember the dilemma. On one hand, if I say yes, I’m the hero in their eyes but I’m a thief and a liar in mine. Or I go against them and look like a chicken. Felicity has been trying to knock me off my throne every chance she gets, and, looking at everything from the outside, I can practically see her licking her chops for me to say no.
I know exactly when I make the decision. It’s like the light goes out in my eyes and I’m a puppet to popularity. “Fine,” I say, throwing up my hands. “Just don’t go crazy. We at least have to show that we reached our goal.”
“Sweet, we can do a lot with a three-grand surplus,” Dave says, throwing his arms around me and planting a kiss on my cheek. “This is going to be epic.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Why do I get the feeling I’m going to live to regret it?”
“Ah, the careless words of the young,” a voice bellows from the doorway. “Did you ever think that statement would come back to bite you?”
Chapter 6
I jump out of the chair and turn to face an angel. Clad entirely in white with an honest to goodness pair of wings, he blocks out any light from the hallway, and I’m pretty sure his smile could melt what’s left of the Arctic Circle.
“Well, look here,” he says, his thick Caribbean Island accent rolling off his tongue, and I can almost feel a tropical breeze blow gently through the room. “They told me I had a live one.”
His voice is hypnotic. An overwhelming sense of calm settles over me, and as hard as I try to shake it off, it’s impossible. “Who are you?”
He laughs again and I cover my ears to block the sound. It doesn’t work. My ears are still ringing when he speaks. “I’m Yeats, one of your Guardian Angels. But for now, think of me as your personal activity director during your time in limbo. I’m here to answer your questions and help you find peace before you sit in Judgment.”
“Judgment?” I ask. “You mean like if I’m going to …”
“Heaven or Hell?” he finishes. “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”
He steps into the room, taking up what little space there is. If he’s working the intimidation angle, he’s doing an impressive job. Leaning against what passes for a wall, I clear my throat and say, “Then I might be your easiest job ever. I’m not going to Judgment.”
The only reaction I get is a slight pinching together of his eyebrows. Other than that, he’s unreadable. “You’re not going?” The laughter is still present in his voice and I flinch under the weight of his amused stare.
I shake my head. “No. In fact, if you could just tell me who I need to talk to about getting back to my life, I’ll be out of your hair.”
I expect him to laugh again but he doesn’t. What he does do is frown and the air around me rushes from the room. “And here I thought you were a sane one. Are you sure you aren’t a suicide?” he asks.
He studies me before answering. “They tend to be in denial more than other souls.”
I can feel anger surging through me. Why would he think that? I have, or had, a great life. “I didn’t kill myself. If you had to call it anything, I was murdered—”
“Ah,” he says like he’s having some big revelation. “That was my second guess.”
“If you would let me finish, you would know that my soul was collected by accident.”
He blinks. Once. Twice. Three times. I see his mouth start twitching and know what’s coming next. I barely have time to cover my ears before he erupts in a belly laugh. It’s like a bomb going off in my head and I crouch down, turning my back to him. When the eardrum-busting sound stops, I look up from my semi-fetal position. He’s still chuckling to himself. “Accidental collection. Now that’s one I’ve never heard before. You’re funny.”
“I’m not joking,” I say, pushing off the ground. “If you’re really my Guardian Angel, shouldn’t you know that?”
“Well, technically, everyone has two Guardians. I oversee your mental and emotional state, regardless of the condition of your physical self.”
“So you don’t care if I’m supposed to be alive or dead?”
He shakes his head. “Not really. That’s Hazel’s job. I’ve got my own physical charges to worry about.”
“Hasn’t anyone around here heard of streamlining? If I had only one angel watching out for me, maybe I wouldn’t be here in the first place. And if you really are supposed to watch over my mental and emotional state, I would think you would know that all I want to do is get back to the life that was stolen from me.”
He shakes his head and steps out of the room. “That’s not how it works. Once you’re here, you stay. Now are you coming?”
“We’ll see,” I mutter, but follow him anyway. The sooner I find someone with decision-making authority, the sooner I’ll be rocketing back to my old life. Yeats is looking at me expectantly. “What?”
“This is the part where you ask why you had to die so young and what God looks like,” he says, leading me down the red carpet that doesn’t seem to end.
“I know why I died. An incompetent Reaper couldn’t stop his target from throwing me under the bus.”
“You don’t look like you were hit by a bus,” he says.
“I was speaking metaphorically. Hey, wait,” I say, stopping short. “I do have a question. Did a Reaper finally get her?”
“I have no idea who you’re talking about,” he answers, waiting for me to start moving again.
“The gypsy. The woman who started this train wreck in the first place.”
Yeats’s face no longer holds any hint of amusement. In fact, he looks bored. “Look, I don’t know what your problem is, but you really need to take this seriously. Judgment isn’t a joke. I saw your life and, for a kid, you sure have a lot of things to answer for.”
He’s giving me the same look my principal gives when I’m pushing his patience too far. The one that tells me detention is one comeback away. “Okay, fine, what happens now?” I ask.
“You talk to me, we work through all the issues you had during your life, which could take a while, and then we meet up with Hazel.”
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“She’s my partner,” he answers, like that’s supposed to answer my question. “And she’s the Guardian who’s been with you the most while you were on Earth. She likes to see her charges when they arrive.”
“Wish she could have prevented me from being here in the first place,” I mutter.
“What was that?” Yeats asks.
“Nothing. What happens after we meet with Hazel?”
“I walk you through the process of atonement. Once you’re done, you’ll sit with the Gatekeeper.”
“Gatekeeper?”
“The Gatekeeper of Judgment.”
“What does he do?”
“It’s a she, actually, or she presents herself as a she.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine. What does she do?”
“She delivers God’s verdict.”
“What if I don’t believe in God?”
He looks at me like he can’t believe what I’m asking. “Do you think all this is happening in your imagination?”
“No, I mean, what if I’m Buddhist or Hindu or something else?”
Understanding dawns on his face. “Do you think God cares what name you use? That’s something you humans get caught up in.”
He has a point and I realize I’m about to ask another question that will continue our philosophical conversation. Why is it so hard to keep my focus on getting back to the land of the living? I’m not here to debate the existence of a divine deity. I’m here to find someone who can get me back to my life. “Look, I just want to find someone who can help me. So whatever hoops I have to jump through, let’s do it. What’s next?”
“I don’t understand. You should have accepted your death by now. You’ve been through the Lobby, you’ve seen your life, and you’ve seen your funeral—”
“I didn’t see my funeral,” I say quickly.
This gets his attention. “Of course you did.”
I shake my head. “No, I didn’t. There was no funeral on my disc.”
“That’s odd. The funeral is part of the closure.” His face is now completely transparent as confusion ripples over it.
From somewhere in the distance, a woman’s voice is calling his name.
“Yeats.”
At first he doesn’t hear it. In fact, I have to nudge him to get his attention.
“What?” he asks with a start.
“Someone’s looking for you.”
Again, the voice calls out: “Yeats.” This time, there’s panic dripping from the word.
He jumps up. “That’s Hazel. Something’s wrong.” He answers her call with some weird angel language and the next thing I know, a ginger-haired beauty is standing before us, the whites of her eyes match the color of my eyelet sheets and there is undeniable terror in her face.
“Thank goodness you answered,” she says. “Yeats, we have a problem.”
“Relax,” he says, putting his arm around her shoulder to comfort her. “There’s never been a problem we couldn’t solve. What’s happened?”
Hazel is trembling like the last leaf left on a tree in November. This is my physical Guardian? No wonder I died.
“We’ve lost one of our charges,” she cries, burying her head in his robe. “I can’t find her anywhere. I just came back from Earth to check the Akashic Records and she’s not due to be here for decades.”
Yeats answers in a tight voice. “Who is it?” Hazel murmurs into his chest and he pushes her away, forcing her to look at him. “What did you say?”
“She calls herself RJ. She’s a self-absorbed princess who doesn’t seem to have any remorse about putting herself first and others last, but she’s redeemable, I know she is. But she’s gone. What do we do?”
I clear my throat. Hazel turns around and looks at me for a moment before her eyes grow wide as saucers.
“Hi,” I say, the words sounding as angry as I feel. “You can stop looking. I’m your self-absorbed princess.”
Chapter 7
Hazel’s face instantaneously switches from fear to jubilation. She rushes over and wraps me into a warm hug. I don’t return the embrace. In fact, I don’t think I can be more resistant to her, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
She pulls back, her hands hanging onto my arms, and gives me a quick once over. “What are you doing here?” she demands. “I was worried sick.”
Her scolding only flames the anger I feel toward her. “I didn’t know you would be so concerned about a spoiled princess,” I say, giving her my best drop-dead look.
“I also said you’re redeemable.” She pauses, her face dropping as she whispers, “Were redeemable.” Turning to Yeats she adds, “This is all wrong.”
“Tell me what you k
now,” he says, not even bothering to acknowledge the fact that maybe I wasn’t making everything up after all.
She motions toward the sky and says, “Well, as I said, when I couldn’t find her, I went to look at the Akashic Records.”
“What are the Akashic Records?” I interject.
“It’s the compiled knowledge of all human experiences that have ever or will ever occur. It is the history, present, and future of every man, woman, and child,” Yeats answers without looking at me.
“Oh,” is all I can say.
Hazel continues to ignore me. “That doesn’t answer the question of why she’s here. According to the Records she still has—”
“Don’t say it,” he says, giving her a sharp look. “She can’t know anything from the Records. Not until after Judgment.”
“She’s right here,” I grumble before turning to Hazel. “Do you want to hear what happened to me?”
“No,” she says, flicking her hand toward me like I’m a fly buzzing around her perfect head. “You’re dead. That’s all the information I need to know.”
“But I’m not supposed to be dead. It was a mistake.” Even I’m aware that I’m starting to sound like a broken record.
Yeats interjects. “Are you telling me RJ disappeared from your radar? Without any warning or explanation?”
Hazel nods. “I felt a stabbing pain followed by hollow emptiness. And then her light was gone.”
“When was the last time you checked on her?”
“The party,” is all she says.
Yeats nods. “Right, the car accident.”
“Wait a minute,” I say, inching closer to them. “I wasn’t in an accident.”
Hazel glances at me. “No, you weren’t. And a thank you isn’t completely out of the question, you know.”
“For what?” I ask, but now they’re talking in that creepy angel language. All I can do is sit down and watch their verbal tennis match. From the way Hazel flails her arms, I can tell they’re arguing.
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