Sparrow Hill Road 2010 By Seanan (20 page)

"Why the hell not?" I pick up my fork. "Make it a double."

"On the house," says Emma, and smiles.

***

Time runs differently when you're in the twilight. Sometimes, hours there can
be minutes in the daylight, or days, or weeks. Once, I spent what felt like a
weekend at the Last Dance, bussing tables and bumming cigarettes off one of the
cooks, and when I stepped back into the lands of the living, two years had gone
slithering by like snakes vanishing into high grass. So it isn't really a
surprise when I shrug off the last traces of the ghostroads and find myself
standing on the long country highway that leads into Buckley Township, looking
at a candy-colored poster stapled to a telephone pole. "BUY YOUR TICKETS TODAY
FOR A WONDERFUL NIGHT!" it screams, in electric yellow letters. Underneath that,
smaller, is the legend, "Buckley High School Senior Prom." There's a price—more
per ticket than I paid for my dress, once upon a couple of decades ago—and a
date.

It wouldn't matter if the date wasn't there, just like it doesn't matter that
I don't have a calendar. The dead have their own holy days, their own ways of
marking the time that passes after they've passed on, and for me, the holiest of
holies is the Buckley High School Senior Prom. It's like Easter. It moves around
the calendar, always within a small range, always subject to its own rules...but
it always comes as the school year is drawing to a close. A formal dance for
girls whose lives won't offer many opportunities for formal dancing; a night for
spiking punch, losing virginities, and dreams. Such big dreams. Real life almost
never lives up to the dreams of a senior prom. It tries. It just can't compare.

I've attended thirty senior proms in the years since I died. Five of them
were right here in Buckley. They're...magnetic, I guess is the word. Once I get
close, they draw me in, just like a moth being drawn to a bug zapper. Not the
most flattering comparison. Too bad it's an accurate one.

I sigh, reaching out and brushing my fingertips through the paper. Just to
test, I try to reach for the ghostroads, and find nothing but the shadows. I'm
here until the last dance is over, the punch stains have been wiped off the
gymnasium floor, and the drunken, giggling cheerleaders have been chased out of
the janitor's closet.

"Bully for me," I mutter, before shoving my hands into the pockets of my
jeans. It may be the day of the senior prom, but the dance itself is still far
enough away that I can wear jeans if I want to, rather than being locked into a
homecomer's endless, pointless struggle to get back to a place that isn't there
anymore. One eye scanning the road for a ride, I turn and begin trudging my way
down the sidewalk. No matter how inconvenient it might be, this is a holy night,
and on holy nights, good girls—alive or dead—follow the rites of their religion.

I have one small advantage over the breathing girls of Buckley, the ones for
whom tonight will be the first, last, and only senior prom. Unlike them, I don't
have to worry about what I'm going to wear. I just have to worry about how many
of them will be dead before morning.

On second thought, maybe they should be worrying about that, too.

***

Buckley Township: the more things change, the more they stay the same. The
town has grown since I lived here, slowly spilling out into the surrounding
fields and farmlands. The forest is still mostly intact, the trees standing
sentry against intrusion. The lake and the swamp are exactly as they've always
been, dangerous, foreboding, and deadly to the unprepared. I used to wonder how
many bodies were buried there. Now that I've met a few of the ghosts who haunt
the waters of Buckley, I can say with authority that I don't want to know. The
land around Buckley has never been tamed, not really, and it doesn't suffer
fools lightly, if it suffers them at all.

The storefronts have altered to fit the time, but they still seem to lag
behind the outside world, the towns and cities that aren't struggling to survive
in the hand of the forest, that aren't trapped under the shade of the nearby
hills. It's a little strange to walk these streets and see signs offering
computer repair and cellphone services where the record store and the
five-and-dime used to be. Time stops for no one, I guess. There's another
Buckley nestled deep down in the twilight, one where it's still 1945, one where
all the little details still match the little details hidden in my heart. That's
a dead town, a place that only exists because I do—there are no other Buckley
ghosts from my generation still wandering the ghostroads. When I move on, if I
move on, that dead little town will fade away. Maybe that's not such a bad
thing, because this is the real Buckley, this changing, increasingly strange
place, and it deserves to be fresher in my mind than its own time-locked
reflection.

I've managed to walk halfway to the school when a car pulls up next to me,
blinker flashing the brief staccato rhythm that means, in the secret language of
the road, "You've got a ride." I stop where I am, turning toward the car, a
battered old Toyota in that shade of middle-class brown that hides the rust
better than just about anything else. The passenger-side window creaks down,
revealing a teenage girl with hair almost exactly the color of her car's paint
job. I don't get many rides from girls. Something about me says "there but for
the grace of God," and they keep their distance.

She has red and yellow ribbons in her hair—the Buckley High School colors—and
flecks of coppery rust in the brown of her eyes. "Get in," she says, with a
small lift of her chin. It's more command than request, and I find myself
obeying without stopping to think about it. "I'll fill you in on the way."

Prom night isn't like Halloween, when the dead live again, but it's something
similar for me, anniversary of my death, pagan ritual in school colors. I can
feel solidity falling into my bones like night falling on the forest, turning me
physical from the inside out. I slide into the seat, almost taking comfort in
the way my feet dip just below the floorboard—still dead, still free, at least
for the moment. It's too late to run away, but it's too soon for the music to
start. "Thanks for the ride," I say, old ritual, new target.

"I was going your way," she replies, with ritual calm, and I realize that I
never told her which way I was going. She hits the accelerator, eyes on the road
as she adds, "There's a wrap for you in the back. I looked through some of the
old yearbooks to make sure I had the right color." I hesitate, and she sighs,
heavily. "It's just a damn
coat
, okay? You need it if you don't intend
to go walking through any walls in the next few hours. I feel more comfortable
when I know my passengers are actually gaining some small measure of protection
from their seatbelts."

"I—wait—
what
?"

"Although I guess if you're dead already, the seatbelt thing is sort of
moot." She stops at the light on Pierce and Robinson—there wasn't a light there
when I was alive, just one more sign of how the town has changed—before turning
to look at me. "I'd feel better if you were corporeal in my car, okay? And since
I'm the driver, I get to choose the radio station and dictate the physical state
of passengers."

The look in her eyes finally snaps into focus. I can't stop myself from
frowning as I ask, "You're a routewitch, aren't you? What are you doing in
Buckley?"
What are you doing here, on the night of the prom, the one night
when I can't cross the city limits? Why did you pick me up?

What's going on here?

"I was born here," she replies, attention going back to the road. "My
grandfather was from Buckley, and when my dad died, Mom decided she'd come here
to be close to his side of the family. Her side's nothing to write home about."

"Oh." Even routewitches have to come from somewhere, I guess. I've just never
given much thought to where they belong when they aren't running the roads or
going home to the arms of the Ocean Lady. I lean over the seat, looking into the
back. A wispy strip of pale green silk lies puddled on the upholstery. That
familiar jolt of solidity races up my fingers as I reach over and pick up the
wrap, noting the thin lines of silver running through the fabric. It's
beautiful, delicate, and a perfect complement to the prom gown I'll wind up
wearing before the night is over.

I settle back into my seat, feeling gravity settle over me like a shroud as I
wind the wrap loosely around my shoulders. I fasten the seatbelt before looking
toward the routewitch behind the wheel. Her eyes are still locked on the street
beyond the windscreen. I clear my throat, and say, "Um, thanks. For the coat.
And the ride. My name's Rose."

She actually laughs at that, the sound easy and clear and eerily familiar.
"Oh, I know. You're Rose Marshall. You're here because this is the anniversary
of your death, and whenever you're near Buckley during prom season, you wind up
crashing the party."

"How did you—"

"You're here tonight, specifically, because I begged the road to send you.
All the signs and portents have been crazy since the start of the school year.
Old lady Martin's cat had a whole litter of kittens with no eyes, and somehow,
all the scripts for the senior play got replaced with
MacBeth
.
Something bad's coming. I wanted at least a little supernatural muscle on our
side when things went south."

I blink. "What makes you think I can do anything to help?"

"It's prom night, in Buckley, and you're a Marshall. Marshalls always come
back to Buckley when they're needed. It's what makes us better than the Healys."

Only one word in that sentence really stands out to me, and I'm repeating it
before I take the time to think, voice going a little shrill as I demand, "Us?"

"Us," she agrees, and slants a smile my way, a wicked gleam in her eye that I
remember seeing, too many times, in the eyes of my big brother. "Hi, Aunt Rose.
I'm Bethany. I'm your brother Arthur's granddaughter."

"Of course you are." I slump in my seat, feeling the prom coming closer by
the second, while this girl who is blood of my blood drives us toward the high
school.

Prom night in Buckley Township. Not exactly the most wonderful night of the
year.

***

The high school hasn't changed nearly as much as the rest of the town. The
squat brick buildings seem to huddle in the middle of their parking lots and
athletic fields, glowering out over the students who dare to approach. Some
people say schools are cathedrals to learning. Not Buckley High. Buckley High is
a prison, and the only way to get parole is to keep your grades up, keep your
head down, and pray.

Bethany pulls into a spot near the street, using the spreading leaves of the
sycamore trees to conceal the car from casual view. "We have about two hours
before the dance starts," she says, as she unclasps her seatbelt. "I'm on the
decorating committee, so I can get us inside now without raising suspicion."

"And the fact that nobody knows me won't be a problem because—?"

"I'll tell them you're my cousin from downstate, and that your folks made me
bring you along." She slants a half-amused glance in my direction. "It's not
like it's totally a lie. We are related, and you're from downstate. It's just
that you're coming from underground, not points south."

"Dead girl jokes. Oh, yeah, those are my favorite." I'm still grumbling as I
unclasp my belt and climb out of the car, feeling the hot mugginess of the
summer air settle across my skin. Michigan summers. I used to measure my life in
Michigan summers. Now I just use them to measure out my death. "Then what? I
help you hang streamers, pretend I'm not looking when somebody spikes the punch,
and wait to see if some unnamed doom falls on the senior prom?"

"Something like that." Bethany starts walking across the parking lot, cocky
little routewitch too young to know how hard the world can hit. I hurry to catch
up. "Whatever it is, it's going to be bad. I don't think we'll be able to miss
it once it starts."

"You are way too vague to be a Marshall."

"And you're way too dead to criticize." She doesn't sound annoyed; more
amused, like my complaints are meaningless. In a way, I guess they are. She's a
routewitch, and this is her territory now, not mine. It's prom night in Buckley,
which means running away isn't an option for me, and the fact that she's alive
means the shots are hers to call. That doesn't mean I have to like it. So I
glower at her as we walk across the sun-bleached blacktop, faded white lines
that delineate one parking spot from the next criss-crossing like railway tracks
under our feet. She thinks we have two hours before the start of prom. I could
tell her things about time, the way it bends and twists around the holy moments
in your life, but I won't. I don't have the words, and I don't think Bethany has
the ears to listen.

"How is Arthur?" I ask, just to break the silence. I'm solid as ever, but the
hair that tickles the back of my neck is longer than it was when I got into the
car. Prom night is rushing me on, and as all the other girls get ready, I'm
getting ready, too. Whether I want it or not.

"Old. Crotchety. Mean as a snake when he thinks you've crossed him."
Bethany's smile is sweet and distant. Maybe I could like her after all. "He took
Mom and me in when nobody else wanted anything to do with us. I owe him a lot."

And he's still in Buckley, still breathing. That explains why she's here,
little routewitch running a fixed route, like a hamster running in a wheel.
She'll strike out on the open road one of these days, but even routewitches know
the worth of family. She'll stay until my brother goes.

"And does he know...?" I wave a hand, jade beads rattling against each other
as the bracelet on my wrist slides a few inches down my forearm. I wonder what
my clothes look like now, whether anyone who happens to be passing by will see a
transparent dress sketched over T-shirt and jeans...or whether the reality is
already turned the other way around.