The Afterlife Academy (2 page)

“I
'm dead?” Walter gnawed on his lip.
I'm dead.
Somehow, he knew it was true. He didn't know why it made sense, but it did.

“Yep. Sorry.” Alton made a frowny face. The kind that people made when they didn't really feel sorry at all. Scrunched nose. Puckered lips. Walter wanted to punch it off Alton's face, but slugging an adult, even a puny, rude one perched behind a desk, wasn't a great idea.

“How come I'm not sad or anything? And why don't I miss my parents?” Walter asked.

“Because you've gone through a
Cleansing.
Standard procedure. It helps you move on without any grief.”

“I don't remember any…cleansing.” Did they wash everyone in a big bathtub after they died? That would explain his pinkish skin and glossy fingernails. Walter glanced up at the wall behind Alton's desk and stared at a clock in the shape of a pig wearing a bow tie and a party hat. Though there were numbers on the clock indicating the different hours of the day, there wasn't a minute or a second hand.

“Of course you don't.” Alton massaged the wrinkles in his brow with his fingers. “Who would want to remember a three-day mourning period? The memory of your Cleansing has been completely erased from your mind. Dead people no longer have to worry about things like their families and such.”

Walter stared down at his body and saw the same clothing he had been wearing while out in the garden: a red-and-white-striped shirt with denim shorts that stopped below his knees, and scuffed sneakers.

“This is what you wear when you're dead?” He tugged at the end of his shirt.

Alton leaned forward. “That is what
you
wear.”

“Forever?”

“Could be worse,” Alton mumbled, returning his attention to Walter's file. “You could be wearing that awful outfit your parents buried you in this morning. Chocolate-brown pants and a paisley tie.” Alton shuddered.

Walter's eyes narrowed as he began to concoct a rude comeback, but he decided it wasn't worth it. “So what do I do now?”

“Now? You are Categorized, and then you must complete a questionnaire based on your chosen Category. Two thousand questions. All very critical to your eventual placement within your Category—or another, if you are deemed unsuitable for your choice.”

“A pop quiz with two thousand questions?” Walter squeaked. “That's ridiculous! What is this place? It doesn't sound like heaven.”

Alton smiled and continued. “Oh, right. Your report did mention your aptitude for grasping new ideas was a little low. This isn't heaven.”

“It's not?” Walter wondered if he had somehow ticked off the wrong guy. “Then is it…”

“No, it isn't that place either. Seriously, do I look like someone who would be employed in the other location?” Alton sighed exhaustedly. “This is a Categorizing Office. Not everyone goes here when they die, but some souls do. I tend to see a lot of youths, athletes, and geniuses. Obviously, you are the foremost.” He examined his fingernails for a moment. “So, is it all clear now?”

Walter shook his head. “No! It doesn't make any sense. If I'm really dead, why didn't I go to heaven? I've been
mostly
good, haven't I?”

Alton shrugged and slid a thick binder across the desk. “I don't know, and I don't care. That's not my job. But if it makes you feel any better, ninety-nine percent of the folks who pass through a Categorizing Office will eventually end up in heaven. It's the decision of the higher-ups”—Alton raised his eyes to the ceiling and jabbed his pointer finger toward it—“to give you the opportunity to be useful until you're ready. There are many fields of expertise from which you may choose, although I must point out that you're not guaranteed a spot in any of them.”

While Alton spoke, Walter examined the binder. Each page contained a bold heading describing a job performed by individuals in the Afterlife and a list of its requirements. One of the categories was titled
Counseling the Confused.
Centered on the page just beneath the heading was a picture of a woman lying on a couch while another woman sat in a large wingback chair, in a state of pondering. Walter read the description.

Many of the Recently Departed require extra attention after their Cleansing. Some poor souls find it difficult to let go and move on. They need a shoulder to cry on, a willing ear to listen, or a bold voice of reason. Those with social work backgrounds or a degree in psychology are certain to find this assignment both enriching and rewarding.

“What the heck?” Walter muttered. “Who would want to be a guidance counselor for dead people?”

There were more than fifty different Categories, including Dead Pet Foster Care, Celestial Construction, Heavenly Choir Participant, and…

“Grim Reaper Assistant?” Walter gulped.

“Ah, then you have chosen a Category,” Alton said, smiling. “Excellent choice.”

“No! I was just reading out loud.” Walter hastily continued flipping through the pages. “So let me get this straight. I'm supposed to choose one of these jobs, and then I have to do it for a few years, and then I go to heaven?”

“Sounds to me like you finally understand. Well done!” Alton's voice dripped with sarcasm. “Now, perhaps we could get on with it sometime this decade.”

Walter closed the book and slid it a few inches back in Alton's direction. “What's heaven like?”

“How should I know?”

“Oh. Did you just die too?”

“Did I just
die
?” Alton echoed in disbelief. “Absurd!”

“Well, why haven't you gone there yet?” Walter pried. “Were you one of the one percent that didn't make it?”

“I most certainly was not!” Alton huffed. “We all have jobs to do, and some of our jobs take us longer to complete.”

“Don't you ever take a break and go check it out?”

Alton's eyes narrowed. “I do
not
take breaks. In fifty years at my post, I have never taken a single break.”

Just then, one of the doors down the left hallway opened, and three young boys, maybe a year older than Walter, appeared and began walking toward him.

E
vil had the same effect on shades as pimiento cheese sandwiches had on Charlie. Its delicious aroma drew them in.

Charlie couldn't hear the shades, or see them, for that matter, but he felt cold. The hairs on his neck quivered as one of the dark spirits moved right next to him, floating mere inches from his ear. Charlie rubbed his arms.

“Why doesn't the boy open the book?” it whispered. Shades, while low on the Underworld totem pole, did have impressive powers of persuasion.

Charlie opened the book, and the shades fell silent as they began to read. Then, all at once, they released a collective gasp.

“What is this?” one asked with giddiness in its throat.

“It has so much power!” said another.

As they swirled around Charlie, the lights on the EMF detector danced feverishly.

Charlie closed the book and gulped. He had to get home.

Cramming all his belongings, including the strange book, into his backpack, Charlie raced down the dirt hill. As he rounded the corner onto Victory Junction, he plowed face-first into something large and alive. It was Mo Horvath. The meanest guy in school.

“What are the odds?” Charlie groaned.

“Hey, guys, look at this turd!” Mo clasped his meaty fingers around the scruff of Charlie's neck. “It's Charlie Doo-doodle.”

A chorus of snickers erupted. “Yeah! It's Charlie Poople!” said Wheeler, by far the most idiotic of the bunch.

Mo sneered at Wheeler. “Not
Poople,
stupid. It's Doo-doodle.”

Wheeler blinked in confusion, and Charlie desperately searched for a gap to shimmy his way through.

“Yes, it's me,” Charlie said, sucking on his teeth. Mo had given Charlie the nickname Doo-doodle at the beginning of the school year. It wasn't growing on him.

“My lucky day, huh?” Mo elbowed Wheeler's side and squeezed Charlie's neck. “Guess what time it is?”

Charlie sniffed the air and squinted. “Uh…I'm guessing, shower time?”

Charlie should have known that insults did not sit well with Mo, but he was trying to stall.

Mo flicked Charlie's ear with his fat finger. “Think you're funny?” He shoved Charlie toward Oswald, a gangly, pimpled boy, who finagled Charlie into a perfect full nelson. A full nelson was a wrestling move that, on television, tended to be fake. In real life, it pinched something awful. “Here I thought I wouldn't get to finish football practice.”

Mo stood well over five feet tall and had a fat midsection, wide shoulders, and thick biceps. He also wore his blond hair in a flattop. Only the really tough kids could pull off a flattop without getting picked on. And Mo's flattop had perfectly sharp edges glistening with hair gel.

“Check his bag,” Wheeler sneered.

Mo snatched the backpack from Charlie's shoulders and yanked open the zipper. The EMF detector and Charlie's video equipment fell to the sidewalk, shattering into several pieces. “Oops,” Mo said with a chuckle.

Charlie's eyes burned with tears. “Don't you have some cigarettes to go steal?”

“What's this? Your diary?” Mo pulled the old book from the pocket and shoved the empty backpack into Charlie's hands.

“Open it,” Wheeler said eagerly. “Open it.”

Mo opened the cover just as the florist across the street stepped out onto the sidewalk and glared at the group. “What are you doing to that boy?” She marched over, her hands clenched at her sides. Mo turned his head, and Charlie yanked the book from Mo's hands. He had no time to collect his other belongings, but they were broken anyway. Charlie took off down the sidewalk.

The boys gave chase until the road split in two directions, and then gave up. Charlie could hear them firing off insults as he slowed his pace and chanced a wary glance back in their direction. The gang of bullies had already turned, continuing down Victory Junction.

On Dupont Avenue, right across the street from the Kindhearted Veterinary Clinic, Charlie ascended the four crumbling stone stairs that led to his family's apartment complex. As he fumbled with his keys, the clinic exploded with barking and wailing dogs. This was nothing unusual. They always barked whenever Charlie walked past, which always upset Charlie's birds—all seven of them, to be exact. There were four canaries, two finches, and one very old blue parakeet that no longer chirped but instead made a sound similar to the noise a car made when it backfired. For reasons Charlie had never figured out, all dogs hated his birds, and they hated him because they could smell the feather dust on his clothing.

Charlie finally got inside and locked the door behind him. Outside, thunder boomed, and through the thin walls of the apartment, Charlie could hear rain beginning to fall.