The Wrong Grave Read Free Page A

him. “I’m going to be a poet. It would be a great loss to the world if I never got a chance to publish my poetry.”
    â€œI see,” Gloria Palnick said, as if she did, in fact, see a great deal. Her hair settled back down on her shoulders and began to act a lot more like hair. “You don’t want me to come home with you. You don’t want to stay here with me. Then how about this? If you’re such a great poet, then write me a poem. Write something about me so that everyone will be sad that I died.”
    â€œI could do that,” Miles said. Relief bubbled up through his middle like tiny doughnuts in an industrial deep-fat fryer. “Let’s do that. You lie down and make yourself comfortable and I’ll rebury you. Today I’ve got a quiz in American History, and I was going to study for it during my free period after lunch, but I could write a poem for you instead.”
    â€œToday is Saturday,” the dead girl said.
    â€œOh, hey,” Miles said. “Then no problem. I’ll go straight home and work on your poem. Should be done by Monday.”
    â€œNot so fast,” Gloria Palnick said. “You need to know all about my life and about me, if you’re going to write a poem about me, right? And how do I know you’ll write a poem if I let you bury me again? How will I know if the poem’s any good? No dice. I’m coming home with you and I’m sticking around until I get my poem. ’Kay?”
    She stood up. She was several inches taller than Miles. “Do you have any ChapStick?” she said. “My lips are really dry.”
    â€œHere,” Miles said. Then, “You can keep it.”
    â€œOh, afraid of dead girl cooties,” Gloria Palnick said. She smacked her lips at him in an upsetting way.
    â€œI’ll climb up first,” Miles said. He had the idea that if he could just get up the rope, if he could yank the rope up after himself fast enough, he might be able to run away, get to the fence where he’d chained up his bike, before Gloria managed to get out. It wasn’t like she knew where he lived. She didn’t even know his name.
    â€œFine,” Gloria said. She looked like she knew what Miles was thinking and didn’t really care. By the time Miles had bolted up the rope, yanking it up out of the grave, abandoning the telescoping shovel, the wire cutters, the wronged dead girl, and had unlocked his road bike and was racing down the empty 5 A.M. road, the little red dot of light from his headlamp falling into potholes, he’d almost managed to persuade himself that it had all been a grisly hallucination. Except for the fact that the dead girl’s cold dead arms were around his waist, suddenly, and her cold dead face was pressed against his back, her damp hair coiling around his head and tapping at his mouth, burrowing down his filthy shirt.
    â€œDon’t leave me like that again,” she said.
    â€œNo,” Miles said. “I won’t. Sorry.”
    He couldn’t take the dead girl home. He couldn’t think of how to explain it to his parents. No, no, no. He didn’t want to take her over to John’s house either. It was far too complicated. Not just the girl, but he was covered in dirt. John wouldn’t be able to keep his big mouth shut.
    â€œWhere are we going?” the dead girl said.
    â€œI know a place,” Miles said. “Could you please not put your hands under my shirt? They’re really cold. And your fingernails are kind of sharp.”
    â€œSorry,” the dead girl said.
    They rode along in silence until they were passing the 7-Eleven at the corner of Eighth and Walnut, and the dead girl said, “Could we stop for a minute? I’d like some beef jerky. And a Diet Coke.”
    Miles braked. “Beef jerky?” he said. “Is that what dead people eat?”
    â€œIt’s the preservatives,” the dead girl said, somewhat