October Girls: Crystal & Bone (16 page)

“I thought you hated your best friend.”

“I do. But I still have to watch her back. That’s what best friends do.”

“Sounds like stalker zone to me.”

“I hate it when people use my own words against me. Makes you come off as a smart-aleck. Nobody likes a smart-aleck. Maybe if you weren’t so darned smart, you’d have had more friends in school.”

Tim’s face froze in shock, and then crumpled. Water almost appeared at the corner of his eyes. Out of instinct, she passed him the gooey handkerchief and he took it without speaking, though he kept it in his lap.

“That was cruel, Bonnie Whitehart,” he said in a whisper. “I guess death doesn’t thaw a frozen heart after all.”

Bone had no answer for that, because she’d been wondering the same thing. Crushing on Royce, and even lusting after Pettigrew, had done little to make her feel alive and cute and sexy.

It seemed like the only time she got the juices flowing was when she was spiteful and angry. But at least she’d helped Tim cry a little. Maybe she had a purpose after all.

“Guess I better check in before the Judge gets suspicious.” She stood, brushing the wrinkles out of her blouse. “He’s probably mad about that statue thing.”

“It wore off pretty fast. Karma never lasts.”

“Good. There’s hope for us both, then.”

“You got a new shirt,” Tim said.

“Borrowed it from Crystal.”

“That’s against the rules.”

“What are they going to do? Kill me?” The joke was old but it always fit.

“No, but they might start wondering what you’re doing on Earth.” He pointed to the dark crevice at the back of the mausoleum. “They might lock the gate for good.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Nobody’s above the higher law.”

“Like it’s okay to steal from the dead but not the living?” She giggled. “Besides, I think you’re just trying to get me to take off my shirt.”

Tim’s mouth opened but the smart-aleck response stuck in his throat.

“I’m wearing a bra, doofball,” she said.

“I know.”

“You shouldn’t notice things like that.”

The air in the mausoleum grew thick, and Bone was glad neither of them required oxygen. The candle flame shrunk as if in embarrassment. Bone felt a little creepy teasing a 12-year-old, but she’d had enough of being serious. They were young and had their whole afterlives in front of them.

“Come on,” she said. “I’ll bet there’s a lovely full moon out tonight.”

“The moon is always full in the graveyard.”

“I win the bet, then.”

Tim stood and stuffed the sodden handkerchief in his jeans pocket. Bone had read about a new type of treatment that probably would have saved Tim’s life if he’d made it another couple of years. But the kid was born poor, and what could you do about that? Fate was fate and, as Royce had said once while trying to cop some tongue, “The end is in the beginning.”

Aristotle had said it first, but that dude had voluntarily drunk poison. She’d seen him once, hanging out by the front gate, sitting on the stone steps in his dirty robe. A group of fresh dead were gathered around as if he were dispensing chocolate. Bone kept going, though she overhead “To err is human, to forgive divine” or some other worthless wisdom.

As they reached the mausoleum entrance, Tim held out his arm and blocked her way. “Let me check first.”

“I told you, they know I’m skipping. I’m just a pawn on God’s big, invisible chess board.”

“Why do you want to blame God for all this?”

“I have to blame somebody, and He’s convenient.”

“Have you ever heard of taking responsibility for your actions?”

“I swear, Tim, sometimes I think you were born a grown-up. Maybe that’s why you were such a failure as a kid.”

“Sticks and stones can break my bones. If I had them, of course.”

The graveyard was still and quiet, bathed in moonlight. The tombstones gleamed in alabaster and looked as fragile as glass candy. The grass was dark and smooth, and the surrounding stone wall and the trees beyond gave the impression of a curved glass dome. The graveyard was like an old friend, something you could trust. It never got better or worse.

“The coast is clear,” Tim said, grabbing her hand and pulling her onto the spongy turf.

“Wait,” she said. “There’s something I need to check first.”

She broke away and headed for the far corner of the graveyard, where the tombstones were tallest. Despite the sales pitch that all were equal in the afterlife, some were apparently more equal than others.

The moon was bright enough to make out the chiseled letters, and she passed “Gable, Clark” and its obligatory epitaph “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

Then Marilyn Monroe’s and “This time around, I’m wearing only pants.” Humphrey Bogart’s marker warned against the dangers of tobacco, while the final resting place of Bette Davis proclaimed “My eyes weren’t all
that
weird.”

The marker she sought was a little apart from the others, short, squat, and topped with a mossy granite race car.

“James Dean,” she said. His epitaph read “Is it Eden Yet?” but that barely caught her attention. The turf over his grave had been peeled open, and the gash in the ground exposed the substance below. It was milky in the moonlight, and Bone wondered for a horrible moment if the underpinning of Darkmeet was guardian-angel goo.

“Somebody’s been in,” Tim said.

“Or gotten out.”

She knelt in the spongy grass and dipped a hand into the open grave. She scooped up a palmful of Styrofoam packing peanuts. “Is this somebody’s idea of a joke?”

“It’s all a joke,” Tim said, standing over her and glancing around nervously. A Poot Owl hooted in the near forest.

“Like the whole place is one big fake package?”

She wondered which package the UPS driver had been so intent on delivering when he’d smacked into her and shattered her skull. She hoped it was a pacemaker or a wedding dress. She would have hated to die over an instant coffee maker or a stupid stack of
Death for Dummies
books.

“Maybe that’s how they solved their recycling problem,” Tim said. “Bury it all.”

“That’s not helping.”

“I’m 12 years old. What do you expect?”

Bone tossed the peanuts back into the hole. “It’s one of two things. Either Jimmy Boy clawed his way out and is pretending to be Royce, or Royce did this to desecrate his hated rival’s grave.”

“From what I know of Royce, he wouldn’t want his brother to get bonus limelight. In cases like this, it’s usually the third alternative. You know, the twist that nobody sees coming.”

“You mean, James and Royce are both running loose and you’ll never be able to tell them apart?”

“Bingo, bimbo.”

She weighed the possibilities. Another hunky actor with make-out potential versus dealing with a jealous Royce. And Crystal would be sure to give her a hard time if she ended up in a love triangle with two brothers. The very idea was icky.

But a little bit shivery all the same.

Poot-pootie-hoo. Poot-pootie-hoo.

The nearness of the Poot Owl caused Bone to jump. She glanced at the crippled, bare tree branches that hung overhead. The owl’s head was twisted sideways, as if it were looking past the graveyard at some approaching calamity.

“You’d better scram,” Tim said. “If they catch you in the mausoleum again—”

“Actually, it might be a good idea to let them catch me. Because I think the Judge
wants
me going back and forth.”

“Sort of like a special dispensation from the Pope?”

“That’s a Catholic thing. Parson’s Ford is Methodist and Baptist. Unless you count Dempsey.”

“Dempsey?”

She detected jealousy in his tone, so she played it up. “Yeah. This guy with dreamy eyes who uses French words.”

“Did he call you an
escadrille,
by chance?”

Bone considered a moment. She couldn’t remember the phrases Crystal had mentioned, but it sounded sophisticated enough. “Sure. In a whisper.”

“Like I thought. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

As they strolled across the graveyard, Tim glanced wistfully at the grass. “I wish our graves were side by side.”

“You should hang out with kids your own age.”

“Do you think you would have gone out with me? You know, if we’d lived to be seniors?”

She flopped an arm around his shoulder, hoping he took it as sisterly affection. “I like you, kid. But let’s keep it in the ‘friend zone.’”

The Poot Owl swooped down from the branch and stirred a few strands of Bone’s hair. She swatted at it. “Dang. I think it’s trying to tell me something.”

“Owls are messengers and guardians,” Tim said. “They help transport people from one stage of their lives to another.”

The owl flew through the open gate at the mouth of the cemetery, its wings a milky blur in the moonlight.

“Gotcha!” someone shouted, and the Poot Owl let out a frantic screech, then an interrupted squeal of pain.

The Judge entered the graveyard, dabbing his wet lips with the folds of his robe. He belched, and a small feather floated out.

“So this is the stage of my life where I get eaten?” Bone said.

C
rystal hated Wednesdays.

For normal teens, Wednesday meant the middle of the school week and the beginning of party time. But for Crystal, it meant she had to check in with the school counselor, Beverly McMarkus. That part wasn’t so bad, because Miss McMarkus generally chatted about new movie releases and the horrible portion sizes of modern candy bars.

Then she’d ask Crystal about her GED studies, and Crystal would make up stories about George Washington’s teeth and the shape of a rhombus. She had no idea whether a rhombus was an African mammal or an element of the periodic chart, or maybe one of those symbols used in diagramming sentences.

All she knew was the walk from the high school parking lot to the office was about seven thousand barefoot miles over burning sand and broken glass.

Most of the kids remembered her. Everybody knew everybody in a small-town high school, and the cliques had long been established. In many cases, they were generational. The jock dads who drove front-end loaders had jock kids who played football. The kids of the insurance agents were in drama and band. Moms with SUV’s and plastic surgery spawned cheerleaders. The brainiac kids of the alcoholic college professors were making A’s and sneaking vodka to school in their water bottles, just like they were expected. The losers were already collecting in-school suspensions and misdemeanor charges, killing time until they could legally drop out and smoke cigarettes all day.

Nature had created a perfect system, with all the cogs and wheels turning in their proper grooves. But when Crystal stepped in, all balance was lost and the entire system ground to a halt.

“Hi, Crystal,” said Mitzi, the cheerleader co-captain, flashing all ninety-four of her perfect teeth. “Are you back in school?”

Crystal shook her head and marched grimly onward, though Mitzi’s minions stared holes in her back as they snickered.

“Yo,” said Barry Lane, the editor of the school newspaper who’d once copied her test during English. They had both made C’s on it but he never held it against her. The test was on
Moby Dick
and the only kid who’d actually read the book was Melvina Stark, who smelled of cat urine and always wore the same gray sweater.

“Yo,” Crystal said back to Barry.

“Still going out with the tow-truck boy?”

She didn’t slow down, because other kids were listening, and even with the ruckus of a class change, she didn’t want any private conversations. “Once in a while.”

“Well, if he ditches you, I’ll give you the hook,” he said, and then brayed like a donkey with a carrot up its nose.

She was almost to the office, carrying her books in front of her as if they were a shield, when Rance and Snake exited. “It’s the movie chick,” Rance said.

Snake tugged at the rim of his black toboggan. “Thought you dropped out.”

Crystal’s cheeks burned with humiliation. She could have been on the B Honor Roll, earned a shot at class secretary, and probably made the volleyball team, but her stupid best friend had to go and get pancaked by a big brown van.

“I’m on an accelerated schedule,” she lied. “I graduated last year.”

Rance and Snake gave their red-eyed gape. The word “accelerated” was likely beyond their vocabulary. If you couldn’t smoke it, snort it, or put it on a fishing hook for bait, they could care less.

“That was a purty good movie,” Rance said.

“Yeah,” Snake agreed. “Got any more like it?”

They’ve definitely been riding the Tijuana Taxi. If Dempsey’s brand of B-movie silliness inspired these two zombo-heads to become fans, then pop culture has definitely hit the skids.

“So you liked ‘The Frightening,’ huh?”

At the mention of the title, both of them went glassy-eyed again, but this time it was like they were staring at a big Snickers bar after smoking a seven-inch rope of marijuana.

“In Royce we trust,” they said in monotonal unison.

“Huh?”

“In Royce we trust,” they repeated.

Some of the students slowed down to look at them, but Snake was the kind who would shank a kid in the ribs over lunch money, so people tended to give him a wide berth.

“Royce,” Crystal said.

“Royce,” they repeated.

“Was he in the movie?”

“In Royce we trust.”

“Right,” she said. “Hope that works out for you. Got an appointment with McMarkus. Better run.”

“Royce,” they said.

She bolted past them and into the office, slamming the door behind her. The secretary scowled but jabbed with her pen toward the counselor’s office. Crystal gave a fake smile and went down the narrow hall. Beverly McMarkus was playing a computer game that involved puppies and gumballs.

“Hi Crystal,” she said. She took up most of the room, tilting the scales at over 300 pounds. The wall featured military recruiting posters and inspirational messages of achievement, with sunlit white kids in their caps and gowns gazing wide-eyed into a bright future. Yet the chair in front of her desk was the cramped plastic kind used by kindergarteners.