Opposition

by Eliza Lainn

  “You seemed upset.”

  “I’m not upset.”

  “Which is precisely what an upset person would say.” If he were his normal self, he would have chuckled. Instead, silence greeted me. “And…that confirms it. What’s wrong?”

  “Stella—”

  “You knew how to get her talking,” I interrupted, before I get could the whole I’m fine spiel. “Talk to me, Cyril. I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

  For a moment, nothing happened. No heavy sighs, no mumbled explanations. I continued to stare into the backseat, as if his form would miraculously appear. But no, I hadn’t been able to see him since I’d met him. It wouldn’t magically happen now that I really wanted it to.

  There was hurt in his voice. Asking about Scott’s laugh, his abrupt departure to the car—he’d kept his voice level, calm. Almost aloof. But I heard the soft undercurrents of pain. Heard the heartache.

  “Who did you lose?” I whispered.

  He sighed. It was soft, barely there. A proper ghostly sigh, really, just the softest trace of a sound.

  Coolness touched my hand, where I’d let it rest in my lap.

  I lifted it up, but Cyril’s voice stopped me. “No, keep it in your lap. This is easier to say when you aren’t looking at me.”

  I let it drop, then watched as the goosebumps rose on my skin. As he traced a cool finger in patterns, as if drawing.

  “My brother,” he whispered, the word torn from him.

  I bit down on my lip to stop the customary “I’m sorry,” from babbling out. He didn’t need socially dictated “my sympathies, my condolences”—not yet, at least. Now, he just needed a space to talk, and so I gave him that.

  The moment he realized he had it, the story gushed from him. “He was younger than I was. A child, really. Barely in his teens when he died. Fourteen years old. Fourteen years, five months, seven days. I have had a lifetime to dwell on him, to wonder if I could have prevented him from dying. Oliver assures me that I could not, but I’m not entirely convinced. A survivor’s regret, I suppose, though I would hesitate to label this form of existence as surviving.” The last word came out almost like a snarl.

  His finger froze on my skin. There was no pressure behind it, no contact. Just a coolness bleeding from a single point, just over my wrist.

  With a sigh, the sensation vanished. “He died when he broke his neck falling from the roof of our parent’s home.”

  I couldn’t stop my shocked gasp.

  Cyril continued in a cold, clinical explanation. “He’d climbed up there to see the sunrise. He’d done it often—to sketch the scene. I had shown him the spot. I had been the one to turn his hand to drawing, and, he had claimed, to ignite the passion for it.”

  I sat perfectly still, waiting for him to continue, knowing he wasn’t finished.

  “It destroyed our family. My mother couldn’t overcome the loss, and quickly fell ill herself. She died of a broken heart. My father followed next, drinking to hide away from the pain and the loneliness. Strange, as how I was the guiltiest for his death, that I lived the longest and continue to persist like this.”

  “You introducing him to drawing doesn’t make you response for his death, Cyril.”

  Emotion wormed into his voice, full of bitter regret. “I gave him the spark. I gave him the notepad. I gave him the pencils. I showed him the spot. He was only up there to sketch a gift for me for my birthday. How am I not at fault?”

  “It was an accident.”

  “One I set up rather poignantly.”

  “Cyril, stop,” I hissed. He hated himself—I could hear it in his tone. Hatred. Pure and unashamed. “You aren’t responsible.”

  “At least I’m being summarily punished,” he grumbled darkly. The cold touched my hand again. “A punishment worthy of Sisyphus.”

  “You aren’t being punished, Cyril—”

  “Aren’t I?”

  The driver’s side door opened before I could respond. Noah leaned down, looking inside. His gaze flittered between me and Cyril. “Sorry. Oliver said you needed some time but…”

  “It’s fine,” Cyril answered blankly. The coolness left my hand again.

  I watched Noah’s gaze as he followed Cyril with his eyes. Once the ghost had settled in the backseat, Noah climbed into the driver’s seat and turned on the car.

  “What did you get?” I asked, trying to refocus on the case.

  Noah cast me a quick glance through the rearview mirror before they cut to look toward the backseat. He sat silently, and for a moment, I thought he wasn’t going to tell me. Then he sighed. “She talked about the switch he’d gone through during high school.”

  I resisted the urge to follow his gaze, to look into the backseat. Not that I would have seen anything. And Cyril himself had said it was easier when I couldn’t look at him, whatever the hell that meant. No, I needed to focus. Kids. We were dealing with kids here. I needed my A game. “The geek to jock one?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Evidently, it was harder on him than the faculty thought. His friends felt betrayed that his interests had changed. His new friends prodded him about his past. Then there he was, feeling alone and misunderstood—more so than a normal teenager, I would think. His mother had been worried about him.”

  “Do you think it’s enough emotional impact for him to linger as a ghost?” I asked, refusing the urge to glance over my shoulder to the backseat.

  “I’d say so,” Oliver mumbled.

  Noah agreed with another nod. “Which is why I’d like to get back to the school as quickly as possible. I think we should talk to both sets of friends.”

  “You should drop me and Oliver back at the apartment,” Cyril said.

  “What, why?” Oliver asked. Noah arched an eyebrow in surprise, his gaze swinging back to the rearview mirror.

  “Interrogating teenagers hardly needs a ghostly escort.”

  His voice still sounded strained, heavy. Nothing at all like his usual self.

  No doubt, he was still thinking about his brother.

  “We’re going,” Oliver said, more steel in his voice than I’d heard before. “You can sit there and mope if you want, but I’m not going to let your pity party interrupt the case.”

  “Oliver,” I hissed, my head swinging around to glare at the backseat.

  “It’s fine,” Cyril said flatly. “Just take us to the school then.”

  I glared for a second longer before swinging back to the front. Noah cast me a meaningful look, watching concernedly. But he didn’t ask. And though I wouldn’t admit it, I felt infinitely grateful that he didn’t.

  With a shrug, I settled into my seat as he headed back to the high school.

  Chapter Seven

  I studied the guidance counselor as he flipped through files on his desk. He was a bubbly sort of guy, always grinning, always beaming. Which I’d be too if I was half as good looking as he was, with his chiseled jaw, stunning hazel eyes, and perfectly modeled muscles.

  Though, judging from the ghostly conversation floating around us, I seemed to be the only one who thought so.

  “It’s called a man bun,” Cyril explained with a heavy sigh.

  I quirked up a smile. He sounded more like himself—not completely normal, but closer than he had been in the car.

  “It’s ridiculous,” Oliver grumbled.

  “It’s fashion.”

  “It’s his hair piled on his head like a Flinstones cartoon.”

  “Genghis Khan kept his hair long and wore it up.”

  “Genghis Khan raided and pillaged China. You need your hair out of your face to do that. You don’t need your hair long, or out of your face, when you sit behind a desk all day analyzing the emotional depth and capacity of teenagers.”

  “Maybe he likes how it looks?”

  “Surely not,” Oliver gasped, horrified.

  My lips twitched up even more, and I squirmed in my seat to swallow the laughter.

  Ryan, the guidance counselor, caught
the motion and glanced up from his open file. He smiled, his head tilting to one side like a puppy. “Something funny, Ms. Reycraft?”

  “Stella,” I corrected, pressing my lips together to squash the giggles bubbling up in my gut. “Just a joke I’m remembering. Sorry. I’ll be more professional.”

  His grin brightened like a freaking megawatt bulb. “There’s never a need to apologize for feeling good, Stella. I’m glad something could bring you joy today.”

  Oliver snorted behind me.

  “You’ve got a great office,” I said, changing the subject before the ghosts could resume their conversation. I waved around at the motivational postures, at the stuffed animals lining bookshelves, at the bright colors and warm patterns. It reminded me of a second grader’s classroom, but I could see how it would be welcoming, inviting. Especially if a student wanted to discuss something dark and serious.

  Ryan looked around fondly. “I think the space can influence how a person feels. And I always want the students who stop by to feel safe, you know?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The door behind me opened. I turned in my seat to see Noah ushering in a trio of boys.

  Hopping up, I slid off to the corner as they hesitantly stepped inside. They looked around, taking in me leaning against the wall, and Ryan smiling brightly behind his desk.

  He rose, coming around to shake their hands. “Glad you boys could make it. Please, have a seat.”

  I studied them as they slid into the three seats opposite Ryan’s desk. They were your stereotypical nerds: skinny, decked out in anime and comic books shirts, with hunched shoulders and downcast eyes.

  Noah came to stand beside me, giving me a pointed look and putting a finger to his lips before leaning against the wall.

  Oliver scoffed from overhead. “As if she’s going to go off on a tirade, Noah.”

  I grinned and Noah let out an exasperated sigh, pulling a strange look from the boy seated closest to us.

  “Thank you for coming, gentlemen,” Ryan said, retaking his seat. “I know I’ve talked with Todd before, but I’m glad to meet you, Jeremy, Isaiah.”

  All three boys shifted uncomfortably in their seats. They wouldn’t look up, wouldn’t make eye contact. They just sat hunched over, caving in on themselves.

  I exchanged a quick look with Noah.

  “No one’s in trouble,” Noah said, looking over at Ryan. When the guidance counselor waved for him to continue, Noah turned back to the boys. “We just want to check up on you. See how you boys are coping.”

  “Who’s she?” one of them mumbled.

  “She’s a guest,” Ryan answered with another game-show host smile.

  “I’m a ghost hunter,” I said, gauging their reactions.

  Ryan frowned, but life finally seemed to stir within the boys. Two of them glanced up, surprised, and I could make out their features.

  The farthest one away from me had a mop of sandy brown hair and wore glasses with tape wrapped around the left stem. He had a crooked smile, as if not used to it, and he seemed the most interested in what I’d said.

  The middle boy had a baby face, his cheeks rosy red, with intelligent eyes. He smiled hesitantly when I smiled at him, and I caught the flash of metal braces.

  The last one, the one closest to me, didn’t stir at my words. If anything, he hunched further down in his seat, using his long, black hair as a veil to obscure his face.

  “He looks like he could use a man bun,” Oliver whispered near my shoulder.

  I watched them, to see if any of them noticed the ghosts around us, but it didn’t look like it. At least, not the two who’d glanced up and were now relaxing into their seats. They exchanged excited looks with each other. The third one I couldn’t tell. He could be keeping his face down, his eyes on the ground, afraid he might see the ghosts when he looked up.

  I reached into my AI jacket and pulled out a notepad and a pen as Ryan cleared his throat to regain their attention.

  “Yes, well, technically, I suppose that’s true,” he said, shooting a look at me that dimmed his smile slightly. He rounded back though, straightening the files in front of him and leaning forward eagerly. “But I do want to talk about how you three are doing. With your friend’s passing.”

  I quickly jotted down Check their perceptions and then held the note off to the side, hoping Oliver and Cyril would see it.

  Not surprisingly, Oliver answered excitedly. “On it.”

  “Fine,” the farthest one shrugged, sliding down in his seat.

  Ryan nodded. “Thank you for your answer, Jeremy. I appreciate it.” He turned toward the middle student. “How are you holding up, Isaiah?”

  Isaiah shrugged, but nodded.

  Ryan amped up his smile. “I know this is a difficult time, but I appreciate you sharing. And Todd?” he asked, turning to the last boy.

  Todd didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

  If Todd’s lack of an answer bothered him, Ryan didn’t show it. He leaned forward even more, bracing his forearms on his desk as he did. “I understand sudden loss can be difficult to understand, to accept, Todd. To have a loved one, a friend, suddenly gone can leave you reeling, not sure what to hold on to. Would you like to talk about how you’re feeling?”

  Todd didn’t answer.

  “I’ve tried brushing him,” Oliver’s voice sounded near my shoulder, “but it doesn’t seem like he’s feeling it. And it doesn’t look like he can hear me. And I put my face right in front of him, floating up through the floor, and it didn’t look like he could see me either.”

  Nodding slightly, I flipped over the note in my hands and wrote on the back. Thanks for checking.

  “No problem,” Oliver’s smile seeped into his voice.

  “It’s not like Scott leaving us is something new,” Jeremy said bitterly.

  Isaiah gave a shrugging nod.

  Ryan watched Todd for a beat longer, then pulled back to focus on the other two boys. “What do you mean?”

  “He ditched us,” Jeremy said. “For those fu—freaking jocks.”

  “You mean the football players he’d been hanging out with lately?” Ryan asked.

  “And the cheerleaders,” Isaiah added flatly.

  Jeremy shrugged. “So, it’s nothing new. We’re over it.”

  Todd moved, shifting in his seat, raising his head up. His eye met mine as his hair slid back, revealing his face. He was pale, riddled with acne, but had sharp green eyes like a cat. “Do you think he’s haunting us or something?”

  Ryan stilled, his eyes shooting to me and Noah.

  “It’s a possibility,” I said.

  “Something to do with all the kids getting sick?” Todd pressed.

  “What makes you think that?” Noah asked.

  Todd shrugged, his head sliding back down, his hair draping over his face again. “Why else would a ghost hunter be here? Scott died. Kids are getting sick. The teachers are freaking out about it. Two plus two.”

  I liked this kid.

  “It’s a possibility,” I repeated, changing my tone to make him feel like he was in on a secret.

  Jeremy and Isaiah looked at each other excitedly.

  “You should check out his new friends then,” Jeremy said eagerly. “None of them have gotten sick.”

  “Really?” I asked, shooting a look at Noah.

  Jeremy nodded. “Yeah. We’ve got two of our group out—including our GM. We haven’t had a session in weeks because of it. But none of their group has gotten sick. Don’t you think that’s weird?”

  Ryan cleared his throat. “We aren’t trying to put blame on anyone here,” he said, giving me and Noah a pointed look. “I think we need to come together, to help each other grieve over Scott’s passing. I’d like to discuss what you said about your losing him not being anything new. Would you be willing to talk about it?”

  Noah touched my arm and then nodded toward the door.

  “Excuse us,” I said, heading out.

  Noah gently shut the doo
r behind us, then took a few steps down the hall so our voices wouldn’t carry through the cheap door.

  “They sound bitter,” Oliver said from close by.

  “Betrayed,” Cyril agreed.

  “They don’t have heightened perceptions,” I told Noah, in case he somehow missed Oliver floating around, no doubt waving his arms to try and draw their attention. “Oliver checked. I don’t think any of them could perceive him. So, it’s not like they’re putting Scott up to getting everyone sick, if Scott is behind this.”