Haunted

by Susan Oloier

  I spear a spinach leaf, but take a mere nibble of it when it reaches my mouth. I don’t feel hungry at all. Actually, I don’t feel much of anything at all. I thought going to the cemetery would help in some small way. But instead it’s pushed all this pain to the surface. Hurt I’ve worked so hard to stuff down and anesthetize.

  “It was fine,” I lie.

  “Listen, I’m not trying to push, but…” my mom says while clearing salad dressings and finished plates from the table, “…have you called Dr. Wheeler yet?” Her words are set out like fine pieces of china.

  Dr. Wheeler will just want to rehash everything. Take me back to the night and psychoanalyze it to death. “Not yet.”

  “How about Layla?” she asks in a way that reminds me of a tiptoe.

  I shake my head. Honestly, I can’t face her either. Or any of our friends.

  School rapidly approaches. Senior year with all those significant landmarks: Homecoming dance, the holidays, Nationals, prom, and graduation. And I’ll have to face them all alone. It’s something I absolutely can’t handle. Walking the same hallways, staring into the same faces as last year, this time with no one to hold my hand through it all. I realize, in those questions posed by my mom, I simply can’t go back to my old life or my old school. Being in the library made me realize it in exponential ways. I need to get as far away as possible from all of it.

  “I want to go to Bloomfield,” I blurt.

  Both of my parents freeze. My dad’s fork stops in mid-bite. My mom sets the last of the utensils in the dishwasher, turns, and faces me with an uncertain stare. Her eyebrows knit together as she considers how to approach the subject. “But Dr. Wheeler said—”

  “He said it was my decision. I can’t go back to Wheaton. I just can’t.”

  My mom nods, and she and my dad exchange a look.

  “It’s starting all over again,” my dad says. “Are you sure it’s what you want to do?”

  “I’d be starting all over again at Wheaton, too. This way, it’ll be easier. Less painful.”

  “Okay,” he says.

  In a matter of mere weeks, I’ll begin a new school.

  In my room, I stand in front of the mirror again, bangs pushed back from my forehead. A wave of nervousness sweeps over me as I stare at the gauze, the thin strip of material separating my stigma from the rest of the world. I gently finger it, knowing the secret power it possesses over me. With a reverence, subservience, I slowly peel the bandage back. The stitches should have dissolved by now—actually weeks ago. But it’s been much easier to keep the repulsive scar covered than to see it everyday and be reminded of the night everything was torn apart. Once the dressing is off, I stare at the disgusting red line on my forehead, outlined by new pink skin. It’s all my eyes land on in the sea of myself—this ugly mark. This shameful thing. And the once-pretty me is now replaced by a hideous beast.

  Jeremy

  I jack my thumb out as I walk backward along the road. I could hoof it the entire way to town, but someone I know is sure to come along.

  A sedan flies by, the driver completely ignoring me. I turn forward and keep walking as I wait for the next vehicle.

  I need to get to a payphone since I lost my cell somewhere. I’ll call Zoe or Hailey, and they’ll come and get me. I’ll get everything sorted out. Figure out this massive confusion that’s taken over my mind.

  I’ve tried over and over again to figure out what happened. How I wound up on the cemetery grounds. When I left, my car was nowhere to be found. So many scenarios swirl through my head. Hailey and I had a fight, so she drove off with my car. I got so drunk at a party—which is not always unheard of for me—and was ditched by friends in the cemetery as a joke. Knowing Cal, that’s likely to be the case.

  An SUV grows from the distance. I hear the bass booming and getting solidly closer. I can already tell it’s Erik’s Yukon as the pushed-in bumper comes into view. I walk backward again and jut my thumb outward. Without question, he’ll stop and pick me up. We’ve been friends since middle school. I bet he drove out for that sole purpose—to razz me about my overzealousness at the party and tell me what I freak I am to stay in a graveyard for so long.

  But as the Yukon closes in on me, it never slows. Instead, it zooms past at top speed, completely oblivious to me standing like a moron with my thumb hitched out into space.

  “Hey!” I yell, thinking this is Erik’s idea of a joke.

  I stop along the sidewalk and wait for him to return. But he doesn’t. Ever. So I think, what did I do to piss him off? It must have been something pretty bad.

  I pick up the pace, hoping to catch up with him in town. Maybe press him at the mini-mart to find out what the deal is. If I’m lucky, he’ll hang out there and order a pizza, which will give me time to get there by foot.

  I’m royally ticked, so I rush along. As I pass under a choke cherry tree, I jump up and grab a fistful of branches. I mean, what the heck. But one of the limbs sticks me hard in the palm of my hand, and I drop everything. I hold my hand to my shirt to stop the blood flow.

  “Jeez, that hurt,” I say to myself.

  Never a fan of blood and gore, I ease my hand out of the cocoon of my shirt. But when I look at it, there’s no blood. Not even a cut or a red mark. Weird.

  Before I know it, I’m standing outside the sprawling building of Wheaton High, and cars are filling the parking lot.

  What in the world is going on? I thought it was summer. I look at my hand again and wonder what’s happening to me.

  Hailey

  I stand on the edge of the parking lot not knowing whether or not I’ve made the right decision. It’s just another high school building. The football field could be a duplicate to the one at Wheaton. Students wear the same clothes they do at any other school, apart from the slight difference in school colors. So much is the same, yet it’s totally different. I have no connection with this place and its people. I’m a stranger in a new land.

  I’ve gone against Dr. Wheeler’s advice in switching schools. I’d be a fool to turn back now. So I march ahead toward the front doors. I weave my way in and out of people in order to avoid contact with anyone. I rummage through my bag to fish out my class schedule with room numbers. Not watching where I’m going, I ram head on into this redhead. I grab hold of her arm in a reflexive move to steady her.

  “Sorry. Oh gosh, I’m so sorry,” I say.

  She gives me the full head to toe, then her eyes land on my hand, which still rests on her arm. I immediately remove it. “Sorry,” I offer again. Her eyes meet mine then peel away, and she turns in the direction she was looking without uttering a word.

  Wow! Not a good start to the first day at a new school. Not at all.

  Eli

  There I stand, staring down the same hallway I’ve taken for the past three years. I’d give anything for a new start, but this is where I am. No point in fighting it.

  For the summer, I’d been able to avoid the backlash from last year, all the gaping looks, the incessant backstabbing and whispers. And the rumors. Those mother-flipping rumors. To make it all so much more intense, there’s the possibility—the very real chance—of running into Madeline. But I put one foot in front of the other and move forward. There’s nowhere else to go. I’m sure as hell not going back. No way.

  And then my reality shatters into a million pieces because there she is. Not Madeline, but the girl from the library. The one with the oh-so-memorable hair and the—what? Definitely something that makes it hard to look away.

  I give myself a proverbial slap. What’s wrong with me? No more women. They’re nothing but trouble. But she just stands there, staring into her locker as if totally lost and in need of a rescue. No. I will not be her knight in shining armor. That got me, well, it got me nowhere fast. Even worse, it got me into serious trouble.

  I suck in a breath of air and head for homeroom, willing myself to ignore her. It’s all well and good to admire her from a far away, aesthetic point of view. But anything
more is out of the question. Madeline showed me that much during junior year. Enough to last me a lifetime.

  I do well through homeroom, scribbling new chords and tampering with melody lines to a song I’ve been working on throughout the summer. Then the bell pulls me out of my Zen. I gather everything together, stuff it all into my bag, and glance at my schedule. First period: English Literature. Egads! No matter which way I turn it in my mind, it sounds awful.

  I navigate the halls, hoping to postpone seeing any ghosts from the past.

  “Hey, man. What’s up?” says Nate, my band mate and friend.

  “On my way to English Lit,” I answer with a roll of the eyes.

  “Have fun with that.”

  We part at the door. I survey the room, then slide into a seat toward the back and delve into my music. Once accepted, I’m now totally stigmatized. Most in class avoid me, so it’s easy to concentrate on other, more important things. And just when I have the most awesome and musically transforming revelation, it completely leaves me. Because there she is again. Library girl. The same lonely look she had at her locker is still there. She stands just inside the door, scoping out a spot. No smile. The bandage she had at the library now gone, replaced by a sweep of bangs. Completely absent of any feeling at all, she appraises the room and finally wanders inside, slipping into a seat down the row from mine. I want to say something to her. After all, we sort of met at the library—if one discounts the fact that she was totally rude. But what’s there to say? You were kind of a jerk to me over the summer? Not worth it, really.

  I hadn’t realized I was looking at her across my shoulder until her eyes meet mine. Again, no smile. Just a look. Then it’s gone, turned inward again. What’s up with this one? What’s her deal? And—better yet—why do I give a rat’s—I bite my lower lip as I do the requisite vocabulary check—posterior?

  The bell. I refocus.

  “Welcome, seniors. You all know the drill, so let’s get right into it, shall we?” Mrs. Stoker says. “We’re starting out with Hamlet this semester. And let’s be honest, few of you are going to like it, but—nonetheless—you have a project due by the end of the semester, and it will be much easier on all of us if you guys simply pair up to do it.

  “Since you know each other already, why don’t you find your partner right now and I’ll get down to the specifics.”

  Wow! I would’ve totally liked this woman had it not been for the whole pairing-up thing. Team work is so not my deal. But, like everything else, I’ll handle it.

  I look around for someone I know, but it appears the most literary-inclined are already taken. Shazit! I say to myself, really wanting to use the more-appropriately designated “F” word.

  I glance over my left shoulder again. Library girl sits there. Clearly, she and I are the only ones left without partners. So naturally we’re expected to team up with one another. But it’s obvious she’s as far from into this as I am. Maybe we could make perfect partners, except she seems to have stunted communication and an aversion to, well, people.

  “You wanna…?” I smile over at her, hoping to start over again.

  I shouldn’t be stunned by her response but, surprisingly, I am. She gets up and walks to the front of the class instead of answering me. The rudeness continues. Has she heard things about me? Been told already about the rumors? I mean, what else could it be?

  Hailey

  “Hi,” this hippyish teacher says as I approach her desk. Already she doesn’t look receptive to what I’m sure she knows is coming.

  “I was wondering—” I start.

  “You want to do the project alone,” she interjects.

  “Yes.”

  She shakes her head. “The thing is, teamwork is a huge part of the real world. It’s also a very real part of your grade. So unless you want to be downgraded to 50 percent, then I strongly suggest you team up with Mr. Carter back there.” She gestures toward the guitar guy from the library, and I turn to follow her gaze. He watches from his seat in the back, while the other students chat amongst themselves. I know he hates me already.

  I look back at the teacher. All she gives me is a shrug.

  “Can I think about it?”

  “Sure.”

  I hang my head as I walk back to my desk. This is so not the new start I wanted when I changed schools. Maybe I should have gone back to Wheaton. At least there, I knew people. I had some of the teachers wrapped around my fingers. They knew my history and would have given me a break. But this one—this woman—has no idea what happened to me. If she did, surely she’d cut me some slack and not force me to make a choice between an English grade and teaming up with someone. She’d intuitively know I want to blend into the walls and be left alone.

  For the rest of class, I bury my head in the text, pretending I’m invisible. This guy—Eli—plans to invite me to be his partner with his warm smile and his being all nice, and I just—what?—draw into myself. I know I should apologize. It’s not about him, but how could he ever know that? I’m determined to remain alone for the duration of senior year. The last thing I need is for him to be sweet to me.

  I stare through the Elizabethan English, silently praying I’ll merge into nothingness where no one knows I exist.

  I asked the instructor if I could think about the 50 percent cut, but everyone who knows me would be able to say straight off what my decision would be. Now I’m not so sure.

  Jeremy

  I’m back at the cemetery again because I never made it to the mini-mart or back home or to Hailey’s house. The trek to town exhausted me, so I turned back. But Hailey will show up. She has to. Otherwise, what am I doing here? I’m certainly not here for the ambiance.

  I look around at the gravesites, imagining dead bodies beneath my feet. I spy weeds snaking up the sides of a marker older than I am. There’s an eerie feeling to standing in the middle of all this death.

  When I glance up, I see the child again. Alone. No parents. I study him in the distance as he sits beside a gravesite nearest to the entrance of the cemetery, turning one of those colorful, plastic pinwheels. Occasionally, he glances in my direction not saying a word, his face expressionless and unreadable.

  A sick feeling edges its way inside my mind. A strange sentiment racks me. But it can’t be. There are no such things as ghosts. There has to be a logical explanation for him.

  I slip down to the ground and sit with my back to a tombstone, against the shadowy place at the back of the cemetery in order to pretend the weird feeling it gives me isn’t there and ever-present.

  The crow caws from atop one of the more elaborate headstones: marbled granite with inlays of black and gold, and an angel—Gabriel or something—perched beneath the stick-like legs of the bird. I’m tired of the beast with its incessant flitting from fence post to gravestone, shrieking its sporadic vocalizations.

  But as I stand to leave, she steps under the entrance arches and through the gate. My heart comes to life. Perhaps the niggling suspicions I had were wrong and Hailey is here as planned after all.

  She pauses just inside the entrance, first surveying the entire scene until the child with his pinwheel catches her eye. She kneels down beside him, and studies the fascination of his toy along with him. She’s always loved children.

  My heart soars because she sees the kid, too. It isn’t just me or my imagination or my fear. The boy is real, not a ghost after all.

  Hailey inches closer to him and reaches out to the plastic pinwheel, which he now holds between his fists. But instead of touching the toy, Hailey glances around, assessing the treetops and the layout of the grounds. Has the boy said something to her?

  Finally, Hailey stands back up and heads toward me. I’m so anxious to finally hold her, to smell the hint of mint fragrance on her skin, to touch the tips of her sun-kissed hair. I want to feel her breath against my ear and to hear and experience the caress of her voice again. She moves gracefully, always the dancer in everything she does. I long to move with her to the acco
mpaniment of our song. I can almost hear the music as she draws near.

  “Hailey,” I say softly as she glides along the pathway. “It’s me.”

  She doesn’t notice and keeps walking.

  “Hailey?” I try again. “Please don’t ignore me. What’d I do?”

  I watch her lean over the same spot as before, and I follow. Sobs replace all other sounds, including the incessant cawing of the crow. “Why, Jeremy?” she asks.

  My stomach lurches at the utterance of my own name. It seems like eons since I’ve heard her voice.

  “Why what?” I dare to ask.

  “Why did you leave?” She breaks into uncontrollable weeping.

  “I didn’t leave,” I insist, nudging her into awareness. “I’m right here.”

  But she’s oblivious to my touch.

  “I miss you so much,” she speaks through choked sobs. My head swims with dizziness. What’s going on? I move toward her. Closer, closer, until I kneel beside her, afraid to glimpse the headstone.

  “I love you, Hailey,” I hear myself say even though I’m still processing what I guess I’ve already known since the last time she was here.

  I look at the marker to confirm my suspicions and see my name carved in granite. My birth date. My death date. I’m dead, and Hailey’s still alive. And this place where she hovers—this is my gravesite. How did I not know this? Why was I under the illusion I was still alive? I have no memory of anything leading up to being here. What happened? My head spins. But I pull myself out of those thoughts, trying to appreciate Hailey’s presence even though it breaks my heart to see her in pieces and—God, no—to know I’ll never be with her again.