Chasing Before Page 2

  I have so many questions, I don’t even know where to begin. But Neil blurts, “Why do you still have braces?” It’s a good question, if a little rude. We can materialize our appearance to the best version of ourselves, so it is unusual that Megan would keep unnecessary metal in her mouth.

  Megan pulls her lips back, like she’s at the dentist, revealing a gap between her top front teeth. “When I died, I’d had these on for a whole year. Back then I couldn’t wait to get them off. But now they make me feel more like me, you know?”

  I understand. I spent most of my time in Level Two in a plain white shift, and I love being able to wear my familiar clothes now.

  “Libby says that once I’ve distanced myself enough from earthly things, I’ll be ready to let my braces go, and pin them on the Forgetting Tree.” Megan sneaks a glance at Libby. “Detachment is part of my training to be a muse, my chosen career.”

  “They’ll hear about all that soon enough,” Libby admonishes. “Give them a chance to settle in first.”

  “Wait until you see more of the campus.” Megan changes the subject and ignores Libby’s look of irritation. I appreciate it, because her chatter helps to lower my anxiety level. “We have everything a vocational training center needs. Well, except we don’t have a cafeteria, of course. Or bathrooms.”

  While it would be heavenly to take a long hot shower, I’m not too bummed about the lack of a dining hall. In my book, in the competition for foods I miss the least, cafeteria offerings are up there with those cardboard-like pizza pockets they serve on international flights.

  “So we’re staying in dorms?” Neil asks. “Aren’t there tons of people here? How do you find a place for everyone?”

  “Enrollment has been down as a result of the Morati keeping everyone locked up in Level Two for so long,” Libby answers. “And most of the trainees we had before that time have long moved on to their afterlife careers. It was mostly just us murder victims until about four months ago, when people were able to move up again.”

  “That was four months ago?” My head feels fuzzy when I think about time. It never mattered in Level Two, and there was no way to mark it, so I lost my sense for it.

  “Yes. It was chaotic that first week, with all the changes we had to make,” Libby says. “We have a larger security force now, but most of our population isn’t aware what the destruction of the records room means. And like I said, we want to keep it that way.”

  We’re walking again, turning a corner and arriving at a bank of three booths with turnstiles, much like the tollgates on a major highway. This must be processing. “You go through the center one,” Megan says. She explains that the booth on the left is to process children under twelve who return to Earth to be reincarnated, and the booth on the right is for those who died on Earth at age sixty-five or above. The elderly are allowed to take up residence in the senior center in Area Three until the next Ascension Day retirement ceremony, when they can move on to the next level. Both children and the elderly have caretakers until they leave Level Three.

  Libby hands our clipboards to the attendant in the center booth, who scrutinizes us briefly and then returns our documents. It’s like passport control, only we’re entering a whole new world instead of a new country. When the attendant nods us through, Neil and I push forward, followed by Megan and Libby.

  Megan steps ahead and leads us around another corner. When I look up, I gasp. Because leaning against a column is the last person I ever thought I’d see again. My former best friend, Autumn.

  two

  AUTUMN STARES STRAIGHT ahead, her expression blank. I take in her stiff pose, bile rising in my throat as images of her slashed and lifeless body on my bed burst through my skull.

  I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment and lean against Neil. He is aware of my horrible betrayal of our friendship—that I caused a snowstorm of bitter feelings by sneaking around with Julian behind her back. He’s never met Autumn, of course. She was murdered before I knew him. But he’s seen her in my memories of happier times. I told him all about how I was forced to move from Germany to Ohio, mainly because of my poor decisions in the wake of her death.

  I picture Autumn at her most alive—on the crest of a roller coaster at Disneyland Paris, throwing her arms up, doubling over with laughter—and only then do I dare look at her again. She wears a simple black long-sleeved T-shirt and yoga pants. Her blond hair is pulled back into a severe ponytail, and her face is scrubbed clean of the makeup she never used to leave her house without. Her feet are also bare, toes overlapping the edge of the covered sidewalk and digging into the green grass of the lawn.

  Megan goes and sits down next to her on the concrete, as if she’s settling in for a long wait.

  Libby makes a mark on one of the clipboards. “This is Autumn. She helps train promising candidates for the seraphim guard, and as the head of our security force, she screens new arrivals.”

  When Libby finishes her introduction, Autumn finally looks our way. Her eyes widen, and I brace myself for a boiling burst of condemnation. She rocks on her heels and then closes the distance between us in three bounding strides. Before I can move, she knocks into me, tearing me out of Neil’s grasp.

  I curl my shoulders in to protect myself from her blows. It takes a second for me to process that she’s not sneering and jabbing at me. She’s squealing and jumping and hugging me as if she’s excited I’ve crawled back into her life, as if she’s forgiven me when I haven’t even been able to forgive myself. It’s so unexpected, so undeserved, that the huge knot of shame in my chest comes undone and spills out of me in heaves and spurts.

  “What’s wrong?” Autumn asks, releasing me. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

  In this moment I am happy. Even if I can’t quite trust this dawning awareness that I might have the chance to win my oldest, dearest friend back. It seems too good to be true. I need to tell her how sorry I am. How much penance I’ve paid for the wrong I did her. “I’m sorry,” I blubber. “For what . . . I did. With Julian.” I stumble over the words, feel them collide in my mouth, like they’re too big to fit in there all at once.

  Autumn shakes her head, and her ponytail swishes back and forth. “Oh, Felicia, it’s fine. It really is. The first thing you learn in Level Three is how to let go. Make peace with your past. I have.”

  Her eyes sparkle with sincerity and joy. Level Three has obviously been good to her. I’m overcome with gratitude that the unpredictability of the cosmos has arranged this in my favor. Even if my future is uncertain, even if the Morati lie in wait beyond this encounter, at least I can die again knowing that I’m forgiven. With Autumn and Neil by my side.

  Libby clears her throat, and Autumn startles, as if just now realizing that we have an audience. “Who’s this?” Autumn asks brightly. Neil laces his fingers through mine, and Autumn smiles. “Your boyfriend?”

  I nod. “Neil. He’s the sweetest guy I’ve ever met.”

  “And he’s cute!” Autumn winks, making Neil duck his head and blush. We all trade bemused glances, and I start to think Level Three might be okay after all.

  “We should probably begin,” Autumn says with chipper enthusiasm. “Even though I know you, I still have to screen you.”

  “For what?” I ask.

  “Autumn and a few of the other elite members of the security force greet new trainees to make sure they’re mentally fit for service,” Libby explains. “She’ll read your memories via your palm. I assume you’ve both done memory transfers before.”

  We have. After the fall of the Morati’s hive architecture and the memory chambers, touching palms was the only way to access memories. Neil and I dipped in and out of our lives on Earth with regularity in the months we spent together before coming here.

  I pull away from Neil so I can lift my palm for Autumn. I hope she’s not planning to show me her death memory. It’s not that I don’t wonder who killed her—that mystery was never solved—but I don’t want to relive it with her.

 
Autumn leans forward and allows our palms and the pads of our fingers to connect. The instant they do, I’m sucked into a black hole. Murky images fly and scratch at me like ravens spooked from a fence. I can’t hold on to anything long enough to process it. I twist away from her, breaking contact.

  “I’m sorry!” Autumn winces. “I should have warned you that memory transfers with someone as practiced in mind blocking as I am can be unpleasant. In order to assess your mental strength, I put up defenses instead of openly showing you one of my memories. It wouldn’t be fair to everyone else if I were to go easy on you because you’re my best friend.”

  We all chuckle uncomfortably, even Megan, who twists blades of grass between her fingers, forming them into tiny animal figurines. So far two giraffes and a penguin stand at attention next to her on the sidewalk.

  “Your turn,” Autumn says to Neil. After my reaction to the screening, Neil is understandably hesitant. But he’s never been one to question authority, so he dutifully lifts his palm and only flinches once while they’re connected.

  Autumn releases Neil, and he stumbles back to my side. “See? That wasn’t so bad.” The honey in her voice is sticky and leaves a slightly bitter aftertaste.

  Libby poises her pencil above her clipboard. “Your verdict, please.”

  Autumn shrugs. “I’d say they’re both suitable for something midlevel. Muse, maybe. Felicia is, like, a genius on the piano.” She’s casual about it, but I notice the extra emphasis she gives the “mid” in “midlevel.” She always had a competitive streak, especially with me. She’s obviously earned her high position, and I don’t begrudge her for it.

  Libby raises her eyebrows but makes another mark on her clipboard, while Megan jumps up and claps her hands, knocking her grass figurines over. “Muse? How cool! I can totally show you two around!”

  “Great,” Autumn says. “But don’t you think someone should be at the records room in case any new arrivals come in?”

  Megan looks over to Libby for instructions. “You will handle that this afternoon while I help these two get settled in,” Libby says, addressing Autumn. Her hard tone suggests it’s more an order than a request.

  Autumn’s mouth gapes open at this obvious deviation in protocol, and her nose wrinkles in irritation. “Of course.” Then she pulls me into another quick hug. “I still can’t believe you’re really here—”

  “So,” Libby interrupts, “the fact that you two are friends works to your advantage, Felicia. Because Autumn is so well known as the head of security, the Morati will steer clear of her if they’re smart. So far they’ve kept a low profile, so we don’t anticipate a major attack. It gives us time to figure out what their end game is.”

  If Autumn is surprised that we’ve been briefed on the Morati’s infiltration, she hides it well. “You’re safe with me.” She squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll come by your room after my shift and check on you, okay?” The conviction in her voice helps to tamp down my panic about the Morati a few notches. If my powerful best friend is watching out for me, maybe I won’t have to constantly look over my shoulder.

  “You’re the best,” I say. She grins, gives me a thumbs-up sign, and sets off back the way we came.

  As shell-shocked as I am by Level Three’s revelations—that the Morati somehow slipped through, that Autumn is here and doesn’t hate me, and that it appears we’ll have to choose and train for some sort of afterlife career—I can’t help but feel a tiny shiver of excitement for all the possibilities that await. And maybe that does make me courageous.

  Neil bends down and retrieves Megan’s discarded grass giraffes, cupping them carefully like he once handled a baby bird. “Can I keep these?” he asks her, inspecting them up close. “They’re beautiful.”

  Megan nods excitedly. “Thank you. I was really into sculpture before.”

  “It shows,” Neil says.

  Libby sighs, indicating she’s not nearly as impressed. She leads us through an archway and down another narrow walkway until we emerge onto a perfectly manicured lawn, bordered on all sides by impressive stone buildings.

  There are small clusters of people milling about, lounging on benches, sitting cross-legged under trees. Oddly, the members of each group all wear the same color. Otherwise, the scene looks straight out of all the glossy college brochures I used to get before my scholastic achievement took a nosedive midway through my senior year. After my meltdown when Autumn died, my mother sent me to live with my paternal grandmother in Ohio. The Foreign Service revoked my diplomatic passport for abusing it, and my mother had to make a choice between her career and me. She didn’t choose me. I was so upset, I didn’t even bother to apply to any schools. Neil was all set to go to Ohio State, and I thought about joining him at the start of the spring semester. I’m now hit with another twinge of longing for my earthly life. I mourn the fact that I’ll never know how things might have turned out if Neil and I had lived.

  As we walk, Libby passes Neil and me each a brochure from her clipboard. “In Level Three you train for your afterlife careers. Like Megan said, she’s training for the muse program.”

  I flip through the brochure. Careers are divided into sections based on where the work is performed. Under “Earth” I see headings for muses, demon hunters, spirit trappers, and guardian angels. Under “Level Three” are the healers and caretakers, and under “Level Four” is the seraphim guard. The careers are ranked by degree of difficulty, and muse is, indeed, considered midlevel. The most elite careers are with the demon hunters and the seraphim guard.

  Neil points to one of the subheads on page two. “I think muse does sound perfect for us.” He reads aloud from the brochure. “Muses inspire the arts and enrich people’s lives. Prerequisites include: one, an excellent memory; two, a complete detachment from one’s earthy life; and three, a natural talent in art, poetry, dance, music, comedy, or history.”

  I nod, Autumn’s less-than-stellar recommendation still rankling a bit. “Yeah, we should do that.”

  “Really? You want to?” Megan asks. “I can’t wait to introduce you to everyone in the program. I also played the tuba for years.” She puffs out her cheeks and places her arms out in front of her like she’s holding the large instrument. “You should’ve seen how much my lungs could hold back then.”

  She looks so comical, both Neil and I have to laugh.

  “Well, you’re still full of hot air,” Libby teases. It’s the first time she’s loosened up the whole day.

  On the building north of us, which is the Muse Collection Library, according to the map Megan showed us, a brick changes color from blue to orange. The facade is a mishmash of different styles, as if hundreds of architects had a hand in its construction. It’s strange but beautiful.

  “It is lovely here,” Libby says. “Everything that wasn’t already put in place by the celestial custodians is collectively materialized. There are subtle changes every day, when the mood strikes someone to update something.” She points at a frowning gargoyle on the peak of one of the towers, and its expression morphs into an enigmatic, Mona Lisa–type smile.

  We stand for a moment, taking everything in. A clique of students all wearing yellow jostles past us. One of them stops to give me a backhanded high five and shouts into my face, “Hunters are yellow!” When I don’t respond, he mutters “Demons are blue” and rushes off to catch up with his friends.

  “Uh, what was that?” I ask.

  “Your dress is yellow,” Megan says. “They thought you were a demon hunter.”

  “Here you show your affiliation to your career by wearing its color,” Libby explains, pointing to the yellow background behind the demon hunter description in the brochure. Below it the healer text appears on a red background. Some healer might come by and spout off a motto to Neil now, all because of the color of his shirt. In any case, he looks as lost and confused as I feel.

  “Don’t worry if this all seems complicated at first. You’ll learn the peculiarities of this place as you get settled i
n,” Libby assures us. “We all have the goal to make the most out of our afterlife, but we go about it in different ways.”

  “Muses wear orange,” Neil says, obviously deducing it from the color of Megan’s dress. He scans the brochure. “But what is pink?” he asks, referring to Libby’s suit.

  “Pink is neutral.” Libby materializes a big black binder stuffed with ragged-edged papers and dumps it into Megan’s arms. These papers don’t look like they’ve been burned, merely crinkled and haphazardly arranged. “I assume the two of you would like to room together.”

  “Yes,” I say at the same time that Neil says, “No.”

  I spin and face him, confused. “What do you mean, no? Why not?” I don’t want to leave his side for a second, let alone whatever time we’re meant to spend in our dorm rooms. And with the Morati lurking, I’d feel safer with Neil around.

  Neil flicks his gaze back and forth between me and Libby, biting his lip. “It’s just . . . well, we shouldn’t live together until we get married.”

  He stresses that last word so earnestly, it’s all I can do not to laugh derisively. I can’t believe he thinks being married or not matters in the afterlife. “You’re not serious.”

  Neil reaches out and caresses my face, looking me straight in the eye. “Don’t be mad. I want to room with you. It could very well be that nothing I was taught to believe is true, but I can’t flip a switch, forget about my morals, and be a different person. I need time to adjust.”

  Maybe Neil thinks I’m immoral because I’d room with him without hesitation. Is Neil still too good for me, even in death? Back on Earth he was the worship leader at church, until he had to give it up because I wouldn’t sign a purity pledge. People whispered behind our backs that I was corrupting him. But I never intended to. I only ever wanted us to be together. What’s so bad about that? Still, I can see that I need to be patient. Neil was patient with me. When I couldn’t open up to him about my shameful past, he never pressured me. Maybe he’ll be more relaxed once we get used to it here, once he realizes his church group is not patrolling his every moral move. So I nod, letting him know I understand, even if I can’t trust myself to speak right now.