How Not to Spend Your Senior Year by Cameron Dokey Page B

Apparently Detective Mortensen had lobbied hard for this to be the case with me as well, but my father had absolutely put his foot down. I deserved a senior year, he said.
    Which explains why I was able to die on Wednesday and still show up at school on Thursday morning, though not the same one, of course.
    But first, I’d had a makeover.
    Yes, I know.
    Considering all the serious aspects of my situation, it does seem shallow of me to take a moment to discuss hair and clothes. But I can’t have you thinking I was going to go around looking like, and calling myself, Jo O’Connor. That would have defeated the whole purpose of disappearing in the first place.
    The first thing to change had been my name. I was Claire Calloway now. Another aspect of the back-to-school situation which had bothered Detective Mortensen, until I’d related the following story:
    In seventh grade, I’d switched seats during math class with a classmate named Bonita Benson. We’d had a substitute and, as every student knows, substitutes are fair game. Unfortunately for me, the substitute was into class participation and had called on me. To be specific, she’d called on Bonita Benson, repeating the name about half a dozen times before I finally realized she meant me. A lack-of-reaction that had eventually resulted in both Bonita and I being sent to the principal’s office.
    I’ll say this much for him. Detective Mortensen got the point at once. I was unlikely to forget I was Claire Calloway, as it was already a part of my name. Sort of like sticking to as much of the truth as possible when lying.
    â€œYou’re sure you want to go through with this?” I suddenly heard the detective’s voice say.
    Detective Mortensen has this unusual way of speaking, very clipped and precise. An aspect of his personality totally at odds with the way he looks, which is pretty much a cross between a walrus and a bloodhound. His body is round, but his face is long and jowly.
    According to my father, he’s always looked like this, even when he was younger. He’s been on the case since the very beginning. In fact, he was the one responsible for all those Phone Calls of Mysterious Origin .
    Which only goes to prove that my theory about them was correct. It really was a guy.
    I’d done my best to dislike Detective Mortensen. This seemed only reasonableconsidering he was the one who’d instigated me having to leave my entire life behind. But the truth is, I couldn’t quite do it. It’s kind of tough to dislike someone who’s making it their mission in life to keep you alive.
    Not only that, he and my father genuinely seemed to like one another. I’m thinking all those phone calls over the years resulted in a previously undiscovered form of male bonding.
    â€œAbsolutely,” I said with a great deal more conviction than I actually felt. I set the newspaper down on the breakfast table and picked up a pair of black-framed glasses. I slipped them on. Then I stood up and did a quick turn around for Detective Mortensen.
    â€œWhat do you think?” I asked.
    Detective Mortensen regarded me in silence for a moment. “I’ll say this much,” he finally said. “It’s a big change from Jo O’Connor.”
    â€œThat would be the point.”
    â€œYou’re sure you won’t stick out too much.”
    I shook my head, feeling the way thenew, long hair I’d chosen swished around my shoulders. I’d opted to become Claire Calloway by utilizing an entirely different sort of tactic than the ones I’d employed as Jo O’Connor. Rather than trying to fade into the woodwork, I’d decided to be easily identifiable.
    The idea had come to me while reviewing my new schedule. Third period I was scheduled for journalism at my new school, Royer High. This had inspired me to adopt the artistic-intellectual look. Overnight, I’d become a member of the basic black