Through to You (4 page)

“Is anyone
else
there?” My skin is cold and sweaty.

She fidgets uncomfortably. “Don’t you recognize me?”

My mind races but comes up blank again and again. Her hair is long and smooth, though the color is simply a darker green than her skin. She’s petite—with curves, but she’s no Viv. I think I’d remember this girl’s face, eyes huge and dark, but not weighed down with heavy makeup. She has a small, upturned nose and a pouty mouth that looks like it’d be cute if she smiled.

I’ve never seen this girl before in my life.

I shake my head.

Her eyes go flat; her hands fall to her sides.

I feel like I’m missing some huge puzzle piece. If she’s a ghost, there should be some reason why I’m seeing her and not Viv.

Unless this is some kind of joke....

The girl keeps fidgeting, rubbing something in her palm, and then I see what it is.

The lighter was a birthday present from Viv, and I
hate
how this strange girl is clutching it, like she owns some part of me. As if it belongs to her. Anger surges through my chest. I snatch at it before I can even consider
how
she might be holding it, and I watch my own hand
turn green
in front of me. My fingers brush hers—solid, warm—I pull back. My mouth is open. No sound comes out.

I hold my hand up. It looks normal again.

But it tingles where we touched.

She’s staring at her hand too. I can see the green-tinted whites of her eyes, they’re so wide.

I back away fast.

“Cam, wait!”

My heel hits a rock, and when my ass hits the ground my heart almost stops, but I’m on my feet in a second. I get to the middle of the empty blacktop, glance back, and stop.

She holds my silvery-green lighter in the palm of her outstretched hand, like she’s offering it to me. This can’t be happening—I’m
not
going back there. I don’t want to go anywhere near this girl. But it’s
my
lighter …

Viv gave it to me.

The girl’s face is unreadable, and all I can think of are the Greek myths from humanities class last year, where men fall prey to monsters in female form. I’d think that’s what would be happening to me now, if the monster had thought to appear as Viv.

She stretches her hand out farther. The Zippo looks big in her tiny palm, the metal eerily green. My initials are familiar in the neat, square script.

I swallow hard and walk toward her, hesitate, and reach into the light. Every nerve in my hand is tingling, but I grab the lighter, clutch it … and I can breathe. A fresh spring scent reaches me, like Viv’s perfume, and I can almost feel the warm silk of her skin. I close my eyes.

“Cam, I’ve missed you....”

Viv?

My skin tingles when we touch; I can tell she feels it too. It has to be her … isn’t it? I don’t want to open my eyes. I want to lay my lips on the soft skin beneath her wrist, trace up her arm to her mouth and melt into a never-ending kiss.

But she pulls me forward.

“Come back,” she whispers.

I open my eyes and she
isn’t
Viv. Two small, unfamiliar hands wrap around mine, and I can see through all three. The ghost girl is tugging me toward her, gently but firmly. My hand and arm up to my elbow are green. The strange translucence creeps up to my shoulder, across my chest, and it’s like electricity under my skin. I look down, viewing my whole body green, and I think … I’m ready. I’ll give myself up to whatever this is.

I’m about to close my eyes again when I glimpse Viv’s face in a picture to my left. The colors are drab and earthy against the solid wooden pole—in contrast to the bright flash of green. Her expression seems to say,
Don’t leave me.

My eyes pop open. I pull back and dig my heels into the ground.

“No—” The girl falters, and I turn to see the panic in her eyes. I open my hand to shake her off, but she won’t let go.

The monster’s got me.

I shove her—as hard as I can. My hands connect with her shoulders, and she goes down. I haven’t hit anyone that hard since football. For an excruciating moment, I don’t think I’ll make it back out of the green light. But I see the photos, I see Viv, and it’s as if she guides me to safety. My body is buzzing all over. I hang on to the pole, press my face into her picture when I’m safely out, praying for the energy to burn out of my skin. When it subsides enough that I’m no longer afraid to move, I sink to the ground. I crawl down the sidewalk until I’m far enough away, and throw up in the bushes.

IF I DON
’
T GET MY SHIT TOGETHER SOON, I
’
M SCREWED. I DECIDE
the best thing to do is act normal, pretend none of it ever happened. I’ll ask for extra hours at the grocery store in the evenings so I don’t have too much time alone; maybe I’ll start paying attention in class again—do homework. I’ve never seen
ghosts
while surrounded by people at school … I rub at the skin where she touched me, and shudder. Whatever that girl was, she wasn’t trying to help me find Viv.

If I try to explain what happened on the corner to Dr. Summers, she’ll probably call it a “trauma trigger.” She’s mentioned it before, that places associated with bad events can make people crazy or something.

Only I
know
what I saw.

So I have until Friday at four o’clock—my next shrink appointment—to get under control. Which means no more corner, and no transparent girls.

I walk between cars in the parking lot with my head up. Today is the first day all year I can’t wait to get to school. People slam doors around me and I listen to them complain about the parties that got busted this weekend and the quizzes they have this week.

They sound so
normal.

Monday-morning announcements drone on while I stare at my desk. Something about a fundraiser for the Model UN, exciting new items on sale at the school store, and a mandatory pep rally Friday afternoon. I’ve always wondered how they get away with calling it that—
mandatory
. Like they’re going to make you go by holding a pom-pom to your head?

Everyone wear red and white for the team! Go Rams!

I see my shrink on Fridays for a reason.

I take a shortcut through a hallway that runs past the gym, trying to make it to trig on time for once. I avoid these particular halls when I can, and my leg gets me out of phys ed, but the familiar tile outside the locker rooms and the smells of sweat and weathered athletic equipment bombard my senses now. I get a burst of endorphins and have to remind myself that my playing days are over.

I’m holding my breath as I pass the locker-room doors, swinging and screaming on their hinges as kids filter in and out. I’m almost clear of them, ready to take a gulp of stale rest-of-the-school air when someone calls my name.

“Pike!”

I stop, letting my breath out through my teeth.

“Yeah, Co—Mr. Reed?”

“Can I see you a moment?”

“I’m going to be late for trig,” I say.

“I’ll write you a pass. It’ll just take a minute.”

He’s gesturing to the nearby athletic office most of the coaches share, as opposed to his daytime, vice principal’s digs. Not that it matters to me anymore. I step into the empty office.

Reed closes the door after me and stands behind the desk. He’s wearing a gray suit and blue tie, which makes him look like he belongs in the coaches’ office about as much as I do. Instinctively, my eyes wander everywhere else in the room. There’s the shelf that’s always been littered with mismatched, broken equipment. A box of brand-new uniforms sits open on the floor. Looks like girls’ volleyball won the budget argument this year.

On the wall behind Reed is the trophy shelf. It’s a little more crowded than last time I was in here, holding tall brass tributes to everything from swimming to basketball to golf, going back decades. My gaze is drawn to a huge framed photograph standing off to one side. I swallow hard, taking in the familiar red jerseys from freshman year, the first year we made States. I’d made junior varsity in middle school, but ninth grade was the year Andy Lowery hurt his shoulder in the first game. The other varsity quarterback had moved over the summer, so Logan and I were called up. He won some of his games—I won all of mine.

There’s a tennis trophy in front of the photograph, but when I tilt my head to the side I can see, and I remember. Andy’s standing at the back, holding my arm high. Logan’s kneeling in the foreground, a familiar scowl on his face.

Blood roars through my ears. Reed gestures to the chair, and I sit down hard, trying to get my adrenaline in check. I feel like I’m about to run out on the field.

“How are things going, Cam?”

His voice brings me back into the room. I rub my right knee.

“Fine.”

He hesitates, sits down across from me. “Look, I know I’m not your coach anymore, but this has been a tough couple of months for all of us since Viv—since Miss Hayward …”

I clench my teeth. If
I
had died, would he be saying these same things to her?

“I’ll be fine,” I manage.

His forehead crinkles. “You’ve said that to me before.”

I stare hard at the box of volleyball jerseys.

“I just can’t help thinking about …” he continues, “after you broke your leg—”

“I was fine then, too,” I say as evenly as possible. “Look, is this about what happened two months ago, or two years?”

He tugs at his tie where his whistle would hang at practice.

“It’s about
you
. Today. Right now.”

“And I told you, I’m
fine
.”

“I bought that before, Camden. But your girlfriend isn’t here to pick up the pieces for you this time.”

I look up. “What is that supposed to mean?”

His face turns red.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Reed? I make it to classes; I turn in assignments; I’m not doing anything wrong.”

I’m not doing much, but I should still graduate.

“No, you’re right. Your grades are passable.” Reed has been tapping a pen on the desk between his hands. He sets it down and sits back in his chair. “I only asked you in here because I’m worried. When you quit the team after your injury, you shut everyone out except Viv, but now—” He breaks off. No one ever wants to say
she’s dead
out loud. “I just … don’t want to see you give up like you did before.”

I meet his gaze. “I appreciate the concern, Mr. Reed, but I
do
have a shrink.” I rise from my chair. “Can I have that pass to trig?”

My heart pounds when I leave the office, but I ignore it, making a mental note never to come near the gym again. The boys’ locker-room door swings open as I hurry past, almost hitting me in the face.

“Watch it,” I say.

“No,
you
watch it, Pike.” Logan shoves me into the wall. “Why the hell were you in there talking with Coach?”

My elbow throbs where it hit the tile. “What’s it to you?”

We scowl at each other. I wait to see if he’s going to kick my ass or not.

He speaks through his teeth. “I saw you with him the other day, too, out on the corner.”

“So?”

“So—” He spits. “They’ll never let you back on the team.”

Back on the team?

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

He leans closer. “Everyone knows it’s your fault she’s dead.”

Heat rolls from my head into my fists. I lunge at him, but he sees it coming. My shoulders hit the wall hard, pinned under Logan’s palms. He holds me there, digging his fingers into my skin, with a look like he wants to crush my skull.

“If she’d stayed with me, she’d probably still be alive.”

I glare at him, but we both know it’s true.

He lets go abruptly and walks away down the hall.

When I get home, I throw my backpack on the couch. All I want to do is close the curtains and fall into bed … but I’m afraid to. Maybe the more tired I am, the less my brain will try to dream. I decide to call the grocery store and ask for an extra shift, but I wince when I see the broken phone on the counter by the fruit bowl, and the note that goes with it:

I flip the paper over and start to scrawl a response:

Various excuses scroll through my mind:

I throw the pen down, leaving the paper blank.

I glance at the clock. With any luck, I’ll be the one at work when she gets home. I search my backpack for my cell to call the grocery store.

Except I have six missed calls from two numbers I don’t recognize.