Be the Death of Me (7 page)

Billie

“Morning, Ford.”

“Holy mother of God!”

He jumps a foot in the air and clutches his heart, using his other hand to quickly cover the shorts clinging to his still damp skin. His dark hair is wet from the shower, dripping sparkling droplets onto bare shoulders.
I laugh and stretch my legs out in front of me. “Nice to see you too. Love the boxers by the way.” I gesture to the hearts and cupids printed on his shorts. “Very manly.”

“What are you doing here?” he hisses, slinking away from the door, looking for any sign of clothing. “You’re a girl! Don’t you have a sense of propriety?”

“Of course not.” I flash him a smile. “I’m dead.”

I stand in the far corner as he desperately continues his search for something to wear–pants, shirt, toga, sundress, whatever he can find. It’s his own fault really. It would be much easier to find things if his room weren’t such a catastrophic mess.

“I’m only doing my job,” I tell him. “Besides, what else am I supposed to be doing with my time?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Chatting with Peter at the pearly gates, burning in hell, ascending to a higher plane of consciousness . . . whatever.”

“Now now, no point in being rude. I’m sorry for scaring you. It won’t happen again.”

“Good,” he says, hitting his knees and checking under the bed. “Because I would hate to have to report this sort of behavior to Tucker.”

“Report all you want,” I say. “Tuck’s not my boss.”

“Sure looks that way.”

“Well he’s not. We’re partners, no matter how much he might think or say otherwise. Got it?”

He shuffles to the closet, jerking open the double doors with unnecessary force and revealing mountains of wrinkled, dirty clothes inside. Looking for a clean article of clothing in that heap must be like searching for a needle in a giant, smelly haystack. “Whatever you say,” he mumbles, diving in.

This kid should make a career out of pushing my buttons. I groan, remembering Tuck’s plea for camaraderie. I think the most he can hope for is thinly–veiled hostility. “So did you sleep well last night?” I ask, trying my hardest to play nice.

He mumbles back some response I can’t understand.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” I watch him dig around a moment longer. “So you’re still hanging in there then? Everything good?”

“I’m breathing,” he calls over his shoulder. “All signs point to alive.”

“Well, it’s still early.”

He holds up a shirt and sniffs it before grimacing and chucking it back into the pile. “Why are you here anyway? Where’s Tucker?”

I flop onto his bed. Were I still alive, I might be concerned with the bacteria breeding between the sheets of a teenage boy. But I’m not, and as such it’s one of the few times I’m thankful for being dead. “The reason I’m here, and Tuck isn’t,” I start again, folding my arms behind my head and crossing my legs at the ankles, “is because it’s my shift.”

“Your
shift
?” he asks from the far corner. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means there’s no need for both of us to be here 24/7, so we’re taking turns watching you now.”

“Let me ask you something then,” he says, his wet head suddenly popping up at the side of the bed. “Whose idea was it to take shifts? Yours?”

I know what he’s getting at, and I refuse to take the bait. “Not exactly,” I grit through clenched teeth.

“Well, it definitely wasn’t my idea,” he keeps pushing. “If it were up to me, you wouldn’t be here at all. So that leaves Tucker. Your
partner.
”

“What exactly are you saying?” I snap, struggling to restrain myself from slapping his smug face.

“Kind of a weird coincidence, don’t you think? He suddenly comes up with this idea, and you just happen to have the first shift? For all you know he’s probably relaxing at some ghost bar, laughing at you behind your back while he has fun with some hot ghost girls.”

I don’t know why I’m so upset, but I’m on my feet in a flash. My shift or not, it’s time for a break.

“Where are you going?” he asks, climbing to his feet. “Hey, give those back!”

He’s finally noticed what I’ve had in my hands all along.

“See you at school, Ford,” I smile wickedly. I vanish, taking his one clean pair of pants with me.

I give myself a few hours to cool off. I know Tuck and the Captain would be furious if they ever found out I left Ford on his own. It’s not exactly suitable Guardian behavior to walk out on your assignment, but I figure what they don’t know can’t hurt me. Besides, I have every intention of going back.

The previous night’s snow has all but melted away in the pale heat of the morning, leaving only a few, scattered patches of white to taunt those who wished for a snow day. The front steps of the school are coated with a slick, glossy glaze of ice, teeming with students, pushing, shoving, shouting to one another over the dull rumbling of voices. I discover Ford standing outside next to a beat up recycling bin, bag slung over his shoulder, looking very much as if he wishes he were invisible.

His eyes harden as I walk toward him, breezing through several students as I move. They spin on the spot, certain they felt something brush against their shoulders, bewildered when they realize no one is there. I chuckle to myself.

“Glad to see you found something to wear.” I pull up beside him, glancing down at khakis that are clearly several inches too short. “Does your grandmother know you borrowed her pants?”

“Very funny,” he mumbles, trying his best to talk without moving his lips. “Now go away. I was kind of in the middle of something before you showed up.”

“In the middle of what exactly?” I tease, motioning to the empty space around him.

“Just go. People will think I’m crazy if they see me talking to someone who isn’t even there.”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that. You’ve got a filter around you now. It’s all part of the deal. We protect you, and you don’t look insane by talking to us. You could get down on one knee and serenade me and no one would notice.”

“Are you serious?” He finally turns to me, looking both relieved and excited. “Really? I can talk to you like a regular person?”

A gaggle of girls sashay by, a collection of swinging purses and pink hair clips. They turn to stare at Ford. “Freak,” one of them giggles. Their collective laughter echoes as they head into the school.

He shakes his head. “There’s no filter, is there?”

A single snort issues from my nose as I try in vain to hold in my laughter.

“Great.” He hoists his bag higher up his shoulder and follows the girls into the building.

I tag along after, skipping at his side. If I have to go through high school all over again for this guy, I’m at least going to have fun doing it. The inside of North Chamberlain is brightly lit and open. Scholastic awards and posters promoting things like abstinence and the next drama club meeting hang from walls that lead into a labyrinth of hallways and corridors. It reminds me vaguely of my old school. Even though Rosemont is a few towns over, I can’t imagine the architectural structure of a high school ever really changes. Even the students seem like poor carbon copies of the faces I remember.

“Are you mad?” I ask him after a minute.

“Of course not!” he laughs sarcastically. “I love looking like an idiot.”

“Well, that explains your pants.”

Ford pauses at his locker, fumbling with the padlock for several minutes before resorting to pounding on the metal door in frustration while a nearby freshman looks on in fear. He stops only to rest his forehead against the cool metal. “Why can’t you just leave me alone?” he whines, closing his eyes in resignation.

I shrug. “You’re my assignment.”

“Well, you’re doing a bang up job so far,” he scoffs. “In the last hour and a half you’ve managed to scare me senseless, see me half naked, steal my pants, and make me look like a total head case.”

Great.
I think I may have officially pushed my assignment over the brink. Tuck would not be pleased, though why I care what Tuck thinks is a matter to trouble myself with later.

“Hey,” I say, running my fingers over the abandoned padlock still secured to the door. “Hey, how about I make you a deal?”

“Does it involve me signing a contract in blood or a ritual animal sacrifice?”

“Not unless you’re into that sort of thing,” I say as the lock comes away easily in my hand. I hold it up for him to see. “But maybe you and I could take Tuck’s advice. You know, try to get along.”

“Where’s the deal in that?”

“I promise I’ll ease up if you agree to promise to wear those pants at least one more time.”

His deep brown eyes twinkle with a spark of laughter and hope, his face splitting into the boyish grin I’d seen only once before. “Alright,” he says finally, sticking his hand out. “It’s a deal.”

I stare down at it, thrown for the first time since meeting him. Sure, he can see me, but actual physical contact? That’s a different and unexpectedly frightening concept altogether. Cautiously, I offer my hand in return. He takes it his own, his surprisingly strong hand wrapping around my thin fingers.

I gasp. The sudden sensation of warmth is alarming at first, like slipping into a hot bath before your body can adjust to the temperature. I can feel the tendons in his hand, the muscles flexing in his fingers and wrist. I run my thumb over the soft skin at the back of his hand, watching the tiny, dark hairs bend with the pressure.

“Wow,” I hear him murmur breathlessly. He’s staring down at our hands as well, eyes wide in amazement, and I can’t help but wonder what he feels from his end. “I’m shaking hands with a ghost.”

“How do you think I feel? I’m touching someone with a pulse!”

He releases me slowly. “So you’re hanging around all day then?” he asks. Several heads turn in his direction, amused by the crazy boy talking to himself, but unlike earlier, he hardly seems to notice.

I nod. “Looks like it. Tuck said he’d meet us later to take the afternoon shift.”

Ford’s first class is only a few doors down, and judging from the writing on the massive whiteboard at the front of the room, dedicated to math. I groan inwardly and watch a smile form at the corner of his lips.

“Excited for trig?” he mutters under his breath, opening a rather ominous looking textbook and taking a seat at the back of the room. With the exception of a petite brunette with spiky, cropped locks, who waves enthusiastically to Ford when we enter, no one so much as notices him. I slide down along the side wall, stretching my legs in front of me and resting my head against a filing cabinet. It’s going to be a long morning. The teacher, a middle–aged woman wearing a purple sweater vest and far too much makeup, drones on for what feels like eternity. I laugh at the irony. Forever with the Captain, or eternity in math class? I can’t decide which sounds less painful.

The bell screams our release an hour later. The class rises as a unit, and Ford begins cramming his book haphazardly into his bag. I notice his movements are slower than his classmates, all of which are now violently shoving past one another to escape. He lingers behind, clearly in no hurry.

“Ready?” he asks, hitching his bag over his shoulder. We exit together, merging with the flow of students making their way to their next classes.

“Bent–dick!”

Ford doesn’t turn, but I can tell from his expression the voice is not exactly welcome. A quick glance over my shoulder reveals a Goliath of a boy at the far end of the hall. He looks like any average high school guy, jeans, t–shirt, overly styled hair. The big difference is the seams of his clothes appear as if they’re straining to stay together, like they’re going to rip apart any second and he’ll transform into the Incredible Hulk. His biceps are easily the size of my waist, a visual that both impresses and horrifies me at the same time.

“Bent–dick!” he calls again, his heavy voice echoing over the constant, unbroken rumble of kids. “Where you going?”

I giggle quietly. “Bent–dick?” I ask, trying not to smile. “Anyone I know?”

“Ignore him,” Ford hisses out the side of his mouth.

I do as he asks, listening to the taunts die away as we turn into another wing of the school. “Who is he?” I say.

An unfamiliar growl rumbles deep in Ford’s chest. “He’s no one.”

“Doesn’t look like no one.”

“He’s an idiot. But you may as well get used to seeing him because he seems to show up everywhere I go.”

“I’m pretty sure he shows up wherever
anyone
goes. The guy’s the size of a bus.”

The remainder of the morning goes well enough; the classes creep by. There comes a moment around lunchtime where I see perhaps a welcome break in the monotony. The same brunette waves at Ford from across the cafeteria. Her smile is visible from the other side of the room. To my confusion, he walks past, either ignoring or not seeing her hello. Lunch is spent in the school library with Ford insisting he has a project to work on for his next class and that he’s not hungry though I secretly suspect he’s not being one hundred percent honest with me. His stomach lets out a deafening rumble, and the librarian shushes him from her warren of books across the room.

At sixth period, we make our way to the gymnasium. Ford smiles sheepishly at me as he exits the boys’ locker room in his assigned shorts and t–shirt, lining up across the basketball court with the rest of the class while the teacher splits them into teams. The look on his face is nothing short of controlled panic, like he knows it’s only a matter of time before he runs screaming from the gym in terror.

And after a few minutes of watching him play, I understand why. The boy’s athletic prowess can easily be narrowed into either repeatedly running up and down the court, or trying his best to keep out of the way of other players. The ball only comes into contact with his hands for seconds at a time, quickly dropped after a misguided attempt at dribbling, or shot far left of the hoop the one and only time he tries to make a basket. The opposing team laughs and thanks him for playing while his own teammates turn on him, yelling in colorful, less–than–friendly terms for him to stay out of the way.  Ten minutes into the game he looks ready to either pass out or cry. Is this what he deals with every day? I almost wish he would fight back and chuck the ball into the back of their large, melon–sized heads.  The game ends and Ford is the first out of the locker room, shooting out the door, hair wet and clothes slightly askew. I can’t imagine that he would want to stay in there with his teammates for long, although I
did
volunteer to go in myself and protect him. My suggestion is met with an emphatic no.

I laugh the way I do anytime I have the privilege of making him uncomfortable, and the good cheer continues until we reach his final class.

I freeze beneath the door frame, watching students dump their bags beside clean, white countertops. Wooden cabinets encircle the walls while a case filled with long, empty vials rests near a sink in the back corner. There’s a microscope on each table, tubes, Bunsen burners, flasks, and bottles of every shape and size glistening clear on the corner of each countertop.

And then the beakers explode, shattering into a multitude of angry, deadly pieces. The diamond hard glass cuts into my face, the sharp edges digging into the soft skin below my eyes. White hot flames lick closer, burning, searing, melting into my flesh as I fall blindly to the floor. Someone screams.

Ford turns to me in horror. The other student’s go about their business, unable to see the terror or hear the screams, and it’s only then I realize the gut–wrenching cry I hear is one issuing from my own throat. I’m back in the hallway in a flash, passing through several students as they file into the room, each shuddering uncontrollably from the sudden inexplicable rush.

It isn’t a moment before Ford catches up with me. “What’s the matter?” he gasps, reaching my side. He wheels around crazed, half expecting someone to jump out and attack him.

I bend at the waist, putting my hands on my knees, closing my eyes.

“Billie,” he tries again. “What’s going on? What happened back there?”

The halls are almost completely empty now, the only sound coming from Ford’s continual questioning and the occasional hurried clanging of a locker. I try to answer him, taking a final moment before attempting to straighten up. I wonder briefly if it’s possible for a ghost to vomit, because that’s exactly what I feel like doing.

Ford takes my hand and leads me around a nearby corner, opening what appears to be a janitorial closet and pulling us both inside.

“Now,” he says once the door is firmly closed behind him, “tell me. What’s going on?”

The room is wide enough to distance myself from him, so I choose a large, overturned bucket and sit. The last thing I want is for him to see me behaving like a total loon. A little mischief every now and then won’t hurt anyone, but if Tuck or the Captain ever found out something like
this
happened, well, I’d rather not think about the results.

“It’s just,” I begin, putting my head in my hands, letting my long hair cover the majority of my face. “I didn’t know . . . I just didn’t expect . . .”