Darynda jones charlie davidson 01 first grave on the right

Not, however, without complaint. Oddly, I could remember our conversation like it was moments ago. But twelve years had passed since that terrible and beautiful night. A night I would never forget.

“If you ask me,” I’d said, mumbling through the red scarf wrapped around my nose and mouth, “no class project is worth dying for, even with that whole tenpoints-extra-credit thing going for it.”

Gemma turned to me and lowered Dad’s camera to push back a blond curl. The cold of December at midnight added a metallic luster to her blue eyes. “If I don’t get this credit,” she said, her breath fogging in the icy air, “I don’t graduate early.”

“I know,” I said, trying not to sound annoyed. “But seriously, if I die two weeks before Christmas, I’m totally coming back to haunt you. Forever. And trust me, I know how.”

Gemma shrugged, unconcerned, then turned back to the autofocused images of Albuquerque. Luminarias lined sidewalks and buildings, casting eerie shadows over the deserted streets. For a final on community awareness, Gemma opted to make a video. She wanted to capture life on the streets of Southside. Troubled kids in search of acceptance. Drug addicts in search of their next high. Homeless people in search of sustenance and shelter.

So far, all she’d managed to get on tape was a skateboarder wiping out on Central and a prostitute ordering a soft drink at Macho Taco.

Our curfew had come and gone and still we waited, huddled together in the shadows of an abandoned school, shivering and doing our best to be invisible. We kept getting hassled by gang members who wanted to know what we were doing there. We had a couple of close calls, and I got a couple of phone numbers, but all in all, the evening had been pretty quiet. Probably because it was thirty below out.

Just then I noticed a kid huddled under the steps of the school. He wore a semiwhite T-shirt and dirty jeans. Even though he wasn’t wearing a jacket, he wasn’t shivering. The departed weren’t affected by the weather.

“Hey, there,” I said, easing closer.

He glanced up, shock plain on his young face. “You can see me?”

“Sure can.”

“No one can see me.”

“Well, I can. My name is Charley Davidson.”

“Like the motorcycle?”

“Something like that,” I said with a grin.

“Why are you so bright?” he asked, squinting.

“I’m a grim reaper. But don’t worry, it’s not as bad as it sounds.”

Fear crept into his eyes anyway. “I don’t want to go to hell.”

“Hell?” I said, sitting beside him and ignoring Gemma’s sighs of annoyance that I was once again talking to air. “Trust me, hon, if you’d been penciled in for a