Wraith

by Edie Claire

  As was its wildlife. No sooner were the last words out of my mouth than a chicken skittered out from the bushes and ran directly into our path. Zane stepped unconcernedly through its tail feathers, but I nearly broke my neck trying not to trip over it.

  I felt a buzz on the arm I thrust behind me as I caught myself—and realized that Zane must have reflexively shot out his hand to help. But when I looked around, his arms were already back at his sides, his expression sober.

  "Good save," he commented as I regained my footing.

  "Thanks," I responded, watching as the unrepentant hen scuttled off to join the handsome red rooster that lurked under a nearby fender. Both birds stared at me reproachfully.

  "So we’re buying you a longboard, right?" Zane questioned. "Were you looking to paddle into the big waves, or are we talking tow-in? Because if you’re serious about tow-in, you’ll need footstraps."

  "Nice try," I interrupted. "Like I said, I need a dress. One nice enough for a school dance."

  He stopped walking and turned to face me. "A school dance?"

  I felt a sharp pricking of guilt. I hadn’t meant to keep my plans a secret… the topic just hadn’t come up yet. We had spent our taco-eating time chatting about other things, although at the moment I couldn’t remember just what. It was easy to get off topic with Zane; he seemed to know something about everything. Everything except his own life since puberty, that is.

  "Matt just asked me," I explained, feeling distinctly awkward, even as I assured myself that I shouldn’t. I had no reason to think Zane would feel jealous. He and I were just friends; he was not technically alive. Looking for any more reasons he should not care if I went to a dance with another guy seemed silly.

  And yet, as my eyes met his—which currently flickered transparent along with the bridge of his nose—I got the feeling that maybe he did.

  A second later, though, the look in question was gone.

  "Well, congratulations!" he said with a smile, walking forward again. "How did superjock work that out so fast?"

  "His date got sick," I explained. "I’m the sub."

  Zane smirked. "Matt have access to arsenic?"

  I threw him an appropriate glare. "Stop that. I believe she really got sick. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t go."

  Zane offered a good-natured shrug. "I guess it’s fate, then. The timing is perfect—you couldn’t ask for a better chance to meet the locals." He stopped dutifully in front of the store I had pointed to, but even as he spoke his gaze drifted longingly across the street, where countless boards of all shapes and sizes stood on the other side of a surf shop window, stacked vertically like a forest of gaudy trees.

  "Are you sure you’re okay with the shopping thing?" I asked, feeling another, even stronger pang of guilt.

  "Absolutely," he responded at once. "No problem. I’m excited."

  I frowned. "You don’t sound excited."

  He stopped looking across the street and considered a moment. "You’re right, I don’t. That was terrible. I’m normally a much better actor. Wait…" He dropped back a few paces, turned his back, then whirled around and caught up with me again. His face was now flushed with anticipation; his eyes sparkled. For a moment, I thought he had seen something interesting on the ground. "I am SO excited about shopping!" he exclaimed, throwing his whole body into a contortion I could only describe as a skip and a jump. "Let’s go!"

  I laughed so hard three people stopped and stared at me.

  "Better?" he demanded, now perfectly calm again.

  I groaned, wiping my watering eyes with one hand while pulling my phone self-consciously back to my ear with the other. "Oh, forget it!" I ordered. "Just go stare at the stupid boards, will you?"

  "I thought you’d never ask," he said gleefully.

  "Will you just… maybe… check in once in a while?" I begged. "I do want your opinion; there’s no one else I can ask." It occurred to me, suddenly, that I could easily take a picture of a dress with my phone and send it to Kylee or Tara—or even my mother.

  Somehow, that didn’t seem like nearly as much fun.

  "Will do!" he answered with a salute, barely waiting to get the last word out of his mouth before sprinting across the street through a mountain bike and a minivan and springing into the window of the surf shop like a gazelle.

  "Show off," I muttered again.

  A sudden cloud seeped over and through me, a wave of sadness so profound it seemed to block out the light, even as I knew from the warmth on my skin and the glare in my eyes that the sun was still shining. The source seemed to be behind me. I whirled around.

  The shadow of an old man, haggard and thin, wearing threadbare, damp-looking clothing, leaned wearily against the outside wall of the shop. His rheumy eyes teared. His hands shook.

  I dashed forward immediately, down the street and away. I had run a good couple of blocks before I dodged into a shop doorway and paused, chest heaving.

  Nothing now. It’s all right.

  Just forget about it, okay?

  The sadness had left me as abruptly as it had come, but it was replaced with a spurt of righteous anger, and I clenched my fists with frustration. This was so unfair! Why did whatever had happened to that poor man however many years ago have to make me feel so bad right now? What purpose did it serve?

  At least this one wasn’t alive, right?

  "Can I help you find something?"

  The cheerful voice of the shopkeeper—a short, chunky redheaded woman with an accent straight from the Bronx—snapped me back to the regular world. I made an effort to slow my breathing, then scanned the room with eagerness. For a doorway into which I had randomly stumbled, the shop was exactly what I had been looking for: not exactly upscale, but a far cry from plastic flippers and ukulele-strumming Obama dolls. The focus was beach clothing, but there were no "surf’s up" tee shirts here—just a few stands of silk and synthetic men’s Hawaiian shirts, and rows upon rows of gorgeous, colorful sundresses.

  "Yes," I answered heavily. "You can."

  ***

  Nearly an hour later, I stood in the same shop, my face twisted in an anguish of indecision. I was normally not so fussy about my clothes. Few girls at my school in Cheyenne were uber-concerned with wearing the latest big-city fashion; most of my friends, like me, were happy with whatever looked good with their body type and wasn’t too uncomfortable. But this was serious.

  Why, oh why, had I agreed to go to this stupid dance in the first place? Could I not see that I was laying my entire social future in Oahu on the line? Like an idiot, I had set myself up to meet a gazillion important strangers in one fell swoop, giving myself only one chance to make one all-important first impression on everybody, an impression they would then have three whole months to think about and talk about—while I had zero chance to redeem myself!

  It was official. I was insane.

  My phone buzzed with a text, and I swung the screen quickly into view. It was from my mother, to whom I had texted a picture of both dresses twenty minutes ago.

  I think they’re both lovely. You can’t go wrong!

  I groaned. She wasn’t blowing me off; I knew that if she said she liked both dresses, she did. My mother was hardly the type to pull punches when it came to expressing opinions on my wardrobe. But it was not the decisive answer I needed.

  I stepped to the window and scanned the street again. There had been no sign of Zane since we parted. Where was he? I had expected to see him long before now.

  Two more texts buzzed in in quick succession. Thanks to me and my fashion dilemma, Kylee and Tara were currently at war, copying each other on a flurry of transoceanic communications that some phone companies somewhere were loving every minute of.

  The first one was from Kylee, who had lined up in favor of the crimson red V-neck right off the bat.

  It duz NOT make her look slutty! It makz her look SEXY!!!

  Tara, however, had had concerns, preferring instead the yellow print with the purple and blue flowers, whose ga
thered, form-fitting front was slightly more modest, but still showed off my newly tanned shoulders.

  Her goal is not to get herself mauled in the guy’s car! Her goal is to make a good impression on her future friends. The LAST thing she needs is to tick off the girls by stealing all their guys’ attention!

  I looked fretfully from one dress to the other. Tara had a point. The red with the giant white blossoms was really, really striking on a tall frame, even a too-skinny one, like mine. But it was also perilously low cut—lower cut than anything I’d ever worn before. That could definitely cause some anxiety when I was dancing…

  My phone buzzed again.

  Guysll drool anyway cuz Kali always looks hot—duh. Let her have FUN!!!

  And again.

  She will have more fun if she doesn’t get mauled in the guy’s car. Or the hallway, or the street… She needs to make the statement, "I’m pretty and confident." Not "I’m easy, do me now."

  Seconds later, two more.

  U are SO dramatic! Kali can handle it. GO WITH THE RED, GIRL!!!

  Kali can handle anything. That’s why she’s going to wear the yellow, look amazing, get the guy, and still make lots of new friends.

  I stuffed the phone into my pocket with a groan. Tara was exaggerating about the red, for sure. The girl herself was freakin’ gorgeous—long blond hair, big blue eyes, and bone structure like a Greek goddess. But none of the guys in Cheyenne had a clue because her hair was in a ponytail 24/7, she refused to wear contacts, and half her clothes were borrowed from her brothers.

  Which made me wonder why I was asking her opinion in the first place.

  Kylee had better fashion sense, didn’t she? Then again, her tastes differed from mine. I liked a more natural, classy look—she was all about bright colors and bold statements. Of course she would like the red dress.

  But was it right for me?

  Arrrgghhh!!!

  "Kali!"

  My spirits leapt instantly; I spun around. "Zane! Where have you been?"

  He blinked at me. "Where have I been? The question is where have you been. I’ve been looking all over for you!"

  I blinked back at him. He looked… not upset, exactly. His voice was calm; his tone was as easygoing as ever. But there was a look in his eyes and a tenseness to his face that was unusual.

  "I’ve been right here the whole time," I explained.

  He looked confused. "But I’ve checked here. At least three times. Along with every other store on the street."

  "Maybe I was in the dressing room?" I suggested.

  His eyes widened. "Every time? For an hour?"

  I chuckled. "You don’t go dress shopping often, do you?"

  The shop owner’s loud voice announced her latest intrusion. "Well, have you made up your mind yet?" she said with a broad smile. "Did the friends vote?"

  I quickly pulled my cell phone back out of my pocket, hoping she had not seen me talking into thin air. She probably thought I was nuts already, as indecisive as I was being over one stupid dress.

  "They’re no help," I admitted. "They can’t agree." I stole a look at Zane. "I think I’ll try both dresses on just one more time."

  The sales lady’s smile didn’t waver, but her eyes glazed. "If you ask me," she said smoothly, "I think you should wear the red. It’s more… sophisticated."

  I faked a smile back. The woman meant well, I was sure. But somehow, I couldn’t take to heart the fashion advice of a middle-aged, transplanted New Yorker who wore fake eyelashes and had lipstick on her teeth.

  "One more time," I insisted. "Then I’ll know."

  I whisked both garments back into the dressing room, throwing Zane a distinct "stay put" look as I went. I tried each on and came out briefly, whispering for him not to say anything until he’d seen both. The whole time he leaned against the wall without moving, arms crossed over his chest, his expression inscrutable.

  "Okay," I said, emerging at last in my own clothes, one dress in each hand. "I know I’m boring you to death, but I really do need help, here. And you’re a guy."

  His eyebrows lifted. "Oh, so now I’m a guy?"

  "You know what I mean," I insisted. "Which one looks better?"

  He let out a sigh, then considered a moment. "Looks better to who?"

  My forehead creased. I started to answer the question, then realized it wasn’t so simple. Was I more worried about Matt, or about the girls I was about to meet?

  To my surprise, Zane started laughing. "Seriously, Kali," he chuckled. "Do you realize you look more miserable than I do?"

  He stood up and faced me squarely. "Look, you want my opinion? Here it is. The guys are going to ogle you either way—deal with it. What the girls like, no mortal being could possibly predict. So how about you just grab the one you like, and we get back to the beach already?"

  As I looked into his smiling, now familiar face, his warm, sane voice spread through me like a calming drug.

  Yes, I thought to myself. Why didn’t we?

  Within ninety seconds, I had hung the red dress back up on a rack, hastily paid for the yellow (which was my favorite, thank you very much), and swept us both back out into the sunshine.

  "How was that?" I asked proudly.

  "Excellent," he responded, leading me back towards the car. "Glad I could be of service. Sorry I lost track of you earlier, though."

  My steps slowed. "You didn’t have to worry about me," I insisted, remembering how disturbed he had seemed. "It’s not like I was lost."

  His expression turned thoughtful. "You weren’t, no."

  We walked on in silence for a while, taking a detour into the street to get around the long line of Asian tourists waiting patiently for shave ice at Matsumoto’s.

  An unusually brisk wind kicked up suddenly, whipping some paper trash in cyclones around our ankles. Zane looked up at the sky.

  "Surf report was right, I guess," he said gloomily. "The rest of the day’s not going to be any good. Too much wind—chops up the waves. I guess I could try sailboarding, though. Or kite surfing, if I can find anyone out. Maybe at Kailua—"

  "You’re not coming with me to the dance?" I said without thinking.

  He turned and looked at me curiously. "Well, I mean… three is a crowd, right? Or do I not count as a guy again?"

  An uncomfortable ache rippled through my middle. He was talking half in jest, as he always did, but I could feel the pain behind his words. Alive or not, he was still capable of feeling. He had lost everything he’d ever known, including his physical self, with no consolation except his precious, endless waves and—quite pathetically—me. And all I did was make things harder on him.

  "Zane," I said earnestly, halting my steps. "I didn’t mean that. I mean… of course you count. Whatever you are in the cosmic scheme of things, you’re very real to me."

  His expression softened. "Thanks, Kali. But you don’t have to invite me along on your dates just because you feel sorry for me. I managed with no one to talk to before I met you, I can manage again. You need your space."

  We walked on in silence for several paces as I considered the evening in store. It didn’t take me long to realize that every happy scenario I’d been playing out in my head, Zane had been a part of. I had assumed his presence without thinking—without ever questioning that he would want to be with me. Imagining the event without him now seemed hollow.

  But what I was expecting of him was totally selfish—and it wasn’t fair. Even if we were just friends, how much fun could it be for him to watch me enjoying myself with Matt—doing all the typical teenage things he could never do again?

  All of a sudden, I felt totally rotten.

  I dragged my feet another half block, then noticed that Zane looked equally melancholy. How about that honesty thing?

  "Zane," I piped up quickly, hoping not to lose my nerve. "You can do whatever you want, but the truth is, I want you to come along. And not because I feel sorry for you. I do feel sorry for you—I’d be a total jerk if I didn’t.
But I want you to come because I enjoy your company, and if you don’t come, I’ll miss you. But I realize that’s totally selfish of me, and I don’t want you to come just because I asked you to." I paused for a breath, my heart racing. "Am I making any sense?"

  He stopped and smiled at me. It was the worst one he had—the one that did funny things to my stomach and screwed up my knees. I had thought I was getting immune to it. I was wrong.

  "You make perfect sense," he answered. "And as long as we’re being honest, I’ll tell you this. I want to go. There’s no place I’d rather be tonight."

  My eyes widened. "Really?"

  "Really," he assured, still smiling. "But I don’t want to intrude, either. If it won’t make you feel too much like you have a stalker, I’d prefer to stay out of your way—where you can’t see me. Would that be all right? If you ever want to talk to me, though, just call. I’ll be there."

  My cheeks flushed. He was being entirely too sweet to me, and I couldn’t stand it. I didn’t think, I just reacted. I wanted to hug him. My arms flew around his shoulders, my weight shifted onto my toes. The shock I felt at my body’s meeting not the expected warm, solid chest but instead a total absence of resistance—punctuated with a near audible buzz of vibration—was startling. Equally startling was the realization that, without a swift save, I was about to land facedown on the pavement.

  Being a dancer had its benefits. I caught myself in time, throwing out a foot and regaining my balance in a way that looked to passersby—I hoped—like I had simply tripped. But my face was red as a beet.

  "Are you okay?" Zane asked with concern.

  "I’m such an idiot," I blathered, barely able to look at him. "I just totally forgot. I’m so sorry."

  His answer came as a ragged whisper, so soft I could hardly hear it.

  "So am I."