12

AT LUNCH, our friends keep the conversation light and laugh extra-loud at anything Aimée says that could be considered remotely funny. They answer her questions about what the last thing I said to them was and how I seemed. Everyone falls for the mourning-best-friend-looking-for-closure act, but Aimée’s perfect outfit and sleek French braid give her away to me. I notice the stiffness in her back and the intense look in her eyes as she scrutinizes each classmate who walks by. And, to be honest, I am now doing the same. She’s not looking for closure. Not yet. Not until she gets the answers she’s looking for.

“Aimée, hey.” The girls at our table turn their attention to Mica, smiling and batting lashes at him. Except Kennedy Grange. Mica let her down easy last week after she broke up with her boyfriend for him, and, by the looks of it, she hasn’t gotten over that yet.

Aimée narrows her eyes at him, studying his face. “Hi,” she finally says, a careful smile inching up the corners of her mouth.

It’s kind of impossible not to smile at Mica. Even when he was intimidating Caleb earlier he looked cheerful doing it. I have this theory that that’s why he’s such a good hockey player. The opposing team doesn’t expect a baby-faced Hispanic kid to have such a fierce competitive streak.

“So you and Maddy came back today, huh?”

“Madison,” Aimée and I correct, but Mica doesn’t seem to notice. He watches her curiously, like there’s a script to this conversation and she’s gone off book.

“How you two holdin’ up?” He looks past Aimée, probably expecting to see Madison sitting next to her, but she’s not here. I am.

Aimée glances over her shoulder and gives herself a split second to fall apart. No one else sees it but me. No one senses how in-over-her-head she feels. I want to squeeze her in a hug and not let go until I’m real enough that she can feel it.

“Fine,” she lies. “But I’m on my own this afternoon.”

Drew walks up right when Aimée finishes. “What happened to Maddy?” He sounds concerned, but his expression looks annoyed.

“She wasn’t feeling well,” Aimée answers in the cold, vague way that we’d both taken to using with Drew. We had good reason. At least once a week I had to cancel on Ethan to comfort Madison when Drew stood her up. I seriously don’t know why she puts up with it. She has one of those round cherubic faces that could land her a Neutrogena ad, curves that—despite what her mom thinks—work in her favor, and a social-butterfly personality. She could do much better than hot-one-day-cold-the-next Drew.

When the bell rings, Drew hurries out of the cafeteria with his cell clasped in his palm, texting with his thumbs. Mica nods at Aimée and his mouth relaxes into the coy smirk he usually reserves for freshmen who still think it’s worth detention to wear skirts that break dress code. He seems relieved they’re alone.

“Walk ya to class?”

Aimée stands with her tray. “Listen, I don’t have the energy to shoot you down today, Torrez. So let’s skip to the part where you tell me I’m a tease and leave me alone.”

“I’ll carry your books for you,” he offers. Aimée turns to him with a vicious glare. He holds up his hands. “Sorry. Most girls think that’s sweet.”

“Most girls lie to boys they’re attracted to.”

“So you’re not attracted to me?” He smirks again.

“I’m not most girls.”

Mica’s eyebrows arch as he follows Aimée to the row of trash bins near the exit. “Aimée, come on, this isn’t my usual flirting gig. You don’t have to play tough. I know you don’t want to be alone right now. Let me walk with you.”

She pauses with her tray poised over the bin, deciding. “Have you talked to Ethan since the party?”

“Nope.” The playboy shine disappears from his voice. He stares at Aimée with a look so full of unidentifiable meaning that I start to feel like I’m intruding on a private moment between the two of them. I guess I am. “Cassidy really did a number on him.”

“It’s not true about her committing suicide, and I intend to make sure everyone knows the truth.”

“You know what that is?”

“Do you?”

Mica thinks a minute. “From where I was standing, she was unstable that night.”

“That viewpoint wasn’t on the covered bridge, now was it?”

“I was inside your house with Drew when she fell, if you’re fishin’ for my alibi.”

“You offered that up pretty quickly.”

“Always eager to please. Anything else you’d like from me?”

Aimée scrutinizes him with her eyes, then dumps her tray of uneaten chicken nuggets and leaves the cafeteria.

Mica doesn’t follow. He stares down at his shoes, clenching and unclenching his fists until the second bell rings. After he leaves, the cafeteria clears out, but conversations still echo off the walls. She was totally drunk … I heard she froze to death … Who kills herself over a breakup? I mean, really?

I’m alone now in the center of the round room with the lies my classmates told like they were facts. I can’t stay here. I need the comfort of my best friend even if she can’t see me.

When I get to the gym, I pass through the girls’ locker room to the mirrored exercise room where our dance class is warming up. I take a stance in my usual spot at the wall barre behind Aimée, in front of Madison’s empty spot, and shadow her exercises through rond de jambe. At the beginning of the semester, I begged Aimée for the fiftieth time to sign up for dance with me and Madison. She’d finally caved despite her natural talent for tripping and falling over her own feet. Maybe it’s my imagination, but she seems steadier than usual in her movements, her turn-out and form improved. I, on the other hand, feel like one of the hippos from Fantasia. The graceful ease I spent years in a dance studio perfecting seems to have escaped me.

The class moves to the center of the floor to practice arabesques, but I stay at the barre, stubbornly trying to revive what used to be second nature to me. It’s not that easy with heels on. I try to convince myself that’s why my feet feel like foreign objects, but I know it’s simply one more alive thing that I’ve lost and desperately want back. I push down the rising chill of sadness inside me and will my limbs to respond, but I can’t concentrate. My classmates’ voices keep creeping back into my mind. After misstepping for the umpteenth time, frustrated not only by my lacking footwork but also by the skewed way my classmates think of me now, I stomp my foot into the wooden floor—and the room is suddenly empty.

Is class over already? How long has it been? I rush to the locker room and follow Aimée into the hall.

Her braid is still perfectly flyaway-free and her makeup is flawless. You’d never know she had just spent thirty minutes working out. She pushes open the exit door and snow breezes inside, dusting the speckled tile floor. She tightens her houndstooth scarf around her neck, ducks her head, and steps out into the cold.

“Hey again.”

Aimée’s head snaps up a second too late as she bumps into Mica, dropping her messenger bag in the process. “Sorry. I’m not usually this clumsy.”

“Actually, you always are, Meems,” I say, finally feeling a small bit of the comfort I expected from seeing her.

Mica picks up her bag and hands it to her with a smile. She snatches it away from him, clutching it to her chest. He chuckles. “You don’t have to be embarrassed about falling all over me. I’m sure you must have used up your coordination in dance class.”

“How did you know—” Aimée straightens her scarf, collecting herself. “What are you doing here?”

“I had conditioning with the rest of the team.”

“Ah, yes. Varsity sports allows two hours of Phys Ed. I’m sure you boys are getting a stellar education with that rule in place.”

Mica shrugs. “So are you going to let me walk you this time or do I have to start begging?”

Aimée takes a step back. “Stop it.”

“Stop what?”

“Offering to walk me to class, flirting with me like this is any other ordinary day. I’m not in a fragile enough state that you can break me down and finally get me to agree to go out with you, so you can give it up.”

Mica doesn’t answer right away. “You honestly think I’m concerned about hooking up after what happened on Saturday night?” he asks.

“You told the police you were so drunk you didn’t remember anything about Saturday night. Why so melancholy about it now?”

“How do you know what I told the cops?”

“Why haven’t you answered my question?” Aimée retorts.

Mica starts cracking his knuckles one at a time. “Cassidy was my best friend’s girl. No matter how much I drank that night, what happened to her got to me, a lot. It— I only want to make sure you’re okay.”

“Still breathing,” Aimée says sardonically.

“Weird how that makes you feel like scum now, huh? Mrs. Fitz said that’s called survivor guilt, or something.”

Aimée asks, “You went to see the counselor?” Mica shrugs with an uncharacteristic hint of self-consciousness in his dark eyes. Aimée’s expression is unreadable for a moment. She’s not giving anything away to him—or me. “At the party, where did you last see Cassidy?”

“Um, by the bonfire, I think,” Mica answers in an unsure voice. “She told Drew and me that she was going to get a refill of her drink and never came back.”

“How did she seem to you? Happy, depressed, distracted, stressed out?”

“She seemed drunk, Aimée,” Mica admits. “Exactly like I was.”

An image of my shaking hand wrapped around the neck of a bottle of peach schnapps, the bottle Madison said was found floating next to my body, the bottle whoever was on the bridge with me threw into the river, flashes behind my eyes. I was definitely drinking at the party, but was I drunk enough to forget everything that happened?

Aimée studies Mica’s face for a second and then starts walking. She doesn’t stop him when he falls in step beside her. “So,” he starts, then he loses momentum.

Aimée sighs. “It’s all right. No one knows what to say to me now. Let me fill in the blanks for you: You’re very sorry; you want me to hang in there; and if there’s anything you can do for me—”

“Pretty ballsy of you to come back so soon,” Mica interrupts.

Aimée glances at him out of the corner of her eye. “Haven’t gotten that one yet.”

“Sorry.” Mica shakes his head. “What I meant was, most people would be a wreck.”

“I think we established in our last chat that I’m not most people,” Aimée responds with a smirk that quickly falls, like it was too heavy for her to hold up. “I wasn’t doing anyone any good sitting around at home. I function much better when I have a task to accomplish.”

“Task?” Mica pinches the bottom snap on his varsity letterman jacket and snaps and unsnaps it a couple of times. “What, like homework?”

Aimée tugs on her scarf. “That would qualify.”

Mica steps in front of her to open the door to the main building and pauses with his hand on the handle. “What are you doing after school today?”

I look in shock at Aimée. “Wow, he really has no shame, asking you out right now.”

“Why?” She peers at him.

“Same reason I wanted to walk you to class,” he says plainly.

Aimée thinks a minute. “Don’t you have hockey practice?”

He shakes his head. “Got suspended from the team last week.”

“What, too much time spent in the penalty box?”

“Yeah, actually. Guess I need to watch my temper.” Mica bends down and tilts his head so he’s looking right at Aimée. “How’d you know that?”

Aimée’s pale cheeks flush. It’s subtle, but I can see it in the awkward set of her shoulders: Aimée’s flirting.

“What happened to ‘I vow never to be a member of the Torrez Band of Skanks’?” I ask her, pulling a direct quote from the Book of Aimée. I know she won’t answer, but I can’t resist teasing.

“I pick up Cassidy’s sister from figure skating on the days she has ballet.” Aimée slaps a hand over her mouth like she’s chiding herself for saying my name so casually. I want to tell her it’s okay, but I know it’s not, not to her. And she can’t hear me anyway. “I used to,” she corrects herself. “So I’ve seen the way you play.”

Mica nods, looking equal parts proud and regretful. “The life of an enforcer.”

“An enforcer?”

“That’s what they call the guys who skate … defensively. Drew’s my partner in crime.”

“I bet he is,” Aimée deadpans. “Doesn’t that hurt your chances at landing a scholarship?”

Mica shrugs like it’s no big deal, but everyone knows a hockey scholarship followed by fast-tracking to the NHL—preferably with a stone-cold puck bunny by his side—has always been Mica’s dream. He’d do anything to achieve it.

“But colleges can’t scout you if you’re suspended, right?”

Mica shrugs again but doesn’t answer. A quiet moment passes. “So are you free tonight?”

“I think I’m going to be booked up for a while.”

“Gotcha,” he concedes, starting to open the door, but he shuts it again. “Hey.” Aimée looks up, curious. “Do you have your cell with you? I could give you my number, you know, in case one of us makes a fool of themselves in front of someone who’s totally out of their league and needs to be talked down.” He winks at her. “Not that that would ever happen to me or anything.”

Aimée coughs to cover the tiny laugh that sneaks past her lips. I’m so relieved to see her smiling that I almost say yes for her.

“I don’t bring my phone to school.”

I eye the zipper pouch on the front of Aimée’s messenger bag where I know she keeps her cell. She doesn’t trust him, which makes me wonder whether I should.

“Well, to be safe.” Mica grabs her hand as she opens the other door, the one he’s not holding shut, and jots his number on her palm before she can pull it back.

Aimée yanks her hand away, but her lips are pressed together suppressing another smile. As soon as she’s inside, Mica jogs off to whatever class he now has less than two minutes to get to.

I catch up to Aimée, and we walk side by side through the doorway to her Physics class. My right shoulder disappears into the door frame and reappears on the other side. Aimée glances at her palm as she takes her seat.

“Has Mica finally worn you down?” I hesitate next to her desk and scan the room, double-checking my invisibility. Everyone looks predictably bored. No one sees me. “Ethan’s gonna flip when I tell—” I stop myself.

My instinct is to run a round of no ways with Ethan about our best friends’ might-be romance, but once I see him I won’t be able to pretend I didn’t remember a potentially breakup-worthy incident with Caleb. It was near impossible for me to lie to Ethan when I was alive; there’s no way I’m capable of such masterful posthumous deception.

I push my hands through my hair and sit on the corner of Aimée’s desk. Her elbow pokes through my leg when she opens her red binder. I move closer to the edge because I can’t handle a Casper moment right now. With one finger, she traces Mica’s digits scrolled on her palm in his slanted print. He draws a line through his sevens the same way I do. She sets a pad of monogrammed stationery on top of her notes from last week and adds Mica’s name to a short list of classmates, all of whom attended the party.

“This is your list of people you think might know something about my death, isn’t it?” I ask her.

As I read the names, I think of Ethan in his bedroom. Alone. Even though I know what I’m in for when I see him, it remains the thing I want most. I feel it inside my chest where my heart used to beat—and still does when I’m with him.

I close my eyes and grasp at the tiny wisps of memories our relationship has been reduced to: his feet nestled between mine to keep me warm while we watched a movie on my couch, the way he always opened car doors for me, the feather-soft brush of his impossibly long eyelashes as he whispered my name in my ear. They seem so insignificant, ordinary, but I feel this desperation to hold on to them as tightly as I can or I’ll disappear for real, forever.

When I open my eyes, I’m in Ethan’s bedroom. I smile a little to myself for at last figuring out the ghost-a-porting thing. Evoke memories of the person I want to go to and snap, I’m wherever they are.

Yay me.

He’s sitting at his desk again. He doesn’t seem surprised to see me this time. Or happy.

“You’re back.” He sounds sad. I left him alone all day. I want to tell him why—that I couldn’t face him after remembering being with Caleb—but I’m not sure yet if there’s anything to tell.

“I was at school with Aimée and Madison. Aimée’s convinced she can prove what really happened to me on the bridge. She has a list of people she thinks know something and—” I stop myself before mentioning he’s one of Aimée’s suspects. “I don’t know. I thought they needed me.”

“Did they?”

I don’t answer right away. I’m not convinced there’s anything I can do to help my friends. It’s not like with Ethan. They can’t see me or hear me. Everything I say and do merely filters through them. “I think I needed them more.”

Ethan shifts his weight in his desk chair. “Maybe I should go back to school tomorrow so you can be with them and me. I missed you,” he adds softly. “My parents got me excused from school until Friday, after the funeral”—he sucks in a deep breath—“but I could try to convince them to let me go back earlier.”

“Do you want to go back to school?” I ask so I don’t have to think about my funeral.

“I’d rather stay here with you.”

I frown even though I’m happy to hear he wants to stay with me. It’s getting hard to be around him with so many secrets between us.

He stands and walks to me. His fingers trace the curve of my mouth, until I can’t help it anymore: I smile.

He smiles too. “I’m grateful you came back.” Grateful? That’s an odd word for him to use; it makes it sound like he asked for me back. He tilts my chin with two fingers so that we’re at the same level and adds, “Gives us a fresh start.”

I purposely avoid his eyes because even though I want a fresh start so badly I can feel it in my nonexistent bones, the only reason we would need it is that the first go at us went tragically wrong.

“This is probably a dumb question to ask,” he starts, “but is something bothering you?”

There are countless things bothering me, but I decide to divulge the one that started the derailment of my life.

“I went to see my parents last night.”

“That’s good. Or not?” he amends after studying my expression.

I shake my head. “They were fighting.”

“By fighting, you mean?”

“Arguing,” I say in a rush. “They do that a lot.”

“They do?” Ethan asks, surprised. “How long has that been going on?”

I take a minute before answering, “A couple months, I guess, but it got worse around my birthday.”

Ethan rubs the back of his neck. “Wow, I can’t believe they were acting like that on your birthday. That’s, well, incredibly selfish. Is that why you didn’t invite me over for your birthday dinner?”

I recoil from his comment, ignoring his question. “It’s not about them being selfish, Ethan.”

“That came out wrong.” He holds up his hand. “Sorry. So, a couple months?” His concerned expression morphs into something else, something pained. “That’s a long time. Why didn’t you tell me?”

I chew on my lip, trying to find the right words. “I was worried you wouldn’t understand, that you would see me differently if you knew.”

“You honestly thought I would judge you that way? Because of your family?” His face screws up as he stares at me in wounded disbelief.

“Well, you sort of did a couple seconds ago.”

“But I wasn’t judging you.”

“What, just my parents then?”

“No,” he says in a less-than-convincing tone. “I just—”

“Don’t have any clue what this has been like for me,” I finish for him.

“Because you didn’t tell me about it.”

“How could I?” I retort. “Lately it feels like…”

My voice trails off, and his is a low murmur when he says, “Cassi, where is this coming from?” He squints at me, confused. “Cassi?”

I open my mouth to answer him, but my voice is lost even to me, floating beyond my range of hearing.

No! I don’t want to remember anything else.

My hair melts into watery streamers, flowing off my shoulders and chest. I’m blinded by the glittering waterfalls until there’s nothing left of me, and I’m gone again.