Pretty Little Dead Girls (21 page)

“Thank you!” Bryony had cried, throwing her arms around Syrina. The flowers were nearly knocked loose, and Eddie stepped in quickly to save them.

“You’re welcome!” Syrina answered back, throwing her arms around Bryony.

“I love you,” Bryony said, and wiped her eyes.

“I love you, too.” Syrina cried without any shame whatsoever, and they looked at the flowers and the clouds and each other.

Bryony had never had a sister, but she had one now, and they would never be parted for the remainder of their days, although they did not yet know this. But you, dear reader, are privileged enough to have a brief glimpse of the future, and know this: The future is lovely, and it is spectacular, and it is full of happy things for Bryony and the good friends who have become her family.

“’Sup?” Rikki-Tikki had said to Eddie, and they clapped each other firmly on their backs, and their smiles were wide and as bright as the sky.

Bryony took a step forward. She tucked one of the flowers behind her ear, and tossed the rest onto her father’s casket. They fell soft, bright, and beautiful. The casket became a marvel, and it was exactly as it should be.

“I love you, Daddy. Now you are free and can go wherever you want without being chained to this desert. It has no hold on either of us anymore. I do hope you check in on me from time to time. I think Eddie and I are going to be very happy together.”

Eddie took her hand, and it flashed and glittered and shone. Bryony had decorated it with a delicate yet surprisingly resilient bracelet made of silver stars.

OLIVER BLOOM

by Ryan Johnson

1

Oliver Bloom was born the day his father died, but an hour after. When it was finished and the doctor handed Emily Bloom her son, fresh and new, the joy in her tears mixed with loss, and she knew the worst was over.

2

The Bloom family had never been rich, or had the greenest lawn or the freshest paint on their house, but those who knew them knew, without mistake, that Emily Bloom enjoyed the finest entertainment in town—nightly and for free—at the hands of her husband and his guitar.

When Emily returned home from the hospital, child in arm, and flipped on the lights, it was that beat-up guitar leaning against the couch that made her knees wobble and her eyes burn. She went to the baby’s room—the one she and her husband had spent so many hours preparing, filling with all the laughter and hope they could muster. She swung open the door and placed the baby in the crib they’d toiled to put together and lacquered in excitement.

She left him there to sleep.

She went back downstairs, sat beside the orphaned guitar too afraid to touch the strings, and make it sing painful reminders. She dragged her fingers along the headstock and picked it up carefully, same as the baby.

She locked it away in the back of the closet.

3

Eleven years and eleven days later, while Oliver was amidst a perilous expedition for hidden Christmas presents his mother surely possessed, he came across an old guitar.

From that day forth, Oliver Bloom was the boy who saw life in eighth notes.

4

Oliver played and performed, performed and played, and practiced in between. His fingers bled, they calloused, but through the pain and peeling skin, notes began holding longer, bent further. Melodies gained complexity, and rhythm became nighttime ocean waves bombarded by falling stars.

Beauty, Oliver learned in his room in the night, came after a little bit of ugly.

And sometimes, there just had to be blood.

5

So years in Oliver Bloom’s life passed, through middle school where he spoke with few, to high school, where he spoke to no one.

At lunch he took the money his mother gave him and shoved it into the vending machine, punched the button for the same drink he always had. After that he sat up against the same machine, unconvinced by the sticker warning people died every year when they fell over, and set out on whatever new tune he dreamt of the night before.

In class he couldn’t practice, so he begrudgingly suffered through endless lectures, slideshows, and pop quizzes. He never studied. He never had to. School came naturally, and he was grateful; studying would have adversely affected his more creative exploits.

Days blurred together for Oliver most months—until a fortuitous event occurred: a student moved away, leaving an opening in Music Theory class. Hearing the news he went to the counselor, made a case for himself to be transferred into the newly available seat. He told the cold-faced, bespectacled woman how he languished in French II, how his talents and future would be much behooved by the simple mashing of a few computer keys, freeing him from archaic, uninteresting European culture and thrusting him full speed into the colorful world of academic bliss.

The counselor eventually agreed. With a keystroke, Oliver Bloom’s high school life changed forever.

6

It didn’t happen right away like in the movies, when he walked into class with his guitar slung over his back. Without fanfare he surveyed the room, probably glanced over her once or twice without even noticing. The only empty seat beckoned. He took it and sighed, set down his pack and his father’s guitar.

The teacher walked into class and wasted no time beginning the day’s lesson.

Oliver scribbled notes over the next fifty minutes and understood every word. He wrote melody lines in the margins for fun, and when the teacher walked by, he watched Oliver, nodding. Not impressed, but approving.

The bell rang. Oliver gathered his things.

He saw her.

Half notes swirled in his stomach; a bass clef stuck in his throat.

She glowed, but she didn’t really. She floated, but she didn’t really. Her hair danced while she walked, and it shone.

She was a girl.

No, she was a star—like from outer space. Not the kind in movies.

Oliver gulped down the sensation of drowning. He sat back in his desk, pretended to fumble through his pack for some nonexistent item he desperately needed—anything to make sure she didn’t leave before she—

She left.

Oliver stood, bewildered by the other students, making sure each had been blinded like him.

No one else had noticed.

7

Oliver was wrong; another boy had indeed noticed, and was already several steps ahead.

8

Oliver had never been a large child, but never a small one either; he was just the right size for a boy with no ambition to participate in activities where brute strength was a factor. This should be noted for later.

9

It was another week before Oliver finally gathered his courage and sat next to her. “Hi,” he almost whispered.

“Hello,” replied the girl.

“I’m Oliver.”

“Hello, Olly.”

“Oliver.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, Olly,” the girl replied with a surprising amount of terseness.

Oliver frowned, dug his pencil into his desk. “Well? What’s
your
name?”

The girl leafed through some papers, didn’t bother looking at him when she answered, “Why would you want to know that?”

Oliver blinked. Did people really ask questions like that? He’d figured out girls were weird.
This
was different.

But her eyes—they were worth some weird. He kept on. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“There are reasons not to want to know me.”

Oliver flashed the most dashing smile he could. “I can’t imagine one.”

“Oh?” sighed the girl, and she stopped leafing through those papers long enough to look at him.

Oliver’s heart froze. There was that feeling again: She wasn’t a girl, she was more than that. She’d be the reason he’d do something incredible, or at least something stupid. There was a sadness in her face he couldn’t quite put his finger on, and it made him instantly angry, like he wanted to punch whatever was responsible.

He opened his mouth to say more—the bell cut him off. The girl’s attention snapped to the front of class.

Oliver clenched his teeth and gave up. “I’ll write you a song!” he almost yelled.

She turned, smiled.

It was something. It was a start.

10

Months passed, and somewhere between lectures the Star Girl spoke up, without prompting on Oliver’s part—a new development. “Will you be attending the party Friday night? The one at Teddy’s?”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “No.”

“I am,” she said in a voice like a swirl of colors.

“So am I. Totally.”

11

Oliver hated parties, and not for the obvious reasons: He didn’t think he was better than the others, or smarter, or destined for greater things. Boredom, on the other hand—it weighed upon him. Parties were terrible. And boring.

So boring.

That night classmates got drunk and Oliver watched it happen. They kissed people they wouldn’t want anyone else knowing about the next morning. Terrible music blasted from the hands of a first-time DJ fancying himself a pro.

“This party sucks!” Oliver said, louder than he meant to.

“Of course it does!” replied Donavon Clemons, grabbing on to Oliver’s arm. “Boring, right? Come on, follow me.”

Oliver begrudgingly followed to the driveway. A half dozen boys stood gathered around the car parked there. It must have had an impressive engine, or paint job, or something. Oliver had no idea. It was loud when the key in it turned.

“Oliver!” Teddy Baker called. He barely looked at him and added, “Didn’t think you’d be around.”

“Hey, Teddy.”

“Good party? Having fun?”

“Sure, I mean—”

“Hot girls all over the place, right?”

“I guess.”

Teddy flipped off the stereo, popped out from the driver’s side. “It sucks.”

“Yeah.”

“I know,” nodded Teddy. “Things’ll get interesting. We’re gonna kill her. Tonight.”

“Kill her?”

“Bryony.”

He didn’t have to say the name. Oliver already knew. “They’ll catch you. You and your friends.”

Teddy nodded, “Sure they will, but why’s that matter? Killing a girl meant to be killed. We did a service, you know? Now no one else has to bother with it. We’re heroes—taking one for the team.”

The other boys smiled, nodded at each other in ways that turned Oliver’s stomach.

“She
likes
you, Teddy,” said Oliver.

“Even easier, then.”

“No, I mean, she
really
likes you. Like, you could date her. She’d—”

“
Come on
, Oliver,” sighed Teddy.

Oliver shook his head, let out a sigh of his own. “Where’s it gonna happen?”

Then Teddy smiled. “The desert. The Dead Rocks. Make it a spectacle, you know? Like a movie.”

“Like a movie,” repeated Oliver. “She trusts me.”

“Yep.”

“She’ll go if I take her.”

“That’s what me and the guys were thinking.”

Oliver scanned over the group, saw it in their eyes that they’d killed her already. He took a breath. “Yeah, ok. I’ll see you guys out there. The Dead Rocks?”

“The Dead Rocks.”

12

It wasn’t hard, luring Bryony. “Teddy Baker will be there,” Oliver told her. “Said he wants to ask you something.”

“About . . . the dance?” Her excitement was painful, beautiful the way it burst.

Star Girl.

“That’s the rumor,” Oliver half-smiled. He held open the car door, waved her in.

And like that, they were off to the murder.

13

It was a mistake, stopping too close to the Dead Rocks.

“Oh, look!” The Star Girl gasped. “Do you really think—”

“Quiet!” Oliver snapped back.

She asked three questions that night.

“Why are they carrying sheets?”

Oliver shrugged, bit his tongue. “Making banners, I’d guess. Teddy said he was gonna make it like a movie. Asking you to the dance, I mean.”

“And shovels?”

Oliver cleared his throat. “Heard of the Nazca lines? Things you can’t see until you’re way up high? Like, in a helicopter high. Teddy said he wanted to ask you there
big.
Maybe something like that?”

The Star Girl nodded, understanding.

“What about those barrels? And the fire?”

“Fireworks,” replied Oliver, and even he was surprised at how natural the lie came out.

“Oh.”

Lies were heavy, Oliver learned. They stacked upon each other, until Oliver did the only thing he knew how.

“Wait here,” Oliver said.

He got out of the car.

14

“Hey, Teddy.”

“Olly, what’s up? Where’s Bryony?”

“Back in the car. She thinks you’re gonna ask her to the dance.”

“Classic! We’re almost ready, so get her, huh?”

“Yeah. About that.”

Sometimes there just had to be blood, and Oliver swung with every ounce. His fist connected with Teddy’s face. He felt his knuckles crack; a vision-blurring spark of pain shot up his arm.

A second swing; Oliver didn’t feel anything at all.

The third swing Teddy’s jaw gave way.

“Speak to her again! Say a word to her again! See what happens!” Oliver screamed in Teddy Baker’s bleeding ear.

After that Oliver swung in eighth notes. He lost count how many times.

15

Someone told.

The suspension was supposed to last three days - just the right amount of time for Oliver to finish the song he promised her.

On the third day, he received a letter from school.

Apparently, Teddy Baker’s father wasn’t happy with the way his son’s face looked and he’d made a ruckus.

Apparently, that was enough.

Oliver’s three-day suspension became permanent expulsion.

Oliver changed schools, to one where they didn’t have music classes.

He never saw the Star Girl again.

16

Oliver grew older; he wondered if she was still alive.

He thought she probably was.

THE END?

Not if you dive into Mercedes’ other books:

Nameless: The Darkness Comes
—Luna Masterson sees demons. She has been dealing with the demonic all her life, so when her brother gets tangled up with a demon named Sparkles, ‘Luna the Lunatic’ rolls in on her motorcycle to save the day. Armed with the ability to harm demons, her scathing sarcasm, and a hefty chip on her shoulder, Luna gathers the most unusual of allies, teaming up with a green-eyed heroin addict and a snarky demon ‘of some import.’ After all, outcasts of a feather should stick together . . . even until the end.