Death's Academy (2 page)

That’s why I’m here. I have my second practice exam tomorrow afternoon, and I didn’t do too hot on the first one I took three weeks ago. Let’s just say if there was a letter grade below an
F
, you would still need to go two below that letter to know what I got.

So I need to get a little practice with practical death situations, and that is where the chip-monster over there comes in. I’ve got a foolproof plan. I hope it’s foolproof. I’m not too familiar with Michaels Park. It’s named after some famous halo, I think. I never come around here. We hoodies stay on our side of town and the halos stay on their side. In fact, if I get spotted it could go badly for me. They don’t like us hoodies, and we don’t like them.

Oh, sorry. A halo is a guardian angel. Yep, you got it. They are our archnemeses.

Since forever we’ve been at odds with those harp-playing do-gooders. We’re trying to bring the shorties in on time, and the halos get in the way. They don’t meddle every time, only when they know it will irk us the most. For example, they always seem to pop up if we’re offing a high-profile shorty. They also come around if we are falling short on our monthly quota and they know they can keep us from hitting our goals.
Then why am I chancing being spotted in a halo park? Well … that’s none of your business.

Sorry … didn’t mean to be all harsh and stuff. They just bring out the nastiest in me.

Halos, ugh! Can’t stand ’em. If I had my way—wait a second! Here he comes!

I can barely make out a hovering black speck in the distant sky above my chipmunk’s pine tree.

Yep, it’s the falcon! He’s the key to my plan. It took me over three hours to get one of those stuck-up birds to even listen to what I had to say. He didn’t want to help me. At first I tried to appeal to his vanity; you know how vain birds can be with their bright beaks and shiny feathers. I told him that he was the
critical
piece of my plan, and only an
elegant
bird such as him could be counted on to carry it out. He rolled his eyes, turned his back to me, and flashed his tail feathers. I wonder if he learned that trick from my cousin’s friend Moonie? I finally had to threaten him. I told him if he didn’t help me I would let my Uncle Shayde know that a certain falcon was looking to kick the bucket. Thankfully he didn’t call my bluff; I don’t even have an Uncle Shayde.

“Stupid bird,” I whisper with a smirk.

I glance down at my watch; the tattered band clings to my wrist by a few remaining strands. 5:23—right on schedule.

I gallop to a nearby park bench and dive behind it. I want to get close enough to the pine tree without drawing any suspicion from the chip-beast. I peek through the bench slats and spot the black speck. It has
grown two wings that are straining against gravity. It seems to be struggling with something in its talons. It must be the cactus branch!

Perfect. I knew this would work. The falcon is going to drop the cactus branch exactly where I told him to! I am a genius!

My eyes dip and I see my oblivious victim gnawing on a mold-covered pinecone. His grotesque claws are shoving pieces of it into his crusted mouth.

A shiver zigzags down my back.

“Eww, he’s hideous,” I whisper. My watch flashes and the three flips to four.

5:24. Only thirty seconds to go.

My heart starts to flutter with excitement. The nose of the falcon tilts toward the earth and he begins his dive. He rockets toward the pine tree with the chip-creature tucked underneath it. I use every ounce of self-control to not scream out in excitement.

Maybe the exam to get into Death’s Academy won’t be so hard after all. Heck, this is the first time I’ve even attempted any of this death stuff, and I’m going to have the chip-beast bagged and tagged right on schedule. Granted, a chipmunk isn’t the most difficult of adversaries, and I would sooner jump off a cliff than actually
be
a Death for chipmunks. But you gotta start somewhere, right?

I refocus my attention on the chipmunk that is now sucking the mold from its claws. I hold back the puke, but just barely.

“Any second now,” I mutter under my breath. At that moment I catch a glimpse of something flash from
underneath the falcon. My eyes shoot up to take a closer look, and my stomach lurches. The falcon isn’t grasping a piece of cactus. It has … a … fish?

Why does it have a fish?!

Everything happens at once. The falcon lets the fish loose and it twirls limply through the air toward the pine tree. At that moment, I realize that, in falconese, “cactus” and “rainbow trout” are pronounced almost identically, but cactus has a silent
j
at the end. Oh, I am such an idiot! I pronounced the
j
. I slap my forehead in frustration. You see, a rainbow trout isn’t going to trigger the series of events I was looking for. Then to my utmost terror, I hear a deep voice growl, “What are you doing here, hoodie?”

He is a typical halo—tan, buff, and straight off the cover of some magazine. His teeth are almost too straight and they seem to sparkle in the sun. I expect to hear a heavenly chorus accompany his arrival, but instead I hear the fish tumble clumsily through the tree’s branches and land with a soft thud. I swear I can just make out the sound of the chipmunk chuckling.

“I
said,
what are you doing here?” The halo gives me a fierce shake by the arm. My entire body ripples like a mound of Jell-O, and I lose my breath.

“I … I,” I can only croak.

He examines me up and down.

“You don’t even have your shroud or calling, do you?”

“Uh … uh,” I stammer back.

He shakes me again. “
Do
you?”

If it weren’t for his steadying grip, I would topple over.

“Do you know the penalty for an unauthorized death?” he barks.

I try to answer, but lights are popping in front of my eyes, and my fingers are tingling. The halo’s grip has completely cut off the circulation to my arm. I swallow and clear my throat.

“I didn’t mean to,” I lie.

His blue eyes narrow and he smirks. “You hoodies are all the same. Liars.” He lets go of my shoulder and catches hold of the front of my black shirt. In one quick movement he lifts me off my feet and brings me to his eye level.

I catch a whiff of the ocean and orange blossoms. He smells like a typical halo.

“Half the life of a man in Cha-rama Prison. That’s the penalty for an unauthorized crossing over,” he snarls.

I feel like I’m about to throw up. “Half the life of a man” is about fifty years to you shorties. It’s not an eternity, but fifty years is fifty years.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to practice. I have my exam,” I whimper.

My feet still dangle two feet off the ground, but he acts as if he is holding a dandelion up to his face to examine it.

“Where’s your benefactor then?” he asks.

I wince. I knew this was coming. Benefactors are Deaths that get you ready for the Academy’s entrance exam. They tutor you on possible scenarios and even take you on actual assignments. Without a benefactor by your side, you’re not supposed to be a part of any death. All my friends have benefactors. They are crucial to passing the exam, but they are also a luxury that my parents can’t afford.

“I don’t have one,” I whisper.

His scowl deepens even more and a perfect
V
creases his forehead. “Then how did you get this assignment?”

Uh-oh. This just went from bad to worse. I’m going to have to spill the beans on how I found out about the chip-monster.

“Did you know that the chipmunk isn’t scheduled for death for another year and a half?” he continues.

“Magnificus, what’s going on?” a voice rings out.

I’m dropped onto my feet with a hard thud. The towering halo turns his attention to someone behind me. I whip my head around and my heart leaps; it’s a hoodie. But my euphoria evaporates when I notice his uniform. He’s a Sickle. A Sickle is a cop in our world. If you haven’t guessed already, this little experiment with the chip-monster might have been a shade illegal.

“Demien,” Magnificus spits out. “ ‘What’s going
on?’ I’m doing your job, that’s what.” He gives me a shove from behind and I sprawl to the earth. I skid to a stop at Demien’s feet. I peer up, and my eyes are met by his jagged scowl.

Demien’s raven-black hair is spiked in all different directions like he woke up this morning, stuck his hand in an electrical socket, and then moussed the outcome. His left eyelid droops slightly, but it does little to mask his brilliant emerald-green eyes. He’s a bit shorter than most adult hoodies, but he compensates by wearing thick-heeled boots. His uniform is neat and pressed, but from my point of view I can just make out his wrinkled T-shirt underneath his uniform.

“So what has he done?” Demien asks.

“That underage thug attempted to perform an unauthorized death,” Magnificus says.

“Who was the attempted target?” Demien asks.

“Chipmunk 4W8 dash Z739 dash 212. Or as his friends call him, Fluffy,” he responds.

“Fluffy? You’ve got to be kidding me,” I blurt out.

Demien gives me a forceful nudge with his boot, which I translate to mean “shut up.” He then pulls out a palm-sized gazer from his wide pocket and lifts it up to his mouth. I’ve only seen a handful of gazers in my life. They come in all shapes and sizes but can usually be held in one hand. They look very much like a shorty’s vanity mirror, but they don’t reflect anything and at times they glow blue. They are expensive and highly regulated. My dad told me they’re used for communicating with other Deaths and, more important, to get the names and times of those slated for death.

Demien repeats the chipmunk’s code into the gazer. A woman’s smooth monotone voice answers.

“Schedule for death: one year, six months, and thirteen days.”

Demien’s frown deepens, and he gives me a furious glance. Still lying on my back, I return a nervous smile and hopeful shrug.

“I’m sorry?” It was more of a question than a statement.

Demien’s attention returns to the halo.

“I’ll handle it from here, Magnificus,” he says.

“No, I don’t think so. I want him to face the Golden Tribunal. He needs to be punished for what he’s done. I won’t allow this type of chaos to happen in my own neighborhood,” he replies.

“For what? Flinging a fish at a half-dead chipmunk?” Demien snorts.

“You know exactly what he was trying to do, Demien. I won’t stand for any flippant remarks about something as serious as what almost happened. He will be judged,” Magnificus snarls.

Demien folds his arm and sighs. “All right, have it your way, Magnificus. Sorry, kid.”

“My parents are going to kill me,” I say.

“That’s the least of your problems, you little miscreant,” Magnificus says with a curled smile.

Demien grabs me from under my arms and catapults me to my feet. He whispers something I can’t quite make out. I feel invisible binds lock around my wrists.

He grabs me by the elbow and starts to turn me toward his coach.

“Oh, one quick thing, Magnificus. Since you’re the sole witness you are going to need to come down and fill out a couple of Z-4, Z-9, and PK-1190 forms.”

“I will fill them out with eager glee,” he replies.

I don’t like halos as it is, but this one is rocketing up the list of biggest jerks of all time.

“We’ll also need a statement, and you’ll be required for testimony on the …” Demien fumbles in his pocket and pulls out what looks like a schedule. “Here it is, on the nineteenth and twentieth of this month.”

“But that’s right in the middle of the Reapless,” Magnificus protests.

Demien looks at his schedule again. “Oh, so it is.”

“Can’t we schedule for an earlier day? I’m available—”

“I’m afraid not. With the fiasco up north and us moving to a skeleton crew for the Reapless, we have our hands pretty busy for the next two weeks.”

How could I have forgotten! The Reapless is in two days. My mom is going to kill me. What’s the Reapless? Take Christmas, Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Hanukkah and roll them all into one and it still wouldn’t compare to the Reapless. At least that’s what I’ve been told.

Being a Death is no walk in the park. You can’t call in sick or take days off to go to Disneyland. It’s a seven-days-a-week job. So to reward all the adult hoodies for a year of hard work, there is the annual Reapless. They are all transported by some device—don’t ask me how; it’s kept super secret. But they’re transported off to some tropical island or to some mountain retreat for ten days to relax and party down.
When the dates are announced, every hoodie circles the days on his or her calendar and counts down the minutes until the next Reapless. It’s a really big deal. So if I’ve screwed up my mom’s chances to go to the Reapless this year, then I won’t need to worry about the exam to get into Death’s Academy—because I’ll be six feet under.