***
I stand outside the funeral home for a long time, just watching people gather. There are a lot of people, half of them I don’t even recognize. Even a small group of local reporters has gathered.
Whatdya know? My death might just be the biggest news story to hit this stupid little town since that year the feral pig got loose in the supermarket. It’s hard to miss the headlines plastered all over the local papers. Heck, even the 5 o’clock news ran a feature about me and how a ‘tragic accident had cut my promising young life all too short’. And people just ate it up.
I guess folks love a good tragedy.
What really bugs me about it is that I can’t even remember what happened. I close my eyes, reach back in my mind, and there’s nothing. Just darkness. It feels like having something just on the tip of your tongue but not being able to get it out. Basically, it’s a very special kind of hell. The kind where you get a song stuck in your head but you only know half the words, or you know there is something you are supposed to be doing but your schedule is blank.
I can’t help but wonder what I did to deserve this.
I mean, ok. Maybe I wasn’t a ‘good’ guy. Not like Bruno, or Captain Perfect as I jokingly called him sometimes. I screwed up all the time, with Kaylee, with my friends, with my parents. But I always tried to be kind to animals and little kids. I feel like that should count for something. I mean, so what if I didn’t recycle? So what if I hosted the occasional kegger while my parents were out of town? Who cares if I drove too fast and ate too many bacon double cheeseburgers? So what if I screwed up on the little things? I never killed anyone, made fun of handicapped people, cheated on an exam, or stole anything. And those are the big things, right?
Ok, so maybe this is my punishment. Maybe this is what happens when people live a half-assed life. If so, you’d think there would be a whole lot more of us hanging around. As far as I can tell, it’s only me.
My parents arrive in a black town car. Mom is in the same dress she wore to the Black and While Gala—last year’s fundraiser for the local Civil War Museum and Historical Society—and Dad is in a charcoal grey suit that almost perfectly matches his salt and pepper hair. His expression is stern, but I can’t tell how Mom’s doing, thanks to the black sunglasses she is wearing that are so large they cover half her face. They walk slowly up the stairs, arm in arm. It’s as if they are somehow holding each other upright as they walk into the foyer.
A slender woman in a soft, blue dress greets them at the door, a black folder in her hand. The entrance is decked out in while lilies and greenery. A long line has formed just outside the chapel, where a large book sits on a podium. I breeze past them to get a look at what’s inside.
It’s a memory book. People are signing in. Beside their name, they are leaving little messages like, “Miss you, buddy” and “I will never forget that time you scored that goal in overtime.”
I recognize some of the faces in line. Cassidy and Becker are already here, standing in line, their faces solemn. The twins are here, and Bruno. Even a few of Kaylee’s devoted followers are clustered in a large group near the back.
More people funnel in, my teachers, my lacrosse coach, and even my dentist and his family show up. The more people arrive, the more stifling the room becomes, until I’m hot and I can’t breathe. Can ghosts have panic attacks? I clutch my chest. The pain is deep, like my heart is trying to push its way out of my chest. Even though no one can see me freaking out, I break into a sprint, running from the room and down an empty hallway. Behind me, the organ begins playing and it’s like the whole world is crashing down around me. I can’t think straight. To my right, the door to the coatroom is cracked open so I rush inside, hoping to drown out the sound.
I don’t so much hear the door open as much as I feel it, that nagging sensation of being watched. Turning slowly, I come face to face with the last person on the planet I expect to see.
Zoe Reed.
She’s standing there in torn jeans and a light brown sweater, a grey scarf hanging in loose drapes around her neck. Her brown hair is pulled back in a loose bun with undone strands hanging wildly around her face.
I don’t think we’ve been in a room alone together in maybe four years—not since middle school. We used to be best friends; she was the one person who knew all my secrets. Then, her father died and she sort of pulled away, retreating into this little shell I never could break her out of. Eventually, I quit trying, and we went our separate ways. I’m amazed she even bothered coming to the funeral. The last few times I’d caught her eye in school, she was glaring at me like I was a gallon of month-old milk. Sort of like the way she’s looking at me now.
As if she can see me.
Reaching around, she grabs the door and slams it shut with a loud thud.
“What is your freaking damage, Logan?” she demands.
I’m so stunned that, for a moment, I’m totally speechless. Looking around quickly, I make sure there’s not someone else she’s yelling at.
“Excuse me?” I manage finally.
She squints, glaring at me.
“I’m being punked, aren’t I? This is some stupid reality TV show or something right?”
I can’t believe it. She is talking to me. I have a nearly irresistible urge to throw my arms around her and scream halleluiah. Only her enraged expression keeps me still.
“Does your family know you’re alive? I mean, seriously, if this is some dumb publicity stunt for the reporters out front…” She trails off, making a disgusted noise deep in the back of her throat. “Say something, Logan. Please. Find the magic words to make this whole mess not be the most horrible thing a human being has ever done in their entire life, ever.”
“Zoe?” I ask, unable to keep the pleased grin off my face. She really can see me. So why is she so pissed? Shouldn’t she be happy I’m alive? Or maybe not alive, but you know. Here. “What are you talking about?”
“You are a giant douche hammer, you know that? I mean, what is this? Some idiotic attempt to get extra credit in English class? Tom Sawyer 101? I mean, those people think you’re dead! We all thought…” She trails off again, and I can feel the tension radiating off her like heat waves. This is the Zoe I remember. Once, when we were little, she got so mad that a GI Joe she left in the yard got mowed over that she had a fit and took the whole mower apart piece by piece with a screwdriver. If I can’t calm her down—and fast—she is going to go completely nuclear.
I tilt my head to the side, offering her a relaxed smile. I’d forgotten how pretty she is when she gets really mad. A flush of color rises to her cheeks, and her eyes widen as she presses her lips into a narrow line. I’m still so amazed she’s here that I can’t help but whisper, just to make sure.
“You can see me?”
And that’s when she flies off the handle.
“Okay, that’s it. I’m not falling for this… whatever this is. I’m going to march in there and tell your mother right now.”
Her tone is so high that I can’t help but laugh a little.
“You’re going to go tell my mommy on me? What, are we five again?”
She flips me off and spins on her heel, pulling the door open and charging out of the room. I try to grab her, but my hand goes right through her arm.
“Wait!” I holler down the hall, but she’s speed walking for the chapel. I follow her as she steps into the center of the aisle, catching sight of the coffin for the first time. Her pace slows as she approaches it, her steps faltering as she sees me lying in the casket.
In the back of the room, Bruno gets to his feet, as if he’s going to go after her, but her mother and her friend Carlos both jump up and rush to her side. I step back into the hall, out of her sight. Bruno is watching her with worried eyes. I forgot—he had a thing for her a while back. He’d even asked me for her number once. I’d blown him off then, partly because I didn’t actually have her number anymore, but also a little because she was mine once, and even though that was
years ago, I couldn’t quite stomach the idea of sharing her with anyone, even now.
I step behind the door as Carlos and her mom leads Zoe out of the foyer and outside, watching as they gather her and load her into the passenger seat of her mom’s car. When I finally walk out onto the front steps, Zoe glances over Carlos’ shoulder, catching sight of me again. This time she doesn’t look angry, just shocked and confused.
They pull off, and I stuff my hands in my pockets. I decide to give her a couple hours to calm down before I go see her again. I mean, there has to be a reason she can see me. And maybe, she knows what’s going on with me—why I’m stuck here. Maybe she can help.
As I turn to head back inside, all I can think is, Why did it have to be Zoe?
Haunting Zoe Page 2