“I’ve always liked you the way you are, and still do.” I said to my former self. The scene faded away, and I was transported to a darkened classroom in Horace Hall. I was standing in the shadows, water dripping from my clothes. The old Renée was beside me, her clothes matted to her body.
“Well, as your teacher, I should make you write lines,” I found myself saying.
The old Renée gave me a challenging look. A droplet of water inched down her nose. “What do you want me to write?”
I took a step toward her. “Cupido,” I uttered.
She raised her hand to my face, and I closed my eyes, feeling the softness of her palm. As she passed her hand over me, it awakened senses I hadn’t felt in years. My nose, my eyes, my lips, they trembled at her touch.
“Do you feel different when you’re around me?” she whispered.
Yes, I thought. Yes.
The room became blurry, and I was transported to the Observatory. It was a different day, an older day, and the September sun was shining through the glass panes of the ceiling. The door opened, and Nathaniel walked in, a younger version of Renée next to him. Her hair was shorter, and she looked more innocent, her face still sun-kissed from the summer.
I sat down next to her, feeling her presence like a force beside me. I didn’t know what to say, so I looked at the board. Something strange was happening to my body. A prickling sensation came over me, and I could actually feel the breeze floating through the window. I could hear the nuances of nature—the leaves of the trees rustling against each other, the delicate sound of sparrows on the branches, all mixing together like some sort of melody. Renée bent over to pull a notebook out of her bag, and I could even make out the smell of her shampoo. Finally she turned to me.
“Why do you keep staring at me?” she muttered under her breath.
Her voice was soft and low, and I was surprised by how forthright she was. How could I not stare at her? Even here, the afternoon sun shone through the glass ceiling, illuminating her face in a warm, rosy light, as if she were an otherworldly being, something sent to me by fate. No, she could never know that I had watched her, wanted her, loved her, from that very moment.
“You have pen on your face. Here.” Immediately I regretted saying it.
Her face turned red as she rubbed her face selfconsciously. “Oh.”
Suddenly the scene fast-forwarded. “So you think I’m charming?” I said, leaning over because I wanted to get closer to Renée. “Is that why you keep staring at me?”
“Alarming, not charming. And no, I’m just curious.”
“Curious?” I said, trying to control my desire to hold her, to kiss her.
Her voice wavered. “Why don’t you talk to anyone?”
“I thought that’s what we were doing.”
She was saying something, but I barely heard her.
Dozens of thoughts ran through my mind. Where did she come from? Where had she been my entire life? What did she like and what did she hate? Would she let me learn? Instead I settled for something more reasonable. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
I traced my fingers around her freckles, wanting to collect them in my palm. She said she was from California.
I held out my hand beneath the desk. “I’m Dante.”
She bit her lip, doubting herself. “Renée,” she said finally, and slipped her hand into mine. It was small and delicate.
Her body froze as we touched. I felt her warmth creeping into me, giving me life again. Her expression shifted from nervous to confused to bewildered. I pulled my hand away from hers and sat very still, trying to understand what had just happened. Everything blurred to black.
Finally, the world came into focus again, and I was running down a long dirt driveway. I couldn’t control my legs and I didn’t know where I was. It was a place I had never been to before—a large field with a plywood fence surrounding it. The land was flat on either side and patched with yellow, overgrown grass. To the far left were a barn and a water trough, presumably for horses. Beyond that were other houses, all spread out over acres of land. They looked exactly the same as the house the driveway was leading toward. It was small and square, with a shingled roof and a wraparound porch littered with old lawn furniture. The rocking chair swayed in the wind.
Suddenly I was standing in the doorway of a bedroom in my house; no—Dante’s house. A girl was lying in bed, the frail outline of her legs visible beneath the sheets. I didn’t recognize her, but somehow I understood that she was my sister. Dante’s sister. The curtains were drawn and the room was dark.
I blinked, and I was in an airplane, cradling my sister, Cecelia, in my arms. She was wrapped in a blanket, her eyes tired and barely open, her face red and matted with sweat. “It will be okay,” I whispered to her. “We’re almost there.”
Sitting beside us were a man and a woman who I knew to be my parents even though I couldn’t recognize them. The man was wearing a flannel shirt and a pair of worker’s pants stained with grease. He had Dante’s eyes. The woman was wrapped in a shawl and leaning over Cecelia, petting her hair. She was crying.
All at once we heard something crack. The erratic swoosh of the propellers as they slowed. And then my father screaming as we plummeted to the ground, “I pray to thee, O true and living God. I believe in thee, O eternal Truth. My hopes are fixed on thee, thou endless Good and Mercy. I love thee with my whole heart above all things, O my kindest Father, my highest Good.”
The world became darker, and I was underwater. I knew that this was my last moment on earth. The waves were violent and I was sinking. Salt water stung my eyes and throat as I was flushed under. I tried to swim to the surface, but couldn’t. I opened my eyes. Everything around me was a foggy blue. Bubbles rose around me, swirling like schools of fish. I reached out, trying to catch them in my fist, and slowly, everything withered away.
I was pulled out of my reverie by two hands pushing me away. My body convulsed as I felt Dante leave me, his memories spooling out of me like a reel of film. Our lips parted, and I gasped.
CHAPTER 20
Renaissance
TO BE REBORN. I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN THAT IT was my destiny. Even the meaning of my name pointed toward it. Renée. Renaissance. The rebirth. With a start, I opened my eyes.
I was being carried down a hallway and out into a blue sunny day, so bright I had to close my eyes. Was I dead? Was Dante dead?
Slowly, I peeked open an eye. I was wearing a hospital gown. Someone was carrying me down the path toward the chapel. Turning my head, I looked up. It was Dante.
“Hi,” I said, my voice wavering.
Dante looked down and smiled. “Hi.”
I swallowed. “Am I dead?”
Dante took a turn to the left. The path was empty. It must be early, I thought. “No.”
“Am I alive?”
Dante sighed. “No.”
My eyes widened as I took in my new world. Flowers grew wildly out of the soil, and leaves budded on the trees —the first signs of life after a long, dark winter. “How long—”
I didn’t even have to finish my sentence. “Ten days.”
“And you? You’re—?”
Dante looked away.
I let out a sigh. So the kiss worked. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
He looked older now, more masculine. He aged well, I told him, like an expensive cheese.
He laughed. “Did I ever tell you how romantic you are?”
I smiled.
Dante took me to the cemetery behind the chapel, now overgrown with poppies.
“Hold out your hands,” he said, lifting my arms until they extended out like wings. He carried me through the field of red, my hands dangling limp on either side. And as the cold of my fingers grazed the tops of the flowers, the petals closed, leaving a trail of green behind us.
I blinked, unable to believe that this was my life. That this was real. That life could be this beautiful.
Setting me down in the m
iddle of the field, we lay side by side, our hands barely touching as we watched the reflection of the clouds in each other’s eyes.
“I wish I could wake up to this every day,” I said.
“You can’t wake up without sleeping.”
I looked down, realizing what he meant. It hadn’t fully dawned on me yet that I was Undead. Lifting the left side of my gown, I looked at my stomach, where the shards of the shovel had cut into me. To my surprise it had already healed, leaving behind a jagged pink scar. Dante traced it with his finger.
“Your grandfather is coming to pick you up today,” he said.
“Does he know?”
Dante shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Why not?”
“Renée, this isn’t what I want.”
“Us?”
Dante gave me a sad smile. “No, this. I brought you here so we could be alone. So we could say good-bye.”
“What do you mean, good-bye?”
“Just for the summer. But you have to promise that when you leave this field, you leave me here.”
“You don’t mean you’re going to kiss me?”
Dante nodded.
“You can’t! I won’t let you!”
“I know,” he said, lacing his fingers through mine as he lowered his lips to mine until they were barely touching. “But you also can’t stop me.”
I closed my eyes as I felt an explosion of sensation run through my body. My fingers tightened around his.
“Why are you doing this? I want you to be alive.”
“Because,” he said, tracing a finger along my cheek.
“Real love is selfless.”
“I miss you already,” I whispered, my insides in panic.
Dante plucked a flower and tucked it behind my ear. “I’m with you, always.”
And then he leaned over and kissed me.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Ted Malawer, for making everything happen; Ari Lewin and everyone at Hyperion, for making me a better writer and for turning my manuscript into something more beautiful than I could ever imagine; Donna Bray, for taking a chance on this book and on me.
My Columbia workshops, especially those of Gary Shteyngart, Binnie Kirshenbaum, and Nicholas Christopher, for their invaluable feedback on this book. L.J. Moore, for Romulus and Remus and her insights into Latin and Roman history.
Nathaniel, for being a bytz. Brandon, for his perverse zombie knowledge; Katherine and Bec, for keeping me sane; and the rest of my extraordinary friends, for generously lending me their names.
Finally, Kivi, my real-life Dante, for his jokes and his friendship; and my family—Mom, Dad, Paul, kitty senior, and kitty junior—for their enthusiasm, humor, and their many “useful” zombie suggestions.
Thank you.
Yvonne Woon, Dead Beautiful
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