How Not to Spend Your Senior Year (12 page)

“Probably,” I said. “Something tells me you're willing to overlook that fact, though.”

“And here I thought I was a man of mystery.”

I decided to let that one slide.

Mark braked to allow a pedestrian to cross the street, then negotiated a corner. It was a point in his favor that he wasn't one of those guys who thought he could impress a girl by flashy driving.

“So,” I said as the car began to pick up speed. We were traveling along a main arterial that bordered the water now. “Are you going to give me that advice or aren't you?”

“Well, since you asked . . . ”

I laughed before I could stop myself. “You're a pain. You know that, London?”

“Of course I know it,” he said. “My parents tell me so all the time. It's just that I was thinking it might be easiest to do the hard stuff first when you get to Beacon.”

Like any of it is going to be easy,
I thought. But then, I did face challenges he didn't know about.

“What do you mean, the hard stuff?”

“The hardest interviews,” he said. “The boyfriend, Alex Crawford. And the best friend—What was her name?”

“Elaine,” I said. “Elaine Golden.”

“That's good,” he nodded. “You're right there with that name.”

“I did some homework over the weekend,” I answered shortly. “You're not the only one who likes to do a good job, you know. Why do you think I should do those interviews first?”

“So you won't let the potential freak
factor of doing them at all get blown out of proportion. I'll bet you're already worried about them, aren't you?”

“What if I am?”

“You see?” Mark said. “There you go. Defensive already. That's why you should do the hard ones right off. The freak factor will plummet, and it'll be easier to focus on the overall assignment.”

It was good advice, I had to admit.

“Thanks,” I said. “That's good advice, and I'll keep it in mind.”

Surprise flickered across his face.
He didn't expect me to admit he'd been right,
I thought. For some reason, this made me like him a little better.

“Don't mention it,” Mark said.

“I do have a question, though,” I continued as he pulled into the Beacon High parking lot.

“Shoot,” Mark said.

“How come you're being so nice to me all of a sudden?”

He gave a bark of surprised laughter. “Hey,” he protested. “I can be nice.”

“Okay,” I said agreeably. “But why
are
you?”

He was silent for a moment. He switched off the car, pulled the keys from the ignition, then, suddenly serious, turned toward me.

“Let's just say I'm returning the favor.”

“When did I do you a favor?” I asked.

“Last week. That thing about not finding anything wrong with my article.”

“I didn't do anything,” I said. “There was nothing to find.”

“Exactly,” Mark said. “But you didn't pretend there was. That's what Shawna always does. She . . . ” Abruptly frustrated, he ran his hand through his hair. “I'm trying to think of a way to say this that doesn't make me sound completely full of myself.”

“You may as well stop trying,” I suggested. “I already think that.”

He expelled a quick breath and shook his head as if chastising himself for giving me the opening.

“Are you sure you're not a kindergartner? You've got all the makings of a first-class brat.”

I smiled sweetly. “Thanks so much.”

He pulled in a breath. “See, here's the
deal,” he said. “I'm good at what I do on the paper. I
want
to be good at it. Being a journalist is what I want to be when I grow up. Some people have a hard time with that. They think I want to be good to show them up, when the truth is, it doesn't have anything to do with them at all.”

“So they try to prove you're not as good as you think you are,” I filled in softly.

Mark nodded. “But you didn't do that,” he said. “Instead, you did your assignment. I appreciate that, and I figured it meant I owed you one. Hence, the giving of advice.”

“So few people actually use the word hence in conversation these days,” I said. “It's kind of nice to meet a guy who doesn't regard English as a second language, even when it's his first.”

Mark laughed again, the sound open and delighted. “You know what, Calloway? You just may be all right.”

“Save it,” I said with a laugh of my own as I opened the car door and got out. “Advice I may take. Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“Who says it was flattery?” Mark inquired, getting out in his turn.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“What does it look like I'm doing? I'm getting out of the car.”

“I can see that,” I said. “Why?”

“So I can walk you to the office and see what kind of reaction you get,” Mark said simply, his eyes dancing with wicked laughter. “Why else do you think I offered you a ride in the first place?”

I should have known,
I thought.

“London, I can't believe you are such a jerk.”

“That's only because you barely know me, Calloway,” he said as he came around to my side of the car. “We can fix that.” Before I knew quite what he intended, he reached down and captured my hand.

“You know, I think I might want to hold onto this after all.”

I gave my hand a jerk, but Mark held on tight. “This is not funny, Mark,” I said. “Let go.”

“Excuse me, did I hear you say Calloway?” a voice behind me suddenly asked.

For one split second, every single cell in my body simply froze. I barely even
noticed that Mark London let go of my hand. Slowly I turned to face the person who'd spoken. That voice I'd have recognized anywhere.

“That's right,” I said, pleased when my own voice came out clearly and steadily. “I'm Claire Calloway. I'm here from the Royer paper for the journalism exchange.”

“Welcome to Beacon, Claire.”

I looked up at him then. I could see his eyes widen in surprise as he took in my face, but it didn't stop him from extending his hand. A thing he'd done once before. The day we'd first met. The day I'd fallen in love with him.

“I'm student body president Alex Crawford.”

You may as well stop wondering how I made it through the next few minutes. I can explain it in four words.

I do not know.

To this day it's all some bizarre and slightly painful blur, like swimming in a heavily chlorinated pool with your eyes open but without your goggles.

I'm pretty sure the obvious must have happened. I introduced Mark to Alex, and Alex to Mark. Then, promising to meet me in front of the school later that afternoon, Mark headed back to Royer. I have a vague recollection of him gunning the engine and of tires squealing as he pulled out of the
parking lot. But by then I was well on my way to being in the grip of déjà vu. Once again I was arriving at Beacon as a “new” student, and Alex was showing me around.

The weekly student council meeting would be our first stop, Alex informed me as we made our way through campus gathering more than our fair share of stares as we went along. Though it could hardly be considered a part of every student's curriculum, the editor of the Beacon paper had thought the council meeting might be an event that I would like to cover.

The purpose of the meeting was to consider the various memorials proposed for recently deceased Beacon student Jo O'Connor.

“Before the meeting starts, there's something I think you should know, Claire,” Alex said as we approached the classroom where, unbeknownst to Alex, I knew perfectly well the student council meetings were always held. He hesitated a moment, as if uncertain how to continue.

He's trying to figure out how to tell me I look just like his dead almost-girlfriend,
I thought.

“You may have noticed we got some
strange looks as we came across campus,” Alex went on.

“Yes, I did. Look, Alex,” I said quickly. His name felt strange inside my mouth. “In all fairness, I think you should know that I'm aware that I . . . somewhat resemble Jo O'Connor. My editor at Royer pointed it out.

“I'm hoping nobody here will find the fact that I look like Jo too disturbing. I don't want to make anyone more upset than they already are. And I . . . ”

Just say it,
I thought.

“I know the two of you were close. Before we go any further, I want to say I'm sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you,” Alex said simply. “And I'm glad you already know. I was trying to figure out how to break it to you gently, I admit.”

He gave me a somewhat ragged smile.

All of a sudden I felt like a total creep. I probably would have come clean right then and there if it hadn't been for the fact that doing so would have endangered my father.

“Thanks for being so nice about it,” I
said. At this, Alex seemed to relax. He actually gave a chuckle.

“It's not as if you can help it,” he said. He opened the door to the student council room. “After you.”

“It is now official,” I declared. “I am no longer living in the Twilight Zone. I am way past that. I've moved on to the Outer Limits.”

“The outer limits of what?” Elaine asked.

“When I get there, I'll let you know.”

It was late Friday afternoon, the end of my first week back at Beacon. By prior arrangement the day before, Elaine and I had met after school. We were doing the grocery shopping. With my father confined to the apartment, a lot of extra errands that he had taken care of were now falling to me.

As if I needed my life to be any more complicated.

Though we'd deliberately selected a store between our two neighborhoods, I had my notebook out as Elaine and I marched up and down the aisles. You never knew who you'd run into. If anyone saw us
together, I could always claim I was conducting an interview.

One more.

In the week I'd been back, I'd already conducted what felt like about six thousand. The number of people wanting to talk about Jo O'Connor, or, more specifically, her ghost, had been nothing short of astonishing.

Actually it was really starting to creep me out and depress me, all at the same time. People actually
wanted
there to be a ghost. As far as I could tell, the fact that she'd died and come back from the dead was the thing people found most interesting about Jo O'Connor.

And then there were the memorials. The list up for discussion at Monday morning's student council session had contained ten ideas. By unanimous vote, the council had approved every single one of them.

One of the seats in the Little Theater already bore a plaque with my name. The botany club was busy with a Jo O'Connor Memorial Herb Garden, the centerpiece of which would be a letter J comprised entirely of rosemary plants.

Rosemary. That's for remembrance, in case you've forgotten. The reader board outside the school, which announced important activities for all to see, soon would bear my name. As would yet another plaque, this one at the base of the flagpole.

My favorite mid-morning treat at the snack bar, a chocolate donut and a Coke, was now called Jo's Special.

When I wasn't counting my blessings that no one had, as of yet, proposed to name one of the girls' bathrooms after me, or, even worse, one of the actual stalls, I was tearing my hair out over the fact that, in perpetuity throughout the universe, incoming senior chemistry students would be performing an experiment in my name. One involving chemicals that smelled just plain awful. Though I did appreciate the fact that my name wasn't attached to any of the biology dissections.

Yet.

“I just don't get it,” I said as I tossed a bag of my favorite corn chips into the shopping cart. “So maybe I wasn't that high profile when I was a student here,” I said. “But am I really more interesting dead than alive?”

“You don't seriously expect me to answer that, do you?” Elaine said.

“Yes. No. I don't know. I mean, don't get me wrong. I'm really touched that people want to remember me. It just all feels so unreal, somehow.”

“Well, there is that part about Jo not really being dead.”

“Elaine,” I hissed. “Not so loud!”

“I just don't know what you're complaining about,” Elaine hissed back.

“I'm not complaining,” I said. I pulled open the cold case and added a carton of milk and a large container of low-fat raspberry yogurt to the cart. I was so upset, I almost shut the door on my hair.

“I'm just trying to say that none of the memorials feels like it's really about Jo O'Connor. I mean when she was alive. It's all about the ghost.

“Do you know why they're putting a bench in the herb garden? So Jo's ghost will have a congenial place to sit when she visits the campus. Suzy Neptune actually said that, right out loud.”