“You mean my body isn’t … dead?”
“Breathing on its own with a sleeping occupant.”
“Wow! That’s like a miracle!”
“You’re my miracle. You have a natural skill for Temp Lifer work. Mostly we use non-living souls who need redemption. But occasionally Temp Lifers are living people who generously lift out of their body to help someone else.”
“How is that possible? People can’t just leave their bodies.”
“You did,” she pointed out.
“Thanks to my bad sense of direction,” I said, sighing.
“The Temp Lifer program is highly successful. You’d be great at it, with your natural talent for helping others. If you ever want a job, let me know.”
“Any time,” I said, flattered. “I’m happy to help out.”
“I may take you up on that.” Grammy touched my cheek fondly. “I know you thought I’d abandoned you, but I never did. I’ve been working hard to fix your problem.”
“Can I go back to my real body?” I asked hopefully.
“Soon,” she promised. “I’ve calculated your local time, and it should happen tomorrow around six in the evening. But for this to work, you must be near your real body.”
“No problem,” I assured her.
Then I felt something tugging, pulling me away from Grammy and Cola. I struggled to stay, but the pull was too strong. My last glimpse of Grammy was of her waving to me.
Jerking upright in bed, I shook off the grip someone had on my arm.
“What? Who? Hunter?” I blinked at the shadowy figure by my bedside. Gradually my eyes adjusted; only a small night-light lit the room. “What are you doing here?”
“Sorry for waking you,” he said. “But I had to talk to you in secret.”
“Um … all right. What is it?”
“Dad says you talked him out of sending me away. I didn’t think you would, but you really did keep your promise. Thanks,” he said softly.
“You’re welcome. It wasn’t much.”
“It was to me … except now I feel bad for stuff I did to you when I was really mad.”
“Huh?” I asked groggily. “What did you do?”
“Sorry, I took this.” He shoved a book at me. “I won’t steal from you any more — or anyone else. I promise.”
Then he mumbled thanks, again, and scampered out of the room.
I snapped on my bedside lamp and looked at the book.
It was a journal.
Leah’s.
31
Forget sleeping. I propped myself up against the bed pillows and opened the journal.
Unlike Leah’s other journal, this one was crammed full of writing, slips of papers, and cards tucked among the pages. Leah must have freaked out when she realized it was missing. Did she guess that her little brother stole it?
I held the book carefully so that the loose papers wouldn’t escape. Then I started reading:
The first page had no date or heading — just random scribbles of Leah’s name looped with Chad’s, and clusters of tiny hearts:
Leah and Chad, Chad and Leah, Leah Rockingham, Leah Montgomery-Rockingham, Chad Montgomery.
Without a date, I couldn’t tell if these romantic jottings were recent or history. Leah clearly loved Chad when she wrote this — maybe she still did. Although what she saw in him, aside from hot looks and great kissing, was a mystery to me.
The next page was a shopping list: shoes, shirts, lingerie, earrings and jeans, all ultra-chic name brands. Many of them were now in Leah’s closet, and I couldn’t deny that I’d gotten a rush when I’d tried some on.
Still, shopping lists were boring. I wanted personal “Dear Diary” confessions. Skimming through more pages of random scribbles and lists, I stopped when I found a poem with no title.
I whisper in fathoms of darkness
So soft no one hears,
Not even me.
When I raise my voice,
False reflections cast lies,
Until I no longer know myself.
I
Do
Not
Exist
I shifted on the bed as uncomfortable emotions stirred inside me. Deep sadness and despair echoed in every word of Leah’s poem; the sort of thoughts that could lead to suicide.
Uneasy, I flipped to the next page. A colorful, red, heart-shaped card fell out — a Valentine from Chad.
Marking my place in the journal, I opened the card.
Babe — U R really pretty and special 2 me. I want 2 B with you always. Luvya, Chad.
Okay, he wasn’t a poet but the card was sweet and almost romantic. Tucking it back into the journal, I returned to where I’d left off.
At least a dozen pages fluttered by with nothing more than random events, such as Valentine’s Dance, Jess’ birthday, Social at Club — formal, wear leopard shoes, and Rally in the quad.
Then I came to a very different kind of list, one that reminded me of fashion designer sketches. There were two rough drawings of T-shirts, with writing inside. On the one labeled Front of T-Shirt, it said:
My parents spent a fortune for the Perfect Daughter,
and all I got was this great body.
Chemical Peel $741
Rhinoplasty $8,890
Breast Augmentation $4,043
Tummy Tuck $4,825
Liposuction $2,746
Octoplasty $2,168
Cellulite Massage Treatment $130
Microdermabrasion $190
Surgeons fee $4,250
Anesthesiologist $937
Facility Fee $1,080
Total cost: $30,000
On the drawing for the back of the T-Shirt, it said:
Can a person be valued in $$$$$?
I wasn’t sure whether to smile at Leah’s dark humor or sob at her lack of self-esteem. I couldn’t fit this into my memory of her striding confidently through the Halsey High halls like she owned the world. If she was so unhappy, why didn’t she do something about it? I could have loaned her a dozen self-help books with advice that could have helped solve her problems. I only wish I’d had the chance.
A glance at the bedside clock showed me that it was almost morning. Too early to get up, but too late to go back to sleep. Not that I could relax into sleep with so much stuff crowding my mind. Besides, there was still half a journal left to read.
It was odd how the more I learned about Leah, the less I knew her. She wasn’t any one thing: not simply pretty, popular, cruel, kind, sad, or confused. She was so much more … and a little less, too. Would I have liked her if I’d had the chance to know her?
Probably not — but I would have been willing to try.
I found more reasons not to like her in the next few pages. Instead of a shopping list, she had a “dirty secret” list — not any of her own secrets, but those of her closest friends. Kat, Jessica, Tristan, Moniqua, Chad, and other names from school were there — even a few teachers. Across from each name, she wrote the sort of personal things friends told each other in confidence. Kat had a sister who’d run away and starred in porn movies; Tristan hired someone else to take his SAT’s; Jessica’s mother had an affair with her yoga instructor; Moniqua lost her license twice but still went out driving, and—