by C. C. Hunter
Sometimes a girl just needs to cry.
I have a good pathetic sniffle going when I suddenly feel tingly all over.
I glance at my shoulder and see an arm. It’s Hayden. He’s in bed with me, hugging me. I feel his chest against my back.
My first instinct is to get mad, my next is to just keep crying. His arms aren’t flesh and blood, but it feels so damn good to be . . . touched. I relax back on the pillow, continue crying, and let him hold me.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Whatever is hurting you, I’m sorry.”
After several minutes, my sniffling slows down, and he says, “What’s wrong?”
I roll over and face him. He’s on his side facing me. He brushes a finger across my cheek. I feel it. A feathery touch.
“Everything,” I say. “On top of the fact that I was mean to you and said you make me a freak. I’m sorry.” A big hiccup shakes my breath.
“You weren’t rude,” he says. “You were just being honest. After I thought about it, I realized how hard this must be on you.”
“Not harder than it is on you,” I say, meaning that he’s dead, but I don’t say that. “I’m really sorry.”
“Forget that. Why are you crying? Is it me?”
“No, I mean, yeah, I was upset about being rude, but it’s not just that. It’s everything.”
“What’s everything?”
“I hate being a new kid, I’m worried about my dad, I miss my mom, and Abby wants something from me that . . . I can’t do. I suck at this.”
“Suck at what?”
“Helping you guys.” I sit up. “Take right now for example. Here you are trying to help me when I’m the one who’s supposed to help you.”
He sits up too and leans back on my headboard. It’s been a long time since I’ve been in bed with a guy. Not that we’re doing anything wrong, but it still feels . . . somehow intimate.
“How are you supposed to help me?” he asks.
“I don’t know. You’re supposed to tell me.”
He inhales and runs a hand over his face. “That’s what you do, isn’t it? Help ghosts.”
I nod. “Didn’t Bessie tell you that?”
He shakes his head. “No, she just said . . . said you could talk to me.” He hesitates. “So you helped Bessie?”
I nod.
He sits there as if thinking. “You mailed that insurance letter.”
I nod. I start to accuse him of eavesdropping on my conversation, but what does it matter? “Bessie hadn’t told her daughter about the life insurance and they needed money.”
“But that’s a good thing,” he says. “They should be happy, not upset at you.” He pauses. “Wait . . . I get it. If they find out it was you, they’ll want to know how you knew about it.”
“Right.” I hug one knee closer.
“What other kinds of things have you done for people?”
“Sylvania, an elderly man back in Banker, Texas, needed me to find his cat a new home. Sometimes they just want to talk.” And I really think that’s what Hayden needs. I think he knows he’s dead, but there’s a fine line between knowing it and accepting it.
“What does . . . the woman, Abby, want?”
“She said she wanted me to go find her ring. She lost it in the woods in Lake Canyon State Park.”
“Is that where she . . . died?”
I don’t want to tell him, but I realize maybe that will help him open up. “She fell. They said the rain had loosened some of the edge of the overhang.” I bite down on my lip. “She was alive when they found her. They said she’d probably been there for over twenty-four hours. But she passed away before they got her to the hospital.”
He closes his eyes. “Damn.”
“Yeah,” I say.
He looks away for a second. “Do you know where the ring would be?”
“She says she knows. But I can’t go. Dad would freak if he knew I drove that far. And there’s no way I can take him with me and go in search of a ring.” I drop back against the head board. “I hate letting her down.”
I stare up at the ceiling. “But last night she mentioned something else. Said she wanted everyone to know the truth. I’m hoping that will be easier than driving halfway across Texas. At least I can help her with one thing.”
Pumpkin, with his purr on, jumps up on the bed and curls up beside Hayden. I’m still curious as to why he took to Hayden and none of the others. “It’s not that far,” Hayden says. “Brian County is less than two hours from here.”
“My dad would kill me!”
“Then don’t tell him,” he says.
I stare at him. “Did you miss the part when I said he would freak?”
“No. Couldn’t you just skip school and take a ride there? I’ll go with you. We can have a road trip. Spend the day together.”
I shake my head. “Just skip school. You sound like Shala. You’re a bad influence.”
“Who’s Shala?”
“My best friend. Or I should say my ex-best friend.” I remember I called her and she hasn’t yet called back.
But I’m done feeling sorry for myself. I look at Hayden. “Do you know what you need me to help you with?”
He smiles. “Maybe I’m not here for you to help me. Maybe I’m here to help you.”
I just look down at Pumpkin purring as Hayden passes his hand over his back. “He’s never let any of the others pet him,” I say.
He smiles. “I told you, I’m special.”
Hayden is special. He’s dead and yet he wants to help me. “Why don’t you tell me what happened to you?”
“Why don’t you tell me a secret about Riley Smith?”
I look at him.
“A secret,” he says. “Tell me one. Just one.”
“I’m scared my dad is an alcoholic and he’s drinking.” Don’t ask me why I blurted that out, except . . . he wanted a secret. But no, it wasn’t just because of that. I needed to share it. Needed to tell someone.
“Shit,” he says. “What are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I can’t prove it.”
“Prove that he’s drinking or that’s he an alcoholic?”
“Kind of both.” I tell him about Mom’s diary and about Dad losing his last two jobs.
He listens and his eyes are so filled with caring that my chest feels achy again. But it also feels lighter. It feels good to have someone to talk to.
“Okay,” I finally say. “I told you a secret, now you tell me one.”
He thinks a minute. “When I was fourteen, I found a bottle of vodka in my mom’s pantry. Me and a friend drank the whole damn thing. My mom came home. She was livid. I got sick, puked all over the house. She didn’t clean it up. And the next day she woke my ass up and made me go clean it. It was dry and I had to get a spoon to scrape it up,” He makes a funny face. “To this day, I can’t stand vodka.”
I laugh.
He touches my cheek. “God, you are beautiful. When you laugh, I swear your eyes twinkle.”
I swallow.
He smiles. “I think I changed my mind.”
“About what?” I ask, feeling a sweet quiver in my stomach.
“About you doing something for me.”
I blink and try to regain my wits. “What do you need?”
“This.” He leans in and kisses me. I let him. Holy shit, I’m kissing a dead guy.
I start to pull back, but then . . . I’m pulled in. Into the kiss. Into the fuzzy, fantastic cute-boy sensation fluttering in my chest. I feel his lips, lightly, yet I do feel them. I feel when his tongue slips inside my mouth. I feel myself lean into him. I feel so much. But I want to feel more. I want to touch him.
Before I do, he pulls back.
I look at him, my breathing is raspy and rapid, I push out the words, “We . . . we shouldn’t ever, ever do that again.”
He laughs and touches my nose. “Because you enjoyed it?”
“Never again,” I say.
“Now t
hat sounds like a challenge. And I love a challenge. Actually, I really need one right now.” He’s smiling. Looking so happy. Looking so . . . alive. But he’s not. “Good night, Riley,” he whispers.
“I mean it. We—”
But he’s gone. I go straight to missing him, straight to wishing he wasn’t dead. And not just for me, but for him. He deserves a life, real challenges. He deserves a real future.
Death. Freaking. Sucks.
I drop back on my bed. A sadness swells inside me. Tears sting my eyes. I touch my lips. I swear I can taste him. A little minty, like he just brushed his teeth. Do spirits brush their teeth?
It hits me again. I just kissed a dead guy. It sounds like a sin, and it felt a little sinful but in a good way. It has to be wrong, doesn’t it? I just might go to hell for this.
I scowl up at my ceiling. “Told you, I’m the wrong person for this job!”
• • •
Dad’s up and moving when I come down. He’s not dragging, his eyes aren’t red. He’s smiling. See, he’s not drinking, I tell myself. And I believe it a little more than the last time I told myself that. He’s heading out the door when I remember to stop him.
“Hey, you need to sign my report card.”
He walks back into the kitchen. I grab my backpack, pull it out, and drop back into my chair.
He looks at it. “You got a B on a history test?”
I wrinkle my nose. “I blame the B on the teacher for being boring. And the fact that I took the test two days after I got here and didn’t even have my book yet.”
“Does this mean you aren’t going to be in history honors?”
I frown. I was worried he’d point that out. “But I’m in honors in math, English, and science. And I really don’t need history because last year instead of taking an elective I took world history.”
He smiles. “I guess I can’t complain, then. How did I get such a smart kid?”
“You just got lucky,” I say. In truth, school has never been hard for me. In fifth grade when the school requested to test my IQ and Dad said okay, I purposely missed several because I didn’t want to be considered a nerd.
“That I did.” He chuckles.
While I pour my cereal, Pumpkin meows at my feet reminding me to share, and Dad signs the report card. He gives my shoulder his customary squeeze and then starts for the door.
“Hey,” he says.
With a scoop of cereal in my mouth, I look back at him.
“I’m proud of you.” His words are like the hug I needed.
I smile. “Thank you.” I speak around the crunch bits and sweet marshmallows.
“Have fun at school.” He takes off.
As I sit there, the daddy’s-proud vibes fade and I feel Lucky Charms land in the pit of my empty stomach. Fun?
Chances of that are slim to none. Considering I’m going to have to face Kelsey, who’s out to prove I forged a letter. Then the whole your-daddy-deals-with-dead-people is out of the bag, too. So fun is the last thing I expect today to be.
My goal is to survive.
I keep telling myself that it’s just six more months, and I’ll never have to darken another high school door in my life.
Chapter Nine
First period is auto tech. I’d never been in Building C and it took me a while to find it. I walk in just as the late bell rings. The second I’m in the room, booming with deep male laughter and murmurings about “tits,” I start doubting my decision to take the class. It’s one big sausage party, and face it, I’m not carrying one in my jeans. And I happen to have two size-C “tits.”
All eyes and smiles focus on me. Or at least my tits. I immediately wish I’d worn a looser shirt.
“Damn!” someone says off to the right.
I recognize that voice. My focus shifts that way and yup, I’m right. It’s Dex. But my gaze only lingers on him for a second before sliding over to Jacob, sitting next to him. Oddly enough, he doesn’t seem nearly as happy to see me as everyone else does in the room.
Dad was obviously wrong about him being interested. That’s all good. The last thing I want is to have Jami and her sidekicks against me.
“Can I help you?” a man asks, walking into the room from a back door. I’m assuming he’s Mr. Ash, the auto tech teacher.
“I’m here for class,” I say.
His brow wrinkles. “Are you Riley Smith?”
“Yes, Sir.”
He shakes his head. “I assumed Riley was a boy’s name.”
“Sorry,” I say, then wish I could take it back. Why am I sorry I’m not a boy? I’m fine with who I am.
“I’m not,” someone in class snorts out.
The teacher gives the room a scowl. Then, looking concerned, he walks to the desk in the front of the room and nods as if I’m to join him.
He sits down. I stop at the edge of the desk and wait for him to address me.
He straightens his desk as if trying to garner a few seconds to think. He finally looks up. “Uh . . . Of course you can take this class, but I think it’s fair I tell you that you’re starting in second semester and we’re past doing the easy stuff. Do you think you can keep up?”
I realize this is an opportunity. I can say I’m not sure, and I’ll be out. I can take typing or something else equally lame. But then I realize the room’s completely silent. Everyone is listening.
If I bail, Dex and Jacob will think I lied about working on the car. The rest of the class will just assume I quit because girls in general can’t keep up. Then another realization hits. I honestly don’t know what the class has already covered or if I can actually keep up. The reason I signed up was to learn, not to show off.
And bam, I remember what Hayden said last night about needing a challenge. It’s like a little flame sparks to life in my chest. I feel the need to prove myself. I even feel excited to prove this teacher and the boys in the class wrong.
I tilt my chin up. “I can keep up.”
“Okay,” he says.
He looks out at the class. “Who is willing to go over where we are and what we’re working on now with Riley?”
Everyone’s hands go up. Or everyone but one. Jacob sits, still looking unhappy.
Mr. Ash looks out at the class and frowns. “Jacob, can you do that?”
My stomach clinches.
Jacob answers, “Sure,” but his frown says something different.
• • •
That afternoon, with dread, I walk into history class. Because I got promoted to honors English, I don’t have that class with Kelsey anymore. But chances are, we still have history together.
I peer in and it seems to be all the same students, but Kelsey isn’t there. Relief makes my steps lighter. I was so worried about seeing her that I brought a pack of cheese and crackers and a couple of Rice Krispies Treats and hung out in the back of the library while I ate.
But I’m only one step in when I realize that Jami and three of her close friends are there. Jami actually turns in her seat and gives me the wish-you’d-die look.
I wonder if she already knows I’m in Jacob’s auto tech class and he was assigned to mentor me. In spite of not appearing happy about being stuck with me, Jacob was nice. A little distant, and less friendly than before, but still nice.
Before I’m in and settled in my regular seat, one of Jami’s friends, Candace, pops up from her desk and saunters over to me. She stares down at me the way I look at Pumpkin when he delivers a Texas-sized cockroach the size of a small bird. Then she sets a toy casket on my desk.
I stare at it. Let the freak party begin, I think.
“Saw this and thought of you,” she says, smirking.
I’m still debating how to react when I hear footsteps closing in behind me.
“Why do you always have to be like that?” a voice says and before I glance back I know it’s Kelsey. Kelsey is staring down Candace.
“Her father is a mortician,” Candace says proud and loud. “Ugh.” She shudders. “He touches dea
d people. And she probably touches him.”
Obviously, that was what she wanted to accomplish. To let everyone know I’m a freak. And she’s done it well, because I hear the murmurs in the class.
I’m still trying to decide on my response to Candace when Kelsey speaks up again.
“You think that’s bad?” Kelsey asks.
I’m confused as to why Kelsey’s sticking up for me. Is she not trying to blackmail me?
Candace laughs. “Please, it’s completely gross.”
“Not as gross as what your dad does for a living,” Kelsey says. “Oh, did you not know that he came to my house last month and stuck his hand in my toilet? He probably touched some of my shit.”
Everyone in the room belts out laughter.
Candace’s face turns red and angry. “You bitch.”
“Maybe, but at least I’m my own bitch, and not Jami’s bitch. We all know she put you up to this.”
More murmurs fill the classroom. Candace takes a step toward Kelsey and I’m afraid this is about to get ugly, so I stand up between them. “Why don’t we all just sit down.”
But Candace isn’t done. She leans in, bumping into my shoulder. “At least I know what color I am! You go around pretending you are lily white when we all know you aren’t.”
The rudeness of that comment has every muscle in my body clenching. “Stop!” I spill out.
“Seriously? Are you blind or are you just an idiot!” Kelsey holds out her necklace that rests on her shirt. It’s a black fist on a Pan-African continent. “Or how about my bracelet?” She holds it up and reads it. “Black Lives Matter.”
“You haven’t told us you’re black,” Candace announces as if she has an audience. And she does, because everyone is hanging on every word. Then she looks back at Kelsey.
“And you haven’t told me you’re white. Or that your dad unstops toilets for a living.”
Candace takes a side step as if to get to Kelsey. I side step with her—wanting to derail this argument. But anger bubbles inside me at Candace for her rudeness to Kelsey. It’s one thing to attack my dad’s career, but to attack someone’s race? “She’s right,” I say. “You’re a blind bitch.”