How Not to Spend Your Senior Year (9 page)

“All right, all right, you don't have to get all pushy about it.”

I got to my feet, made a circuit around Alex, jumped down from the stage, and began to stomp my way toward the back of the theater. I was
not
going to start crying again, no matter how much I wanted to.

“Jo,” Elaine suddenly called out.

I stopped, but didn't turn around.

“What?”

“I'm really glad you're not dead.”

I turned back toward her then. In the glare of the stage lights, I could see tears slipping silently down her cheeks.

“Thanks. Me too,” I said.

The last thing I saw before I went back outside was Elaine, bending tenderly over Alex.

“You did
what
?” I all but shouted.

As prearranged, Elaine and I were keeping our rendezvous down at the Market. I'd spent the time in between wandering the downtown area, trying to adjust to my new Claire Calloway persona.

I'd developed a walk for her, stride slightly wider than my own. The boots I was wearing definitely helped with this. Head down, so that my hair fell forward. I also tried out a variety of ways she might speak, finally settling on the “when in doubt, use a big word to sound more intellectual” approach.

Somewhat to my surprise, I'd had a
good time. By the time Elaine and I hooked up, I was feeling much calmer. Much more focused. It had been a mistake to try and see Alex. I could see that now. I couldn't take the action back. But I could do my best to move forward. Surely the worst that could happen already had.

How
Not
to Spend Your Senior Year,
Rule #2:
Always expect the Spanish Inquisition,
no matter what anyone else does.

When he came to, Elaine told Alex he'd been visited by Jo O'Connor's ghost.

“I just don't get why you'd do such a thing,” I said now.

“Well, gee, let me think,” Elaine said, her tone defensive. “How about, because it seemed like the best idea at the time? It was Alex's idea, as a matter of fact.”

“You are such a liar,” I said. “It was not.”

“I am not, and it was too,” Elaine came right back. “Alex's first words after he woke up were something like, ‘Did you see her?' so naturally I asked, ‘Did I see who?' I wasn't going to admit I'd seen you until
he did. Maybe he'd hit his head and had amnesia or something. How was I suppose to know?”

“Then what did he say?”

“Nothing,” Elaine answered. “Not for a minute or two, anyhow. Then he looked me right in the eye and said he thought he must be more upset over your death than even he had realized. I asked him why. That was when he told me he thought he'd just seen your ghost.

“It took me about five minutes to convince him not to go straight to one of the special grief counselors the school brought in. That really would have blown the whole thing sky high.”

“Thanks,” I said as a huge pang of guilt swept through me. Grief counselors. For me. When I was still among the living.

“Don't mention it,” Elaine replied. I could tell from her tone of voice that she was still a little miffed.

“No, really, I mean it,” I went on. “Trying to go back and see Alex was a big mistake. I admit it. You performed damage control above and beyond the call of duty, particularly considering you didn't know
what was going on. I want you to know I really appreciate it.”

“I
still
don't know what's going on,” Elaine reminded.

So I told her what I knew. After I'd finished, she was quiet for a really long time.

“You really think your dad's life could be in danger?” she finally asked.

“I honestly don't know,” I said. Together, we watched a ferry glide across Puget Sound. The water and the sky above it were a brilliant blue. After the downpour of yesterday, we were being treated to one of those glorious spring days that make people decide to move here in the first place.

“But he seems to think so, and the detective who's helping us does for sure, so I guess I have to say the answer is yes,” I went on.

Elaine shook her head, as if moving it around would help create the space necessary for all these weird new ideas to fit inside.

“So, maybe Alex thinking he saw your ghost will turn out to be a good thing,” she suggested. “I mean, he's hardly likely to
mention it to anyone, right? He'd be laughed right off all his various sports teams, not to mention removed from the student council in the blink of an eye. Big Men on Campus cannot be emotionally unstable. I think it's a rule.”

“All very good points.”

“So I guess you're sorry now you gave me such a hard time.”

“Maybe I am,” I said.

Elaine smiled. “So where are they sending you instead of Beacon?

“Royer,” I replied.

“What's it like?”

“Ask me next week. By then I may have actually gone inside.”

“What happens if the school calls your dad about today?”

I moaned and put my head in my hands. “I keep thinking this can't get any worse, and then it does. I never even thought of that.”

Elaine laid a consoling hand on my shoulder. “It'll be all right,” she said. “Isn't that what you told me?”

“I did,” I said. “Guess it's time I started to believe it myself, huh? It just feels so
weird. I've had to start over before, but never as someone else.”

“Hey, I just thought of something,” Elaine said. “What am I supposed to call you? You're not still Jo O'Connor, are you?”

“Elaine Golden, meet Claire Calloway,” I said as I extended my hand. Obligingly, Elaine shook it.

“Calloway, that's kind of cool,” she said. “Did you choose that because of the house?”

“Actually, Calloway was my mother's maiden name,” I confessed.

Elaine's eyes widened. “Oh, wow,” she said. “Is that weird or what? What if you're related to Old Mrs. Calloway?”

“I've wondered that myself.”

Under her breath, Elaine began to hum the theme from
The Twilight Zone
. Though I might not have recognized it if I hadn't previously heard her attempt to carry a tune. Elaine is about as musical as a tree stump.

“Okay, that's it,” I announced as I stood up suddenly. “If you're singing, I'm outta here.”

“I was not singing,” Elaine said, scrambling up after me. “I was humming. There's a difference.”

“Not so long as there's a tune involved.”

“Wait a minute,” she said. “Jo—”

“Claire,” I corrected. “Claire Calloway.”

“Claire,” Elaine said. “Tell me how we're going to stay in touch. You can't just show up, then disappear again. That's incredibly unfair, not to mention unacceptable.”

“How about a secret phone signal or something?” I suggested. “I'll call, let it ring twice, then hang up. That'll be the signal that it's me. Then I'll call back and you can pick up. If you don't, I'll hang up without saying anything. I'll probably have to use a pay phone. They took away my cell.”

“All the better,” Elaine said. “That way we don't have to worry about caller I.D.”

How did genuine fugitives manage?
I suddenly wondered.

“How come you know about all this stuff?”

Elaine gave a sudden grin. “Must have been all those secret decoder rings I had when
I was a child. Okay, so, go to Royer tomorrow, then call me and tell me how it goes. It's Dennis's night to pick what's on TV. Chances are, he won't even hear the phone.”

“Okay,” I said. “I'll try.”

“Don't try.
Do it,
” Elaine said. “Now go on, you'll miss your bus.”

All of a sudden, I realized how much I didn't want to do it. Being Claire Calloway was a whole lot easier when Elaine was around.

“Keep an eye on Alex for me, will you?” I asked, in a feeble attempt to stall.

“Two eyes,” Elaine said. “As often as I can spare them.”

“Ha ha. Very funny. Elaine, I—”

“Don't,” she said abruptly, holding up a hand. “Don't you dare say good-bye. Just call me Friday night.”

Since I didn't seem to be capable of departing, Elaine was the one who turned to go. She got all of about ten paces before she turned back.

“Oh, by the way, Claire,” she called.

“What?”

“Nice look.”

For the first time that day, I smiled.

“Oh, yes, Claire Calloway,” the journalism teacher, Mr. Hanlon, said. “We expected you yesterday morning.”

“I apologize,” I said. “I was delayed.”

“Well,” Mr. Hanlon said after a moment, when it became plain that this was the extent of the explanation I planned to offer. “You're here now. That's what counts. How are you at copyediting?”

“Proficient but not foolproof.”

“I think that will do,” Mr. Hanlon said with just the hint of a smile. He pointed across the room to a slightly round guy in jeans and a striped shirt. “Go see Rob.”

It was my third period as Claire
Calloway, newest student at Royer High. So far, things were going well, if I didn't count the fact that, for some unknown reason, my glasses kept slipping down my nose. Maybe I'd bent them in all the excitement of yesterday.

I'd begun the day by catching my very first break. The school did phone to verify that Claire Calloway would, indeed, be starting classes, but my dad was in the shower and I was the one who picked up the phone. I'd apologized for the mix-up in dates, assured the school secretary I would be present that day, then asked for her name so I could thank her in person when I arrived.

Jo O'Connor never would have done this. But it seemed to fit Claire Calloway's personality nicely.

The first part of the day had been devoted to the usual new school details. Locate the locker. Fumble with the combination. Figure out where the classrooms are. This was more difficult for Claire than it had ever been for Jo. She hadn't had the chance to commit the school layout to memory ahead of time.

By the time I hit third period and journalism, though, I was feeling pretty good. I was beginning to know my way around. Claire Calloway wasn't attracting too much attention, and nobody at Royer seemed to even know who Jo O'Connor was.

Settling my big, black bag more securely on my shoulder, I set off across the room to face my newest challenge. Introducing myself to Rob.

Even from across the room Rob reminded me of the human version of a tea kettle. Slightly round and sputtering, apparently about to boil.

“I do not have
time
for this,” he wailed, waving a sheaf of papers in the air as I wove my way between the desks. “How
dare
Shawna be out sick today. Doesn't she understand we're on a deadline?”

“I'm sorry to interrupt,” I said. “But are you Rob?”

“Of course I'm Rob,” he sputtered without turning around. “Who else would I be?”

“Well,” I answered in Claire Calloway's slightly prissy, intellectual voice. “Perry White does come to mind.”

Rob spun toward me, his eyes wide. “A mystery woman in black who knows the name of Clark Kent's editor,” he said. “Please tell me your name is Lois Lane.”

“Sorry. Claire Calloway,” I said with a smile as I surreptitiously tried to edge my glasses back up my nose. “Mr. Hanlon asked me to see you. He said something about copyediting?”

“What makes you think you know anything about copyediting?” Rob barked.

Oh, goody. He's testing me,
I thought.

“Experience,” I answered calmly. “Not for a paper, I admit. But my uncle is a researcher.” The substitution in family member rolled easily off my tongue. “I edit his reports all the time. Both he and his clients have always been more than satisfied with my work.”

Oooh. Good job, Claire.

Rob thrust the stack of papers he was holding toward me, pulled a red pen from behind his shirt pocket, and slapped it down on top.

“Pleased to meet you, Claire Calloway,” he said. “You're hired.”

Copyediting is definitely not a task for everyone. Most people would find it pretty boring. You have to know a lot about writing, but you don't actually get to
be
a writer. You double check things like facts, quotes, and foreign word usage. Grammar, punctuation, spelling.

Maybe it was my father's legacy coming out in me, but the truth is, I kind of liked it.

I found an empty desk, settled in, and got to work, ignoring the curious looks of the students around me. There'd be time to concentrate on them later. Right now I needed to focus on winning over Rob.

Over the years I'd edited my dad's reports, I'd developed my own routine. Of course. I'd read first for sense and to see if anything glaringly wrong jumped right out at me. Then I'd read again, more slowly, making corrections as I went along. I'd make a note of anything I thought I needed to look up.