Dead Girl in Love

already seen most of her clothes, but it still felt strange to view them through her eyes. She rebelled against popular brands and trends by wearing only natural fabrics in bruised shades of blacks, blues, and browns — except when it came to shoes. Blessed with model-perfect feet, Alyce sought out stylish vintage shoes at antique shops: gold sandals, knee-high patent-leather boots, 70s platforms, etc. At school, kids would walk by with snooty expressions denouncing her as a “Goth Loser”—until they noticed her shoes. Then they’d slow down to stare, maybe even drool a little; scorn was replaced with envy. Once even Miss Popularity-Plus, Jessica Bradley, stopped to ask where Alyce had brought her 80s leather-slouch pirate boots. But Alyce ignored the question and strode past Jessica, her own scorn intact.

I had to embrace my inner scorn to think like Alyce, I told myself. But I also needed to open up to the possibility that Zachary could be her Mr. Right. If so, I had to show him the authentic Alyce; the quirky, caring, thoughtful side of Alyce that only a trusted few ever saw. This meant putting my personal opinions about Zachary aside.

If only I was more experienced with dating! Then I could just relax and go out without getting all nervous and overthinking everything. I hadn’t officially gone out on a date since … well, ever. Not even with Eli due to the whole body-switch thing.

Staring hopelessly into Alyce’s closet, I knew I was in over my head. How could I get through a date when I couldn’t even decide what to wear? It would help to know where Zachary was taking me. Should I dress for dinner, an outdoor concert, or disco bowling? Why hadn’t Dustin included that in his message? When I tried calling him back, he didn’t pick up — not a good sign, considering his radical behavior at protests. If he’d been arrested and his phone confiscated, I might not hear back for hours.

I chose two potential outfits: casual chic with bleached jeans, or a pleated, gypsy-styled shirt under a velvet jacket. Both were on the tame side of Alyce’s personality, but it was the best I could do without actually asking her.

Unless I could ask her …

This traitorous thought snaked through my mind as I remembered my conversation with Gabe. Before he’d left, he’d given me his cell number. If I told him I’d changed my mind about wanting to learn his secrets, I could mind-connect with my Host Soul and have a real conversation with Alyce.

That would be sooo great.

But wrong.

Only how wrong could it be to want to help my best friend? If I talked to Alyce, she could tell me which guy she preferred. This was her love life, after all, so it was only fair she had a say in what happened. Then I’d solve her crisis and become the best Temp Lifer ever … or get kicked out of the program for breaking the rules.

What I couldn’t figure out was why, if contacting Alyce was so easy, Grammy hadn’t told me how to do it. She must have a good reason — although I couldn’t think of one. What it came down to was the question of who I trusted more. A fugitive Dark Lifer I’d just met or the grandmother who’d loved and supported me my whole life.

A no-brainer.

With this decision made, I left Alyce’s room and finally headed for the kitchen to get some lunch. (I’ll admit it — I’m a foodie, no matter whose body I inhabit.) And a short while later, I carried out a steaming soup dish, a grilled cheese sandwich, and a glass of milk, arranging everything on the coffee table that often doubled as a dining table.

Glancing at the clock, I calculated that I had at least three hours before Mrs. Perfetti returned from work. I knew she wouldn’t like the idea of Alyce going out on a date, so I wouldn’t tell her. I’d leave a note saying I was helping Dustin with a project. Mrs. Perfetti actually approved of Dustin while she only tolerated me (Amber). Go figure.

Before things got crazy (which I was sure they would), I figured I might as well relax. Turning on the TV, I surfed channels, eager to catch up on the latest Hollywood buzz.

I listened to the latest on Angelina, Brad, and Britney, always impressed at the job their “people” were doing to make them newsworthy. Bad behavior scored way higher in the ratings than sainthood. I could learn so much from those master agents, wishing for the umpteenth time they taught Hollywood 101 subjects in high school. Instead, the best I could hope for was an internship while I went to college. I’d already been accepted, with scholarship, to a California State University of my choice, and Alyce and I were planning to share a dorm room if we got into the same schools. Alyce’s grades weren’t always the best, since she only bothered with assignments from classes she liked, but she had a lot going for her. I was confident she’d receive acceptance letters soon.

Abruptly, my daydreams were jerked back to reality — reality TV, to be exact.

Ryan Seacrest was making a lame joke about American Idol copycats. The scene cut to a stage, and there on the TV screen was Eli. He looked so wonderfully the same, yet different, too. His hair, which was usually unruly with a strand falling across his eyes, was jelled and spiked like a hardcore rocker. He wore a black leather jacket over a ripped white shirt, along with a heavy belt of chains, gold studs in his ears, and glitter eye shadow. My boyfriend was wearing makeup! OMG!

A twenty-something reporter wearing a formal blazer over western jeans shoved a microphone in Eli’s face. “The Voice Choice competition is heating up and only the final three will be left after tonight!” the reporter exclaimed, with a huge smile for the camera. “Anything you care to say to your fans?”

“Not really … just thanks … I guess.” His shy smile broadcasted straight to my heart.

“So Rocky,” the reporter asked. “Who do you think is going home?”

It was weird hearing him called “Rocky” but kind of funny, too, since he looked more like the boy next door than a rugged Rocky.

“Me, of course,” Eli answered. “My competitors are all so talented, I can’t imagine any of them being eliminated.”

“Humble is today’s cool! You’re one rockin’ dude.” The reporter flashed his pearly whites at the camera again, then returned to Eli. “You’re doing great and are developing quite a fan following. Let’s give a shout-out to your fan club — the Rocky-ettes!”

At this question, the camera panned to an audience of girls who jumped up waving signs. They read: ROCKY ROCKS! LOVE YOU ROCKY! and NICE GUYS FINISH FIRST! Then riotous shouting erupted — girls screaming and crying like they were in pain. I might have been jealous if Eli’s adoring fans looked old enough to be in high school, but since they weren’t, I thought it was sweet.

“Rocky, what song will you be singing tonight?” the reporter continued.

Eli shrugged. “We haven’t decided.”

“We?” I wondered at his use of plural — like he wasn’t thinking for himself anymore but had “people” who did it for him. But he couldn’t possibly have “people” yet — and when he did, I was the entertainment agent for him.

“So tell me honestly, Rocky, are the rumors about you and a certain young lady true?” The reporter’s black brows arched up into sharp points like little temples of curiosity.

“Don’t answer!” Jumping off the couch, I shouted at the TV screen. “Don’t say anything about us!”

Eli shook his head. “There’s nothing to tell.”

I blew out a huge sigh of relief. My life — or Grammy’s, depending on the body situation on Monday — was complicated enough without being the buzz topic when I returned to school. While I wanted to have a famous reputation as a top agent someday, I did not want my love life broadcast in public.

“That’s not what I hear,” the reporter wheedled. “Come on, Rocky, just between us”—and thousands of viewers, I thought—“tell me about her.”

Eli shook his head again, his blush so bright that his ears looked like they were on fire. “I really … um … can’t.”

“Don’t be modest — you can brag a little! From what your friends tell me, you have the real thing going on. It’s not often you meet a gorgeous girl with talent and brains.”

Now I was blushing. What had Eli told his new friends about me?

“I don’t really … ” Eli tried to back away but the predatory reporter aimed the microphone like a loaded weapon.

“Come on, I already know who she is and your fans suspect — it’s impossible to keep a showmance a secret