Be the Death of Me Page 6

  “Morning, Gran!” comes Ford’s enthusiastic call from the top of the stairs, followed quickly by a series of thundering footsteps. He appears, dressed in torn jeans and a forest green t–shirt with the name of some band printed across the front, his hair brushed and smoothed to the best of its natural ability, which is to say, hardly at all.

  Turning back to the now–crowded kitchen, I discover Tuck standing next to me. He smiles and leans lazily against the counter.

  “Morning?” the older woman smiles at her grandson. “More like afternoon. Glad to see you’re finally up. Have you eaten anything, Benedict?”

  “Not yet, Gran,” Ford replies. “I will though, don’t worry.”

  “Don’t tell me not to worry,” she says in a playful tone. “You’re already too skinny. Simon was twice your size when we he was your age, you know.”

  “Didn’t Simon die of a cholesterol–induced heart attack when he was forty?”

  “Watch your tongue,” she slaps the back of his mop top head. “Simon was a fine man, God rest his idiotic soul.”

  I laugh loudly. The sound reverberates around the four of us present, though only Tuck and Ford look my way. “Who’s Simon?” I whisper into my companion’s ear. He bends his ear to my lips.

  “Fay’s second husband,” he answers. “Don’t you ever do your homework?”

  “Right. Second husband,” I say with a nod, skipping over his question. “Now who’s Fay?” He groans, and I knock him one in the arm. “Kidding.”

  “Come on,” Fay says to Ford after emptying the final bag. “Let me fix you some brunch. How do pigs in a blanket sound?”

  “Probably a little hostile at being trapped inside a blanket.”

  “Billie.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Maybe in a bit,” Ford says, ignoring our comedy act.

  “What about your friends, Benedict? Do you think they’ll want anything to eat?”

  The old lady’s cheery question would have caused my blood to freeze in my veins if such a thing were possible. Judging from the look on Tuck’s face, he’s been thrown for a loop as well.

  Ford’s eyes shift nervously in their sockets before finally resting on us. “Fr . . . friends?” he stammers when her back is turned. “Wha . . . what friends, Gran?”

  She smiles, wide and toothy. “Didn’t you say you had a couple of friends coming over to watch a ballgame tonight? Some boys from school?”

  His shoulders deflate with a wild rush of air. “Oh, the guys from school. Of course. I mean, who else would you have been talking about, right?”

  I can tell, buried deep within those words is a cry of absolute desperation for her to see the two lightly glowing teenagers leaning against her kitchen counter.

  “I was thinking maybe fajitas,” she replies, crushing Ford’s hopes. “Do you think that’s okay, or should I cook something more conventional? I can make cheeseburgers if you want.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Ford mutters, staring intently at his hands. “Turns out the guys can’t come after all. There’s a game at school tonight, so they’re going to hang there instead.”

  “Oh,” she says, her smile turning to a tiny, wrinkled pout. “Are you going to meet up with them at the game? Should I plan on dinner by myself?”

  “No,” he answers, still not looking up from the table. “I’m just going to stay in. I’ve got some things I have to do here anyway.”

  “Homework?” she asks, moving to pat her grandson’s shoulder. “Math again? I could help you with a few of the problems if you’d like. It’ll be our little secret.”

  “Trust me, Gran,” Ford says, finally lifting his gaze to stare–no, glower is more accurate–at Tuck and me. “I don’t think you can help me with the kind of problems I’ve got.”

  “All right.” She lets loose a sigh of acceptance. “I’m heading to the community center for the afternoon, hon. There’s a meeting about next weekend’s yard sale. Will you be okay by yourself?”

  Ford nods. “Yeah. I have a feeling keeping busy won’t be a problem.”

  His grandmother drops a folded newspaper and a stack of mail on the table in front of him. She leans down to kiss the top of his hair. “I saved the puzzle for you,” she says with a smile. “Try to stay out of trouble.”

  And she’s gone, unknowingly leaving her grandson at the mercy of the undead.

  “Okay, two questions,” I say the minute I hear the sound of an engine rumbling in the driveway. “Who are these boys she was talking about, and when do I get to meet them?”

  “Never,” he growls in my direction, unfolding the newspaper to the weekly crossword and reaching for a pen. “You never get to meet them.”

  “Well, that seems a little rude.”

  “You can’t meet them,” he clarifies. “They don’t exist.”

  “But she just said–”

  He lets out an exasperated huff, and tears his eyes from the paper. “Gran worries about me, okay? So to make it easier on her, I sometimes make up these fake plans to hang out with guys from school. She never seems to notice that something always comes up every time they’re supposed to come over.”

  He finishes and plunges back into his crossword puzzle.

  I stare at Tuck, who in turn is looking at Ford with an expression of disbelief and pity.

  “That,” I say, sweeping around behind him, “is the saddest thing I have ever heard.”

  “It’s better than having a seventy–year–old woman think her grandson is a loser.”

  “You thought the opposite of being a loser was to invent fake friends?”

  “Just drop it, okay?”

  “All right, all right.” I hold up my hands in surrender. “No need to get snippy.”

  “Oh really?” Ford chuckles darkly, filling in the boxes for 8–Across. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I was just fine before you showed up.”

  “Yeah, you were doing wonderful,” I scoff. “Except for that part about your imminent death.”

  He turns to Tuck, who has remained quiet during all of this. “Yeah, about that,” Ford says. “Thanks for letting me know and all, but wouldn’t it be easier for me to just call the cops?”

  “The cops?” I can’t contain the sneer that decorates my face. “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah, I’m serious. Why should I let you protect me when you obviously couldn’t keep yourself alive?”

  “Hey, watch it,” Tuck snaps from the counter. “Low blow, man.”

  “Like I care. Ten bucks says I’m dead before the day’s over.”

  “Go to the cops then!” I shout. “But mind if I ask what you plan on telling them? Because saying two dead teenagers came to you in the middle of the night and told you something or someone is going to kill you is only going to get you locked in a cozy, padded cell.”

  “That would be better than spending another second with you.”

  “Make sure they put that on your headstone, will you? Right below ‘Here lies Benedict Bartholomew Ford. He had no friends and a really stupid name’.”

  “This coming from a chick with a guy’s name.”

  “Well, it could be worse.”

  “How?”

  “I could be a seventeen year old shut–in with imaginary friends.”

  “I hate you, you know that?”

  “Yeah, well take a number, pal.”

  “That’s enough!”

  Tuck slams his fist down on the table, shaking the thin, antique legs with the impact. The pendant light dangling over our heads flickers on and off, on and off as if hit with a sudden, overwhelming surge of electricity. Ford and I fall silent.

  “What is the matter with you people?” Tuck exclaims. “Honestly! I feel like I’m in charge of the two most obnoxious kids on the planet! And contrary to what you may believe, I don’t enjoy babysitting you.”

  He turns to me, more enraged than I’ve ever seen him. “Is this how you handle all of your assignments? Because I gotta tell you, Billie, if you were my
Guardian, I’d probably kill myself just to get away from you. You may think you’re some unattainable, gorgeous girl, and you’d be right, but it still doesn’t give you an excuse to act this way.”

  “Amen,” Ford chimes in.

  “And you!” Tuck whirls on him. He slumps lower in his chair. “What’s your problem, man?”

  “I don’t have a–”

  “Don’t interrupt me,” he jumps back in, snatching the crossword from Ford’s hands. “You know, most people would be grateful to have their own secret service assigned to protect them. I mean, you do realize you’re complaining about people trying to keep you alive, right? So just stop with the self–pity act and cowboy up. And if both of you can somehow manage to grow up, deal with the situation, and at least pretend to like one another, then maybe, just maybe, no one will die.”

  The silence that washes over us is both palpable and painful. In that instant of speechlessness, Ford staring at his fingers, Tuck staring at me, I see it. The plea for cooperation written in the furrow of his brow, in the flare of his nostrils and strength of his hands. He isn’t asking for much, and I know then that one of us is going to have to bend before this entire operation breaks.

  I look at Ford across the expanse of table. “Jeez, what’s his problem?”

  And for the first time since meeting him, I receive a genuine smile. His face lights up with a grin, the sharp lines melting away to reveal a completely new person.

  “Seriously,” he agrees with a playful roll of his eyes. “Calm down, buddy, before you spontaneously combust.”

  “Hilarious,” Tuck says. “Just answer me this, will you? How, out of all the assignments in the entire world, did I get stuck with this one?” His words may sound indignant, but his tone is anything but serious, and with a good–humored jab to my shoulder, he takes a seat at the table, choosing the chair across from Ford.

  “Just lucky, I guess.” I flash him my brightest smile.

  “I know I haven’t reacted well to all of this,” Ford jumps in, laying his pen down, “but you have to understand, I just found out that not only are there ghosts, but their entire purpose for being here is to keep me from joining their ranks. And let’s be honest. I haven’t totally chucked the idea that you two aren’t just very lifelike hallucinations. So bear with me. It’s just . . . a lot to deal with. Let me handle it in my own way for now, okay?”

  “I think we can do that,” Tuck says before I have a chance to put in my two cents. “It’s Persephone, by the way.”

  Both Ford and I stare at him like he’s lost his mind.

  “Twenty–three down. Queen of the Underworld? It’s Persephone.”

  “Oh, right.” Ford smiles and scratches the answer down in the spaces provided. “Thanks.”

  I breeze around the kitchen as the minutes tick by, opening random cabinets and drawers in search of something interesting.

  “Doesn’t your grandmother eat anything without the words fiber or bran in the name?” I ask Ford.

  He offers me a wry shrug. “Not that I know of. She’s old.”

  “Why do you live with her anyway?”

  He doesn’t look up from his puzzle. “Because the judge told me to.”

  “The judge?”

  “Yeah,” he answers. “My mom ran out on us when I was really little, and when my dad died a few years ago, Gran was the only option left. Hey, do either of you know what nineteen–eighty–two film was directed by Tobe Hooper? Eleven letters, starts with a P.”

  “Poltergeist,” both Tuck and I shout at the same time.

  Ford grins and fills in the blanks. “How appropriate. So,” he says after answering a few more clues. The crossword is nearly finished, sky blue ink covering almost every white box on the page. “How did I get lucky enough to get the two of you as my . . . Guards?”

  “Guardians,” I say.

  “Right, Guardians. Did I win a raffle or something?”

  Tuck laughs and leans back in his chair. “Something like that,” he allows. “Can’t say for sure though. I’m kind of new at this.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re my first assignment. Congratulations.”

  Ford looks at me in panic. “What about you?” he asks, his voice cracking with alarm. “Is this your first assignment, too?”

  “Hardly,” I answer with a flippant wave of my hand. “You may be the first living person to see me in almost four years, but you’re definitely not my first assignment.”

  He exhales loudly.

  “Well, that’s comforting I guess. At least I know I’m not some test guinea pig. What happened to the rest? The ones before me?”

  I shoot Tuck a look out of the corner of my eye. He’s suddenly very interested in what the ceiling looks like. “Oh, you know,” I chuckle. “I looked after them for a while, and when the assignment . . . ended, I was given a new one. Nineteen across is kismet,” I add quickly, taking the last empty chair at the table. “Six–letter word for fate? Kismet.”

  “Here,” Ford says. “Knock yourself out.” He slides the newspaper my way, rolling the pen across the table’s smooth, wooden surface. “So if it is all random, does that make death like a giant employment agency or something? Because there’s all sorts of stuff written about ghosts hanging around old houses and rattling chains just to scare people, and you guys aren’t anything like that. What about other ghost stuff? I saw what Tucker did last night. Can you all do that?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Ghost stuff! Can you walk through walls, you know, like they do in the movies?”

  I groan. “Phasing and disappearing is a given.” I begin slowly. “We’re all capable of that. It makes keeping up with our assignments a lot easier. Physical human contact is impossible. Even if we wanted to, we can’t. We simply float through them. Mostly we try to avoid it. We can hold on to or touch an object, but only for a limited amount of time, rarely more than a few minutes.” His eyes narrow and I can tell he’s having a difficult time understanding. “Don’t worry,” I tell him. “It took me a while to catch on, too. And let me just say that Mr. Magic here is the only person I’ve met with his particular ability.” I throw an accusing finger at Tuck.

  “How’d you get lucky enough to swing that?” he asks. I roll my eyes at his poor choice of words. “Okay, maybe not lucky. But come on. You have to admit. That is pretty sweet. How did you get it?”

  I lean forward in my chair, anxious to hear the answer to this as well. Tuck takes a minute before answering. “I died saving someone I cared about. And this,” he flicks a single finger and instantly every cabinet in the kitchen swings opens on it’s hinges, “was my reward.” He doesn’t elaborate and neither of us push him.

  “Alright,” Ford says after another minute of awkward silence. “Good story, man.” He turns his attention on me. “So what about you? Similar outcome?”

  “Not quite. I was placed as a Guardian after those in charge categorized my death as ’untimely’. Prince Charming here,” I say, nodding to Tuck who tips an invisible hat, “was, after much discussion between the Captain and the Elders, promoted to be my partner.”

  “Boss,” Tuck coughs into his hand.

  “The Elders?” Ford asks.

  “The people in charge.”

  “So this,” Ford waves his hands at the pair of us, “this is normal?”

  “Hardly. Being seen is a first for any of our kind,” Tuck explains. “We have no idea why, but it makes you extremely fortunate if you ask me.”

  “Fortunate?” Ford asks, his tone the slightest bit doubtful.

  “Not only do you now know to watch out for yourself, you can also communicate with us if something goes wrong. You can tell us what’s going on, and we can figure out what’s trying to hurt you before it actually does. There’s no way this won’t end well. All we have to do is work together. Because together we’re strong, but divided—”

  “—I die,” Ford finishes for him.

  “Hey, wha
t’s a two–word phrase of Spanish affection?” I say, completely oblivious to their previous conversation. “Five letters, ends in O.”

  “Te amo,” Tuck answers quietly.

  I keep my eyes fixed on the newspaper, counting the number of spaces. “It fits!”

  I stare down at the virtually finished puzzle. If only everything were as neat and structured as the crossword in my hands. Numbered, ordered, small squares of nothing but questions and answers. But it isn’t, and no matter how many times I might wish, my existence will never be as simple as I want. It’s murky and smudged and smothered in a constant cloud of uncertainty. There’s no hoping for something better. No prospect of stability. Sitting at this small kitchen table, between a boy I must fight to keep alive and a friend I never knew I had, I realize, you don’t always get to choose where you end up, but you hold on tight and do the best you can, because it’s what you have to do to get by.

  And for now, getting by is the best I can do.

  Ford leans back in his chair, flipping through the stack of mail his Gran has left for him. He tosses aside bills and coupons that are of no concern, stopping the moment he reaches a thick envelope, pausing only to read the name penciled across the front. BENDEDICT FORD. With a shrug he tears it open, withdrawing from it a single sheet of paper.

  I don’t understand at first, what has happened or why the smile has slipped from his face. I’m far too engrossed in the puzzle. Yet his hands begin to shake, rattling the paper back and forth as his large, brown eyes grow wide. Tuck is a blur as he hastens to his side of the table, staring down at whatever has caused Ford such immediate fear. With a look of apprehension, he beckons me with a crook of his finger.

  I’m at his side in a flash. Ford holds a photo of himself, black and white, his expression vague though smiling, obviously taken from the yearbook and blown to a larger size. But something is missing. His eyes, specifically. They’ve been gouged out, poked through by something sharp, leaving the sockets torn and empty. A single line of color, scarlet red against the gray, decorates his throat, drawn over his neck like a gruesome smile. There is no mistaking the rage that guided the hand and tore through his face, and only one explanation behind it.