Haunt Me

  A couple of times I’ve thought of trying to escape the loneliness at home by looking things up online. Looking him up. I’ve come close, but I always stop myself. I’m scared of what I might see. And anyway, what good would it do? How would it make anything better? It wouldn’t. It could only make me feel worse, so I haven’t done it.

  Meanwhile, back in the real world, Olly shrugs. “Suit yourself,” he says as he turns around, running off with a soccer ball under one arm and his phone in the other.

  There’s something about the gesture that reminds me of something.

  What is it? Where have I seen it before?

  Then I remember. I haven’t seen the gesture — I’ve read about it. It was in Joe’s description of Olly in the poem he showed me. What was it?

  SOCCER BALL IN ONE HAND, HIS PHONE IN THE OTHER —

  THAT’S LIFE FOR MY EASY-COME, EASY-GO BROTHER.

  It’s exactly right. Exactly what he’s doing now. The thought of it makes me feel odd — Joe describing his brother in such an accurate way, exactly as I’m seeing him in front of me right now.

  I try to remember the rest of the poem. See how much of it matches up. Something about how Joe wished he could swap bodies with him.

  There was more. What was that line? Didn’t it say something about how Olly was the only person he could tell everything to? I know almost all of the poem. I’ve read and reread it countless times over the weekend. What was it again?

  HE STRUTS AROUND SCHOOL LIKE A HOMECOMING KING —

  AND YET STILL HE’S THE ONE I CAN TELL ANYTHING.

  It’s so true. He does strut. In fact, he’s exactly the kind of boy I’ve always kept my distance from. The kind that never notices me anyway, so it’s not hard. The kind where there’s a mutually agreed invisible fence separating us, keeping us out of each other’s space, each other’s lives — each other’s awareness, even.

  But not now. For whatever reason, Olly seems to want to know me. Even if it is only out of guilt for acting like such an idiot with me when we last met. And even though the feeling isn’t remotely reciprocated, I realize now that I was too quick to dismiss him.

  He’s walking away, and I can’t let him. Rose’s words come back to me. She said that there’s a chance Joe might have been banished to the next-most significant place. If Joe told Olly everything, then perhaps he’s my only chance of finding out where that place might be.

  I must be desperate. Well, I know I’m desperate. But I’d have to be, because there is no way on this earth that I would ever have imagined I would do what I do next. Quiet little mouse me, the one who does everything she can not to be noticed, to melt into the background, to avoid causing a fuss or creating a drama. Or attracting the attention of one of the most popular boys in the school.

  For the next couple of seconds, I forget that’s the person I’m meant to be, and I force myself to be someone completely different.

  “Hey!”

  Someone’s shouting across the yard.

  “Hey. Olly.”

  I turn around and point at my chest. “You talking to me?” I ask.

  The girl blushes, and I feel bad. “Or the other Olly?” I ask, trying to make a joke. I’m a bit rusty at that kind of thing, though, and it falls flat.

  “Oh, is there another one?” she asks. “I —”

  “Relax,” I say. “I’m pulling your leg.” I fall into step with her and we walk together.

  “Look, if you really want to apologize, I’ll let you take me for a coffee,” she says in a voice that’s so flat and miserable, it sounds like she’s agreeing to let me put her dog down.

  Bizarrely, I quite like it. Sure, it’s not how things used to work. But that was then; this is now. I don’t deserve anything better. Maybe what I really need is exactly this: a reality check. Someone who can see that everything is pointless and stupid, instead of the girls I used to date, the ones who spent longer pouting at themselves into their camera phones than actually indulging in conversation with me. Not that it bothered me. I was no different.

  But I am now.

  Which is why I can’t help smiling at her again.

  She scowls. “What?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing,” I say. My voice comes out more softly than I’ve heard it for a while. “Good. I’m glad. How about tomorrow after school? There’s a place in town, Charabungas.”

  “I know it, yeah,” she says. “Spotted the crazy name when my dad forced us all to go out and have ice cream over the weekend.”

  I laugh. I like her.

  “OK, how about meeting there at five tomorrow?”

  She nods. “Cool.”

  “Cool,” I echo. Tongue-tied. Seriously? When have I ever been tongue-tied?

  She keeps on walking. I keep on accompanying her. Feeling like a fool walking alongside her. “Right. I’ll . . . er, I’d better get going,” I say after a few more paces, pointing at my soccer ball. “Lads’ll be waiting for me.”

  “OK,” she says.

  “See you tomorrow, then.” I start jogging again. Couple of steps later, I turn around, jogging backward. “I look forward to it,” I add.

  “Sure,” she replies.

  What is it with her? Why am I drawn to a miserable emo girl who doesn’t even seem to like me? What the hell am I even doing making this arrangement, never mind looking forward to it? Because it’s true. I am looking forward to seeing her. There’s something about her. She’s different from all the girls I know. Different from all the girls I’ve ever bothered with. So, why? Why am I bothering with her?

  There’s a thought at the back of my mind. An answer to my question.

  I’m trying my hardest to push it away, but it’s like a boulder, gathering pace as it comes toward me, and I’m not sure I can avoid it. It keeps rolling as I jog away to join my mates on the soccer field.

  Then, with a thud that plows into my chest so hard it doubles me over and I can barely breathe for a moment, let alone run, it hits me.

  She’s the kind of girl Joe would have gone for.

  As I continue walking home, something’s niggling at me. For once, I wish I had Phoebe with me but she’s staying for volleyball club. Shame. Her incessant chatter would distract me enough to take my mind off whatever it is.

  No such luck. My mind isn’t prepared to let me off that easily. Doesn’t take long to figure out what the feeling is.

  Guilt. I can feel the anxiety levels rise as I pinpoint the word. I need to calm it down.

  A list.

  FIVE REASONS I DO NOT

  NEED TO FEEL GUILTY

  1. It’s only a coffee.

  2. I’m only doing it in case it can help me find out more about Joe. Maybe even find that he still exists somewhere else. However unlikely that might be.

  3. Joe is gone.

  4. I don’t even like this guy. He’s rude and bad-tempered.

  5. Like I said, it’s only a coffee.

  By the time I get home, I’ve managed to quash the feelings down enough to put them to one side. Which is good timing, because once I’m home, I need to be ready to put on my happy smiley face, and play happy smiley family, and do everything I can to avoid my parents even remotely suspecting that I might be grieving for my boyfriend who is not only a ghost but who they have exorcised from the house and thus broken my heart.

  Because there really isn’t any way I will ever be able to explain that one to them. Not without a return trip to the therapist’s chair. And believe me, I had enough fun there last time to keep me going for a good while yet.

  I skillfully negotiate the “Nice day, darling?” greetings from Mum and Dad. I give them a few answers that will keep them reassured that all is well at school. Give them a few smiles that will keep them happy that all is well with me.

  And then I head up to my room.

  I try to ignore the banging in my chest as I open the door. Try to stop the little voice inside me from asking, “What if he’s there? What if he’s come back?” as I slope into my be
droom.

  Because, as usual, the answer is “He isn’t and he hasn’t.”

  These evenings are getting longer and lonelier and harder to wade through.

  And the fact that I’ve got a date with Joe’s brother tomorrow only makes everything feel even worse.

  Tuesday, ten to five. I’m waiting outside the café. Bit early. I lift my phone to my face, pretend I’m studying a message really closely, when what I’m really doing is switching the camera to selfie mode and checking that my hair looks all right.

  It’s not like me to care what a girl thinks of me. Especially not lately — my own opinion of myself is so low, it doesn’t usually matter what someone else thinks of me. Still.

  “Hi.”

  She’s by my side. I shove my phone in my pocket and pull my bangs out of my eyes. “Hi,” I say, like an awkward kid. The thought makes me laugh.

  The girl looks at me with a question in her eyes.

  That’s when I suddenly realize — I don’t even know her name. That makes me laugh again. Nervously.

  The question in her eyes turns to an awkward grimace. “Is something funny?” she asks defensively.

  “No. Sorry. It’s not you, it’s —”

  Now it’s her turn to laugh. “It’s not you, it’s me? We’re at that point already? And we’ve hardly even exchanged names.”

  I stare at her. “Yeah, that’s kind of what I was laughing at,” I mumble. “Look. Shall we start again?”

  “Might not be a bad idea,” she agrees.

  “OK, I’m Olly.”

  I hold out my hand. She stares at it. “We’re shaking hands?” she asks. “That’s what we’re doing?”

  I pull my hand away. Move toward her to kiss her cheek instead. She flinches as if I were about to throw a cockroach down her top.

  “Maybe let’s go with a handshake after all,” she says, holding her hand out to me. “Hi, Olly. I’m Erin.”

  We shake hands. It’s awkward. Odd. Different.

  But maybe awkward, odd, and different is exactly what I need in my life. It would certainly fit with how I feel about most things nowadays. “Nice to meet you, Erin,” I say. Then I take a step back and hold the café door open for her. “Shall we . . . ?”

  Three things that happen in the café that afternoon that completely throw me off balance.

  Thing one: time passes really quickly.

  Thing two: we seem to laugh quite a lot. I don’t even know what we laugh about. Stupid things, like showing each other our favorite YouTube videos (his: the one with a guy falling off a playground ride; mine: the one with a ferret falling off a cupboard) and then laughing about trying to figure out why falling over is so funny.

  Thing three: I feel really comfortable with him. We talk so easily. Not even about anything. It’s not like with Joe, where everything we talk about feels important and intense. In fact, it’s probably the opposite. We chat about the bad weather and stupid school rules and TV and — I don’t know. I can’t explain it. It’s just easy.

  All of which adds up to a fourth thing: a helping of guilt so heavy it actually feels like a weight settling on my shoulders. And in my heart.

  I can’t be doing this.

  But then, what am I doing that’s so bad? It’s only a coffee.

  I check my watch. It’s nearly six thirty.

  “Sorry, am I boring you?” Olly asks, with that slow smile that only the confident can smile. So different from Joe’s. It seems to come so easily. Joe’s is a hard-won prize.

  “Actually, no, I was just thinking how fast the time has passed.” I bite my lip immediately. Did that sound like I was flirting? I can’t flirt with him.

  “Me, too,” Olly says, smiling again. “We should do it again.”

  That has me stumped. I mean, really. Why? Why is he interested in me? Am I just a challenge because I’m not fawning all over him? Is he just the type who wants what he can’t have?

  Either way, it’s time I did something about getting the information I came for. I spent last night rereading Joe’s poems, looking for clues, looking for answers. I didn’t find any — but I did at least find some questions. Some of them jumped out at me like big signposts. The line in his poem about Olly:

  AND YET STILL HE’S THE ONE I CAN TELL ANYTHING.

  What did he tell Olly? What might Olly know that could lead me to him?

  And then there was this verse:

  YESTERDAY I RAN TO THE CLIFFS,

  STARED INTO THE ROARING DEPTHS,

  BEGGED FOR SOMEONE TO LISTEN —

  THE WIND THREW MY TEARS OFF THE EDGE.

  Which cliffs did he run to? I remember when we talked, he told me there was a place he used to go to when he wanted to get away from everything. He said he sat there for hours on end, writing poems, looking out at the sea. He had a poetry cave there or something.

  Where was that place? Why did I never ask him? I guess I never realized how significant it could be. And it probably isn’t. I know I have to face up to the fact that he’s gone, but I can’t stop thinking about what Rose said: that if he’s got unfinished business, he might be somewhere else with an emotional connection. Well, surely he’s got unfinished business. Me.

  And if anyone has a chance of helping me find the place, it’s the boy sitting across the table from me now.

  Which is what gives me the nerve to smile at him and say, “I’d love to do it again. How about tomorrow? Maybe we could go for a walk or something?”

  And I only feel a tiny bit bad about it.

  We’ve arranged to meet outside the huts at the end of the beach. Like yesterday, I’m here first. This time I keep my phone in my pocket. I don’t want to get caught again. Plus, I’ve figured out by now that she’s not the kind of girl who’s obsessed with how someone looks. I had never realized I’d gotten so used to being with a girl who took constant selfies of us together, who wore so much makeup you’re not sure if they’re real at all. How had I ever thought that was what I wanted?

  This girl — Erin — is like a breath of fresh sea air next to my ex Zoe’s thickly painted facade.

  And you don’t question fresh air, do you? You just open up and let it wash over you. You let it make you feel revived and cleansed and alive.

  She’s coming toward me. Head down against the wind, sunglasses on against the brightness, hat covering up most of her hair, hands thrust in her pockets. Watching her walking toward me before she’s noticed me, I get the chance to look at her properly. I can’t do it when she’s with me — any time I look at her for longer than a second, she always turns away or hides her face under her hair or something.

  It’s as if everything about her is closed off. What is she protecting herself from? What is she hiding from?

  And why do I have the urge to tell her I’ll keep her safe?

  “Hi!” I amble over to join her.

  She looks up. “Hey.”

  I’m not going to offer her a handshake this time. And I don’t really want to make her flinch from me either, so we settle for an awkward wave/nod/smile.

  “Where d’you fancy walking, then?” I ask.

  She pauses, looks uncomfortable for a moment. Like I’ve asked her a really difficult question and she has to think hard to figure out how to answer it. I’m pretty sure all I asked was where she’d like to go for a walk.

  She answers slowly. Carefully.

  “It would be nice to walk somewhere special,” she says. “Maybe somewhere a bit different. I’ve seen the touristy side of the town. I’d love to see somewhere less well known. Maybe along the coast path — somewhere that’s special to you, or like a special family place, or something like that.”

  I stare at her. She sounds like she’s reciting a speech she’s learned by heart. A special family place? Who the hell has a special family place?

  I realize I’m still staring, and she’s probably expecting a reply.

  “I . . . I . . .” I begin. Nope, still not sure where to go from there. She looks disappointed
, and I realize I don’t want to disappoint her. Then I have a thought. It’s not exactly a special family place. But it was special to one member of the family. It was special to Joe.

  My hands start shaking at the thought of my brother, so I shove them in my pockets and shove the thoughts down with them and hope she hasn’t noticed.

  I tell myself it’s just a place. Just cliffs, grass, sea. It doesn’t mean anything. Taking Erin there might even be a good way to make a new association with it. I can’t avoid going anywhere near the coast path for the rest of my life.

  In fact, the more I think about it, the more it seems like a good plan. Shut out the past, put it behind me forever, and let in the future. Something like that.

  “OK, let’s go,” I say. “I know just the place.”

  Dust. Or is it sand? In my mouth. Dry. Feels like a rock in the desert.

  So thirsty. Lying on my back.

  Where am I?

  I move, shift to my side. Everything aches. Hurts to move.

  How long have I been here?

  I drag myself up. Sit for a moment while I get my bearings. Then — slowly, slowly — I stand. Look around.

  I know where I am.

  I stagger to the edge of the cave. My cave. My rocky hideout. I’ve been asleep. For — how long?

  Bit by bit, it comes back to me. Erin and me in the house. That woman, doing that thing, chanting about — what was it? The light. White light, that’s it. The light took me.

  I look around again and almost smile. It brought me here.

  Brushing myself down, I stumble out of the cave’s entrance. The light hurts my eyes, and I can barely see. Sitting on the rocks, I rub my eyes and try to figure it all out as I blink in the daylight and look out at the ocean.

  How long was I in there?

  Why have I woken up now?

  The sea calms my thoughts — just as it always did. The waves washing over the edges of the rocks low down on the promontory. I breathe in as I turn full circle, looking around. This is my place. If I am here, I will be OK.