Becoming Death (9 page)

I burst out laughing. “I’m serious,” I said, hitting him with a nearby pillow. “Me and Clarissa were at a gym—”

“You? At a gym? Why would you go to a gym? You don’t exercise.”

“Well Clarissa had this coupon so she forced me to go. She said I needed to lose a few pounds.” My sister’s controlling nature made the lie easy.

“Well, she's crazy,” he corrected me. “You look great, you always do.”

I blushed. “Anyway, this woman fell while running on one of the treadmills and cracked her skull on the wall behind her. Everyone was screaming and there was so much blood. It reminded me of the people I’ve lost—Linda, my uncle Harry, my dad…”

He pulled me into a hug and rubbed my back. I laid my head on his shoulder, nuzzling like a kitten against the warmth of his body. For the first time in days, I wasn’t thinking about my role, just this moment.

“It means a lot to me, that you opened up to me,” he said, running his fingers down my spine. “Is there anything I can do to make you feel better? To take your mind off of it?”

I lifted my head and I looked up at him, noticing a hint of yearning in his eyes. His cheeks were flushed red and his smile was hopeful. He drew himself forwards and continued to brush through my hair with his fingers. My breath caught in my throat. My body trembled against him as his breathing mixed with mine. His eyes softened, daring me. He shifted his hand to my cheek and my skin burnt beneath it.

Was he going to kiss me? I felt dizzy and frighten at the same time. I didn’t know if I wanted this or not, so I stuttered, “I’d like some toast.”

His eyes filled with disappointment. “Okay,” he said, slowly letting go of me and walking to the door.

When he had left, I traced my lips with my fingers and wondered if I’d done the right thing.

I was thankful for Reaping 101 by the end of the week. Living with Aaron after the almost-kiss had turned our apartment into an emotional minefield. Granted it was great inspiration for my fan fiction, but we couldn’t be in the same room together without finding ourselves impossibly close again and the tension between us was pulsing. Something had definitely sparked between us, but I couldn’t help being mindful of any possible change in our relationship. I had never viewed Aaron with heart shaped glasses before… What harm would few kisses do? I didn’t have guys knocking down my door, so maybe it was worth the risk. Another part of me was screaming that
this was Aaron
. The five-year-old Hispanic boy that had buried my dolls in my sandbox and grown up besides me. We had always been friends; even one kiss would change that forever.

I banished the thoughts from my mind for another time as I walked into the now familiar classroom. Ms. Winters entered a check mark on her clipboard without lifting her eyes.

I filled the empty desk next to Becca.

She lowered her book. “It’s a play this time,” she said, tilting the title at me.

Becca was wearing short sleeves today and I leaned over to admire the artwork on her bare skin.

“That’s beautiful,” I said, tracing my eyes over the curved words that trailed down her forearm. They read “Believe in Yourself.”

“I got it the day I finished high school. You got any tattoos?” she asked, holding her arm out to me.

“A bird on my hip. If I’m honest, I regretted it as soon as I got it.”

“Too bad, I love mine. I just got a scythe on my back to commemorate my calling.”

Her comment reminded me why we were all here. I rubbed my clammy hands together and whispered, “Have you had to do it yet?”

“Nope, not yet, but I got my assignment through yesterday. Still trying to work out the right time and place.”

“Stalling?”

“It’s not like I’m in a rush to kill someone for the first time,” she admitted.

I rubbed the back of my neck. “I had to do my first one earlier this week.”

She leaned closer. “How bad was it?”

I held my stomach. “The guilt is still eating away at me. She was young. She hadn’t really lived yet.”

Becca leaned back in her chair. “I don’t get it. How are we supposed to do this? My guy is fifty-two but that still seems unfair.”

“Whatever you do, don’t stay and watch. Doing that makes it even worse. Seeing their lifeless body and knowing no matter how hard someone tries they aren’t coming back to life is rough.”

Becca shuddered. “You couldn’t pay me enough to stay. I swear I’m going to touch him and bolt out of there. If I don’t see anything, I can go pretending it didn’t take. Seriously, I’ll be so quick, I’ll break records.”

“I wish I’d thought of that,” I said, picturing Elizabeth’s bleeding skull.

“I’m pretty nervous. I can’t believe how many rules there are to follow, but I have got to say the whole immortality thing is kind of cool.”

“Yeah… I guess,” I said, flipping through my handbook. “Immortality really is a perk… What page was that on again?”

“You didn’t study again? She is so going to call on you.”

“Shh,” I said, raising a finger. “It’s alright, I just need to refresh myself.”

Ms. Winters glanced at her watch. “Okay everyone, let’s get started. Today we’ll be covering the rules around attachments to victims and how to live with immortality without raising suspicions.”

I tapped my pen against the page. Grim reaper immortality was simple. The more victims you killed the longer you lived. I felt guilty enough about one person, I couldn’t even imagine killing enough people to live forever.

“In most situations, grim reapers should never form a relationship of any sort with their client. The best approach to this is to avoid any contact with the victim until the time of soul extraction. The Dead Head app can help you plan your extraction location carefully before going in for the kill.” She laughed covering her mouth. “A little grim humor there.”

I exchanged horrified looks with Becca.

“That’s not to say that there haven’t been circumstances where Death has taken it upon himself to test a reaper’s loyalty by selecting a victim close to them.” Ms. Winters glanced up from her book and her eyes hovered on me. “Although this is an unsavory situation, the reaper will still be required to fulfill their role. If the reaper fails for any reason, the client will then be reassigned and the reaper will be demoted immediately.”

Becca slid her finger across her throat.

“It is of the utmost importance that you must never reveal you are a grim reaper to anyone. There are already mechanisms in place to prevent such actions. Don’t try it, no matter how tempting. It won’t work. It will only draw Death’s attention and you will be demoted.”

Tiara raised her hand. “Isn’t that impossible? We're not allowed to tell anyone we're a reaper.”

“Nearly, but if a victim were able to uncover the identity of a reaper, they would be given a reprieve and the reaper in question would have their powers stripped. There is a legend of a reaper that was discovered in the 18th century, people say upon losing their abilities they died instantly as they were over two hundred years old. Most reapers would survive until natural old age.”

“Why would Death let someone to take one of his servants?” Tiara asked.

“Death is a funny creature. He believes there should always be a glimmer of hope for all humans. Thus, he allows a loophole, so that they might have a long life. Either way, he makes his quotas.”

The class laughed.

“Getting back to the issues around interactions with victims. You must never make contact with a client’s family or friends. There will be no secret messages from the grave, no gifts to widows. These mistakes have been made before; you will not repeat them.”

The teacher picked up a pile of papers from her desk. “I have made a copy of all the victim identification forms you are required to complete for each client. As well as the rules of data protection for the dead. If you have reaped your first victim, please use their details to fill in the form. If not, pair off with someone in the class who has.”

The paper made a thud as it landed on my desk. No wonder my mother had to pretend to be an accountant to hide this.

A whistle sounded, breaking the silence of the room.

Ms. Winters appeared next to my desk. “I think you have a new assignment.”

I could feel the eyes of the rest of the class on me as I picked up my bag and pulled out my phone. The screen read:
New Client
.

My second client was a man called Max Davidson, a wealthy stockbroker in his forties. I hadn’t been able to dig up a profile page for him but his own website had been more than useful. While Elizabeth had been a health fanatic, Max seemed to be the opposite: overweight, bald and with a scowl permanently attached to his face. He looked like a dark-haired Santa Claus but a lot less jolly.

I waited for Max inside a small Mom and Pop restaurant. The restaurant was shabby-chic with red and white tablecloths and a vase with a single daisy on each table: the kind of decor that made you picture dogs sharing a spaghetti dinner. The restaurant was loud, cheerful and smelt like Thanksgiving. The wait staff ran between tables with genuine smiles, and every customer seemed to be part of one big extended family. I regretted choosing this as the location for Max’s death; hopefully a dead body here wouldn’t be that bad for business. That is, if he ever came inside. The app had shown him arriving half an hour ago, but so far he hadn’t left his car yet.

A homely waitress with a pen stuck in her ear and a name tag that read Sheryl approached my table. “Can I get you another drink or maybe something to nibble on?”

“I’d love a refill of root beer,” I said, happy for the distraction.

She leaned over the table as an “Oh” escaped her lips.

“Are you okay?”

She rubbed her stomach. “Nothing to worry about. He’s just acting up tonight. I swear this little guy is going to be a soccer player someday. He loves to kick.”

I handed her the glass. “When are you due?”

“In about three months, give or take.” She patted her abdomen. “I’ll go get that root beer for you.”

A man wearing a wrinkled blue suit with a mysterious brown stain on the jacket and a loose tie stormed into the restaurant. He carried a half empty bottle of beer. His face was red and his beard patchy. I instantly recognized him as Max. He struggled to stay upright on his feet, balancing himself on the back of one of the chairs.

I pushed back my seat, ready to get his soul extraction over with as soon as possible.

He grabbed the arm of a nearby waitress and mumbled, “I need to speak to my wife, is she working?”

The woman yanked her arm away and Max stumbled, falling against the wall. “She isn’t your wife anymore. Why do you have to come around here and harass her? She deserves better.”

He shook the bottle at her. “What do you know? Just go get her, it’s important.”

The waitress sighed. “Whatever. She can tell you herself.”

A couple of the other diners were drawn to the argument and a hum of whispers echoed throughout the restaurant.

Max raised his beer and shouted, “Go back to your meals everyone, nothing to see here.”

I watched Sheryl emerge from the back and wipe her hands with a dishtowel.

She sighed, looking Max up and down as she reached up to adjust his tie. “Max, what have you done to yourself?”

“I need you to come home. I don’t care about the baby—I’ll raise it. We can be the family you wanted. I can’t cope without you anymore. I need you,’ he said.

“You know I can’t do that,” Sheryl said. “My home is with Greg now. I’m happy there. The baby is his. It’s been a year. You were coping just fine up to this point. What’s changed?”

Max reached for her hand but she stepped back. “I realized nothing matters without you. You were the only good thing I had in my life. I’m lonely, Sheryl. You always took care of me. You didn’t let me make stupid mistakes.”

Sheryl rubbed her temple. “You need to stop getting drunk and I need you to stop coming here. We don’t belong together anymore. Nothing you say is going to change that.”

Max rubbed his eyes.

“Did you drive here?” Sheryl asked.

Max nodded. “Can I get a ride back home?”

Sheryl looked back towards the kitchen. “Only because I don’t want you driving home drunk, but this is the last time. I don’t want to see you in here again.”