Be the Death of Me (25 page)

Shannon

(Two Months Later)

There goes another one. What is that today? Six? Seven? For crying out loud, it’s not even first period yet!

The wide–eyed freshman I’ve caught staring darts past, his oversized pack thumping noisily against his back as he rushes to class. I don’t know why he’s in such a hurry. It’s the last week of school. No teacher in their right mind would bother even wasting the paper to write a detention slip for being late.

A severe case of senioritis has descended upon the school like a thick fog. The seniors are wild and irreverent, the sophomores and juniors already acting like upperclassmen, and the freshman merely thankful they are no longer at the bottom of the proverbial totem pole. Outside the front doors is row after row of blooming poplar trees, taunting us, beckoning us to join them in the sun. The halls are devoid of life, teachers or hall monitors nowhere to be found, and as a result I duck into the nearest restroom. A curly–haired girl bumps into me on her way out. She gapes at me like all the rest and hurriedly makes her exit.

Eight and I haven’t even made it to my first class. Impressive.

I waste time as best I can, checking out the stalls, washing my hands for an extensive amount of time. The mirror over the porcelain sink reveals a familiar face, albeit thinner than usual. Twin rings of fatigue line dark eyes, and my hair, now grown out past my chin, is tangled and unkempt.

I run a quick hand through the nest, wondering for the millionth time what I would look like as a blonde before giving up and choosing to ignore the ridiculous, but persistent, thought.  I splash cool water against my face, and take my leave a minute later. The bell blares loud and abrasive throughout the empty hallway.

Ugh
. I can smell the chemistry lab from here. The room is located only a few doors down from the girls’ bathroom, and as a result the entire hallway is often filled with the stench of bleach, formaldehyde and a plethora of other harsh chemicals. As usual, I give the lab a wide berth as I pass, hating the thought of going anywhere near it.

“Shannon!”

I turn, a silly grin leaping to my face. “Hey, babe!” I call. His hair isn’t much neater than my own, tangled and knotted from the fierce morning wind.

He smiles as he approaches, taking my hand and pecking me quickly on the cheek. “Sorry I’m late. Gran needed a ride to her tango lesson.”

“It’s okay.” I eagerly lace my fingers through his. “The bell only rang a second ago.” We begin a lazy stroll to his locker.

“So,” he says, bending to open his backpack. “The last Monday of senior year. Are you as stoked as the rest of the lemmings?”

I laugh. It’s been months since our near–death experiences, events that have turned the two of us into local celebrities. Incessant reporters, constant phone calls, newspaper articles all became part of our world for a time, but never once did he allow the attention to go to that mop–top head of his. I’m delighted to find he’s still the same awkward outsider I had a crush on so long ago.

“Hardly,” I say, slipping my arms around his neck. “But I’ll definitely be glad when this is all over if that’s what you mean. When it’s just the two of us and we have a whole summer together before college.”

“Which doesn’t really matter,” he says, “seeing as how our schools are only an hour away from one another.”

“An hour too far if you ask me.”

“Good thing I like to drive fast.”

“Just don’t tell that to my dad.”

He cringes at the mention of my father. Things between the two of them have been less than congenial considering how dad still blames him for the “accident” that almost killed me. There’s not much he can do to stop me from seeing him, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t try. It stinks that my boyfriend is banned from setting foot in our home, and a ten o’clock curfew isn’t much fun either. But we work around it. His Gran is always more than happy to give us free reign in their house, and when that doesn’t work, there are plenty of places in town to hide out.

“So what’s the plan tonight?” I ask, grabbing his hand the instant his locker bangs shut.

He pulls our hands to his lips in order to kiss my fingertips. “Gran will be gone all night. Something about a Neil Diamond concert.”

“Movies at your place?” I ask with a coy snuggle into his shoulder, hoping the movie watching will lead to fun of a different nature.

“As long as you don’t make me watch Titanic again.”

“Why not?”

“Because you always laugh when Jack dies. It’s depressing.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t help it!”

“You’re a true romantic.”

“And you’re a pansy.”

“Shannon Walters, please report to the guidance office. Immediately.”

My name rings through the crackly P.A. system, echoing around the hallways. I choose to ignore the piercing voice and continue smiling up at my slightly–confused boyfriend.

“You should probably go,” he says, placing a gentle kiss to my forehead.

I push my lips out into a pout, hoping he’ll meet them with his own. “You know I’d rather stay here with you, Ford.”

Here we go again.
He tries his best to cover, but his eyes give him away. The identical chocolate circles narrow, as they always do when I call him by the preferred nickname. I was alarmed by how uncomfortable he seemed by it at first, but what else what was I supposed to do? It’s not like I can date someone named Benedict.

He composes himself and bends quickly to kiss my cheek. “See in you fourth?” he asks.

I nod and pat his cheek, watching as he jogs the length of the hallway and disappears through the door of his trigonometry class.

Nice going. I’ve gone and freaked him out again. I came to terms long ago with the fact that my boyfriend is a bit jumpier than most. And who wouldn’t be after discovering their best friend isn’t really a friend at all, but the person behind a gruesome string of murder attempts? Then again, who am I to judge? I fell for Riley’s lies hook, line and sinker.

But in spite of Ford’s unfortunate tendency to spook at his own shadow, I find his company the only company I enjoy as of late. It wasn’t long after the accident that I began to notice something strange. Something not quite right with how people looked at me. At first I thought it was me, that I had been through a traumatic experience and people only stared out of sympathy or awe for the “miracle girl” who woke up after being declared dead.

But then the fame died down. Then the miracle became yesterday’s news, and all I was left with were the stares. It started out as a few odd looks here and there, a strange double take or a wide–eyed glance over the shoulder of a gawking passerby. But soon the few became a hundred, and the hundred became a thousand. Even my parents look at me oddly from time to time, gaping at me unabashedly from across the room.

Mirrors became my best friend, silver platters, anything I could find with a reflection. But each time was the same. When I looked I saw nothing out of the ordinary. No signs taped to my back, no spinach in my teeth, not a hair out of place.

And yet they continue to look, staring at me as if I’m an exhibit in a freak show, as if there is something not quite right, not quite . . .  finished.

“Miss Walters,” I hear as I step into the cave–like guidance office a few moments later. Mr. Palmer, the school’s lone guidance counselor, smiles at me from behind his desk. He’s abnormally pale, one step away from albino, with large ears and thinning hair. Beneath the dim lights and gloom of his office, he looks more like a mouse cowering in its hole than high school administrator.

“Hey Mr. Palmer,” I say, taking the empty seat. The old chair groans with my weight, and through the darkness I notice gray eyes searching my form. He stares at me like all the rest, searching for ghosts that aren’t there.

“Thank you for seeing me,” he says, revealing identical buck teeth. “I attempted to reach you in Mrs. Malone’s class, but she said you weren’t present.” He clears his throat, knowing there’s little can be done. Even guidance counselors have minimal control over the side–effects of summer vacation.

“As you know the end of the school year is upon us and I’m meeting with all of my graduating seniors a final time before they embark upon life after North Chamberlain. It’s a formality, really, particularly in your case. I wouldn’t have called Miss Salutatorian in here at all, only . . .”

“Only what, Mr. Palmer?”

“Only your parents insisted on this meeting.”

He stares down at his hands, twiddling his thumbs round and round in circles.

“Why?”

Mr. Palmer makes a half–hearted attempt at straightening his tie before fixing me with yet another bizarre gaze. “They feel it’s best if you talk to someone more qualified to deal with these sort of issues. Your parents love you very much, and only want the best for you. And I happen to have several degrees in—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say, holding up my palms. “Why do they think I need to talk to someone? Talk about what?”

“They’re worried about you, Miss Walters. Your father is especially concerned about your health. He spoke of . . .” He peeks down at a clipboard he has on his desk in front of him. “. . . recent bouts of insomnia. Said you haven’t been sleeping, and when you do, you suffer from nightmares.”

It’s my turn to fixate on my hands. I cannot believe dad told him about this! It’s personal. Even if I
did
tell someone about my self–inflicted sleep deprivation, I would have told my boyfriend. Not some middle–aged, glorified shrink.

“It’s nothing, Mr. Palmer,” I say, trying to sound more convincing than I feel. Pinching the bridge of my nose between my nose and thumb helps to stem the migraine I can sense coming.

He reaches a hand across his desk, a feeble attempt to offer comfort. “You’re not alone.” He whispers the tired cliché through the shadows. “Everyone has moments they would rather not speak of. They find themselves alone and scared, when really all they need is a friendly ear to listen. And let me assure you, I am here for you. My door is always open to North Chamberlain alumni. Please don’t be afraid to come and talk to me.”

“I’m not afraid,” I say, already standing. “It’s fine, really. It’s just a case of the jitters, what with graduation and all. You know how it can be, right? But thanks for listening, and you can tell my parents everything is just peachy.”

“Miss Walters, wait, please.”

“I’ll see you at graduation, Mr. Palmer.”

I’m out the cave entrance before he has a chance to say another word.

That was close. I’d rather have a million people staring at me than sit through another meeting like that one. What were my mom and dad thinking, trying to get me to talk about my problem? So what if I have sleep issues? So what if I happen to feel better awake than I do asleep? The truth is I sometimes feel as if I could go days without shutting my eyes. Weeks even. I feel better,
stronger
. Strange, I know. Then again, I feel as if
everything
is backwards now. I have a family who loves me, a boyfriend who adores me, and more status than I’ve ever had in my life.

Why then do I still feel this way?

Back in the hallways, I find myself alone, the sound of my footsteps my only company.

Or so I think.

A shadowed figure lurks behind the nearest corner, a lanky body leaning casually against a nearby wall. A tuft of messy blonde hair sticks out from the top of a single open locker door, a curious, wide eye just barely visible over the metal.

I blink once.

Twice.

And the boy is gone.

I shake the sight away until the peeping tom is no more than a memory. Just another boy who can’t help but gawk at the freak. There will be more, I’m certain. That won’t change. But for now I will focus on what lies beyond the hype and popularity and stares. I will learn to adjust to each existing day and the changes they bring. I will live, if only because it is better than the alternative. I will breathe and survive and wait for what will finally complete me.

One day it will come, and I will be ready.

I welcome whatever fate awaits me.

About the Author

Rebecca Harris discovered her passion for books at an early age.  When she’s not writing she enjoys reading classic literature, listening to the blues, and solving crossword puzzles.  She currently resides in Tennessee where she lives with two very spoiled cats.

Also by Rebecca Harris

Rebel
(To be released in August, 2013)

A Note from Rebecca

First of all, thank you so much for reading
Be the Death of Me
. It is my debut novel, and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. My second novel,
Rebel
, will be released in August of 2013, but I’m planning to turn
Be the Death of Me
into a trilogy, and am working on the second installment now. If you enjoyed the book, I would appreciate it if you would take just a moment to post a brief review–just a few sentences–on Amazon. Thank you again.

www.rebeccaharrisbooks.com