Adam had now been alive—or dead, depending on how you looked at things—for over twenty-four hours. The previous day had passed with preparations and another near-sleepless night as I fretted over the details of my plan to take a corpse to Hollow Pines High School.
“One last time, Adam. What are you going to say to Mrs. Van Lullen when you see her?” My eyes flitted up to Adam’s reflection in the rearview mirror. He was perched at the edge of Bert’s backseat with his knees tucked up to his chest so that he could lean forward to hear Owen and me. I felt as if Owen and I were driving our child to his first day of school.
Owen twisted in the passenger seat to watch the recital.
“I am Adam Smith. I come from Elgin, Illinois. I am sixteen years old. I am a junior. Victoria is my family friend. I am staying with her while my parents wrap up our move to the Lone Star State. Please, I would like to enroll in Hollow Pines High School.” He finished his speech with a beaming smile.
Owen pushed his thumbs into his eye sockets. “That’s it. We’re screwed.”
“We’re not screwed.” I took my eyes from the road long enough to glare at Owen. The rain had left behind muddy craters in the asphalt. The patchy tumbleweed grass that lined the side of it shimmered and looked slightly less cotton-mouthed than it had a couple days earlier.
We’d taken pains to make sure Adam’s assumed persona would stand out as little as possible. We’d chosen “Smith” because it was the most common last name in the United States, and a hometown of Elgin, Illinois, because nobody in their right mind would make up the fact that they were from some Podunk, middle-of-nowhere town like Elgin.
Or Hollow Pines for that matter.
“Adam, it sounds a little rehearsed. Do you think you could do it again only try not to sound like you’re reading from a cue card. Here, like this: ‘Hi, I’m Victoria, but since that name sucks I prefer Tor. I’m from Hollow Pines. Turned seventeen in July.’” I raised and lowered my inflection to illustrate. “See the difference?”
Owen’s jaw dropped. “Oh my god. Look at him. He’s like a baby freaking bird when you talk.”
I blushed. Adam had clearly developed an instant attachment to me. When I moved, he shadowed. When I spoke, you could literally see his chest puff up in anticipation. I had to continue to remind myself it wasn’t adorable, it was dead.
Adam cleared his throat. “I’m Adam Smith. I’m from Elgin, Illinois.” He stopped. “How was that, Victoria?”
Owen slapped his forehead. “You’ve created an imbecile.”
“I have not.” I gave Owen an extra slap on the head. The car careened across the dividing line, and I hurried to correct my course. “Be nice. He’s relearning, that’s all.” In the mirror, I could see Adam’s lips working through his lines. “Adam, that was much better. Excellent.”
“I’m sorry,” Owen muttered, and stared out the window. “I’m nice. I’m just trying to calculate the maximum sentence for aiding and abetting.” He twisted the nob on the stereo and flipped through stations until he found talk radio.
“Really. You think Mrs. Van Lullen is going to take one look at him and guess that”—I lowered my voice and turned up the radio—“that he’s a walking, talking corpse. Be rational, Owen. For god’s sake, we had a breakthrough.”
“I am being rational, Tor. News flash: Our science fair project wasn’t some well-guarded secret for which you needed national security clearance. We worked on it in the biology lab. At our school. You know, the one we’re trying to enroll Mr. Stitchy McStitcherson in.”
“Keep your voice down.” I wrapped my hands tighter around the steering wheel. My stomach was already working itself over with worry well enough. “Do you have the paperwork ready?”
He pulled out a folder. In it, the forms we’d e-mailed to request from the school yesterday were printed. The imaginary Ms. Smith had a new e-mail address and Owen’s cell phone number. “It’s all here. I e-mailed it to the school last night, but we have it just in case.”
“And your voice mail?”
He punched a number on his phone. It played a muffled recording of my voice, donning my best midwestern accent. “You’ve reached Marjorie Smith. Due to recent family events, I am tending to personal matters. I will return your call as soon as I’m able.” Beep.
He nodded. “What’s it called when a plan’s a step below bulletproof?”
“Shot to hell,” I said.
He grimaced. “Right, that.”
As we got closer to the school, my legs began sticking to the fake leather seats, and it felt like ripping off tape every time I pressed the brakes. My armpits were Slip ’N Slides, and I knew my cotton socks were doing their fair share of sopping up my nerves.
My head was ringing louder than a bell tower as we neared the school. Buildings started popping out of the cotton fields. We passed the sprawling expanse of the Beverly-Tate plant, where the lion’s share of this country’s feminine pads and toilet paper was proudly produced.