The Sweet Dead Life

by Joy Preble

  I tried to laugh. It came out more a gurgle. “Like I’d tell anyone about this. You need help, Casey.”

  He looked directly into my eyes. For a second I felt dizzy. “That’s right, Jenna. I do need help. Your help. You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “No.” My heart rattled, threatening to bust out of my ribcage. “No,” I said again. “Stop it, okay?” Why was he doing this? Had Dave hooked him up with something else besides weed? The stoner stuff always felt harmless. But there was more Dave sold, I knew. “Stop it. Stop it—”

  “It’s the truth,” Casey interrupted.

  Now I wasn’t just frightened; I was angry. “No, it’s not. Do you think this is funny, Casey? ’Cause I don’t. I just lost my boots, someone is trying to kill me, and Mom is getting worse. I don’t have time for jokes. This is just plain mean.”

  Casey huffed out a breath. Unlike the foul norm, his breath did not reek of tacos and corn nuts. It was totally inoffensive. Not even the way neutral or minty breath (extraminty after weed) can be. It was pleasant. It was a puff of fresh air. My heart gave another flutter.

  “Jenna,” he said quietly. “Think about it.”

  “No.”

  I thought about it anyway. My brain was not being obedient. The accident. The light. My brother’s new hot bod. How Lanie was suddenly back in his life with no explanation. The Amber weirdness. The extra blood test that she had insisted upon. I thought about all of it. But no. There was just no way. Not here. Not him.

  “Prove it,” I said.

  “Really?”

  “Casey. Put yourself in my shoes.” (Not that I had suitable shoes anymore, but that was another story.)

  “I wouldn’t believe me, either,” he mumbled. “Which is really sad, you know. Just hang on a second.”

  Now my pulse was dancing hip-hop.

  Casey closed his eyes. “This takes a minute. I’m still getting used to it. Amber says it won’t be long. Maybe another couple of days. She says newbies adjust pretty quick once they accept what’s happened.”

  It was those last three words that got me. Because the only way someone becomes an A-word (not that this was what I believed) was by dying. My throat knotted up. No. No way was I going to accept that my brother was dead. Stoned, insane, tricked out with some weird costume—fine. But not dead.

  Casey turned to face me, but I could see the nubs in the mirror. The room got brighter. Then brighter still. Casey’s face lit up and then the glow extended to the rest of him. The nubs popped out. The feathers spread, bigger than before, still damp and unformed … but there was no denying it. Wings. He had wings. He was glowing, and he had wings. And I knew then they were nothing any high-end comic geek store could have ever possibly manufactured, because costumes don’t come with feelings you can beam to other people. They don’t come with an invisible dose of bedazzled rapturous peace you can sprinkle on a spectator, when what that spectator really should do is scream and run for her life.

  Holy shit. Holy mother-loving crap.

  Casey wasn’t lying. It was the truth. Just like he’d said.

  Still, just in case, I came up with a series of questions. This was, after all, my only brother. It never hurt to double check.

  The A-Word Test

  (Note: I am not ready to say “angel” out loud. This is my compromise to myself.)

  1) Does potential A-word have wing nubs on his back? Can he manipulate them to pop out and pop back in? (Poop noise optional.)

  2) Did he go to the light? Can he prove it?

  3) Can he do things that only an A could do?

  4) If your brother suddenly looks a lot less geeky, and he has not had some TV show makeover, try re-geeking his appearance and see what happens.

  5) Are girls—including the utterly inappropriate (one’s best friend), the utterly impossible (the Heinous Ex), and the utterly creepy (whatever Amber proved to be)—now throwing themselves at his formerly stinky feet? Or close enough?

  OBVIOUSLY, IF YOUR sibling is female, you would have to adjust accordingly—at least in the pronoun department. Also, if your sibling has never been a geek and (in spite of a fleeting romance with a cheerleader) has never secretly lusted after a life-size cardboard cutout of the entire cast of Dr. Who, you would have to substitute something more fitting.

  I had other questions, but it was getting late. Besides, I was feeling weak again, although I wasn’t sure if it was from the poison or the shock.

  “All right,” I said, pen in hand, test sheet on my lap. “Let’s do this.”

  I’d returned to Casey’s room after I’d finally stopped hyperventilating. If my test worked and showed that Casey really was an A-word now, then maybe I could trademark and patent the thing and sell copies on eBay. For all I knew, this happened a lot, and people just kept it quiet, which made total sense. It wasn’t like I heard people talking in the Ima Hogg halls about how their Uncle Louie stroked out and then came back with wings. Nobody wanted to be labeled a nutcase. Mom couldn’t even admit she was depressed.

  “We don’t really need to do this, Jenna.”

  “Yes, we do.”

  We started at the top. First, I inspected the wing nubs. He popped them out and opened the damp feathery clump and then wiggled his shoulders (a vast improvement over the constipated noise). Then he popped them back in. Just like before.

  Wings: check.

  “How come they’re so, um, tiny?” I asked. Maybe they were like baby teeth; the first ones fell out and then the real ones grew in.

  Casey scrunched his forehead. “New, I guess. I haven’t really done much yet.”

  “Is that how it works? You have to earn bigger ones?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know. Amber says I need to leave ’em alone until I’m not so new anymore. Seems kind of a waste to me, though.”

  “Lot of damn rules,” I told him. “If she’s telling you the truth.” I was now so confused about Amber Velasco that my brain felt like it was going to explode from my skull and orbit into space. We’d worry about her later.

  Casey began pulling his shirt back over his head.

  “Keep it off,” I ordered, and decided to jump to number four. I eyeballed his general physical appearance. Perfect wavy chestnut brown hair? Check. Six pack? Check. Defined arm muscles? Double check: one for each bicep. Superhero posture? Check.

  My brother peered at himself, jabbed his forefinger against his now flat belly. His stomach—which before the accident had rested unceremoniously under his shirt like a poofy marshmallow—was now so rock hard that his fingertip actually bent. He flexed a toned arm and the bicep obediently showed its definition.

  “I look hot,” he remarked, sounding half giddy, half scared.

  “Gross. Aren’t angels supposed to be all holy?” The A-word had popped out of my mouth before I’d even realized it. But it was there, so I guess that meant I’d taken another small step towards accepting the unacceptable. I scribbled a number six on my list: Is your brother now acting like an egotistical jerk?

  “Amber says it’s something about the transformation process. I’ll learn how to tone it down when I need to,” Casey explained. He sounded disappointed. Either that or he was talking out of his ass. Maybe angels could be liars, too. I rolled my eyes. Was this why Lanie liked him again? His looks? Or was it something more, like A-word pheromones or something?

  “What we need to do,” I told him, frowning, “is to try to make the hotness go away. Then we’ll see what happens.”

  “But Amber—”

  “Leave Amber out of this. This is between us. Amber could think you’re the prince of Egypt for all I know. I’m your sister. I have to be sure.” Really, I already was. Mostly. Casey had begun to freaking glow while we argued. Which would explain all the weird tricks of light I’d noticed around him and Amber. (Ah … question number seven: asked and answered.) But I was a Texas girl, stubborn through and through. Besides, I didn’t exactly come from a family of Bible thumpers. I didn’t know jack shit about a
ngels. I’d have to start from scratch, which also meant he couldn’t fool me by twisting anything I thought I’d learned.

  “What are you going to do to?” He looked nervous again. I could tell he didn’t want me messing with his new body bounty.

  An idea flashed. “Stay put,” I told him. “I’ll be right back.”

  Quietly, I tiptoed down the stairs and poked my head into Mom’s room. She was curled in her comforter, snoring lightly. The empty smoothie cup still sat on her nightstand. She didn’t even stir as I snuck by the bed and made my way into the master bath. I closed the door before I turned on the light. Sheesh.

  The bathroom was a pit. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d dragged myself in there to clean. Now that I was on the mend, I needed to get after it. The towel over her shower stall stank of mildew. A ring of black mold dotted the drain of her sink. The contents of her makeup bag were strewn all over the counter. I guess it had taken her awhile to find that eye shadow she’d swiped on her lids the other day. Various items of clothing—none of which I’d seen her wear in forever—littered the floor of her closet.

  I opened the cabinet under the sink. The mildew smell was making me queasy and I wanted my chopped beef and smoothie to stay put. I worked quickly, grabbing the various boxes of Lady Clairol she had stashed under there. Before my mother had given up on all things living, she’d been meticulous about her hair. In between salon highlights, she’d always made sure to do a little touch up. Now, of course, her hair had settled into a mousey brown with strands of gray.

  She rolled onto her back as I walked by the bed again, the pile of coloring products clutched to my chest. I held my breath, then exhaled as she resumed snoring. I tiptoed out and back upstairs.

  Casey was lying on his bed, scrolling through something on the laptop.

  “Are you kidding me?” I dumped my haul at his feet.

  He jolted guiltily and sat up. I peered at the screen. The page read, Guardian Angel FAQ.

  “You Googled angels?” I guess it was better than what I thought he was doing. But not by much. If angels had to get their information from Wikipedia, no wonder the world was such a mess.

  He reddened. “I wanted to look up some stuff. It’s not like they gave me a manual. I thought maybe I’d do better if I studied the rules. The AIC doesn’t make things easy, you know—”

  “The AIC?” I interrupted. “That’s what Amber was babbling about.”

  “Angels In Charge.”

  I actually laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Nope.” He shook his head. “I’m already kind of a thorn in their sides. See, they weren’t exactly expecting me this soon. But somehow they got me.”

  Somehow. I swallowed. Translation: He had died in a car wreck trying to save my life. He’d died prematurely. I shoved the thought from my brain.

  “Get a towel,” I said. “This might get a little messy.”

  Casey noticed the pile of hair color boxes. “What the hell is all that?”

  “Well, I can’t make your muscles go away. This is the only thing I can think of.”

  I explained my plan while I dragged him into our bathroom. Casey expressed his resistance. He really was an angel, he insisted. This whole checklist was a bunch of BS that I was using to deny the truth. Still, he surrendered, letting me snip off a bunch of his perfect waves: not enough to make him bald or anything, although it was tempting. I realized he was probably as curious as I was. I glopped Champagne Blonde on his head, brushing it over the spots I’d trimmed. The hair sucked up the color immediately—a small patch of Ken doll blond in the middle of the dark, shiny hair he’d been sporting since the accident.

  I covered his head with the towel.

  “How long?” he asked.

  “Five minutes,” I said with authority. If he was looking up angels in Wikipedia, I figured he wouldn’t question my hair care knowledge.

  Casey nodded. Those people up in Heaven must be having a good laugh right now. Or else their candidate pool had dwindled to the point of no return. If the best they could come up with was “Angels In Charge,” I’d question their hiring practices, too. I moved us on to number three while we sat on Casey’s bed and waited for the hair dye to maybe or maybe not disappear. As for number five, well, that one wasn’t rocket science. Though it wasn’t fair to Mags, Lanie was the prime offender. I assumed this had more to do with potential A-word status than with his natural personality or lack thereof.

  Suddenly I felt bad. My stomach twisted. The chopped beef wasn’t helping much, either. (I should have tried something smaller first. Maybe just the fries.) The Lanie thing wasn’t fair to him, either. He’d completely given up on taking care of himself when she’d dumped him. Even a shallow twit like Lanie deserved a second chance, though, right? Unless she wasn’t a shallow twit at all? Unless she’d grown up enough to apologize and forgive him? Still, what did a second chance even mean? What if Lanie was back in his life only because Casey was now the thing I didn’t want to say? It probably meant they were even more doomed as a couple.

  Now I was cranky again. I shook it off. Marched us forward on the list. “Do something angel-y,” I said, trying once more to sound authoritative.

  “Like what? That Wikipedia page was pretty vague.”

  “Well,” I said, thinking hard. “If you’re really an angel, then you probably can’t be hurt, right?”

  Casey’s gaze strayed to the bong sitting on the floor by his dresser.

  “Stay focused,” I told him. He’d told me himself that marijuana was frowned upon by the AIC. I rose from the bed and grabbed the scissors from the bathroom. The ends were rounded and dull, but the edge had some sharpness. It would have to do. I didn’t give Casey time to argue—just reached over quickly and sawed the edge of the scissors against his right bicep.

  “Hey!” He stepped back, his foot grazing the bong. It teetered, stray droplets of the stinky brown water sloshing over the rim. “What the hell, Jenna?” A thin drizzle of blood trickled down his arm.

  “Don’t wipe it off,” I commanded. “We need to wait.”

  We watched his bicep and waited. So: angels could bleed like regular people. Maybe it was that transition thing. I glanced up at his eyes, and then back at his arm. My breath caught in my throat. The cut had vanished. Just like that. His skin was smooth and unblemished. No sign of blood. Nothing.

  “Whoa,” Casey said. He sounded stoned. I couldn’t blame him. Check.

  The five minutes was up. Back in the bathroom, we faced the mirror. Carefully, I unwound the towel from his head.

  “Crazy!” Casey smoothed his perfectly wavy and definitely not Clairol Champagne Blonde hair. I had tried to change him. I had failed.

  Check.

  “What about number five? I could call Lanie.” Casey looked at me hopefully.

  I would have kicked some sense into him, but my boots were gone and no way was I putting those purple clogs back on. There was nothing left but number two. We both knew it. (Maybe before I patented the A-Word Test, I’d shuffle the order so that The Question of Questions wouldn’t be saddled with the unfortunate poop association of #2.) My brother’s expression grew serious. He pressed a hand to my cheek. In the mirror, I noticed that his nails were neatly filed and buffed to a male-model sheen.

  “Enough,” he said. “I died, Jenna. I know you don’t want it to be true. But I really did.” Again, with his skin against mine, I felt that familiar wave wash the fear and confusion away. But I fought to cling to the uncertainty. I didn’t want to be certain. I wanted Casey Samuels, perv stoner. It seemed as if he had a bunch more to say. But all that came out was, “I’m sorry. I’ve been a crappy brother.”

  I shook my head. “You’re not,” I choked out. Bad taste in girlfriends, yes. Crappy, no.

  “I am. Shit, Jenna. Look at me. I was failing Teen Leadership class, Jenna. No one fails Teen Leadership.”

  I laughed. I sniffed and blinked. A big fat tear dripped down my cheek. It glistened a littl
e in Casey’s residual glow. There was one thing I hadn’t added to the list: Did the A-word die trying to save you? My brother had died trying to get me to the hospital. We could pretty it up any way we wanted, but those were the facts. Casey had died in the accident. I had lived.

  “I’m sorry you’re dead,” I whispered.

  Casey pulled me into a hug. “Me, too.”

  We stood hanging onto each other, that new nice smell of his floating up my nostrils. I believed him now. And yes, there was something about his hugging me that buried the sadness. Only this time I didn’t try to fight it. I guess that was the angel part. I guess that’s what they did.

  “You really can’t tell Mom, Jenna,” he said. “Or Dad if we find him. You need to promise.”

  “I promise. I just …”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” I stepped back from him. But I wanted to ask: Why me? Why was it okay to tell me? I didn’t know if I was ready to hear that answer. Plus I wasn’t sure if he even knew the answer. But I bet Amber did. I’d hear the rest of it soon enough. I yawned. We both had school tomorrow. Today, I guess, since it was after midnight. “Do you still have to go to school and work?” I asked.

  How sweet would that be? Maybe he could do something about the detention I hadn’t served. This whole angel thing might have its advantages.

  “Yeah,” Casey said. “I mean I still have to work to support us. That’s part of the deal with me coming back. And Amber says I have to go to school, too. That way people won’t get suspicious. I need to keep up appearances while I figure everything out. Besides, who else could Bryce count on for the dinner shift?”

  “Bryce is a pissant,” I stated.

  I yawned again, too exhausted and emotionally drained to ponder Amber’s role in all this. At least for tonight. Could I trust her now? I didn’t know. When was she going to tell Casey all the stuff he needed to know? Or had she, and was he just covering it up so he wouldn’t scare me? It had been just Casey and me for so long. Now there was Amber, who it seemed wasn’t going away anytime soon. But that didn’t mean that she was completely honest or good-hearted, did it? After all, Casey still seemed perfectly capable of BS. Nor did it mean that any of this was a good thing.