CHAPTER 9
Okay. Rewind.
The next time I woke up, I was calmer. (Well, a little bit calmer.)
As much as I’d hoped that waking up inside the ground had been a really bad nightmare, I guess some tiny part of me had known it was all true. Just like some tiny part of me had known that Tamara inviting me on to the cheerleading squad was too good to be true. And that Stephen being interested in me that way was too good to be true.
I knew all those things were fiction, but I’d gone along with it. Why? Because I wanted my transcript to look good. (And, yes, because this was Stephen Wills we’re talking about. And, yes, because his hand felt really good on my chest.) Anyway, lesson learned, right? The jocks and cheerleaders played one hell of a joke on good old Beth Frasier.
Well, screw them. If they thought they could get away with getting me drunk and then dumping me in some dirt pile—I don’t think so! I had the power of the press at my fingertips, and I intended to use it to muckrake the whole mucked-up lot of them.
First, though, I needed to take a shower. The dirt had started to work its way into my clothes, and I was feeling really itchy. I wiggled my fingers and managed to shove my index finger up. First through semisolid dirt, and then—yes!—freedom!
Aaaaagh!
I yanked my hand back down into the cool dirt, cradling it under my chin. I couldn’t see it—it’s dark underground—but my finger felt like it was on fire. The pain was so intense, in fact, that I was woozy again. Like the way I’d felt when I sliced my thumb chopping cucumbers. And there was all that blood and my head started spinning and . . .
Get a grip!
I forced myself to calm down, then ordered myself to take deep breaths and count to ten the way I always did whenever I was pissed or scared. I took one—then immediately gagged and spat as dirt filled my mouth.
Okay. That was weird.
The good news was that the utter weirdness of the situation had taken my mind off my burning, throbbing finger. The bad news was that I’m pretty sure I’d been lying here underground—completely surrounded by dirt—and totally not breathing.
But that couldn’t be right. Could it? I mean, people had to breathe. Of course, nobody would shove a person’s body into the dirt unless—
Uh-oh.
I really didn’t like the “unless,” but I wasn’t seeing a way around it. Slowly, I moved my noninjured hand through the dirt until I got it on my chest. I sat there, as still as death, and tried to find my heartbeat.
Nada.
Okay, this was bad. This was really, really bad. We’d gone way, way, way beyond bad dating horror stories here. This was Cryptkeeper territory.
My instinct was to sit bolt upright, plowing through the dirt and emerging from the earth like some scary monster in an old B movie. After that, I’d run home. I wanted my own bed. I wanted to see myself in the mirror. I wanted to IM Jenny and have her tell me this was all a really bad dream.
I even wanted to see my mom. And trust me, the way she’s been since the divorce, that’s saying a lot.
But I didn’t. Chalk it up to my extreme self-control (or extreme terror—you pick), but I stayed put, my throbbing finger a reminder of what might happen to the rest of me if I clambered out of the earth.
I needed to think, and when you get right down to it, a dark, damp grave is a pretty good thinking spot. I mean, my only other option was hysteria. And I figured my chances for revenge were better if I was calm and rational. That’s right. My self-control hinged on my overwhelming desire to get back at Stephen Wills, Tamara McKnight, and their little gaggle of idiot friends.
Which raised the first question for me to ponder: what exactly was I getting them back for? Burying me in the ground, sure. But considering the lack of heartbeat, I suspected there was more to it than that. I was dead . . . and yet, I wasn’t.
Which raised another rather obvious question: what exactly was I now?
My first guess was a vampire. That fit, after all. Vampires are dead. But they’re conscious (and considering the way my mind was whirring, I was most definitely conscious!). And sunlight burns them.
I eased my left hand closer to my face, slogging it through the dirt the whole time. I dug away a little hollow in front of my eyes, then moved my wristwatch in front of my face. My Timex lights up, but I couldn’t move my right hand to push the button, and I was starting to feel frustrated all over again when I realized I could see the watch face just fine.
This, I figured, was both good and bad. Good in that I needed to see what time it was. Bad in that I apparently now had preternatural vision.
And, on the bad side of the equation, my watch showed that it was seven-fifteen in the morning. Daylight. And my finger—which I now realized I could see—was burned to a crisp.
Daylight. Burned flesh. Yup. All signs were definitely pointing to vampire.
Weirdly, however, I wasn’t too freaked out. In fact, I was having a hard time concentrating at all. In fact, I was having trouble seeing the watch face anymore. And I realized almost offhandedly that the reason I couldn’t see it was because my eyes were closed.
Exhaustion. Bone-tired exhaustion.
Why not? I thought. Vampires were supposed to sleep during the day.
And with that happy thought, my mind went blank, and I slept the sleep of the dead.