The tiny holographic head projected next to the screen was stuck in a loop. "We match you with your perfect mate based on twenty-nine dimensions of compatibility." I glared at it, and wondered how I’d been conned into taking this stupid, long, pointless quiz.
Less than an hour ago, I had been taking part in some amateur home improvement with friends. I was having a marvelous time wielding hammer and chisel on ugly blue tiles when I made the mistake of asking my friends how they had met.
Emma launched into a tale of nearly meeting my childhood buddy Ben several times before he showed up on one of those compatibility quizzes. You know, the ones that help you find your perfect mate on those dating sites.
They had been passing each other by, but suddenly saw each other through new eyes. Eyes with twenty-nine dimensions, apparently.
My work on the neon blue tiles was on hold as Emma shuffled me off into the office and sat me down to take the same quiz she’d taken.
As I finished another section of said quiz, the head did a quick rotation and informed me once again about their twenty-nine dimensions. I waved a hand through the display, hoping it would go away. Pushing the reset button on the projector didn’t help either.
The next section asked me to rank certain qualities in order of importance. Honesty first. My last boyfriend had told some incredible lies about me. Apparently I come from money, which is why I can’t afford to upgrade to proximity sensors on my junky car. And why I work two jobs and help friends with home improvement projects on the weekends.
Brains second. My boyfriend-before-last had been dumb enough to get caught slipping my credit cards back into my wallet.
Fidelity third. Two boyfriends in a row cheated on me. Number three with his secretary and number four with the lead singer of his band. Nothing like walking into a cliché. Twice.
"We match you with your perfect mate based on twenty-nine dimensions of compatibility." Another section complete, and I almost wished I believed the holographic head’s cheerful reassurances.
It was another ten minutes (and what felt like a hundred more repetitions from the holo-head) before I submitted my quiz. The computer screen scrolled through pictures of happy couples who had, of course, met through the site.
The founder’s smiling head spun dizzily on the projector as the site pondered my answers and searched the database for my perfect mate. I was actually starting to feel a little anxious. Or maybe the weird feeling in my stomach was from the lingering fumes in the freshly painted office.
Just when I was working up a serious hate for the happy couples on the screen, they disappeared.
"We’re sorry," the screen read. "A very small percentage of users who visit this site are incompatible with everyone in our database. Good luck in your search. Thank you for trying Twenty-Nine Dimensions!"
I had to read it twice, which was difficult because I was laughing so hard.
"We match you with your perfect mate based on twenty-nine dimensions of compatibility," the head sounded almost apologetic before the projector unit went dark.
I called down the hall to Emma and Ben, told them that I had been declared totally incompatible with everyone. Emma hit a high note that sent her two cats running for cover.
I showed her the message on the screen as proof, still laughing as she made me swear up and down that I’d taken the quiz seriously.
With a huff, Emma closed the window on the offending message from Twenty-Nine Dimensions and turned. I was halfway out of the chair to follow her down the hall when a chime sounded and a new window popped up.
"What’s that?" Emma turned back and skimmed the screen. "The Thirtieth Dimension?"
I didn’t want to bother. I’d already wasted a good half hour of deconstruction time sitting at the computer, covered in bits of plaster and tile made sticky by my sweat. Glamorous. "It’s just another dumb ad. Close it." My tone was a little sharper than I would have liked, and my hand hovered over the touchpad.
Emma knocked my hand out of the way and clicked on the pop-up window. "Since you failed the first twenty-nine dimensions, maybe you should check out the thirtieth."
I really wanted to be chipping plaster at that point. "It’s probably some site that sells self-help books so I can learn to be less incompatible with everyone in the universe." I headed down the hall, but didn’t get far enough away to pretend I couldn’t hear her call me back.
"Liv… it’s some kind of fake dating site. I think." When I turned back, she was quickly clicking through profiles. And she was laughing.
"This one’s a werewolf. This one’s a vampire. Oh. And here’s a zombie. Do zombies date? Don’t they rot? What if his… you know… falls off?"
I couldn’t help it. I was intrigued by the thought of a spoof dating site for supernatural creatures looking for their perfect mates.
"Stop going so fast!" Emma was whizzing through picture after picture. "Read that one."
She paused on a picture of a guy who took his fashion cues from consumptive poets of the Victorian era. I had to admit — to myself, at least — that he was kind of cute in a not-getting-enough-sunlight kind of way.
Emma had a quiver in her voice as she fought back giggles long enough to read the profile. "His name is Leroy and he’s a truck driver. And apparently he’s also a two hundred year old vampire."
"It’s… Count Truckula?" We dissolved into hysterics, only making things worse with campy vampire quotes done in a bad southern accent. I vant to suck your blood, ya’ll, and stuff like that.
#
A few days later, I was still thinking about that stupid fake dating site. I caught myself browsing the profiles to kill time at my second job. And I found myself actually considering registering for the site.
Why? Because outside of their various supernatural afflictions, some of them actually seemed interesting.
I was especially fascinated with the profiles put up by people claiming to be ghosts. There were a few nutjobs — military heroes and historical figures — but the majority of them seemed relatively normal.
Aside from being dead.
The thing I found most fascinating was the fact that they never seemed to talk about how or why they passed away in their profiles. Only when. Call it morbid curiosity, but I wanted to strike up a conversation with one of these supposed ghosts.
I kept coming back to one profile. A guy who actually sounded like someone I would have liked dating. A high school English teacher with a passion for folk music and gourmet coffee. Yes, despite the ex-boyfriend who ditched me for the singer, I still had a weakness for musical men. From the way this guy wrote his profile, I could tell he was a smartie. With a sense of humor. And a cutie picture.
I was an idiot.
I registered for the site with a code name and put up a quick, sketchy profile. No picture, no real details. The site was kind enough to give you one free match before you had to pay for the services, and I knew who my pick was going to be.
TO: LitNerd
FROM: ImpulsiveSkeptic
SUBJECT: When’s your next gig?
Hey there. I can’t believe I’m using a dating site… but here I am, using a dating site. And you have the dubious distinction of being my one free pick. No pressure to write me back or anything.
Anyway… I’m not sure what to say now. There’s something about you that intrigues me. Maybe if you’ve got a coffeehouse thing planned, I’ll show up and say hi.
I read it over at least fourteen times, debated the merits of a smiley fac
e against a winkie face, ended up leaving the smiley in, and sent the damn thing.
Nice to know I’m impulsive, neurotic about emotes, and desperate enough to want to date a guy who claims he’s a ghost. Feeling disgusted with myself, I went to log out of my Thirtieth Dimension account when something on LitNerd’s profile caught my eye.
His date of death was listed as a week from Friday.
#
My ghost-to-be wrote me back the next morning.
TO: ImpulsiveSkeptic
FROM: LitNerd
SUBJECT: Re: When’s your next gig?
"Impulsive Skeptic" eh? I get the impulsive part, and I have a pretty good idea about the skeptic part, too. Honored to be your first choice. I’m usually the Friday guy at What’s the Buzz on Queen Street, but I’m playing Saturday night this week too — the usual Saturday night trio had to cancel. You actually may want to come Saturday, unless you like hanging out with a bunch of high school kids. Then again, you’ll have more crowd cover if you come on Friday. Your choice. Anyway, tell me a little more about you. Here’s a question to help you get started: Do you actually like coffeehouses and folk music, or are you just being polite?
-Brian
I was smiling and feeling kind of fuzzy inside when I read the email. For the tenth time. My crackpot had written back pretty quickly, and was intelligent and friendly and funny. And he even gave me an excuse to gawk at him without actually making conversation.
I told myself I was being stupid and tried to think of reasons to not go to the coffeehouse this weekend and meet Brian the soon-to-be-dead literary nerd.
#
As it turned out, I ended up with coffeehouse-free plans for Friday night: Emma and Ben invited me to join them for a movie. Ben and I outvoted Emma’s pick of a romantic comedy and headed out to the Queen Street Multiplex to catch this week’s retro action flick.
As we drove past a certain coffeehouse, Emma twisted in her seat. "I hear they have great desserts there," she waved a hand towards the window.
"Where, that coffeehouse?" I tried to sound nonchalant. The high-pitched squeak between coff- and -ee probably ruined the effect.
"Yeah." Emma kindly pretended not to notice my sudden trip into male adolescence, but Ben snickered from the driver seat. "A girl at work is always talking about some crazy quintuple chocolate cake."
"Let’s head over there after the movie," Ben offered.
Nothing gives a girl courage like chocolate cake.
#
Brian’s warning had not been an exaggeration; the place was wall to wall with packs of high school girls and the occasional jock boyfriend unwillingly dragged out for the evening.
"I feel old." I frowned at the bedazzled teens, because it was safer than looking for Brian. I had caught a glimpse of dark hair as we walked in, but quickly turned away and found the list of drinks simply fascinating. From the rich coffee smell that filled the room, I had a hunch the drinks would be pretty good. But I tend to like the way coffee smells more than I like the way coffee tastes.
"You are old," Ben said, at the same time Emma disagreed. She hauled us up to the counter and ordered super chocolate death cakes.
We brought our sinful desserts and gourmet coffee drinks to a table and sat. Emma and Ben had left me the chair almost directly facing the entertainment; it was going to be very hard to continue to ignore him. Lucky for me the table top was faintly sticky, and I could concentrate on wiping it off.
For a ghost, Brian didn’t have a bad voice. It was definitely good enough for starry-eyed teenagers in a coffeehouse on a Friday night.
I was running out of distractions. So I scooped the puff of chocolate mousse from the top of my cake, lifted it towards my lips, and finally looked at the mysterious Brian. And proceeded to ram the fork into my cheek, smearing mousse all over my face. He wasn’t movie star handsome or anything, but totally appealing. Totally my type.
Emma followed my less-than-subtle stare and almost split her face in half with a smile. "Liv, he’s cute!" She offered me a napkin, and I was grateful enough for the help that I let the volume of her squeal go.
And as I picked up my fork to once again try to deliver cake to mouth like a big girl, I reminded myself that this guy was at least twenty five percent nutjob because he was claiming to be a ghost who hadn’t died yet.
He finished a song and leaned down to pick up the glass of water at his feet. While the little teenage girls applauded madly, he caught my eye and smiled. It’s probably a good thing the cake was already in my mouth this time. I wanted to do something sexy, but all I could do was swallow chocolate cake and sort of smirk back at him.
The three of us lingered over drinks and cake, and the teenagers started to filter out as their curfews loomed. I eventually managed to smile at Brian a few times without having cake on my face or coffee coming out of my nose.
"Give him your phone number and let’s go already," Ben elbowed me in the side. "I’ve got floor tiles being delivered at eight o’clock tomorrow."
"You want me to talk to him for you?" Emma was on the edge of her chair, a predatory gaze fixed on the folk singing ghost.
"What is this, high school?" Ben mimed writing a note. "Do you like me? Check yes or no."
I squirmed. "Uh, no thanks, guys. I think I can make a fool of myself just fine without the extra help."
Ben grinned. "We like helping!"
"I think you should go for it. This guy is nice." Emma nodded with solemn eyes and absolute certainty.
"I’m not interested in dating right now."
"Ah, your lips say no, but the smear of chocolate on your face says yes!" Ben elbowed me again.
"Let’s just go." I was embarrassed enough, so I stood up and gathered the empty plates and cups.
"But… how will you find him again if you change your mind?" Emma plowed on, determined. "Take a chance." She grabbed at my purse. "Is your phone in here? We can beam your number over to his phone."
We had a brief tug-of-war over my purse, which I won. "I haven’t upgraded the range recently. With my luck, my number would go to every person within five feet except that guy."
Ben laughed. "That could be fun, too."
I let myself chicken out. "I’m not ready. Maybe I’ll just run into him sometime."
Emma frowned, but Ben took her arm and led her to the door. I grabbed his shoulder and squeezed in gratitude. He grinned and winked at me.
As we walked to the car, my phone beeped — Brian had beamed me his phone number as we walked out.
#
I wasn’t going to call him the next day, though I wanted to. Instead, I sent him another email.
TO: LitNerd
FROM: ImpulsiveSkeptic
SUBJECT: Nice almost meeting you.
Too bad "Not Impulsive Enough Skeptic" is too long for a code name. I did come to your coffeehouse thing last night, but didn’t work up the courage to say hello. (I was the one with the cake smeared all over my face, because I’m classy like that.) And as it turns out, I do like both coffeehouses and folk music.
-Liv
I finally decided to call on Monday, when I figured he’d be at work. That way, I could just leave a quick, cute message and leave it to him to call me back.
It’s just my luck that he picked up.
"Hello?"
Oh crap. "Uh, hi. Is this… Brian?"
"Yes it is. Who’s this?&qu
ot;
"This is Liv." We met on a crazy online dating site for supernatural weirdoes. "I was at the coffeehouse the other night."
"Oh! Hi! I’m glad you called!"
"Thanks. I’m not sure if I’m glad yet… we’ll see."
He laughed, and it was a really nice laugh. It made me smile. "So if you’re not sure, what made you call?"
"I dunno… I guess it’s the impulsive part of me."
He made a humming noise that I took for agreement. "You did look pretty skeptical about the whole thing when you came in on Friday night. I guess a crowd of high school kids can be a little intimidating."
I had absolutely no problem with dancing around the topic of the dating site without ever actually bringing it up. There was no way in hell I’d tell anyone that I’d picked this guy out from the weirdoes on the Thirtieth Dimension. "I guess you have a lot of students who have crushes on you."
He laughed again. "Is it that obvious that I’m their teacher? I don’t like to think about the crush thing. Creepy." A beat. "So… can I ask you out for dinner tonight, or are you still not sure you’re glad you called?"
"Well, you can ask, but I might say no."
"What would make you say yes?"
Good question. Maybe him not claiming to be a ghost would be a good start. "I guess you’ll just have to ask and find out."
"Okay." He paused. "Liv, would you join me for dinner tonight? There’s a new little Italian place near the school."
I waited, just because it was fun. I’d forgotten how exhilarating this was — the first meeting, the first phone call, the first date. "Sure. Can I meet you there?"
"Absolutely. I’ll make reservations for seven?"
He gave me the address and we hung up.
#
The place was nice, the food was great, and we had a good time. The restaurant was close enough to my apartment that I had walked over, and Brian walked me home. He was sweet, and fun, and funny, and I gave him a hug when he left. We were still playing the don’t mention the dating site game… and that was fine with me.
Really, the only thing that wasn’t fine was the thought that he was dead. Or would be dead on Friday. Brian seemed a little too perfect for me — the music thing, the great smile, the sense of humor, the brains. So why did he need to claim to be a ghost who wasn’t going to die for another couple of days?
I guess you can add "reading my mind" to the list of great things about Brian, because after exchanging a few short and flirty emails on Tuesday, I got this one on Wednesday:
TO: ImpulsiveSkeptic
FROM: LitNerd
SUBJECT: Please read.
I like you, Liv. A lot. Just wanted to get that out there first.
I’m going to die on Friday night. I know that for sure. There’s something wrong with my head, and I can’t really remember anything about the day itself. The whole week before is kind of fuzzy. I think you aren’t supposed to remember how you died, because it would disrupt the peacefulness of the place.
I can see other people out the windows… they seem peaceful but I can’t get out there myself. The door isn’t open yet. That makes me think maybe I’m not supposed to die on Friday.
There isn’t a whole lot for me to work with here. I’m surprised there’s internet. I can’t contact myself directly — I’ve tried. I have to change my life from the outside, I guess. That’s where the Thirtieth Dimension comes in. If I can find somebody for me to care about… maybe I’ll be more careful on Friday. Maybe if somebody cares about me, they’ll look out for me.
Since we started talking, I’m starting to remember you. I think it means I am changing things, at least a little. You’re in what’s left of my memories now, and you weren’t before.
I don’t think I can do this alone, and there are only a few days left. I can understand if all this is too weird and you don’t want anything to do with me. I don’t lose anything by asking. I guess it’s up to you to decide whether or not you lose anything.
Please. Help me.
-Brian
Why did he have to be crazy? Why did I have to like him enough to think about playing along? I didn’t write him back. I didn’t know what to say. But I did call the pre-dead Brian and make plans for Friday night.
#
We met for an early dinner at the Italian place — he was scheduled to play at the coffeehouse at nine-thirty. If I was with him, he couldn’t die, right? Maybe just being there would be enough to change what was supposed to happen.
Maybe ghost-Brian thought I gave up on him, because he didn’t write me again. Maybe whatever I did was enough to change things, and he doesn’t exist anymore. Maybe it wasn’t enough, and he’s still dead. I don’t know if I’ll ever know.
It’s getting hard to remember everything we said over dinner. We probably talked about his week at school, about my week at the office or my part time job at the library.
I do remember that he asked me why I had come into the coffeehouse last Friday night. I told him it was for the cake.
We drove down to Queen Street after dinner. His guitar case rocked back and forth on the back seat. It’s funny what little details stick with you; his guitar case made a soft, whispery noise against the fuzzy seat material. Brian was holding my hand.
I heard the loud thump of bass and the squeal of the proximity sensor just for an instant before the car hit us from the driver’s side, spun us around in the intersection. Glass shattered. Something smelled like burning. My eyes refused to open.
It was a huge relief to hear Brian curse, then ask if I was all right. We were both all right. The idiot kids in the other car were shaken, but all right. Everybody was all right. Brian wasn’t dead.
Just by being there, just by changing things a little bit, Brian was fine. He was barely scratched. So I kissed him.
The idiot kids helped us limp Brian’s car off Queen Street and into an empty parking lot. They exchanged insurance information as the police and tows arrived, alerted by the two cars’ impact signals. My knees were weak. We all gave our statements, some angry and concerned parents showed up, and Brian called ahead to the coffeehouse to tell them he’d be late.
I was more than a little nauseous. It was relief, or maybe I was a little bit in love. Hopefully it was just the smell of exhaust.
I had been waiting for Brian to screw everything up by dying, just like Gary had screwed up by lying and Anthony had screwed up by stealing and and and… Somewhere in my head, dying is as bad as lying, cheating, and stealing. It still leaves me alone in the end. But he hadn’t died. Not even a little.
Brian let me cling to his hand through all of it. I don’t think he understood why I was so shaken, but I also wasn’t about to explain that I’d been talking to his ghost. The police officer gave me his first aid kit to try and bandage Brian’s arm — the glass from the driver’s side window had shattered — but there wasn’t enough gauze to do it right.
There probably would have been enough gauze if I hadn’t bandaged and unbandaged the long, shallow scrape three times. I fussed with it until the police officer finally took back his kit and went on to the next crisis of the night.
I was full of nervous energy; all the tension that had been building converted to an amazing sense of relief. After the tow truck left with Brian’s car, we walked up the block to a convenience store to grab more gauze and something to drink.
I pushed open the glass door and squinted against the fluorescent lights. Brian’s hand was at the small of my back. There was blood on the hem of my shirt. Little details.
There were only two people i
n the store. One was the guy behind the counter.
The other was a guy with a gun.
I had just a second to realize how incredibly stupid this was, and just enough time to wonder if Brian’s death was my fault after all. Ghost-Brian was trying to change what happened, and I was walking him right into his own death. I had been waiting for Brian to screw up, and I was the one who blew it.
Ghost-Brian thought he was helping himself by finding me. His mistake.
I decided in that moment of stupidity that if one of us had to die, it was going to be me.
#
The room is white. I can see people through the windows. There is soft white light, a calendar, and a computer with a cheerful holographic head. And two weeks to do something about it.
© 2009 Aimee C. Amodio
Aimee C. Amodio was eleven when she told her parents she wanted to grow up to be a writer. She may not consider herself "grown up" but she does do that writing thing on a regular basis. Aimee lives in the Pacific Northwest with two neurotic dogs (they take after their mother). Visit her website at www.newroticgirl.com.
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Tags: Aimee C. Amodio