by Gabby Noone
What were fuzzy blobs before are now clearly a teenage boy and girl. The girl wears a poufy pink dress and the boy is in a suit. It looks like maybe their car broke down on the way to a dance, but as Wendy drives closer and closer to them it becomes clear that the girl is running from the boy. And she’s running from the boy because he’s wielding a knife.
Before I can even pause to comprehend this, young Wendy is swerving onto the side of the road. She drives directly toward the boy. His eyes go wide, but before he can do anything else, his body is being crunched by her tires.
“Holy crap!” I gasp.
Wendy and Sadie just sit there, taking this in like it’s normal.
“Why aren’t you freaking out?” I whisper to Sadie through my teeth.
“I can’t even begin to count the number of times I’ve seen people kill someone in their memories,” she mutters.
Wendy puts her car in reverse and then throws open her passenger door.
“Get in!” she calls to the girl, who does, her whole body shaking. Wendy’s voice sounds young. Maybe as young as the girl’s.
“So there,” Wendy exclaims, making sarcastic jazz hands. “My big secret. The thing that was weighing on me.
“Neither of us ever told a soul about what happened that night,” she continues, more serious. “We just pretended that her date had car trouble and while he was flagging down help, there was a hit-and-run, and that I just happened to come upon her and rescue her in a moment of distress. We didn’t know each other, but after that, me and Mabel became best friends for life. I was the maid of honor at her wedding. Never told anyone I killed a man.”
“I mean, would I tell the authorities if it had happened nowadays? Just claim self-defense?” she wonders aloud. “Mmm . . . probably not. I’m sorry I killed him, but I don’t regret saving my best friend.”
Suddenly an alarm blares, and in the blink of an eye, I’m back in my seat in the airport hangar, the plastic helmet on my head. I look over at Wendy. The noise is coming from her helmet, which is now flashing green.
I let out a breath, realizing I’d been holding it for the last few seconds.
“Well, all right, Wendy!” Sadie says. “That signal means you’ve successfully confronted what was holding you back. Time to get you moving on to Heaven.”
“THAT WAS AMAZING,” I say to Sadie once we’re back inside the airport, standing at the departures desk while Todd fills out the paperwork that will get Wendy her ticket to Heaven. “Who knew that little old lady had it in her?”
“Yeah. What she did was wrong, but . . . it was pretty cool to watch.”
“It wasn’t wrong! She totally did the right thing. Do you know how many assholes I wish I could just run over with my car? She’s, like, my hero.”
“Didn’t you die in a car accident?” Todd asks, without looking up from his paperwork.
“Yeah, but that was different,” I protest. “And none of your business! How did you even know that?”
“I’m Todd. I know everything.”
“Well, you did an amazing job, Bea,” Sadie interjects. “The seasonal clothing . . . you spotted her weakness from a mile away and you pounced on it. I have complete faith that you’ll get the next two souls moving along in no time. Until then, I’ll be watching your every move to make sure you’re giving it your all and not making me wait here longer than I absolutely have to.”
She smiles and stares into my eyes a little too intensely.
“Seriously?” I moan.
“I’m kidding! Part of the process is that I have to let go. Just gotta let go,” she says, beginning to fan her face.
“Um. Are you okay?” I ask.
“I’m fine. It’s just . . . this will be the first break I’ve had from working in decades,” she says, tears beginning to pool at the edges of her eyes. “I’m just overwhelmed with possibility. So much free time on my hands! What are you doing right now, Bea? Do you want to grab some lunch?”
“Uhhhh,” I stammer, remembering Caleb’s passport in my train case, suddenly feeling like it weighs a thousand pounds. “I think I need to go take a nap first. It’s been a long week.”
“You’ve only been here for one day,” Sadie corrects.
“Exactly.”
I RUSH BACK to my room and flop onto the slightly less awful of the two awful beds, dumping Caleb’s passport out of my train case. Before I open it up and read, I pause and take a second to hypothesize the ways that he died. Really, there are only two possibilities: it must’ve either been by doing something really heroic, like saving a child from a burning building, or something really stupid, like making a video of himself eating a packet of laundry detergent or an outrageous amount of cinnamon because his friends dared him to.
But isn’t stealing and reading his passport equally as stupid? Why do I even care about how he died? It’s probably because we’re confined in a strange place together. It’s like the summer before seventh grade, when my dad sent me away to Bible camp because it was cheap and convenient and “good for me,” but I spent the whole time fixated on the only other kid my age there. Then, on the last day of camp, as I prepared to say goodbye to him, I realized he always smelled like Cheez-Its and had the face and personality of a foot and we would never make it in the outside world.
I realize I’ve been holding the passport for so long that my hands are making sweaty imprints on its vinyl cover, so I finally just open the thing up.
Name: Caleb Smith
Date of Birth: 1/3/2002
Date of Death: 12/12/2019
Time of Death: 9:20 p.m. EST
Location of Death: Intersection of Huntingdon Pike and Susquehanna Road, Northwood, Pennsylvania, United States
Cause of Death: Blunt-force trauma and internal bleeding caused by car accident
As I read the last two lines, I feel like I’m having déjà vu. This looks nearly identical to the report in my own passport. I pull mine out and compare the pages. The information on our deaths is nearly identical. This must be a printing error or some clerical mix-up. Like I’d ever trust the people who run this place not to make mistakes.
Yet even as I tell myself this, my chest begins to feel like it’s being squashed by a cinder block.
Because why are our deaths recorded one minute apart?
I figured Caleb and I died on the same day because we were on the same flight, but I didn’t think we’d died in the same exact place in the same exact spot.
I thought he seemed familiar to me on the plane because he was wearing the most basic boy outfit of all time, but maybe he’s actually familiar to me because he’s the person who killed me.
7
“Stop right there!” a booming man’s voice yelled, too mature sounding to be Dominic or even his friend. I froze where I was standing in the parking lot, wedged between two station wagons. Emmy was still staring back at me.
I turned around and saw Rick, our school security guard, or, as he preferred to be called, “school safety agent.” Regardless, most kids called him Sergeant Rick behind his back because of his choice to pair his polo shirt that said SECURITY on the back with camouflage-print cargo pants. And also his militant attitude.
He clutched the walkie-talkie stuck to his belt like it was a gun, and I knew that he wished it was. Every time there was another mass shooting in the news, he would loudly complain to any student or teacher who would listen to him that the only way a tragedy could be prevented at our school would be if he, too, were armed.
“I saw what you did back there, young lady,” he said. “You’re coming with me to Principal Spoglio’s office.”
“Wait!” Emmy called, then walked back toward me. “She was just sticking up for me.”
Then she added, “Sir.”
Rick turned and stared incredulously at Emmy, but his face fell as he took in her neat ponytail and h
er pink puffer jacket and her calculus book—all signs that pointed to innocence.
“It’s true,” I said, stepping in front of her.
“Well then,” he said, still staring at Emmy, “I guess you’ll be joining her on her trip to the principal’s office.”
Emmy’s eyes widened with sheer panic. She had never been to the principal’s office before for anything other than to present him with a petition that she’d created to ban plastic straws in the lunchroom or to be congratulated on making it into the state’s top percentile of standardized test takers.
“That doesn’t make sense,” I said, crossing my arms. “She didn’t do anything! I mean, god, don’t you have something better to do right now than patrol the parking lot?”
Rick grimaced at me.
“Young lady, it is my duty to patrol this area. I am dedicated to the safety of this school and that includes its parking lot. Especially its parking lot. In fact, I have taken an oath to make this parking lot a violence-free zone.”
With that, he grabbed me by the elbow and dragged me up the hill.
“Don’t touch me!” I yelped.
Rick opened his mouth to speak, but then Emmy interrupted him from behind us.
“Bea,” she said. “For once in your life, you’re just going to have to cooperate.”
8
The first impulse I have after reading Caleb’s passport is to burn it, but that would be too simple. Also, I don’t know where to find any matches.
I need to play the long game. If he’s the reason I’m here, then I need to make his life a living hell. Or however else you’d apply that metaphor to the afterlife.
I take a deep breath to calm down, and try to remind myself that I’m jumping to conclusions. There are other possibilities besides my theory that Caleb committed vehicular manslaughter resulting in my untimely death. Like, maybe he was just an innocent passenger in the car that crashed into mine and none of this is his fault. Or he was just a stupid, stupid pedestrian who walked into the middle of traffic at the worst possible moment. In fact, maybe we’re both victims and have gone through a singularly unique experience that only each other can fully understand, bonding us together eternally! No. Before I conclude anything, I need to know the truth.
Remember: the long game.
First, I need to get it out of Caleb whether or not he was driving the night he died, but I have no idea when I’ll see him again. I don’t know his room number. I don’t have a phone and he probably doesn’t either. There’s a chance I could run into him at breakfast tomorrow, but that feels too far away. I don’t want to spend another second not knowing.
If I were someone who lost their passport in a gigantic airport, where would I be?
I stand up and walk over to look at a laminated map stuck to the back of my room door, but it’s basically useless. The “You Are Here” sticker has been haphazardly placed in the area representing a plane landing strip, far away from wherever my actual room is situated. Among the tiny icons signifying bathrooms and elevators, I spot one that says L&F. I assume that stands for “Lost & Found.”
If it really is a lost and found, maybe I can get someone there to page Caleb on the PA system because some Good Samaritan has so kindly returned his passport and he should come collect it immediately, and then I could just happen to be in the general vicinity when he arrives.
I know how to get to the waiting area, so I figure out a path from there to the tiny square signifying the lost and found on the map. When I get where I think I’m supposed to be, there’s nothing, no office or door or counter or anyone else in sight. I’m about to give up when I notice a small window made of thick glass with a speaker in the middle, like a bank teller’s station. No one is sitting in the chair behind the window, but there is a small phone attached to the adjacent wall with a sign above it that reads CALL FOR LOST AND FOUND. On the phone itself is a printed label that says PRESS 1 FOR LOST AND FOUND. Under that is a handwritten label that says, Press 1 REALLY hard.
I pick up the phone and put it to my ear. There’s no dial tone, which I immediately take as a bad sign. Still, I press 1. Silence. I press it harder. Nothing. I place the phone between my ear and shoulder to free a hand to simultaneously knock on the window while I keep pressing 1, in case someone is hiding back there.
“Hello!” I call, banging my fist. “Anyone in there?”
Frustrated, I slam the phone repeatedly into the receiver.
“Stupid piece of—”
“Hey!” a voice says behind me.
I turn around to see Caleb, his hands up in surrender.
“Hi,” I say, taking a single gulp. I realize I’m wielding the phone like a weapon. Without thinking, I drop it, and it clatters past the counter and dangles toward the ground.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says with a small smile. “You can keep, uh, doing whatever you were doing to the phone. In fact, I would very likely be doing the same thing if you weren’t already.”
“Oh?” is all I can manage to say. My stomach lurches.
Somehow I feel embarrassed looking at Caleb, like I’m coming face-to-face with a celebrity I’ve read R-rated fan fiction about, or maybe more accurately, like coming face-to-face with a serial killer I secretly found to be kind of hot in his mug shot.
“I’ve been here, like, ten times today. I lost my passport.” He says, rolling his eyes at himself. “Two times out of ten, someone answered me, and even then, they totally blew me off. I thought I’d give it one more shot because, really, what else is there to do around here?”
“It’s funny you say that,” I say, standing up straighter and smiling just as Sadie taught me to. “Your name’s Caleb, right? Because I was coming here to return a passport. And, well . . . I think it’s your passport.”
I pull it out of my bag.
“No way!” he says, eyes widening. “How did you find it?”
“Well, actually someone else found it and then left it at the departures counter, where I was working today,” I lie. “I looked inside and recognized your name, but I had no idea where to find you or what your room number was or anything, so . . .”
“Why didn’t you just ask the front desk at the hotel?”
“I did!” I continue effortlessly. “They’re not allowed to give out room numbers to strangers.”
“Why didn’t you just leave it at the front desk? I was checking there too.”
“Wow! So many questions for me, a person who absolutely had no personal obligation to find the owner of this passport, but still did it out of the kindness of their heart!”
I pretend to place the passport back inside my bag.
“You’re right,” he says, shaking his head.
“But seriously,” I say, pulling it back out. “I didn’t leave it there because they told me to take it to the lost and found. And that . . . is the story of how I ended up here smashing the phone to pieces.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be so rude. It’s just been a long day. I feel so stupid for even losing it.”
“It must’ve fallen out of your shorts. I guess that’s what happens when you die wearing shorts without real pockets.”
“Whew, ice-cold!” he says, clutching his chest in mock offense. “But I guess you’re right.”
I step closer to him and hand him the passport.
“Thank you so, so much,” he says, a smile spreading across his face. “Really.”
“It’s fine,” I say. “So . . .”
“So . . .” he says.
“Blunt-force trauma and internal bleeding caused by car accident?”
Caleb’s smile freezes.
“Excuse me?” he asks through his teeth.
“Your cause of death,” I elaborate.
“Oh. Yeah,” he says, blinking like this is something he either is just remembering or wants to f
orget. “I guess so.”
“I peeked inside your passport. I mean, I had to figure out who it belonged to . . . Sorry,” I say, trying to pull off a convincing embarrassed smile. “I’m not really sure yet what passes as socially acceptable small talk around here. Do we casually talk about how we died or is that, like, really weird, you know?”
I twist a piece of my hair around my finger, pretending like this social taboo is actually what’s making me nervous, not something else entirely.
“It’s not weird,” Caleb says, relaxing slightly. “I guess it should be small talk. It’s, like, the main thing everyone here has in common. Being dead.”
“Exactly! That’s what I was thinking.”
For a moment he stares thoughtfully at the wall and puts his hands in his shorts pockets.
“I think I just have a hard time believing it’s real, you know?” he asks, scrunching his shoulders up. “It’s like, one minute I’m driving in my car and the next . . . I’m on an airplane?”
“You were the one driving?” I press, battling my face’s muscles to keep my expression neutral.
“Thank god it was just me in the car,” he says, shaking his head.
I clench my fists as the taste of bile climbs up my throat and hot rage thrums through my veins.
“Yeah,” I say, nodding emphatically. “Thank god it was just you.”
Permission to play the long game: granted.
9
“You know, Spoglio is a total softy. He’ll still let you go to the dance tonight. He won’t punish you. I mean, not that you even did anything,” I said to my sister as we sat next to each other in the lobby of the school office, waiting for our fate to be delivered to us. Sergeant Rick was inside the principal’s office, relaying the details of what happened in the parking lot.
“Yeah,” she said vacantly, staring straight ahead at the bulletin board on the wall across from us that read TOGETHER WE CAN DREAM . . . BELIEVE . . . LEAD . . . ACHIEVE in giant paper letters.