Dead Girl in Love by Linda Joy Singleton

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