Fashionably Dead Page 3

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “What’s your skin temp?”

  “Really cold,” I told her.

  What in the hell was wrong with her? She was awfully calm about the whole thing. She was silent for what felt like an eternity. These questions were right up Gemma’s alley. She loved all things weird, especially anything astrological or supernatural. I could tell she was thinking because she was humming ‘Billie Jean’. Gemma, besides being a Prada whore who like me couldn’t afford it, knew the lyrics to every Michael Jackson song ever recorded. She wore black for an entire year after he died. “I think I know what’s going on.” She began to hum ‘Thriller’.

  “What’s wrong with me?” I shrieked.

  “Come out here, Astrid.”

  “Wait Gemma . . . am I dead?”

  “Kinda,” she said with excitement. The same kind of excitement she exuded when she tried to convince me of Bigfoot’s existence. “Just get dressed and get out here.”

  I quickly whipped on some overpriced jeans that made my butt look asstastic and put on the first shirt my fingers touched. I pulled on some hot pink sequined Converse and made my way out to my living room. That took about ten and a half steps because my house was the size of a postage stamp.

  Gemma was standing by the window bouncing like a ball, so excited she was about to burst . . . and the Queen of Daytime Talk was sprawled on my couch reading my diary. Wait . . . what?

  “Holy Jesus,” I gasped. “You’re Opr . . . ”

  “Don’t say it,” my idol cut me off, throwing my diary aside as if I wouldn’t notice she’d been reading my most private and embarrassing thoughts. “I’m not her, never fuckin’ have been, never fuckin’ will be. If you call me that, I’ll leave. Trust me, that would be very fuckin’ bad for you.”

  “Oookay, you have quite a vocabulary.” I smiled, wondering if Gemma thought this was as screwy as I did. She did seem a little freaked, but not nearly enough to merit the fact Oprah was here. “If you’re not Opr . . . I mean that woman who you look exactly like, then you are . . . ?”

  I peeked around my tiny living room and looked for cameras. This had to be for a show segment. Right? Gemma must be in on the whole thing with Oprah.

  Was she going to redecorate my crappy house or give me a car or tell me something wonderful about my birth mother?

  That was impossible. My birth mother was actually the woman who, for lack of a better word, raised me and there wasn’t much wonderful about her. My Nana, may she rest in peace, was wonderful. Her daughter, my mother . . . not so much. Hopefully, Oprah was here to redecorate.

  “You’re a Vampyre and I’m your fuckin’ Guardian Angel,” I’m-Not-Oprah grunted.

  Gemma squealed and clapped her hands like a two year old at Christmas. Apparently they’d become great friends already, possibly bonding over Bigfoot. The dizziness now combined with total paranoia overtook me as my knees buckled and I dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

  “Wow . . . so not what I was expecting to hear.” My stomach was queasy. This was starting to make me tingle, and not in a good way. I’m-Not-Oprah had to go. “Well, golly gee, look at the time; I suppose you have a train to catch . . . to Crazytown,” I informed her in a bizarre cheerleader voice that I had no control over. “So you’d better get going.” Vampyre my ass. I’m-Not-Oprah is cuckoo loco crazy. I crawled over to my front door and opened it with shaking hands and body, letting Oprah know she had to leave.

  I’m-Not Oprah had the gall to laugh, and I don’t mean just a little giggle. I mean a huge gut-busting, knee-slapping guffaw. God, I need a cigarette. Oh but wait . . . I DON’T SMOKE ANYMORE BECAUSE I CAN’T BREATHE. I was completely screwed. There had to be a logical answer to this clusterfuck. I just needed to think it through.

  Ignoring the unexplainable situation in my home, I curled into a ball by my front door and went back through what I could remember. First, I’d gotten my hair cut and colored because it looked like hell. Then I chain-smoked half a pack of cigarettes getting my nerve up to get hypnotized to quit. After almost vomiting from the sheer amount of nicotine in my system, I got hypnotized to stop smoking. Good thinking on my part. Next, the ridiculously attractive Amazon woman who hypnotized me was successful because I will never smoke again. Good thinking on her part.

  However, it was also beginning to look like I would never breathe again. So technically I was dead. The lack of pulse and air intake could attest to this, but clearly I wasn’t dead because I was curled up on the floor thinking somewhat coherently and Oprah was in my house . . . What in the hell was I talking about? None of this was possible. I was dreaming. That had to be it. I was dreaming. I pinched myself. Hard.

  “Ouch . . . shit.” Not dreaming.

  I slowly stood up, determined to kick Her Oprahness out of my house. My whole body began to tremble as I locked eyes with the insane talk show host sitting on my couch. I couldn’t believe I was standing here looking at Oprah, who says she’s not, who’s telling me I’m a Vampyre, which don’t exist, and she’s a Guardian Angel, which again . . . don’t exist. Besides, if they did, they certainly wouldn’t have a mouth like hers.

  “Oh my God,” I moaned as another bizarre wave of dizziness came over me. The room grew darker and smaller. I’m-Not-Oprah and Gemma started to get blurry and a burning began in my gut. Flames ripped through my stomach and violently shot into my arms, my legs, my neck and head. My insides were shredding. I was thirsty . . . so very thirsty. God, it hurt so much. I floated above myself as my body crumpled to the floor. The buzzing in my head was deafening. I tried to take a deep breath, but that went nowhere fast.

  “I’m dying,” I groaned.

  Crapballs, did I have good underwear on? No! I still had on light blue grannies with a not on purpose hole in the crotch. Oh my God, I’m dying with bad underpants on. My mother will have a fit. I can hear her now, “Well, with underpants like that, it’s no wonder Astrid couldn’t get a man. She kept buying all that Prada, but she should have invested in a couple of pairs of decent panties.” This was not good.

  The blazing inferno inside me consumed my whole body. It was excruciating. I wasn’t sure how much more I could take. I vaguely saw Oprah coming for me.

  “Kill me please,” I begged. She laughed and scooped me up like a rag doll and shoved my face to her neck. God, she smelled good. “Argrah,” I gurgled.

  “Just shut the fuck up and drink,” I’m-Not-Oprah growled.

  It was delicious, like rich dark chocolate, so smooth, so warm, so yummy. What was this? The pain slowly subsided and I realized I was curled up in I’m-Not-Oprah’s lap with my teeth embedded in her neck. She was rocking me like a baby.

  I removed what I’m fairly sure were my fangs from Oprah’s neck. “What am I doing?” I calmly asked.

  She looked down at me and smiled. Holy cow she looked like Oprah. “Drinking.”

  “Drinking what?” I inquired politely.

  “O negative,” she replied.

  “O negative what?” I screeched, jerking to an upright position on her very ample lap.

  “O negative Angel blood, dumbass,” she bellowed. She stood up and dumped me on the floor as she walked over to retrieve my diary.

  “Oh my God, you’re not joking.” I was horrified.

  “No, I certifuckingly am not.”

  Chapter 3

  Gemma and I’m-Not-Oprah sat on either side of me on the floor. Gemma held my hand and Oprah just stared.

  “Soooo, Gemma, I suppose you’ve met Opr . . . I mean, well you know, I mean . . . ” I was dying here. “What I’m trying to say is, you’ve met . . . dear God, help me out.”

  “Pam,” they said in unison.

  “Pam? Your name is Pam?”

  “What’s wrong with Pam?” Oprah, aka Pam, asked, her eyes narrowing dangerously.

  “Nothing,” I shot back quickly. That eyeball thing did not look good. “It’s just I never expected an Angel to be named Pam.” />
  “What the hell kind of name were you expecting . . . Tinkerbell?”

  “Well, no,” I replied. “She’s a Fairy. Maybe something like Luna or Sky.”

  “Holy shit, would you like to be named something like that?” Pam yelled.

  I shook my head. God, she was loud.

  “You know what I like about you?” she continued.

  “No.” I feared her answer the same way I feared the IRS, credit card bills and Bryant Gumbel.

  “I like that you have the word ‘ass’ in your name. It opens up so many possibilities.”

  “That’s fantastic. Why are you here again?” I snapped

  “I am here,” Pam spoke very slowly, as if I were mentally challenged, “to guide your sorry blood suckin’, Prada wearin’ ass, through the ups and downs of the Vampyre world.”

  “Well, Mary Sunshine, there’s no such thing as Vampyres and . . . ” I started.

  “Pam,” she interrupted.

  “Oookay, Pam. I will repeat my earlier sentiment. I’m not a Vampyre, so tell me whatever it is you think you need to tell me and you can go back to Pretend Angel Land.”

  “Ooooh noooo, Asshead. It don’t work like that. I’m here to stay.” Pam slapped her knee and hooted like a redneck watching a smack down on WWE.

  “Astrid, it’s actually really cool,” Gemma, my very not dead human friend, tried to convince me over Pam’s ruckus. “Pam’s been telling me there’s this whole Vamp hierarchy thing; Dominions, Havens and . . . and . . . ”

  “Congregants,” Pam supplied, calming herself down.

  “Right, Congregants and Houses.” Gemma kept going. “There’s a King, and Warrior Princes, and Princesses.”

  “Back. Up.” I practically spit. “There’s a Vampyre King?” I laughed, not believing a word.

  “I would suggest you get that out of your system right now, Assface,” my Guardian Angel said. “Cause pretty soon a bunch of Vamps are gonna come ’round, and laughing at your King is punishable by death.”

  “You’re joking,” I said with a huge grin on my face. I looked at Pam. I looked at Gemma. Pam. Gemma. Pam. Gemma. Nobody was smiling . . . except me. “You’re not joking.”

  I was no longer smiling. Were they serious or certifiable? Maybe I was crazy. It was difficult to deny that I just drank blood from Oprah’s, I mean, Pam’s neck. And I liked it. Maybe Bigfoot did exist.

  Gemma grabbed my hands and forced my focus to her, “Astrid, it’s not that bad. A slew of Vampyre girls are going to start arriving soon with gift baskets and invites to parties so you can join their Houses!”

  The word gift basket calmed my impending breakdown. “What do you mean, like sorority rush for dead people?” I put my finger in my mouth and felt around for my fangs. I considered this for a moment. Gemma knew I loved free stuff. I was kind of a free sample whore. It was clear from the smug look on her face that she thought she had me at gift basket. She couldn’t have been more wrong.

  “I don’t want to be a Vampyre,” I yelled, realizing that maybe they weren’t yanking my chain. “I want to chain-smoke an entire pack of Marlboro Lights and throw up! I do not want to join some Kappa Alpha Dead House and become BFFs with bloodsucking freaks that smell like the old lady bathroom at the country club.” I was on a roll. “That’s right . . . skanky, Gothy Draculas with blood breath, weird bun heads and super long fingernails that curl over at the edges because they should have been trimmed three years ago. And there’s no such thing as Vampyres!”

  You could have cut the silence with a knife. Gemma looked dazed and Pam . . . well, Pam just looked confused. Gemma finally roused herself from the visual stupor that my tirade induced. “Dude, that was gross.”

  “I’m not really following the country club part,” Pam stated.

  “Don’t try,” Gemma told her. “I’m getting a Diet Coke, you want anything?”

  “Mountain Dew or Budweiser,” Pam said.

  “I’m on it.” Gemma left the room.

  “What about me?” I whined. “Don’t I get to have anything?”

  “You already got to have Pam,” Gemma tossed back from my kitchen, laughing like she made a good one.

  I sat down on the couch and pouted. What had I done to deserve this? Of course nobody but me would do something to get healthy and end up kind of dead.

  “Oh for shit’s sake, you’re not going to look like some skanky, Goth wannabe bloodsucker. What did the Vamp who changed you look like?” Pam projected as if she were speaking to a crowd of three hundred without a microphone.

  The sheer volume of her question rendered me speechless for a moment.

  “She looked like a Russian supermodel. Wait!” I shouted at Pam. “Do I look different to you?”

  “How the hell should I know? I just met you, dumbass,” she replied.

  “Right. Gemma?” I yelled.

  “Behind you,” Gemma said, startling me. She handed Pam her beer. Angels drink beer?

  “Gem, do I look different to you?” I asked.

  “Well, you were being such a baby that I wasn’t going to tell you, but . . . You. Are. So. Hot,” she screeched. “If I didn’t like dangly parts so much, I’d consider switching teams!”

  I ran to my bathroom. Holy crap, I was fast. I looked in the mirror and I saw . . . nothing. Wait a minute . . . where in the hell was I? Gemma slipped into the bathroom behind me. She showed up in the mirror, but I was M.I.A.

  “Dude,” Gemma gasped, “you have no reflection.”

  We stood in silence absorbing this news. I tried several different angles in case there was a trick to it, but no go. It was strange . . . my clothes were invisible, too. Anything I touched ceased to have a reflection.

  “Okay, fine,” Gemma said, rubbing my back, “maybe this is the price you have to pay for being so drop dead gorgeous. Oh hell, I didn’t mean the dead part . . . I just meant . . . ”

  “It’s okay,” I said morosely. “Apparently, I am dead.” My eyes filled with tears. I pressed my fingers to the bridge of my nose, trying to ward off the panic attack that was hurtling towards earth at frightening speeds. I was headed for a massive freakout.

  Gemma grabbed me. “Let me describe you,” she said soothingly.

  “Okay,” I blubbered, wiping my tears. “Oh my God, my eyes are bleeding!” I shouted.

  “Shut the hell up,” Pam yelled from down the hall. “All Vamps cry blood, cum blood, drink blood. Blood, blood, blood . . . it’s all about blood with you dead people.”

  “That’s disgusting,” I said. I looked at Gemma, my eyes wide, “I wonder if I have any other bodily functions?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, like do I still need to buy toilet paper and tampons?” I answered.

  “NOPE,” Pam yelled from way down the hall.

  “Wow, she’s got really good hearing,” Gemma grinned. “Do you want to know what you look like?”

  “Um . . . yes.”

  She stared at me for about a minute and tilted her head to the side. It was a very long minute. She was making me nervous.

  “You’re beautiful,” she said simply. “I mean, you were beautiful before, but it got kicked up a bunch of notches. You’re the kind of gorgeous where it’s hard to stop looking at you. Your skin,” she touched my face, “is paler, but it’s perfect. It glows . . . it’s ethereal. Your hair is a darker, richer brown and really shiny. Your lips,” she examined my face, “have that I’ve-just-been-majorly-kissed swollen look. You still have that beauty mark high on your left cheekbone. Your eyes are that really cool amber gold color, but they sparkle now. And if I’m not mistaken, your eyelashes are longer, like they weren’t long enough already.”

  I knew I was being vain, but I glanced toward the mirror again wondering if I just had to warm up or something . . . Nothing. Shit.

  She circled me. “I gotta say, your body’s jammin’. Rock hard abs. Legs are still long. Your boobs are definitely bigger and your butt’s higher. Overall you’re beyond hot.”
She smiled and squeezed my hands. “What do you feel like?”

  Well, that explained my girls trying to escape from my bra. “I feel really strong and fast,” I said. “I can hear really well and I can smell things.”

  “Do I smell?” Gemma did a quick pit check.

  “You smell good, like rain and orchids.”

  “Ooooh, cool.” She was delighted. “What does Pam smell like?”

  “Pop Tarts and cotton candy. Gem,” I paused, “do I have an aura anymore?” One of Gemma’s hobbies was reading auras. She could read people before they opened their mouths. She had a gift for it.

  “No.”

  “Is that okay?” I whispered.

  “I think so.” She hugged me. She felt warm and comfortable.

  “Does Pam have one?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Gemma answered reverently, “it’s a pearly white with shots of purple and pink in it. It’s the most beautiful aura I’ve ever seen. It’s truly angelic.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that foul mouthed Oprah doppelganger really is my Guardian Angel?”

  “Yep,” Gemma giggled.

  “Somebody up there must really hate me,” I moaned.

  “Yep.”

  Chapter 4

  It was my first full day of being dead and it sucked.

  I wavered between total freakout and dead calm mode . . . it just depended on the minute. Right now I was calm. I dutifully sat on the couch, pen and notebook in hand. I was wearing my favorite worn-in red tag Levis, a totally cool vintage Tony the Tiger T-shirt and some killer Prada flats. Being dead had a few advantages. I filled out my jeans and my T-shirts like a Playboy centerfold. The girls were amazing. I was a full C cup and they stood at attention even without a bra, which was a good thing considering none of my bras fit anymore. Of course I was also dead, couldn’t breathe and had no idea if my hair was alright because I had no fucking reflection. On the flip side, my vision and hearing had also sharpened to the point I felt bionic. Not to mention my sense of smell. I’d almost passed out when I walked by my garbage can earlier. Why in the hell could I smell things if I couldn’t breathe?