Kill Me Once, Kill Me Twice Page 2

  Everyone thought I hadn’t been paying attention to the road or that I’d been lost in another daydream. I would tell them the real reason I’d lost control of the car, but they’d never believe me.

  Mom’s frown deepened as she surveyed my room. Drawers open, desk cluttered, globe littered with yellow circle stickers. She probably wished I had a pink floral bedspread, frilly white curtains, and shelves lined with more shiny pageant trophies. Instead, I stitched international flags together to hang over my windows, and I covered the cotton-candy pink paint on my walls with travel posters.

  Instead of telling me to clean my room, she found something else to criticize. “Stop playing with your necklace. You’ll break the chain.”

  I dropped my diamond pendant. I didn’t realize I’d been playing with it. “I’ll straighten my hair when I get home from work, okay?” I tell Mom. “And I’ll clean my room. Promise.” I gave her cheek a good-bye kiss like good, well-behaved daughters do, and rushed out of the house.

  The early-March air was unseasonably warm, but the sky was gray and the trees were bare as I hurried four blocks over to the movie theater on Main Street. I made a mental note to stop by the theater on my way home today to see if Neal Mallick was there. I needed to tell him what had really happened when I crashed my car last night. He was the only person I trusted with my secret, and even though he was a total brainiac science nerd, he believed me.

  I slipped into the alley behind the movie theater. Vinnie Morrison usually hung out by the dumpster back there, but he didn’t scare me. Nothing scared me—except being stuck in Ryland for the rest of my life, and especially dying here.

  But today, I was the only person in the alley. Vinnie Morrison wasn’t loitering by the dumpster. Eight in the morning must be too early to make drug deals.

  At the end of the alley I slid though the chain-link fence behind Smiley’s Used Cars and followed the train tracks through the patch of woods that surrounded Old Sutton Farm, all the way to Deep Creek. As I crossed Railroad Bridge over the creek, a little silvery fish swimming in the murky water below caught my eye. I stopped on the tracks and watched it flutter back and forth. That fish was so lucky. If it wanted, it could swim to the river, all the way north until it fed into Lake Michigan. Then it could swim through the rest of the Great Lakes, then eventually into the Atlantic Ocean. It could wind up in Europe, or Africa, or Asia, or Australia. Where I should be. Where I’d lived once, twice, a hundred times. Where I had adventures and died in exciting ways doing exciting things.

  All I wanted to do was visit those places I’d once lived in, to explore the different countries and cultures of this world. To dig

  and climb

  and discover

  and experience.

  That little fish could go anywhere it wanted in the world, while I was stuck here in Ryland.

  Chapter Three

  Ever ~ Present Day

  Instead of telling the scholarship committee that I was Lily in my most recent past life, I tell them a much simpler reason why I should win the money, but a reason just as true. “My mother never went to college, and before she died, she made me promise her that I would. This scholarship is the only way I can afford it.”

  “What about student loans?” Miss Buckley says flatly.

  “I do qualify for a Stafford loan,” I say. “But that’s just a few thousand. My dad would need to take out a Parent-Plus loan for the rest, but he doesn’t qualify. His credit is too bad.”

  “Grants?” Miss Buckley says. “Other scholarships?”

  “I’ve won other scholarships, small ones,” I say, “and I have a grant from the state. But it’s not enough. Not for Griffin.”

  “Savings?” asks Miss Buckley.

  “My parents started a college savings account for me. But my mom was sick for so long. They didn’t have good insurance, and the bills kept coming. They’re still coming…” My voice is all high and pitchy. I’m ruining it, and I don’t want to alarm Joey, so I calm myself. “There are no savings left.”

  “You could go to the community college in Eastfield,” she says.

  I shake my head. “I’ve taken so many AP courses that I’ve tested out of most gen eds, and the community college doesn’t offer the advanced courses I’d need for a degree in accounting.”

  “What will you do if we choose the other candidate, Ever?” Mrs. Summerhays asks, not unkindly.

  I can only shrug. I have no backup plan. I have to win that scholarship. I can’t let down my mom, and I can’t let down Lily.

  Miss Buckley stacks my application and pushes it aside. “That’s all we have time for today. Thank you, Miss Abrams.”

  It’s over? Already? “But wait. Let me show you my spreadsheet.” I open the file folder next to me and pull out a paper that shows exactly how I’ll spend the scholarship money. I’ve calculated it down to the penny. “Tuition at Griffin is expensive, but I’ll be living at home so I won’t need room and board. I’ll commute by bus to save money on gas and car insurance. And see this column? It’s for books. I can order used textbooks, or even digital textbooks when I can, and save a lot of money—”

  Miss Buckley holds up her palm. “I can see that you’d be an excellent accountant, Miss Abrams, but it’s time for our next interview.”

  Mr. Summerhays picks up his phone and scrolls with his thumb. Principal Duston moves his toothpick from one side of his mouth to the other.

  “That’s it, then?” I ask.

  “I guess so,” Coach Nolan says. He beams at me and mouths, “Good job.”

  “It was wonderful to meet you, Ever,” Mrs. Summerhays says. “We’ll announce the winner at the ceremony next month.” She pulls out the other application and scans it.

  “Okay, well, then, thank you so much.” I stand, smooth my skirt, and tuck my hair behind my ears. I survived the interview. My heart did not explode. My probability of dying today has returned to 0.02 percent. But did I blow it? Have I spent too much time focusing on grades? Should I have joined more clubs and activities, entered beauty pageants? Was I too different from Lily? Too similar?

  I can’t help touching my daisy charm again as I head for the door. I look over my shoulder to give the committee one last smile laced with fake confidence and slam into something hard enough to knock me to the floor.

  Enormous scuffed black boots. Tree-trunk legs in black jeans that are faded at the knees. Black leather jacket over a white button-down shirt. Loose black tie. Hard onyx eyes. Long, tousled black hair.

  Ash Morrison. What is he doing here?

  “Morrison!” Principal Duston jumps out of his chair. “Why are you in this building today? Get out.”

  Ash Morrison is a senior like me, but he can’t be here to interview for the scholarship. He wouldn’t dare even apply for the scholarship. Not him.

  “Miss Buckley said my interview is at 10:30,” he says, crossing the room in three big strides and taking a seat, knees spread wide, in the chair I’d just vacated. He nods at the committee, gives a rehearsed smile. “Hello, I’m—”

  “We know who you are,” Mr. Summerhays rumbles.

  “Diana?” Mrs. Summerhays stammers, looking at Miss Buckley. “You told him to come?” She double-checks the application in her hands. “The other candidate is a boy named Michael Granz. We all agreed. How could you make such a mistake?”

  “It wasn’t a mistake,” Miss Buckley says evenly, her chin thrust out in defiance. “I replaced Ash’s name with Michael’s because I knew the committee would reject Ash on the first round without even reading his application. I only changed his name and a few other identifying details. The grades and financial information are his. You all kept passing the application on to the final round.”

  “Does Michael know you used his name?” Coach Nolan asks.

  “No. But this was the only way the committee would be impartial. You know I’m right.”

  Principal Duston moves his toothpick from the right side of his mouth to his left. “Diana. I
appreciate that you always look out for the troubled kids at this school. But him?” He looks at Ash with undisguised hatred. “I don’t care how many A’s he gets. Do you know how many problems he causes? How many times he’s been suspended? Arrested?” He counts on his fingers. “Truancy. Drinking. Drugs. Shoplifting. Vandalism. Assault.”

  Ash shoots up straight and opens his mouth. “Ash,” Diana says sharply, giving her head one quick shake. He closes his mouth and sits back, exhaling hard. His hands are clenched.

  “This—This is unacceptable, Diana.” Mrs. Summerhays says. “I started this scholarship in memory of my daughter. You can’t give it to anyone without my approval. I simply can’t approve…” She throws her hands up, unable to even say his name. “This candidate is disqualified.” The issue is settled.

  But Miss Buckley shakes her head. “I’m co-founder of the scholarship, Jacquelyn, and I’m the one who secured Brandon Lennox’s financial support. I have as much say on this committee as you do, maybe more. You can’t disqualify him without my approval.”

  Mrs. Summerhays is openly crying. Mr. Summerhays is about to detonate. Stunned beyond movement, I remain sprawled on the floor.

  My competitor is Ash Morrison. Not Michael Granz.

  This is… This is good.

  Ash skips school most days, and when he is there, he antagonizes both students and teachers. He’s always getting arrested for shoplifting and underage drinking. When my classmates want to buy pot, they go to Ash. He was only an infant when his father killed Lily, but he is destined to end up in prison too.

  Besides, even if Ash were a model citizen—president of student council, homecoming King, captain of the baseball team—there’s no way the committee would award the Lily Summerhays Memorial Scholarship to the son of the man who killed her.

  Miss Buckley’s sympathy for troubled kids is well-known, but she went too far by sneaking Ash through to the final round of the Lily Scholarship. I should thank her. The scholarship is mine. One hundred percent mine.

  Principal Duston shoves the sleeves of his sport coat up his arms and stomps over to me. “You could have at least helped her up,” he barks to Ash. He holds out his hand, the hatchet tattoo on his wrist clear and crisp.

  No. That can’t be right.

  I slam my eyelids shut, then look again.

  The tattoo is still there. Two hatchets crossed at the handles to form an X. One handle red, the other yellow. Two blades, sharp and gray.

  I know every detail of that tattoo. I’ve seen it before, hundreds of times, every time I remember Lily’s death. My head explodes with deathpain again, so severe that my eyes tear up.

  Only one thought is able to cut through the pain. One horrible, horrible thought: That hatchet tattoo on my principal’s wrist means Ash’s father didn’t kill Lily Summerhays.

  Principal Duston did.

  Chapter Four

  Lily ~ Eighteen Years Ago

  Low laughter and heavy footsteps on Railroad Bridge interrupted the Lily Summerhays Pity Party I was having with the silver fish. Javier Soto and Will Duston, both in their maroon Warriors jerseys and baseball pants, heading to practice. It was baseball season at Ryland High. Hooray.

  “Hey, Lily!” Javier waved and gave me one of his sweet, goofy grins. Will, with his hard blue eyes and white-blond hair,

  God

  I

  hated

  him

  so

  much

  chewing one of those stupid toothpicks he always had in his mouth, said nothing, so I only said hi back to Javier.

  It was no secret in Ryland that the Summerhayses and the Dustons despised each other. Deep Creek bordered the eastern borders of my dad’s plant and his family’s farm, and the railroad tracks ran between them. The Dustons used to own the land that Agri-So now sat on, but now they were always trying to sue us over border disputes, or water rights, or proper land usage. Fighting the lawsuits was driving Agri-So out of business.

  “Whatcha doing later?” Javier asked, hoisting up his pants. He was short, and his clothes were always too big on him. “I’m thinking of going for a ride. Wanna come?”

  Of course I wanted to come. Javier’s family owned Soto Agricultural Aerial Applications, and sometimes, just for fun, he took me up in one of their single-engine planes when they weren’t using it for crop dusting. Sometimes he even let me fly the plane myself. “I can’t,” I said. “Sorry.” My mother had forbidden me to fly in those “rickety tin death traps.” Usually I would have ignored her, but I couldn’t risk disobeying my parents anymore. Not if I wanted to go to CFGU. Besides, after work today, I wanted to stop by the theater and see if Neal Mallick was there. I needed to tell him what happened last night. He’d love it.

  “I heard you crashed your car into a tree last night,” Will said. He blinked innocently. “Were you drunk? Or were you just being typical Lily?”

  “Shut up,” was my brilliant retort. But I’d rather Will, and everyone, believe I was drunk or daydreaming than tell them that while I was driving home last night, I had a memory of dying in a barn fire, trying to rescue my horses. France, sometime in the 1700s. I’d been a man in that life. It wasn’t the fire that had gotten me; it was smoke inhalation. The death-memory had hit as I drove home after spending the evening at Diana’s house, assaulting me with

  wheezing

  breaths

  spotty

  vision

  burning

  skin

  and I’d run my Firebird off Harrison Street, grazing Mr. Kammer’s mailbox and hitting his oak tree. Tapping his oak tree.

  I was pretty sure I’d saved those horses, though.

  When I was a kid, I told my parents about my death-memories. They believed me, I’d thought, but eventually it became clear they were just humoring me. By second grade, they said it was time to give up those ridiculous, morbid stories. “What will people think?” my mother had said.

  Even Diana told me to stop being so weird or I would lose all my friends. The only person who hadn’t made fun of me was Neal Mallick. He believed me when we were little kids, and he still believed me now, even though he was an honors student and took a million AP science classes. Whenever I’d have a new death-memory, he was the only one I told. He was also the only one I told about my application to CFGU. He hardly ever said anything in return—he never spoke to anybody—but he’d nod and blink at me with his big eyes behind his big glasses. I couldn’t prove any of my death-memories, but he didn’t need science to believe me. He just did.

  “You’re not out here to jump, are you?” Javier asked me, throwing a stone into the creek.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “When we got here you were staring at the water like you want to jump in.”

  It was illegal to walk across Railroad Bridge, but we all did it anyway. Besides being the best shortcut—saving us a mile-long walk down Taft Avenue and another mile up Garfield Road—jumping from the bridge into the creek was the only fun thing to do in this town.

  Will snorted. “It’s only March. It may be warm today, but the water’s still cold. Even Lily’s not that stupid.”

  The clouds parted, and a ray of sun made the water glisten below me. Jumping into the creek would be fun. Besides, I was the first one of our friends to do it every year. And no one had ever jumped as early as March before.

  “That wasn’t a dare, Lily,” Will said. “I mean it. Don’t jump.”

  God, I hated that

  condescending

  toothpick-chewing

  white-haired

  farm boy.

  How dare he call me stupid? How dare he tell me not to jump?

  A little cold water wouldn’t kill me. I would remember if it had.

  Glaring at Will, I tucked my hair behind my ears. Took a deep breath.

  “Lily! Don’t!”

  Too late. I was already plummeting through the air, into the—

  cold.

  Cold!

  The s
udden shock of frigid water made my heart seize. I forced myself calm, then opened my eyes to get a peek at the underwater world. Murky green water, weeds, rocks. A few little fish darted to and fro.

  Ryland seemed so far away.

  It really was cold, though. My waterlogged sweater weighed me down, and the glacial temperature weakened me, making my muscles heavy. I’d made my point and showed Will Duston that he couldn’t tell me what to do. Time to go up before I lost all my strength. I pushed up toward the surface.

  But I didn’t go anywhere. Something was tangled around my ankle.

  I wiggled my leg, trying to shake off the weed or branch or whatever it was. But it was hooked to my ankle, or my ankle was hooked to it.

  My heart

  squeezing,

  my lungs

  aching,

  I twisted around to get my hands on the stupid thing.

  But it wasn’t a stupid thing.

  It was a body.

  Jaw hanging weightlessly, arms floating up, fingers dangling down. Eyes wide and black and hollowed, glasses broken and hanging askew from one ear, skin bloated and a strange shade of brownish-green. More ghoul than human. And my foot was caught in the torn collar of its Ryland High School jacket.

  With every ounce of strength I had left, I tugged my foot from the collar. But it only got tangled more tightly. Without meaning to, I screamed, swallowing a mouthful of water.

  Panic

  coursed through my limbs, but the arctic water had paralyzed them into heavy worthless stumps. My boots—why had I jumped in my boots?—became anchors. My fingers were numb, but my lungs burned hot, so painfully hot—surely hot enough to warm me up and burn through the collar.

  But no. Time was

  slowing,

  and everything was going

  silent,

  and I was about to die.

  I didn’t want to die. Not here. Not in Ryland. Please, no. I didn’t want to be reborn in Ryland again.

  But I didn’t have the strength to fight anymore, and the water was so cold. So heavy. It was getting dark down here. And I was