How Not to Spend Your Senior Year (13 page)

“I admit that is a little weird,” Elaine said.

“You're not kidding. But you know the weirdest thing of all?”

“No, but I have a feeling I'm about to be enlightened.”

“Alex. Alex is the weirdest thing of all,” I said. I leaned against an entire rack devoted to who knows how many different kinds of tortillas, and expelled a breath I hadn't even been aware I was holding in. “I can't believe I just said that. But it's absolutely true. He talks about her all the time.”

“Why shouldn't he talk about her?” Elaine asked, and I could tell by her tone that she was upset. “Jo was important to Alex, in case you've forgotten.”

“Of course I haven't forgotten,” I said. “But Alex is just like everybody else, only more so. He doesn't talk about Jo O'Connor, living, breathing human being. Okay, formerly. He talks about her
ghost
. Doesn't that seem just the slightest bit odd to you? Does it sound like the Alex you know?”

“Under ordinary circumstances, no,” Elaine said as we headed for the checkout line. “But the present circumstances are far
from ordinary, you have to admit. Alex is probably coping the only way he can. I think it's hypocritical and selfish of you to criticize him for it, particularly as it's all your fault.”

“What do you mean, it's all my fault?” I said.

“Well, you're the one who showed up dead in the first place.”

“And
you're
the one who agreed with him when he said he'd seen a ghost. How come it's not
your
fault?”

“I didn't start this,” Elaine said.

“Well, for your information, neither did I. What, exactly, do you think I did when my dad told me we had to fake our own deaths? Jump up and down and say, gee, Dad, that sounds like tons of fun?”

“Of course not,” Elaine said quietly. “I just don't see why you had to come back, that's all.”

“That's a horrible thing to say,” I said.

We reached the checkout stand. In appalled silence, I piled my selections onto the belt, paid for the purchases, then snatched up the bag and headed for the door. Elaine trailed after, waiting until we
were clear of the store before she spoke again.

“Jo . . . Claire.” She stomped her foot with a cry of frustration. “Whatever your name is, stop where you are.”

“I thought you'd be glad to see me,” I said as I swung around to face her, horrified to feel tears behind my eyes. “I thought you'd be glad we could be friends again!”

“I don't mean
now
,” Elaine said. “I mean
then
. Why did you have to come back then?” Without warning, she threw up her hands in disgust. “Oh, this is ridiculous. I can't even get straight what we're arguing about.”

“That makes two of us,” I said.

We stood for a moment in the parking lot, the grocery bag growing heavy on my hip.

“Of course I'm glad to see you,” Elaine finally said. “But not this way. It feels . . . dishonest.”

“You're right. You're absolutely right,” I said. “I shouldn't have gotten angry. I'm sorry.”

“God, I hate it when you do that,” Elaine said.

“Do what?”

“Tell me I'm right before I have the chance to trounce you during the course of the argument.”

We looked at each other for a moment.

“I should probably head for the bus stop,” I said.

“Okay,” Elaine said. She fell in step beside me. “Where's your usual ride? What's up with that guy, by the way? What's his name again?”

“Mark,” I said. “Mark London. He's the Royer paper's star reporter. He was the one who was supposed to do this whole exchange in the first place, until everybody got all excited about how much Claire Calloway looked like Jo O'Connor.”

“I'd keep your eye on him, if I were you,” Elaine warned. “He looks at you all the time. As if he's waiting for something.”

“Probably for me to screw up.”

“I don't think so,” Elaine said thoughtfully. “Or, at least, not entirely.”

“Could you be more cryptic?” I inquired.

Elaine smiled.

“Actually, he probably
is
watching me,”
I said glumly. “While I'm over here having the exchange experience, he's back at Royer doing background research on Jo O'Connor.”

“Uh-oh.”

“You're not kidding,” I said. “To tell you the truth, it's actually sort of a relief when he comes to pick me up. At least I know where he is. I'm starting to feel as if I spend every waking moment waiting for the other shoe to drop. I don't think I've felt so out of control in my entire life.”

“Which life?”

“I'm thinking that would be my point.”

“Does your dad know about the whole being-sent-back-to-Beacon thing?”

I shook my head.

“I just don't know how to tell him,” I said. “I honestly think he'd freak if he knew, and Detective Mortensen would have a heart attack. If I can keep a low profile for the next couple of weeks, the exchange will be over and things will get back to normal. Or as close to normal as things can get until after the trial is over.”

“What happens then?” Elaine asked.

“I don't know. Dad and I haven't even
talked about it. He's definitely sending out the don't-ask-questions vibe. Actually, I'm kind of worried about him.”

“It'll be all right,” Elaine consoled. “Isn't that what you said?”

“In a moment of insanity,” I acknowledged.

Elaine reached over and gave my shoulders a quick squeeze. “Think positive,” she said.

“Thanks,” I said. “I'll do my best. What are you going to do this weekend?” I asked, trying to steer the conversation back to more normal channels.

Elaine hesitated.

“Actually, I'm going to spend some time with Alex. He said he just wanted to hang out, maybe catch a movie or something. I hope you don't mind.”

“Why should I mind?” I asked. Though I did, of course. Elaine spending time with Alex because he was upset was one thing. Catching a movie sounded an awful lot like a date.

“I don't know. I just thought . . . ” Elaine's voice trailed off.

“Unless you're trying to tell me I
should
mind.”

“No, of course not. Don't be silly,” Elaine said quickly.

“Because in that case I'd have to turn you into a ghost too.”

“At least that would even the playing field,” Elaine muttered.

I stopped. “What did you just say?” I asked.

“Nothing.”

“It didn't sound like nothing to me.”

“I was trying to reassure you,” Elaine said, her voice just a little too loud. “There's no way Alex will even look at another girl as long as he thinks Jo's dead. Particularly not now that he's seen her ghost. So you don't have to worry about things like that.”

“Why are you doing this?” I asked.

“Doing what?”

“Trying to make me feel even worse than I already do.”

“I'm trying to make you feel
better
,” Elaine protested.

“Well, it isn't working so knock it off!”

“You know what? I'm leaving,” Elaine said.

“Fine, you do that. Have a nice weekend.”

“I intend to.”

Whirling around, she moved off quickly down the street. My anger kept me going until my bus arrived. I stomped on, paid my fare, and found a seat in the very back. No sooner did I sit down, though, than all my angry energy deserted me. I deflated, like a balloon with an air leak.

Great job, Calloway/O'Connor,
I thought.
Alienate your one and only friend.

Things were definitely getting way out of hand. With so many events out of my control, what chance did I have of making things right again?

That night I had a dream.

In it, I was being haunted by myself.

As is often the case, even with nightmares, the details of my dream were grounded in reality. I went shopping for my prom dress. Posters for prom had recently begun to decorate both the Royer and Beacon walls. Girls were whispering in corners. Guys were looking hunted. Big Date fever was in the air.

What could be more natural than that I'd dream of shopping for the perfect prom dress?

What could be more
un
natural than dreaming I was doing it at the Jo O'Connor Memorial Shopping Mall?

In order to get there, I'd taken Jo O'Connor Drive.

Even the vehicle I was piloting was dedicated to me. You know how sometimes you see those big SUVs with somebody's actual name on the back? That's what I was driving.

It was when I went to order that Seattle standard, a double tall latte, and the barrista asked me if I wanted to take home a pound of their new Jo O'Connor blend that I woke up. I jerked myself awake, heart pounding as if I'd just taken that pound of coffee and eaten it like it was a bowl of cornflakes.

This has got to stop. I've got to do something,
I thought.

I had get rid of Jo O'Connor's ghost.

“Hey, Calloway. Check this out.”

Mark London set a stack of books on my desk with a thump. It was the following Friday morning. A second excruciating week of the exchange had gone by.

On the one hand, I could congratulate myself on the fact that no new crises had occurred, though things between Elaine and me were still a little awkward. There'd also been no new proposals for Jo O'Connor memorials. On the other hand, I still hadn't figured out the way to get rid of the ghost. Maybe I'd get lucky and ghost-mania would die down on its own.

Actually, during the second week of the
exchange, the biggest thorn in my side had been Mark London. He'd insisted on picking me up at lunch every day. And every single day he'd shared some new background tidbit on Jo O'Connor.

The irony of this did not escape me, by the way. As far as I could tell, the only person genuinely interested in who Jo had been when she was alive was the last person I wanted to know about her.

“These,” I corrected now as I pushed my hair back over my shoulder. I regarded the stack of books Mark had just deposited on my desk with what I sincerely hoped was something other than a look of extreme alarm.

“
This
is singular.
These
is plural, a term which means more than one. You're never going to succeed as a journalist if you can't keep the basics straight.”

He gave me a cheeky grin. “I love it when you get snotty,” he said. “Now guess what those are.”

“I don't have to guess,” I said calmly, though my stomach was flopping like a fish out of water. “I know what they are. Yearbooks. This may come as a surprise to
you, but I have actually seen them before.”

“Not these, you haven't,” he said.

That's what you think,
I thought. Unless I was very much mistaken, the pile currently resting on my desk represented all the high schools attended by Jo O'Connor before she'd met her unfortunate demise.

Mark pulled up a chair and sat down beside me, sliding the top yearbook off the pile.

“This,”
he said. “Check
this
out.” Quickly he flipped through the pages until he came to the freshman class pictures. “There,” he said, stabbing his finger down against the page. “Right there.”

I looked, my brow wrinkling. “You want me to look at a picture of William O'Brien?”

“Don't be dense, Calloway,” Mark said. “She should be next, only she isn't.”

“Where who should be?”

“Jo O'Connor. There's no freshman picture of her. Not in either of the yearbooks for the schools she attended freshman year. And there's none for sophomore year either.”

Briskly he pulled another yearbook from the stack and performed the same
demonstration. This time he pointed to a picture of Paul O'Dell. A couple of books later, there were no O' names at all. The pictures went right from Lyla Obritsch to Daniel Oda.

Not pictured, the listing read. Jo O'Connor.

“It's like she doesn't exist,” Mark said. “Like she never existed.”

“Of course she existed,” I said. “She
died
. You pretty much have to exist before you can do that.”

“Okay, well, how about this?” Mark said. He pulled a manila envelope from his backpack and slapped it on the desk beside the yearbooks. “She isn't in any grade school class pictures either.”

“What?”
This was a thing not even I had realized. “You mean none at all?”

“Not a single solitary one,” Mark said. “Though, given the number of schools she attended, I suppose that's not surprising. The point I'm trying to make here is this: There is absolutely no photo documentation of Jo O'Connor. What if there's something really weird going on here? There's no way to verify that the Jo O'Connor
pictured in the Beacon paper really
is
her. What if she's not the one who died?”