Hereafter

  That grin spoke in full paragraphs, telling me exactly what Joshua thought about his new friend’s state of being. The grin set off the warm little ache in my chest, a welcome sensation in the face of my insecurity; the grin was all the reassurance I needed.

  Braver, I smiled back. I put one hand in front of my waist and bowed to my bored, unaware audience, then clapped loudly as if to thank them for their kind attention to my performance. Still, no one looked at me.

  A brief memory entered my mind: that of my own voice, screaming at unseeing strangers, just after my death. Something about that remembered anguish, in comparison to this moment, made me inexplicably light-headed and almost giddy. I began to pace back and forth in front of the classroom, folding my arms behind me like a general.

  “You’re probably wondering why I called you all here today,” I intoned in my deepest boardroom voice.

  Joshua snorted and shook his head. “Weirdo,” he said aloud.

  “What was that, Mr. Mayhew?”

  Ms. Wolters’s shrill voice cut across the room as she spun away from the chalkboard. Joshua coughed and hacked, trying desperately to cover his error.

  Unfortunately, some of his classmates, including the big, red-headed boy next to him, mistook Joshua’s actions as the intentional mocking of their teacher. They began to laugh, joining in the supposed fun. Ms. Wolters, believing herself to be at the receiving end of some unheard joke, stood as straight as the piece of chalk she now gripped. Her glare looked no less than murderous.

  “Mr. Mayhew, since you seem to have such a keen grasp on this material, please come to the board and tell us what the order is for this differential equation.” She practically spat out the words.

  Joshua shot me a panicked look. It was painfully clear from his face that differential equations weren’t exactly his specialty.

  “Oh, God,” I moaned. “I’m so sorry. I’m a moron.”

  He shook his head slightly, trying to tell me no despite the fact that I’d obviously gotten him into trouble. He slid out of his seat and walked sluggishly to the chalkboard, hardly looking at Ms. Wolters as he took the chalk from her thin hand.

  I hurried to his side, fluttering my hands uselessly. I stared up at the complex math problem in front of him, only to see it was a tangled mess of numbers and letters and symbols. Oh no, I thought as I struggled to keep my eyes in focus while staring at the equation. Just looking at all the d’s and 3’s and x’s and y’s, I felt my breath start to mirror Joshua’s in rapidity.

  He stared at the equation on the board too, his face a total blank. He seemed pretty smart . . . but maybe not this smart. Not without some warning. Not in the face of this monster problem.

  “Crap,” I said out loud. I had no idea what to do. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Ms. Wolters smirk at Joshua, whose hand had pressed the chalk to the board just under the equation and now held it there motionless. The teacher’s smug face infuriated me. I turned back to the problem and stared at it intently, determined to do something, anything.

  Nothing . . . nothing . . . nothing.

  And then—

  “Three,” I shouted. “Joshua, the highest derivative is d3/dy3—the third one. So the order is three.”

  He shot me a sidelong glance with one eyebrow raised, and then scratched the number 3 on the board. The ghost of a smile skittered across his face when he turned to Ms. Wolters, but he kept his voice meek.

  “I think the order is three, ma’am.”

  Ms. Wolters’ mouth gaped open like a trout. When Joshua reached out to give her the stick of chalk, she mindlessly took it and slipped it into her pocket.

  “Well . . . um . . .”

  As she sputtered at the front of the classroom, Joshua walked back to his seat, deliberately strutting. I walked beside him, cramped close to him by the narrow aisle. We passed a sandy-haired boy who sat in the desk in front of Joshua’s, and the boy reached out one fist into the air. Joshua lifted his left fist and bumped it against the other boy’s.

  Using that moment as a distraction, he reached out his right hand almost imperceptibly and brushed his fingers against mine. The flame in my hand was thank-you enough.

  UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

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  Chapter

  Nine

  After school ended, Joshua drove us back to Robber’s Cave Park and directed me to our bench. Once seated, Joshua leaned against the edge of the concrete table, resting both elbows behind him on the tabletop. I sat quietly beside him, one leg crossed beneath me, the other propped up and cradled to my chest with my arm. We didn’t speak for a while, probably because I was concentrating on anything but him. Mostly, I tried to ignore the incredulous smile he would occasionally turn up at me.

  I had a feeling I knew what he was thinking; and, to my deep embarrassment, I found I was right when he finally spoke.

  “So, Amelia—do you remember when exactly you became a math genius?”

  I glued my eyes to the tree line and did my best to shrug casually. “I wasn’t . . . I’m not a genius. I probably just studied. Like you should be doing right now.”

  Joshua laughed. “I do study. I have a three point eight GPA . . . until Ms. Wolters finishes with me anyway. And what’s with the false modesty?”

  I made a petulant little noise and turned around to glare at him. He smiled with feigned innocence, possibly pleased to get a rise out of me, and to get me to look at him, finally.

  “Humph.” I whipped my head back to the tree line, fast enough to send my hair flying around my face. For a few more moments, we sat in near silence, except for the sound of Joshua chuckling softly. He started to make a dramatic show of coughing, as if he had to do so in order to cover his laughter.

  The coughing was the last straw. I threw my hands up in protest.

  “I’m not falsely modest, okay?” I cried. “I have no idea if I’m a genius. Obviously, I know differential equations. But I have no idea how, or why. Anyway, maybe I have a terrible vocabulary . . . or I can’t grasp geography . . . or something.” I trailed off weakly, losing all steam at the end of my quasi defense.

  Joshua began to laugh outright. “You’re cute when you’re angry, you know that?”

  “Ugh,” I moaned, wrinkling my nose in disgust. Well, at least a little disgust. “That’s patronizing, Joshua.”

  More laughter, and then: “See? Good vocabulary. ‘Patronizing’ has four syllables.”

  Despite myself, I laughed out loud too.

  Soon enough I forgave his teasing. For the rest of the afternoon, however, I made sure to keep almost the entire conversation focused on him, diverting his questions to get as much information about him as possible.

  I learned that he’d just turned eighteen in August (it was currently late September, and a Monday—I couldn’t get over this new awareness of time, mostly because it was previously so absent) and that Joshua lived with his parents, his grandmother, and his sixteen-year-old-sister, Jillian.

  I pressed him about what he did for fun, and he reluctantly confessed to his place as a center fielder on the school baseball team. When I pushed the subject, Joshua spoke about his athletic ability with modesty. But I could hear the pride in his voice when he speculated that a baseball scholarship, coupled with his good grades, would probably pay his way through college.

  “It’s not my absolute favorite thing in the world,” Joshua said, “but I do like playing. College ball couldn’t hurt my chances of becoming a sportswriter, either. Besides, I don’t think my folks are looking forward to paying tuition at two colleges, at the same time.”

  “Jillian wants to go to college too?”

  “She’d better,” he nearly growled. I leaned back, surprised by the fiercely protective look now on his face. I arched my eyebrows to demand some kind of explanation. Joshua sat forward, resting one elbow on his knee and gesturing in the air with his fr
ee hand as he spoke.

  “Jillian . . . well, Jillian is kind of a pain in the ass right now. She’s just as smart as the rest of us, maybe smarter. She’s almost like you when it comes to math.” He gave me a quick, sly smile, and I looked down at my crossed leg—an unsuccessful attempt to hide my pleased embarrassment.

  “But,” he went on, “it’s really important to her to . . . blend in, or something.”

  “Not to you, though?”

  I couldn’t help but ask. Joshua didn’t seem offended, because he just laughed.

  “Nope, not to me. I do fit, which is the ironic thing. But within reason, I’m going to do what I want without worrying about what other people think.”

  “Like talking to an invisible dead girl?”

  “Exactly.” Joshua grinned, but then the corner of his mouth quirked up in thought. “You know, this might actually have something to do with Ruth.”

  “Huh?”

  “My grandma Ruth. She’s the one who told me ghost stories about the bridge when I was a kid. She’s into all that communing-with-the-spirits stuff . . . she and a group of old ladies from around here.”

  I balked. “What, like a coven?”

  Joshua frowned. Clearly, the fact that he had a ghost-obsessed grandmother hadn’t really struck him as relevant until now. He pondered the thought for a moment and then shook his head, albeit a little indecisively.

  “I don’t think so,” he said. “I do know they believe in a lot of unbelievable things. I guess I always thought they were full of it . . . until today.”

  Joshua gave me an appraising look, and I ducked my head again. I understood his look well enough: I was one of those unbelievable things.

  Shakily, I asked, “Do you think she’d have a problem with me? With my . . . existence?”

  Joshua shook his head again, looking slightly more assured. “No way. Even though Ruth believes in ghosts, it’s not like she can see them. Besides, she’d probably just be excited to know I proved all her theories right if I told her about you.”

  My laugh heightened in pitch, betraying the apprehension I suddenly felt about this topic. “Well, let’s just agree you’re not going to give her a Ouija board anytime soon, okay?”

  Joshua must not have noticed my anxiety, because he laughed, too, and settled easily against the concrete table. He was right about his grandmother, of course; my performance in his classroom, unseen by anyone but him, proved it. Yet this seemed like a good moment to change the subject from the supernatural, so I launched into another series of questions about his life.

  We continued talking long enough for the gray clouds to clear completely from the sky and then for the subsequent blue to shift into pinks and purples. As the sky changed, Joshua spoke a little about his friends, but mostly about the things he loved: horror movies I’d never seen and musicians I’d never heard of (surprise, surprise, so long after my death), but also literature. When he mentioned how much he liked Ernest Hemingway, an immediate response leaped out of my mouth before I even had time to ponder it.

  “Ugh, I hate the way Hemingway writes.”

  “Huh? I thought you said you couldn’t remember anything about yourself?”

  “I can’t. I don’t,” I floundered. “But . . . I think . . . I do remember not liking Hemingway.”

  In reaction to the very name of the author, I had another one of those strange flashes. Suddenly, an image was bright and clear in my mind: a book in my hands, a thin paperback collection of short stories I read while sitting cross-legged in the grass. Summer sun lit up the memory, brighter than the one now setting upon Joshua and me.

  I struggled to shake myself from the reverie; and when I did, Joshua looked at me expectantly, almost excitedly. I went on, frowning from the effort to recall the details of the flash.

  “I remember . . . I actually remember reading this short story . . . something about a woman and man having this awful conversation while he’s dying on safari. Anyway, I remember thinking, ‘This is not for me.’”

  We were silent for a beat, and then he blew out one heavy breath. “I guess I’d have to question your literary judgment but . . . well, I’ll be damned, Amelia.”

  “Yeah.” I paused and then, reverently, added, “Dude.”

  Joshua laughed and reached absently to brush his fingers across the back of my hand, which I’d laid on top of the bench. The sudden burn on my skin was familiar now—no less fantastic than it was earlier today but a little more expected. And very welcome.

  I shivered at his touch, and, inexplicably, the edges of my vision began to blur. At first I thought the shiver had done something to my eyesight. But I quickly realized the change in my vision had nothing to do with my shaking.

  Judging from the abrupt shift in my surroundings, I was having another flash. This flash, which followed so soon on the heels of the last one, seemed to have pulled me into some nighttime setting.

  Now I knelt in the grass, huddled over a cold, metal object. A small telescope, I think, propped up on short, tripod legs. I couldn’t really focus on the telescope, though, because my face was tilted up to the night.

  Above me, the sky was the kind you could only find in a place almost devoid of man-made lights. I could see the stars—all of them at once, it seemed. Millions of them washed across the sky, glittering and flickering in the darkness. I wanted to gasp from the impossible beauty of them, but the flash wouldn’t let me; apparently, whatever memory I was experiencing, I had no control over it.

  I’d resolved to enjoy the view for however long it lasted when a noise from behind startled me.

  “Focus, Amelia,” a female voice cautioned. “You aren’t going to get a science credit if you don’t at least try to finish your work.”

  Beyond my control, the flash-me sighed. “Yeah, yeah, Mom. And if I wasn’t homeschooled, class would’ve been over about six hours ago.”

  My thoughts raced. My mom? I was talking to my mom?

  I wanted so badly for the woman to continue speaking, for the flash to keep going, I felt almost physical pain when it ended, shimmering and fading around me until the afternoon sunlight flooded back into sight.

  Now I was free to gasp all I wanted.

  I dragged in a ragged breath, one that must have frightened Joshua, because he immediately spun around to face me.

  “Amelia?” he asked. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

  I shook my head. “I . . . I’m not sure. I think I just remembered something else.”

  “What?”

  For the briefest second, I thought about lying to him. I had the inexplicable urge to keep this memory all to myself, to hoard it away like some secret. But looking up into his midnight blue eyes, the moment passed. I didn’t want to keep anything from him; I wasn’t even sure I could.

  “My mom,” I answered. “I remembered my mom, I think.”

  He flopped heavily against the picnic table, obviously stunned. “What do you mean? Did you see her?”

  “No, I just heard her voice.”

  “Huh,” he said, staring blankly out into the tree line. “I think I’m a little confused by how this ‘remembering’ thing works for you, Amelia.”

  “You and me both,” I muttered, looking down at the bench.

  Concentrating on the cracks and imperfections in the concrete beneath me, I tried to recall what I’d heard: the tenor of my mother’s voice, the flavor of her words. Were we fighting in that memory? Had she been angry with me, or I with her?

  When I looked up at Joshua, I realized he had turned back to me and was waiting for some further response.

  I sighed and shrugged. “Honestly, Joshua, I have no idea how I’m remembering all this stuff. Or why. I kind of think it has something to do with you, actually.”

  Joshua blinked. “Me? Why?”

  “These flashes of memory—I never had them before I met you. And now I’m getting them more and more. Twice, just now, while we were talking. So . . . I think maybe you might have triggered the mem
ories somehow.”

  Joshua pondered the suggestion for a moment and then he broke into a huge grin. “Well, that’s a good thing, right?”

  I bit my lip, frowning. “Yeah, I guess so. It’s just a lot to take in, you know?”

  “Definitely,” Joshua murmured. I could tell from the glow in his eyes, however, that he wasn’t really thinking about how this was a lot to take in; he looked . . . excited. Thrilled, in fact. He confirmed my suspicions with an emphatic nod. “No matter what, Amelia, you have to admit it’s still pretty cool.”

  “Cool?” I raised one eyebrow.

  “Yeah, you know—cool. Kick ass. Awesome. Etcetera.”

  In spite of myself, I laughed. “Joshua Mayhew, the sunny optimist?”

  Joshua grinned. “Always. Which means we need to celebrate.”

  “And how exactly are we going to do that?”

  Smiling wider, Joshua didn’t answer. Instead, he pushed himself into a standing position and turned to face me.

  “I, for one, have to get to dinner at the Mayhew house, since I’m at least an hour late.”

  “Oh,” I said, frowning.

  I’d completely forgotten about his need to return to a family at the end of a day. Or his need to eat, honestly. These things were necessary for him. And he obviously needed to leave to do them. The ache in my chest curled at the thought of watching him drive away, but I tried to keep the sound of it out of my voice.

  “I guess . . . I’ll see you tomorrow, or something? We’ll celebrate then?”

  A strange look passed over Joshua’s face, one I couldn’t place. As he had when we’d spoken yesterday—was it really only yesterday we’d had our first full conversation?—he ran one hand through his hair and left it on the back of his neck.

  After a moment of awkward silence, I realized what I was missing: Joshua looked shy, even embarrassed. Bold, confident Joshua Mayhew actually seemed nervous about something. He stared at me for a moment and then must have gathered up the courage to ask one, halting question.

  “Actually, I was thinking you might like to come over tonight to meet my family?”