Mystique

By Shari Arnold

Only Bauer Grant can pull off gorgeous while dead. But staying dead is another thing entirely. When he wakes up at his own funeral, the town of Mystique calls it a miracle, until it happens again. Something is bringing the residents of Mystique back to life, but what? Presley Caine finds herself caught up in the mystery when Bauer asks her to visit him. Presley can’t figure out why the most popular guy in school is so drawn to her. And when Bauer is kidnapped soon after, she looks to Bauer’s brooding best friend Sam, whose dad works for the powerful Mystique military base, for answers. In her quest to discover the truth, Presley’s relationship with Sam deepens, her feelings for Bauer are tested, and it becomes clear that her own mysterious past is somehow connected to these strange events. But is she strong enough to handle the truth when it is finally revealed?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shari Arnold
• Release date: Nov 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310329159

Shari Arnold

Shari Arnold grew up in California and Utah but now resides in Connecticut, with her husband and two kids, where she finds it difficult to trust a beach without waves. She writes Young Adult fiction because it's her favorite. And occasionally she takes photographs.

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording without prior written permission from the publisher.

Copyright © 2015 Shari Arnold

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 9781310329159

Published by Smashwords

Chapter One

Only Bauer Grant can pull off gorgeous while dead. His dark blond hair is tucked behind his ears, and his full lips are still pink. I’m drawn to his reflection in the gold cross hovering above his casket. His body is laid out as if in sleep. The church is overflowing, mostly with students. Some faces I recognize, but most are still a blur of new; new school, new town, new, new, new. I stand near the back of the church. I want to sit, pretend I’m one of Bauer’s friends here to mourn a life unfinished, but the truth is I’m working. For the last twenty minutes, I’ve been chasing down pings, chirps, and pop song ringtones, doing my best to silently convey Turn off your cell phone. You’re at a funeral! Apparently sadness is best communicated through text messages and Facebook status updates.

A tall middle-aged man who introduced himself as Bauer’s uncle reads his eulogy—seventeen years of life summarized in three short paragraphs. The congregation sniffles and weeps along with Bauer’s family, who are sitting in the front row. No one is more distraught than his mother, who clutches a pale blue handkerchief in her right hand, her eyes disbelieving, while a parade of tears soaks the collar of her black dress.

I think back to Monday and how I awoke to sunshine, but once the news started circulating, it was as if someone had placed a lampshade over the town of Mystique. The clouds grew thick, the sky turned dark, and down every hallway at school, someone was whispering his name.

Bauer. Bauer. Bauer. When said in a hush, it sounds like wind blowing. And that’s when the November chill arrived. I watched it move the trees outside my English class while the girl behind me wept silently into her notebook. I wanted to offer her comfort, but instead, I handed her a crumpled-up tissue from the bottom of my backpack. And later, when I passed her in the hall, she smiled and said, Thanks, new girl. You’d think in a town this small they’d remember my name.

I still don’t know how he died. I asked my boss Lisa, who is the funeral director, but she mumbled something about how it wasn’t important. Just keep the aisles clear, Presley. Words she said so often they could be her life’s mantra. While herding people to their seats, I tried my best to eavesdrop, but all I got was So sad to lose someone so young or Without Bauer, there’s no hope for the football team. And that was only near the back of the church. No one was talking up by the family, where the collective silence was as respectful as it was unsettling.

His uncle’s voice breaks, and the microphone amplifies it to the back of the church. He barely gets to his seat before losing it altogether. I shift my feet awkwardly. I can’t cry. It wouldn’t be right. I didn’t even know Bauer. Even though I saw him every day at school and occasionally kept an eye out for him in between English class and calculus, when we’d usually pass in the hall, that still doesn’t make him my friend. And yet since the moment they wheeled his casket into the church, my throat has felt tight.

The service ends with a song. The congregation finds the strength to sing, even though most of the people around me appear to be busy staring down at their hands while they fight off the tears that will eventually flow at the cemetery.

I move to open the back doors, lifting empty Kleenex boxes as I go. Three men stand near the exit, looking very military in pressed suits so clean and dark in color that without the shiny trinkets pinned to their chests, they’d blend into the walls. They haven’t spoken a word to anyone since their arrival, instead, they just continue to hold up the back wall with their regulated posture. Is Bauer’s family military? I shrug internally. One more thing I never knew about him.

I glance back at Bauer as the music swells to a finish, and he’s still where I left him, laid out in a velvet-lined box. Everyone files out of their seats, eyes touching upon Bauer’s face for the last time.

Lisa busies herself with gathering the flowers to take to the cemetery. She looks up and summons me with her eyes. I know what she wants. It’s my job to explain to the family how they have a few more minutes to say their good-byes before we close and seal the casket.

I glance over at the front pew. Bauer’s mother and father are huddled together as if drawing strength from each other. Bauer’s thirteen-year-old sister, Ophelia, is staring straight ahead as if she’s willing herself to be anywhere but here. With her right hand, she pats and soothes her younger sister, Jill, who in her three-year-old state doesn’t appear to know exactly why everyone is so sad. Or why Bauer isn’t responding to his name being called over and over again.

When Lisa sees me falter, she approaches the family. Perhaps I’m not cut out for this. It feels insensitive to rush them. Lisa does it with a smile. My thoughts return to Bauer. For someone so popular, he sure did know how to look right at you in the hallway and make you feel like you weren’t invisible. I was too afraid to approach him when he was alive. And now that he’s dead, I’m still afraid.

His eyes are closed. I try to remember what color they are, but my mind is blank. Blue? No. Green? I’m pretty sure I never noticed. I was too busy trying to look away. No one wants to get caught staring at the hot, popular kid. It’s so unoriginal.

I reach out, daring my fingertips to touch him. I keep expecting his chest to rise and fall, but he remains still and silent. He’s cold, not like ice cold (which is what I was expecting), but more like when you touch one of those wax figures at Fisherman’s Wharf. You expect them to come to life, turn to you and brush your hand away, but instead you realize they aren’t real. They were never real, unlike Bauer. He may look too good to be true, with his clear skin and long eyelashes, but just last week, he was kissing his girlfriend in the doorway of my calculus class. Right before I reached them, Bauer stepped out of the way, narrowly missing me. I wanted to roll my eyes and be all get a room, but once Bauer looked at me, I forgot to use my words. The blush that colored his cheeks when he apologized did funny things to my stomach. He seemed genuinely sorry. All I could do was race for my seat, hoping no one else noticed how Bauer’s embarrassment was contagious. But Sam noticed. It appears Bauer’s best friend misses very little. Sam’s eyes followed me from the front row and only moved on once our class started.

The lights in the church begin to dim as if a show is about to start, and I slip away from the casket. I can hear Lisa explaining to his family how in a few minutes the pallbearers will be coming to get the casket. It’s okay, she whispers. It’s time to say your good-byes.

Bauer’s family rise to their feet as one, their arms encircling each other like a football huddle. Their next play: saying good-bye. For a split second, I wish I could be a part of that huddle, slip right under the rope of arms and move into the center. It’s very different from how my aunt and I acted at my grandmother’s funeral. It was just the two of us, and yet not once did we touch.

A single-file line of men enters the church and gathers around the coffin. I recognize Sam near the front. His hair is cut short, neat and trimmed around his ears, and normally he would be one of the taller boys in the church, but today his shoulders are slumped. I can’t make out his expression as he stares down at his friend, only that his jaw is clenched. When the man closest to him calls his name, he looks up and our eyes meet. I’m the first to look away.

The pallbearers’ heads collectively crane toward Bauer as if in prayer. Lisa moves toward the casket with a large metal key in her hand, and I’ve already forgotten what I’m supposed to be doing. What was I thinking when I took this job? Oh, yeah, college.

Suddenly, a loud gurgling noise fills the church, followed by a gasp of breath. The pallbearers spring back from the casket. Some fall to the floor. I’m left a clear view of Bauer, who is no longer still but shifting restlessly in his casket like a fish pulled from the water. The sound that escapes my lips is something between a scream and a gulp. I take a step forward and then another—I have to see it for myself. Bauer’s flailing stops as abruptly as it began, and his eyes snap open. When he sits up in the casket, my face is the first thing he sees.

I hear a solid thunk from behind me as Lisa hits the floor.

Chapter Two

It isn’t until Bauer’s mother screams that I start breathing. She runs to him, knocking me aside in her haste. I barely keep my feet. His father lets out a bone-chilling wail and then falls to his knees, thanking God and Jesus and muttering about some kind of deal he’d made with God the night before last.

Within moments, all four members of his family clutch his hands or shoulders, too afraid to let go, as if the air moving through their bodies is keeping him alive. But Bauer doesn’t notice them. He’s still staring directly at me. He doesn’t speak. His eyes move over me as if he’s making sure I’m okay, as if I’m the one who was dead five minutes ago.

And because he’s looking at me I can’t seem to move. Even my breath moves through my lungs with trepidation. I feel as if I haven’t blinked in ages, and once I do, I find that Bauer is still there, sitting up in his casket. Why is he staring at me? Or better yet, how is he alive?

The church begins to fill back up with people. Lisa has regained consciousness and decided to make some kind of announcement to the line of cars waiting to follow the hearse to the cemetery. Once again, I find I’m in the way. After the third or fourth person barrels past me, I fall back onto a wooden pew and for a few moments, I lose sight of Bauer.

Neighbors and friends, aunts and uncles all race toward the casket in disbelief. Cell phones are pulled from pockets and purses as the news spreads. A girl I recognize from school snaps a photo with her iPhone, and I wonder how long it will be before that photo hits the Internet. A couple of times, Bauer tries to crawl out of his casket, but his mother and father hold him down and tell him to stay still, a doctor is on the way. I can walk, he says over and over again, his voice scratchy and deep, but no one is willing to let him try.

Lisa approaches me with a look of excitement. Presley, can you believe it? she asks and then doesn’t stick around to hear my response. Which is fine, because I don’t have one.

After a long debate, Bauer is eventually allowed to leave his casket. The pallbearers carry him to an awaiting ambulance stretcher placed in the center aisle of the church. When he rolls past, he seeks me out. Come with me, his eyes seem to plead, but that can’t be right. Me? I want to say back. And then he’s gone.

I help Lisa tidy up the church, but she barely notices. Her cell phone is attached to her ear as she spreads the news faster than an echo, her slight wave the only sign that my workday has come to an end.

Outside the church, my bike is waiting, with its once-was-purple banana seat (now a dirty lavender color, faded from the sun) and its small wicker basket that teeters on the front as if it hasn’t quite committed to me yet. The bike came to me used and rusted, but I love it anyway. It gets me places, places I would never get if I had to walk.

As I ride the three miles back to my house, I pass the row of trees that just a month ago were vibrant with fall color but now look as if a storm blew through and stole their souls, leaving them to shrivel up and die alongside the road.

Normally I would be freezing on my ride home, but today I don’t notice the cold. Bauer is alive. And even though this joy I’m feeling should be reserved for his family, close friends, and Gillian, the girl he was kissing in front of my calculus class, I feel it. It flutters over my skin like a warm breeze, making everything appear golden and sun-kissed when, truthfully, the light is fading, giving way to a dreary winter’s night.

The moon checks in on me between each house I pass, and I silently thank it for following me home. It’s nice to have the company.

On my bike it takes me about twenty minutes to reach the center of town, which is basically a row of colonial homes with one grocery store, a bank, a few shops, and then a long stretch of grass they call the Green. I’m told Mystique could be right off a New England postcard. There’s even a covered bridge somewhere. But until four months ago, I’d only lived on the West Coast. I didn’t know what New England looked like until we rolled into town. I was promised a beach and fall colors. My aunt never told me the ocean was frigid even in the summertime.

I pedal down Main Street and notice the RIP Bauer signs I passed earlier today have already been replaced with Welcome back, kid and It’s a miracle! It doesn’t take much for the townspeople of Mystique to put up a sign. Just last month, the owner of the Mystique Market announced the arrival of his Yellow Labrador’s puppies. It’s four boys and a girl proudly filled the front window for weeks. But then Bauer Grant passed away, and it didn’t seem like anything in town was worth celebrating. I guess what happens to one person in Mystique happens to us all.

When I get home, I find my aunt Roo leaning over the back of the couch watching the news. A recent photo of Bauer fills the TV screen.

Lucky break, that kid, she says, and then grabs her purse, which is more the size of a small carry-on. I notice one of her nightgowns is hanging half out of her bag.

Yeah, lucky, I whisper. I don’t even bother to ask if she’ll be home tonight. The red lace tells me everything I need to know.

When she passes me in the hall I catch a whiff of hair spray and spearmint gum. The miniskirt and button-down shirt she always wears to work are hidden underneath her poofy white jacket, while her legs are left uncovered. "Lucky he didn’t wake up after he was six feet under," she mutters over her shoulder.

Nice, I answer back. But it’s pretty much what I’m thinking too.

See ya later, Presley, she says. If you get hungry, come down to the diner, and I’ll have Louis fix you something.

It’s the same good-bye I’ve heard most of my life. My aunt doesn’t cook; she serves at whatever all-hours diner she’s convinced to pay her that month. It used to be fun when I was younger. I’d sit up at the counter and pretend that the other people in the diner were my family and that we were all sharing a meal together. But it didn’t take long before I realized not everyone wants to share a meal with a chatty five-year-old. They’d stick around long enough to shovel in their food and then take off. Before I could follow them out to their car, my aunt would stroll by, slap some coloring books down on the counter, and say, Keep yourself busy, Presley. You’re bad for tips.

So now I do the cooking. At home. I eat my meals on the couch while one of my favorite movie musicals plays on the TV. It’s impossible to feel alone when happy, good-looking people are dancing and singing in your living room.

Seventeen-year-old Bauer Grant is alive tonight, the anchorman says, and I watch Bauer’s photo flash back onto the screen.

They’ll be talking about this for months, my aunt says from the doorway.

It’s not like anything else happens around here, I mutter.

After being pronounced dead a little over forty-eight hours ago, the anchorman continues, Bauer Grant is alive and well at the Mystique Memorial Hospital.

He sure is a cutie, my aunt says. Don’t you think he’s cute, Presley?

He’s all right. I know better than to go there with her.

When the news switches to a commercial, I look up and find her staring at me. Her light brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she’s wearing enough makeup for the both of us. Her boyfriends always say she looks good for her age, but since she doesn’t dress her age or act her age, I’m not sure if she should actually take it as a compliment.

What? I say when she continues to study me.

She walks toward me and cups my face, tilting it toward the light coming off the TV screen. It’s as if she hasn’t seen my look of annoyance before.

You could get someone like Bauer, she says. With a little help from your aunt Roo, you could make him want you.

I roll my eyes and then pull my face away. No thanks, I say, and turn my attention back to the TV, hoping she’ll get the hint and leave me alone. When it comes to boys, my aunt is the last person I’d take advice from. Her idea of catching a man is like how other people fish, with one slight difference: she throws the little ones back, but she makes sure they’re bleeding first.

All you need is the right lipstick and some shading around your eyes . . . She’s staring at me as if I’m a hidden object in one of those Magic Eye pictures. Perhaps if she looks just right, someone different from me will emerge. No one in our family has green eyes, she says with a frown.

Just me, I say because I’ve been here before.

Just you, she responds. Just you and him, I guess.

And I want to ask. I always want to ask. The questions are lined up in a row, waiting and ready to drop from my lips. But instead I stare back with my green eyes and my nearly black hair, towering over her like a stranger. I used to wonder, If I looked more like my mother, would Roo love me more?

Now I just don’t care.

See ya, kid, she says, cutting off one of the longest conversations we’ve had in weeks.

Bye, I say, but she doesn’t hear me. She’s already gone.

By eight o’clock, I’m restless. The news isn’t so much news as recycled information. I grab my sweatshirt and move out to the front porch. I breathe in the cool night air and marvel at how I can see my breath. After a solid three weeks of freezing temperatures I still haven’t gotten used to the cold.

You’ll love Maine, my aunt Roo had announced two days before she packed up our stuff and piled it into her car. Yes. This is a good decision, she added with a nod. Maine is a great place to grow up.

I didn’t bother to point out that at seventeen years old and five feet ten inches, I’m pretty much done growing.

Why Maine? I asked instead. Why now?

Why not? she answered, shrugging her shoulders as if moving clear across the country is no big deal.

It will be an adventure, Presley, she said in her excited voice, which really just sounds like whining to me. Don’t you ever just want to try something new?

What’s his name? I asked, and she smiled.

Stan. Stan, the military man, she answered, and I couldn’t help it, I laughed and then she laughed and then, when we both realized we were laughing together, it just felt weird. So we stopped.

Military, huh? That’s new, I said.

And that’s how we ended up in Mystique, a tiny little town nestled between a military base and a large mountain, while, Stan, Stan the military man, got transferred to Arizona three weeks after we arrived, leaving my aunt somewhat heartbroken, me rather indifferent, and the two of us locked in a yearlong rental agreement for this house.

After being here almost four months, I’m still not sure what they do on the base, and from what I’ve heard, almost no one is, but without the base, they say, Mystique would be a ghost town.

Now, looking up at the stars, I do have to admit I like how much brighter they appear here. Back in California I was never much for stargazing, but it’s comforting to look up in the sky and see the same moon and the same stars twinkling down at me, even though I’m no longer in the same place. In some small way, it helps me feel less alone.

Hey, Presley, a voice calls out, and I barely hold back a scream. I turn toward the streetlight and find Bauer’s best friend, Sam, standing on the sidewalk in front of my house. You scared me to death! I squeak out, holding my hand to my heart.

I hope not, he replies. He rubs the back of his neck. I’ve had enough dying for one day. Perhaps you could hold off just a little longer? He’s still in the suit he was wearing at the funeral, but his tie is missing and the collar of his shirt is crooked, as if he’s spent half the day scratching it off. He shifts his weight from one foot to the next, and I notice one of his laces is undone. All in all, Sam looks lost. And even though I don’t really know him that well, lost is something he rarely looks. He’s usually the one with his clothes pressed and clean and perfect. I’ve often wondered if he’s one of those kids who gets up extra early in the morning to look that good or if he prepares the night before. Either way, Sam generally looks put together. But not now.

He moves toward me, and then stops, hesitating. Do you mind if I sit with you for a minute?

Yeah, okay, I say and scoot over on my step, leaving him plenty of room. When he slips up beside me I notice he smells like cookies.

You smell like cookies, I say, because it’s either that or how’s Bauer? and for some reason, asking about his best friend makes me feel transparent. And vulnerable.

Sam smiles but it’s a tired looking smile. You smell like cinnamon, he says, and I’m not sure who is more surprised by this announcement, him or me.

I, um, it’s my lip gloss, I tell him. It’s cinnamon flavored.

But I’m pretty sure he’s stopped listening. He rubs his forehead and with a sigh, he lets his head fall forward.

Sam? Are you all right? I reach out a hand to touch him, and it hovers right around his shoulder blade before lightly brushing him on the back. Am I supposed to comfort him? Or offer him a drink or something? I’m not quite sure what he’s doing here. And to be honest, up until a few minutes ago I didn’t even know he knew my name. What I know of Sam I could sum up in three words: Bauer’s best friend. The rest is just observation. He’s usually the kid in class that, when the rest of us don’t know the answer, the teacher calls on without fail. Mr. Dane, our calculus teacher, always asks Sam to watch over the class while he runs to the bathroom, which actually means grabs a quick smoke behind building C. And Sam always says yes, even though he looks sort of sheepish standing at the front of the classroom, answering questions the rest of us can’t figure out on our own. You’d think the class would erupt into some kind of teen-angst rebellion without the supervision of an adult, but either everyone in class respects Sam too much to act up or they’re just really into solving math equations.

I’m sorry, Presley. It’s just . . . been a long day.

I nod. I’m not about to argue.

Anyway, he continues, I know it’s late. So . . . do you think you could come with me back to the hospital?

The hospital? What now?

Yeah. He lifts his head and turns his full attention on me, and I have to admit, he’s rather intense this close up, with his dark hair falling over his sad eyes. In school, he’s always looking around with this calm air of authority, as if he’s not a part of it all, even when he’s directly in the center. And as Bauer’s best friend, he’s always in the center. Bauer gives off a glow that draws people toward him, and he’s rarely alone because of it. And that glow of his is so blinding I don’t always notice Sam, even when he’s right beside him.

"You want me to come to the hospital?" I ask.

Sam gives me a long, measured look and then feigns interest in my dead front lawn. Yes, Presley. The hospital. Bauer’s been asking to see you.

Bauer? You mean Bauer Grant? This has to be a joke. I mean, this is Bauer Grant we’re talking about here. You’re sure he asked for me? I ask again.

Yeah, Sam drags out his answer as if yeah is a four-syllable word.

Right, I say, waiting for the punchline.

So, if it’s okay, he throws the words out into the silence, I can take you now. I mean, if you want.

No, seriously. Why are you really here, Sam? I say, and he gives me a look.

I just told you.

But. I mean. Sigh.

Sam’s eyebrows pull together and I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or just confused, so I decide to spell it out.

Why does Bauer want to see me? He doesn’t even know me. You can see why this doesn’t make sense.

What about Gillian? I ask, when Sam holds on to his silence.

Gillian?