Fashionably Dead (3 page)

“Yes,” I replied slowly. Was she hitting on me? I didn’t think so, but . . .

“That’s good,” she smiled. “I can guarantee that you will never gain weight again after you’re hypnotized.”

“Really?” I gasped. My God, that was incredible. Smoke free and at a weight I liked. This was the best day ever.

“Really,” she laughed. “Now let’s get started.”

“Wait, don’t I need to fill out a bunch of forms and pay and sign my life away in case you accidentally kill me or something?”

Blondie laughed so hard I thought she might choke. “No, no,” she assured me and quickly pulled herself together. “My receptionist is at lunch . . . we’ll take care of it afterwards. Besides, I’ve never killed anyone by accident.”

“Oookay.” She was a little weird, but I supposed people with her occupation would be. She did guarantee me I would be smoke free and skinny. That did not suck. Wait . . . I needed to think this through. I was feeling unsettled and wary. She was odd, made me uncomfortable and had electric hands. On the flip side, she was very pretty, had a really nice office and promised no weight gain. Damn.

Would common sense or vanity prevail? And the winner is . . . vanity. By a landslide.

She leaned into me, her green eyes intense. I could have sworn her eyes were purple-y bluish. I was getting so tired. I prayed I wouldn’t drool when I was out.

“Astrid, you need to clear your mind and look into my eyes,” Miss Russia whispered.

“How do you know my name?” I mumbled. “I didn’t tell you my name.” Alarm bells went off in my brain. My pea-brain that never should have thought it was a good idea to get hypnotized at a strip mall on the bad side of town. You’d think a business called ‘House of Hypnotism’ might have tipped me off. Crap. These were not the decisions a smart and responsible, if not somewhat directionless, twenty-nine year old woman should make. I should have listened to my gut and gone with common sense.

The room started spinning. It felt like a carnival from hell. Blondie’s mouth was so strange. There was something very unattractive going on with her mouth. It got kind of blurry, but it looked like . . . wait . . . maybe she was British. They all have bad teeth.

“I fink ooo shud stooop,” I said, mangling the English language. I tried again. “Oow do ooo know my name?” When did I put marbles in my mouth? Who in the hell dimmed the lights and cranked the air conditioner?

“Oh Astrid, not only do I know your name,” she smiled, her green eyes blazing, “I know everything about you, dear.”

Chapter 2

I opened my eyes and immediately shut them. What in the hell time was it? What in the hell day was it? I snuggled deeper into my warm and cozy comforter and tried to go back to sleep. Why couldn’t I go back to sleep? Something was wrong . . . very wrong. I just had no idea what it was.

Ignoring the panic that was bubbling to the surface, I leaned over the side of my bed and grabbed my purse. It was Prada. I loved Prada. I proudly considered myself a Prada whore,
albeit one who couldn’t afford it
.

Everything seemed to be in there . . . wallet, phone, makeup, gum, under-used day planner. Nothing important was missing. I was being paranoid. Everything was fine.

I eyed my beloved out of season Prada sandals lying on my bedroom floor. Shoes always made me feel better. Only in New York or Los Angeles would anyone know my adored footwear was four seasons ago. Certainly not in Istillwearmyhairinamullet, Kentucky. I got them on sale. I paid six hundred dollars that I didn’t have for them, but that was a deal considering they were worth a solid twelve hundred.

I pressed my fingers to the bridge of my nose and tried to figure out what day of the week it was. Good God, I had no clue. I suppose exhaustion had finally caught up with me, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember what I had done to be so tired. I vaguely remembered driving home from somewhere. I glanced again at my awesome shoes, but even my beautiful sandals couldn’t erase the sense of dread in the pit of my stomach.

“Focus on something positive,” I muttered as I wracked my brain and snuggled deeper into my covers.

Shoes. Think about shoes . . . not the irrational suffocating fear that was making me itch. Bargains! That was it, I’d think about bargains. I loved getting a good bargain almost as much as I loved Prada. Unfortunately, I also had a huge love for cigarettes, and I needed to love one now. Right now. I rummaged through my purse and searched for a pack. Bingo! I found my own personal brand of heroin and lit up.

WTF? It wouldn’t light because I couldn’t inhale. Why couldn’t I inhale? Was I sick? I felt my head; definitely no fever. My forehead felt like ice.

Okay, if at first you don’t succeed . . . blah blah blah. I tried again. I couldn’t inhale. Not only could I not inhale, I also couldn’t exhale. Which would lead me to surmise I wasn’t breathing. The panic I was avoiding had arrived.

“Fuck shit fuck fuck, this is a side effect. That’s right, a side effect. A side effect of what?” I demanded to no one in particular since I was alone in my room. I knew it was something. It was on the tip of my brain . . . side effect . . . side effect of not smoking. Side effect of not smoking? What the hell does that even mean? For God’s sake, why can’t I figure this out? I have an I.Q. of 150, not that I put it to very good use.

“Wait,” I hissed. “It’s a side effect of the hypnotism.”

God, that was bizarre, but that had to be it. I made that stupid bet with Gemma and got hypnotized to stop smoking by that big blonde Amazon at the House of Hypnotism. That’s what I drove home from. I wasn’t crazy. The Amazon must have forgotten to inform me that I wouldn’t be able to breathe for awhile afterwards. That’s what you get when you don’t read the fine print. Did I even pay her? I’m sure I’ll start breathing any second now. I’m so glad I figured this out. I feel better. For a minute there I thought I was dead.

I glanced out of my bedroom window at the full moon.

“Full moon? Oh my God, have I been in bed all day?”

I threw the covers off and stood quickly, still trying to figure out what day it was. The room spun violently and a wave of dizziness knocked me right back down on my ass. Little snippets of my dreams raced through my mind as I waited for the vertigo to pass.

God, that was a freaky dream. Oprah and Vampyres and yummy, creamy chocolate blood . . . you couldn’t make that stuff up.

The room quit spinning and I stood up slowly, firmly grasping one of the posts of my beautiful four poster bed. I reached up high above my head, arched back and popped my sternum. Slightly gross, but it felt great. I ran my hands through my hair, rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and bit through my bottom lip. Mmm . . . crunchberries. I licked the tasty blood from my mouth.

I wondered what time it was. If it wasn’t too late, I could get a run in and then I could . . .
bite through my bottom lip?? Crunchberries?
What the fu . . . ?

In my frazzled mental state, I heard a noise in the hallway outside my bedroom. I immediately dropped to a defensive squat on the floor. Way back in high school they told us, if you hear an intruder, get low . . . or was that for a fire? Shit, that was get low for a fire . . . what in the hell do I do for a burglar?

Good God, I was in my bra and panties. The blue granny panties with the unfortunate hole in the crotch. Not a good look for fending off burglars. Not a good look ever. On my never ending list of things to do I needed to add
throw out all panties over seven years old
.

I remained low, just in case. I duck walked over to my closet and grabbed one of my many old cheerleading trophies out of a cardboard box so I could kill my intruder. It was plastic, but it was pointy. I’d been meaning to give them to my eight year old neighbor. Thank God I was a procrastinator. Wait a minute . . . As I death-gripped my trophy I was overwhelmed with the scent of rain and orchids and Pop Tarts and cotton candy.

What the hell?

It wasn’t a dream. She was here? And apparently from the smell of it, she had a guest. I’d just cannibalized my own lip, my blood tasted like crunchberries, I could smell people in my house, I couldn’t breathe, my skin felt icy, and I think I might be . . .

“Astrid, are you awake?” Gemma called from right outside my door interrupting my ridiculous train of thought.

Oh thank you, Jesus. “Yes.” Was that my voice? It sounded deeper and raspier. And sexier?

“Get out here,” Gemma yelled. “Get dressed and change that underwear . . . it’s nasty.”

“Gemma, I have to tell you something weird, but you have to believe me and you can’t get mad,” I said through my closed door, ignoring the insultingly accurate underwear comment.

“I think I already know,” she said from the other side.

“It’s not about my haircut.”

“You got your hair cut without me?” Gemma was appalled.

Shit, I thought she knew about my hair. What did she know then?
Good God, what in the hell was wrong with my bra? The girls were spilling out of it. Were they bigger? Did my bra shrink?
“Gem, um . . . I swear I meant to tell you about my hair. It was spur of the moment. Mr. Bruce dragged me into the salon and the next thing I knew, he set my baseball cap on fire, cut my hair into long layers and put in some kick ass highlights.”

“Fine, Astrid.” Her voice got tinny and high. “Just don’t be surprised if I go get a perm without you.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I might,” she threatened.

“Gem,” I begged, “with me or without me, Do. Not. Get. A Perm. That’s so 1980s.”

“You’re right,” Gemma sighed, “I’d get a lobotomy before I’d get a perm. What do you need to tell me?”

I gathered myself. I realized I was about to sound like an idiot, but when had that ever stopped me? I closed my eyes and let her rip. “Um . . . after my haircut, I got hypnotized by a big blonde Amazon gal to stop smoking, and now I can’t breathe. I think it must be a side effect, but it’s freaking me out.” Gemma was silent on the other side of my bedroom door.

“You can’t breathe?”

“No.” I couldn’t tell if she believed me.

“Are you sure?”

“I think I would know if I couldn’t breathe,” I shouted.

“Do I owe you a thousand bucks?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

At least I was honest. The entire reason I’d gotten hypnotized was because I’d bet Gemma a thousand dollars I could quit smoking. I knew she thought it was a no-brainer bet due to the sorry fact that this was my ninth attempt to quit in the last three months. Nicotine gum, cold turkey, weaning off and all those self-help books weren’t doing it for me. I needed outside assistance. Short of having my lips sewn shut, I hadn’t been successful at quitting. Hypnotism was a last resort because having my lips sewn shut was simply not an option.

“Where did you get hypnotized?” she quizzed.

“House of Hypnotism over by the Chinese restaurant that serves cat.”

Gemma was speechless. I was getting more nervous with each passing second. “Do you have a pulse?” she asked.

“I’m sorry, what did you just ask me?”

“I said,” Gemma yelled through the door, “do you have a pulse?”

“What kind of a stupid question is that? Of course I have a . . . ” I checked for my pulse, then I checked again, then I checked again and then I checked one more time. “Um . . . no,” I whispered.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“What’s your skin temp?”

“Really cold,” I told her.

What in the hell was wrong with her? She was awfully calm about the whole thing. She was silent for what felt like an eternity. These questions were right up Gemma’s alley. She loved all things weird, especially anything astrological or supernatural. I could tell she was thinking because she was humming
‘Billie Jean’
. Gemma, besides being a Prada whore who like me couldn’t afford it, knew the lyrics to every Michael Jackson song ever recorded. She wore black for an entire year after he died. “I think I know what’s going on.” She began to hum ‘
Thriller’.

“What’s wrong with me?” I shrieked.

“Come out here, Astrid.”

“Wait Gemma . . . am I dead?”

“Kinda,” she said with excitement. The same kind of excitement she exuded when she tried to convince me of Bigfoot’s existence. “Just get dressed and get out here.”

I quickly whipped on some overpriced jeans that made my butt look asstastic and put on the first shirt my fingers touched. I pulled on some hot pink sequined Converse and made my way out to my living room. That took about ten and a half steps because my house was the size of a postage stamp.

Gemma was standing by the window bouncing like a ball, so excited she was about to burst . . . and the Queen of Daytime Talk was sprawled on my couch reading my diary. Wait . . . what?

“Holy Jesus,” I gasped. “You’re Opr . . . ”

“Don’t say it,” my idol cut me off, throwing my diary aside as if I wouldn’t notice she’d been reading my most private and embarrassing thoughts. “I’m not her, never fuckin’ have been, never fuckin’ will be. If you call me that, I’ll leave. Trust me, that would be very fuckin’ bad for you.”

“Oookay, you have quite a vocabulary.” I smiled, wondering if Gemma thought this was as screwy as I did. She did seem a little freaked, but not nearly enough to merit the fact Oprah was here. “If you’re not Opr . . . I mean that woman who you look exactly like, then you are . . . ?”