Give Up The Ghost

by Megan Crewe

  “Aren’t you—” he started.

  “Hey, Keith,” one of the other guys interrupted him. “Did your parents let you have the car or what?”

  His gaze slid away from me. “Yeah, I finally talked them into it. You’d think I was three years old the way they lectured me. Like I haven’t been driving a year and a half already.”

  I put down my fork and glanced toward the doorway. Any second now, he’d finish that question he’d almost asked.

  Paige glided down beside me, glee sparkling from every pore. “Oh my God, I can’t believe how many teachers I still know. I guess they don’t change that much. Cass, what’s up? You all right?”

  I shook my head, slightly. Keith was watching me again.

  “Can I do something?” Paige asked. “What’s wrong? Maybe—if we go to the washroom, you could tell me there?”

  She leaned over my shoulder, inspecting the faces around the table like a cop checking out a lineup. Her hand slipped down and tingled through my shoulder. She hadn’t been to a party like this in years, but all it took was a nervous look on my face, and she was there for me, my big sister. I glanced up at her, and the panic in my chest loosened.

  I stayed at the edge of my chair, not quite ready to flee, not quite convinced I wouldn’t have to. Keith shot a couple more looks my way, and then the conversation absorbed him. In a few minutes, the waiter wobbled over with our salads, and I busied myself with eating. Paige hovered over me, her vigilance fading as she saw me relax. She chattered away about the kids she’d recognized and the dresses she’d liked, and I gave a tiny nod where it seemed necessary. After a while, I even worked up the courage to ask Meredith how the field hockey team was doing. She seemed so overjoyed to have anyone show an interest that she gushed out the details, and I felt bad that I hadn’t asked earlier.

  I was swirling the last bit of ice cream in the bottom of my dessert bowl when a girl hopped onto the platform and took the podium. I squinted at her against the lights. Dawn, the student council president. My pulse skipped. She flicked her dark hair over her shoulder and smiled against the microphone. “Hey there, Frazer!”

  “Hey!” a bunch of kids yelled back.

  “As you know,” she said, drawling, “tonight’s the night we honor our coolest and craziest. We’ve got all our fantastic prizes. . . .” She swept her arm toward a folding table lined with certificates and gift bags. “Now let’s get our cool and crazy council up here!”

  Leon and Jordana shimmied between the tables to the platform, where the treasurer and a couple of the senior class reps joined them. I waited, hardly breathing. No one else stood up. Dawn cleared her throat, and the council members took their places to announce the awards.

  I sunk down in my chair. So he hadn’t come. Well, he was probably still pissed at everyone. He must have assumed I’d been joking, or he was too mad at me to find out. I kicked at the leg of the table. It hardly seemed worth staying now. I’d come, I’d tried it out, I’d shown I could do it. He’d probably never believe me if I told him.

  Well, Paige would want to be here for at least a little of the dancing. If I’d survived this long, I could last another half hour.

  When the last prize had been handed over and the waiters hurried in to collect the dessert dishes, everyone stood up and flooded out the doors. In the hall, I broke away from the crowd and walked over to the stairs, setting my elbows on the banister and leaning over to watch the people wandering up and down. Paige leaned with me, even though she didn’t know who I was looking for. The photography studio had set up a screen on the landing, and the walls rippled with flashes of light.

  Inside the reception room, the DJ dimmed the room and put on the music. Red and blue strobe lights flickered. I rubbed my eyes and looked around. Everyone was streaming back into the room, some already bouncing to the music.

  Paige leapt toward the doors. “Come on, Cass! This is the best part.”

  I held back, the shiny dresses and smooth tuxes rippling past me. My chest tightened. This wasn’t my scene. You could paint my face from forehead to chin and wrap me in silk, and I still wouldn’t belong there.

  One song, I thought. I’ll stay for one song, let Paige have her fun, and if Tim really hasn’t turned up by then, I’ll call Dad and get gone.

  I dragged myself back into the room. The fringes were packed with kids not quite ready to party. The dance floor whirled with puffy skirts and gyrating limbs, dappled in a rainbow of lights. Paige threw herself in the middle of it, swaying with the melody. All of the tables had been pushed to the side. I crept along the outskirts, feeling my way. The strobe lights flashed, and I thought I saw the glint of Danielle’s hair. The faces shone blue, then pink, then green, then back to normal.

  By the time the first song blended into the second, there was only a thin ring of us losers still standing to the side of the dance floor. I shifted, staring into the darkness, searching for the chair I’d put my purse on. Maybe on the other side. I scooted around a couple of tables and found it. Swinging it over my shoulder, I turned toward the door, and my eyes stuttered over Tim.

  He was standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the lights in the hall behind him, one hand gripping the door frame. I could barely make out his features. He couldn’t have seen me at all. I blinked, and he was backing away. His mouth was twisted, his eyes white with panic. The next instant, he vanished from view.

  I froze, my heart pounding faster than the music. Had I imagined him?

  Before my brain had a chance to consider the question, my legs were already propelling me to the doorway. I peered out, the light dazzling my eyes. Shoes were squeaking on the marble steps below.

  “Tim?” I called, hesitantly. A few couples were still hanging out on the landing, getting their pictures taken. Their eyes followed me as I stumbled down the stairs as fast as the sandals would let me. The heels rapped against the marble, even louder than my pulse thumping past my ears. I couldn’t hear the squeaking anymore.

  Halfway down the last flight, I glanced over the railing and saw him striding across the rug to the hotel’s front door. “Tim!” I shouted.

  His steps faltered. He turned slowly, as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to see who it was. His shoulders were slouched, his hands deep in his pockets, the dress shirt and slacks loose on his gaunt frame. He’d readied his face: mouth tight, eyes defiant. Then he saw me, and it fell apart. His eyebrows drew together in confusion. For a second, he didn’t recognize me. But only for a second.

  His shoulders stiffened and his jaw went slack. I took advantage of his surprise to stumble down to the bottom of the staircase. The clerk behind the reception desk eyed us blandly, then leaned back in his chair and continued murmuring into the phone.

  “Cassie!” Paige yelled from somewhere above. She jumped down to the first floor, stopping a few feet above the ground with a jolt. “Are you going already? You should have told me. I tried to find you, and you weren’t there—”

  I was still looking at Tim, and he was still looking at me. Paige glanced from me to him and back. “Oh,” she said, softly. “Well. Um, I guess I’ll wait for you outside.” She slipped away through the wall.

  “You came,” Tim said. His voice was rough. I wanted to believe it wasn’t as terse as it had been the last time I’d talked to him, but maybe that was wishful thinking.

  “Yeah,” I said, feeling awkward in the stupid dress and the stupid sandals and my stupid hairdo—and at the same time, so happy to see him my heart was practically jumping out of my chest. “I’m not sure it was the best idea. But I did say I would—and it wasn’t like I could let you be right about me.”

  The last bit got a twitch out of his lips. Close enough to a smile that I felt emboldened to add, “I didn’t know if you’d make it. After—”

  He lowered his eyes. “Yeah, well . . . I figured, hey, if Cass McKenna’s going to the prom, I can hardly stay home, right? I guess you did one better than me. I didn’t even make it into the room.”

&n
bsp; “You didn’t miss much.”

  He shrugged, still studying the floor. The silence stretched tight between us. I reached back to grasp the railing of the stairs. “If you were going—I mean, I don’t want to bother you.”

  “Cass,” he broke in. He scuffed his feet against the rug. “I’ve been thinking and talking with my aunt, and I can see why you did it. You really were worried.”

  “Of course I was worried,” I blurted out. “How could you—” I caught myself and curled my fingers into my palms. “I’m still worried. Should I be?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “I haven’t been drinking. My aunt’s helping me find a counselor—she thinks that’ll help, too. I’ve been feeling a lot better, most of the time. It’s . . . hard. But not as hard as it used to be.”

  He looked up at me then, his eyes bright blue under the crystal chandeliers, still carrying so much pain my throat clenched up. “Thank you,” he said.

  I couldn’t quite believe I’d heard him right. “What for?” I asked, cautiously.

  “You need me to spell it out?”

  I thought of how he’d pushed past me in the parking lot, the skepticism on his face even when tears had been trickling down mine—how I’d stood on his porch while he walked off into his house, his Go away echoing in my ears—and swallowed. “Yeah,” I said. “I think I do.”

  “You know, you haven’t gotten any easier to talk to,” he said, sounding irritated and amused at the same time. “Thank you for trying to help, even though I told you not to.”

  The tension had been a big balloon, suffocating me from the inside. Those words popped it. I knew I was grinning like a lunatic, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself, so I decided not to care.

  “You’re welcome,” I said. “I promise in the future to always try, especially when you’re telling me not to.”

  A smile crept across Tim’s face. Not the awkward, pained smile or the horribly desperate smile I’d seen so many times before, but a real smile, soft around the edges. “Deal,” he said, and offered his hand so we could shake on it.

  “You’re going home?” I asked. He glanced past me, up the stairs, and his face tensed again.

  “I don’t want to see them yet.”

  “I don’t really feel like seeing any more of them either.” I nodded toward the front door. “I saw a coffee shop just down the street. You up for an espresso?” When he hesitated, I threw out quickly, “If you just want to leave—”

  “No,” he said. “I think I can handle a coffee.”

  We walked outside together, into the glow that spilled out onto the front steps. Paige was perched over the hedge by the sidewalk. She smiled when she saw me, and gave me a thumbs-up with both hands. The sounds of the dance drifted away behind us, and Tim rolled his shoulders. I inhaled deeply, letting the warm air fill my lungs. Tonight was a night when weird things could happen. A night when I could share a table with the student council VP, and my dead sister, too, not to bargain or to prove a point, but simply because I wanted to.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Writers aren’t born; they grow. So my first huge thank-you goes to my family, for their love and support; to the teachers who saw a budding author rather than a kid with her head in the clouds, particularly Bert deVries, who always believed there’d be a book with my name on it; and to Chris, for sharing the bouncing-off-the-walls highs and the why-am-I-attempting-this-publishing-thing-again? lows with humor and encouragement.

  I owe more than I can express to my fabulous critique partners: Deva Fagan, Amanda Coppedge, and Robin Prehn, who see all the things I miss and said “when” not “if”; the past and present members of the Toronto Speculative Fiction Writers Group, who steer my early drafts straight and deserve gold medals in brainstorming; and Kate Larking, Mary McNeil, Amy Brenham, Amanda Dausman, Sally Holt, and Dorothy Crane, whose thoughtful comments helped shape this novel into what it is today. An additional shout-out to the many writers who shared their experience and enthusiasm throughout this journey, especially the fabulous Debs, who were always there to cheer, advise, and console.

  Many, many thanks go to my editor, Robin Tordini, for her careful eye and unflagging devotion to making this book as good as it could be; to Marianne Cohen, Ana Deboo, and April Ward for helping it become a reality; and last but far from least, to my agent, Kristin Nelson, for guiding this book from the slush pile to the bookshelf and never ceasing to amaze me with her dedication and drive.