The Past and Other Things That Should Stay Buried(9)

“What now?” she says.

“I don’t know. Two hours ago you were in a freezer. In less than twenty-four hours you’re supposed be in the ground, and I have no clue what happens if you’re not. Aren’t walking and talking enough?”

“We should go somewhere,” July says like she didn’t hear a word I said.

“You. Are. A. Corpse. We have no idea why this is happening or what you even are.” I try to take a breath, but the low-level panic that’s been buzzing inside of me starts to bust out. “Your heart’s not beating, but your eyes are clear and blue when they should be cloudy and flat. Your blood should be pooled in your back or feet, but it’s not. You’re not breathing, so how are you talking?”

July does that infuriating thing where she gives me duck lips and an “I don’t give a crap” frown. “Who cares?”

“I do!”

“Well, I don’t, and since I’m the one not-dead, my vote counts double.”

“People will freak out if they recognize you.”

“Then we’ll have to be careful.” July pinches my lips shut before I can argue. Her fingers are mushy and rubbery. Not cold but not warm, either.

“This is ridiculous,” I mumble. I could try to restrain her, keep her in the prep room, but she’s stronger than me. Besides, dead, not-dead, she’s still got the right to decide what happens to her, even if she chooses the most illogical course of action. Letting her have her way is the easiest option. It’s always been that way between me and July. She wears me down until she gets what she wants. Even in death, nothing’s changed.

“Fine,” I say. “We’ll go for a drive, but we have to be home before my parents.”

July pats my cheek. “This’ll be fun. I promise.”

“You also promised we’d be best friends forever. Look how that turned out.”





DINO

I HAVE NO IDEA WHERE I’m driving. Palm Shores is not the kind of town people who thrive on excitement choose to live in. The biggest event last year was Starbucks opening a second store. People in Palm Shores may be boring, but they love their lattes. The main road that runs east-west is lined with grocery stores and Chipotles and gas stations. We’ve got a nice luxury movie theater and a used bookstore. Finding a way to stave off boredom usually means leaving Palm Shores and heading south to West Palm, but I’m not interested in dragging July’s dead body downtown. Instead, I head east until we hit the beach road and then crawl along that while July stares out the window.

Truthfully, our destination isn’t as important as how the journey is even possible. I want to be the type of person who’s capable of accepting that his ex–best friend has risen from death and who can make the most of however long they have together, but that’s not how I’m wired.

“Cut it out,” July says, and I don’t know what she’s talking about until she eyes my fingers thumping the steering wheel.

“Sorry.” I still my hands. “Look, I’m trying real hard not to freak out, but I’m seriously freaking out.”

“Is it helping?”

“No.”

“Then stop.”

It’s a good thing I’m driving, because it forces me to focus on the road and the cars in front of me and my foot on the gas pedal so that I don’t lose it on July. “Maybe you can ignore what’s going on, but I can’t.”

July tugs on the seatbelt and shifts the angle of her body toward me. “I thought you were the expert at ignoring things.”

“You’re dead, July.”

“I’m not dead!”

“The smell of you decomposing is filling my mom’s car.” I pause and wait for July to argue, but she doesn’t. “You might be able to walk and talk and annoy me, but you are still a rotting corpse, so please stop trying to change the subject.”

July cranks up the stereo, which is connected to my phone and is still on the playlist I’d chosen earlier. The manic beats behind the auto-tuned voices dance from the speakers. It’s a song called “Last First Love,” and the overwrought lyrics about a broken heart don’t match the upbeat tempo. I quickly turn it down.

“Were you listening to—”

“Yeah.”

“For real?”

“Yes!” I say. “My ex–best friend died, and I was saying good-bye to her, and I put on some music that reminded me of her. Is that so surprising?”

“Of me,” July says. “You were saying good-bye to me. The songs reminded you of me.”

I open my mouth to agree with her, but stop and change course. “No. July Cooper died. I don’t know who or what you are.”

“Well, I don’t know who you are either. The Dino DeLuca I knew wasn’t such a prick.” July barrels along before I can get a word in. “You keep saying I’m dead, but I don’t feel dead. I don’t feel like I’m rotting. I feel alive. Mostly. Maybe. But that’s not the point. The point is that if anyone gets to be freaked out by this, it’s me!”

July doesn’t intimidate me. I mean, okay, dead July is a little scarier than live July had been, because I’m not sure if this version has superstrength or is contagious or is going to grow razor-sharp fangs, but I’m not bothered by her yelling the way some people are. I once saw her reduce a freshman to tears for forgetting his lines during dress rehearsal for Into the Woods. I know July, though, and she’s all bark and no bite.