by Tonya Hurley
“Is he trying to cop a feel?” Charlotte giggled out loud hopefully.
Tossing her head back in the breeze, Charlotte was shocked right out of her romantic mood, her eyes widening in fear, by a whistle in the wind.
“Omigod, Pam!” she screamed, and turned toward the backseat.
There was Piccolo Pam staring at her like a parent who just flicked on the lights in the basement and interrupted a marathon make-out session.
“What? I’ve gotta figure out some way to communicate with him, don’t I?” she said to Pam in her most persuasive voice. “Maybe this whole death thing can, you know, bring us closer.”
“Oh, so now you think that being dead can actually help you in the dating world?” Pam huffed. “Wait until the girls who got boob jobs hear about this one.”
Realizing that Charlotte wasn’t budging, Pam rolled her eyes and disappeared as fast as she’d come. Clearly, she wasn’t about to waste her dead days as a third wheel.
Charlotte was so focused on seeing where Damen slept and going through his personal belongings that she didn’t even consider the fact that he might not have been going straight home. As they pulled up to the curb in front of a sprawling manse, Charlotte noticed the driveway was empty. This was not his house. It was, however, a house that Charlotte had driven past all too many times, only to see his bright red sports car parked out front all afternoon and, sometimes, all night long.
No, this wasn’t just any old house. This was Petula’s house.
If she needed any more verification, Petula had already run the entire length of the long, landscaped bluestone walk to greet Damen, slamming into the passenger side door at nearly full speed.
“Hurry up, my parents will be home soon!” she said, prompting Damen to get out of the car at lightning speed and chase her back up the walk.
It probably wasn’t the brightest idea, but Charlotte followed them. Up the sidewalk to the front of the house she went, full speed, ignoring a frenzied flock of blackbirds that had appeared above her. She approached the door just a split second too late—again—and watched Petula obliviously slam the door right in her face.
“Déjà vu,” she said.
As she turned to walk away, she saw the birds fly off, leaving a drizzle of bird crap falling directly for her as they departed. She closed her eyes and braced for the impact. But it never came. The droppings just fell right through her and splattered on the front porch as an unexpected wave of optimism crashed over her instead.
“Of course,” she reminded herself. “I’m dead!”
Charlotte thought back to orientation and the first few chapters of her Deadiquette textbook as she turned back toward Petula’s front door. She’d only browsed them and hadn’t had any time to practice, but desperation can sometimes breed confidence, and Charlotte was, after all, a can-do spirit.
“What was it?” she asked rhetorically. “Invisibility. No, stupid. Shape-shifting? Not technically…” She grew more frustrated with the fact that she couldn’t remember. “Phasing? Riiiight. That’s it. Moving through stuff!”
Charlotte got into position, bravely facing the door. Her basic knowledge of the properties of solids, if not her ghostly expertise, would surely get her through, she hoped.
“Okay,” she began, “the denser the object, the more closely packed the molecules, and the more slowly they move. But what if I get stuck?” she said. “That would be bad. Very bad.”
Whatever might come, Charlotte decided that this was not the right time to have a debate about finer points of molecular density.
She gathered herself and began to concentrate.
“I can do this…,” she said, remembering the words of the great philosopher Bruce Lee: “Empty your mind, be formless, shapeless—like water,” he instructed. He certainly wasn’t part of the Dead Ed curriculum, or even a science teacher, but it was the best she could conjure up in a pinch. And he was dead too.
“Be the door, be the door, be the door…,” Charlotte chanted as she reached, open-handed, for the heavy wood and lead glass door.
To her amazement, the tips of her fingers, then her knuckles, palm, wrist, elbow—her whole friggin’ arm—were passing right through the door! Then her leg. It was going well. Until she got to her shoulder. Where she got stuck. Half of her body on the inside of the house, and half on the outside. She was trapped, trapped in a door. Charlotte struggled to continue through, but it was futile.
“Crap” was the best she could come up with, standing in a pool of fresh bird shit.
Crap, indeed. Being half trapped in a door for eternity was not a very appealing outcome, and the downside of the whole phase-shifting thing was that you really had to get in and get out fast.
“I sure hope this gets easier!” Charlotte grunted as she slowly pulled the rest of her body through the door.
Charlotte climbed the stairs and searched for Damen and Petula. She heard voices behind a door down the hallway and headed for it. It occurred to her that this home invasion, like the locker room visit earlier, was more than a little creepy of her. Like reading someone else’s e-mail. Still, she was not feeling guilty enough to change course. She poked her head through the door, this time with much less effort than before.
The room was Petula’s very own shrine to herself. It was breathtaking in its shamelessness, filled with photos of her-self and not-so-flattering photos of her friends. She outshined everyone, by design. It was HER room after all. Damen was lounging on the bed while Petula fussed in her walk-in closet, changing clothes.
“Hey, how about that girl dying in school…,” Damen yelled to Petula.
“He remembered,” Charlotte said as her head poked through the door like a moose-head trophy on a hunter’s wall.
Petula didn’t respond. It was impossible to tell if she wasn’t listening or just didn’t care. Either way, Damen got up from the bed and walked closer to the closet, stopping in front of a dressmaker dummy on which Petula had been designing and fitting her dress for the Fall Ball. He fiddled with some loose threads and pressed the conversation.
“She is… I mean, was, my lab partner. Weird, right?” he asked Petula, a touch of sorrow in his voice.
Still nothing.
Meanwhile, Charlotte made her way through the door and over to the dummy, where Damen was standing. She came around behind it and stood staring face-to-face with the Man of Her Dreams, nothing between them but the dummy torso and the dress fitted on top of it. In a single step, Charlotte closed the distance between them, walking into the dummy, and the dress as well.
“Pretty dress,” Damen mumbled, inspecting it more closely.
“Thank you,” Charlotte replied softly, smiling.
Damen, feeling a bit strange, stood for a second longer, examining the bust intensely, and then walked toward the closet.
As he stepped away, Charlotte saw the reflection of the dress dummy in the full-length mirror he had been obscuring from her view. She felt beautiful for the first time, as she’d always imagined she would, wearing a gorgeous, expensive, custom-made frock—just like Petula. It made her so happy and, at the same time, so very sad, until she noticed that Damen was staring at the same mirror; his jaw dropping to the floor. Could he see her reflection?
She seized the opportunity, ran over to the mirror, and blew on it, writing “Can you see me?” on the foggy surface. Damen grinned seductively and walked toward her.
It was actually the reflection of Petula, there in the closet, in mid-change, that he was salivating over. As the fog receded from the mirror, Charlotte got a clear shot of Damen—who was now in the closet—and Petula, making out wildly. Stunned, Charlotte stood frozen as Petula practically dragged Damen right past her, out of the closet, to the bed.
Damen had a chunk of Petula’s highlighted blond hair in his grasp, tugging on it as he forced her closer with every kiss, like he couldn’t get enough of her.
The steamy scene took Charlotte’s breath away. It was all so… physical. The only thing
romantic about it at all was the fact that Damen kept his eyes closed, which was probably a good thing, because Petula didn’t. She was studying every inch of her body in the mirror while they kissed. For her, it wasn’t about making out so much as it was a sexy photo shoot.
Charlotte focused on Damen’s shuttered lids, imagining all the thoughts that must be going through his mind. He seemed strangely relaxed, even in the midst of it all. Maybe he was thinking about someone else. Petula was right there. He wouldn’t need to fantasize about her, would he? Maybe he was thinking about her, “the girl who died at school.”
But then again, maybe not. Maybe it was an involuntary response, kind of like the way people can’t keep their eyes open when they sneeze. Maybe that was just the way he kissed.
The only way to really know was to be with him, in that moment, like Petula should have been. And that was impossible. Ironically, now that she was dead, she was able to go just about anywhere except the two places she most wanted to be: in his arms and in his mind.
Charlotte closed her own eyes, fantasizing it was her lips, not Petula’s, sliding over his while his hands caressed her. The further her mind drifted, the more Petula’s presence faded and the more intense their “virtual” kiss became.
She felt his hands. His warmth. She felt desire, passion, for the first time. She wouldn’t ever have to imagine what he was like with a girl again. She would know firsthand. Well, secondhand. Talk about an out-of-body experience.
Charlotte continued to breathe him in, to feel his touch. She glided her tongue along her lips and tilted her head just as Petula tilted hers and then closed her eyes again. She opened her eyes only for a few seconds here and there, to catch a glimpse of what she was already feeling. If she looked for too long, her fantasy would be lost.
When she opened her eyes again for an update she saw that Petula’s legs were now straddled across Damen in some kind of a cheerleading split. Charlotte had always been conflicted about cheerleading, the basic idea being to validate male egos by doing stupid jumps and silly routines, all with pom-poms and a ton of makeup on. But she wanted to be ogled too. She wanted to be eye candy.
In that moment, Charlotte understood the benefits of being a cheerleader and why guys prized them so highly. Petula might not have been smartest girl in the room, but she was probably the most limber, Olympically so, and that skill was paying big dividends. The reality of what was going on began to hit her. This wasn’t a movie or video game, this was happening in front of her face. As her own jealousy became unbearable, she headed out into the hall, ran to the adjacent bathroom, and slammed the door, sobbing uncontrollably.
“He doesn’t even know I’m alive,” she whimpered, hanging her head over the sink and forgetting that she wasn’t alive.
After a few seconds of wallowing, she lifted her head to look in the mirror. Charlotte was so numb and distracted, she couldn’t be sure if the condensation running down the glass was tears running down her face or not, and she hadn’t yet noticed the hot steam from the shower filling the room.
“This must be how it happens,” she said as her reflection slowly disappeared into the vapor. “I’m just going to vanish into nothing. Poof.”
She reached for the shower curtain and clenched it like a toddler gripping her favorite blanket. She buried her face in the opaque vinyl and sucked in as hard as she could. She was a dead girl having the worst panic attack she’d ever had. Not because she was afraid of dying, but because she knew that she would never live again.
The moist curtain clung to her face like a shrink-wrap body bag for a second, and then, almost automatically, her face passed through it into the shower stall. She stopped grieving for a moment to notice a bottle of shampoo with the instructions: “For dull, lifeless hair.” “Dull… Lifeless…,” she said in utter defeat.
The next thing she saw through the hot mist was someone taking a shower. If she could have blushed, she would have. Wet, soapy, dyed-black, razor-cut hair dangling over her face, Scarlet rinsed out the last traces of shampoo and slowly opened her eyes, only to see Charlotte’s head protruding through the curtain, into the shower.
Scarlet screamed at the top of her lungs as she tried to cover up with her arms and elbows, surprising Charlotte, who screamed right back.
Charlotte tried her best to escape from the curtain, but with each twist and twirl, she only got caught up even more.
Panicked, Scarlet noticed what appeared to be blood running down the side of the white porcelain tub and spooling down the drain. All she could think of was the shower scene in Psycho. She checked herself for wounds, cowered against the corner of the stall, and waited for the deathblow. It was only the traces of her red Urban Decay lipstick washing away, but Scarlet, who was an aficionado of grindhouse flicks, was prone to drama.
Meanwhile, Charlotte broke free and tumbled out of the shower just as Damen rushed into the bathroom to find out what all the commotion was about. He caught Scarlet coming out of the shower, naked, and was totally unaware of Charlotte perched up on the toilet, quivering in fear.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” Scarlet asked as she scurried to grab a black towel and cover herself.
“I heard screaming,” he mumbled.
Damen tried not to “notice” Scarlet, but he found it hard to speak. This was the first time he’d ever seen her without any makeup, clothing, and/or accessories. She was naked in every sense of the word. Vulnerable.
“Not you… her,” she snapped.
“What ‘her’?” he asked.
She pointed to Charlotte, but Damen saw only the toilet.
“Her!” she said in her most frustrated voice.
“Me,” Charlotte said with no hope in her voice.
Scarlet realized that Damen could not see Charlotte, and so she screamed again, this time in fear and frustration, and bolted. Damen was confused by her odd behavior, but he let it go and went back to Petula.
Scarlet ran to her room and slammed the door. She scrambled to put on a vintage magenta silk robe with black ravens delicately embroidered on it and proceeded to run right into her adjoining dressing room, slamming that door shut too for extra protection.
The room looked like a stall at CBGB’s with graffiti of poems, drawings, and song lyrics on the wall. Her toilet bowl and vanity were plastered with band bumper stickers. Scarlet rummaged wildly through her drawers to find something, anything, to defend her against the demon from the shower.
Within seconds, there was a gentle rapping at the door. She grabbed for her black plastic cross necklace, held it out defensively like Buffy, and shrugged.
“No. I need a real one!” she said as she threw the plastic one back like a small unwanted fish into the sea of crosses.
She picked up a sterling silver cross and ran to the door with it, striking the vampire hunter pose once more.
“What do you want?” she asked through the door.
“You can see me,” Charlotte whispered.
“Wait a second, I know who you are,” Scarlet responded nervously, cracking the door just a smidgeon.
“You do?” Charlotte asked, pleasantly surprised at some recognition.
“You’re the girl that croaked at school,” Scarlet said. “From Petula’s Physics class.”
“Yes! That’s me!” Charlotte responded, over the moon. Death did seem to get her noticed.
“What? So like, you’re here for revenge ’cause I was nasty to you?” Scarlet moaned.
“No, not at all,” Charlotte reassured her.
“Or because I wrote a lame obituary?” Scarlet asked, sliding the newspaper under the door.
“I made the school paper!” Charlotte chirped.
She looked down at the copy and anxiously read it. Her whole life boiled down to two sentences alongside a general online “photo not available” icon.
CHARLOTTE USHER, HAWTHORNE HIGH STUDENT, DIED TODAY IN A SENSELESS INCIDENT INVOLVING A GUMMY BEAR. A MEMORIAL SERVICE WAS HELD.
“T
hat’s it?” Charlotte asked, dejectedly.
“I didn’t have time to get details,” Scarlet babbled, seeing no need to bring up the poorly attended memorial just now or the fact that the yearbook staff had no photos filed under her name or that no one returned her calls for comment.
Scarlet opened the door with trepidation, holding out the cross.
“It’s real,” Scarlet said in all seriousness, as if she were holding up a pistol to a bank robber.
“Wow, Jesus must have been tiny then,” Charlotte said.
Scarlet couldn’t help but laugh a little.
“I’m not a vampire,” she said as she took the crucifix out of Scarlet’s hand.
Scarlet remained still as Charlotte entered the room. She looked around and noticed all the vintage cult movie posters like Harold & Maude, Night of the Living Dead, and Delicatessen hanging on her wall with creepy, quirky shadowboxes encasing grotesque figurines showcased in between. There was a CD of William Burroughs reading The Tibetan Book of the Dead and an Edward Gorey illustrated funeral planner lying on her black ornately carved desk.
“Man, I think the wrong one of us passed,” Charlotte said, studying her stuff.
“Always a bridesmaid,” Scarlet muttered under her breath.
The surrealism was growing, but Scarlet’s fear had almost totally passed. Almost. Neither girl could help herself as they blurted out questions simultaneously.
“What’s it like to be dead?” Scarlet asked.
“What’s it’s like to be Petula’s sister?” Charlotte asked.
Scarlet was dumbfounded at Charlotte’s question. “You’re kidding me, right?” Scarlet asked.
Charlotte proceeded with a question that was a little more appropriate. “Why can you see me? No other living person can. Well… except maybe for dogs and babies,” she said.
“How should I know?” Scarlet responded sarcastically.
“There’s gotta be some kind of logic to it,” Charlotte said as she looked around her room. “What is it about you that lets you see me?” She examined the Celtic crucifix and some other Goth relics lying around the room. She then went over to Scarlet’s dressing room, which was a huge open closet equipped with an antique chandelier that was dripping with jewel-colored teardrop crystals. There was a velvet upholstered chair peppered with what looked like tiny black polka dots, but at closer inspection, they were actually little skulls. And there was an old Venetian glass mirror on the door where a bunch of vintage jewelry hung.