a novel by
Angel Lawson
Copyright © 2012 by Anna Benefield
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious.
Any similarity to real persons, living or dead,
is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
Lawson, Angel.
Wraith/ Angel Lawson – 1st ed.
ISBN: 978-1469992839
ISBN-10: 1469992833
1. Young Adult—Fiction. 2. Ghosts—Fiction. 3. Death—Fiction. 4. Forgiveness—Fiction. I. Title
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Book Cover by Samantha Marrs & Anna Benefield
YANK
I felt the sharp tug on my ponytail. Evan. What amounted to fun for him was really just obnoxious. I expected nothing less from my best friend.
YANK.
I winced this time. He wanted me to react. I wouldn’t, though. He knew I couldn’t risk turning to stare at his empty seat. I was at his mercy. To everyone else, the desk was unoccupied. None of my classmates wanted to sit near Jane Watts and risk social suicide.
Cool air stirred behind my neck and I braced myself. For a brief second, I longed for the days when Evan’s touch didn’t affect me. Usually, I liked it. It made things more real.
YAN—
I shifted forward, slouching over my desk. “Ha!” I said, too loud and inappropriate for AP English. Half the class—including Ms. Bates—looked in my direction, and I clamped a hand over my mouth before coughing. “Excuse me,” I said to the girl closest to me. She sneered in reply. Jeez, can’t a girl cough?
“I’m sorry,” Evan said. He whispered even though no one else would hear him. “I’ll behave.”
Whatever. I shifted away from him and for the first time I saw the new kid everyone was talking about. From this position, I could only see his profile. He had an angular face and brownish skin—possibly a leftover tan from the summer. At first glance he seemed cute. Of course, at first glance I appeared normal and sane, although the mere presence of Evan proved otherwise.
It didn’t take me long to realize I wasn’t the only one observing the new boy. The majority of the class seemed to have reason to face his side of the room. Oblivious to the attention, he worked the pencil across the page with one hand and his other rubbed the back of his shorn hair. He was sketching—and this fact alone piqued my interest. I wondered what he was drawing and if he would be in my art class. But then, I considered, he could just be a doodler, one of those guys who created comic book figures and super heroes fighting dragons who then saved huge-chested women in skimpy clothing. He was probably a geek. Or a pervert. Or both.
“With that haircut I bet he’s drawing army men with buzz cuts and hand-grenades. How long before Ms. Bates catches him and sends him to the office for zero tolerance,” Evan said, having the same thoughts. “Who wears their hair in crew-cut? Probably just got out of military school.”
The girl next to me coughed, (less spastic than I had) breaking the monotony of the room, and the new boy looked away from his paper. I diverted my eyes, focusing on the swirly butterfly I had been shading on my own paper. Curiosity got the best of me, though, and after a moment I took a peek to the side. He looked in my direction, but not at me—not exactly. His eyes were glued right behind me. To the seat I knew was technically empty, the seat of my best friend and current tormentor.
Pretending to stretch, I knew before I even looked what I’d find behind me. The thing that made me an outcast among my classmates. Sure enough, Evan sat quietly, his mouth twisted into an angelic grin, blonde, messy hair dipping into his eyes, and his brows furrowed in question. My eyes shifted back to the new kid, who stared at the two of us, his eyes darting back and forth. His behavior became disturbingly clear.
He could see Evan, too.
“THAT WAS NICE OF you to make an appearance in my lit class today,” I tossed out, not even attempting to hide my sarcasm. The afternoon autumn breeze cooled my face as we climbed the hill on my street. After a full day trapped inside a sweaty, hormonally-charged pubescent environment, some fresh air was a blessing. I waited for Evan to bring up the boy from class, too chicken to approach it myself.
Evan shoved his hands in his jeans. It was his only pair and had a wide, fraying rip in the knee. “Meh, I was bored.”
“Really? I couldn’t tell.” I looked over in time to catch the sly grin forming on his face. Even if I wanted to be mad at him, I couldn’t. Not under our circumstances. He may be annoying, but in reality, he could be so much more if he wanted. I made a mental note to thank him for his consideration the next time he actually did something nice.
“So that kid…” he prompted.
“Saw nothing. Did nothing. Knows nothing.”
“Denial much?”
“Works for me.”
He frowns. “What if he saw me?”
“What if he didn’t? Do you think I’m going to approach some guy and ask him? People already think I’m a freak. No need to make it worse.”
Evan laid his arm over my shoulder. “I think he did and so do you, but we can wait and see.”
“Maybe.”
“Remember the first time you saw me?” he asked. “You didn’t even flinch.”
“I thought you were cute.” I laughed. “Not really. I was completely freaking out. I had my eye on an umbrella next to my desk. Not that it would have worked.”
“Your lack of fear kind of hurt my feelings.”
“Liar.”
We stopped at the cement stairs that scaled the hill in front of my home. Goodbyes with Evan were easy. We had a routine.
“Later,” he said, kicking the bottom step.
“Later,” I replied, loud enough for only him to hear, and climbed the steps toward my home.
‘LATER' IN REALITY WAS the time it took for me to enter the house, say hello to my mother, eat a snack under her caring and watchful eye as I recounted my day, and then eventually escape up to my room.
“How was work?” I asked. My parents owned an antique/art gallery blocks from our home, cleverly (they thought) called “Don’t Cut Your Ear Off.”
“Good,” she said, sitting next to me and swiping an apple slice from my plate. “Daddy had to wait for a new artist to come by. She hand-paints ceiling tiles.”
We had lived in this house for less than a year, but every day I knew that even though it wasn’t the right move for me, it was for them.
I should have known something was up the day they called me for a family meeting, which really wasn’t much of a meeting as it was just the three of us. While I sat across from them on the loveseat they announced their decision.
We were moving. Not over the summer or after I graduated—now. Smack in the middle of spring semester. I bartered and begged. I came up with schemes to stay with my best friend, Grace, but they held firm. Within weeks they quit their jobs and bought a hundred year old home in the city. With one quick decision our sprawling, suburban house was sold and we moved to an urban, gentrified neighborhood with dog parks, bike paths and high-ceilinged, hip retail shops that begged you to go in and spend money.
“He’ll be home for dinner though,” my mom said.
“I’ve got some homework,” I said, placing my plate in the sink. My mom gave me a fast hug before I climbed the stairs to my room looking to the corner near the desk for Evan. He was right where I expected him.
“Hey,” I said, dropping my backpack on the floor and lying on the be
d, spreading out across the mattress. Today had been exhausting.
Evan mumbled a hello from his corner, but nothing else, and I pushed my face into my pillow. My eyes fluttered closed and I drifted, thinking of new boys and pretty, artistic fingers. Did he really see Evan? Could he see Evan? The thought paralyzed me with fear. I pushed it from my mind and the next thing I knew the room was growing dark. I sat up with a lurch.
Evan was still in the corner.
“How long did I sleep?” My voice was raspy and gruff.
“An hour or so.”
I looked at Evan standing in the shadows of my room. His blond, curly hair was messy as usual and his jeans had that single tear at the knee. I wondered, not for the first time, what he would look like dressed differently. I caught my reflection in the mirror on the back of the door and made a face at my rumpled appearance.
“Do you hate having nothing to do all day?” I asked, smoothing out my hair. Even though I asked these same questions before, he always answered them patiently. He had little else to do but humor me.
“My time doesn’t work like that. You know this.” He shook his head in annoyance but continued anyway. “When we’re together like this—talking—time seems normal. But other times, when you sleep or I just wander, it’s like it stops existing. Time is just fluid, then.”
I was sitting upright now, watching him as he watched me. “Like being asleep. Time passes without you noticing?”
“Kind of.” He nodded.
“I wish we had met before,” I said. “Before…this. Before it happened.”
Evan nodded in agreement. “But we didn’t. Instead, we’re like this. Which is okay, right?” He smiled but for once it didn’t reach his eyes and it made me uncomfortable.
From the bottom of the stairs I heard my mother’s voice calling me for dinner. I stood quickly, running my hands over my messy hair one last time before I walked downstairs.
“Thanks for being here,” I said, my fingers on the door knob.
He tilted his head and frowned. “Where else would I be?”
“YOU OKAY,” DAD ASKED, looping around and jogging back in my direction.
I slowed, meeting up with him on the cement pathway. “Yeah, I’m out of shape.” My chest constricted painfully when I tried to catch my breath.
I hated jogging. I was more than convinced it was the devil’s sport, but my dad loved it. On Sundays when the weather was nice, I followed him to his favorite trails and paths for some father/daughter bonding. Next time, I would talk him into bagels and coffee instead.
“You go ahead,” I told him, waving him down the path. “I’m just going to walk. We can meet up later.”
He frowned because this was not his idea of bonding. “You sure?”
I inhaled deeply and slowly, trying to level my breathing. “Totally. Go.”
Thankfully, he listened, and I watched his back as he picked up his pace and jogged away. I, too, increased my speed, but just to a fast walk. The trail itself was pretty cool. Nestled deep in the woods, on a piece of old government property, it wove back and forth next to a wide creek. Scattered throughout the woods were crumbling buildings and fixtures from an old waterworks facility. I had no idea how old it was, but my dad said it hadn’t been used in over fifty years. I glanced down at the creek and saw the remains of the huge dam that had been torn down when the facility closed.
I walked to the end of the newer cement path and crossed over the old stone bridge onto a dirt trail. In the summer, the entire area was covered by vines and plants growing wild, but since it had turned cold the beaten-down areas were easy to navigate, and I quickly found the one I wanted. My dad discovered this running trail when we moved, but I was the one who explored the side trails that led me to the ruins.
The ruins (as I called them) were the main part of the waterworks buildings planted deep in the middle of the woods. Outer brick shells of the buildings, crumbling steps that lead to nowhere, and old pipes and decaying wood abandoned years ago. It had a magical feel to it. Forbidden, yet compelling. The first time I found it, I was entranced. Not by the buildings or the history, but by the art.
Every surface still standing and not covered by the wild kudzu vines that choked every available inch of The South was tagged with spray paint. Signatures, jokes, cartoons, and free designs burst from every direction. The air was tinged with the scent of chemicals and discarded spray cans littered the ground. It was an artist’s haven. That first day, I lost track of time as I ran my hands over the slick, edgy pictures. Some were new, others old, with the faded earlier art partially hidden under the sheen of newer designs. In the open space between buildings was the ever-present remains of a bonfire—lighting, I would assume, for late-night painting and partying. Beer bottles, empties and cigarettes were scattered on the ground. The entire place reeked of juvenile delinquency.
The first time I found the ruins was during the summer, but today, in the colder weather, no branches or thorns caught on my long pants as I wove around the bushes and trees surrounding the trail. I climbed a small hill and as soon as I hit the top, my nostrils were assaulted by the familiar, yet harsh scent of acrylics and oil paint. Laughter bounced off the brick buildings and even though I couldn’t see anyone, I realized I wasn’t here alone.
I froze in my spot, overlooking the buildings. This was a night-time haunt for most people, and I was a daytime visitor. I wanted to see the artists behind the work.
Following a side path, I looped behind the main building, my feet squishing into the soft dirt on the ground. Loud clinks from the ball bearings echoed through the air as the painters shook their cans. I heard them before I rounded the corner of the building. The voices were male and young. Teenagers.
“Hand me that one,” one said. “Not that one, the other one...the red.”
I heard the thunk of a can changing hands and the sound of it being vigorously shaken. A thrill passed through my body. I wanted to watch.
I crept around the side of the building, my body close, scraping the sides of the brick at points. Peering around the corner, I saw them. Three boys clustered around the wall. The tallest had his back to me and was spraying the paint in long, quick strokes. His forearm flexed as he moved, finger poised tight over the trigger. He had a skull cap pulled down to his ears. I couldn’t see his hair; it was short and shaved off his neck. His back was wide and I could see where his shoulder blades cut into the green fabric because it was tight, on the verge of outgrowing it. A gray, long-sleeved, thermal shirt was pushed to his elbows underneath the green T-shirt, and he wore cargo shorts. The many pockets down his legs bulged with weight. I imagined the things he kept in there. Cigarettes and a lighter; he looked like the kind of guy that smoked. I supposed he had painting tools or other contraband also. The options were endless.
I looked at the other boys’ faces. Both cute and a little familiar. They probably went to my school—I didn’t know everyone. They looked older, but not much. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t hear their exact words. One of the boys picked up a can and shook it, holding it over the fresh paint on the wall, his finger hovering over the trigger. In a heartbeat the guy in the green shirt had dropped his own can and had him in a choke hold. I tensed against the wall, pulling back where I couldn’t see.
“What the hell, Michael?” he asked, his voice loud in the forest.
My heart buzzed unexpectedly at the sound of his voice.
“I don’t want your crappy tag over my piece. Go over there. Or there.”
I peeked around again wanting to see him. Wanting to see his face. “Oh, my God,” I said, low so they wouldn’t hear.
The boy from my English class on Friday had his friend, Michael, shoved to the ground and as they squabbled, his shirt rose and I could see the top of his boxers sticking out of the top of his too-loose pants.
“Dude, get off me!” the weaker boy shouted, kicking him in the leg. The third guy watched the entire scene in amusement from his spot on a large, rusted pipe lyi
ng on the ground, smoking a cigarette.
“Don’t mess with my wall,” the boy from my class said, pushing Michael down one last time. Satisfied, he reached his hand out and wrenched Michael off the ground, even brushing debris off his back. “Idiot.”
I would never understand boys.
They spoke in code, the loudest sound being the shaking clinks from the spray cans. I strained to hear their words. Michael, the boy who took the beating, got a wry grin on his face and asked, “So, what’s up with Allison?”
My eyes narrowed. There was only one Allison in our school.
He never stopped painting. “Not much.”
“She’s hot for you.”
“Maybe.”
His aloofness intrigued me. Allison was really pretty and very popular. Why wouldn’t he be interested?
“She’s hot, too,” the other boy cut in. “Seriously, you need to consider that. You’ve been like a monk since they let you out.”
He looked up this time and smiled. Holy crap, the amount of smugness in that one expression.
“Eh, I don’t know,” was all he said turning back to the wall. Huge arching ovals filled the space, one after the other. He stepped back to assess his work, paint-splattered hands on his hips, and I saw it for what it was—or at least what it would be. They were eyes, big and wide. Open and watching. Dozens, with pupils pointing toward the sky. He picked up another can and shook it, intently focused on the wall, and again I watched as he made long, defined marks, as precise as if he used a brush. When he stepped back again, I saw that he had added layers of eyelashes, thick and long, to the rim of the eyes.
I was spellbound, mesmerized by the skill and workmanship he possessed. A bird cawed, bringing me from my thoughts, and I checked my watch. I’d been down here for too long; my dad would be looking. Backtracking around the building as quietly as I could, I heard the paint can rattle again, and the soft conversations of the boys as I left the dirt trail and found my way back to the pavement where my dad waited patiently.
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