My girl. I shouldn’t like that. But I do.
He knows we’ve kept up the communication, but I haven’t shown him any of her notes since the night I told him about her. Our conversations have turned too personal, and I don’t like the idea of her sharing my secrets with others. This note is short and vague, and I have to tell him.
He stares at the words while I unwrap two slices of banana bread. Each slice is spread with cream cheese and topped with raisins and walnuts. I’m instantly starving. I want to shove all of it in my face at once.
“She’s our age,” says Rev.
“Yeah.”
He glances around, as if she could be watching us. Instead of the same glee I felt, his expression is serious. “Are you sure someone’s not messing with you somehow?”
“Messing with me how?”
“She doesn’t want to meet you. You don’t know she’s seventeen. She could be a fifty-year-old guy getting off on this whole thing.”
I grab the letter out of his hands and jam it back into my backpack. “Shut up, Rev.”
He watches me eat for a moment. “Let me see it again.”
“No.”
“Okay.” He pulls a can of carbonated water out of his backpack and pops the lid.
Sometimes I want to punch him. I find the letter and slide it across the table.
He reads it again. It makes me feel all jittery inside.
His eyes flick up. “She likes you.”
I shrug and steal his drink. It tastes like someone drowned an orange in a bottle of Perrier, and I cough.
Rev smiles. “You like her.”
“How can you drink this crap?”
His smile widens. “Is it making you crazy that she won’t reveal herself?”
“Seriously, Rev, do you have any regular water?”
He’s no fool. “What do you want to do?”
I take a long breath and blow it out. I run a hand through my hair. “I don’t know.”
“You know.”
“I want to stake out the grave. This waiting between letters is killing me.”
“Suggest email.”
“She doesn’t want to tell me anything more than her age. She’s not going to give me her email address.”
“Maybe not her real email. But you could set up a private account and give her the address. See if she writes you.”
It’s so simple it’s brilliant. I hate that I didn’t think of it. “Rev, I could kiss you.”
“Brush your teeth first.” He reclaims his bizarre can of water.
“What if she doesn’t write back?”
He puts down her note and taps the words And that’s what I like so much about it. “She will, Dec. She will.”
CHAPTER TEN
I don’t want to lose this, either.
But maybe we could take this digital, so we’re not at the mercy of the elements? I set up an anonymous account.
[email protected] Your move, Cemetery Girl.
Wow.
The morning breeze is chilly, and it ruffles the paper. I read it again.
Wow. Wow.
Suddenly, I need to move.
I kiss my palm and slap it to the gravestone. “Sorry, Mom. I need to go.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
From: Cemetery Girl <[email protected]>
To: The Dark <[email protected]>
Date: Wednesday, October 2 7:17:00 AM
Subject: Going digital
The Dark? Don’t you think that’s kind of ghoulish?
She actually sent me an email.
She sent me an email.
I’m sitting in the school library and grinning like an idiot. I haven’t linked this account to my phone yet, because I really didn’t think she’d respond. I almost didn’t leave the note last night. Melonhead—Frank—kept asking why I was so jumpy.
I told him it was all the drugs, and he gave me a shove and told me I shouldn’t joke about those things.
My eyes flick up to the time stamp. Wednesday. Today.
Not just today, but twenty minutes ago. My heart rate doubles. She could be here. She could be in the library right this instant. I cast a furtive glance around, trying to be inconspicuous about it. Most of the computers are occupied, but I have no way of knowing what anyone is doing. The monitors have those screen protectors that only allow someone to read the screen if they’re looking straight at it. The students run the gamut from the freshman boy with leaking acne to an Asian girl with pink streaks in her hair who looks like she might be wearing pajamas.
Rev’s voice echoes in my head. She could be a fifty-year-old guy getting off on this whole thing.
I shove the thought out of my mind and look around again. Everyone seems to be actively doing something, typing or clicking or reading. No one is sneaking glances the way I am.
I’m such an idiot. Why would she be sneaking glances? She could have sent the email from home anyway. It’s not like the email came with a label like, Sent from Hamilton High School Library.
The librarian walks over to the computer bank. I have no idea what her name is, but she looks like she’s pushing seventy. “Three minutes to the bell. Start saving your work if you haven’t already.”
I can’t compose a reply in three minutes. Especially not a reply to something criticizing my email address.
I shut down the computer and sling my backpack over my shoulder. The hallways are packed with students on their way to class, but I let myself fall into the flow. I pull out my phone and start linking the email address so I’ll get a notification when she writes again.
Then I stop. I don’t like the idea of her emails being dumped into the same inbox with notices about court appearances and school detentions. It’s too much of a reminder of who and what I really am.
I look to see if Freemail has its own app.
Bingo. Not only does the service have its own application, but there’s also a chat feature and a customizable notification.
I should not be this excited about a chat feature. I don’t even know this girl.
That doesn’t stop me from looking to see if she’s on. She’s not. Maybe she doesn’t have the app.
My homeroom teacher is trying to get everyone to take their seats when I walk into the classroom. It’s louder than a pep rally in here.
They all ignore me. I don’t care. I slouch into my seat at the back and start typing.