Manifest

by Artist Arthur

  You got that right. Cinderella would have been up by now scrubbing those floors.

  He’s laughing harder now and I can’t help but crack a smile. That dimple in his cheek is just too cute.

  Still, he says, trying to stop laughing, it can’t be that bad.

  “It is.”

  Tell me about it.

  I shake my head. “That’s not why you’re here.”

  No, but maybe we can make a trade. You help me. I help you.

  “How can a spirit help me with my life?”

  I won’t know until you tell me what’s so wrong with your life.

  He has a point there so I sit up again, resting my back against the headboard. I could probably tell him what is going on in my life that has me so pissed off and depressed at the same time. Who is he going to tell if he’s dead?

  “Nobody else can see you, can they?” I ask as we stop walking through the park. We’re far away from the swings and monkey bars where there are a few little kids with their parents playing. Down two slopes and off the path that the speed walkers or runners take, I sit on the ground and stare out across the jutting rocks and slow trickle of water.

  Unless they have the same power that you do, no.

  I sigh heavily because I don’t even know what power I have. Nor do I want it.

  How long have you been doing this?

  “Doing what?”

  This. The whole ghost whisperer thing.

  I hate the way that sounds. Like that show that comes on television with the woman who can talk to ghosts and helps them with some unresolved problem. That’s fiction, entertainment. This is my life.

  I just shrug instead of answering him.

  Don’t like it much, huh?

  “How’d you guess?”

  Why don’t you like it? Man, if I could have a cool superpower I’d love it. You know the things I could have done if I was powerful?

  “What? Like stay alive?”

  He chuckles but then looks at me more seriously. You know, you could make a person feel just as crappy as you without even trying.

  I shrug again.

  Like I said, your life can’t be that bad. Probably just some spoiled brat complaining while the rest of us sit back and want what you have.

  My neck almost snaps I turn my head in his direction so fast. He’s sitting right beside me, his knees drawn up in front of him, his arms wrapped around them. “I told you, you know nothing about my life. If you did, you’d know the last thing anybody could call me is spoiled.”

  Then let’s try ungrateful.

  I move to stand up. “No. Let’s try I’m outta here. Help yourself with your afterlife problems, dead boy.”

  But before I can stalk away after my perfect exit line I’m falling to the ground, my hands coming up flat to keep my face from meeting the grass. I roll over quickly, wondering if he’d touched me. No, he couldn’t have touched me. Not for real, I don’t think.

  Ricky’s still laughing, something I figure must have been one of his favorite pastimes. He hasn’t moved from his position.

  “You’re an idiot,” I say, scrambling up once more.

  And you’re clumsy. You didn’t see that big rock right there?

  I’m on my knees now and as he points I follow his arm. Sure enough, there’s a rock, similar to the ones in the creek, halfway buried beneath the grass. So, no, he hadn’t pushed me, but he’d gotten a good enough laugh at me falling on my face.

  The reasons why not to like Ricky were quickly adding up. 1) He’s not a real boy, just a spirit. 2) He has a girlfriend. Her name is Trina. 3) He thinks he knows everything. 4) He has a sick sense of humor.

  Come on back over here and sit down. If somebody comes up the path you’re going to look like some psycho talking to yourself.

  He probably has a point. I am sitting sideways so it would be easy for someone coming by to see and/or hear me talking to the air.

  I huff and reluctantly do as he says. “I must be psycho for sitting here talking to you,” I can’t resist saying.

  Man, this is so jacked. Of all the ghost whisperers in the world, I end up with you.

  “Feel free to go, Ricky. I was doing just fine before you showed up!”

  No, you weren’t. You’re running around looking like somebody just stole your bike day in and day out. You treat your mother like crap and don’t give her husband much more respect. And you stay in that room like it’s some sort of hideout.

  Well, tell me how you really feel. I feel like saying this to him, but I’m not ready to admit that his assessment of me and my life is dangerously close to the truth, as usual.

  “Who cares what you think,” I say and look the other way. I don’t care what he thinks. He’s not that important to me to care.

  Hey, you don’t have to care what I think. But you’re too cute to be holed up in that house all the time. And you’re too young for all this drama.

  Could he read my mind…and did he just say I was cute? Okay, my head is slowly turning back in his direction and I squint my eyes when I look at him. “Don’t try to flirt with me. You have a girlfriend, remember.” Thinking of the other ghost makes my head hurt.

  And there is that smile again. He doesn’t chuckle this time but his dark skin seems to highlight his superwhite teeth. He lifts a hand and rubs his fingers over his chin. The sun catches on his watch and there is a silver glare that almost has me closing my eyes. I’ll admit, if circumstances were different I might definitely try to holla at you. But your foul attitude would probably turn me off.

  Did I have a foul attitude?

  “Whatever.”

  Were you like this where you used to live or did you just get this new personality when you came to Lincoln?

  “How’d you know I just moved here?” He’d only started stalking me in the past week or so.

  Because I’ve lived here all my life and I don’t remember you.

  “Maybe I stayed off your radar. I don’t normally hang with gang members.”

  See that’s the New York in you talking. This is Lincoln, small town, small population. So if a group of guys start hanging out together we’re more like a clique or a crew, which sound better to me than a “gang.”

  “Wait, you’re talking about the guys that sit near the doors in the cafeteria. The ones who all wear the same black-and-red hat?”

  Yeah. He nods. That’s them.

  “They like to get into trouble,” I say, relaying the rumors I’ve heard.

  Yeah, they can be a pretty rebellious bunch.

  “Then why hang out with them?”

  He looks at me funny, then quirks one thick eyebrow upward. I can’t help but smile.

  It’s a long story. But mostly it was because of my brother.

  “Your brother Antoine?”

  We call him Twan. And, yeah, he’s still runnin’ with the crew.

  Ricky doesn’t look too pleased with that idea. “Even after your death he’s still with them? That’s stupid.”

  You don’t know them. It’s not that easy to walk away once you’re in. Besides, where else would he go if he does get out?

  “Is that why they killed you, because you wanted to get out?” It sounds too serious to me. Killing somebody because they didn’t want to hang with you anymore?

  They didn’t kill me, he says solemnly.

  “So who did?”

  That’s what I want you to find out.

  eight

  So last night instead of seeing more spirits or dreaming of being in the graveyard with more dead people, I dreamt of Ricky. In the real sense, I mean. He was living and breathing and he was my boyfriend. We were sitting by the creek in the park, just like we had yesterday. He held my hand, touched my cheek, then he kissed me.

  It is at that point I wake up. My body is hot all over, even though I’d long since kicked the covers off me. My hand instantly goes to my lips as I remember the kiss in my dream. Then I remember Ricky was also in my dream, alive. Which is damn simple of me
since I know for a fact that Ricky is dead.

  So I still haven’t been kissed and I’m crushing on a dead boy.

  No way, no how.

  As I head for school I’m determined to keep Ricky Watson out of sight and definitely out of mind. If I’m craving a kiss, or a boyfriend for that matter, I’d just as soon find somebody with a change of clothes…and a pulse.

  “I called you yesterday,” Franklin says, coming up beside me with a smile that I admit is cute but kind of silly.

  No way is anybody that happy all the time. I just slammed my locker door shut and there he was, appearing as if by magic or fate.

  “My battery was dead,” I say automatically, not real sure why I am lying.

  He nods as if he believes me. Today he’s wearing jeans, dark blue, that are too long and rest on his white shellhead sneakers. His shirt is polo, sky blue, the horse on his left side is yellow. He smells good. Probably using some of his father’s cologne because he smells older, like a boy trying to be a man.

  “I’ll walk you to class,” he says. I’m just about to tell him it’s not necessary when over Franklin’s right shoulder I see Ricky.

  For a second I’m alarmed, then I remember nobody else can see him. Unless they also have some freaky afterlife power. He’s leaning against the locker, directly behind Franklin. He’s frowning, looking Franklin up and down like he doesn’t approve.

  This, of course, ticks me off. Who does he think he is? I don’t need his approval to be with Franklin. As a matter of fact, the thought of being with Franklin makes a lot more sense then being with a ghost.

  “Ah, sure,” I say, trying to get Franklin away from Ricky.

  But as I speak Franklin follows my gaze, turning to see what I’m looking at. At first I’m worried but, of course, he sees nothing and when he turns back to me he looks puzzled.

  “You okay, Krystal?”

  “Huh?” I know I sound confused so I make myself stop looking at Ricky, who is now using his fingers to thrust into his mouth like he’s gagging. “I’m fine. Just thought I saw…ah, a bug or something.”

  Franklin nods. “Well, you know the town’s close to the water and all this rain we’ve been getting lately draws a lot of insects. My father says we might be heading for a hurricane or another big storm.”

  We’re walking toward my class now, Ricky having been left behind. But Franklin’s mention of a hurricane catches my attention. “It’s April, Franklin. Hurricane season doesn’t start until June.”

  Franklin shakes his head. “Not in Lincoln. We’ve been known to have weird weather patterns. Like El Niño just picks on us for the hell of it.”

  “El Niño?”

  “Yeah, it’s the name they gave the wacky weather pattern that warms the central and eastern Tropical Pacific waters. Causes all sorts of storms and weather anomalies.”

  I stop walking because I’m at the door to Biology now. “And what are you, the town meteorologist?”

  He laughs, then reaches out a hand and touches my hair. The touch is light but it moves him a lot closer to me. My heartbeat falters a bit but I blink quickly and it goes away.

  “Nah, that’s my father. I’m just really interested in things that aren’t normal. I like to find oddities and see what makes them tick.”

  Well, he’d picked a great oddity in me. I try to smile and move out of his grasp at the same time, with finesse so he doesn’t notice that I’m uncomfortable with him touching me.

  “Can I sit with you at lunch?” he asks.

  “No,” I hurry up and answer, remembering my lunch intrusion on Friday. “Are you even on my lunch period?”

  Franklin shakes his head, still smiling. “Yeah, I am. Do you want to sit with me instead?”

  I open my mouth, almost asking him which side he sat on, but we’re interrupted.

  “Hey, Franklin,” Sasha says in a cheery tone as she comes up to stand next to us. She’s wearing a long crinkly skirt that starts out this dark shade of teal at the bottom and gets lighter heading to the top. Her blouse is white and cinched around her tiny waist with a thick gold belt that matches her earrings and her shoes.

  I try not to envy how cute and stylish she looks, seemingly without even trying, when she says, “Hi, Krystal.”

  It is way too early in the morning for all this cheerfulness. “Hey,” I mumble as I hear Franklin speak to her, too.

  The bell rings and everybody looks up above the door where one of the speakers rests. We stare at it for a few seconds, as if our looks alone will shut it up.

  “I should go,” I say, recovering first.

  Franklin takes a step back, adjusting his books in his arm. “Yeah, me, too. If I’m late for English, Mr. Tordy will be too happy to give me detention.”

  “Ugh, Mr. Tordy is the worst,” Sasha adds.

  “So I’ll see you in the cafeteria?” Franklin asks me.

  I really don’t want Sasha hearing this conversation, but since she’s looking from me to him, her perfectly arched dark eyebrows lifting in curiosity, I don’t have much of a choice. Why can’t she just go away? She makes me too uncomfortable. Actually, both of them being so close and talking to me as if we’ve known each other forever is uncomfortable.

  “Sure,” I say in the hopes that he’ll go on to class and take Sasha with him.

  “Cool. See ya, Sasha,” he says as he turns and walks away.

  “Bye, Franklin.”

  I turn to go into my class but know that isn’t going to work. Sasha’s hand on my shoulder stops me.

  “I need you to come with me,” she says.

  “What? No. It’s time for class.”

  “This is more important than class.”

  “You’re crazy. I’m not cutting with you.”

  “Krystal, you don’t understand. This is important.”

  I’m shaking my head, still refusing to get caught up in what she’s saying. By now the hallway is practically empty because the second bell is about to ring. That’s the one that tells you you’re late and you’d better get your butt in gear before you’re caught out of class.

  “Get off me, I’m going,” I say and pull away from her.

  But something keeps me from moving; something keeps me from turning away. I’m not sure what it is, but it’s there.

  “Fine,” Sasha says, then takes a couple steps back from me. I see her look around real quick and I do the same. When I return my attention to her, she’s gone.

  She didn’t disappear.

  I know she didn’t because that’s impossible.

  Human beings that are about five feet three inches tall and maybe a hundred or so pounds do not simply disappear into thin air.

  Maybe she ran away. Really fast. Faster than the speed of light? That isn’t possible either. Sasha is not Supergirl.

  Today’s biology lesson picks up where we left off on Friday with diffusion, osmosis and cell membranes. I have no idea what Mr. Lyle is saying, since my mind is totally not on work.

  One minute Sasha was there, asking me to come with her, and the next she was gone. Vanished.

  No. Not possible.

  Okay, just calm down and be rational. Try to keep this in perspective. She was there and then she was gone. She was going to be late for class, both of us were. So it’s logical that she did simply run away. What’s not logical is the fact that I saw no trace of her in the long hallway that stretched toward the next turn that would take her to other classes. Now, I don’t know what her first-period class is, let alone where it is in the building. But unless it is the very next class to mine, there’s no way she could have run down that hall so fast that I didn’t even see her back as she retreated.

  My stomach churns, not like hunger churning and not like the nervous jittering I feel when Ricky is around. But like a sort of dread, like I know something is about to happen. Something important.

  Are you going to sit here all morning trying to figure out what happened or are you going to finally get a backbone and go see for yourse
lf?

  I nearly jump out of my chair at the sound of his voice. My textbook and pen fall to the floor, causing everyone to turn and look at me.

  Isabella Jackson is absent today so the chair beside me was empty when I’d come into class. Now, it isn’t.

  Ricky is sitting there, his elbow propped on the desk, his head resting on his hand as he stares at me. He has bushy eyebrows and right now they are lifted in conjunction with the question he’d just asked.

  I open my mouth, about to answer him, when it dawns on me that nobody else sees him sitting there or hears him speaking to me. Clamping my mouth shut, I lean over and scoop up my book and pen.

  Mr. Lyle had stopped talking at the noise I’d caused. Now he simply turns, lifts his arm and begins writing something on the blackboard again.

  She’s downstairs waiting for you. Her and that boy from the tracks.

  I take my pen in hand and position myself to begin taking notes. We’d have a quiz at the end of the week and I’d no doubt fail since I’m not paying attention.

  I think they have something to tell you. Something that might help you.

  I want to scream at him to shut up. To leave me alone and let me get on with my normal, disaster-filled life. But I know that I can’t. Even if I could, he probably wouldn’t listen. In the few conversations I’ve had with Ricky Watson I’ve quickly come to realize that he doesn’t take “no” for an answer. Or maybe girls don’t tell him “no” that often and that’s why he isn’t used to it. Either way, he doesn’t seem to take my sarcasm to heart and get lost like I tell him to. He sticks it out, determined to get his point across.

  In the meantime, he seems to take pleasure in telling me off or being as blunt as he possibly can about my actions, my wardrobe, my life.

  All you have to do is get a hall pass and go. It’s not going to hurt anything to listen to them. Then you can make up your mind, come back and live in your little shell.

  That last comment has me glaring at him. Of course he laughs because he has a warped sense of humor. No matter how cute he is. And in that instant I wonder why someone would kill him.