Page 19

seventeen

The Walking Almost-Dead Girl

Noah

I 'm lying awake in the dark, tossing and turning, debating taking one of Jodie's pills and which one I should take, when my phone rings.

I prepare to hit ignore on what I assume is another spam call before I see UNKNOWN scrolling across the screen, and I wonder if maybe it's Tate or Silas.

Or—let's be honest—it would just be Silas.

I push accept. "Hello?"

"Hey, little runaway."

Tate. Drunk Tate by the sound of it.

"Hi, Tate."

"You sound disappointed," he says. "Why is that?"

"I don't know what you mean. I always sound like this."

"You—" He stops, laughing. I don't know what's so funny, and I never figure out what he was going to say because he switches gears. "You know what? It doesn't matter. I have something to tell you."

"Okay…what is it?"

"I did something…and I don't think you're going to like it… "

I swallow hard. "What did you do, Tate?"

"I hurt someone," he says. "I said I wouldn't but…god, Noah, you just make me so fucking angry. And, you know, this person—regardless of what you think or what fucking fantasy you've concocted in that malnourished brain of yours—this person doesn't care about you. It's important that you know that. Because if you're honest with yourself about that, then you can't really be mad at me, can you?"

"What did you do?" I ask again through clenched teeth. "What did you fucking do, Tate!?"

"I mean, if you think she would hesitate even for a second before calling the police if she found out who you were, you're fucking kidding yourself. She'd be terrified—no, wait— repulsed by you if she knew. Honestly, it's too bad that whoever tried to slit her throat the first time didn't do a better job, and then maybe we wouldn't be in this situation."

"Tate!" I shout into the phone. I sit up in bed, frantic. "You didn't. You didn't hurt Jodie. Did you? Did you hurt her?"

"Nah, I didn't hurt Jodie," he says. I breathe a sigh of relief before he adds, "I think I killed her."

"What?!" I can barely breathe. My heart pounds against my ribcage; I can barely get the words out. "What'd you do to her? Is…is she okay?"

"Mmmm, I mean, she was alive when I left her there, but she probably isn't alive now."

"Where? Tate, where is she? Is she at the house?"

"No…she's not at the house," he says casually. I can almost hear him absentmindedly playing with his lip rings, even though he doesn't have them anymore .

"Then where ?!"

"There's a little graveyard," he says, "not far from your house. Do you know where it is?"

"The one behind the park?" I ask, my voice cracking. "At the edge of the forest?"

"That's the one," he says. "Anyway, she's in one."

" In one?"

"Somewhere, yeah. I don't really remember where. I mean, you know how it is—I just get…" He pauses, and when he speaks again, his tone is harsh, angry. He's almost screaming into the phone. "I just get so fucking mad , Noah, especially when it comes to you. And then I can't even see; I can't even remember where I am or what I'm doing because I'm so fucking mad. And so yeah, she's in one—I think—and she's probably dead by now."

I drop the phone. I don't even know if I disconnect the call, but I rush to the door, step into my boots, and run down the staircase and out into the pouring rain. It's cold—ice cold—and heavy enough that I can barely see more than a few feet in front of me, but I don't stop until I get to the graveyard. And by the time I swing the gate open, I'm soaked to the bone, every molecule of my exposed skin numb.

I stop, out of breath, my legs tired and throat sore from inhaling the frigid air, and drop to my knees.

"Jodie!" I wail into the darkness. "Jodie! Where are you!?"

I wait, straining my ears, hoping to hear something over the sound of the heavy rain and rustling leaves, but there's nothing. "Jodie!" I scream again.

Still nothing .

I pull myself to my feet, slipping in the mud, and drag my body on frozen legs through the rows and rows of graves. "Jodie!"

Nothing. No sign of life, no sign of a body aside from those interred long ago. I almost convince myself Tate made the whole thing up—that it was just a prank, but then…

I stop short, my heart dropping into my stomach as I just barely manage not to fall into an open grave with no marker.

"Fuck, that was close." I thrust my hands, shaking from a mix of cold, adrenaline, and fear, into the wet front pocket of my hoodie. It provides little warmth as I try to catch my breath.

But before I move on, I look down into that open hole and see…something.

I'm not really sure what it is at first—it's almost impossible to make out in the dark—but at the bottom of that muddy hole, floating just at the surface of the water pooling at the bottom, are waves of long, grey hair and a jacket I recognize as the one she got when her bowling team won the league championship last spring.

"Jodie!" I scream into the abyss. But of course, she doesn't hear me. Face down in the water, she doesn't move. "Jodie, please! Jodie!"

I don't know what to do, and if I wasn't so cold, so fucking terrified and traumatized and helpless all at the same time, I probably would have known better than to do this.

I jump into the hole.

When I land, my legs quickly slide out from beneath me, and I fall on my ass in about five inches of muddy water. As I pull myself up, I sink further into the muck. It's thick enough that I struggle to pull my feet back out.

"Jodie!" I call out again. Once I manage to move my feet closer, I kneel in that muddy water, grab her jacket, and attempt to flip her over.

But the jacket slips from her body with ease. "What…"

I hold it in front of me, watching the water drip down the white embroidered leather, perplexed.

I let it fall back into the water and feel around beneath its surface, and I feel….nothing. My eyes pool with tears as with shaky hands, I reach for the long, grey hair, and lift it out of the water—all the way out of the water—too.

It's a wig.

It was a trick. And now…

Now, I'm stuck in a grave. In a freezing cold, wet grave.

I'm going to die in here.

"Tate!" I scream, pulling myself back onto my feet, and then I throw the wet, muddy wig out of the hole and onto the surface. "Tate! This isn't fucking funny!"

I wait. Thunder cracks overhead and still…nothing.

"Tate, get me out of here!" I sob. "Tate, please! I'm sorry!"

I don't know what I'm sorry for, but I can't say that. And once he gets me out of this fucking hole, I'm going to kill him. I can't say that, either.

"Tate!" I scream, my voice more desperate this time. "Help! Someone, please, help me."

But there's nothing. No sign of anyone in the graveyard, no Tate, no Silas. Just the occasional flash of lightning in the distance and the sound of raindrops hitting the water pooling at the bottom of the open grave.

It's only getting colder. And deeper. I can't feel my skin. I can't feel my fingers; I can't wiggle my toes inside my waterlogged boots.

"Help!" I scream one more time. But this time, I barely try. I know no one will hear me. "Fuck!"

Desperate for warmth, I burrow into the corner of the hole, sinking down into the water and pulling my knees into my chest.

I'm so cold, so tired, and so utterly defeated.

They say hypothermia isn't a bad way to die. It's as easy and painless as falling asleep. That wouldn't be so bad, would it? Tate did promise a merciful death that day in the car.

I drop my head onto my knees and close my eyes. I wonder how long it'll take. Hours? Will I still be alive in the morning?

But I can't fucking die in here. Because I'm going to kill Tate.

I pull myself to my feet and scream until all the air leaves my lungs. And then I attempt to climb out of this tomb.

Grasping the cold, wet earth in my hands, I futilely attempt to climb the wall, slipping and sliding down before I even get much of a start. And that mud in my fists? It just comes apart in my hands, and I fall back into the watery grave.

Again…and again.

I try the other side. I try the corners. Once, I even get close enough to grip the edge of the hole with one hand, and when I fell back that time, it hurt even worse.

Not in the pain way—in the soul-crushing way.

My arms are so tired, my body so cold, and to make it worse, I look up and realize one of my boots slipped off and stayed stuck in the wall of mud. Not that it really matters with my feet now unfeeling bricks of frozen flesh. And I'm the almost-dead girl in a fucking hole in the woods.

I wonder if they'll figure out who I am once they find my corpse and how they'll react. Jodie, Mason, and Zoey…they'll probably be disgusted, like Tate said. Everything I touched will suddenly seem dirty in a way they won't be able to get clean. Will they worry there's something wrong with them because they didn't see it?

They'll probably blame me for the finger.

But fuck, that was me, wasn't it?

I stay there at the bottom of the hole, staring at the boot. I don't even feel cold anymore; I feel nothing. I remember reading that shivering is something your body does to keep your core temperature up in the cold.

I've stopped doing that, too.

I lean back against the wall of my dirt crypt. If my body has stopped trying, maybe it's time for me to stop, too.

As the heavy rain slows, the sound of it against the water is almost calming. I'm calming. Sitting in the otherwise silent darkness, I begin hearing the beat to "Born To Die" by Lana Del Rey in the pattern of the falling rain and sing along before noticing I'm doing it, sobbing through the words before I get to the chorus.

And then once the entire song has played through, before I can start over again, I stare at that boot near the far corner of my watery grave. Still stuck. Still taunting me with how close I got.

Wait.

I scramble to my feet and pull off the other boot. Then I grip it hard by the heel, pull it back behind me, and scream, gritting my teeth as I drive it into the muddy wall about a foot higher than the other one with as much force as I can get behind it.

It sticks. I hammer it further into the wall with numb fists and then do the same with the other—just to make sure.

"Okay," I say aloud, swallowing a lump in my throat. "Here we go."

This is it. I know if this doesn't work, then…this unmarked grave will be my own.

I grip the higher boot in my muddy palm and use it to hoist myself onto the other, but I feel it sliding under the weight of me. I scream and push off my feet, reaching for that ledge, and once I have it in my grasp, I attempt to shift my weight onto the upper boot. As I kick off, the bottom one slips from under me and falls into the water.

But I made it. My god, I made it. My chin hits the grass and I risk moving one of my arms, stretching it forward and digging my fingers into the dirt. Then I move the other arm forward, and I get my elbows up onto the surface just as the other shoe slips from the mud and into the water below.

But it's enough. I have enough leverage to shift the weight of my upper body onto the ground and then I dig my toes into the earth, pulling myself out inch by inch. Stay calm, I caution myself. Slow, deliberate movements. That's how I'll get out of here .

I'm not sure how long it takes, but I get through another round of "Born To Die" in my head. And once I'm out—once I'm flat on my stomach on the cold, wet earth—I scramble on all fours away from the hole, as if it would suck me back in if I didn't. I don't stop until I'm up against another headstone.

I roll over onto my back and catch my breath.

And then…I just get up and start walking home. I don't look back at the hole in the ground.

I have no idea what time it is; I don't know how long I was in that hole, but once I get back to the main road, it looks like the bars are letting out. There's a bigger crowd than usual, many dressed in costumes even though Halloween isn't until tomorrow. Fresh out of a grave and still numb to my core, I probably look like an extra on The Walking Dead . If anyone even looks at me twice, I don't notice it, my focus on getting inside and dry. I drag myself across the street and then through the café parking lot to the stairs leading up to my studio apartment.

And Jodie's lights are on. Both her car and her boyfriend's truck are in the driveway. She's just fine.

Slowly, painfully, I make my way up the staircase and push open the door.

It's always kind of cold in here, and I'm always kind of cold because of my health issues, but when I step inside, it's like walking into an inferno. The air burns my ice-cold skin. After closing the door, I instantly start stripping down, hoping for some relief once I get the wet clothes off of me.

Even my underwear and bra are muddy. Before I remove them, I hear a voice coming from the other side of the room, startling me .

"Oh, shit. You did jump in the grave. I was wondering what was taking so long. Did you know she wore wigs?"