hard her neck pops and her head lolls like someone spiked her beer with ketamine.
“So, like, what?” I ask.
“I can’t do that. I mean, like, work with dead people.”
I know she’s insulted, thinking I’m a monster for suggesting the possibility.
“And you think that’s like set design?” She huffs. Her brows scrunch together, the ring through one of them slanting at an extreme angle.
I want to rip that ring right out. She’s making fun of me.
She starts walking away, toward the parking lot.
“I could kill you right here. No one would see.”
She looks back over her fat shoulder. “What did you just say?”
Heh. “I said ‘you’d be good at it, I’d like you to work with me.’”
She shakes her head and continues toward the car. I guess we’re leaving Oatland.
But she is not leaving Savannah.
Chapter 16 – Scarlet
I rattle my key in the lock and push open the front door to my apartment. I slam it behind me, not bothering to wave good-bye. I kick a pile of clothes off the couch, curl up, and cry. Not cry like silent tears rolled down my cheeks or whatever, but really sob, like someone is killing me or something. I wonder if the neighbors hear me, but then I decide I don’t give a fantastic fuck.
I’m not going to Hollywood. The reality hits me like a bullet to the chest.
Someone killed that part of me. That hope, that dream. That plan, that goal. What the hell else am I going to do with a fucking art degree? Work in a gallery or museum? Can’t do that, didn’t take enough art history. Do window dressing for department stores? Best jobs are in New York and I’d never be able to afford to move there.
Stay here and work in a funeral home? With that weird-ass guy?
He’s so fucking creepy. I mean, I’m sorry I thought he was gay or whatever, and I want to be his friend, like I used to be, but I don’t like him trying to hold my hand or touching my hair or anything. Eeew. He’s fun to talk with. Well, he used to be, anyway. Now he’s just bizarre and hostile. Maybe it’s the anti-psychotic meds he takes, plus drinking on top of them. I don’t know, but I really think he said he wanted to kill me today, out at Oatland Island, but then made out like he totally said something else.
And then there’s the fighting and the seeing giant lizards. I don’t know what that’s all about. I’m, like, kind of worried about him, but what can I do?
Seriously, though, could I work with a nutcase like that? Could I handle that smell of death he carries around on his clothes every day? I’d smell like that, too.
Suck it up. I’m going to have to stay here after graduation. I’ll keep doing the ghost tour thing, get another job, and a place to live, and just try to save up enough money to get the hell out.
And I’ll try to be nice to Funeral Boy, just because I’ve been friends with him for two years, and he doesn’t really have any friends, you know? I think he kind of needs me.
Chapter 17 – Caleb
I stare into the thick tan foam floating on the surface of my Guinness, waiting for it to dissipate. It’s taking too long. Where in the hell is the waitress? I’m about to throw the glass across the room, my hand curls around the too-cold sweating glass.
“So she thinks we’re gay. Big fucking deal,” Four says, flagging down the waitress. “I told you she was a bitch, remember? Now, was I right or was I right?”
The waitress approaches our table, licking her candy-apple lips. Four gives her a sly smile. I want to spit in her face.
“Hey,” he says, “I would love another Glenfiddich, please, neat, and my friend would like a shot of Wild Turkey.” He tilts his head, looking up at her with his dark puppy-dog eyes. “And, oh, if it’s not too much trouble, how about your phone number?” He grins and winks. He looks ridiculous. Like an oversized chubby gnome.
She giggles and then turns to me with a tight smile. My stomach churns. I’ll
“So, like, what?” I ask.
“I can’t do that. I mean, like, work with dead people.”
I know she’s insulted, thinking I’m a monster for suggesting the possibility.
“And you think that’s like set design?” She huffs. Her brows scrunch together, the ring through one of them slanting at an extreme angle.
I want to rip that ring right out. She’s making fun of me.
She starts walking away, toward the parking lot.
“I could kill you right here. No one would see.”
She looks back over her fat shoulder. “What did you just say?”
Heh. “I said ‘you’d be good at it, I’d like you to work with me.’”
She shakes her head and continues toward the car. I guess we’re leaving Oatland.
But she is not leaving Savannah.
Chapter 16 – Scarlet
I rattle my key in the lock and push open the front door to my apartment. I slam it behind me, not bothering to wave good-bye. I kick a pile of clothes off the couch, curl up, and cry. Not cry like silent tears rolled down my cheeks or whatever, but really sob, like someone is killing me or something. I wonder if the neighbors hear me, but then I decide I don’t give a fantastic fuck.
I’m not going to Hollywood. The reality hits me like a bullet to the chest.
Someone killed that part of me. That hope, that dream. That plan, that goal. What the hell else am I going to do with a fucking art degree? Work in a gallery or museum? Can’t do that, didn’t take enough art history. Do window dressing for department stores? Best jobs are in New York and I’d never be able to afford to move there.
Stay here and work in a funeral home? With that weird-ass guy?
He’s so fucking creepy. I mean, I’m sorry I thought he was gay or whatever, and I want to be his friend, like I used to be, but I don’t like him trying to hold my hand or touching my hair or anything. Eeew. He’s fun to talk with. Well, he used to be, anyway. Now he’s just bizarre and hostile. Maybe it’s the anti-psychotic meds he takes, plus drinking on top of them. I don’t know, but I really think he said he wanted to kill me today, out at Oatland Island, but then made out like he totally said something else.
And then there’s the fighting and the seeing giant lizards. I don’t know what that’s all about. I’m, like, kind of worried about him, but what can I do?
Seriously, though, could I work with a nutcase like that? Could I handle that smell of death he carries around on his clothes every day? I’d smell like that, too.
Suck it up. I’m going to have to stay here after graduation. I’ll keep doing the ghost tour thing, get another job, and a place to live, and just try to save up enough money to get the hell out.
And I’ll try to be nice to Funeral Boy, just because I’ve been friends with him for two years, and he doesn’t really have any friends, you know? I think he kind of needs me.
Chapter 17 – Caleb
I stare into the thick tan foam floating on the surface of my Guinness, waiting for it to dissipate. It’s taking too long. Where in the hell is the waitress? I’m about to throw the glass across the room, my hand curls around the too-cold sweating glass.
“So she thinks we’re gay. Big fucking deal,” Four says, flagging down the waitress. “I told you she was a bitch, remember? Now, was I right or was I right?”
The waitress approaches our table, licking her candy-apple lips. Four gives her a sly smile. I want to spit in her face.
“Hey,” he says, “I would love another Glenfiddich, please, neat, and my friend would like a shot of Wild Turkey.” He tilts his head, looking up at her with his dark puppy-dog eyes. “And, oh, if it’s not too much trouble, how about your phone number?” He grins and winks. He looks ridiculous. Like an oversized chubby gnome.
She giggles and then turns to me with a tight smile. My stomach churns. I’ll
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