Dead and Buried
“She’s going with you and that’s
final!”
“She doesn’t even want to go. But,
you know… whatever.” Vance Brody’s voice sounded muffled through the door, unlike
his father’s, which always seemed calm, clear, authoritative.
It was true, though, she didn’t
want to go. Not that it mattered now. Victor Brody had spoken. She was going to
Horrorville with Vance Brody and his stupid friends, and that was final.
Paley groaned as she scraped
herself off the hardwood floor and moved away from the door where she’d been
listening to her new foster family argue for the past ten minutes. She’d only
lived with the Brodys for two days, and already she was screwing things up.
Story of her life. Paley Conrad, problem child. She’d been to four foster homes
in the past nine months. A personal record- not that she was proud of it or anything.
In fact, she hated it. Hated the
look Mrs. Fletcher, her case worker, gave her every time another family sent
her back like she was defective or something. What’s wrong with you? That was the kind of look Mrs. Fletcher gave
her. The revolting blob of a woman never said it, but Paley could see it in the
odious glint of her beady, brown eyes.
“Don’t you want to get adopted?” is
what the social worker actually had said when she’d had to pick Paley up from
the last family in the middle of a tornado warning.
Yeah,
like that was ever going to happen. Paley hadn’t bothered to say it. They
both knew it was true. She’d given up on that pipedream a long time ago. No one
wanted a teenager with a troubled past. But it wasn’t like she was trying to
beat the system, either. She just wanted to bide her time, keep her head down
and her nose clean until her eighteenth birthday. Then, she could start fresh.
A new life. A new town. Anywhere she wanted. But for now, that didn’t matter.
She had to make this situation work, despite how much she hated it.
“You got lucky this time, kid,”
Mrs. Fletcher had said as they drove off into the sheeting rain. “I found a family
who’s willing to take you. A good family in New Orleans. A wealthy family. Why they’re offering to take you in, I have no
earthly idea. Just be thankful that they are. Lord knows I am. You’re all out
of options.”
As much as Paley hated to admit it,
Mrs. Fletcher was right. She’d foisted herself into a raw deal. A three strikes
and you’re out kind of deal, and the State was pitching a no-hitter. This was
her last chance. If she couldn’t make it work here, who knew where she’d end up?
Maybe juvie or something. Living with the Brodys was certainly better than
that, and better than the last home she’d been at. At least she had her own
room. She didn’t have to worry about anyone barging in on…
Vance Brody opened her bedroom door
without knocking. So much for privacy. “Dad said you have to go,” Brody told
her, not bothering to feign excitement.
“Yeah, I heard,” Paley said, just
as unenthusiastically. “I’ll get ready.”
“Ten minutes and I’m out. Got that?”
“Yeah,” Paley said, walking over to
her closet. She frowned as she stared into the gigantic walk-in. The closet was
probably twice the size of her last bedroom. Her clothes didn’t even take up a
tenth of the space.
“I’m not kidding,” he said,
following her into the closet. He flipped the light switch she’d been searching
for. She still hadn’t learned her way around the house yet. “I don’t care what
Dad said. Brighton’s already downstairs waiting.”
She stopped rummaging through the
pitiful selection of garments and turned to look at him. “Okay. I said I’ll be
ready, Brody.” That’s what everyone called him, Brody. Not Vance, never Vance.
Like he was too avant-garde for a first name or something. Whatever.
He plucked a black lace top from
its hanger, one of the nicer things she owned. “Here. Wear this. It’ll make you
look less,” his gaze moved down her body and stopped at the grubby pair of Doc
Martins on her feet, “homeless.”
She pushed a wayward curl from her
face and sighed. “Fine,” she said, and snatched the shirt from him. “I’ll be
downstairs in a minute.”
It took her more like seven by the
time she changed clothes, pulled her hair back, and applied some lip gloss. Brody
and his friend were waiting for her in the foyer. Paley eyed Brighton as she
descended the stairs. Witless green eyes, flame red hair, and matching freckles.
Ouch! For the first time ever, Paley was thankful for her own auburn locks, and
as much as she disliked her pale skin, at least it wasn’t paper-white and
covered with liver spots. Next to Brody, with his midnight eyes, square jaw,
and black-as-night hair, Brighton looked like a troll.
“Finally,” Brody mumbled, as she
reached the bottom of the stairs. “Paley, this is Brighton Wilcox. Brighton,
Paley Conrad, my dad’s latest charity case.”
Brighton snickered. “Man, your
parents take in foster kids like stray dogs.”
Brody lifted one lazy shoulder, too
cool to comment, as Paley struggled to bite back a retort. So what if Troll Boy
equated her to a stray dog? She didn’t care what he or Brody thought. Jerks.
Brody watched her for a long
moment, like he expected her to say something. When she didn’t, he finally
said, “Let’s get going. I’ve gotta pick up Hannah.”
Paley slid into the backseat of
Brody’s BMW and tried to force back the uneasy feeling of being set up.
Fifteen minutes later Hannah
Fontenette, Brody’s bimbo of a girlfriend, took the seat beside her. Tan,
petite, blonde. Typical cheerleader type. How pathetic. Didn’t these girls have
any originality?
“You have no idea how glad I am to
see another girl!” Hannah said, staring at herself in a compact mirror. She
dabbed a layer of powder on her pert, slightly upturned nose.
“You’re right, I don’t,” Paley
said, turning to look out the window. She watched the last lavender streaks of
twilight dip below the horizon and the cloudless, black night take over.
“Last year,” Hannah said, grabbing
Paley’s arm in an attempt to wrestle back her attention, “I was the only girl in
our group. Talk about painful.”
“Last year sucked. I don’t even
know why we go anymore. I swear, Horrorville gets lamer every year,” Brighton
said, turning in his seat to face them. Paley considered kicking the back of his
seat so he’d turn around and she wouldn’t have to look at his big, dumb face. An
image of metal bars and handcuffs flashed through her mind, and she thought
better of it. Third strike.
“It’s tradition,” Brody replied,
keeping his eyes on the black ribbon of asphalt that stretched out before them.
He pulled a pack of Pall Malls from the glove box, wiggled one out and lit it. “Can’t
break tradition,” he said, slowly exhaling a puff of gray smoke. No one
challenged that. It was obvious Brody was the voice of authority among the
group. He turned down a dirt road that lead to an open field full of cars and
parked.
Paley turned back to her window and
squinted, trying to make out the place called Horrorville in the moonless
night. A corn maze, pumpkin patch, and rickety old shed. That’s what she saw.
More like Snoozeville. She really should have stayed at the Brodys.
“Dude, it’s not even scary. This
place is for kids,” Brighton said. He was right. The only people around were
kids dressed as ghosts, witches, or cheesy superheroes, and their parents.
Brody took a long pull on his dwindling
cigarette, and watched as one poor woman chased a knee-high Spiderman through the parking
lot. “I didn’t come here to be scared. Did you?”
“Naw, man,” Brighton said, trying
to sound macho, like he’d never been afraid in his entire life. “I’m just sayin’.”
“Are we going in or what?” Paley
finally asked. She was tired of being trapped in the backseat of a gas chamber.
Even if the place was lame, she wanted fresh air.
“No!” Hannah squealed, and bounced
in her seat excitedly. “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we show Paley what
New Orleans is all about? You know, something really haunted.”
Brody eyed her through the
rearview mirror, his expression bored. “We’re supposed to meet Quinn and his
girlfriend inside.”
“So call him. Tell him we’ll meet
up later. Or, better yet, ask them to join us.” Hannah smiled, still bouncing. “You
know, the more the merrier.”
Paley rolled her eyes. Probably not the first time she’s said that.
Brody shrugged. “Okay, where were
you thinking, Hannah?”
“Jackson Hill.”
Paley laughed. “The high school? That’s the most haunted place in New
Orleans?” Paley hadn’t been there yet, but it seemed the least likely place to
be haunted.
Hannah gave her a sly smile. “You’ll
see.”
Ok, so I hope you enjoyed the begining of my story. Now, here's where the fun comes in. Remember those Chose Your Own Adventure books that were big in the 90s? Well, that's kind of the idea here. That's right; I want you to chose the fate of the characters. Use the voter poll below to decide what Paley does next.
