Read an Excerpt
After I got my class schedule, I went searching for my locker. I trudged up two flights of stairs, past hordes of other students who were all exchanging hugs and waves and big dumb OMGs about their stupid summers. I caught pieces of conversations as they floated by me. Apparently, most of my classmates had toured colleges or gone to the beach or been, like, totally bored. No one else had fakeexterminated fake ghosts in fake haunted houses. Go figure.
I found my locker near the biology lab. Awesome: a year of smelling like formaldehyde. I dropped my backpack on the floor so I could dig the combination out of my jeans. Except the combination wasn’t in my right pocket. Or the left one. Or either of the back ones. Really? This? Already?
I was reaching down for my backpack—maybe I had shoved it in there after all—when I heard a voice from behind me.
“Six, thirty-nine, seventeen.”
I spun around. Standing in unacceptable violation of my personal space was a tall guy with messy blond hair, green eyes, and bright white teeth. Also, an inappropriate number of angles and muscles. For no apparent reason, my heart paused for a second, recovered, and kept beating . . . a little too quickly.
That was new.
The guy wore what looked like a military jacket covered with musician buttons and metal pins. He smiled down at me, brandishing a slip of paper between two of his fingers. My locker combination.
“It fell out of your pocket.”
“You shouldn’t be looking at my pockets,” I snapped, snatching the paper from him.
He was obviously brand new, gathering from the fact that he was (a) still smiling at me, (b) hot, but (c) not yet face-suctioned to Corabelle LaCaze or Angel Ortega. Those girls had game for miles, whereas I still didn’t even know the location of the stadium.
“I like pockets,” he said.
I could see what was going on. He was trying to assert his dominant place in the social hierarchy by messing with me. Or by flirting with me. Or by messing with me while flirting with me. Regardless, it was just what I didn’t need: a hot, deviant pickpocket on my ass (literally). I turned and concentrated on opening the lock. And trying to ignore him. But after two failed attempts at getting the combination right, I had to admit to myself that I couldn’t focus. He leaned against the adjoining locker, watching me . . . and apparently enjoying himself.
It made no sense whatsoever. It was high school, for crap’s sake. There had to be a cheerleader or two around that he could gawk at.
“Do you mind?” I asked.
“Not at all.”
I finally succeeded in yanking open the padlock. I slid the shackle out of the locker handle. “Ask around about me,” I said, avoiding his eyes. “If you’re looking for a new school romance, you’re barking up the wrong girl. I’m not the chick with a tough exterior concealing a wounded, golden heart, the one who’s aching for the right guy to notice her so he can crack her shell and sweep them both into the sunset. I might look like that
girl, but I’m not her.”
“Then which girl are you?”
“The one who wants to be left alone.” Even as I said it, there was that teeny-tiny part of me that knew it wasn’t true, but I forged ahead anyway. “I’m Jillian Cade, and chatting with me is not going to improve anything about your life, especially your social standing.”
My monologue did nothing in the way of discouraging him. In fact, it appeared to have the exact opposite effect. His green eyes widened. He straightened and suddenly got all formal, jutting out a hand toward my own. He was even closer now, close enough for me to get a whiff of minty toothpaste and boy shampoo.
“I’m Sky Ramsey, and if your father’s name is Lewis, then I beg to differ. Chatting with you has, in fact, improved my life. Significantly.”
Ah. There it was. He wasn’t talking to me. He was talking to the daughter of Lewis Cade.
I didn’t answer.
“You are the single pro next to a very long list of cons about moving here,” he added, dropping his hand when it was clear I wasn’t about to shake it.
There was no reason to be disappointed. Despite the fact that this guy—I mean Sky—was much prettier than the usual flock of Lewis Cade fanboys, that’s exactly what he was. Another brainwashed lemming looking to fling himself over the cliff of my father’s lies. God forbid a normal boy be into me, just once.
“You are a fan of fiction,” I informed him, “not a fan of me.”
Sky raised an eyebrow. “Fiction?”
I was great at promoting my father’s paranormal baloney when operating undercover, but I drew the line at real life. Fake Me ran my father’s fraudulent cases. Real Me called it like it was.
“Poorly written fiction,” I clarified.
“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” said Sky. “I’ve read everything your father has written—poorly or not—and the truth is that I would love to meet him.”
“You’re too late. He’s away on business.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“It might be permanent.” My voice hardened. “And even if he was here, I’ve got better things to do than arrange his playdates.”
Sky laughed. “Funny,” he said, which startled me. No one at school ever thought I was funny. Then again, I wasn’t exactly the class clown. He reached out to touch my arm. “Look, I didn’t ask to move to Van Nuys. Your name is the one familiar thing around here. I’m happy to meet you. That’s all.”
He gave my arm a gentle squeeze, and before I could think of anything to say in return, he sauntered away down the hall. I stared after him, wondering what had just happened. I turned back to my locker. I was about to toss my Muenster and pickle sandwich inside it when I realized it wasn’t empty. Leaning against the interior wall was a brown envelope.
What the hell?
I pulled out the envelope, ripped open the top edge, and upended it. A torn scrap of paper—maybe the size of my palm—fluttered out. I lifted it and scanned the printed text.
“What. The. Hell.”
This time I said it out loud. The thing I was holding made no sense. It had no reason to exist.
It was a piece of newspaper.
An obituary.
My obituary.
