Dead Girl Walking by Linda Joy Singleton

forever. Key the sappy music for the Disney version of a happy ending.
    Or the music could be a funeral march.
    The diagnosis of “no brain activity” was scary. How long did my body have? I could almost hear the death beep as the life support machines flat-lined. There was no chance for a body switch minus one body.
    And I wasn’t sure of anything … except fear.
    When Great Aunt Mariah died, her son paid over ten-thousand dollars for a polished-mahogany, satin-lined casket, and my parents freaked at the huge cost. They vowed that when it was their time to go they’d skip the fuss and get cremated. Is that what they planned for me, too? If Leah was lurking inside my body, she’d better speak up soon or we’d both be toast.
    I walked to the cordless phone, my lifeline to the outside world, and tried to decide who to call. I didn’t have the courage to try my parents again. What about Dustin or Alyce? They’d do anything for me—but what if they jumped to the wrong conclusions like my aunt, and hung up before I could explain? My friends wouldn’t recognize this voice, and if they did, they’d think I was Leah Montgomery. Alyce classified Leah as a “celebrasnob,” and would rather snap pictures of rotting bones than waste a minute with “populosers.” And Dustin turned into a tongue-tied fool whenever he tried to talk to girls (excluding Alyce and myself).
    Even if I did call Dustin or Alyce, it was doubtful I’d reach them. Cell phones weren’t allowed inside the hospital—and that’s where my friends would be, sitting with my parents around my comatose body.
    Waiting for me to die.
    My stomach rolled. I was sure I would barf. I hung my head over the toilet, but only choked out dry heaves. Trembling, I stumbled back to the ornate canopied bed and sank on the satin comforter.
    Don’t panic , I ordered myself. There has to be a way out.
    But nothing made sense, only nonsense, and I couldn’t think of any solution. I needed someone to talk to—a trusted friend who’d drop everything to help me.
    Grabbing a pillow, I hugged it to my chest, rocking back and forth. I didn’t know what to do or who to turn to or anything. I’d lost everything I cared about—my family, my friends, my future—and now I was losing my mind.
    Miserable hot tears streamed down my cheeks, blotting like scars on the silk pillow. Nothing seemed real anymore—only despair.
    I recognized the warning signs of self-pity. I was sinking deep, but what the hell? I didn’t care. Why should I? No one cared about me, not the way I was now. This body wasn’t even me—why couldn’t anyone see that? It was like being adrift in a beautiful yacht with no other passengers. I was my own universe.
    Alone.
    A metallic jiggling was coming from the door.
    Before I could react, the door flew open and I stared at a heavenly vision as astonishing as my grandmother, but way better looking.
    The tall, dark-haired, hot guy stepped forward.
    And offered to rescue me.

I confess … I drooled a little.
    But with tears still damp on my face, I was sure my rescuer didn’t notice the drool—although I absolutely positively for sure noticed every minute detail about him.
    Over six feet tall, broad shoulders, long lean legs molded into perfectly fitted jeans and tender blue eyes fixed on yours truly. He was familiar, the way you recognize a famous actor or rock idol. But it was more than that. My inner math geek added it up—the hair, the face, the body: Chadwick Rockingham, Junior—son of Chadwick Rockingham, Senior, owner of the largest car dealership in the county. Two years ago, I’d welcomed him to school with a basketball-themed basket.
    “You okay, babe?” he asked in this deep voice that shivered me from head to polished toenails.
    Babe. So intimate, so seductive, and so not the sort of thing guys ever said to me. Usually it was, “Hey, help me with this math problem?” or “Could you get me one of those cool welcome baskets for my