Be the Death of Me (24 page)

Tucker

(Eight Years Ago)

Well, this is fun.

I look up just in time to watch my pack sail over my head and into the hands of the waiting receiver who laughs with a low, dull chuckle. Out comes the calculator. It’s tossed to the floor where it skids noisily against a wall of lockers, surrounded by its fallen comrades, a notebook, a protractor, my algebra textbook, countless pens and pencils, strewn like casualties across the tile.

“Very funny, guys.” I try for what feels like the hundredth time to no avail. Can’t say I’m surprised. They’re too engrossed in their game of “torture the freshman” to even notice I’m still here. I make a jump for it as it flies through the air yet again. My fingers brush the canvas but fail to latch on, and it lands with a plop in my opponent’s hands. I might stand a chance if I were taller, but lucky me, I’ve yet to hit that growth spurt I’ve so often dreamed about.

“Come and get it,” the boy sneers, dangling it tantalizingly in front of me.

That’s what I’m trying to do. I don’t know how you haven’t realized that yet.

I make a rather pathetic lunge, missing altogether. With a heavy guffaw he pulls the zipper wide open, dumping the remaining contents to the floor. I don’t know how I was chosen for this sacred rite of passage. I wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary when they spotted me. I certainly hadn’t meant to gain their attention. I don’t even know their names! So why me? “I’m nobody, I swear,” I want to shout at them. “I’m nobody!” But I know this will prove as futile as screaming at a brick wall.

I’ve missed my bus. No choice now but to walk the three miles home. I’ll be late, that’s for sure, though less confident whether or not my mother will even notice. I’m just about to surrender, leave my belongings where they lay and make a mad dash for the nearest exit when I’m stopped cold.

“Leave him alone!”

My heart leaps into my throat. I assume my savior is a teacher, one staying late to run after–school detention, or perhaps rehearsal for the school musical. When I turn, I’m surprised, and thankful to discover I’m wrong.

She’s a vision, lithe and pale, wearing a soft blue dress and matching ribbon, twisted ever so carefully through golden hair that rests gently on thin shoulders. The air flies from my lungs as if I’ve taken a sucker punch to the gut. She is without a doubt the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.

“Stay out of this,” one of the boys growls at her. Even though I’m clearly the one in need of rescuing, I feel my spine stiffen in defense.

The other one laughs at my would–be salvation. “We’re just having fun,” he shrugs.

She doesn’t bat an eyelash at his rather bleak idea of a good time. “Give him his stuff back. Now!”

This time both of them laugh, clearly amused by the whole situation. Who is this girl, and why on earth would she stick up for someone like me? She is my last hope to leave here in one piece, though why she feels compelled to stay, I can’t begin to understand. She obviously can’t fight them. What if they don’t leave? What if instead they turn on her? She would have to make a run for it, but I think we both know chances of her getting away are slim.

“And what if we don’t? What are you going to do about it?” the larger of the two boys says. “Cry?”

To our collective surprise, she does neither. She opens her mouth and lets forth the loudest scream her lungs can muster. It echoes against the lockers on either side, carrying itself down the corridor, the noise hovering up, up, up as far as it will go. The bag falls to the ground as three faces turn in shock toward the screaming girl. Her shriek ends at last and the two each take a step back, unsure of what to do next. They know as well as I that someone heard that. It’s only a matter of time before a teacher comes running.

One of them takes a menacing step forward, hedging his bets on the damage he can inflict before he’s inevitably caught and punished. His brow furrows in disappointment. I doubt even he can find victory in beating up on a small girl. “Come on, Chase,” he says to his buddy. “Let’s go.” He begins trekking down the hallway, leaving his comrade behind.

Chase stays a moment longer to glare at the girl in front of him. “This was getting boring anyway.” It’s a lame excuse and he knows it. “Freaks,” he says over his shoulder as he follows his friend and lumbers out of sight.

And then there are two. Me, stupid and slack–jawed, left to figure out what has just happened. And her, perfection in human form. Her eyes are hauntingly blue, as clear and perfect and pure as I could ever imagine, with golden lashes that fall on high, elegant cheekbones. Her features seem more durable and intense than the pink, willowy girls I’ve seen roaming the school. And yet somehow she appears just as delicate and soft and marvelous, if not more so.

“Thank you,” I manage to say after a moment of silence, hitting my knees and hastily shoving my supplies back into my pack. To my amazement, she stoops and begins collecting stray pens and pencils from the ground.

She smiles at me from her spot on the floor. “It was nothing.” She shrugs modestly.

“It wasn’t nothing! For all we know, you just saved my life!”

She laughs, sending my heart bounding into cartwheels and loop–de–loops within my ribcage. “Don’t mention it.” She stands as I do, handing over what she’s gathered of my belongings. I wince at the sight of a slimy, chewed pen cap in her hands, praying to whoever is listening that she doesn’t notice.

“You didn’t have to help me, you know,” I blurt. “No one else would have.”

She shrugs. “I’m not no one. Besides, it was two against one, and those guys were about to kill you. Couldn’t just let you die without a fight.” She nudges me with a thin shoulder, sending a wave of chills over my skin. I open the mouth of my pack wide and allow her to toss what she’s gathered into the bag. Hands empty, she extends one to me. “I’m Billie,” she says.

I sling the bag over my shoulder, taking her small hand in my large one. “I’m—”

“Will someone please tell me what is going on here?” a voice shouts from down the hall. A door is flung open, revealing the face of a teacher I know only by sight. “What is all the shouting about?” he bellows, storming his way out of his classroom and toward the two of us.

We both turn to face him. “Sorry, Mr. Hammond,” she says. “I thought I saw a mouse.”

I sneak a peek at her from out the corner of my eye, relishing the way her large, blue eyes turn into oceans, opening wide with feigned innocence. She tugs at the hem of her dress and tucks one toe of her shoe against the other. The perfect image of angelic remorse. “I promise it won’t happen again,” she says, placing the cherry atop her penance sundae.

Mr. Hammond raises an eyebrow at the pair of us, pausing to take in her look of contrition. “Yes, well . . ” he coughs into his hand. “Please keep the volume to a minimum in the future.” He slides his glasses up his nose and slips back down the corridor. With a final unsure glance in our direction, he steps back inside his classroom and closes the door after him.

“That was close.” Billie whirls on me, flinging golden hair behind her in a circle. All signs of naiveté and virtue are gone, replaced by an unmistakable spark buried in those pools of blue. I open my mouth to speak once more, to tell her thanks or perhaps share my name, but find I’m stopped. “Listen, I’ve got to get home. My mom will kill me if I’m late again.” She begins jogging the hall backward, keeping her eyes trained on my face. “It was really nice meeting you. See you around, yeah?”

I want to tell her to stop. I want to take her hand and never let go. I want to run after her, but find I’m stuck in place, my mouth dry. She spins around, dashing around the nearest corner and out of sight. I listen to the
tap–tap
of her soft shoes against the floor until not even the echo remains. I’m alone once again, as I was yesterday, as I will be tomorrow. And still . . 

With a smile, I shoulder my bag and begin the walk home. I can’t shake the feeling that she, this girl,
Billie
, has changed everything. Maybe tomorrow will be different. Who knows?

Stranger things have happened.

Ford

Oh, crap. I’m dead.

My head throbs to life, my brain pounding, swelling against my skull, drumming rhythms of pain behind each eye. I’m afraid to open them, terrified of what I’ll see. I don’t know what could possibly await me in the afterlife, and I’m too much of a coward to brave it alone.

My eyelids flicker against my will, opening slowly before giving up and greeting the world around me. There are no pearly gates, no St. Peter or bright lights. Not even a single white cloud. There is, however, the single ugliest painting I have ever seen hanging on the wall across from my bed. A canvas portrait of Jesus stares back from its brass frame, leering at me with a strange smile.

Now I know I’m not dead. There’s no way Jesus would be that ugly. He looks more like Jerry, the strung out homeless guy who lives on my street than the redeemer of mankind.

“Good,” comes a familiar voice from across the room. “You’re up.”

I attempt to prop myself up on the two lumpy pillows already supporting me, only to discover something holding me down. Crooking my neck as far as it will go, I see Tucker leaning back in the room’s only chair, legs stretched in front of him, taking up a good majority of the floor space. He’s shadowed by the horizontal lines of sunlight streaming in through the blinds. I’m momentarily frightened. The last clear memory I have of my Guardian is the image of him demolishing a graveyard. The rest of the night is a blur, memories and revelations I know I should remember, but feel slipping away with every tick of the clock.

“Morning,” he smiles, pushing himself out of his seat. He crosses the tiny room in two Tucker–sized strides. The room is silent, the quiet unbroken by his inaudible footsteps. Outside the flimsy panel of door, however, I can hear carts rolling by and voices calling.

“Where . . .  how . . .  what happened?” I stammer. Glancing around, I discover a secure leather strap latched around my left forearm, confining me to the bed. “Why am I tied down?” I pull in vain against the restraint.

Tucker chuckles and places a hand on the leather belt, holding it firmly in place. “It’s for your own good,” he says. “You woke up not long after surgery ranting and raving about ghosts and Guardians and someone named Milo. You were hysterical. It took a whole army of nurses to finally sedate you. They were afraid you would accidentally rip out your stitches.” He gestures to my arm, and for a moment I wonder what he’s talking about. That is until I see a wide expanse of white bandage stretching across half my chest and shoulder.

“I have to hand it to you,” he goes on. “You put up one hell of a fight. At one point you punched one of the nurses.”

“I punched a nurse?”

“Like a tiny Rocky Balboa.”

I shake my head, sending another wave of throbbing pain to my eyes. Reaching a hand to my face, I discover a thick five o’clock shadow, a few days worth of growth at least. How long have I been out? “I don’t remember much. Is the nurse okay?”

“She’ll be fine. But I wouldn’t expect extra jello from the nursing staff if I were you.”

“Where’s Gran?”

“She’s around here somewhere. I think maybe down in the cafeteria. She’s really worried about you, so make sure to be extra sweet to her.”

“Why are you being so nice to me, Tucker? Am I not going to make it or something? Sympathy for a dying man?”

He laughs and lumbers to the window. “You’re going to be fine,” he says, “although I think every doctor in this place is currently discussing which mental facility to refer you to.”

“Then why the buddy–buddy vibe?”

“Consider it a fresh start.” Tucker turns away until I can no longer see his face, the dust and particles by the window visible shimmer in his strong glow. “Clean slate.”

“What happened, you know . . .  after I passed out?” A thought suddenly strikes me, almost as painful as my headache. “Oh, god! Riley! Is he . . . ?”

“One room over,” Tucker says. “Attached to his bed same as you, I might add. Except his restraints are a pair of handcuffs.”

“Handcuffs?”

He nods, messing up his tuft of hair. “Someone in the house next to the graveyard heard the gunshots and called the police. Riley regained consciousness just as they arrived. I don’t know what made him do it, a sudden attack of conscience or fear or head injury, but he spilled everything to the cops hours ago. Not that it matters. His prints were all over the gun that shot you. And since he admitted to several counts of attempted murder, I seriously doubt he’ll be hurting anyone anytime soon.”

I flop back against the flat pillows. Part of me is relieved. It’s all over. All of the running, all of the looking over my shoulder is finally done. I can relax and breathe and enjoy being a teenager. I can worry over the trivial things a teenage guy
should
worry about–homework, college, girls. And yet part of me can’t help but feel the tiniest twinge of pity for Riley. Losing a father. Losing his friends. Losing himself. Maybe he was as much a victim in all of this as I was. He just chose the wrong way to handle his problems. He let his anger consume him. I had been so close to doing the same. It scares me to think that his story might have become mine.

“Wait a second,” I say. “Counts of
attempted
murder? As in more than one? But I thought . . .  Shannon . . .”

Tucker’s chin drops, his face twisting into a grimace before he manages to compose himself. “Shannon’s fine,” he says. “She’s been asking for you.”

“She’s awake?”

He nods and turns from his place at the window. “They’ve started calling her Miracle Girl. Last I heard, they expect her to make a full recovery. She doesn’t remember much about the accident, but the doctor said she could see you as soon as you were awake. Shouldn’t be too long. News travels fast around this place.”

I’m so thankful she’s safe, I almost forget about the blonde haired, blue–eyed hellcat–the other woman in my life.
Almost
.

“What about Billie?” I say carefully, and though I’m tiptoeing through a minefield. “Was she taken?”

I’m afraid to hear the answer. The last time I saw her, she was screaming, head thrown back in agony before her body gave out on her. The memory will haunt me the rest of my life.

“She’s okay,” he answers. “It was all a misunderstanding. She’s safe now.”

I want to believe him. I want to tell myself she’s okay, that the last, horrible memory I have of her is nothing but a lie. “Can I see her?”

He shakes his head. “She says she’s really sorry she couldn’t be here, but she’s glad you’re okay. Which reminds me. This is the last time you’ll see me, too.”

“What? Why?”

“Assignment’s over. Your situation is no longer dangerous, so your Guardian detail is being pulled.”

I can’t help but feel a brief spasm of panic. That, combined with the sedative and headache almost succeeds in making me throw up. I don’t enjoy being tossed out of the loop, and even though I’m officially no longer a member of the inner circle, I still can’t wrap my head around the fact that I’ve seen Billie for the last time.

“But I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

He shakes his head and I know I’m not going to get what I want. Perhaps he senses my distress because he a softness I haven’t often seen comes over his face and he says, “Billie wants you to know she loves you and will miss you. She says she can’t wait to see you again, but hopefully not too soon.”

I find myself laughing against the heartache. Tucker nods in understanding. He bows his head and remains still, a statue of light. It’s true he and I never got along. It’s true that no amount of brotherhood will be lost with his departure. Then again, maybe that’s what makes me uneasy. The fact that if either of us had been willing to put aside our insecurities for even a moment, maybe I would be losing two friends instead of one.

“So that’s it?” I say.

Tucker nods. “That’s it.”

“I feel like I should say a few words or something. It’s such a big moment.”

“It’s really not.”

“It is! I mean, you guys are the closest things I have to friends. And you’re leaving! What am I supposed to do now?”

“Anything you want. Fresh start, remember? You have your whole life ahead of you, Ford. Don’t waste it.”

He’s right of course. Lying here on my brick of a mattress, fake daisies adorning my windowsill, bandaged up from a gunshot wound given to me by a boy I once considered a friend, I realize . . . 

 . . . it’s the best moment of my life.

Benedict. Ford. Son. Grandson. Loner. Ladies’ man. Friend to the living and the dead. An enigma unto myself. Everything–
anything
–is open to me. I’m not afraid anymore. I’m not alone. I’m not angry. I’m not making excuses. I’m just me.

Billie would be proud.

“Oh, and about Shannon,” Tucker says, interrupting my reverie.

“What about her?”

“She’s more special than you will ever understand. Don’t let her forget that.” He shoots me a final, mischievous grin, and taps the side of his nose. “Remember, I’ll be watching.”

And I’m alone.