Not Quite Dead Yet

by Holly Jackson

Dead gray skin, rotted away to show off the stringy sinews of muscle below. Sunken, rubbery sockets around sparkling hazel eyes. Those were actually hers, though; they moved as she studied herself. Decaying corn-on-the-cob teeth with gore stuck in the spaces between. What did zombies eat again? Just brains, or they weren’t fussy about the other guts too? Probably didn’t enjoy the candy apple she’d had earlier.

OK, she’d worn the mask for three whole minutes, so Mom couldn’t complain and now Jet couldn’t breathe; hot toffee air that turned wet against the rubber, sticking it to her skin. She pulled the mask off. Still pale, slightly less gray, though, but the mirror elongated her round face, distorting her thick brows and upturned nose. Her short blond hair was sticking up now; static buzzed against her hand as she flattened it. “Jet?” “—Damn.” She flinched. The mirror warped his face behind her, squashed his muscular frame into accordion ripples, but Jet knew his voice.

“So, Marge,” Luke said, looking for another reaction. “What did you come dressed as this year?” “Oh.” Jet gestured down her black turtleneck sweater and sleeveless denim jacket, black pants and boots. Yes, the boots were also black. “I thought it was super obvious. I came as a law school dropout who still lives at home with her parents at twenty-seven.”

Luke hissed. “Scariest costume here.”

“You’re also not wearing a costume,” she reminded her brother. Luke cleared his throat. “No, ’cause I’m here representing our family, representing Mason Construction. This is our fair, important to look professional and approachable.” “With that hair?” Jet laughed, still smarting. Maybe she’d feel better if she took Luke down with her. Just a little. “Company’s not yours yet, Luke.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Next year.” Sophia squeezed Luke’s arm, a red-lipped smile spreading across her face. Next year, when Dad retired.

“You still writing that…what was it?” Sophia asked. “That screenplay?”

“No, I’m not doing that anymore.” Luke tucked his hands into his front pockets. Here we go. “Given up already?” he said, and clearly enjoyed saying it. “That must be a new record.”

“I’m working on something else, actually.” Jet kept her voice level, walls up, teeth together. “A new idea.” “It’s not that dog-walking app business thing, is it?” he said. That feeling burned brighter, churning in her gut. Jet hardened her eyes, an unsaid question. “Dad told me.”

“I wish you’d all stop talking about me.” “Well,” he replied, “I wish we didn’t need to.” “Fuck off, Luke.” “Jet!” “He can’t talk yet, Sophia.” “That’s the difference between me and you,” Luke sa...

Damn, he wasn’t even listening, craning his neck to look over the heads of witches and superheroes, toward the stall their parents were manning. “I gotta go rescue Dad now,” he said, no goodbye. “Good little CFO,” Jet muttered. He heard, turning back, a flash behind his eyes. “At least I’m chief financial officer and not chief fuck-up.” “That doesn’t even match.”

“I wish you two wouldn’t fight,” she said. Jet shook her head. “That wasn’t a fight. Just a normal conversation. You wouldn’t know.” “He’s under a lot of stress.” “He’s Luke,” Jet said, “he’s always stressed. And I bet he managed to find time to play golf with Jack Finney and David Dale at least twice this week. Stressed. I knew him first, remember. Knew you first too.” Because that was the real thing, that cold, barbed thing between Jet and Sophia.

You go away to college and your best friend who stopped calling and stopped replying—and stopped caring—sets her sights on your brother instead.

“Don’t know if we have,” Lou said. His face looked mean, hard eyes, but his voice didn’t match, too soft. Yellowy-gray hair, close to mustard, and ketchup-ruddy cheeks. Clearly the man had never heard of retinol. “It’s been a pleasure working with your mom, and Gerry of course. Oh, that’s my wife, that scarecrow waving at me. Excuse me a minute.” “A pleasure?” Jet said, watching the chief go. “He must have the wrong Dianne Mason.” “Ha!” Gerry shouted it, not really a laugh. “You’re a funny one.”

Jet’s parents were selling bags of candy corn, fundraising for the town’s Green Spaces. All sponsored by your friendly local home construction business, of course. The ones who built mansions next to those Green Spaces.

She knew that look; Billy hadn’t changed much since he was ten years old. “What?” Jet asked. “I just spoke to your mom, and she asked me my name.” Jet snorted. “I literally grew up next door, spent more time at your house than I did my own.” Billy shrank somehow, even though he towered over Jet. “She was joking, right? She hasn’t forgotten who I am?”

“Don’t take it personally, bud.” Jet clapped him on the arm. “I never do.” Which was, maybe, her biggest lie tonight.

Actually, it didn’t matter: next year she wouldn’t even be here anymore.

She unlocked the front door, and Reggie was at her feet in a rush of red fur and a helicopter tail, the happy squeaks he only made for her. He jumped up and pawed her knees. “Hello, hello, handsome. Who’s a good boy, huh?” Jet bent to tickle him behind the ears. Those silly, long, English cocker spaniel ears. The dog ran off, skittering around the corner and back two seconds later. “Oh, did you bring me some dirty socks?” Jet said, thumbing his muzzle, the proud wiggle of his little body at the sacred offering.

Jet closed the front door and moved through the hall, crisp white walls and Moroccan rugs, too neat, too styled, like a show home, and—man—was Jet in trouble every time she dared to treat it like a home, dropping crumbs or leaving her boots out.

There was a plate of cookies on the kitchen island. Sophia had baked them, dropped them off earlier, black iced bats and orange pumpkins. Sophia did things like that. Baked. Jet picked up a bat, bit off its head. Damn, they were actually good.

Jet had time to find the right thing; she had all the time in the world, remember? And then life would really begin, and when it did, you better believe she’d be shoving it down all of their throats in return. Just you wait.

“Sorry bud. Human cookies.” The whine lowered, sinking into a growl. “Wh—” A rush of feet behind. A fast crack to the back of her head, the wet of splitting skin, crunch of skull. The phone slips from her hands. No growl anymore but a scream. Jet should scream too but— Another explosion, harder. The feel of blood, the sound of things breaking inside her head. Someone’s killing her. Jet can still think that, but she blinks and the light doesn’t come back and—

What kind of choice was that? Jet couldn’t even decide what to have for breakfast most days. Die now, or die in a week? Toast or cereal? Both?

She wanted what she’d always wanted. To do something, achieve something big, something undeniably great, to prove that she could. So that life could finally begin. Jet had played the waiting game too long, and now she was out of time.

“Do something?” Mom cried. “What do you mean? Do what?” Something great. Something no one had ever done before. “I’m going to solve my own murder.”

“This is my first,” she said, hands up. “First time being murdered also. Newbie.

She turned, staring strangely right at Jet. “Dave, what are y—” It appeared faster than Jet could blink, filling the entire screen. Empty black eyes. A warped white plastic face. Jet jumped, recoiled from the screen, head slamming into the backboard of her bed. A searing jolt of pain in her skull. “Fuck you,” Jet hissed at the screen, at the image of Ghostface from Scream, smirking into the camera. “Trick-or-treat, bitches,” the boy said, rattly and deep, enjoying himself too much. He must have hidden behind his friends, snuck around to jump-scare the camera. Little prick.

“You can be here for your sister, Luke,” she said, suddenly tearful. Luke slowed down. Paused to pick up his knife too. That’s when Jet noticed it, the graze on his knuckles, both of them actually. Freshly scabbed, the surface cracking when he tightened his grip on the cutlery. “What happened to your hands?” Jet asked him. Luke coughed.

“Oh, this? I was visiting one of our sites on Friday morning. Tripped over one of the foundation trenches, banged them up a little, catching myself. Just a scrape, it’s nothing.”

Sophia piped up now, resting a hand on Luke’s back. “I think it’s going to be Mason Homes’ best project yet.” “Mason Construction,” Dad corrected her.

“No, I know,” she said, speaking across the table to her father-in-law. “But Luke’s been thinking, he might change the name, wh-when he takes over. Thinks it sounds more, well, homey.” Dad had another sip of coffee, finished it with a shrug. “It’s been called ‘Construction’ for forty years, since I set it up. Don’t think there’s anything wrong with the name.”

“No, of course there’s nothing wrong with it.” “I gotta pee,” Luke said, chair scraping as he pushed back from the table, disappearing into the hall. Jet was the one dying, and yet somehow Luke had managed to make it all about him. He was good at that.

“Sophia,” Jet said now, trapping her with her eyes. “I wanted to ask you something, about Halloween.” “Sure.” She still looked pale. “You came over to the house when we were out. Twice.” Leaving the question between the lines.

“Yeah, to drop off those cookies I baked. Don’t know if you saw them, pumpkins and bats.” “Saw them,” she said. “Ate two o...

“But you came over twice. First to drop the cookies, and then again an hour later.” “Did I?” “Yes, you did. The doorbell camera recorded you. I can show you the video if you don’t—”

“I remember now. I left my phone here. Thought it was in my pocket, but I must have put it down somewhere. Came back to get it when I realized.” Jet’s turn to nod. That made sense, the phone thing. But she was enjoying watching Sophia squirm; she was normally so rigid.

“Jet was just telling us about the doorbell camera footage, from that night.” Luke glanced across the table, locked onto Jet’s eyes. “Does it show what time it happened? When exactly it…” “Not exactly,” she replied. “But my Apple Watch told us. 10:46 p.m. That’s when someone whacked me over the head.”

“Say, Luke, where were you at 10:46 p.m. on October thirty-first?” “You joking?” he laughed. “Kinda.” Jet shrugged. “But, actually, I do want to know. I need to know where everyone was. And if you don’t answer, then everyone’s going to think you murdered your own sister.”

“I was at home, like I told the cops,” he said, half sullen, half smiling. “Me and Sophia got home around 10:15 and put Cameron to bed. Then we watched some TV.” “Which show?” Jet asked, eating the small bacon projectile that had landed in her lap. “Friends,” Luke said. “Sophia loves Friends.” “Then we went to bed,” Sophia added, wiping the green goo from Cameron’s face.

“And, Mom and Dad, you were together, driving stuff from the fair back to storage at the MC offices?” She clapped her hands. “Well, it looks like you all have alibis, then.”

Luke turned to Jet. “It was JJ?” The rage undisguised in his voice, or in his fists, gripping the table too hard. “No, we don’t know,” Jet said. “He’s just skipped town, won’t answer his phone.” “And the text,” Dad said. “The Sorry text.” “I’ll kill him.” Luke slammed one hand on the table, making the cutlery jump and the baby flinch.

Dad sighed, got to his feet. “Now you’ve upset your mother,” he said, eyes downcast. “Hold on.” Jet rounded on him. “I’ve upset her? Unbelievable. She put a fucking catalog of coffins in front of me, Dad. For fuck’s sake! For once, I wish you would just pick a fucking side, the right side.”

“No, no, no,” Jet said. “You stay, enjoy your nice family breakfast. I’ll go. I’m going.” She sniffed, wiped her nose on her sleeve. “I’m leaving. Can’t live here anymore.” “Jet, don’t say that.” Dad stepped toward her, arms open. Eyes kind, but his kind wasn’t good enough now. “I mean it, I’m not doing it. I have six days until I die, and I’m not doing that here, like this. I’m going!”

Her mind was made up. She had something important to do, the last thing she would ever do, and she couldn’t do it in this house. It was hard enough. In her room, she grabbed two backpacks and headed to the drawers. Hey, at least she didn’t have to take too many clothes, right? Like packing for a week’s vacation. Less than.

“Where are you going?” Luke asked, because he felt like he had to. Jet knew her brother. “Literally anywhere that isn’t this fucking house! I’m not going to die in here again. Tell Mom she can choose the casket. I really won’t care, I’ll be dead.”

“I was wondering…can I stay with you? Here? In your apartment?” Billy’s mouth didn’t move but his eyes did, tracking across her face, a flash of his old light behind them. “Probably won’t be much of a roommate,” she laughed. “I definitely won’t be paying any rent, might keep some strange hours, eat your food. And I know I come with baggage.” She gestured to the backpacks on the floor, but they both knew that’s not what she meant. “But it’s not like it’ll put you out that much, ’cause, you know, um, like, I’ll be dead by the end of the week.” Billy swallowed. “Is that a yes?”

“It’s from one of those online loan companies, LightFi. Dear Margaret Mason, you have defaulted on your monthly repayments for the secured loan detailed below.” Jet scanned the page. “What the fuck? Thirty grand?” “What did you need thirty grand for?” “I didn’t need thirty grand, Billy,” she said, the annoyance shifting to him. “I didn’t do this. This wasn’t me.” She pointed at the letter, to the series of numbers listed after Bank Account Number. “This isn’t my bank account. I didn’t get this money, didn’t take out any loan.”

this will be seized unless we receive repayment…blah, blah, blah…or we will have to proceed with filing a lawsuit…wait, what asset?” She scanned lower. “Vehicle Ford F-150, 1986, registration: HB—that’s my truck!” Jet shook the letter, mouth falling open. “Someone took out a loan against my fucking truck, in my name!” “You sure you didn’t—” “—I think I’d remember getting and spending thirty grand, Billy. How many lattes and avocados do you think I buy?”

“Then it’s identity fraud,” he said. “If someone took this out in your name. Spent that money.” Jet slumped back against the sofa, forgetting about her broken head, hissing when the bandage made contact. “Talk about kicking me when I’m down.”

“Couldn’t this be related to your attack?” Jet studied him back. “You think?” “I mean, has this ever happened to you before?”