Invisible Ghosts

  My stomach dropped. That wasn’t an assignment, it was a punishment—sudden death by stage performance. Judging from the horrified look on Kate’s face, she’d also been expecting the table read.

  “Feel free to take these outside to practice,” Gardner said. “And before anyone asks: no costumes and no props, please. That means you, Seth.”

  My classmates laughed. Seth Bostwick, who was wearing a fedora and juggling erasers in his seat, went red.

  Everyone grabbed their bags and surged forward, chattering excitedly. They jostled for the handouts like it was a race, passing them back to their friends. I sighed, because of course my classmates would act like monologues were a group activity.

  By the time Kate and I stepped into the south quad, most of the tables were already claimed. Our usual spot had been taken over by a loud group of sophomore boys.

  “Let’s sit outside the choir room,” Kate suggested.

  Without waiting for an answer, she started wheeling her backpack toward the music building. She only wanted to sit there, I knew, because Delia and Emmy took choir.

  It struck me as kind of pathetic to station ourselves on the ground outside their classroom, as though we had nothing better to do than follow in Delia’s wake like human versions of a rolling backpack. But I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I trailed after Kate, twisting around to see how Jamie was doing.

  He stood in the doorway, surveying the quad in dismay. He looked slightly shocked, like he couldn’t figure out what to do, or how he’d missed the memo about groups.

  For a moment, I imagined walking over there and inviting him to join us. Except that would be a disaster. Jamie would ask how I’d been, and I’d freeze up, not wanting to watch his face bloom with sympathy as he found out about Logan. I’d barely survived it the first time, having everyone look at me like that. I didn’t think I could stand it again.

  No, it was better to leave him alone. Better to follow Kate to the choir room the way she expected. Because we all played a role in high school, and mine was invisible sidekick in an insignificant friend group. The kind of role no one auditions for, but someone gets assigned after reading for a bigger, more exciting part and not being good enough.

  Except Jamie was still frozen in the doorway. Alone. I had this awful fear that he was going to sit down right there, all by himself, in front of everyone.

  And then I saw Claudia hurrying toward him, her perfect hair swirling around her perfect smile. Claudia, who was a little bit magic.

  “Jamie!” she called. “I can’t believe it!”

  Even her voice was magical, with its high, clear bell of a laugh that was always on the verge of ringing out.

  “No freaking way!” he said, brightening instantly.

  He wrapped her in an enormous hug, swinging her around so that her feet left the ground. Or maybe she was flying.

  “Stop that,” she scolded, but she was laughing so hard you knew she didn’t mean it.

  From over on the grass, Sam cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, “Aldridge, get over here!”

  Everyone looked up to see what was going on.

  “Wait your turn, Donovan!” Jamie called, flashing a grin that made me wonder how I could have thought he needed rescuing.

  I watched as Jamie sauntered over to the grass and flung his bag onto the royal pile. It didn’t matter that everyone else was in sandals or that he hadn’t been able to find our classroom on time. Just like that, he’d gone from confused new kid to rejoining our old friends as though he’d never left.

  2

  I BIKED HOME from school the way I always did—along the hiking trail, rather than the parkway. The parkway was faster, but I hated how my classmates zoomed past in their new cars, music blasting, so I stuck to the scenic route.

  The preserve had seemed magical when I was younger, as though our cul-de-sac were pressed up against a forgotten slice of Narnia. My friends and I used to play there, in our tree fort, inventing secret worlds.

  Back then, I actually believed that adventure might be waiting for me just beyond the wall of sandbags. But I knew better now. The only thing beyond the wall was the place where Logan had died.

  I searched for it every time, unable to help myself. I’d pause my bike, looking for the familiar cluster of honeysuckle bushes. And when I found them, it was almost too easy to close my eyes and go right back to that day.

  Sixth grade had just ended, and Sam, Claudia, Max, and I were doing junior rep at the Harbor Playhouse, putting on a production of Annie. The cast list had gone up that morning.

  All of my friends had lead roles, while my name was on a different sheet, for backstage helpers. I’d stared at it in disbelief, unable to figure out what had happened. I’d thought my audition had gone well, but apparently not, since I hadn’t even made the ensemble.

  I went to talk to our director during lunch. She was an older woman, with breath that always smelled of coffee and the yellow teeth to match. I mustered my courage and asked if anything had been the matter with my audition.

  “It’s Rose, right?” she said, shuffling through her notes to unearth whatever she’d written about me.

  And then she looked me square in the eye and said, in a gust of coffee fumes, “I’m going to be honest here: I just didn’t see any real talent in you.”

  It was as though she’d picked up my dreams and smashed them on the floor. I stared down at the broken shards, quietly devastated. And then I mumbled a thank-you and slunk away.

  I couldn’t tell you what I ate for lunch that day or what improv games we played that afternoon. All I remember is counting down the minutes until I could go home and cry.

  Miraculously, I managed to hold it together, even as my friends were given scripts and told to stay after. Even as I waved good-bye like it was nothing to walk home alone while they all stayed behind for a cast meeting.

  I was halfway home before I realized that I’d left my sweater in the theater. And everything might have turned out very differently if I hadn’t gone back to get it. But I did, which is how I caught Sam and Claudia kissing behind the water cooler.

  In sixth grade, the idea of kissing someone had felt as strange and unreachable as a distant planet. But standing there, watching Sam’s mouth pressed hungrily against Claudia’s, I felt like I’d missed the shuttle launch. And there was nothing I could do about any of it except clutch my sweater and walk away.

  When I got home, Logan was in the living room watching TV. He was supposed to be babysitting me, I guess, except our parents never called it that. “Watch out for each other,” they always said, even though Logan was four years older.

  He looked up and grinned, pausing the episode.

  “I’m only a couple minutes in. Want me to start it over?”

  I shook my head, and the tears I’d been so careful not to let out rolled down my cheeks, along with an explosion of snot.

  “Rose,” Logan said. “What’s the matter?”

  “All of my friends were cast in the play without me,” I admitted.

  I didn’t tell him what the director had said to me or what I’d seen backstage, but he seemed to guess that I wasn’t giving him the whole story.

  “You can hang with me instead,” Logan promised. “It’ll be awesome. We can watch Doctor Who.”

  He was just trying to make me feel better, but it had the opposite effect.

  “You only want to hang out with me because you don’t have any friends,” I snapped.

  It wasn’t true, but it was almost true, which made it even worse. Logan stared at me like I’d betrayed him, and I was suddenly overwhelmed by my inability to do anything right. I shouldered my backpack and ran out of the house, my eyes burning with tears.

  I plunged into the preserve, past the honeysuckle bushes that were buzzing with bees, past the scenic outlook sign, and along the footpath to the tree fort. Sam’s dad had built it for us a few summers before. It was nothing elaborate—just a wooden platform with a rope ladder
—but it was exactly what I needed: higher ground, to escape my flood of tears.

  I curled up on the platform and took a book out of my bag, trying to disappear into it. I must have succeeded, because the sun was low when I finally looked up.

  Logan hadn’t come looking for me, which felt wrong. The fort should have been the first place he checked. But my shadow was long and slanting, so I started to walk home, past the scrub brush full of feral rabbits, and back toward the trail.

  That was when I saw Logan, his body splayed in the dirt.

  “Very funny,” I called.

  We never played games like this, trying to scare each other, and I wondered why he’d decided to start now.

  “I get it, I was a brat. You can stop doing that,” I pleaded.

  He still didn’t move.

  “Logan?”

  It was too quiet in the preserve all of a sudden. Too still. My skin prickled, and suddenly I knew it wasn’t a prank. Logan was on the ground next to the honeysuckle bush, which was buzzing with bees.

  I knew he was allergic, just like I knew that he was supposed to carry an EpiPen in case he got stung. Mom had even shown me how to use it. But Logan was still wearing those shorts he’d been lounging around in, and his ratty hoodie, and I couldn’t see anything in the pockets. Not even a phone. Not even his keys.

  “Logan?” I whispered, coming closer.

  That was when I saw the beestings. One on his arm, another on his leg. They were red and angry against his pale skin.

  He was so still, lying there.

  Not still. Dead.

  Logan had come out to the preserve to find me. Because I’d run off. Because our parents had told us to watch out for each other, and I hadn’t listened.

  Everyone said Logan died of an insect allergy, but that was only a half-truth. The other half was that he’d died because of me.

  It was the truth no one said. The truth that got buried behind sad smiles and condolence casseroles dropped off in dishes we never quite got around to returning. And every day, when I biked past the place where I found my brother’s body, it didn’t matter how many years had gone by, or how much I’d tried to atone. The guilt of losing him still stung. Except it turns out you can’t be allergic to guilt. Bad memories can haunt you, but they can’t kill you.

  So I adjusted the weight of my backpack and coasted the rest of the way down the trail. My house was at the far end of the street, which meant I had to pass Jamie’s old place. I hadn’t thought of it that way in a long time—as Jamie’s—and it was strange realizing that Max still lived there.

  The garage door was open, and Max’s mom was unloading the twins from her minivan, yelling for them to run and get changed for softball. She saw me and waved.

  “Home early, huh?” she called.

  For a moment, I didn’t know what she meant. School had ended twenty minutes ago. But of course there was no reason to go straight home, especially today.

  “Yeah,” I said, embarrassed. I cast around for an excuse that wouldn’t sound weird. “I’m studying for the PSATs.”

  “Max took a great Kaplan course this summer,” she said. “It’s over at the college, if you’re looking for one.”

  “I’ll check it out,” I promised, just being polite.

  “He can tell you all about it,” she called, as though Max Coleman was still in the habit of talking to me. He wasn’t. He was in the habit of loudly making sarcastic comments and threatening to run for homecoming queen just to piss off the cheerleaders, because they all knew he’d win.

  As I pedaled away, I realized that everyone from school was probably on their way somewhere else. The mall, or Pelican Beach, or the frozen yogurt place with free Wi-Fi.

  I was the only one desperate to rush home. I had a reason, though. Well, a theory. And my theory was that just maybe my house wouldn’t be empty that afternoon.

  “Hello?” I called, pushing open the front door. “Anyone here?”

  I dropped my school bag onto the little bench in our entryway. It looked nothing like the pictures my mom had shown me on Pinterest featuring coatracks and galoshes and someone else’s perfect life. Mostly, it just looked sad, like it knew it was destined to be forgotten, so I made an effort to use it.

  “Hello?” I called again.

  My parents were both at work, but it wasn’t either of them I was hoping to find. It was the first day of school, and he’d never missed one before.

  “Please,” I whispered for good measure, in case the universe took requests. “Please, please, please.”

  “Wow, someone’s being polite.” Logan poked his head around the corner. “Two and a half pleases would have been enough.”

  “Logan!”

  I barely resisted the urge to rush at him in a tackle-hug like the one Claudia had given Jamie. Except ours wouldn’t end with my feet swinging off the ground. It would end with my butt on the floor.

  “Boo,” Logan said sarcastically. “Did you miss me?”

  He was a little smudged around the edges, but nothing too bad. I hadn’t seen him for days, and even though that happened sometimes, I’d still worried.

  “Never,” I lied, grinning.

  “You’re so full of it,” he accused, making my grin stretch wider.

  I studied him even though I had him memorized, even though he hadn’t changed at all in the past four years. He looked fifteen, like always, but somehow, fifteen wasn’t the same anymore.

  His face seemed rounder and younger than it used to, his dark curls more unruly. He was wearing the same shorts and unzipped hoodie, the same periodic-table T-shirt, and the same shark-print socks with a giant hole in the toe.

  Once, when Mom had narrowly avoided a freeway accident, I’d turned to Logan and joked about how terrible it would be to die wearing dirty, stretched-out underwear. But it turns out there’s something even more embarrassing: to come back as a ghost with a giant hole in your sock.

  “Where have you been?” I asked.

  It wasn’t a good question.

  “Around,” he said vaguely, and then brightened. “Hey, wanna watch Doctor Who?”

  It was what he’d asked the first time he’d reappeared, and now it was kind of our tradition. If you can have traditions with a ghost.

  “Sure,” I said, padding into the kitchen to grab a snack.

  My stomach had been growling for the past hour, since I hated eating lunch in school. It’s pretty depressing to pull a bagel that’s been assassinated by a pile of textbooks out of your backpack, and it’s even worse at 11:40 in the morning, which was the start of our lunch block.

  “First day back?” Logan asked, trailing after me.

  “Yeah. I’m a junior now.”

  The instant I said it, I wished I hadn’t. I’d lapped him months ago, and it wasn’t something we acknowledged—that we’d switched, and that I was the older one now.

  I dug around in the fridge, coming up with some veggies and hummus.

  “There’s ice cream in the freezer,” Logan suggested. He sounded pleased with himself, as though being able to see through the freezer door was some big accomplishment.

  “Wow, amazing superpowers,” I teased, reaching for the carton. Mint chip. It would have been hilarious if it were pistachio, to match Mr. Gardner’s polo shirt, but oh well.

  “Thank you.” Logan preened, missing my sarcasm. “So how was school?”

  That was all the invitation I needed to launch into a full-on rant about my friends. I told him everything, from how Delia had insisted on approving our first-day outfits to how I’d spent most of lunch trying not to scream in frustration.

  “I mean, who freaking cares about Kate’s backpack?” I finished.

  “Ooh, me! I care about her backpack!” Logan stuck his hand in the air for emphasis.

  “Believe me, you don’t.”

  “Well, I’d reassure you that high school is survivable, but I literally didn’t make it past geometry.” Logan grinned. “I got a B. Get it? A bee?”
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  “Thanks for hitting me over the head with that,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “It’s what I’m here for. That, and the Netflix.”

  Logan drifted into the living room and plopped onto the couch, reaching for the remote. His hand went right through it, and he groaned.

  “Do you want me to—” I started to offer.

  “—I can do it!” Logan insisted.

  “Sure you can,” I said, waiting for him to admit defeat.

  “Fine,” he said after his tenth try. “You can have the remote. But only if I get to pick what we watch.”

  “You always pick.”

  “Because I’m the oldest.”

  I didn’t correct him. It was so strange, aging out of proportion. But it didn’t matter whether Logan was fifteen, or nineteen, the age he should have been. He was still my older brother, and it was amazing that we were hanging out after school, like we used to.

  “Wanna watch a new episode?” I asked, scrolling through the latest season.

  “Nah, I like the old ones.”

  “All of time and space and you just want to go back to things you’ve already seen,” I teased.

  “Yeah, because the older seasons are the best. Matt Smith’s okay, but he’s no David Tennant.”

  Matt Smith hadn’t been on Doctor Who for years, but I didn’t say anything. Instead, I pulled up an earlier season, and Logan chose a silly episode that I’d loved back in elementary school.

  Next to me, Logan recited most of the lines from memory. He laughed at them anyway, snorting a little. His mouth was curved into a grin, and his feet were draped over the armrest, and the hole in his sock looked ridiculous.

  And suddenly, it didn’t matter that school had been depressing, or that my friends were disappointing, or that my hair was full of bad omens. I still had Logan, and that made everything else bearable.

  SO IT’S WEIRD, right? The ghost thing.

  Of course it’s weird. I know, I know. But it’s a good, surprising kind of weird, like the soundtrack to Hamilton, or maple-bacon doughnuts.

  It all started on my first day of seventh grade. Everyone had gaped at me in the halls like dead brother was this horrible outfit they couldn’t believe I was wearing. The teachers were just as subtle, pulling me aside during the passing bell to say how sorry they were, while their next period walked in and overheard the whole thing.