After Ever by Jillian Eaton Page A

see a hall, but it’s not the hall with the maroon carpet and fried food smell that we came from, it’s the hall from my old school. We not only switched rooms, we switched entire buildings. Entire places? Entire states? Do states exist here? Do countries? I push the questions aside before they overwhelm me. For once, I have no choice but to put my trust in someone else. I have to trust Sam that he’ll explain everything that needs explaining, and I’ll have to draw on every ounce of patience I possess to let him do it in his own time. As long as that time occurs within the next ten minutes. 
    Across the hall is the art room. The blue door is closed tight, the lights off. A faint smile captures my mouth as I remember how many hours I used to spend in there working on a variety of different projects. I wasn’t a great artist, but with Mr. Garrison you didn’t have to be. Art was one of the few classes where your best was always good enough.
    I turn the door handle, but it holds firm, the sleek metal unyielding. Weird. I try pulling up. Nothing. I turn my shoulder into the door and push. Nada. Glancing at Sam over my shoulder, I say, “Why is this door locked?”
    He drops his head on his arm and looks at me sideways. “Because I haven’t explained the rules yet. It’s like a big puzzle. Or a video game. You have played video games, right?”
    I cross my arms and lean against the door. “Yes,” I tell him, not liking his snide tone one bit. “I have played video games. What’s your point?”
    “So this place is like a video game, only bigger. Life size. There are levels you have to get through. Within each level there are certain steps that have to be completed. Just like in a video game. Complete enough steps and you unlock the next level. Unlock all the levels and you win.”
    “Win what? Money? A cruise? A lifetime supply of candy bars?” I would have kept going, but Sam’s eyes have gone all sad again. Crap. Being mean to Sam is like kicking a puppy. If the puppy was three legged and starving.
    Feeling like a jerk, I walk back over to him and perch on a desk upwind of my lovely vomit. “Sorry,” I mutter, looking down at the carpet.
    “It’s fine,” he says, but I can tell it is anything but fine. Great. I’ve finally worn him down with my bitchy attitude, just like I do with everyone else, and in record time too.
    “Just… explain whatever you can. I’ll try not to interrupt.” It’s the best I can do.
    Sam’s eyes narrow suspiciously. “Are you sure?”
    “Positive.”
    “Well, you already know that you’re dead,” he begins after a long pause, as if testing to see if I’ll stay true to my word.
    I draw in a deep breath and nod. Yes, my death has been established. Death by drowning. I didn’t exactly go out in a blaze of glory, but that’s something I’ll have to come to terms with later.  
    “That’s the first step,” he says, sitting up straighter as he warms to his topic. “Acceptance. Sometimes it takes people a day, a week, a month. You caught on pretty quick, though. Maybe even set a new record something.”
    Records are nice. The only thing I’ve ever set a record in before now is the one hundred meter dash in gym and that’s only because my competition was Rebecca, the fat girl with asthma and Ricky, the kid who had to walk with a cane.
    “I told you the number one rule,” Sam continues. “You can’t change the lives of the living. That’s really important, okay? No matter what. You can’t interfere. With anyone.”
    “You interfered with me,” I point out.
    “I did not interfere, I introduced ,” he says, like there is a big difference. “They found out it helps people get pass the acceptance phase a lot easier if they see a familiar face when they cross over. That’s why the whole guide system was established. Kind of like a big brother, big sister kind of thing.”
    “What about the levels?” I interrupt again. I know I’m breaking my promise, but I