Between (3 page)

Why do I feel like this? And what kind of a person was I, anyway? I know that I was popular, but it’s so odd—I don’t remember exactly why, or what I was like in my everyday life. And all of a sudden, there’s a part of me that really, really doesn’t want to know.

Alex stares at us. “I know we can’t be older than that, because I’m still alive.” He nudges me. “Here I come.”

I watch as he walks into the room alone. He’s carrying his lunch in a plain brown paper bag.

“Why didn’t you just buy your lunch?” I ask. “Nobody brown-bags it in high school.”

He gives me an exasperated look.

“What?” I ask. It seems like a perfectly legitimate question to me.

“It’s four dollars a day to eat lunch at school,” he says. “We didn’t have the money.”

I gape at him. “You didn’t have four dollars a day?”

“No. My parents were strict. They were really tight with money. If I wanted to spend something—even to buy lunch at school—I had to earn it myself. The Mystic Market, where I used to work, paid minimum wage.” He shakes his head. He almost seems to pity me. “You don’t know how good you had it. Not everyone just gets whatever they want handed to them. And besides, I wasn’t the only one who brought his lunch.” He points. “Look.”

We follow Alex across the room, to an empty table not far from me and my friends. At another table nearby, also sitting alone, is Frank Wainscott. Frank is a year older than we are, which would put him in eleventh grade here. He has bright red hair and freckles. He wears a blue T-shirt and ill-fitting jeans that are too short for his legs. And he is, I remember, a
major
dork. Like Alex, Frank has brought his own lunch. But on the outside of his brown bag, somebody—presumably his mother—has written his name in black marker and drawn a
heart
around it. I almost cringe with embarrassment for him.

As Frank unpacks his lunch, Alex and I start to eavesdrop on my friends.

Caroline is gazing longingly at a shiny red apple, passing it back and forth between her hands. “I’ve already eaten six hundred calories today,” she says. “How many calories are in an apple?”

“Eighty,” I say to myself.
How do I know that
?

“Eighty,” my living self informs her. “But apples are good, Caroline. They have fiber and nutrients. Go ahead. Eat it.”

She gazes at my willowy body, visibly very thin even though I’m sitting down. I’m wearing a sleeveless shirt, my arms skinny and muscular. “You don’t have to worry about getting fat, Liz. You’ve got good genes.”

Josie snatches the apple from Caroline’s hands. “I thought you were trying to stick with twelve hundred calories a day. If you eat this, that’s almost seven hundred calories right there. And you know you’ll be starving after cheerleading practice.”

Caroline frowns. “I’ll eat a light dinner.”

“The last time I ate dinner at your house,” Josie reminds her, “your mom made homemade pizzas. On white bread.” She pauses for emphasis. “With
full-fat
cheese.” Josie takes a big bite from the apple herself. “I’m doing you a favor,” she tells a forlorn Caroline, talking with her mouth full. “Trust me, you’ll thank me later.” Josie looks around. “Think they’ve got peanut butter up there? I love apples with peanut butter.”

“You,” I inform my stepsister, “are going to get chunky if you don’t watch it. Peanut butter has two hundred calories for every two tablespoons, and it’s all fat.”

Josie stops midchew, staring at me. “You heard what Caroline said. We’ve got good genetics.”

I don’t respond. I just kind of glower at her, silent. The rest of the table falls into a momentary hush, the awkwardness almost palpable.

“I thought she was your stepsister,” Alex says to me.

“She is.”

“Then why would she say you’ve got good genetics? You aren’t blood related.”

“Right.
I
know that. But Josie thinks … oh, never mind. It’s ridiculous.”

“I want to know,” he presses. “Josie thinks what?”

I shake my head. “Come on, Alex. You’ve lived in Noank your whole life, right? You must have heard the rumors.” But I don’t have a chance to expand beyond that.

Alex and Frank are sitting at the only empty tables in the whole lunchroom. Alex starts to unpack his lunch. He slouches in his chair, almost like he’s trying to seem invisible. Frank does the same.

It works for Alex, but not for Frank. Right away, Topher notices him.

“Hey, look. It’s our favorite mama’s boy.” Topher’s grin is wide, his teeth an almost glowing white. “Frankie,” he calls, “what did Mama pack you today?”

Frank doesn’t answer.

“He’s being so mean,” I mutter. “Why is he doing that?”

“Because he can. Because he’s a bully,” Alex replies.

“But Frank’s not doing anything wrong. He isn’t bothering anyone.”

Alex stares at me, like he can’t believe my confusion. “Liz, the lunchroom was like a war zone. You and your friends used to sit at that table like you were the freaking rulers of the school.” He pauses. “Keep watching.”

Caroline, Josie, and I exchange subtle smiles as Topher continues to rip on Frank, but we don’t say anything. Only Richie looks uncomfortable.

“Come on,” he says to Topher. “Cut the kid a break already. It’s not his fault that—”

“Oh my God.” Topher leans his chair back on two legs, clapping his hands.

“I wish he would fall on his stupid face,” Alex says quietly to me.

He doesn’t. Instead, he rights himself, gets up, and strolls over to Frank’s table. Topher turns a chair around, straddles it backward, and sits down next to Frank. He starts picking through the contents of Frank’s lunch.

My stomach feels hollow with guilt and shame as I watch my younger self, and all of my friends, giggle while Topher torments Frank.

“Look at this,” Topher says, holding up Frank’s sandwich for everyone to see. “Mommy cut it into the shape of a
heart.
Does Mommy wipe your bottom for you when you go poo-poo, too, little guy?”

Sitting at the table, Frank’s face turns a deep red. I can tell he’s trying not to cry. At the next table, Alex is clearly listening, his expression stoic. He’s bothered by what Topher is doing to Frank, I can tell. But it would be social suicide for him to get involved.

I put a hand to my mouth. “Alex,” I say, “I’m sorry. We were all being mean, I know. But you have to believe me, I don’t remember this.”

“It doesn’t matter if you remember, Liz. It doesn’t change what happened.”

“But it’s not like I really did anything … I mean, it was mostly Topher—”

“You’re right,” he interrupts, “you didn’t do anything. You never did
anything
to help him. You wouldn’t have dared; it might have made you less cool.”

I blink at him. “You didn’t do anything, either.”

“What was I supposed to do? Speak up and get my ass kicked?” He shakes his head. “No thanks. It was enough work just to keep your friends from making
my
life miserable. I wasn’t going to get involved with Frank’s problems. I had enough of my own, trust me.”

For a moment, I’m at a loss for words. Finally, I ask, “You don’t like me, do you? Everyone likes me.”

He stares at me. “You’re right. I don’t like you, Liz.”

I stare back at him. When I speak, the harsh tone of my voice surprises me. “Then why don’t you leave me alone?”

“Take your hand off my shoulder.”

So I do. And just like
that
, we’re standing beside the boat again, the docks rocking gently beneath us as we glower at each other.

“What are you doing here?” I ask him. “If I’m really dead, then why are you here?”

He shakes his head. “I honestly don’t know. Because I’m dead, too, I guess. Because I’ve been around for a year, just waiting for someone else to show up. Believe me, I don’t want to be here either. I’d rather be with
anyone
but you.”

For the first time since I’ve found my body in the water, the truth seems real. It seems indisputable. I am not dreaming. This isn’t a nightmare that I’m going to wake up from. I’m dead.

And then something occurs to me—I don’t know why it wasn’t my first thought. The moment the words begin to come out of my mouth, I can feel myself starting to cry again. Dead people can cry. Who knew?

“Alex,” I ask, “are there other people … over here? Can we see other people?”

“What do you mean?”

“Other people who are … you know …”

“Other dead people?” He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

“But you can see me.”

“I know. You’re my first.” He pauses. “Why do you want to know? Why are you crying?”

“Why am I crying?” I wipe my eyes, even though I’m not embarrassed for Alex to see my tears anymore. I think of my parents—my dad and stepmother, Nicole—of my friends inside the boat, wondering when they’ll wake up and find me. But more than anything, I’m thinking of my mother. My
real
mother.

“My mom,” I tell him. “She died when I was nine. I was just thinking that maybe …”

“You’d see her?” He shrugs. “I don’t know, Liz. Hey—don’t cry, okay?” His tone is less than comforting. If anything, he seems a little annoyed by my display of emotion. “You don’t need to feel sad. I’m not an authority or anything, but I get the feeling this situation—you know, being stuck here—is only temporary.”

I continue to cry. “And then what?” I demand. “Are you supposed to be my guide or something? Because you’re not doing a very good job, if that’s the case. You haven’t really answered any of my questions.” I pause. “Except for the one about my memory. And you only sort of explained it. But other than that, you’re horrible.” I’m almost hysterical. I don’t
feel
dead. I feel alive and helpless and
so
cold. I want to go home. I want my dad and Nicole. And if I can’t have them, I want my mom. Where is she? Why isn’t she here? And how the hell did I end up in the water?

“This cannot really be happening,” I say, even though I know it
is
happening. “It’s my
birthday
. People aren’t supposed to die on their birthday! Especially not me. I’m Liz Valchar.” I’m almost shouting. “I’m very popular, you know! Nobody will be happy about this.”

His voice is bone dry. “Yes, Liz. I’m aware of your social status.”

“This isn’t possible.” I shake my head. “No. It’s not real.”

“Yes. It is.” His tone is flat, bored. “Come on. Take deep breaths. Maybe I can … maybe I’m supposed to, I don’t know,
help
you.”

I breathe. I can taste the salt in the air. I can feel the dock swaying beneath my feet, my legs unsteady in my boots. If it weren’t for my own body, not ten feet away, everything would seem normal.

“I don’t know that much about what’s going on here,” Alex says. “Nobody gave me a rule book or anything. Pretty much the same thing happened to me that’s happening to you. I remember being on my bike, riding home from work. It was a little past ten at night. It started to rain really hard. I could barely see. And then nothing—I woke up in the sand, lying next to my own body.” He shudders. “I was a mess.”

I wipe my eyes. “You don’t remember anything? Not the car that hit you? Not what happened right before? You don’t remember hearing or seeing anything?”

He shakes his head. “I told you, nothing.” He hesitates. For the first time since we’ve been together, his tone softens just a bit. “I was alone, Liz. Not like you are. I didn’t have anybody to help me. I’m sorry if I’ve been cynical, but you have to imagine—I’ve been by myself for almost a year.”

“What have you been doing?” I ask. “You’re here, so obviously you can go places. Have you seen your family? Your parents?”

He nods. “Sure. I’ve gone home now and then. But trust me, I’d rather be anywhere else. My house is not exactly overflowing with laughter at the moment. My parents practically haven’t left church in months, they’re so busy praying for my soul. And when they’re home, my mom pretty much stays in bed.” He pauses. “When she’s not wandering around the house, holding vigils for me, crying.”

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

“It’s okay.” He half smiles. “Not your fault, is it? Anyway, I can go places, but it’s not like there’s a whole lot to keep me entertained. For the most part, I’ve just been staying near the road where I died. And then, all of a sudden—here I am.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know what I’m doing here. Honestly, I’m almost as confused as you are.”

I stare at him. “But we can go places. That’s what you’re saying. I can go home if I want to.”

He nods. “Yes. But you won’t want to, not after the first couple of times. It’s horrible, watching everyone cry and mope around, watching them suffer. Knowing you can’t reach out to them and make them feel better, or even let them know you’re all right.”

“But we’re not all right,” I say. “Not really. Are we? I mean, we’re trapped.”

He appears to think about it. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I guess you’re right. Trapped.”

“And you’ve just been stranded like this? For a year?”

“Well … not exactly. There’s something else.” He hesitates. “It’s like I showed you. You can go into memories. You can go back and see yourself. You know how you don’t remember everything from when you were alive?”

“Yes. Why is that happening? Do you know?”

He appears to be thinking. “I’m not sure. But I have a theory.”

I stare at him. He doesn’t say anything for a while.

“Well?” I demand. “Are you going to tell me, or are we just going to stand here?”

He sighs. “Okay. But it might sound strange. Like I said, it’s just a theory.”

“Tell me.”

“Well, we’re here. On Earth. We’re not … somewhere else.”

“What do you mean? That we’re not in heaven?”

Alex nods. “Heaven, hell … you’re getting ahead of yourself. My point is, we’re stuck here for some reason. We both died young. And we both want to know why, right?”

“Of course,” I say.

“Well, when I really started to think about what I could remember, something occurred to me. It was like I could only remember mundane facts. I knew who people were. I knew about some things that had happened. But I couldn’t remember anything … significant. Not at first.” He takes a deep breath. “I think we’re supposed to learn something. Not only about how we died, but I think we’re supposed to—I don’t know, to gain some kind of deeper understanding. Before we can move on.” He pauses. “Does that make any sense?”