Ghosting Read online

  figuring out where I fit in.

  Which tribe will take me in?

  I’ll probably end up

  an art geek

  because of

  the camera.

  But the whole prospect,

  of starting over

  as new/old girl,

  is terrifying.

  Emma texted today, saying,

  We’re on for Saturday night.

  She even listed who’ll be there:

  Her boyfriend, Brendan, who I never knew,

  different middle school,

  different crowd.

  Chloe Carney.

  Friend of Emma’s from middle school days,

  when Emma and I began drifting apart.

  Chloe’s boyfriend.

  No name.

  Felix, former best bud.

  Which makes me happy.

  Very happy.

  Emma, Felix, and Max.

  An elementary school trio.

  Legendary.

  “EMFAX” is what Dad dubbed us,

  and it stuck.

  When we were kids

  everyone loved

  Felix.

  He was the only boy

  invited to all the girls’ birthday parties.

  Not because he was a girly guy,

  not at all.

  He was a big soccer nut.

  But because he was just

  so darn

  cute.

  Neither of us was

  good at keeping in touch

  after I moved

  to Colorado,

  but it’ll be great to see him.

  I remember how he used to

  bound up to everyone,

  all high energy,

  with that immediate

  big grin.

  Anyway, I guess Saturday night

  will be a good first

  toe in the water.

  Hopefully I’ll still have all my toes

  when the night’s

  done.

  FELIX

  i flick the switch of the kitchen light. nothing. bulb must be busted. and i used the last bulb when i changed the one in mom’s reading lamp a few weeks ago. not that she reads anymore. most nights she falls asleep watching tv.

  so it’s cheerios in the dark for dinner again. solo, naturally, since mom is asleep by now. but it’s not a bad routine. i’ve always been a cereal-for-dinner fan. didn’t expect it’d happen most nights like this, but it’s cool.

  no clean bowls though and the milk smells off. that sucks. i wish mom didn’t have to work so hard. and that she was happy. the way she was happy when i was a kid.

  she had a lot of energy then, which was a good thing since i was a real nutso, revved-up kid, because of the adhd. she was always game for running after me, always patient with the calls from school about the busted fish tank, missing gerbil, library books in the boys’ bathroom toilets. etc. not dad. he wasn’t patient. but mom didn’t believe in meds and said she’d hang in there with me. all the time. and she did.

  until lately.

  yeah, lately she’s pretty much checked out. but i understand. and i can cut her some slack, after all the slack she’s cut me.

  tomorrow’s my last day at the library. community service for being busted for pot end of last year. best part was working in the kids’ section. tomorrow we’ll have a few stragglers, kids wanting prizes for the summer reading program, which ended a week ago. that nice librarian, mrs. sheridan, with hair so long she can sit on it, she’ll give them prizes anyway.

  mrs. sheridan was around back when emma, max, and i did the summer reading program. that’s when i discovered the joey pigza books by jack gantos. i liked joey pigza because he was like me, only worse. i must’ve read the first one about twenty times. and good old mrs. sheridan counted each time as a separate book, so i’d get the prizes.

  maybe tomorrow i’ll check out a joey pigza book. for old time’s sake.

  weird that emma invited me to hang out with her and her friends saturday night. weird that it’ll be emma, max, and me together again. EMFAX. crazy. haven’t thought about EMFAX in a long time. stoked to see max though. takes me back, to when things were a whole lot simpler.

  BRENDAN

  Last weekend before the grind starts up again.

  Down for some serious fun.

  Why the hell does Emma have to drag along

  this girl nobody knows on Saturday night?

  She’d better not be a loser, or a buzzkill, I say.

  Be nice, Emma says. My mom made me.

  We can always ditch her, I say.

  And Emma smiles,

  so I know it’s cool.

  Felix is okay,

  long as he’s not too baked.

  And Chloe’s all right,

  always up for some fun.

  But what’s the deal with this Anil guy?

  It’s not like I’m a racist or anything.

  Maybe it’s the brainiac thing.

  Mr. National Merit Scholar.

  He’s in all the AP classes;

  he probably hangs with the geeks.

  Seen him in the workout room.

  Watching and looking around all the time.

  Probably looking down on the rest of us.

  Screw that.

  Wish Chloe had stuck with Josh.

  Even though he’s a dick, I get Josh.

  CHLOE

  “Senior Year”

  I’m totally sick of scooping

  ice cream at Bonnie’s Sweet Shop

  My fingers—always sticky.

  And Lou, the manager, always hitting on me.

  But it still sucks that school

  starts on Monday.

  Mom keeps saying

  I need a 2.9,

  if I want to go to

  Illinois State.

  Who said I want to;

  it’s her who’s always wanted me

  to go there.

  All because she went

  to Illinois State,

  best freaking four years of her life.

  Downhill ever since,

  if you ask me.

  Poor mom:

  single mom.

  3 kids.

  husband long gone.

  (Would never want her life. Not. Ever.)

  Lucky dad:

  cute new younger wife.

  black-haired, dimply baby girl.

  big house in California.

  (Who cares.)

  Dad’s been gone

  since I was in 6th grade.

  Mom clawed her way

  up in the real estate business.

  Has her own company now,

  and her plastic face

  is on the back page

  of our town newspaper

  every week,

  not to mention plastered

  on benches all around town.

  My smiley-face mom

  holding an umbrella:

  “I’m On Your Side,

  Come Rain Or Come Shine”

  Gag me.

  At least there’s Anil now.

  Good, real,

  hot-bod Anil.

  Maybe senior year

  won’t be all bad.

  FAITH

  I love

  riding

  my bike

  around town.

  Today I

  take Polly

  because

  she’s restless,

  on edge.

  I know

  she is

  because

  so am I.

  And the

  reason

  is that

  Mom and Dad

  have been

  yelling at

  each other

  all morning.

  About Emma,

  of course.

  Mom thinks

  they should be

  stricter,

  but Dad says

  no.

  Emma should
have fun.

  Brendan’s a good kid.

  She’ll be off to college soon, needs to get used to her freedom.

  I get

  where Dad’s

  coming from.

  On the

  other hand,

  he’s wrong

  about

  Brendan.

  Even in

  middle school,

  kids told

  stories

  about him,

  crazy stuff

  he’s done.

  But he’s

  a jock, and

  good-looking,

  so he gets

  away with

  everything.

  Still, Emma

  knows

  how to

  handle him,

  the way

  she knows

  how to

  handle

  everything.

  Although

  one night

  this summer

  she came

  home

  upset.

  Some

  stupid prank

  he pulled

  that went

  a little

  too far.

  Almost got us killed, she said.

  But she

  said it

  angry,

  not scared.

  Emma doesn’t

  get scared.

  Not the way

  most people

  do.

  One good thing

  about Emma is

  she always

  tells me

  the truth.

  Any question

  I ask.

  She said

  it’s because

  I need to know

  the way things

  really are,

  not the bullshit

  you get from

  parents

  and teachers

  and movies

  and TV.

  So she’s told

  me all about

  the sex

  she’s had,

  the drugs

  she’s tried.

  She says

  I’m smart

  like her

  and won’t

  get carried

  away by

  any of it.

  I’m thinking

  about Emma

  and Brendan

  again,

  wondering

  what he

  did that

  almost got

  them killed,

  when I

  realize I’ve

  come to

  the front

  gates of

  Walnut Creek

  Cemetery.

  I slow down,

  and Polly

  slows, too.

  Slanting rays

  of the sun

  send long

  black stripes

  along the

  green cemetery

  grass,

  shadows

  from the

  grave markers

  in their

  straight rows.

  I stop to look.

  Rubbing

  Polly’s ears

  with one hand,

  I shade

  my eyes

  with the

  other, and

  think about

  Emma again.

  And I

  realize

  that I

  am

  smart

  like her.

  Actually,

  maybe

  smarter.

  Because

  I would never

  get involved

  with a boy

  like Brendan.

  WALTER

  Looking down from my window,

  I watch Mother hunched over,

  kneeling in her garden.

  Working all the time on her roses.

  She looks old, bent, confused sometimes.

  Found a pile of dirty dishes

  in the freezer yesterday.

  But I’ll take care of her.

  She always took care of me.

  Watching over me, protecting me from bad guys.

  Read to me every night. Cowboy stories.

  My favorites, over and over.

  Then I see a movement by the cemetery

  down the block, and look over.

  I get nervous when I see people there

  because it’s either someone sad with flowers,

  Or it’s one of the bad guys,

  the people who pester us.

  But this time I see that it’s just

  a girl on a bike.

  She’s got a dog with her, a large soft-looking dog,

  and she’s petting it.

  I can tell she loves her dog

  and her dog loves her.

  Even though she’s far away and I can’t see her face,

  she looks nice,

  like someone who could be a friend.

  If I had friends.

  Then I see her get back on her bike and

  ride off, her dog running beside her.

  Her ponytail flies out behind her, like that

  tattered wind sock Mother put up a long time ago.

  I’m feeling good, not lonely.

  And then a car drives by, slowly.

  I hear a muffled shout and a whistle,

  and then Mother yelling back, angry.

  I get angry, too. And I wish the bad guys

  would just leave us alone.

  If everyone would leave us alone,

  except nice girls like that one with her dog,

  we’d be okay.

  Friday, August 27

  POLICE CHIEF AUBREY DELAFIELD

  Quiet day. Which is a good thing

  since all hell’s gonna break loose,

  starting tonight.

  Weekend before school starts.

  All those high school kids,

  spoiled kids with too much time on their hands,

  gotta blow off steam.

  Some girl will end up in the ER

  from too many shots of Jägermeister,

  swearing to her parents it’s the first time she ever tried it.

  And they’ll believe her,

  God help ’em.

  Some boys will go joyriding out on Highway 54

  or drag racing down Central.

  Worst was back in ’86,

  before my time:

  three seventeen-year-old boys dead,

  Dad’s Jaguar wrapped around a century-old oak tree.

  Me, I’ve been lucky,

  knock wood.

  Nobody’s died,

  not on my watch.

  Not yet.

  Saturday, August 28, 6:00 p.m.

  MAXIE

  I try on about ten different combinations of

  jeans and shirts,

  skirts and tees,

  which is so stupid,

  because it really doesn’t matter

  what I wear.

  It’ll be lame compared to

  Emma and

  Chloe the gorgeous.

  I put on some old jeans

  and my lavender shirt,

  the one I wore for the unofficial

  good-bye–to–Colorado party

  my best friend Mandy threw together

  at the last minute.

  Which was fantastic

  and sad

  and awkward,

  all at once.

  Dad is just back

  from the grocery store.

  He’s piled all the canvas tote bags

  on the counter

  and Mom is helping him

  put groceries away

  and I’m thinking this is a

  cozy domestic scene,

  tranquil even,

  until Mom pulls out a six-pack

  of amber

  long-

  necke
d

  beer

  bottles

  with

  orange

  labels.

  What’s this? she asks, frowning.