After Ever by Jillian Eaton Page B

can’t help myself. The questions are just bubbling out, one after the other. There is no way I can hold them back. “What do I have to do to pass them? And who are ‘they’? Like angels or something? Are we ghosts? Can people see us? How do we get out of here?”
    Sam straightens in his chair. He blinks twice at me, starts to say something, changes his mind. Shakes his head. “Is there something wrong with you?”
    “Besides being dead?”
    “Ha ha,” he grumbles. “Very funny. To answer your first question, there are five levels in the After. And just so you’re clear, that’s what we call it here. Not Heaven, not Hell, nor Nirvana or Elysium or Valhalla or whatever else you’ve heard it called. Just the After. And before you ask why I don’t know why, okay?”
    My mouth snaps shut. Sam smiles thinly.
    “Unless you’re some kind of saint, which, let’s face it, you’re not, you start off at Level One.”
    “What level are you on?”
    “Two,” he says smugly.
    “You’ve been dead for seven years and you’re on Level Two ?”
    “Time works differently here.” His shoulders hunch defensively. “It passes much more slowly. A day here is almost a–”
    Whatever he was about to say is drowned out by the long, low tolling of a bell. I ignore it, but Sam leaps to his feet like his jeans have caught on fire.
    “We have to go,” he says. 
    I cock my head to the side. “Huh? You said like five minutes ago the door is locked. You can’t be done explaining the rules. You barely told me anything.”
    “I’ll explain the rest later. Come on.” Sam grabs my arm in one hand and a chair in the other. Left with little choice, I let him haul me to the back of the classroom. We stop in front of the large sliding glass door. Through the glass I can see the soccer fields, and beyond them the woods that flank the entire school.
    “Stand back,” Sam warns. He raises the chair high above his head, his jaw clenched with determination.
    “Wait!”
    The chair drops a few inches. Sam’s eyes flash. “What now?”
    “Maybe this door isn’t locked.” I dash forward, tug at the wooden door handle with one hand, then two. Well, don’t I feel stupid. “Uh, yeah. Definitely locked.”
    Something starts to pound against the front door of the classroom. It sounds heavy, heavier than a human fist. Heavier than ten humans fists. Eyes wide, I spin back towards Sam. “What is that?”
    “You don’t want to find out,” he says grimly. He raises the chair over his head again. I duck behind a desk and cover my face, anticipating shards of glass flying everywhere. With a half grunt, half warrior yell Sam throws the chair at the glass door with all his might. A sharp cracking rips through the air, not unlike the sound of ice breaking. The chair bounces back towards us and hits Sam in the shins. He goes down in a tangle of chairs and desks, cursing and flailing. Unharmed, I pop back up to inspect the damage.
    A large crack has splintered across the upper left hand corner, but the glass remains intact. I roll my eyes towards Sam. “Nice work, Hulk.”
    “Shut up,” he mutters as he finally manages to haul himself back to his feet.
    Behind us the pounding on the front door has intensified to an earth shattering level. I know it must be my imagination, but it seems as if the wall itself is beginning to shake. Sam and I exchange equally nervous glances, which I take to be a very bad sign. I have a right to be scared – for multiple of reasons, the least being some unknown monster that is trying to break into the classroom – but Sam? He’s been dead for seven years. He should have the routine down and the fact that he is visibly terrified of whatever is trying to get in the room is not exactly reassuring.
    “You throw like a girl. Out of my way,” I demand as I head for the front of the classroom, jumping over Sam’s mess of fallen chairs and tipped over desks as I go. The guy really is a klutz. It’s no wonder he