The gypsy fortune-teller at the Halloween carnival predicts I'll have a long life full of possibilities. Of course, that's right before she uses me as a human shield to avoid the outstretched hand of a black-cloak-clad, sickle-wielding Grim Reaper and then flees hysterically from the tent. Really, if you think about it, that makes her a liar and a murderer. I better get a refund.

And no matter what the Grim Reaper says about not meaning to collect my soul, it doesn't change the fact that I'm looking down at my lifeless body while my friends stare at each other. Hello? Call 911. Or maybe someone could start doing CPR. Idiots.

"Come with me," the Reaper insists, tugging on my arm. "There isn't much time."

I shake him off and shoot my best withering glare in his direction. "I don't think so. You saw what she did. You were coming for her, not me. She's the one you should be hauling out of here."

And then he shrugs his shoulders. Is he kidding? He rips my soul from my body and the next minute acts like I'm asking to change the station on the car radio.

He smiles a saccharin sweet smile. Yeah, like I'm going to fall for that.

"My job is to transport the souls. Nothing more. Nothing less." He's talking to me like I'm a four-year-old.

I don't know if it's the smile or the tone of his voice, but I've gone from being confused to really ticked off. My hands curl into fists. "Well, it's my senior year and my job is to win homecoming queen next week. And to do that, I need to be alive. You have to send me back."

"I can't do it."

"And why not?"

He whips around to face me, his hood falling down around his neck. He's actually kind of cute with his chiseled face and coal black eyes. Of course he's unnaturally pale, which is a total turn-off. And let's not forget he's a big part of the reason my body and soul no longer appear to be connected.

"I don't have that kind of clearance," he says. "Even if it was an accidental collection, it's out of my hands."

I find his words ironic. After all, it was his hand that got me into this mess in the first place.

"Like you said, it was an accident," I fume, refusing to admit my argument might be pointless. "If you can't, can someone else?"

He continues watching me with a blank gaze. When I can't take his silent treatment for one more second, I look back toward my body.

"Wait a minute!" I shriek. "Is that blood coming out of my ear?" I look closer and notice my blue eyes are staring at the ceiling with a vacant expression. Other than the eyes and blood, I look normal. Okay, sure, maybe my skin is a little on the gray side, but the lighting in the tent is horrible. Why do fortune-tellers always use so many flickering candles? When I get back into my body, I am definitely calling the fire marshal. There has to be a violation here somewhere. She may not die, but that gypsy woman is still going to pay for what she did.