Dead Girl in Love

could be brushed away as easily as dust. “Whenever you’re inconsiderate of me, it’s because of that girl.”

“It’s not her fault. I forgot the time.”

“Were you at her house?”

That’s where we usually hung out, so I nodded.

“I called there.” Her bone-thin fingers tapped against the glass top of the coffee table as she breathed in and out a few beats before finishing, “And her father said he didn’t know where either of you were.”

“Oh … well. That must have been when we were out walking.”

“You didn’t answer your cell.”

I glanced down at Monkey Bag, sure I’d find a dozen missed messages from Mrs. Perfetti when I checked Alyce’s phone. “The battery must be dead.”

“Or you purposely didn’t answer because you’d rather talk to your friend than your mother.”

How was I supposed to reply to that? Of course I’d rather be with my best friend. Who wouldn’t? But the truth would only make things worse.

“I’m sorry — I won’t do it again. But right now I’m more concerned with you,” I said in my best contrite voice. “What’s with all the candles?”

“It was so dark … ” Her voice trailed off to a whisper. “But with the candles came flickering flames, and shadows that made me feel less alone.”

It was so strange how her voice and expression changed from angry to vulnerable. Unnerving … and confusing. But I didn’t know her well. Alyce’s mother never pretended to like me, so I avoided being around her.

“You shouldn’t leave me,” she whined. “You know how I worry.”

“There’s nothing to worry about — except choking from all this smoke. Let’s open some windows.”

She nodded, giving me a look like a child seeking approval.

Afterwards, when the air cleared and I could breathe easier, I said I was going to my room and slung Monkey Bag over my shoulder.

“But you only just got home.” Mrs. Perfetti’s voice softened to a whine. “Please stay, baby. I’ve really missed you.”

Her change of tone surprised me. “You have?”

“I’ve been looking forward so much to our evening together. It’s the only time of the day I truly enjoy, and I’m sure you have lots to tell me. I want to hear everything.”

“There really isn’t much.”

“Whatever you say is more interesting than my boring job. Stuck in a cubical inputting computer data eight hours a day, five days a boring week. I left early, then waited to see my special girl. Come here, baby.”

I didn’t want to, but she’d stepped toward me with such a tender look on her face that it would be cruel to ignore her. So I stood still, reminding myself that I was Alyce, not Amber, as Mrs. Perfetti opened her arms wide and swallowed me whole in a tight hug that smelled of peach shampoo and coffee.

“Um … Mom. You’re holding too tight.” I pushed away, trying to come up with an excuse to ditch her. “I should go to my room. I have plans—”

“You certainly do — with me.” She flashed a big grin, her shift of attitude even more confusing than a hundred burning candles.

“I do?”

“All the ingredients are ready in the kitchen.”

“Um … can’t it wait? I have things to do.” I almost used the “homework” excuse until I remembered that it was spring break and school was still out till Monday.

“What’s more important than dinner with your mother?”

My honest reply would be rude. Besides, I was getting hungry and wouldn’t mind being served a home- cooked dinner. I’d had a stressful day and could use some pampering. So I said that eating sounded good.

“Wonderful.” Mrs. Perfetti slipped her arm around my shoulder. “The chicken is thawed, the vegetables washed, and I set out your favorite spices.”

Then Alyce’s mother sent me into the kitchen.

To cook dinner.

* * *

Now, the first thing everyone knows about me (Amber) is that while I love eating, I’m hopeless in the kitchen. The extent of my culinary talent is using a can opener or following microwave instructions. Alyce, on the other hand, has a creative touch that includes gorgeous gift baskets for our school club, photography, and cooking. Alyce often teases me that I’d starve if I had to feed myself.

So when Mrs. Perfetti left me alone in the smallish kitchen with its yellow-tiled counters and dark-wood cabinets, I stared around in horror.

Me, cook? This was like a waking nightmare.

I couldn’t do this on my own and knew only one person who might help. Retrieving Alyce’s cell phone from Monkey Bag, I deleted the nine missed texts (from her mother), then made my call.

Dustin Cole, my second-best friend, was part hacker/geek/activist and liked to plot covert online strikes against “corrupiticians” (as Alyce nicknamed dirty politicians). His bedroom, or “Headquarters” as he called it, was crammed with electronic equipment that hummed and flashed with artificial life. There was no bed, only a couch and a sleeping bag that was usually covered with crumpled papers and snack wrappers.

Dustin’s tone was wary when he heard my voice. “Alyce?”

“Not exactly. Guess again.”

“Don’t tell me you … you’re … ”

“You’re getting warm.”

He groaned. “Amber?”

“And the smart guy wins a prize.”

“It had better be a really good prize, like my own personal communication satellite,” he grumbled. “I need a scorecard to keep up with your body-switches.”

“I’ve only had three — and the first one was an accident.”

“Just stay away from my body — that would not be cool.”

“But I’ve always been curious what it’s like to pee standing up.”

“Convenient but overrated.”

“And it would be interesting to see inside a guys’ locker room.”

“As if I spend any time there,” Dustin said scornfully. “I choose not to break bones over contact sports. I have a file of legal keep-out-of-gym excuses, all signed by a doctor. Not necessarily my doctor, but whatever works.”

“Everything works for you,” I said, chuckling. It felt sooo good to joke around with Dustin like nothing had changed.

“So what’s the deal with Alyce?” His serious tone reminded me exactly how much had changed. I imagined him leaning back in his chair, tapping his fingers on his desktop. His eyes would be closed to shut out distractions, so he could listen with total concentration.

“She’s taking a time-out.” I glanced down at my temporary hands with their frosted black fingernails. Alyce was into black, draped outfits and gruesome jewelry but insisted she wasn’t Goth.

“I thought you were done with body-hopping.”

“I thought so too.” I sighed. Then I explained how Grammy convinced me to take just one more assignment. “I had to do it — for Alyce.”

“And what about you?” Dustin asked in his quiet, perceptive way that never failed to disarm me. “Are you okay?”

I glanced at the counter where Mrs. Perfetti had set out onions, tomatoes, cheese, spices, chicken parts, and pasta noodles. “I’m burning in culinary hell. Alyce’s mother expects me to cook dinner.”

When Dustin stopped laughing, he offered to help. “Cooking is easy.”