The Dead Boyfriend (15 page)

But did I have a choice?

Even in my terror, I knew she was the only one who could help me.

Deena brought Blade back to life. She made me kill him. Then she brought him back.

Deena wanted him to be hers this time. But where was she? She was the only one who could control him. The only one who could protect me. My only hope was that she could stop him from coming after me.

“Deena.” I whispered her name as I grabbed my phone. I pushed her number and raised the phone to my ear. It rang three times … four times.…

And then I heard a series of beeps. And a recorded woman's voice, much too loud, so loud I jerked the phone away from my ear, announced, “You have reached a number that has been disconnected. Please check the number and dial again.”

Disconnected? No. No.

Why would Deena disconnect her phone?

I tried it again and got the same announcement. Then I clicked the phone off and tossed it in frustration, in anger, in fear, across my bed.

I'll find her in school tomorrow. She will know what to do about Blade. She will help me.

I tore off my clothes and tossed them in a heap in the middle of the floor. I pulled on a flannel nightshirt. It was a warm spring night, but I couldn't stop trembling.

The rain had picked up. It drummed against the window. My bed is right under the window. Normally, I love lying in bed, looking out at my backyard below.

But tonight, I pulled the covers up over my head. I shut my eyes tight and listened to the patter of the rain on the window glass.

Maybe the sound will soothe me to sleep,
I told myself.

But, of course, that was crazy. I lay there curled under the covers until it got too warm to breathe. Then I tossed the covers off and tried sleeping on my side. I kept changing position, hoping to get the horrifying events of the night to fade to the background so I could catch some sleep.

But no. It all played over and over in my mind.

I suddenly remembered I had an oral report to give to the class tomorrow. “The History of the Stradivarius Violin.” My grandfather was a classical violinist. He played with the Detroit Symphony and many other orchestras. He owned one of the priceless Stradivarius violins. He showed it to me when I was a little girl and explained why it was so valuable and perfect.

Shortly before my grandfather died, the violin was stolen. From all those years ago, I remember my grandmother saying that he died a few weeks later of a broken heart.

I was too young to fully understand then. But her words lingered in my mind. I wanted to add that personal story to my essay about Stradivarius violins. I knew Mr. Lovett, my English teacher, would appreciate it.

I'm a good writer, Diary. I love to write and tell stories. The essay was kind of special to me since my grandfather died when I was seven. I had started to write it. Actually, I had almost finished it.

What time was it? Two in the morning? Should I get up and work on it now? Maybe it would take my mind off Blade?

I yawned. No. No way I could concentrate. I didn't feel sleepy but I felt worn-out. Wrecked. Maybe if I tried to clear my mind.… Maybe count slowly down from one hundred to one.…

I was only down to ninety-three when I heard the rattling from outside my window. I sat up, alert.

The rain had stopped but the window glass was covered in raindrops. A bright half-moon floated high in the gray sky.

I listened. I heard another sound. Like a low cry. Maybe a cat?

I leaned forward and pressed my face to the glass and gazed down at the yard. “Oh no. Oh no.”

I sucked in a breath as I saw Blade in his red hoodie.

He stood in the cone of yellow light that washed over the grass. The hood was down and I saw his green eyes gazing up at my window.

“No. Please.” I shut my eyes and tried to erase him, tried to banish him, send him away. I wanted to plead with him, to beg him.
Disappear, Blade. You're dead. Please disappear.

But when I opened my eyes, he hadn't moved. He stood in the light, red hoodie gleaming, and I saw the hand. The hand my car door had sliced off. He had it tucked in his hoodie pocket.

He found the hand. He had it.

I started to back away from the window, but he had already seen me. I watched him raise his good hand above his head.

What was he holding? What did he have clenched in his fist?

I squinted through the rain-smeared glass, struggling to focus. The light from the house caught the object in his fist. A knife. The blade flashed.

“Oh my God.”

Blade held the knife above his head. Held it high so I could see it. His head tilted back. His eyes locked on mine.

I screamed as he plunged the knife down.

He sank the blade into his head and killed himself again.

 

32.

I swung my gaze to the bedroom door. Had Mom and Dad heard my scream?

Silence out in the hall.

I didn't want to look down into the yard again. I didn't want to see Blade sprawled on the grass with the knife buried in him.

But I had no choice. I had to know if he really was dead again. I had to know if—

Oh my God. No.

He didn't kill himself. He dug the knife into his mouth—and sliced the blade between his lips. He was using it to cut away the stitches, to free his mouth.

In the bright light, I could see the heavy black thread pop, see the stitches fall away until there were just a few scraps of black thread stuck to the sides of Blade's mouth.

Gripped in cold horror, my burning face against the cool window glass, I watched him test his mouth. Move his jaw up and down. His lips twitched. He slowly pulled them open. He slid his mouth up and down several times. He tugged bits of thread from his lips and worked his mouth some more.

Then he raised his eyes to me and shouted in a hoarse, ugly animal groan: “I'm back for you, Caitlyn. I'm back. I'll never leave you. Never!”

With a gasp, I slammed the shade down, stumbled back to my bed, and pulled the covers over my head.

*   *   *

I didn't want to go to school the next morning. How could I sit through classes with all this horror whirling in my brain? I started thinking up excuses to give my parents. But then I remembered I couldn't stay home. I had to go to school and find Deena Fear.

Deena was my only hope. From those old books in her family library, she had learned the secret, learned the power to bring Blade back to life.

She
had
to know a way to send him back to his coffin.

As I parked my car in the student lot, I thought once again about the two people frozen in glass cases at the back of Deena's house. I shuddered, my hands squeezing the steering wheel. A sensible person would stay as far away from Deena as she could.

But I wasn't a sensible person. I was a crazed, terrified person. Every sound, every fast movement of color or light, made me jump. Every burst of red made me want to scream. I knew I'd see that red hoodie forever in my nightmares.

Did Blade really say he would stay with me forever? I had to take his words seriously. I had to believe he meant it. Even though just thinking about it made my stomach churn and my heart start to do flip-flops in my chest.

Deena, where are you?

I waited in the front hall until it was almost time for the bell to ring. She didn't show.

I asked some kids if they knew which homeroom Deena was in. No one seemed to know. With her strange, dark looks, her wild tangles of black hair all the way down her back, and her black outfits and her general weirdness, kids stayed away from her.

She was a total loner. I don't know if she had any friends at all in school. She wasn't in any of my classes. I never saw her with anyone.

The bell rang. The hall had emptied out. Everyone was in homeroom. I peeked into a few rooms on my way to Ms. Chow's room. I didn't see her.

Ms. Chow looked up from her laptop as I walked in. “Please close the door, Caitlyn,” she said. “Try to be a little more prompt, okay?”

I closed the door behind me. “Ms. Chow, do you know what homeroom Deena Fear is in?” I asked.

She squinted at me. She scratched her straight black hair, which she wears very short with straight bangs across her forehead. “Deena Fear? I'm sorry. I don't know her, Caitlyn. Is there a problem?”

“Well…” I hesitated. I saw Julie at the end of the front row, watching me, her face tight with concern. “It's kind of an emergency,” I said. “I really need to find her.”

Ms. Chow nodded. “Why don't you go to the office? Mrs. Vail can tell you where to find her.”

“Thanks.” I dropped my backpack onto my desk. “I'll be right back. I really appreciate it, Ms. Chow.”

“Hey, Caitlyn,” Julie called to me from across the classroom.

But I was already out the door and into the hall. Silent and empty out here. The two gym teachers were having some kind of conference in front of the trophy display case. They nodded at me as I jogged past them.

The principal's office is near the front entrance. I stepped inside. A couple of solemn-looking boys sat hunched on the bench in front of the main desk. Sophomores, I think. Must have been in some kind of trouble.

Mrs. Vail, the office secretary, had a phone pressed to her ear. She stood at the desk, sifting through papers as she talked. I stepped up to the desk and rested my arms on the desktop in front of her.

She nodded and kept on talking. It seemed to be something about the hot-lunch program. She kept saying, “I have no control over that. The state tells us what to serve.”

I was practically bursting, silently begging her to get off the phone. If she talked much longer, homeroom would be over and I'd be late for Advanced English and my violin report.

I let out a long whoosh of air when she finally hung up. “Caitlyn, what can I do for you?”

“I need to find Deena Fear,” I said. “It's kind of important. Can you tell me her homeroom?”

“That's an easy one,” she said, smiling at me. “I like the easy requests.”

She moved to the desktop computer at the edge of the counter and began to type rapidly on the keyboard. “I'll just pull up her schedule. What was her name again?”

I told her.

Mrs. Vail turned her gaze on me. “A Fear? From the famous Fear family? Really? How come I don't know her?”

I shrugged.

She returned to the computer, squinting at the screen. “That's strange,” she murmured. She typed some more. “D-e-e-n-a, right?” She spelled the name.

“Right,” I said. I leaned over the counter, trying to read the screen over her shoulder.

Mrs. Vail rubbed her chin. “Let me bring up the student directory. Is she a senior like you?”

“Yes. I'm pretty sure she's a senior.”

“Okay. No problem.” She typed some more. Then she studied the screen. She scrolled up and down the list of students.

“Is she new?”

“No. I don't think so. I don't really know.”

She typed some more. Gazed at the screen intently.

Then she turned to me. “Caitlyn, there must be some mistake. There
is
no student named Deena Fear enrolled at our school.”

 

33.

I tried to hide my shock, but I guess I didn't do a very good job. Mrs. Vail squeezed my hand. “Caitlyn? Are you okay?”

No. I'm not okay. I'm losing my mind. I'm inventing imaginary people.

I swallowed hard. My throat suddenly felt dry as sand. It took me a few seconds to assure myself that I didn't invent Deena Fear.

She was definitely real. Julie and Miranda had both seen her and talked about her that night when I bumped into her at Lefty's.

“She's real,” I murmured. I didn't realize I was talking out loud.

“Maybe she goes to Collegiate,” Mrs. Vail offered. That's the private girls' school in North Hills. “Have you seen her here in school?”

I wanted to get away from Mrs. Vail. She was gazing at me so suspiciously, like maybe there was something wrong with me. She is a nice person, but you don't want to confide in her. Anything you tell her she goes and tells to Mr. Hernandez, the principal.

“Actually…” I said. I tilted my head, thinking hard. “I guess I've only seen her out of school.” I forced a smile. “Thanks, Mrs. Vail.”

I didn't give her a chance to reply. I spun away and bolted from the office, nearly knocking over the two gym teachers, who were walking in.

The hall was bustling now, crowded and noisy. Homeroom had ended and everyone was heading to their first period class.

I moved slowly to my English class. Some kids called out to me, but I ignored them. I kept rubbing my forehead, massaging my temples as I walked. My head felt about to explode.

This was an Advanced English course, mainly for creative writing students. We all sit around a big, round table and share our stories and essays and critique them.

Normally, this is my favorite class. But now, I just wanted to hide in a corner, shut my eyes, and try to think. Of course, that was impossible. There's nowhere to hide at a round table.

And naturally, Mr. Lovett tapped me on the shoulder as I walked to my seat and said, “You'll go first this morning, Caitlyn.”

As the other kids settled in, I pulled my essay from my bag. I don't get nervous reading in front of the whole class. I'm pretty confident as a writer, and, everyone knows I'm not shy.

But today, my hands were shaking as I glanced through the pages I had written. The essay wasn't quite finished, and I wished I had time to polish it. My head was still throbbing. I hoped maybe reading the essay to everyone would give me a chance to calm down and stop puzzling over Deena Fear.

That didn't happen.

When Mr. Lovett gave the signal, I stood up and introduced my essay. “It's about the Stradivarius violin,” I said. “I wrote it because this priceless instrument has special meaning to my family.”