10

UNDULATING SHEETS OF WHITE mask my vision. I do a frantic check of my limbs to make sure I’m still here in my semi-alive state. Two arms, two legs; I appear to be whole. My eyes slowly focus, revealing the rolling landscape of Dover Park. Flawless white snow covers every pebbled hiking trail, every bench. When we were younger, Joules and I used to toboggan down these hills. They seemed a lot bigger back then.

I let out a relieved sigh because when you’re a ghost who can’t keep her grip on the present, ubiquitous white sheets of light are terrifying. That is, if you want to stay a ghost. I’m still not sure I do. Then the crisp outline of the covered bridge reveals itself and the memory I just had comes rushing back.

The party we were talking about ended up being when I had my first kiss. I’d told Ethan about the bats that Aimée said were good luck, and he asked me to show him their roost. Once we were alone, he told me about his first kiss and he became mine.

As I approach the bridge, the image of two fourteen-year-olds sharing an innocent moment blurs and reshapes into an elongated shadow crawling up the slatted walls of the bridge, creeping into and invading the happiness I used to feel here.

The darkness bears down on me, calling me. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing my legs to a sprint across the bridge, fighting the draw of the shadow so I can get to Aimée’s house on the other side of the river without being swallowed by its darkness.

I don’t want to lose myself in another memory. I want to see my best friend and make sure she’s okay.

Of course, she’s not. She’s still in the playroom, but it’s worse than before. The wads of tissue are gone. Her makeup, a blow-dryer, and her bedazzled red hairbrush are set out in a perfect line on the counter in the en suite bathroom. The spring collection of her wardrobe is hanging on the rack, organized by color, where we used to store dress-up clothes. She’s sitting on the edge of the air mattress giving herself a French manicure with sparkly white tips.

This is bad. Hyperorganization is Aimée’s supreme coping mechanism.

I sit on the floor next to her. “You need to leave this room, Meems. It’s been—” A day and a half I finish in my head. It’s been a day and a half since the party … since my death. I’m not sure if I’m shocked because that timeline seems too brief or because it seems too drawn out.

I lean my hands on the air mattress. It doesn’t move an inch, mostly because I go through it. Aimée coats her left pinkie nail with a clean line of white, but her hand trembles as she dips the brush back into the bottle of polish balanced between her knees and it tumbles to the floor.

“Son of a—” She rights the bottle and fumbles with a box of tissues, then throws the box across the room when she finds it empty. Her head drops into her hands, ruining her still-tacky polish job. “Crap!” She shakes her hands in a weak attempt to dry the polish and wilts onto the mattress.

I’ve never seen her so distraught. I want to clean up the spill, but after a morning of experimenting, I know I won’t be able to manage it. Besides, it would freak her out if the stain miraculously disappeared.

“I’m coming in,” Aimée’s sister, Bridgette, announces. Her long, straight hair is the vanilla to Aimée’s chocolate. She’s the only member of Aimée’s family with blond hair, but she resembles her sister and mom so closely in every other way it’s obvious she belongs in the Coutier clan. She nudges Aimée’s shoulder. “Are you sleeping?”

“No.” Aimée’s voice is thick with tears.

Bridgette pulls a minipack of tissues from her back pocket, not noticing me sitting on the floor two feet away. “Here.”

Aimée accepts the offer, wipes her eyes, and rolls onto her back. “Did Mom send you up?”

“No. I was worried about you. Everyone is.”

“What were people saying at school?”

“You know, how Cassidy was nice to everyone, almost to a fault.”

“Gee, thanks,” I mumble.

She continues. “They miss her or at least are pretending to. It was the longest Monday ever.” She lies next to Aimée. “The most random people came up to me and said how sorry they were.”

“I bet.”

“What?” Bridgette and I both ask.

“What did they say about how she…?”

“Nothing. It’s mindless gossip.”

“Tell me.”

“You asked for it.” Bridgette sits up on her elbow. “Well, I heard some guys saying she tried to go skinny-dipping in the river and froze, which is downright ignorant to suggest. Then Kristy London started telling everyone she saw Cassidy throw up at a dance once because she was bulimic and that’s why she committed suicide.” Aimée and I simultaneously object, and Bridgette holds up her hands. “I know. Don’t worry, I set her straight.” Bridgette shakes her head. “Most people are too freaked to talk about it much though. Something like that could happen to any of us, you know?”

Aimée doesn’t answer, but I can tell she’s working something out in her skeptical brain.

Changing the subject, Bridgette says, “You will not believe the assembly they had today. Principal Dewitt was all robot voice: ‘This is a sad, sad tragedy that has wounded our flock.’ I hate when he refers to us as his little mascot children.” Bridgette rolls her eyes. “Student council threw a fit that it was only fifteen minutes long and basically a PSA for suicide prevention, so they petitioned to hold a real memorial later this week. Nancy Yeong asked me to, quote, ‘urge you to return’ in time for the assembly. I told her to shove it.”

Aimée sits up and states definitively, “I’m going back tomorrow.”

“What, to school? Are you ready? Do Mom and Dad know?”

Aimée waves a hand. “You can tell them.”

“You don’t have to come for the memorial. That was just Nancy being Nancy. No one expects you to come back before the funeral.”

The funeral. My funeral. I hadn’t even thought about it. My thoughts go to mush contemplating how I’ll soon have no body to claim. Will Ghost Me cease to exist when that happens? Will I be left in limbo on Earth or will my spectral flesh fade into nothing? There’s no way of knowing, but the life I lived will be reduced to rumors and lies if I don’t uncover the truth in time.

Aimée stares at her botched manicure for a long second, then squares her shoulders. “I’m going back.”

There’s no arguing with Aimée once she’s made up her mind and Bridgette knows that well. “I have diving practice before school, but I can skip so we can ride together,” she says.

“I’ll be fine,” Aimée says, shaking her head.

Bridgette hesitates. “You’re not going back so soon because…”

“Because why?” Aimée asks in a challenging tone.

“Nothing. As long as you’re ready.” Aimée gives her sister a that’s-what-I-said look. Bridgette clamps her mouth shut and steps over the nail polish spill on her way to the door. She turns back to Aimée. “Are you coming down for dinner later?”

Aimée shakes her head. “No time. I have to get ready.”

“Okay. I’ll bring up a plate for you.” Bridgette probably assumes Aimée meant get ready for school, but I can tell by the fire in her green eyes that’s nowhere near what she meant. After the door closes, Aimée texts Madison something I don’t see. Five minutes later, Madison calls her.

“Did you tell your parents?”

“Yeah,” Madison’s high voice sounds from the receiver. “And Doctor Daddy said he ‘believes it’s too soon, but everyone grieves in their own way.’” She imitates her dad’s clinical tone. “You know the drill.”

“But you’re still coming back with me, right?”

There’s a quiet moment. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

“No,” Aimée replies, “but we have to do it for Cassidy.”

Something inside me churns. What are my girls up to?

*   *   *

NIGHT IS MY FAVORITE TIME NOW. With everyone asleep, it’s easy to pretend that’s the reason nobody sees me or talks to me.

Aimée didn’t eat one bite of her dinner. The tray Bridgette brought up around eight o’clock is still sitting on the toy chest near the door. I stay with her until midnight, when she finally allows herself to sleep. As I leave, I have every intention of going back to Ethan’s, but hearing Bridgette talk about the assembly at school reminded me of my mom and how upset she was about the school exploiting my death.

I find myself crossing the south end of the park, winding through the worn-down paths among the trees, crossing streets, then passing more trees until I’m in my backyard.

Through the sliding glass door in the living room, I can see my dad reclining on the sectional. An involuntary smile lifts the corners of my mouth. I was hoping he’d still be awake, the family’s resident night owl. Knowing that I, too, prefer the night now, I feel something warm and welcome unfurl inside me; I am somehow closer to him now than even when I was alive. Then I see my mom and an instinct not even death can squelch invades me: vigilance.

As soon as I pass through the door, the argument begins, as if they were waiting for me to arrive. “We should make this decision as a family,” Mom says.

“What decision?” Dad asks, his hands raised. He’s already given in—given up? “There’s no decision to be made. What’s done is done.”

“Well.” She paces between the coffee table and the fireplace, twisting her hair into a loose chignon the way she always does when she’s upset. She starts again. “Well, we need something to tell people.”

“I thought you didn’t want to answer questions from the media.”

“I’m not talking about the media, Rodger. I’m talking about people—friends, co-workers, the rest of the family.” She narrows her eyes at him, one hand extended. “Have you heard anything I’ve said?” Before he can answer, she throws in, “You never listen to me.”

“I am listening, Tessa, but you make mountains out of molehills.”

“That’s only because you never have an opinion on anything. You sit back and wait for me to take care of it.”

Dad rubs a hand over his forehead and sighs. “You always have your mind set on a solution before you even consult me, so what would you have me do? Disagree so it can turn into a fight?”

“It’s already a fight!” Mom places a hand over her mouth, too late to contain her outburst. Dad’s eyes dart up the stairs toward where my brother and sister sleep.

My parents have had this exact same argument at least fifteen times. Fighting about fighting. Nothing has changed but the trigger. Last time it was Shaw’s tuition money, this time it’s my presumed drunken suicide. It’s not the issue that matters, but their underlying impulse to disagree with each other. They lack their usual heat, though. The frustration seems choreographed; they’re simply going through the motions because they don’t know what else to do.

I wish I could give them an answer, throw the truth down onto the coffee table between them so they wouldn’t have anything to debate, but the truth isn’t here, in my home. It’s being kept hidden by someone I thought was my friend.