Tragedy Girl - Christine Hurley Deriso Page 0,10

I seem to have commandeered their plans.

“Yes, fine, fine,” Melanie says. “Anne, count us in.”

I nod, then lean in closer. “That creepy Natalie girl practically shot daggers through me in the hallway,” I tell them in a lowered voice. “What’s up with her?”

“Hmmmm,” Melanie says. “You were with Blake at the time?”

“Well, our lockers are right next to each other … ”

“She’s probably been planning her wedding to Blake since she started bringing him brownies all the time in middle school,” Lauren says.

“He had cancer,” Melanie says matter-of-factly. “Natalie apparently perceived that as a glass-half-full kind of opportunity.”

“So, they’ve dated?”

Lauren snorts. “She wishes. I don’t think Blake’s ever dated anybody but Cara—the girl who died. I guess Natalie figured this was her chance. Then along comes Number Eleven … ”

She and Melanie laugh at my perplexed expression. “Remember?” Lauren prods. “The guys have decided you’re an eleven?”

I squeeze my eyes shut and shake my head.

Melanie peers into space. “Who knows, Natalie might have even offed that poor girl.” She gives us a silly grin, then turns somber when she sees our reactions. “Alrighty then. Note to self: too soon to joke about dead girl.”

Lauren swats Melanie’s dark blonde hair playfully. “We are so signing you up for sensitivity training.”

“Just don’t schedule it for tonight,” Melanie says. “Looks like I’ve got myself a date.”

I shut the front door and take a deep whiff of pepperoni.

“Hi, honey,” Aunt Meg calls from the kitchen. “Homemade pizza for dinner!”

“Yum,” I say, walking into the kitchen. “Aunt Meg, I wish you wouldn’t feel like you had to rush home from work and cook dinner for me. I’m fine fending for myself. And, you know, if you’re not scared of botulism, I could start cooking for you.”

She laughs, too loud, too hard. “Silly. Uncle Mark and I love cooking for you. And we were thinking maybe a movie after dinner?”

I hug my arms together. “It sounds great, only … ”

“Yes?” Aunt Meg prods.

“I kinda have plans with some friends from school, if that’s okay. There’s a bonfire tonight to kick off the football season.”

“Oh, honey, that sounds great! I’m so glad you’re making friends. I knew it would happen in no time.” Her eyes turn wistful. “Your mom and dad would be so happy.”

The moment hangs in the air, then I say, “I dream about them a lot.”

Aunt Meg intertwines her fingers. “You do?”

I nod. “I dream that I’m at some random place—a car wash, or a grocery store, wherever—and I glance over and there they are, in my peripheral vision. At first, it doesn’t seem like any big deal … just, ‘Oh, there are Mom and Dad.’ But then I remember—in my dream, I mean—I remember they’re dead, so I get super excited that I’m seeing them. I start rushing toward them, but they hurry away, hiding their faces. The more I call to them, the farther away they get.”

I gaze into space, my eyes suddenly misty.

“It’s so frustrating. I’m like, ‘Please come back.’ But then I hear my mom’s voice telling me it’s too soon. It’s too soon to see their faces; it’ll just upset me. But I tell her it’s not too soon, and that even if I get upset, who cares? I’d give my right arm to see them under any circumstances, even in a dream.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “You’d think I could at least see them in my dreams.”

Aunt Meg sniffles and dabs at her moist blue eyes. “Oh, sweetie,” she whispers in a choked voice.

I slip my hands into my jeans pockets. “I didn’t mean to make you sad.”

“No, no … I want you to talk to me. About your parents, about your dreams, about school … about everything.”

Then she hugs me, smelling all fresh and floral, and I think fleetingly, Who knows. Maybe I can.

Maybe this is a start.

Six

Blake tosses a candy wrapper into the bonfire and we watch it crackle and burn, our fingers dangling over our knees.

We got here late, opting for an impromptu frozen yogurt run, so the crowd has largely dispersed. People are still milling around on the football field, chatting with friends, sipping Cokes, or pouring some rum into their cups after surreptitious glances for chaperones. This is an official school function, after all, but even the adults seem mellow on this balmy starlit evening, a sea breeze occasionally wafting through the air from the Atlantic Ocean a few blocks away.

The six of us are sitting on a blanket: Blake,