Beth Death

Beth Death

Chapter One

 
Damn my vivid imagination. Living next door to dead bodies has clearly made my already morbid thoughts go off-the-charts sick. I swear I hear voices coming from the funeral home.  Like, I know there’s no one in there but my stepdad––well, no one living anyway. And if he’s in the house, then there’s no one out there. But I swear I hear people calling me. It’s really freaky. 

And now I’m hearing them at school. I peek down the hall toward the bathroom where the eerie noise is coming from. Somewhere deep inside me I know the spooky sounds aren’t real, but I still slam my locker closed and speed-walk to the exit of this farce of a senior school. More noises assault me . . . but unfortunately, these are not just my imagination. Not a dead body, either. I don’t have that much good luck.

“What are you staring at, Beth Death?” Freya, the sparkliest dazzle of them all, is standing there with her sidekicks. She’s wearing pink eyeshadow with glitter in it. Totally perfectly applied, and the exact same shade as her lipstick. The whole group has the same glittered look with matching rolled up school skirts—so short their butts are practically hanging out.

I totally wasn’t staring at her, but her comment draws my attention, so now I am, like a rabbit trapped in headlights. My lips might even hang a little bit open. I’m caught in that siren spell everyone always seems to fall into around her. Well, maybe not the same siren spell as everyone else. They’re all wrapped up in how pretty and popular Freya is. It’s more the kind where you can’t believe something is happening. Like a train about to crash, and you know it’s about to hit the wall, but you just can’t bring yourself to turn away.

Freya’s perfectly pink lips curl as she snarls, “I’m sorry, I’m not into girls, especially someone all black-and-white like a living Instagram filter. And neither is my sister, so you can stop that daydream. She wouldn’t give someone like you the time of day.” 

How did she know my thoughts about Jessica? And I can’t help it if our school uniform is black and white. Well, okay, I may have added a black jacket and a healthy amount of black eyeliner and lipstick to match my hair and nail varnish. But that’s just as valid a choice as her infantile pastel. 

“I think it must be mandatory for their weird family,” adds her Barbie-wannabe buddy, Lucy. “Dress like a corpse and maybe it’ll get your dad’s attention. . .”

Her lackies all snigger, like some weird cult with perfect blonde hair and cotton-candy manicured nails. Their giggles scratch the air, like forks on a plate. My eyes dart around the hallway. Luckily, it’s the end of the day, and most kids have gone home or back to their boarding rooms. 

Barbie Number Three, aka Rachel, nods eagerly. “You’re so totally right, Lucy. No one would dress like that willingly. Daddy issues.”

A flash builds in the back of my chest and shoots straight through my fingers, a harsh cutting wave of heat. There’s no quicker way to absolutely make me lose my cool than bringing up my family.

For one, he is NOT my dad, and for two, Freya and her sister Jessica may be the school darlings, but underneath their superficial beauty there’s literally nothing pretty. 

Lucy accuses, “Freya, I think she was staring at your arse!”

Rachel snickers, pressing a hand to her mouth. “Creepy. Who knows what she would do to a person!”

I defend myself, “No, I’m staring at you, trying to imagine you with a personality.” Hopefully that’ll be the end of it.

But Freya just won’t let it go. “How many emo kids does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”

Her lookalikes demand an answer. 

“None, they all sit in the dark and cry. Are you going to cry, Beth Death?” 

There’s a curl to her words when she says it, a little sharp up tick like she really thinks she’s the funniest thing in the world. Like that joke is going to make absolutely anyone laugh.

Well, it makes her minions laugh, but I’m not sure they count as people. They’re more like the things you grow in tubes to mimic each other.

“She looks like she’s been crying already,” says Lucy, with another tittering laugh. It can’t be real, right? I mean, there’s no way she’s actually got a laugh that grating.

Rachel joins in, “Or her make up looks that bad because she put it on in the dark.”

“Maybe she’s trying to look like her dead neighbours,” says Freya.

My head is about to boil; steam practically coming out of my ears. The smart thing to do would be to hold my tongue and go the other way, but it’s hard to be smart when you’re brain dead after a boring day at school. Plus, she’s literally right there, staring at me. My tongue is loose. My temper is hot. I can feel the words slowly breaking free.

And…

Here…

They…

Come…

“Drop dead, Freya!” 

I regret my response immediately. My comebacks are usually way wittier, like, “I’m thinking that someday you’ll go far, and I hope you’ll stay there,” or “I’d give you a nasty look, but I can see you’ve already got one.”

But no. I come up with something a six-year-old would say. Of course I do.

Chapter Two: A Deathly Silence

Drop dead Freya!

I wake up with yesterday’s words echoing in my head. A totally lousy rating on the burn scale. I’m year 11, not primary school. 

I face palm my forehead, sit up to crank up my Bluetooth speaker and drop backwards, exhaling a deep groan. 

My gaze sweeps across my bedroom, taking in the folded laundry on the end of my dresser waiting to be put away.