to collect myself. “But if it didn’t take, you go back, right?”
He was silent.
“
You shoot him again, right?
”
Jonathan looked sadly out the car window and said nothing.
C HAPTER S EVEN
It was Monday morning, 6 A.M. I’d hardly slept. Jonathan was watching me from the top shelf of my bookcase, leaning against my copy of
Alice in Wonderland
, which seemed bleakly symbolic.
“Don’t you sleep?” I asked.
“Not during a Visitation. Get dressed, please. There is much to accomplish.”
“Don’t you have any idea what’s going to happen?” I wailed.
Jonathan zoomed off the bookcase and flutteredin my face. “It is too soon to determine the outcome.”
“I could die from stress!”
Jonathan gave me a sympathetic pat and pirouetted on my shoulder.
“Patience, my friend.”
I got dressed in my ice-green pants and floppy turtleneck that cleverly matched Peter’s eyes, which would come in handy if he were to succumb today. My eyes looked puffy from severe sleep deprivation, my skin was a wan, pasty shade. I pulled on my black boots and tossed out my hair.
Mom had taught me the importance of an interesting, healthy breakfast. I went downstairs and ate a lemon nonfat yogurt without refined sugar, a happy, red McIntosh apple, and an Eskimo Pie. Jonathan hovered impatiently at the door, tapping his quiver.
“Shall we?” he asked, and did his through-the-door flitting trick. I tried to beam through the door too.
“
Hey!
” I bonged my nose on it, still earthbound.
Jonathan fluttered back through the door. “
I
am the cupid,” he directed. “
You
are the…” He groped here for proper terminology.
“Art professional,” I whimpered.
We were off.
Benjamin Franklin High was awash in Valentine’s Day magic. The King of Hearts Dance Committee had plasteredred hearts everywhere; they twinkled from walls and ceilings. I stood by Peter Terris’s locker, my arteries pumped in expectation. I touched it. This, ladies and gentlemen, could be the site where Peter Terris falls madly in love with A. J. McCreary, crashing at her feet in passion for all the world to see. Trish came by and accosted me.
“You look like cold oatmeal, A.J.”
“Thank you, Trish.”
“What happened?”
I shrugged.
She eyed me. “Something’s going on.”
“This and that.”
“Start with
this
, A.J.”
I smiled wearily.
“You’re going out with someone.”
“Noooooo…”
“You’re planning something.”
“Ummmmmm…”
“
Tell me!
”
It was killing me not to!
“Later,” I said gently, and pushed through the crowded hall to Peter Terris, who had just filled the corridor with full-orbed gorgeousness.
“Hi,” I said, searching his flawless face. He looked at me, half smiled, and walked away. I clutched my heart. Jonathan was zigzagging between comatose students. I motioned him into the bathroom. We went into a stall; I locked the door.
“I think he needs another arrow, Jonathan.”
Jonathan sat on the toilet-paper roll and crossed his legs. “That is not the solution yet, my friend. These things take time.”
I clenched my trembling hands. “Can’t you speed things up? This is massive pressure!”
There was a knock on the stall door. “
A.J.?
”
I looked down to see a pair of familiar scuffed boots. I opened the stall door to Trish Beckman’s psychiatric stare.
She reached out her hand. “A.J., senior year is a time of conflict. The old gang will soon be gone. No one really knows what college will bring. These are fears that grip us all. If you’re trying to work out your feelings of abandonment by talking to yourself, you know I’m always here to listen.”
“Thank you, Trish.”
The fifth-period bell tolled. I ran to Art History class, slid into my desk near O’Keefe, Mr. Zeid’s cactus, and tried to make sense of my crumbling life.
Mr. Zeid was wrestling with his slide projector from hell, trying to get it to focus and muttering about it being “the wretched refuse of
He was silent.
“
You shoot him again, right?
”
Jonathan looked sadly out the car window and said nothing.
C HAPTER S EVEN
It was Monday morning, 6 A.M. I’d hardly slept. Jonathan was watching me from the top shelf of my bookcase, leaning against my copy of
Alice in Wonderland
, which seemed bleakly symbolic.
“Don’t you sleep?” I asked.
“Not during a Visitation. Get dressed, please. There is much to accomplish.”
“Don’t you have any idea what’s going to happen?” I wailed.
Jonathan zoomed off the bookcase and flutteredin my face. “It is too soon to determine the outcome.”
“I could die from stress!”
Jonathan gave me a sympathetic pat and pirouetted on my shoulder.
“Patience, my friend.”
I got dressed in my ice-green pants and floppy turtleneck that cleverly matched Peter’s eyes, which would come in handy if he were to succumb today. My eyes looked puffy from severe sleep deprivation, my skin was a wan, pasty shade. I pulled on my black boots and tossed out my hair.
Mom had taught me the importance of an interesting, healthy breakfast. I went downstairs and ate a lemon nonfat yogurt without refined sugar, a happy, red McIntosh apple, and an Eskimo Pie. Jonathan hovered impatiently at the door, tapping his quiver.
“Shall we?” he asked, and did his through-the-door flitting trick. I tried to beam through the door too.
“
Hey!
” I bonged my nose on it, still earthbound.
Jonathan fluttered back through the door. “
I
am the cupid,” he directed. “
You
are the…” He groped here for proper terminology.
“Art professional,” I whimpered.
We were off.
Benjamin Franklin High was awash in Valentine’s Day magic. The King of Hearts Dance Committee had plasteredred hearts everywhere; they twinkled from walls and ceilings. I stood by Peter Terris’s locker, my arteries pumped in expectation. I touched it. This, ladies and gentlemen, could be the site where Peter Terris falls madly in love with A. J. McCreary, crashing at her feet in passion for all the world to see. Trish came by and accosted me.
“You look like cold oatmeal, A.J.”
“Thank you, Trish.”
“What happened?”
I shrugged.
She eyed me. “Something’s going on.”
“This and that.”
“Start with
this
, A.J.”
I smiled wearily.
“You’re going out with someone.”
“Noooooo…”
“You’re planning something.”
“Ummmmmm…”
“
Tell me!
”
It was killing me not to!
“Later,” I said gently, and pushed through the crowded hall to Peter Terris, who had just filled the corridor with full-orbed gorgeousness.
“Hi,” I said, searching his flawless face. He looked at me, half smiled, and walked away. I clutched my heart. Jonathan was zigzagging between comatose students. I motioned him into the bathroom. We went into a stall; I locked the door.
“I think he needs another arrow, Jonathan.”
Jonathan sat on the toilet-paper roll and crossed his legs. “That is not the solution yet, my friend. These things take time.”
I clenched my trembling hands. “Can’t you speed things up? This is massive pressure!”
There was a knock on the stall door. “
A.J.?
”
I looked down to see a pair of familiar scuffed boots. I opened the stall door to Trish Beckman’s psychiatric stare.
She reached out her hand. “A.J., senior year is a time of conflict. The old gang will soon be gone. No one really knows what college will bring. These are fears that grip us all. If you’re trying to work out your feelings of abandonment by talking to yourself, you know I’m always here to listen.”
“Thank you, Trish.”
The fifth-period bell tolled. I ran to Art History class, slid into my desk near O’Keefe, Mr. Zeid’s cactus, and tried to make sense of my crumbling life.
Mr. Zeid was wrestling with his slide projector from hell, trying to get it to focus and muttering about it being “the wretched refuse of
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