How Not to Spend Your Senior Year (7 page)

“I know you'll be all right no matter what,” Elaine said.

“Jo, come on!” I heard my father call out. “It's getting late. We've got to go.”

“I have to hang up. My dad's calling,” I said into the phone.

“Jo.”

“It's all right,” I said. “It's going to
be
all right. I know you know this because you just said so. Don't try to call back. It won't do any good. I'll be in touch.”

I disconnected, turned the ringer off, and put the cell phone back in my bag, all completely on autopilot. Then I just stood for a moment in my bedroom, taking several deep breaths, willing the tears not to fall. I'd never cried over leaving any place before. I didn't intend to start now.

“Jo!”
my father called.

That's when I did it. I marched over to my bed and ripped that pink chenille bedspread right off it, wrapping it around my shoulders as if it were the world's most expensive fur stole. Then I left the room without a backward glance. My father was waiting nervously by the front door.

“What on earth?” he exclaimed when he saw me.

“Don't even try to talk me out of this,” I almost sobbed. “I'll leave Mom's picture. I'll leave my friends. But the bedspread is going along for the ride. This is nonnegotiable. Take it or leave it.”

“Okay,” my father said. “Okay, Jo-Jo.”

Without another word, he opened the front door. Then, with his arm around my shoulders, resting across that pink bedspread, we went out into the rainy Seattle night, side by side.

“Treacherous Curve Claims Father and Daughter”

That's what the headline in the local section of the paper read the following morning. And yes, it
is
just a tad bizarre to read an article detailing your own personal demise. Particularly when you, yourself, are safe and sound and drinking a grande nonfat latte at the time.

But you want to know the weirdest thing? The place Detective Mortensen had arranged for our “accident” to take place turned out to be right next to the restaurant where I'd told Elaine my dad and I were going. The intersection really is
dangerous. Accidents happen there all the time, though generally not fatal ones. Without knowing it, I'd played right into our escape plans.

The escape itself was actually cool and constitutes the
techno
part of my story.

Before our supposedly fatal accident could take place, a switch had to be made. I mean, it was pretty obvious my dad and I couldn't actually
be
in the car. But because there existed the possibility that we were being watched, Detective Mortensen had to arrange for the switch to occur in a way that couldn't be observed. We couldn't just drive to the nearest gas station and switch cars.

So instead, we drove to the nearest car wash.

There, following the detective's instructions (relayed via my dad), I made a total fool of myself by throwing this very large and very childish fit about wanting to stay in the car as it went through the wash.

Eventually, of course, my dad gave in and let his bratty daughter have her way, but only after it was safe to assume that anyone in the whole world who might be
watching had noticed us. We rode into the car wash, and two ace police drivers, selected for their resemblance to my father and me, drove back out.

We, meanwhile, had been transferred to the vehicle which had immediately preceded us into the car wash: a crummy-looking panel van which turned out to be filled with high-tech surveillance equipment. This transported us to what Dad and the detective referred to as the safe house, but which actually turned out to be a safe apartment.

Furnished, a thing I hardly need to tell you.

Once there Detective Mortensen and my dad filled me in on the plan from here on out. For security reasons, my dad would be confined to the apartment. Apparently Detective Mortensen had lobbied hard for this to be the case with me as well, but my father had absolutely put his foot down. I deserved a senior year, he said.

Which explains why I was able to die on Wednesday and still show up at school on Thursday morning, though not the same one, of course.

But first, I'd had a makeover.

Yes, I know.

Considering all the serious aspects of my situation, it does seem shallow of me to take a moment to discuss hair and clothes. But I can't have you thinking I was going to go around looking like, and calling myself, Jo O'Connor. That would have defeated the whole purpose of disappearing in the first place.

The first thing to change had been my name. I was Claire Calloway now. Another aspect of the back-to-school situation which had bothered Detective Mortensen, until I'd related the following story:

In seventh grade, I'd switched seats during math class with a classmate named Bonita Benson. We'd had a substitute and, as every student knows, substitutes are fair game. Unfortunately for me, the substitute was into class participation and had called on me. To be specific, she'd called on Bonita Benson, repeating the name about half a dozen times before I finally realized she meant me. A lack-of-reaction that had eventually resulted in both Bonita and I being sent to the principal's office.

I'll say this much for him. Detective Mortensen got the point at once. I was unlikely to forget I was Claire Calloway, as it was already a part of my name. Sort of like sticking to as much of the truth as possible when lying.

“You're sure you want to go through with this?” I suddenly heard the detective's voice say.

Detective Mortensen has this unusual way of speaking, very clipped and precise. An aspect of his personality totally at odds with the way he looks, which is pretty much a cross between a walrus and a bloodhound. His body is round, but his face is long and jowly.

According to my father, he's always looked like this, even when he was younger. He's been on the case since the very beginning. In fact, he was the one responsible for all those
Phone Calls of Mysterious Origin
.

Which only goes to prove that my theory about them was correct. It really
was
a guy.

I'd done my best to dislike Detective Mortensen. This seemed only reasonable
considering he was the one who'd instigated me having to leave my entire life behind. But the truth is, I couldn't quite do it. It's kind of tough to dislike someone who's making it their mission in life to keep you alive.

Not only that, he and my father genuinely seemed to like one another. I'm thinking all those phone calls over the years resulted in a previously undiscovered form of male bonding.

“Absolutely,” I said with a great deal more conviction than I actually felt. I set the newspaper down on the breakfast table and picked up a pair of black-framed glasses. I slipped them on. Then I stood up and did a quick turn around for Detective Mortensen.

“What do you think?” I asked.

Detective Mortensen regarded me in silence for a moment. “I'll say this much,” he finally said. “It's a big change from Jo O'Connor.”

“That would be the point.”

“You're sure you won't stick out too much.”

I shook my head, feeling the way the
new, long hair I'd chosen swished around my shoulders. I'd opted to become Claire Calloway by utilizing an entirely different sort of tactic than the ones I'd employed as Jo O'Connor. Rather than trying to fade into the woodwork, I'd decided to be easily identifiable.

The idea had come to me while reviewing my new schedule. Third period I was scheduled for journalism at my new school, Royer High. This had inspired me to adopt the artistic-intellectual look. Overnight, I'd become a member of the basic black crowd.

In preparation for my first day of school, I was now attired in a pair of black leggings, a pair of black Blunnies, and a soft black turtleneck sweater. The wig providing me with my new long hair (still brown) was held in place with a black headband. Funky, black-framed glasses completed the look, one I'd personally dubbed
intellectual chic
. I looked like the sort of girl who'd show up on open mike night at one of the trendy coffeehouses around Seattle, determined to inflict my poetry on others.

“There are two basic ways to fit into a new school if you don't want to attract a lot of attention,” I explained now to Detective Mortensen. “The first is to try to be overlooked altogether. The second is to be easily identified. People are less likely to be curious about you if they think they already know who you are. Hence, the new look.”

“Makes sense,” the detective admitted.

“Hey, Jo-Jo,” my father said as he came into the room. His eyes widened as he took in my appearance. “Wow, that's a change. All set to go?”

I took a moment to pick up my new black shoulder bag, slinging it across my body.

“I'm sorry, but I'm afraid you have me confused with someone else,” I said. “My name is Claire. Claire Calloway. And you are?”

My father gave a startled laugh.

“And to think I was worried,” Detective Mortensen commented. “Okay, Claire. It's time to roll.”

I'd been able to walk to my old high school, but my new routine called for me to
take the city bus to Royer High. As I walked the half a block to the stop, then stood waiting for the bus, I did a quick rundown of my cover story.

Claire Calloway was a transfer student from Buzzards Bay, Mass. I'd gone for a B name. I simply couldn't help it. I was an A student who planned to be an English major in college, a detail I thought would dovetail nicely with my new journalism assignment. My parents were divorced. I lived with my father.

And that was pretty much it. Beginning, middle, and end of story.

In the distance I could see the bus chugging its way along the street. Hear the squeal of the air brakes as it pulled into the various stops. I was one stop away from beginning my new life.

Okay, Claire. It's showtime,
I thought.

The bus pulled up to my stop. The doors slapped open and I clambered on. A quick glance revealed an empty seat about a third of the way back. I paid the fare, accepted a transfer even though I didn't really need one, and sat down.

So far, so good,
I thought. Detective
Mortensen had informed me that the stop for Royer was two stops beyond mine. As the bus continued its stately progression along the street, I shifted in my seat so that I was sitting sideways, my back against the inside wall of the bus, and surreptitiously began to eye my fellow Royer-ites.

They didn't look all that special, to be completely honest. By which I mostly mean they didn't look any different than the students anywhere else I'd gone. In addition to the business types heading to work, there were students of a variety of ages on the bus.

It was easy to tell the under- from the upperclassmen. Younger students tend to segregate by gender. Girls sit with girls, and boys with boys. The older students get, the more likely they are to sit together as couples, though usually even this was within a group.

Nothing different here,
I thought.

That was when the bus made its next stop and
they
got on.

They were holding hands, a thing they managed to keep on doing as he paid the fare for both of them. She was a petite
brunette. He, a tall and slightly lanky blond. Though they settled in immediately amongst their friends, they seemed to be inside their own little bubble. In a world all their own.

I could feel a horrible pressure begin to build inside my chest.
Alex and I used to look like that,
I thought. Or we could have, if we'd had more time.

The bus pulled away from the stop. I watched the way his head leaned over hers, his face alight with mischief as he teased her about something. She gave a laugh and grimaced, her face tilted upward.

He's going to kiss her,
I thought.

That was when I looked away. I simply couldn't bear to watch. I'd worked so hard not to feel sorry for myself. Even insisting I start school right away, rather than waiting until next week. The truth, which I'd hardly been able to admit to myself, was that I wanted to keep busy. With too much time on my hands, I was afraid I'd start to brood about me and Alex.

What was he doing at exactly this moment? I wondered. Had he seen the paper? Did he know that I was dead? I'd
sort of been able to prepare Elaine. But I hadn't been able to do anything for Alex.

With a wheezy screech of brakes, the bus pulled up at the Royer stop. One by one, my fellow students began to get off. I stayed right where I was. It was as if my entire body had suddenly frozen. Every part of me except my heart, which was beating painfully fast and hard.

I can't do this,
I thought.
I can't start over. Not again. Not as Claire Calloway, not as anyone.

The truth was, I didn't want to.

I'd already found my place, the place where I wanted to stay. The place where I belonged. It was at Beacon, with Alex and Elaine. It was living in Old Mrs. Calloway's house.