Spree (YA Paranormal) (15 page)

Alex called again for Steph.

She let him walk by. It was too soon.

But through her tears she smiled.

She picked herself up, dried her eyes, and marched off to her next class.

* * *

The drama didn’t end there.

Zipper was heading back with his trademark Army green backpack when the soccer players, fresh from the rally, came crashing through.

The less mature groupies, boys who weren’t athletic but liked to suck up to the team to get invites to all the cool parties, barrelled down the hallway with Tom and a few other players on their shoulders. They hit a few kids good-naturedly but were too caught up in their own hype, knocking into lockers, laughing, then careening down the hall again until Tom’s foot took out Zipper. Zipper nearly crashed his knee into the floor, but the soccer players never even looked to see if he was okay. They just kept chanting, singing, roughhousing.

Zipper looked up; it was clear that he didn’t exist to them.

They weren’t being nasty and bullying him. They just didn’t even notice his existence, his presence in the hallway.

When he went down, the mighty soccer players were too good to be bothered to notice.

I shook my head. The memories, the dreams that included some of Zipper’s targets flew out of his aura as if I’d never planted them there. His rage, undeniable, intense, clouded him. And to think—Zipper might have decided on another plan that day. But now his plan, months in the making, was signed and sealed.

One careless foot might lead to the death of players, families, friends.

I did all I could to magnify the auras of the players, to get them to turn around, to say sorry.

Instead, Rope Man stood by the players, tossing his ghostly noose over their necks.

While the soccer team celebrated their awesomeness, the Takers circled around them, celebrating their deaths with images of blood and gore.

I couldn’t make it past my fellow Takers.

Zipper rose, checked himself for scratches, cursed, and headed off. A twisted smile took his lips. He was sizing up his prey.

* * *

Down in the basement of the school I spotted Zipper’s stash for the first and last time.

He had his own locker since he worked in maintenance after school, and he actually had petrol in the locker along with the ends of broken rakes and chains. Oddly enough, he could make up an explanation for almost anything in the locker. But deeper, down by the school’s foundation, he’d actually removed and repatched pieces of concrete when his boss was busy drinking and doing nothing.

Zipper had actual bombs planted in the school, right at its foundation, at a time when school security should have made such a thing impossible.

I knew after the soccer team ran Zipper over that I had little chance of winning him over before the game. But if I could make just one of these bombs go off at a time and in a way that would hurt no one, I might be able to save the school. I concentrated, used all of my energy to focus on opening the locker. I planned to ignite the little bit of petrol to do the trick. It was a dangerous game, and if I missed a bomb here or there I could become the murderer I was trying to stop.

But the locker only rattled. Nothing went off.

I concentrated harder, only to hear clapping by my side.

I saw a blackish rope still around the white neck of an eyeless ghost.

“Bravo,” Crazy T said. “Now you’re getting into the spirit of things. It’s nice to see you becoming a true Taker.”

“I’ll stop you in whatever way I can.”

Crazy T laughed. “You can’t even ignite petrol,” he said.

“And you can? Prove it.”

“Reverse psychology?” Crazy T asked. “How quaint. But don’t worry, kid. You’ll see exactly what I can do tonight.”

“Take me. Leave the rest of the school alone.”

“Lame heroics won’t help you,” Crazy T said. “You took lives just like I did, and you will go to hell for it. But first you’ll take my place.”

“They’re innocent—”

“No one’s innocent.”

Crazy T smirked. “What’s the matter? You look so helpless.”

I looked at him, trying to figure out how to fight such consuming hatred.

“Here, let me help you out,” Crazy T said.

He pointed towards the petrol, started a small explosion. The locker burst just a bit, became tinged with black on the inside. Then the fire consumed itself.

“You heard the explosion, right?” Crazy T asked.

His skeletal finger pointed upstairs, where kids walked between classes.

“All those people and not one of them figured it out,” he said. “Go ahead. Feel their auras.”

I did. Crazy T was right.

“There’s nothing you can do to save these pigs,” Crazy T said. “Just get ready to take souls.

Just get ready to be a Taker.”

With that, Crazy T disappeared, and I felt pulled elsewhere, to an immense grief. I felt pulled towards my mother.

* * *

My mother’s feet shuffled along the rug of the Bert Thompson, J.D., her court-appointed legal counsel. She’d been surprised by his quick appointment until she learned that my father had put in for a free lawyer immediately. He must’ve been too drunk to remember. As she waited, she reviewed the day of my death in her mind. It’d be years before my mother would train herself to overcome this one most painful moment of my life. She imagined me shrieking as the jeep crashed into the caravan, imagined the young mother’s reaction to her certain and sudden death. I felt more afraid reliving my death in my mother’s aura than I did thinking of how it actually happened several nights ago.

“Mrs. DeSoto?” the lawyer asked, coming out to greet my mom. “I’m Bert.”

Mom rose, shook Bert’s hand solemnly.

“I was referred by—”

“Kirk contacted me when he found out about your financial issues. I was permitted to step in.” Bert looked around. “Is Mr. DeSoto here?”

“His name’s not DeSoto.”

“Is your ex-husband here?”

“He chose not to be here today. It’s just me.”

“Why, may I ask? The lawsuit’s going to be against both of you.”

“He’s aware of that. He’s just…he has a drinking problem.”

“I see.”

Bert escorted my mother into the office.

They sat down quietly.

“I’ve read the police reports and first, I’d like to extend my sympathies, Ms. DeSoto.”

“Thank you.”

“I can’t imagine the burden of getting a lawyer so soon after…”

“What choice did I have?”

Bert shrugged, looked over the case files.

“So am I going to have to pay money I can’t afford? Can you be honest with me, Mr. Thompson?”

The lawyer looked up from the files, looked at a spot away from my mother, thinking.

“Are you aware your daughter lost her license?”

My mother looked down, then answered, “Not before I was served. Fay—my daughter—she must have gone through the mail.”

“That complicates things,” Bert said.

“But didn’t Aliya get in the car willingly?” Mom asked. “Isn’t it just as much her fault?”

Mr. Thompson slid over some papers. “Just got these this morning,” he said.

My mother looked at them, nearly dropped the file.

“The victim’s family is suing too?” she asked. Her voice nearly shattered. “Mr. Thompson, I’m not made of money.”

“Do you own your house?” the lawyer asked.

My mother gulped, tried to make sure she heard the question right.

“I do,” she said. “I mean, the mortgage isn’t paid off yet, but I have years of equity built up.”

“And how much do you make a year?”

“45K last year. Why?”

Bert Thompson took a moment. “Ms. DeSoto, I’m not going to lie to you. You have a drunken daughter and Kirk tells me you admitted that you looked the other way.”

Mom started sniffling, but nodded.

“She lost her license, and you didn’t even know. Then she crashes your car. Her father lives in another state and can’t even make his appointments because he’s an alcoholic. Ms. DeSoto, the judge will decide, not me, but the case does not look promising.”

“What can I do?” Mom asked, helplessly.

“Don’t call Mrs. Bilki again,” he told her, “and don’t say a word to anyone about the case unless I okay it.”

Mom nodded.

“How much can I lose?” she asked.

“Does your husband have a house?”

My mother shook her head.

“A job?”

She shook her head again.

Mr. Thompson fiddled with his papers and said, “Ms. DeSoto, you need to survive. They can’t take that away from you. Everything else, that’s for a judge to decide.”

My mother stared out the window.

Alive, I’d cost her college.

Dead, I’d cost her everything.

* * *

A new grief pulled me closer. Aliya waved her arms in bed. She liked the movement, the free motion of her arms, a freedom her legs would never again know. This time another bright card fluttered from her hands to the floor.

“Come to the game, Ali. We all want to see you!”

—Signed,

Sue

It was meant to be a gesture of finality towards her former life, to the kids of Burgundy Hill High.

But the card brought something emotional to mind: me. Aliya thought back to the times we skipped class, talking about life issues in the bathroom over a drink or two. She thought back to when we first became drinking buddies and to the few times we got high together. She was wondering if her life would’ve been better if we never got close in high school. It might have been.

But
might have been
was now as dead as I was.

In that brief flicker of thought, Aliya remembered something.

She was standing, in bright light, standing with me. Only it wasn’t me. It was my ghost. She thought of how awful I looked dead, black and pulpy like a bleeding pen. She asked herself:
And what was with her head
? The thought of that being me scared her, and as she lay in her room, waiting to move to her new treatment facility, she remembered something else. There were words. Feelings. Like half-remembered dreams from weeks ago.

But this was no dream
, she insisted.
This was real
.

She immediately dismissed the thought.

Yet there was this image of me, black and alive, muttering words of danger, words of urgency, words she just couldn’t remember.

If it’s true
, she thought,
move that card
.

I sensed her message; messages to me came loud and clear in her aura.

“I don’t know if I can,” I said.

Still, at that moment, I didn’t have to.

A breeze fluttered. The card moved. Aliya was lying stunned, watching.

Gotta love all too unlikely coincidences, especially when they suit you.

I smiled; Aliya didn’t. She simply shook her head, as if shaking the thoughts of me away.

I moved closer, started whispering back the memories of our old conversation.

“
Fay
,”
she called back
.

“
Yes
?”

“
What’s the afterlife like
?”

“
There is a heaven and a hell
,”
I had said
. “
There’s just two groups of teens and kids waiting to get to one or the other
.”

“
Are you going to heaven now
?”
she asked me
.

“
That spot goes to you
,”
I had said
.

Aliya lay there a long while. I nearly gave up projecting the images into her aura until I saw her head roll to its side and heard her say, “That spot goes to you.”

A tear formed along the corner of her right eye.

“Fay, what have you done to me?” she asked. “It was always like you to avoid responsibility until the very end.”

I spoke in images through her aura again.

She remembered, if vaguely.

“
You’re not taking her
…”
a voice like mine declared
.

“
We won’t have to
,”
another voice said
.

Aliya felt me around her, recalled the feeling of protection that she had in just that moment.

She started to cry.

I could feel her aura shifting, could sense her shutting down, tuning me out.

Just then an image came to mind: I was there, a black mist, and she was there, herself, only in a hospital robe.

All I need you to know right now
…

She was thinking it, mumbling the words.

But the image didn’t quite connect.

“Why can’t I just walk again?” Aliya asked herself.

The words, the image, both were so close, but now so far gone. Aliya was lamenting her own obstacles now, and there was no room for anyone else. For a moment I was in her heart again, but now I was gone.

“I just want to go one day without thinking of you,” she said to herself. “One day without being reminded, every day, of one horrible night out.”

You can’t forget
, I told her.
Not yet
.

Her aura sensed the urgency, but not the words.

Aliya rolled over, fluttered her arms, and then looked at her legs.

She then picked up the remote and started to watch way too much TV.

“Maybe I’ll go,” she said, thinking of the game. “Maybe not.”

* * *

The school day ended with Mrs. Walters. She taught a mandatory reading workshop during study hall to kids whose English grades dropped significantly since progress reports. She had just assigned the memoir
Please Stop Laughing At Me
by Jodee Blanco despite serious reservations.

It had been on the curriculum for years, and its folded light covers with a young Jodee showed as much when the students crinkled the copies in their hands. Once upon a time, the English / Reading and Life Education departments jointly adopted the title as a warning against the dangers of bullying and alienation.

Tonight, it was to become just another sad irony.