I guess being dead will do that for you.
“Lena, help me out here. I don’t speak chick—you know that—and Rid isn’t here to translate.”
“Chick?” Lena shot him a withering look.
“Aw, come on. I barely speak English, unless we’re talkin’ about the Lowcountry kind.”
“I thought you went looking for Ridley,” Lena said.
“I did, all through the Tunnels. Everywhere Macon sent me and a few places he’d never let me go. Holy hell—I haven’t found anyone who’s seen her.”
Lena sat down and straightened the line of rocks around my grave. “I need her to come back. Ridley knows how it all works. She’ll help me figure out what to do.”
“What are you talkin’ about?” Link sat down next to her, and next to me.
Just like old times, when the three of us would sit together on the bleachers at Jackson High. They just didn’t know it.
“He’s not dead. Just like Uncle Macon wasn’t dead. Ethan will come back—you’ll see. He’s probably trying to find me right now.”
I squeezed her hand. She was right about that, at least.
“Don’t you think you’d be able to tell, if he was?” Link sounded a little doubtful. “If he was here, don’t you think he’d give us a shout-out or somethin’ like that?”
I tried her hand again, but it was no use.
Will you two pay attention?
Lena shook her head, oblivious. “It’s not like that. I’m not saying he’s sitting here next to us or something.”
But I was. Sitting next to them or something.
Guys? I’m right here?
Even though I was Kelting, I felt like I was shouting.
“Yeah? How do you know where he is or isn’t? If you’re so sure and all?” Link’s Sunday school background wasn’t helping him out here. He was probably busy imagining houses made of clouds, and cherubs with wings.
“Uncle Macon said that new spirits don’t know where they are or what they’re doing. They barely know how they died or what happened to them in real life. It’s upsetting, suddenly finding yourself in the Otherworld. Ethan might not even know who he is yet, or who I am.”
I knew who she was. How could I forget something like that?
“Yeah? Well, say you’re right. If that’s the case, you have nothin’ to worry about. Liv told me that she’d find him. She has that watch a hers all tweaked up, like some kind a Ethan Wate–ometer.”
Lena sighed. “I wish it was that simple.” She reached for the wooden cross. “This thing’s crooked again.”
Link looked frustrated. “Yeah? Well, there’s no merit badge for grave diggin’. Not in Gatlin’s pack meetin’s.”
“I’m talking about the cross, not the grave.”
“You’re the one who wouldn’t let us get a stone,” Link said.
“He doesn’t need a gravestone when he’s not—”
Then her hand froze, because she noticed. The silver button wasn’t where she’d left it.
Of course it wasn’t. It was where I dropped it.
“Link, look!”
“It’s a cross. Or two sticks, dependin’ on how you look at it.” Link squinted. He was starting to tune out; I could tell by the glazed look in his eyes, the one I’d seen on every school day.
“Not that.” Lena pointed. “The button.”
“Yep. It’s a button, all right. Any way you slice it.” Link was staring at Lena like she was suddenly the dense one. It was probably a terrifying thought.
“It’s my button. And that’s not where I put it.”
Link shrugged. “So?”
“Don’t you get it?” Lena sounded hopeful.
“Not usually.”
“Ethan’s been here. He moved it.”
Hallelujah, L. It’s about time. We were making some progress here.
I held my arms out to her, and she threw her arms around Link and hugged him tight. Figures.
She pulled back from Link, excited.
“Hey now.” Link looked embarrassed. “It could have been the wind. It could have been—I don’t know—wildlife or somethin’.”
“It wasn’t.” I knew the mood she was in. There was nothing anyone could say to change her mind, no matter how irrational it seemed.
“Seem pretty sure a that.”
“I am.” Lena’s cheeks were pink, and her eyes were bright. She opened her notebook, unclipping the Sharpie from her charm necklace with one hand. I smiled to myself, because I’d given her that Sharpie at the top of the Summerville water tower, not so long ago.
I winced at the thought now.
Lena scribbled something and ripped out the page of her notebook. She used a rock to hold the note on top of the cross.
The paper fluttered in the cool breeze but remained where she’d left it.
She wiped a stray tear and smiled.
The paper had only one word on it, but we both knew what it meant. It was a reference to one of the first conversations we’d ever had, when she told me what it said on the poet Bukowski’s grave. Only two words: Don’t try.
But the torn piece of paper on my grave was christened with only one word, in all caps. Still damp and still smelling like Sharpie.
Sharpie and lemons and rosemary.
All the things that were Lena.
TRY.