Be the Death of Me Page 11

  “Attention all shoppers,” the speaker box comes to life again, breaking through the lull of Muzak. “Would the owner of a black Ford Explorer please come to the front of the store? Your lights are on.”

  “So you and Tucker are just friends then?” I say. I should know better than to ask that question, but curiosity never fails to get the better of me.

  ‘Of course we’re friends,” she answers, throwing the package of ground beef at me, hitting me squarely in my chest. “What else would we be?”

  Her response is too defensive to be entirely believable. There’s a slim chance Billie might be harboring secret feelings for Tucker. Then again, she would have to have feelings to harbor them, and I’ve seen no evidence to support the notion. I’m sure at one point in her life she probably had someone special. She’s too desirable not to have dated, but the fact she might have genuinely loved someone?

  Doubtful.

  I lose myself in my thoughts as we make our way to the front of the store, musing over my mysterious protector until I happen to catch sight of something that stops me dead in my tracks. A head of short, spiky, black hair bobs along at the front of the store. The head, it appears, is connected to a thick, almost nonexistent neck, itself attached to the hulking, massive, mouth–breathing form of Logan Cartwright.

  “What are the odds?” I mumble just loud enough for Billie to hear.

  She stares back at me before following my line of sight. “Godzilla!” she cries in complete and utter glee.

  “What’s he doing here?” I hiss, ducking behind a pyramid display of paper towels.

  She joins me behind the barrier. “Golly gee, Nancy Drew. Why would anyone come to the grocery store? What diabolical scheme is he cooking up, do you think? Get it? Cooking up?” She laughs at her own pun.

  I watch through a tiny, triangular hole as Logan speaks to one of the cashiers. The two have a brief conversation before he leaves a moment later, empty handed.

  “He doesn’t have any groceries!” I whisper back to her.

  “Arrest that man!” she continues to laugh. “He’s leaving without buying anything!”

  I stand from my crouched position, listening to my knees pop in aggravation. “You know it wouldn’t kill you to take your job seriously every once in a while.”

  “It might.” She clicks her tongue against her teeth. “Then again, I hear it’s very difficult to kill someone who’s already dead.”

  “What a shame.”

  “Benedict?”

  I’m not naive enough to believe Billie would ever call me Benedict, so I turn, startled to discover the sweet tempered voice belongs to none other than Shannon Walters, a pretty girl who is in several of my classes. She wears a brown, knee–length coat over a purple turtleneck sweater and jeans. I can’t help but notice how flattering that particular color is on her.

  “Shannon! Hi!” I smile at her, hoping my overly friendly tone will cover for the fact I was discovered cowering behind a paper towel pyramid, arguing with a dead girl.

  It doesn’t.

  “Were you just talking to someone?” she asks, clearly confused. Her pale cheeks are flushed from the cold, and, I note, dotted with an occasional freckle.

  “Oh, no. Just . . . uh . . .” There’s no way to get out of this without sounding insane. “Just talking to myself,” I concede, deflating the tiniest bit.

  To my relief, her giggle isn’t the least bit derisive. “I do that sometimes, too,” she admits, brushing a strand of cropped, dark hair off her forehead. “So I heard about what happened to your locker,” she offers with a sympathetic look. “I’m really sorry, Benedict. I had no idea things at school were that bad.”

  “Nah, it’s okay,” I lie. “Just a prank that got out of hand. You know, guys messing around.”

  “Tell her she looks pretty,” Billie hisses unexpectedly in my ear. Her closeness raises a line of shivers over my arms.

  “You . . . look . . .” I start to say.

  “I noticed you weren’t in chemistry yesterday. Did you get the assignments for next week?” Shannon says, swinging her basket back and forth like an emerald pendulum. “I’m sure it was no problem for you. I’ve kind of been struggling with it. I just can’t seem to get the hang of that electro–negativity stuff. It’s so confusing. I bet you’re already done. You’re like the smartest kid in class.” She drifts off, letting her nervousness get the better of her.

  Billie appears on my other side. “Ask her if she’d like some help . . . or dinner.”

  “Go away,” I hiss at her.

  Shannon’s brown eyes narrow. “What?”

  “I said . . . uh . . .” I try and cover, all the while cursing Billie. “I . . . um . . . I have to go,” I say lamely. “I’ll see you at school.”

  I make a bee line for the nearest checkout counter, leaving Shannon in a cloud of confusion. My exit from Fairway’s is followed by the sound of soft clapping. I whirl on Billie, who I discover grinning ear to ear, supplying me with an enthusiastic round of applause. “Wow,” she taunts, twirling gracefully to face me. “You were quite the Casanova in there. Truly.”

  “You know what would help?” I ask, waiting for a car to pass before stepping off the sidewalk. “Not having you whispering suggestions in my ear!”

  “I seriously doubt I was the issue in there.”

  She’s right of course. I’ve never been what anyone would call gifted when it comes to conversing with members of the opposite sex.

  “It’s just . . . girls.” I head out across the empty expanse of parking lot. The sun has set, leaving only a sliver of crescent moon and the store’s flickering lampposts for light. “I don’t know. You’ve seen how bad I am at interacting with people. It just gets a million times worse when those people happen to have breasts.”

  “But you talk to me,” she points out, grinning. “And I have breasts. Mine glow!”

  “Believe me, I know,” I say, trying my best not to stare. Right now Billie is about as qualified girlfriend material as Logan, and yet I still feel like I’m suffering from ‘red–button’ syndrome. You know whenever someone tells you not to push a big, red button, that button is suddenly all you can seem think about?

  Well, the same can be said for gorgeous, glowing girls.

  “You should ask her out,” Billie hints. Though the winter wind is trying it’s hardest to blow us both away, not a single hair is out of place on her blonde head. It’s as if she has a protective shield around her, keeping the cold from touching her. As for me, the wind is simply one more thing waiting to attack.

  I roll my eyes at her suggestion. “Trust me, that wouldn’t be fun for anyone.”

  My pathetic excuse is drowned out by the deafening sound of screeching tires. The noise grows louder, building to a roar, the Doppler Effect in action. Blinding headlights fly around an unlit corner, and for a fraction of a second, time ceases to exist. I’m actually amused by the scene playing out in front of me, the giant, black SUV jumping the curb, its tires burning against the pavement, its brilliant lights cutting short my vision. I bring a hand up to shield my eyes, completely oblivious to the vehicle’s true intention. It isn’t until I hear Billie shout my name that I finally understand what’s happening.

  “Ford, get out of the way!”

  But I’m frozen, held to the spot as the behemoth vehicle careens over the sidewalk. It stares me down like a lion hunting its prey, leaving me with only a matter of seconds before I’m caught and devoured.

  One . . . two . . . three . . .

  And suddenly I’m airborne, flying across the pavement. I land hard on my back next to a trio of grimy, metal trashcans, my small bag of groceries crashing with a sickening splatter a few feet away. I have just enough time to see Billie standing in my place.

  “BILLIE!”

  I look on in horror as the car runs her down. I blink just once, and both Billie and the SUV are gone. The vehicle swerves off into the night, around the building and out of sight, its wheels squealing in p
rotest.

  I’m on my feet in a flash, leaving the explosion of groceries where they lay. I can barely feel the pain burning its way across my palm, the newly acquired smear of blood oozing from a pattern of torn skin. “Billie!” I call, frantic, desperate for a response. “Damn it Billie, answer me!”

  “You know what?” comes a small voice from somewhere behind me. “Call me crazy, Ford, but I think someone’s trying to kill you.”

  “Are you okay?” I ask, watching her pick up and examine the grocery bag, now dripping with what used to be a can of stewed tomatoes.

  “I’m dead, remember?” she smirks. “I’m always okay.”

  I nod in understanding, allowing my lungs to fill with air, feeling my gut twist with a sudden wave of nausea. And then, whether from fear, or relief, or some other inexplicable emotion, I turn and empty the contents of my stomach all over the side of Fairway’s Grocer and Deli.

  Fantastic.

  Tucker

  “What do you mean, someone tried to run him over?!”

  Billie ushers Ford to the sink, pushing his bleeding hand under the faucet now spewing warm, angry water. She guides her hand over his to wash away the blood as he winces from the pain like it’s a gunshot wound rather than a simple cut. She draws them both out of the water–his hand dripping wet, hers, of course, completely dry.

  “Someone tried to run him over, and all they got was his hand?” I ask, watching the pair of them work across the kitchen. I stare at the droplets of blood splattered across the tile, left by Ford as he and Billie had staggered through the back door exactly ten seconds ago. I’d been greeted with, “Good to see you, Tuck. Someone tried to run Ford over. How was your night?”

  “Well,” she begins, treading cautiously. “I kind of . . . sort of . . . maybe pushed him out of the way.” She throws open the cabinets overhead, searching for a First–Aid kit, finding the small, white box hidden in the depths of shelving.

  “You pushed him out of the way?” I ask, almost certain I haven’t heard correctly. “You pushed him out of the way of an oncoming car? You pushed him out of the way of an oncoming car that was trying to run him over?”

  “Yes! What else do you think ‘pushed him out of the way’ means?”

  I almost can’t believe it. Without giving it a second’s thought, I rush forward and pull her to me in an unbreakable hug.

  “Whoa!” comes a muffled cry buried within the folds of my shirt. She doesn’t put her arms around me, but doesn’t pull away either. “What’s gotten into you?” she laughs through my arms.

  “Nothing,” I smile, finally releasing her. “I’m just really glad Ford’s okay.”

  She stares up at me with those bottomless eyes of hers, and I feel myself fall into them. Her brow creases with amused bewilderment, and a brilliant, return smile appears a second later. “Sure you are,” she replies. The curve of her mouth is so lovely, made only lovelier by the simple fact it’s curving for me.

  A surge of momentary insanity washes over. As if possessing a mind of its own, my face begins leaning down to meet hers, drawn inward by the magnetism of her lips. The kitchen, the blood splattered tile, the sound of water still running in the sink, they cease to exist, fading into nothingness and white noise. Blissful silence. I don’t know what’s come over me, but I feel as if I don’t kiss her right this second, I may in fact die.

  Again.

  “I don’t mean to alarm anybody,” comes a poorly–timed voice, “but should there be this much blood?”

  Billie turns her head, and I press my lips to nothing but air.

  “Sorry,” she says to Ford, hurrying over with the First–Aid. It isn’t a moment’s work for her to properly clean and dress the wound which, I have to admit, is starting to bleed pretty heavily. She then bends down and places a kiss–my kiss–on his bandaged hand.

  “All better,” she whispers, patting it gently. “Now quit complaining, you big pansy.”

  “I’m not a pansy.”

  I watch Billie push him onto a kitchen bar stool. It’s impossible not to feel sympathy for the guy. Looking the slightest bit green, he sits, shoulders slumped forward, all the fight gone from him.

  “You look like hell, man.”

  He glares up at me through his knot of hair. “Weird, right? It’s almost like someone just tried to run me over.”

  I ignore the sarcasm. “What do you think the Captain’s going to say about all of this?” I turn to Billie, supporting myself on my elbows and leaning back against the countertop. “He’ll probably be mad at first, but that’s just it’s his natural gut reaction. After he hears how you threw Ford out of danger, I think he’ll—”

  “Yeah, about that,” she interrupts before I have a chance to tell her the Captain would be as proud of her as I am. “I was hoping maybe we wouldn’t have to tell him.” She bites her bottom lip as if she already knows what she’s asking for is impossible.

  “What? Why?”

  “You know Cap. He’s always looking for some excuse to yell at me. The fact I allowed Ford to get hurt—”

  “A cut! It could have been a lot worse.”

  “You’re not the one bleeding to death,” Ford says from his seat.

  Billie shrugs and proceeds to flash me the biggest, bluest, saddest puppy dog eyes I have ever seen. “Please, Tuck?” she asks, her voice no more than a murmur. “I’ll tell him eventually, I promise. But for now, can we just keep this quiet?”

  What is she thinking? She should know by now that it’s impossible to keep secrets from the Captain. The Captain hears all, sees all, knows all. She should also know better than to try and use the cute, pleading stare on me. It doesn’t matter how pretty her eyes are when they’re shaded by that tiny wrinkle in her forehead, or just how perfect her lips look when she sets them in a pout. It isn’t going to work.

  “Sure,” I say. “We don’t have to tell him right away.”

  Who am I kidding? It’ll work every time.

  “Thanks.” She sounds delightfully sincere. “You’re a good guy, Tuck, you know that?”

  Were I alive, I might have blushed. “So did you happen to see who was driving?” I ask them, hoping for a positive answer and a decisive change of subject.

  “No,” comes Bille’s reply. “Tinted windows. Bright headlights. Bad combination.”

  “Well, did you get a tag number?”

  “Oh yeah,” Ford’s face lights up with what I can only assume is another round of derision. “I managed to memorize the license number while the car was busy running me down at a hundred miles an hour.”

  “What about when it was leaving?”

  “I was a bit busy. And despite my overwhelming desire to not die, I cannot run faster than a car.”

  “And he seemed so perfect on paper,” Billie teases, tilting her head to one side as if examining a work of art.

  “How disappointing,” I join in on the ribbing. “I’m thinking seriously about asking for my money back.”

  “Perhaps we should upgrade to a newer model.”

  “Splendid idea. I’ll look into it.”

  “Okay, I get it,” Ford cuts in, standing. The bar stool teeters dangerously on one leg before crashing back on all fours. “I’m sorry if I don’t handle near–death experiences as well as you’d like.” He storms through the living room and sits on the staircase at the end of the hall.

  I groan in impatience. Another ego check? “Maybe you should talk to him,” I whisper to the top of Billie’s head.

  Her eyes grow wide at my suggestion. “What? Why me?”

  “Because otherwise I’ll have to.”

  “Come on, Tuck. I like the guy and everything, but if he cries, you and I both know I’m going to clock him.”

  I shake my head, tousling my hair, leaving it perfectly rakish. “You’ll be fine. I promise. You’re much better at this than you think you are.”

  For a split second, her eyes betray her uncertainty. “Promise?”

  I smile down at her. “On m
y life.”

  It takes her all of three steps to cross the tiny, poorly decorated living room. She seems to glide over the vintage, brown carpet, crouching on the step at Ford’s feet.

  “Jeez, Ford,” she whispers, reaching for his recently bandaged hand. “We’re only kidding.” He doesn’t answer or bother looking in her direction. “You’re not going to get self–conscious on us now, are you?”

  “I’m not self–conscious,” Ford barks. “At least not at the moment. I’m just . . .” he buries his head in his hands, making his muffled response somehow come across as even more pathetic. “I’m just exhausted.”

  Billie looks to me, and I know what’s coming before she even has to speak a word. Ford was right. I did this to myself. I asked them to get along. I thought nothing could be worse than the constant bickering, but I guess it’s true what they say . . .

  . . . Be careful what you wish for.

  Please don’t ask me, Billie. If there is any kind of justice in this world, please don’t ask to stay with him. Just this once, pick me. Tell me you want me to stay.

  “Let me take this one for a while, okay partner?” she says, breaking my heart with a smile. “I think he’s just a little overwhelmed. How about I stay with him tonight while you take a break. We can meet up in the morning, okay?”

  Words seem neither necessary nor possible, so I do the only thing I can and nod my response. I don’t know where I’ll go until morning. I don’t want or need a break. There’s no one I want to speak to, and nowhere I want to go without the girl who just sent me away.

  The last thing I see before disappearing is Billie putting her willow branch arm around Ford’s shoulders, and for a split second I imagine how much easier this assignment would be if I was capable of ever telling her no.

  Billie

  Ford returns to school the next day with no one the wiser about the incident in Fairway’s parking lot. By the end of the following week, the locker incident is also forgotten, made old news by the tragic, yet completely predictable break–up of basketball captain Dean Murphy and cheerleading co–captain Jessica What’s–her–name. Ford seems to breathe a little easier as each day passes without sign of threat. He becomes quite talented at hiding his fear of death, masking the dread in the gentle features of his face. To take his mind off things, I convince him to talk to the girl we met at the grocer’s. Their new, tenuous friendship works to ease his mind, though occasionally, when he’s alone or eating lunch with his new semi–friends at their usual table, I see how lost he is. He won’t answer a question right away, or he’ll wander off in a different direction, lost in his thoughts, and I know he’s once again surrendered to his panic.