I have one small advantage over the breathing girls of Buckley, the ones for whom tonight will be the first, last, and only senior prom. Unlike them, I don't have to worry about what I'm going to wear. I just have to worry about how many of them will be dead before morning.
On second thought, maybe they should be worrying about that, too.
***
Buckley Township: the more things change, the more they stay the same. The town has grown since I lived here, slowly spilling out into the surrounding fields and farmlands. The forest is still mostly intact, the trees standing sentry against intrusion. The lake and the swamp are exactly as they've always been, dangerous, foreboding, and deadly to the unprepared. I used to wonder how many bodies were buried there. Now that I've met a few of the ghosts who haunt the waters of Buckley, I can say with authority that I don't want to know. The land around Buckley has never been tamed, not really, and it doesn't suffer fools lightly, if it suffers them at all.
The storefronts have altered to fit the time, but they still seem to lag behind the outside world, the towns and cities that aren't struggling to survive in the hand of the forest, that aren't trapped under the shade of the nearby hills. It's a little strange to walk these streets and see signs offering computer repair and cellphone services where the record store and the five-and-dime used to be. Time stops for no one, I guess. There's another Buckley nestled deep down in the twilight, one where it's still 1945, one where all the little details still match the little details hidden in my heart. That's a dead town, a place that only exists because I do—there are no other Buckley ghosts from my generation still wandering the ghostroads. When I move on, if I move on, that dead little town will fade away. Maybe that's not such a bad thing, because this is the real Buckley, this changing, increasingly strange place, and it deserves to be fresher in my mind than its own time-locked reflection.
I've managed to walk halfway to the school when a car pulls up next to me, blinker flashing the brief staccato rhythm that means, in the secret language of the road, "You've got a ride." I stop where I am, turning toward the car, a battered old Toyota in that shade of middle-class brown that hides the rust better than just about anything else. The passenger-side window creaks down, revealing a teenage girl with hair almost exactly the color of her car's paint job. I don't get many rides from girls. Something about me says "there but for the grace of God," and they keep their distance.
She has red and yellow ribbons in her hair—the Buckley High School colors—and flecks of coppery rust in the brown of her eyes. "Get in," she says, with a small lift of her chin. It's more command than request, and I find myself obeying without stopping to think about it. "I'll fill you in on the way."
Prom night isn't like Halloween, when the dead live again, but it's something similar for me, anniversary of my death, pagan ritual in school colors. I can feel solidity falling into my bones like night falling on the forest, turning me physical from the inside out. I slide into the seat, almost taking comfort in the way my feet dip just below the floorboard—still dead, still free, at least for the moment. It's too late to run away, but it's too soon for the music to start. "Thanks for the ride," I say, old ritual, new target.
"I was going your way," she replies, with ritual calm, and I realize that I never told her which way I was going. She hits the accelerator, eyes on the road as she adds, "There's a wrap for you in the back. I looked through some of the old yearbooks to make sure I had the right color." I hesitate, and she sighs, heavily. "It's just a damn coat, okay? You need it if you don't intend to go walking through any walls in the next few hours. I feel more comfortable when I know my passengers are actually gaining some small measure of protection from their seatbelts."
"I—wait—what?"
"Although I guess if you're dead already, the seatbelt thing is sort of moot." She stops at the light on Pierce and Robinson—there wasn't a light there when I was alive, just one more sign of how the town has changed—before turning to look at me. "I'd feel better if you were corporeal in my car, okay? And since I'm the driver, I get to choose the radio station and dictate the physical state of passengers."
The look in her eyes finally snaps into focus. I can't stop myself from frowning as I ask, "You're a routewitch, aren't you? What are you doing in Buckley?" What are you doing here, on the night of the prom, the one night when I can't cross the city limits? Why did you pick me up?
What's going on here?
"I was born here," she replies, attention going back to the road. "My grandfather was from Buckley, and when my dad died, Mom decided she'd come here to be close to his side of the family. Her side's nothing to write home about."
"Oh." Even routewitches have to come from somewhere, I guess. I've just never given much thought to where they belong when they aren't running the roads or going home to the arms of the Ocean Lady. I lean over the seat, looking into the back. A wispy strip of pale green silk lies puddled on the upholstery. That familiar jolt of solidity races up my fingers as I reach over and pick up the wrap, noting the thin lines of silver running through the fabric. It's beautiful, delicate, and a perfect complement to the prom gown I'll wind up wearing before the night is over.
I settle back into my seat, feeling gravity settle over me like a shroud as I wind the wrap loosely around my shoulders. I fasten the seatbelt before looking toward the routewitch behind the wheel. Her eyes are still locked on the street beyond the windscreen. I clear my throat, and say, "Um, thanks. For the coat. And the ride. My name's Rose."
She actually laughs at that, the sound easy and clear and eerily familiar. "Oh, I know. You're Rose Marshall. You're here because this is the anniversary of your death, and whenever you're near Buckley during prom season, you wind up crashing the party."
"How did you—"
"You're here tonight, specifically, because I begged the road to send you. All the signs and portents have been crazy since the start of the school year. Old lady Martin's cat had a whole litter of kittens with no eyes, and somehow, all the scripts for the senior play got replaced with MacBeth. Something bad's coming. I wanted at least a little supernatural muscle on our side when things went south."
I blink. "What makes you think I can do anything to help?"
"It's prom night, in Buckley, and you're a Marshall. Marshalls always come back to Buckley when they're needed. It's what makes us better than the Healys."
Only one word in that sentence really stands out to me, and I'm repeating it before I take the time to think, voice going a little shrill as I demand, "Us?"
"Us," she agrees, and slants a smile my way, a wicked gleam in her eye that I remember seeing, too many times, in the eyes of my big brother. "Hi, Aunt Rose. I'm Bethany. I'm your brother Arthur's granddaughter."
"Of course you are." I slump in my seat, feeling the prom coming closer by the second, while this girl who is blood of my blood drives us toward the high school.
Prom night in Buckley Township. Not exactly the most wonderful night of the year.
***
The high school hasn't changed nearly as much as the rest of the town. The squat brick buildings seem to huddle in the middle of their parking lots and athletic fields, glowering out over the students who dare to approach. Some people say schools are cathedrals to learning. Not Buckley High. Buckley High is a prison, and the only way to get parole is to keep your grades up, keep your head down, and pray.
Bethany pulls into a spot near the street, using the spreading leaves of the sycamore trees to conceal the car from casual view. "We have about two hours before the dance starts," she says, as she unclasps her seatbelt. "I'm on the decorating committee, so I can get us inside now without raising suspicion."
"And the fact that nobody knows me won't be a problem because—?"
"I'll tell them you're my cousin from downstate, and that your folks made me bring you along." She slants a half-amused glance in my direction. "It's not like it's totally a lie. We are related, and you're from downstate. It's just that
you're coming from underground, not points south."
"Dead girl jokes. Oh, yeah, those are my favorite." I'm still grumbling as I unclasp my belt and climb out of the car, feeling the hot mugginess of the summer air settle across my skin. Michigan summers. I used to measure my life in Michigan summers. Now I just use them to measure out my death. "Then what? I help you hang streamers, pretend I'm not looking when somebody spikes the punch, and wait to see if some unnamed doom falls on the senior prom?"
"Something like that." Bethany starts walking across the parking lot, cocky little routewitch too young to know how hard the world can hit. I hurry to catch up. "Whatever it is, it's going to be bad. I don't think we'll be able to miss it once it starts."
"You are way too vague to be a Marshall."
"And you're way too dead to criticize." She doesn't sound annoyed; more amused, like my complaints are meaningless. In a way, I guess they are. She's a routewitch, and this is her territory now, not mine. It's prom night in Buckley, which means running away isn't an option for me, and the fact that she's alive means the shots are hers to call. That doesn't mean I have to like it. So I glower at her as we walk across the sun-bleached blacktop, faded white lines that delineate one parking spot from the next criss-crossing like railway tracks under our feet. She thinks we have two hours before the start of prom. I could tell her things about time, the way it bends and twists around the holy moments in your life, but I won't. I don't have the words, and I don't think Bethany has the ears to listen.
"How is Arthur?" I ask, just to break the silence. I'm solid as ever, but the hair that tickles the back of my neck is longer than it was when I got into the car. Prom night is rushing me on, and as all the other girls get ready, I'm getting ready, too. Whether I want it or not.
"Old. Crotchety. Mean as a snake when he thinks you've crossed him." Bethany's smile is sweet and distant. Maybe I could like her after all. "He took Mom and me in when nobody else wanted anything to do with us. I owe him a lot."
And he's still in Buckley, still breathing. That explains why she's here, little routewitch running a fixed route, like a hamster running in a wheel. She'll strike out on the open road one of these days, but even routewitches know the worth of family. She'll stay until my brother goes.
"And does he know...?" I wave a hand, jade beads rattling against each other as the bracelet on my wrist slides a few inches down my forearm. I wonder what my clothes look like now, whether anyone who happens to be passing by will see a transparent dress sketched over T-shirt and jeans...or whether the reality is already turned the other way around.
"No." Bethany shakes her head, quick, decisive, with no pause for thought. "I tried to tell him once, but he wouldn't let himself hear me. He didn't want to know. I think...I think he knew, deep down, that if he listened when I told him about the way the road can sing, if he believed, he'd have to believe all those stories about the ghost of Sparrow Hill Road."
Believe that your granddaughter is some kind of witch, believe that your decades-gone little sister has never been allowed to rest. That wasn't the sort of choice I'd have wanted to make. "Poor Art," I sigh.
"I deal," says Bethany, and then she's opening the door to the Buckley High School gymnasium—when did we finish crossing the parking lot? When did we pass the point of no return?—and stepping onward, into the dark. I hesitate, clinging to the illusion of choice for as long as I can. Bethany looks back at me, eyebrows raised in silent question, and with another sigh, I step forward, following her into the darkness.
***
Prom themes are the universe's way of getting us ready for the endless indignities it plans to heap on our heads, like fashion trends and bridesmaid dresses. No one ever seems to admit to being the one who thought that "Rain Forest Romance" or "A Dance on Mars" was a good idea. They just follow the mysterious sketches that tell them to put the streamers here, the crepe-paper flowers there, and the endless buckets of glitter everywhere that glitter shouldn't go.
Whoever chose this year's theme wasn't feeling particularly creative. The Buckley Buccaneers will be celebrating the magic of prom night in a gymnasium transformed into a bizarre combination of pirate ship and South Seas Island, complete with sand-covered paper mache "dunes." The banners hanging to either side of the stage proclaim that tonight is a night for Adventure. Where? On the High Seas, naturally.
"This is the third pirate-themed prom I've been to at this school," I inform Bethany.
"Look at it this way: it's the third one you've attended, but you've managed to miss fifteen of them, so the numbers are still slanted in your favor." Seeing the horrified look on my face, she smirks. "The drama department really enjoys recycling props. Why don't you go for a walk-around, and see if anything strikes you as off?"
Everything about this strikes me as off, from the lighting in the gym to the poster that greeted me when I stepped off of the ghostroads. The trouble is figuring out exactly where the problem lies. Maybe it's just Bethany's doom-saying, but I'm starting to feel like she's right, and something dangerous is coming. I just have no idea what "something" may turn out to be.
"No problem," I say, and turn, skirts swishing around my ankles as I start my circuit of the gym. Counter-clockwise, of course—the natural direction of the dead—and moving slow, trying not to miss anything.
No one could step into this gym and guess anything other than "senior prom." The decorations are perfect, that magical combination of cheese and class that somehow tears down social barriers, turning a fractured student body into one entity, at least until the last song ends. Crepe paper roses hang from the ceiling, the Buckley Buccaneer leering out of a hundred unexpected corners like some sort of comic pagan god. There's something wrong with some of the banners. At first, I assume it's just the differing levels of skill in the high school art classes coming through. Then I turn a corner, and find myself looking straight into the eyes of a life-sized, painted pirate. There isn't time to smother the shout of surprise that pushes past my lips.
The clothes are right, the silly hat and sillier parrot of the Buckley High mascot painted in loving detail. But the hat is in his hand, rather than being forced down over his perfect duck's-ass hair, and the look in his painted eyes is flat, judgmental, like the eyes of a snake somehow granted human form. Bobby Cross. I'm looking at a painting of Bobby Cross...and that's when I realize something I should have realized from the start:
I never made it to prom. There were no pictures of me in my prom dress, because I never made it to the prom.
"Shit," I mutter, and take a step backward.
"That took you way longer than I thought it was going to," says Bethany from behind me. I turn toward the sound of her voice, mouth already starting to shape my first demands for information. Whatever question I was going to ask is forgotten at the sight of the tin cash box swinging toward my temple. Then it hits, sending jolts of pain all the way down into my toes, and the world goes black.
I don't even feel it when I hit the floor.
***
Hitchers are a weird little off-shoot of the ghost world: we mess up the rules, just by being what we are. We're dead and buried. We don't age, we don't sleep, we don't need to eat or drink when we're on the ghostroads, and we have the option—even if very few of us ever choose to take it—of moving on to whatever destination waits beyond the last freeway off-ramp. At the same time, give one of us a coat, and we're alive again, all the way through. A lot of ghosts turn solid on the anniversaries of their deaths, but only hitchers transition all the way back to the lands of the living. Combine that with a coat, and well...
There's a reason that I'm not happy when I open my eyes to find myself tied to a chair, and it's not just because she didn't buy me dinner first.
Just on the off chance that it's past midnight, I try letting go of the strings tying me to the wrap Bethany so "charitably" provided. Nothing happens. It's still prom night in Buckley, and that means I'm anchored here, whether or not I want to be. "Fuck," I mutter.
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"Language," says Bethany sweetly, stepping around the corner, into view. She's still wearing the T-shirt and jeans she had on when she picked me up. Why didn't that strike me as strange? Decorating committee or not, she should have at least had her foundation makeup on, should have done something with her hair. "This is a place of learning, Auntie Rose. Mind your tongue, or you'll wind up getting detention."
"When I was a student here, we knew enough to mind our elders," I snap. "Untie me right now and I might be able to write this off as a funny, funny prank."
"You're not my elder tonight, Aunt Rose. You were sixteen when you died, and I'm seventeen now. I'm an upperclassman." Her smile isn't nearly as chilling as the six girls who come walking up behind her, each of them carrying a candle in one hand, and a silver carving knife in the other. "I really thought you'd be more of a challenge than this."
"Did someone contact all the crazy bitches of the world and say I was in the market for a good fucking-over?" I demand. "First Laura, now you—God! Can't you people just leave me the hell alone?"
"To be fair, I got the idea when I heard what Miss Moorhead had managed to do. I mean, catching a hitcher? That's not easy, not even when you know the things that call them. Things like the story of their death...and the fact that they almost always have a thing for haunting family." Bethany reaches up and tugs one of the ribbons free of her hair. "You were so set on chasing the things that bind you that you didn't even notice that this wasn't a real dance."
"Like anybody decorates the gym anymore?" asks one of the other students, wrinkling her nose. "Ew. That's what the community center is for."
"Vicky?" says Bethany, in a voice like honey.
"Yeah?"
"Don't talk." Bethany keeps her eyes on me. "There's a bounty on your head, Auntie Rose, and the man who wants you—you have no idea how much he's willing to pay. I won't ever have to worry about anything ever again. Not me, not my mother, not even Grandpa. We'll be set for life."