The End or Something Like That Read online

  People walked by.

  A guy with a beard asked me what time it was.

  I ate a Snickers bar. Two Snickers bars.

  Then ten.

  Some crackers.

  Two apples.

  I sat there from nine in the morning until eight at night.

  Alone.

  • 9 •

  I wasn’t going to go to Ms. Homeyer’s funeral.

  I didn’t want to go.

  She yelled at us for no reason.

  She ate tuna fish out of the can at her desk.

  She didn’t know any of our names.

  And one time, on one of my worst days, she asked me, in front of the class, if I’d forgotten to wear deodorant.

  Why would I go to her funeral?

  I wouldn’t.

  But for some reason, I felt like I had to go. Like I was supposed to go.

  •

  Ms. Homeyer died in the faculty bathroom during second period.

  There was an ambulance and three police cars, and we watched through the windows during English as they rolled her body out on a stretcher.

  Cynthia Roberts was in the faculty lounge stapling papers when it happened.

  “She, like, let out this disgusting noise.” Cynthia was telling the girls at the table next to me at lunch.

  “What do you mean?” one of them said.

  I stopped chewing my Doritos so I could hear better.

  “It was like, this moan and then a thump,” she said.

  I felt sick to my stomach. Thump. She’d heard Ms. Homeyer die. She’d heard her go thump.

  “Did you go in there?” the girl asked.

  “Eww no.”

  I wanted to ask her a question too. I wanted to ask her if she felt anything. Did she feel something leaving. Something shifting. Something gone.

  I looked across the table at Skeeter. He had his headphones on and was cutting his sandwich into little squares with his pocketknife.

  We were the only two people at the table.

  “Skeeter,” I said.

  He didn’t look up.

  “Skeeter.”

  He pulled off the bread on one of the squares and started cutting into the turkey.

  I sat there. It was loud. People laughing. A lawn mower going. The low hum of the pop machines.

  All around me books and clothes and windows and chairs and so many people. People everywhere and I sat there.

  Someone was dead.

  •

  That afternoon, the more the news spread, the worse things got.

  In history, this kid said, “Do you think she croaked before or after she took a dump?”

  We were supposed to be looking over our homework but the room was loud. Mr. Tanner was at the front doing something on his iPad.

  I tried to sit there and not say anything. I tried to not care.

  Why should I care?

  But everyone was talking about it.

  I heard she had an attack and fell into the toilet.

  I bet that was a pretty crappy way to go.

  Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

  I felt sweat start to bead up. I didn’t want to do anything about it, but I also wanted them to shut their faces.

  I closed my eyes and took three breaths. Slowly.

  None of this mattered. Nothing mattered. Ms. Homeyer died on the toilet at Palo Verde High and it didn’t matter.

  • 10 •

  The light turned green, and the bus started to pull away from the 7-Eleven.

  Ms. Dead Homeyer smiled. She stood in the middle of the parking lot, and she was wearing her art smock and polyester pants. Her gray hair in her regular fat curls, her Naturalizer shoes. She was even holding her gigantic Mountain Dew mug that was on her desk every morning.

  She took a sip of her drink and smiled.

  I said, “Skeeter,” but it was a whisper and he didn’t hear. He was still talking and talking and talking.

  “Skeeter,” I said again.

  Ms. Dead Homeyer held up her mug.

  I felt throw-up burn and I swallowed it back down.

  Was this real?

  The bus started moving and Ms. Dead Homeyer got smaller and smaller and smaller.

  For ten more blocks I sat there, paralyzed.

  • 11 •

  At the beginning of eighth grade, when we had lockers and we were going to take oil painting and Gabby had started being our friend, at the beginning of eighth grade, we found out Kim’s heart was taking a turn.

  “What do you mean?”

  Kim pulled yarn out of the afghan on my bed. “I mean it’s worse than it’s ever been.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh.”

  She threw a pillow at me. “Don’t worry, I ordered some books.”

  •

  Kim ordered some books.

  Life After Life: Survival of Bodily Death

  Hello from Heaven: A New Field of Research-After-Death Communication Confirms That Life and Love Are Eternal

  Reunions: Visionary Encounters with Departed

  Talking to Heaven: A Medium’s Message of Life After Death

  She bought them on Amazon with Trish’s credit card. Trish was going to kill her.

  “She’s going to kill you.”

  “I don’t care,” she said. “Her new boyfriend will make her feel better.”

  That was true.

  We sat on Kim’s bedroom floor and, before she opened the box, she said this, she said, “Promise me you won’t laugh.”

  We were supposed to be studying for biology, and I looked at her.

  “What?”

  She cleared her throat. “I’m serious about this, Em. Promise me you won’t laugh.”

  I sat on my hands so she wouldn’t see that I was starting to shake.

  “Promise me,” she said again.

  Kim never got like this.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Promise.”

  “I promise,” I said.

  She pulled the books out of the box.

  “This one,” she said, holding up Reunions, “this one was on the Today Show.”

  “So?”

  “So. It’s legit.”

  She turned it over and showed me the picture of the lady on the back. She had silver hair and yellow teeth and she was wearing a tiara.

  Kim read the bio out loud: “‘Tennesa Green, medium to the stars, shows readers in eloquent and insightful prose how easy it can be to communicate with their loved ones. Miss Green lives in Bowling Green, North Carolina, with her three cats, Prince, Princess, and Pea.’”

  “Prince, Princess, and Pea?”

  “I told you not to laugh,” she said.

  “I’m not laughing.”

  “Good because it’s not funny.”

  “I know,” I said. “It’s not funny at all.”

  “If I had three cats that’s what I would name them.”

  “I know,” I said. “Totally.”

  “Totally,” she said, and then we both started laughing.

  •

  She assigned me two books: Hello from Heaven and Talking to Heaven: A Medium’s Message of Life After Death.

  I was supposed to read them, take notes, and then report back.

  When I got home, I put them in my underwear drawer and sat in the closet.

  •

  We didn’t talk about the books again, and I thought it was over.

  I hoped it was over. Most of the time I liked to pretend like nothing was wrong.

  She was fine.

  But then, a month later she called me and said this: “I found a real live medium trainer.”

  “Wh
at?”

  “I found a guy.”

  “What?”

  “Come over.”

  I sat on the phone for a second, trying to figure out what she was saying. She was talking fast and what?

  “Come over.”

  It was ten on a school night.

  “I can’t.”

  “Of course you can.”

  “How?”

  “Tell Joe to bring you.”

  I hesitated. Joe wouldn’t drive me over there and really, I didn’t want to go. The whole thing made me feel sick.

  “Emmy?”

  “What?”

  “Tell Joe. It’s important.”

  I walked across the hall to Joe’s room. He was playing video games.

  “Can you take me to Kim’s?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Please?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want to.”

  I stood there. “He won’t take me,” I said into the phone.

  “Let me talk to him.”

  I gave the phone to Joe and he said, “What?”

  Kim said something to him and he turned red. “Shut up,” he said.

  Then he started laughing.

  “Fine,” he said. Then he handed the phone back to me.

  “Okay,” she said.

  “What?”

  “He’ll bring you.”

  I looked at him. He was back into his game, sniping guys in the water.

  “What did you say to him?”

  “Who cares?”

  So Joe took me to Kim’s apartment, and while he went to get some sunflower seeds at Smiths, I found out about Dr. Ted Farnsworth.

  “Who?”

  “Dr. Ted Farnsworth.”

  I sat on her bed and she scrolled down on the page.

  “He’s from Texas.”

  “So?”

  “So my dad was from Texas.”

  I blew out some air. Trish told us that once. That Kim’s dad was from Texas and he drove a Corvette. Blah blah blah.

  Kim kept talking. “And this guy went to Harvard and look what it says, look.”

  I wished she would stop.

  I wished she would just stop.

  But I put on my glasses and started reading.

  Dr. Ted Farnsworth is the leading expert in near-death experiences (NDE). He has documented thousands of NDE and is known for his theories on communication and the afterlife. In 1996, he developed a world-renowned program BEYOND TALKING that allows terminally ill patients to create a visitation path with their loved ones. Through proper training and preparation, the newly deceased can continue their relationships with the living.

  Kim tapped the computer screen. “See?”

  “What?”

  “You really can talk to dead people.”

  Above the text was a picture of Dr. Ted Farnsworth.

  He looked like a sixty-year-old trying hard to be a forty-year-old: his skin orange, his hair blond, a thick mustache, and bright white teeth because he was smiling. Hard.

  “He looks creepy,” I said.

  “He does not look creepy,” Kim said. “He looks professional.”

  She scrolled down. “Read this,” she said, pointing to a testimonial.

  My husband passed away on Christmas Day. We knew it was coming and read Dr. Farnsworth’s books beforehand. Thanks to Dr. Farnsworth, I have had the pleasure of talking to my Henry several times since his passing. This life is not the end! The program has changed both of our lives.

  —Cheryl Eastman

  “Kim,” I said, trying not to be mean, “there is no way this is true.”

  She wasn’t listening. She sat on her foot now and said, “Read this one. Read this one.”

  My daughter Barbie died unexpectedly. We were devastated but, through Dr. Ted’s program, my wife and myself have both been able to communicate with her. We can’t thank Dr. Ted enough for the work he’s done.

  —Josh Timms

  The next one was worse.

  I love my boyfriend, and when he died I thought my life was over! I was so wrong. So so wrong. Dr. Ted Farnsworth’s program is amazing! Life doesn’t have to end when we die!!!!!!!!!

  —Erica Stevens

  My head started to ache. “I think Joe’s back,” I said.

  She kept scrolling down, like she didn’t hear.

  Then she said, “He’s coming to Vegas.”

  “What?”

  “He’s coming,” she said. “It’s not for months but that’s okay. We’ll have time to get ready.”

  She clicked on his events page.

  Come meet Dr. Ted Farnsworth for yourself! Presenting his groundbreaking, life-changing, heartwarming work, Dr. Ted will be speaking about his program BEYOND TALKING at Circus Circus Resort in Las Vegas. Tickets are only $99.99 per person for this three-hour presentation and includes a copy of Dr. Ted’s new bestselling book, Crossing the Veil, How Death Does Not Need to Be the End. February 12.

  She turned and looked at me. “We have to go,” she said.

  I stared at her. “You’re not serious.”

  “I’m totally serious.” She turned back and clicked on his bio again. “I want to go,” she said.

  •

  People used to talk about me and Kim.

  They never fight. They never disagree. They never get jealous. It’s like they were made for each other.

  We were made to be best friends.

  I used to be proud of that.

  Nothing was ever wrong between me and Kim. Ever.

  Until she decided to die.

  • 12 •

  In front of the bus outside the mortuary, the hot air rushed at me and I felt like my knees were going out.

  I looked up the street.

  I looked down the street.

  We were on the outskirts of the city now. Desolate and palm trees. Everything brown and dirty.

  “Are you okay?” Skeeter asked. He touched my arm. Then he took it away. Then he put it back. Then he took it away.

  I looked at him. “What are you doing?”

  I almost forgot I’d seen Ms. Dead Homeyer, he was acting so weird.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing.”

  The mortuary was in a run-down strip mall. A neon sign said OPAL’S FAMILY MORTUARY. The O on the sign was burned out so it was really PAL’S FAMILY MORTUARY, which made me feel a lot better.

  On one side of the mortuary was a Thai restaurant. On the other side was a Hairport.

  There were three cars in the parking lot and one person.

  The person was a redheaded skinny kid in a tank top, green Pumas, and he was sitting on the curb right in front of the mortuary.

  His face was covered with zits, and I felt like I shouldn’t look at him. I also felt like maybe I’d seen him before but I hadn’t.

  He sat on the sidewalk holding a slushie.

  No Ms. Dead Homeyer.

  “This place is an armpit,” Skeeter said.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  And then his phone rang.

  “It’s my mom,” he said. “Hang on for one second.” He walked over by the Thai restaurant to talk.

  I had never been to a real mortuary. I’d never seen where they actually put the bodies. Where they take them.

  My heart pounded.

  A year ago tomorrow Kim died.

  Friday, May 26th at 5:48. The date and time I’d written over and over and over again in notebooks, inside book covers, on the wall of my closet.

  A year ago tomorrow, at 5:48, my best friend died, and I’d just had a visitation from a dead lady.

  Why? Why not you, Kim?

  I took a breath.

  Maybe
she would be in the mortuary with Ms. Dead Homeyer. Maybe this was what I’d been waiting for.

  The kid with the zits made a loud sucking sound with the straw. I ignored him.

  A plane flew over and the kid said, “Do you know what time it is?”

  I still acted like I didn’t hear because I was thinking about dead bodies and he was annoying.

  “Hey,” he said. “What time is it?”

  I put my hand to my forehead like I couldn’t see him because it was too bright.

  “Do. You. Know. What. Time. It. Is?”

  He was wearing a watch.

  He saw me look at it and said, “It’s broken.”

  So I looked at mine. Kim’s watch really. She’d given it to me along with her iPod, her set of Roald Dahl books, and her old American Girls dolls, which I didn’t really want even though she had all of them. Even Marie Grace.

  “Five forty,” I said.

  He stared at me. “What?”

  “Five forty,” I said again.

  He took a few seconds and I thought maybe he was high, but then he said, “Oh. Thanks.”

  Then he said, “I already knew that. I knew it before you even said it,” he said.

  He slurped more on his straw. It was so loud it echoed.

  Skeeter was still talking. I looked at the Hairport.

  “That your boyfriend?” the kid said.

  I looked at him. Why was he talking to me?

  “What?”

  “Is that kid your boyfriend?”

  Skeeter, who one time when we were kids had to go to the ER because he ate carpet, lived in the next neighborhood down and at the moment he was my only friend. But he was not my boyfriend.

  “No,” I said.

  Then he said, “But he likes you.”

  “No,” I said. “No. He doesn’t like me.”

  “Yeah, he does,” the kid said, and I felt myself start to burn, which was stupid.

  He didn’t like me like that. No boys liked me like that.

  “I can tell he’s into you,” the kid said.

  “We Don’t Like Each Other.”

  He still smirked but he said, “Okay. Okay. No big deal. I just thought you’re so dressed up, must be a date.”

  He put his mouth back on the soggy straw.

  “We’re going there,” I said, pointing to the mortuary.

  The kid turned and looked.