Dead Girl Walking

“I’m not crazy. I’m in trouble … and running out of time. At least take a message to someone for me.”

“If you mean Chad, forget it. The way you jerk guys around like dogs on a chain makes me want to puke. I don’t know why a sweet guy like Chad puts up with you. I was out of my mind earlier, sneaking him in and risking my job.”

“You can always get another job.”

“Says who?” Her dangling braid snapped like a whip as she shook her head. “My man and I got it good here. We don’t want any problems. Jobs like this might not seem much to you, but Luis and I like it. So I’m doing exactly what Mr. Montgomery says. No more breaking the rules.”

“But I don’t belong here …” My word trailed off. Anything I said would only sound more crazy. Angie’s narrowed dark eyes confirmed that she wasn’t going to help. Leah may have popularity-plus at school, but not at home.

There had to be someone in this house who would help. What about Leah’s mother? When she’d visited the hospital, she’d seemed to genuinely love her daughter.

“Could you at least tell Mrs … my mother … that I’d like to see her?”

Angie shook her head. “She’s not here.”

I didn’t believe her. “Where is she?”

“At one of those meetings.”

“Meetings?” I questioned.

Angie answered by cupping her hand and bringing it to her mouth. As she turned to leave, she gave me a scathing look, like I was the most pathetic person in the world.

Before she reached the door, keys jangling in her hand, Angie touched her palm to her head and swore under her breath. “I almost forgot. Here.” She withdrew a folded paper from a pocket and thrust it at me.

My fingers closed around the paper. The door banged shut accompanied by the sound of locks clicking. I didn’t make any move to read the paper, Angie’s words sinking in. Just like that, I knew what she’d meant by “meetings” and her hand-mouth gesture.

Drinking.

Leah’s mother was an alcoholic. And the meetings were Alcoholics Anonymous. So that was the “badly kept secret” Mr. Montgomery referred to, and the reason his wife didn’t accompany him to social events. Taking his daughter instead might be normal in ultra-rich society but, combined with that butt slap, reeked of inappropriate behavior to me. Way too much dysfunction going on around here.

The paper Angie had given me rustled in my hand. I bit my lip, hoping it had nothing to do with doctors, medication, or Botox. It was worse, I realized with a groan. I found a daily exercise schedule that included swimming laps, lifting weights, and working out for an hour on gym equipment. I mentally tallied the time: two hours of exercise a day. One hour would be torture. Two hours was insane! I’d never survive.

And if I stayed here, my real body had zero chance of survival.

But there wasn’t any way for me to leave, and it was hard to ignore the appetizing smells wafting from the silver tray. I had this motto that helped me deal with life’s disappointments: When all else fails: Eat. So I lifted the shiny lid, my mouth watering at the sight of grilled lemon chicken, steamed carrots and broccoli, and a potato. Kind of low-cal for my taste, but I was too beyond starving to act picky.

As I chewed, I thought longingly of noisy dinners at home surrounded by triple high chairs and my sisters flinging food. Or all the times Dustin, Alyce and I pigged out on cheeseburgers at Grumpy’s Grill and I’d laugh when Dustin pretended to get mad because I’d swiped some of his French fries. Also there was that chocolicious meeting with that boy, Eli, over the dessert buffet. Food was a primal connection that linked me to life — my real life. And I’d do anything to get it all back (my life, that is, not more food … although food was always good).

Unfortunately, I was out of options. Being trapped in this room was as frustrating as being trapped in this body.

There was no way out.

Or was there?

I thought about how I’d gotten into this mess. I’d heard the screech of tires but I never felt the crash. Bright warm light had rescued me, welcomed me, and I had been somewhere else, far from anything physical, floating toward the outstretched arms of my beloved grandmother. Locks and doors didn’t matter where Grammy was. I was sure she didn’t know I was in trouble now, or she would come to help. Cola might tell her … or he might not. I’d have to do it myself.

Maybe there was another way out.

All I had to do was die.

Again.

15

There’s this quote about living being hard and dying being easy.

Ha! Not for me. Sure, living had its problems, but dying was damned hard. My princess prison lacked any obvious means of self-destruction. No knife, gun, pills or poisonous gas. Not that I’d have the nerve to stab, shoot or gas myself. Way too violent. Besides, I only wanted to die a little. Long enough for an out-of-body trip to Grandma and Cola, then back again — but into the right body.

Desperation short-circuited my thoughts, numbing my emotions and logic so that anything seemed possible. I couldn’t sit around doing nothing until it was too late to save my real body. A temporary death wouldn’t be suicide — more like a quickie visit with Grammy. I was confident she would make sure I landed in my real body this time.

So I spent the rest of the day planning my death.

Method was my first challenge.

After searching Leah’s drawers and closet, the most dangerous thing I could find was a silk belt. Death by fashion accessory … hmm, would it work? A belt could make a nifty noose — but was silk sturdy enough? I twisted it into a loop and fitted it around my neck, but I was never good with knots and it kept slipping over my head. I tried a few other belts, but gave up on this idea because I couldn’t find anything solid in the ceiling to hang a belt over, anyway.

How about asphyxiation? Mom was always bugging me to toss plastic bags away so the triplets wouldn’t suffocate. This wasn’t a bad method, because it wouldn’t scar and I’d black out before it hurt too badly. But I couldn’t find a plastic bag — only some trendy cloth bags with name-brand logos. I guess rich folks didn’t have to choose “paper” or “plastic,” just opted for designer carry bags.

Running out of ideas fast, I went into the adjoining bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. The glass shelves were empty except for toothpaste and vitamins.

Then I noticed a razor.

Carefully, I plucked the silver-sharp blade from the razor, squatted on the cool tile floor, and aimed the blade over my wrist.

My fingers trembled. I hesitated … would it hurt a lot?

A lot. And I really, really, really hated pain.

Besides, wrist-slashing wasn’t easy. I’d seen this news report and they said how slashing your wrists was a bad cliche and usually done wrong. It only worked if you cut horizontally … or was it vertically? Which one was right? Frankly, I just wanted to forget the whole horrible idea.

Don’t wimp out, I told myself. Think of family, friends, and going home.

Besides, with Grammy on my side (and the Other Side), what could go wrong?

I ran through a mental checklist of my plan:

Cut, bleed, and as I felt myself losing consciousness, I’d scream bloody murder (was that a pun?) to insure that someone found me ASAP. Okay, so this wasn’t a great plan. There was too much room for error. But I couldn’t