Dead Girl in Love dg-3

by Linda Joy Singleton

  “You should see a doctor,” I insisted.

  “I’ve told you how I feel about doctors.” She glared at me, defiantly. “I was only sleeping.”

  “With enough candles burning to start a bonfire?” I retorted.

  “Don’t use that condescending tone on me — it’s your fault.” She was shorter than Alyce by a few inches yet had a way of making me feel small. “You took so long to come home, I must have dozed off waiting for you. Where have you been? Why didn’t you call?”

  Mrs. Perfetti folded her arms across her chest, narrowing her gaze with suspicion that made me squirm. Could she tell something was different about me? How was I going to fool her? I was glad for the dim lighting so she couldn’t read the panic on my face. I didn’t know why Alyce had gone to the mortuary, but I knew better than to share that visit with her mother.

  “So where were you?” she repeated.

  “With a friend.”

  “Which means Amber Borden.” She brushed her pleated skirt with her hand as if an annoying best friend could be brushed away as easily as dust. “Whenever you’re inconsiderate of me, it’s because of that girl.”

  “It’s not her fault. I forgot the time.”

  “Were you at her house?”

  That’s where we usually hung out, so I nodded.

  “I called there.” Her bone-thin fingers tapped against the glass top of the coffee table as she breathed in and out a few beats before finishing, “And her father said he didn’t know where either of you were.”

  “Oh … well. That must have been when we were out walking.”

  “You didn’t answer your cell.”

  I glanced down at Monkey Bag, sure I’d find a dozen missed messages from Mrs. Perfetti when I checked Alyce’s phone. “The battery must be dead.”

  “Or you purposely didn’t answer because you’d rather talk to your friend than your mother.”

  How was I supposed to reply to that? Of course I’d rather be with my best friend. Who wouldn’t? But the truth would only make things worse.

  “I’m sorry — I won’t do it again. But right now I’m more concerned with you,” I said in my best contrite voice. “What’s with all the candles?”

  “It was so dark … ” Her voice trailed off to a whisper. “But with the candles came flickering flames, and shadows that made me feel less alone.”

  It was so strange how her voice and expression changed from angry to vulnerable. Unnerving … and confusing. But I didn’t know her well. Alyce’s mother never pretended to like me, so I avoided being around her.

  “You shouldn’t leave me,” she whined. “You know how I worry.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about — except choking from all this smoke. Let’s open some windows.”

  She nodded, giving me a look like a child seeking approval.

  Afterwards, when the air cleared and I could breathe easier, I said I was going to my room and slung Monkey Bag over my shoulder.

  “But you only just got home.” Mrs. Perfetti’s voice softened to a whine. “Please stay, baby. I’ve really missed you.”

  Her change of tone surprised me. “You have?”

  “I’ve been looking forward so much to our evening together. It’s the only time of the day I truly enjoy, and I’m sure you have lots to tell me. I want to hear everything.”

  “There really isn’t much.”

  “Whatever you say is more interesting than my boring job. Stuck in a cubical inputting computer data eight hours a day, five days a boring week. I left early, then waited to see my special girl. Come here, baby.”

  I didn’t want to, but she’d stepped toward me with such a tender look on her face that it would be cruel to ignore her. So I stood still, reminding myself that I was Alyce, not Amber, as Mrs. Perfetti opened her arms wide and swallowed me whole in a tight hug that smelled of peach shampoo and coffee.

  “Um … Mom. You’re holding too tight.” I pushed away, trying to come up with an excuse to ditch her. “I should go to my room. I have plans—”

  “You certainly do — with me.” She flashed a big grin, her shift of attitude even more confusing than a hundred burning candles.

  “I do?”

  “All the ingredients are ready in the kitchen.”

  “Um … can’t it wait? I have things to do.” I almost used the “homework” excuse until I remembered that it was spring break and school was still out till Monday.

  “What’s more important than dinner with your mother?”

  My honest reply would be rude. Besides, I was getting hungry and wouldn’t mind being served a home-cooked dinner. I’d had a stressful day and could use some pampering. So I said that eating sounded good.

  “Wonderful.” Mrs. Perfetti slipped her arm around my shoulder. “The chicken is thawed, the vegetables washed, and I set out your favorite spices.”

  Then Alyce’s mother sent me into the kitchen.

  To cook dinner.

  * * *

  Now, the first thing everyone knows about me (Amber) is that while I love eating, I’m hopeless in the kitchen. The extent of my culinary talent is using a can opener or following microwave instructions. Alyce, on the other hand, has a creative touch that includes gorgeous gift baskets for our school club, photography, and cooking. Alyce often teases me that I’d starve if I had to feed myself.

  So when Mrs. Perfetti left me alone in the smallish kitchen with its yellow-tiled counters and dark-wood cabinets, I stared around in horror.

  Me, cook? This was like a waking nightmare.

  I couldn’t do this on my own and knew only one person who might help. Retrieving Alyce’s cell phone from Monkey Bag, I deleted the nine missed texts (from her mother), then made my call.

  Dustin Cole, my second-best friend, was part hacker/geek/activist and liked to plot covert online strikes against “corrupiticians” (as Alyce nicknamed dirty politicians). His bedroom, or “Headquarters” as he called it, was crammed with electronic equipment that hummed and flashed with artificial life. There was no bed, only a couch and a sleeping bag that was usually covered with crumpled papers and snack wrappers.

  Dustin’s tone was wary when he heard my voice. “Alyce?”

  “Not exactly. Guess again.”

  “Don’t tell me you … you’re … ”

  “You’re getting warm.”

  He groaned. “Amber?”

  “And the smart guy wins a prize.”

  “It had better be a really good prize, like my own personal communication satellite,” he grumbled. “I need a scorecard to keep up with your body-switches.”

  “I’ve only had three — and the first one was an accident.”

  “Just stay away from my body — that would not be cool.”

  “But I’ve always been curious what it’s like to pee standing up.”

  “Convenient but overrated.”

  “And it would be interesting to see inside a guys’ locker room.”

  “As if I spend any time there,” Dustin said scornfully. “I choose not to break bones over contact sports. I have a file of legal keep-out-of-gym excuses, all signed by a doctor. Not necessarily my doctor, but whatever works.”

  “Everything works for you,” I said, chuckling. It felt sooo good to joke around with Dustin like nothing had changed.

  “So what’s the deal with Alyce?” His serious tone reminded me exactly how much had changed. I imagined him leaning back in his chair, tapping his fingers on his desktop. His eyes would be closed to shut out distractions, so he could listen with total concentration.

  “She’s taking a time-out.” I glanced down at my temporary hands with their frosted black fingernails. Alyce was into black, draped outfits and gruesome jewelry but insisted she wasn’t Goth.

  “I thought you were done with body-hopping.”

  “I thought so too.” I sighed. Then I explained how Grammy convinced me to take just one more assignment. “I had to do it — for Alyce.”

  “And what about you?”
Dustin asked in his quiet, perceptive way that never failed to disarm me. “Are you okay?”

  I glanced at the counter where Mrs. Perfetti had set out onions, tomatoes, cheese, spices, chicken parts, and pasta noodles. “I’m burning in culinary hell. Alyce’s mother expects me to cook dinner.”

  When Dustin stopped laughing, he offered to help. “Cooking is easy.”

  “Do you realize who you’re talking to? When it comes to directions, I always end up choosing the wrong way.”

  “You’re good at math, aren’t you?”

  “Math doesn’t have anything to do with cooking.”

  “Wrong. Cooking is one big math equation,” he said.

  Then he explained about washing, slicing, measuring, and baking. It took a while to figure out the chemistry of blending ingredients, but Dustin was a great teacher. If he ever gave up his ambition to overthrow the government, he could be a famous chef.

  He was saying how to set the timer on the oven when my phone beeped. I was ready to ignore the incoming text — until I saw the name that flashed on my screen.

  Eli Rockingham.

  Eli, Eli … My ELI! Calling!

  Immediately I developed symptoms of a serious illness: dizziness, chills, sweats, racing pulse, an overall state of confusion. I hadn’t known Eli long, but what I did know made me ache, yearn, palpitate to be with him again. Was this love? If I could spend some quality time with him while in my real body, maybe I’d find out. Still, it was great to hear from him and I couldn’t say good-bye to Dustin fast enough.

  Clicking a button, I read the message.

  A,

  GG told me who & where u r.

  Xciting stuff down n la.

  Gtg. More L8r.

  Eli

  Huh? That’s all he wrote? His “exciting stuff” probably had to do with being in Los Angeles as a finalist in the Voice Choice competition (think rip-off American Idol without the voting). He hadn’t planned to enter, but due to some confusion during my last assignment, he’d replaced his sister at the audition and made it to the Top Ten. He was even gaining fans in his new role as “Rocky” Rockingham, math-geek-turned-singer.

  I missed Eli but didn’t blame him for having fun after a lifetime of being the ignored-little-brother of totally hot Chad. Girls, guys, even teachers were won over by Chad’s megawatt smile, athletic body, and charisma. Eli didn’t know it, but for a few minutes of bad judgment, I’d even fallen for Chad’s charms. But I hadn’t been in my own body, so it didn’t count. Besides, the kiss wasn’t even my idea … not that I’d objected. And I saw no reason to tell Eli, especially since I’d quickly discovered that Chad was an egotistic jerk. Where Chad was fake, Eli was completely real and wonderful, and he deserved his fifteen minutes of fame.

  Still, I felt uneasy when Eli didn’t answer his cell. I sent a text, asking him to call soon. Then I gritted my teeth and set to work tackling the equation of a recipe. It was obvious from Eli’s message that he’d talked to Grammy (a.k.a. GG), so it was natural that he wasn’t worried about me. That’s what I told myself, anyway.

  Dinner looked great — but tasted worse than moldy carpet.

  Mrs. Perfetti puckered when she took a bite but smiled without complaint. She was all sweetness now, asking about my day. I gave some vague lies about places I didn’t go and conversations I never had.

  Afterwards, she offered to do kitchen cleanup, so I escaped to Alyce’s room. Once the door shut behind me, I relaxed and felt safe for the first time since body-swapping. I might not be home, but at least this was familiar territory. Yet it was weird being here minus Alyce. I kept expecting to hear her voice or see her walk into the room. When I flipped on the light and caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror, the reality of my situation struck me hard. I really was Alyce. While she was gone, I carried the responsibility of her life with every word and act.

  I could ruin her life … or save it.

  Opting for the “save it” course, I grabbed Monkey Bag to search for clues.

  I flipped the backpack upside down over Alyce’s bed. Papers, pens, containers of film, batteries, black-and-white photos, a compact camera case with camera, textbooks, etc. spilled onto the black striped comforter. I sorted everything out into piles, being extra careful with the camera, which Alyce had worked part-time to afford.

  But where was her purple notebook?

  There were still three zippered pouches I hadn’t checked because they were too small for a large notebook. I checked them now, finding loose change, a safety pin, a pack of gum, a gold hoop earring, and a folded paper.

  Hmmm, I murmured as I unfolded the paper. It was a list:

  1. Red Top

  2. Green Briar

  3. Liberty 4. Pioneer

  Green Briar, the mortuary? What was that about? There was no topic or explanation about this list, only a few notations and dates. Red Top was scratched out with a dark scrawled NO. Green Briar’s only notation was today’s date. Liberty had tomorrow’s date with a large, black-inked question mark.

  I had plenty of question marks, too.

  Was this list for a new photography project? Alyce often took pictures of macabre headstones at creepy cemeteries. But there was nothing creepy about Green Briar, with its gleaming showroom and lush manicured cemetery. So what was the connection between the names (places?) on the list? It looked like Alyce had gone to Red Top at some point, then Green Briar today. I guessed the others were planned for the remaining days of spring break.

  Did this have something to do with the GEM’s cryptic message about Alyce searching for “the lost”? How could I find something without knowing what I was looking for?

  Frustrated, I began returning things to the backpack, searching meticulously for more information. Alyce had been searching, too — for something at the places on her list. But why? And did this quest have anything to do with her crisis? The only thing I knew for sure was that I completely trusted Alyce and would do anything to help her.

  So where was that damned purple notebook?

  A flash of purple caught my eye, sticking out of Alyce’s World History textbook. But it wasn’t the notebook — just a folder with a green bush symbol on the label. Looking closer, I recognized the symbol.

  Green Briar Mortuary.

  A knot formed in my gut, tightening like a noose.

  Alyce had stolen from the mortuary — and I held the proof in my hands.

  4

  Of course, I snooped inside the file.

  But scored only disappointment.

  Nothing but useless old papers, typed in tiny uneven print that probably came from a manual typewriter, listing names and purchases from customers in 1947. The list wasn’t even complete, only showing Green Briar customers with last names beginning with B and C. Alyce had to have had a good reason for stealing this. I tried to reconstruct the sequence of events that must have occurred before I replaced Alyce. I imagined her sneaking into the Green Briar office, searching through cabinets until the saleswoman showed up. Then Alyce grabbed the file and hid inside the casket — where I took over.

  What was so damned important about these papers?

  Night folded around me as I studied the papers, losing myself in confusing thoughts as I flipped back and forth, rereading names that meant nothing to me. All I gained was a headache. Not the kind of mild headache that could be banished with a few Tylenol. Alyce often complained about migraines, and although I sympathized, I’d secretly thought she was exaggerating. I mean, how could a headache be that bad?

  Now I knew.

  Pain intensified, crashing into my brow and spreading out across my head. I rubbed my forehead, moaning. Dizzily, I leaned back on Alyce’s pillow, eyes closed as I waited for the misery to ease. Not getting any better, either. My stomach reeled with nausea … so awful … sick … OMG!

  With one hand on my head and the other on my stomach, I jumped off the bed and ran for the bathroom.

  Afterwards, my stomach was emptier and my pain numbed t
o a dull ache. I was relieved to find a migraine prescription in the medicine cabinet. I also noticed rows of prescriptions for Mrs. Perfetti — for sleeping, pain, and depression. Not a surprise considering her erratic behavior.

  Alyce’s migraine pills made me dizzy, exaggerating colors and shapes. As I returned to Alyce’s room, I caught my reflection in the mirror over a long, dark-wood dresser. High, hollowed cheekbones; deep, dark slanted eyes with long black lashes; and long, velvety raven hair. Full rosy lips parted into a startled “O” on a flushed face. For a startled moment, I forgot who and where I was, struck by a guilty sense of trespassing.

  The night-black ceiling and dark-red walls crowded in on me; familiar sights taking on frightening shapes. But there was nothing to fear, I assured myself, not in this room I knew so well. Although Mrs. Perfetti clearly didn’t want me (Amber, that is) around, I always came over whenever Alyce asked. Like the time we’d redecorated her room, painting the walls and the ceiling in what Alyce called a “midnight and blood” theme. Mrs. Perfetti freaked out when she discovered that Alyce had ripped off the frothy pink ballet wallpaper and replaced it with collages of black-and-white macabre photographs: a colorless butterfly perched on a skull, a child digging in a sandbox with a syringe, and a large dog hiking his leg on a headstone engraved with two hands clasping for an eternity.

  If kids at school saw Alyce’s room, they’d be positive she was on drugs or mental. They already avoided her because of how she dressed and her “don’t give a damn” attitude. But I knew the real Alyce. I’d watched her art develop from sidewalk drawings to experimental photography, and understood that her emotions ran so deep that ordinary art couldn’t satisfy her. I ached with frustration when others only saw her outer layer and put her down for being different.

  But I’m here for you always, I thought to Alyce, hoping she might hear or remember later.

  Back to searching for info. I opened drawers, checked shelves and boxes in the closet, crawled under the bed. I found some wrappers from butterscotch candy (her fave) and a crumpled science test (grade: C-).