Be the Death of Me (8 page)

A tiny furrow forms between his eyes. “What was all that about?”

“The room . . . the lab . . . I can’t go in there.”

He laughs with a degree of uncertainty. “Is it the smell? You get used to the formaldehyde after a while, trust me.”

“No,” I moan. “That’s not it. I can’t smell anything.”

He looks surprised. “Nothing at all?” I shake my head. “Wow. Weird.”

“Not really the point, Ford.”

“Right.” He stares down at his feet and bites his bottom lip. “So . . . what
is
the point?”

I notice my fingers shaking as I run them through my hair. “It’s just that room. It reminded me of . . . something.  I don’t really like talking about it.”

“What sort of thing?” he asks.

“A personal thing. An accident.”

“An accident?” He forces a smile. “That’s no big deal. You know, I was almost in a lab accident a couple of years ago.”

I grimace. “Yeah? Well I
was
in one.”

“Really?”

“Oh,” he says. “
Oh!
” He takes a step toward me as comprehension finally dawns. “God, Billie, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. I just wasn’t . . . It surprised me, that’s all.”

He’s silent for another minute. “So is that . . . where it happened?”

I shrug to regain control. “It was at my old school. They’ve torn the entire wing down by now. I guess they figured once kids started dying in the classrooms, it was time to start from scratch.” I laugh bitterly, the only thing I
can
do since tears aren’t an option.

To my surprise he leans down and places a firm hand on my shoulder; his strange heat radiates through my t–shirt. “It’s okay,” he says. “You died. That’s gotta be rough.”

It’s the sincerity that finally makes me smile; the heartfelt earnestness with which he says those ridiculous words. I laugh before I know what I’m doing, and it isn’t long before I begin to feel like myself again. “Thanks,” I tell him. “You know, Ford,” I say after another minute of silence, “maybe it’s just my inner teddy–bear coming out, but I find you almost tolerable.”

“You’re a sweet girl.”

“I’ll be okay. Really. Just give me another minute.”

“No problem,” he says. “I’ll wait with you.” Overturning a second empty bucket, he sits, his legs far too long to be comfortable in the musty broom closet. “You know, you’re not half as scary as you’d have me believe.”

“That’s what you think?”

“That’s what I think. Guess it’s that inner teddy–bear. Why, I remember this one time you called me
almost tolerable
.”

“You mean thirty seconds ago?”

“It was awesome.”

We sit, content with merely the silence and one another, at least for the time being. I busy myself by playing with the frayed fabric at the knee of my jeans.

Maybe Tuck is onto something. It’s possible. In the last few days, I’ve managed to overcome the complete disgust I had at being forced to work with a partner, and my initial fear at having an assignment who could see me. Tuck and I are getting along better than I expected, while Ford and I are on our way to at least landing at a reluctant truce.

Cap would be so proud to see it.

I shoot Ford a quick look from behind my hair only to find his dark eyes looking back at me. Embarrassed, he drops his eyes back to his hands, and resorts to once again biting his bottom lip. It’s then I realize, Ford and I are no longer alone. Our duo has become a trio. I look up and grin.

“Hello, Tuck.”

Tucker

“Hello, Tuck.” She greets me with a smile.

Mark one in the win column. It isn’t often I find Billie in a good mood, and I’m thankful leaving her with Ford hasn’t cast a shadow over what little ground I’ve managed to gain.

“Hey guys,” I say, keeping it light, shooting glances back and forth between the two of them. “Is . . . uh . . . everything okay here?”

Billie nods and stands, leaving Ford sitting on an overturned bucket.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” she answers breathlessly. “Why do you ask?”

“I just thought . . . Are you sure?” I look to Ford. If something
has
happened, I know I’m more likely to get a straight answer out of this skittish teenager than I am Billie.

But Ford only shakes his head. “No, man. Everything’s great.”

I glance around. “Then why are you in a broom closet?”

“Because,” Ford starts in again with a lightning fast glance at Billie. “Because I was having some trouble with a couple of guys in my gym class, and I . . . hide out in here sometimes to get away from it all. Billie only followed me because it’s her job. Isn’t that right?” He stands, and to my surprise, puts a casual arm around her shoulders.

It’s alarming for two reasons. One, because it proves Ford can touch, and not just see us. The revelation frightens me, though I can’t put into words exactly why. And two, maybe this guy is braver than I gave him credit for. But to my surprise, Billie doesn’t launch him into the nearest wall, or dump a bucket of dirty mop water over his head. She doesn’t shy away from his touch, but stands there, leaving his arm fixed securely around her.

And suddenly
I’m
the one who wants to throw Ford through a wall.

“Yeah, what Ford said,” Billie says. I sense that she notices the abrupt awkwardness between the three of us. “Just doing my job.”

“Good,” I say. It looks like these two could use some time apart. “Good. I’m glad there was no problem.”

“How did you know where we were?” Ford says.

I throw a quick wink in Billie’s direction. “Wasn’t difficult. I asked a few of the locals if they’d seen a scrawny kid in what I can only assume are his grandmother’s pants running around with a dead girl. Everyone seemed to point to the supply closet, so–”

“He got a read on you,” Billie interrupts with a shove. “A mental picture that lets us know where you are at any given time. He probably saw you and phased on the fly.”

She’s wrong of course. It wasn’t Ford I got the read on. It was her. It’s
always
her. “Well, since I’m here,” I say, “I may as well go ahead and start my shift. Make sure to stop by headquarters on your way back. The Captain wants to see you.”

She groans, and to my relief, steps away from Ford. “Again? What is his deal?”

I focus on trying not to laugh. I would never in a million years tell either of them this, but I think when Billie died, her cantankerous old boss finally met his match.

We stand for another minute before Billie sighs in resignation. “Well, you boys have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem.”

She shoots us both a final wink, and is gone.

“So, Ford,” I say when I’m finally capable of tearing my gaze away. “What’s next on the agenda? Got any big plans for—?”.

The question catches in my throat, the words dying before they hit my lips. I know that look, the one he wears now. The familiar grin reaching to his eyes, the pull of his mouth, I know it. I’ve mastered it. I practically
created
it, all for the girl that disappeared from our midst.

Houston, we have a problem.

“Hey, Ford.” The words come out sharper than I intend them.

He turns to look at me, a crooked, silly grin stretched across his face; a strange expression for a guy who claimed to detest the same girl not long ago.

“What?” he asks, the smile disappearing almost immediately.

I take a step forward, using my height to its full intimidation advantage. “Listen,” I tell him, trying very hard to remain professional. “I don’t know how to say this exactly; it’s not really my place. But it would be in your best interest to stop thinking whatever it is you’re thinking.”

He smiles again, though the result isn’t quite as warm this time around. “You’re right,” he replies coolly. “It isn’t your place.”

I chuckle without humor and square my shoulders. “See, that’s where you’re wrong. Billie’s my friend, and friends look out for one another.”

His laughter bounces around the narrow closet. “Your friend?” he smirks with another amused chuckle. “I don’t think so. How you feel about her couldn’t be more obvious if the words
I love Billie
were stenciled across your forehead.”

“Do not push me, Ford. I know I wanted us all to get along, but I swear I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” he interrupts. “Grit your teeth and make scary faces at me from behind her back? Your job is to protect me. You won’t let anything happen. You
can’t.
You’re the one who told us to get along, remember? And now you’re mad because you didn’t anticipate the one order Billie might actually follow would be the one you secretly didn’t want her to listen to.”

Damn. He has me cornered, and he knows it. I continue to glare at Ford as the seconds tick by.

“Is this awkward for you yet?” he asks. “I mean, you do realize we’re just two guys hanging out in a broom closet now, don’t you?”

He may have a point. I gesture to the exit. “After you.” I follow him out, not bothering to phase through the door.

“Bell’s gonna ring,” Ford mutters to himself as soon as he’s outside, checking his watch. He must have it timed to the second, because a screeching, high pitched bell blasts through the hallways the instant the words leave his mouth, followed by the thunderous noise of a hundred different doors opening simultaneously and the rush of students fleeing their classes. The corridors flood with kids, and in the stampede, Ford is pushed against a wall of lockers.

The chaos abates eventually, and the hallway is left deserted yet again. Ford brushes himself off and picks his backpack up off the ground.

“So where to now?” I ask as soon as he’s settled. “Have a chess club meeting to get to?”

“Why? You interested in joining? Sorry, but there aren’t any ghost girls for you to try and impress in there.”

“A word of advice,” I say without a trace of a smile. “Don’t piss off the guy trying to keep you alive.”

He slings his bag over his shoulder, walking down the corridor backward so he can face me. “You got any other pearls of wisdom you’d like to share?”

“Yeah,” I call, not moving to join him. “Look out.”

He collides with a frantic, swiftly moving body. The look on his face is priceless; confusion mixed with irritation at yet again being made to look like a fool. The boy Ford knocks to the floor scrambles to his feet faster than a rabbit on the run. He’s a human stick, all elbows and knees, with curly brown hair and deep, heavy lidded eyes. His clothes aren’t exactly name brand–I can tell because none of
my
clothes were ever name brand–and consist of a slightly over–sized sweatshirt and jeans that suggest they weren’t originally bought for him.

Ford, reaches to help the boy up. “Hey,” he says, shaking hands awkwardly with the kid. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”

The boy clutches his bag to his bony chest like a shield. “Sorry,” he chuckles. “I can’t seem to stop.”

Ford laughs. “No sweat, man. My fault . . Again.” He readjusts the straps on his own bag. “I’m Benedict by the way.”

“I know who you are,” the kid nods in an attempt at being friendly. “Benedict Ford. We have economics together.”

“Oh, right! Now I remember. Well, you can call me Ford if you want.”

The boy sticks out his hand. “I’m Riley.”

“Riley. Cool. Well, I’ll see you in class tomorrow.”

“Yeah, definitely. See ya.”

“And maybe next time I’ll just say hi like a normal person instead of trampling you to death.”

“Sounds fair.” Riley smiles sheepishly and walks off.

“You’d think sooner or later I’d stop running into people,” Ford mumbles to himself. “Maybe clumsiness is just a phase and I’ll grow out of it even—”

He stops talking immediately, and by the time I whirl around to see what the problem is, he’s crouched by an overflowing garbage can, hidden from view as another boy passes by a few feet away.

No, boy isn’t the right word. This guy is huge, way too big to be an average high school senior. The muscles in his neck are frightening, bulging like he ate a dozen eggs, or a freshman for breakfast. Stranger still, are his hands. Each finger is coated with what appears to be either a thick coat of either red paint or blood, dried and buried beneath his nails. The scarlet smear coats both hands, marking a trail up his left forearm.

“Bent–dick!” the giant shouts, finding Ford alone. He stomps over, his footsteps echoing through the corridor like claps of thunder. “What’s up, weirdo?” He moves into what I assume will be a handshake or high five, surprising me instead by wrapping a burly arm around Ford’s undoubtedly delicate neck, and trapping him in a tight headlock.

I’m quick on the uptake. In the time it takes for Ford to turn the palest shade of blue, his captor is flying, pushed through the air by an invisible hand. Ford hits his knees, confused but thankful for want of air, throwing his arms over his head. I visualize what I want, envisioning this massive boy simply releasing Ford, sailing through the air, and in the next instant I watch as he collides with the nearest wall, crashing against the brick. He crumples to the floor, eyes wide and darting, panting for breath as he tries his best to decipher what has just happened to him, finding no reasonable explanation.

He scrambles to his feet, boots slipping, squeaking against the tile. “FREAK!” he shouts, making a mad dash down the hallway, unable to see my outstretched hand waiting to toss him once more through the air. But he’s going, going, gone, too frightened by the inexplicable to return to do more damage, and soon we’re once again alone.

“What was that?” I ask as soon as Ford is back on his feet.

He shakes his head and takes a deep breath. “What are you talking about?” he asks, eyes wide with feigned innocence.

“Don’t lie to me,” I say, watching as he dusts down the front of his too–short pants yet again. “I know we don’t exactly see eye to eye.”

“No one sees eye to eye with you. You’re huge.”

“I’m still your Guardian and that guy is obviously an issue. I need you to tell me the truth. Otherwise, how am I supposed to do my job?”

“Cross your fingers and hope for the best?”

“Try again.”

“It’s nothing,” he grumbles, turning on his heel and walking in the opposite direction of the Hulk. “He’s a jerk.”

“This jerk got a name?”

“What does it matter? It won’t be long before the entire school finds out what just happened. How am I supposed to explain what you did?”

“Cross your fingers and hope for the best?”

He clamps his lips shut over whatever retort has flashed into his head. It doesn’t matter if Ford tells me the guy’s name or not. Colossus has just become a person of interest, and it won’t take much to find out what I want to know. I shrug and follow after him, taking turn after turn, deeper into the labyrinth of the school. “Suit yourself,” I sing. “Just don’t come crying to me when he kicks your butt. I’ll be too busy doing my I–told–you–so dance to care.”

“I highly doubt you can do any sort of dance.”

“I’ll have you know I’m actually quite spry for my height.”

“Yeah, right. And I’m much stronger than I look.”

If he has more to say, I never find out. Ford halts on the spot, his eyes saucers as they stare on in horror at a scene that causes my own mouth to drop in disbelief. A wall of silver, metal lockers stands in front of us, each door identical to the one beside it.

Except Ford’s.

The locker door is covered by glistening, red spray paint, thick streams dripping eerily down the front of the door in identical rivers. There, written across the door are three words sprayed in both haste and hatred.

RETRIBUTION IS COMING.

Ford turns to look at me. “Holy—”

“—Crap,” I finish for him.

Finally, something we can agree on.