Life After Theft
Page 2
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Just my luck—it had taken a whole five minutes for the school nut job to latch on to me. Don’t judge a book by its cover, I guess. Or a girl by her hotness. “I’m a freak? You’re lying in the middle of the floor pretending to be invisible, and I’m a freak?”
She gasped. “It’s really true! You can see me. This is the best day of my . . . well, more than a year, anyway. I thought this would never happen. But now you’re here. You’re here . . . um . . .” She glanced at my loser label. “Jeff.” She scrunched up her nose. “Jeff? Ew.” When I rolled my eyes she raised her hands in surrender. “I take it back. Jeff’s fine. But can I call you Jeffrey at least? That is your whole name, right?”
“No.”
“Can I call you that anyway?”
“No.” I gotta get out of here. People were starting to seriously gawk.
“Fine, we’ll work on the name later. We have so much to do!” And then, I kid you not, she started bouncing up and down on her toes.
“Stop!” No, really, for the love of all that is holy, stop. I held up both hands. “Who are you?”
I’m not sure what made me ask—a name to put on the restraining order, maybe?—but she gestured to herself like she was a celebrity I should recognize instantly. Maybe she was—this was Santa Monica, after all. “Kimberlee Schaffer? The Kimberlee Schaffer?”
I shrugged.
She sighed dramatically. “Come with me.” I followed her down a hallway and into the main foyer, where she backed up against a wall and gave me a cheesy, toothy grimace—more sarcasm than smile. She gestured grandly to her left at an eleven-by-fourteen framed picture of herself.
“So . . . your parents paid for the school?” I asked. Maybe it was the only way they’d let this psycho in.
She rolled her eyes and pointed a long, fake fingernail at a small bronze plaque beneath the portrait.
IN MEMORY OF KIMBERLEE SCHAFFER
I glanced at her, then back at the photo. “That’s really funny.” I made myself look her in the eyes, my best fake smile plastered into place. “You almost had me. Ha-ha. Joke on the new guy. That’s really good. Now if you’re finished, I have to go to class.” Preferably before everyone starts staring again.
“Can I come?” she asked all chipper, like she hadn’t just pulled the world’s lamest joke on me. Pretending to be a dead girl—that was seriously messed up. And stupid.
I’m such a moron.
“No, it’s school. You go to your class; I’ll go to mine.” I knew I should feel flattered that a hot girl wanted anything to do with me, but there’s a saying about what you don’t do with crazy people.
Ever.
She jumped in front of me. “Listen, Jeff.” She said my name like it was a bad word. “You don’t get it. I’m dead. Ask anyone. I’ve been stuck for a year and a half and no one has been able to see or hear me except you.”
“Look, your little trick worked, Kim. Isn’t that—”
“Kimberlee.”
“What?”
“Kimberlee. With two e’s. No one calls me Kim.”
Unbelievable. “Forget it. Just leave me alone, okay?” I stepped around her and continued walking. Maybe I could blend in with the other sweater-vests all over the place and get away. Sadly, this wasn’t my old, overcrowded public high school, and disappearing would take more work than I was used to despite the matching uniforms.
“Wait. Please?”
I didn’t.
She trotted alongside me. “What class do you have?”
“Like I’m going to tell you.”
“I’ll help you find it.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I stopped and turned to her. “Then you could get me totally lost and ditch me. A special welcome for the new guy. Just leave me alone!”
A tall brunette edged away from me like a first-grader who had just learned about boy cooties. “What a dork,” she said, loud enough for everyone within ten feet to hear her.
“Really, Jeff,” Kimberlee said, far too calmly. “You should stop yelling at me. People are going to think you’re schizo.”
I looked down at my schedule and pretended Kimberlee wasn’t there.
“You gotta go upstairs for Bleekman’s classroom.”
I gritted my teeth, and hurried up the stairs hoping I could lose her. In the hallway I slowed down and counted off room numbers.
204.
205.
206.
Damn. She was standing outside room 207.
“Clever boy. You found it all by yourself.”
There must be an elevator . . . somewhere. I let my eyes slide by her and walked into the half-full classroom, hurrying to plant myself in the last seat on the back row.
“I wouldn’t sit there if I were you. That’s Langdon’s spot,” Kimberlee said, sounding almost bored.
Ignore, ignore, ignore.
“Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I kept my head down and pulled out a notebook as more students filed in, quickly filling the remaining seats.
“Dude. If you’re not out of my desk by the time I count to two, I personally guarantee your life will end before lunch hour.”
I looked up at what appeared to be a non-green version of the Incredible Hulk.
“One. One and a half . . .”
I jumped up from the desk so fast I cracked my knee against one of the legs and had to bite off a yelp. “Sorry,” I mumbled. “Didn’t know.”
She gasped. “It’s really true! You can see me. This is the best day of my . . . well, more than a year, anyway. I thought this would never happen. But now you’re here. You’re here . . . um . . .” She glanced at my loser label. “Jeff.” She scrunched up her nose. “Jeff? Ew.” When I rolled my eyes she raised her hands in surrender. “I take it back. Jeff’s fine. But can I call you Jeffrey at least? That is your whole name, right?”
“No.”
“Can I call you that anyway?”
“No.” I gotta get out of here. People were starting to seriously gawk.
“Fine, we’ll work on the name later. We have so much to do!” And then, I kid you not, she started bouncing up and down on her toes.
“Stop!” No, really, for the love of all that is holy, stop. I held up both hands. “Who are you?”
I’m not sure what made me ask—a name to put on the restraining order, maybe?—but she gestured to herself like she was a celebrity I should recognize instantly. Maybe she was—this was Santa Monica, after all. “Kimberlee Schaffer? The Kimberlee Schaffer?”
I shrugged.
She sighed dramatically. “Come with me.” I followed her down a hallway and into the main foyer, where she backed up against a wall and gave me a cheesy, toothy grimace—more sarcasm than smile. She gestured grandly to her left at an eleven-by-fourteen framed picture of herself.
“So . . . your parents paid for the school?” I asked. Maybe it was the only way they’d let this psycho in.
She rolled her eyes and pointed a long, fake fingernail at a small bronze plaque beneath the portrait.
IN MEMORY OF KIMBERLEE SCHAFFER
I glanced at her, then back at the photo. “That’s really funny.” I made myself look her in the eyes, my best fake smile plastered into place. “You almost had me. Ha-ha. Joke on the new guy. That’s really good. Now if you’re finished, I have to go to class.” Preferably before everyone starts staring again.
“Can I come?” she asked all chipper, like she hadn’t just pulled the world’s lamest joke on me. Pretending to be a dead girl—that was seriously messed up. And stupid.
I’m such a moron.
“No, it’s school. You go to your class; I’ll go to mine.” I knew I should feel flattered that a hot girl wanted anything to do with me, but there’s a saying about what you don’t do with crazy people.
Ever.
She jumped in front of me. “Listen, Jeff.” She said my name like it was a bad word. “You don’t get it. I’m dead. Ask anyone. I’ve been stuck for a year and a half and no one has been able to see or hear me except you.”
“Look, your little trick worked, Kim. Isn’t that—”
“Kimberlee.”
“What?”
“Kimberlee. With two e’s. No one calls me Kim.”
Unbelievable. “Forget it. Just leave me alone, okay?” I stepped around her and continued walking. Maybe I could blend in with the other sweater-vests all over the place and get away. Sadly, this wasn’t my old, overcrowded public high school, and disappearing would take more work than I was used to despite the matching uniforms.
“Wait. Please?”
I didn’t.
She trotted alongside me. “What class do you have?”
“Like I’m going to tell you.”
“I’ll help you find it.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I stopped and turned to her. “Then you could get me totally lost and ditch me. A special welcome for the new guy. Just leave me alone!”
A tall brunette edged away from me like a first-grader who had just learned about boy cooties. “What a dork,” she said, loud enough for everyone within ten feet to hear her.
“Really, Jeff,” Kimberlee said, far too calmly. “You should stop yelling at me. People are going to think you’re schizo.”
I looked down at my schedule and pretended Kimberlee wasn’t there.
“You gotta go upstairs for Bleekman’s classroom.”
I gritted my teeth, and hurried up the stairs hoping I could lose her. In the hallway I slowed down and counted off room numbers.
204.
205.
206.
Damn. She was standing outside room 207.
“Clever boy. You found it all by yourself.”
There must be an elevator . . . somewhere. I let my eyes slide by her and walked into the half-full classroom, hurrying to plant myself in the last seat on the back row.
“I wouldn’t sit there if I were you. That’s Langdon’s spot,” Kimberlee said, sounding almost bored.
Ignore, ignore, ignore.
“Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
I kept my head down and pulled out a notebook as more students filed in, quickly filling the remaining seats.
“Dude. If you’re not out of my desk by the time I count to two, I personally guarantee your life will end before lunch hour.”
I looked up at what appeared to be a non-green version of the Incredible Hulk.
“One. One and a half . . .”
I jumped up from the desk so fast I cracked my knee against one of the legs and had to bite off a yelp. “Sorry,” I mumbled. “Didn’t know.”
