Ghostgirl ~ JB Salsbury

by JB Salsbury

  “Is it everything you thought it’d be?”

  My voice seems to snap her out of her fog, and she looks down at me. “It’s more. I’ve read about it in books and seen photos, but I never dreamed I’d one day see it.”

  “This is just a small part of what all there is to see. There are different oceans, entire continents covered in ice, strings of tiny islands that sit in crystal-clear water, gigantic mountains that spew lava.”

  When she doesn’t respond, I turn and see her sunglasses aimed at me. “Go on.”

  I shrug and chuckle. “I don’t know about everything. I’ve never been more than a few hours out of town in all directions. I guess that’s where we’re similar. Everything I know I’ve only ever seen on TV.”

  “Maybe someday we could see some of these things you talk about. Maybe someday we could go together.”

  Not likely. I’ll be working my ass off, living paycheck to paycheck to support myself and the boys. I’m twenty years old, with the responsibilities of a forty-year-old man with two kids. But I see no harm in living out the fantasy for a few minutes with a girl who needs something good to hold onto, some kind of light at the end of the darkness that was her life, something to make her feel normal.

  “Yeah, sure. I think we should go to the Bahamas first. We could rent a little boat and motor around all the tiny islands. Hell, we could claim one for ourselves, put up our flag, build a place to live, and never have to deal with assholes again.”

  I expect her to laugh, but she doesn’t. “And then where would we go, after we built our house on our own island? Where to next?”

  “Then we’d go to the desert. The pyramids of Egypt. We’d find an old tomb filled with treasure and use it to fund our next stop, which would be . . . ?” I look over at her, eyebrows raised.

  “Oh, um . . .” She chews her bottom lip. “South Dakota?”

  I burst out laughing.

  “What?” She’s smiling too.

  “Nothing. South Dakota it is.”

  “I want to see the men’s faces etched into the mountain.”

  “Absolutely. Then where?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, what is there to see after that? What’s better than men’s faces carved into a mountainside?” She’s dead serious, which is so fucking hysterical that I burst out laughing again.

  “What?”

  “Nothing, Güera. You’re right. You just can’t top that.” I pick at some dried seaweed in the sand. “Ya know, if you take your psychiatrist’s advice, listen to Laura.” Translation: pretending to be normal and not healing people. “You could have all the time in the world to do and see whatever you want.”

  “What you mean is, if I stop believing I’m an angel.”

  Okay. “I wasn’t going to say it out loud, but . . . yeah.”

  She nods and pulls her eyes from the ocean to stare at the sand between her toes. “I’m trying.”

  “I know you are. But you’re going to have to try harder.” I lean in close so that our shoulders touch. “You tried to heal Julian.”

  She stills, her entire body turning to stone. I lean away, giving her space while waiting for her response, which never comes.

  Miguel and Julian show up with what’s left of chocolate ice-cream cones while Mercy goes back to staring at the water.

  “Mercy, come in the water with me!” Julian grabs Mercy’s hand, and she doesn’t hesitate to get to her feet.

  I hop up too, and Miguel smiles as he watches the three of us make our way to the water’s edge.

  The second Mercy’s pale toes hit the water, she squeals, breaking a little of the stone she’d built around herself earlier. “It’s cold!”

  “Don’t worry!” Jules yells over the sound of the breaking waves. “Your feet will go numb soon, and you won’t feel it! Come on!” Julian pulls her deeper until she’s in to her ankles.

  They laugh as he teaches her how to jump the little waves as they roll in. The wind tosses her long, white hair, and when one big wave takes Jules to his butt, she throws her head back, laughing from her belly so hard that I can’t help but chuckle.

  A couple hours pass, and when the tops of Mercy’s knees start to look a little too pink and she’s filled both her pockets with seashells, we decide to call it a day. The ride home is slow in Los Angeles traffic, but the car is quiet as everyone else dozes off. Everyone except Mercy.

  Her legs are tucked up on the seat, and she uses her folded hands as a pillow against the window as she stares forward with a peaceful smile on her face.

  All the worry from my talk with Laura disappears. Mercy will adapt to this new life. They won’t take her away and lock her up again. I’ll make sure of it. And if she doesn’t adapt, if they want her, they’ll have to pry her from my grip to take her.

  Milo

  I KNOW THE second I walk through the Washington High parking lot on Friday that I should’ve stayed in bed. Mercy’s at my side, and since the sun is well hidden behind a thick sheet of dark clouds, she’s wearing her sweatshirt with the hood down and no sunglasses. As always, Miguel’s a few yards in front of us. His feet hit the school’s front steps, and we’re still weaving our way through the cars when Mercy slams to a halt.

  Her eyes are as big and bright as her smile. I’m sure mine are too as her happiness is infectious.

  “What is that?” The awestruck levity to her voice is nearly impossible to pull myself away from, but I turn toward the direction she’s looking.

  My smile falls instantly.

  Balloons.

  At least two dozen gold and pink balloons are tied to Carrie’s Jeep, along with a poster-board sign stuck to the spare tire that reads Happy 18th Birthday in matching pink-glitter paint.

  Mercy stands right up next to the Jeep, her chin lifted so high that her hair touches her ass as she studies the decorations. “How do they fly?”

  For a moment, I forget my current dilemma, wondering how it’s possible that Mercy doesn’t know about balloons. Reality quickly comes crashing in, and I clear my throat. “They’re filled with helium. It’s lighter than air, so it makes ʼem float. If you suck that shit in, it makes you sound like Mickey Mouse.”

  Her gaze swings to mine, and she’s smiling but also looks a little confused, as though she’s trying to figure out if I’m lying, and as always, I’m tempted to kiss the grin from those gorgeous full lips.

  She sees the poster board and mouths happy birthday.

  “We should probably get going,” I say.

  She cranks her head around to see the over-the-top decorations one more time over her shoulder as she moves toward the front of the school. The building looks like a party store blew up all over it, decked out in banners and streamers advertising the prom on Saturday. I’m suddenly sick to my stomach.

  “What’s that supposed to be?” Mercy points at the biggest banner, which hangs over the school’s front doors.

  “Snow. The prom committee’s made up of a bunch of Harry Potter nerds, so they’re throwing a Yule Ball prom. I’ve overheard the geeked-out conversations about Beauxbatons and Durmstrang or some shit while I’m dumping the garbage when they meet in the library on Thursdays.”

  Her nose crinkles, and damn, it’s fucking cute. “What’s that?”

  “No clue, Güera.” I can’t stand not touching her for another second, so I throw my arm over her shoulder and guide her through the doors. “I’ll never understand the stuff gringos are into . . .” My words trail off when I come face-to-face with Carrie, who’s glaring at me as though I stood her up for a date.

  She’s wearing a tiny crown and an attention-getting pink dress that matches the balloons on her car.

  I’m about to wish her a happy birthday, but she aims that glare at Mercy, and the words dissolve in my throat.

  “Aww.” She crosses her arms over her chest, kicks out a hip, and looks at Amber, who seems confused, but that’s nothing new. “How cute are Milo and his sister?” Her cold eyes swing back to Mercy and then track to
mine.

  “She’s not my sister.” To prove that point, I tuck Mercy closer to my side.

  Carrie and Mercy respond simultaneously—Carrie recoils, and Mercy curls in tight to my ribs, and damn, she feels good at my hip.

  I realize belatedly what I’ve just done.

  In the LS, when a vato brings his woman to a party, he makes sure every dick in the place knows who she’s with. If anyone fucks with her, they’d have to answer not only to him but to every single one of his Saint brothers. You don’t disrespect a cholo’s jaina.

  It was instinctual, I hardly thought it through, but what’s done is done, and now Mercy is well and thoroughly claimed.

  Carrie can’t fully comprehend my actions, but as Damian walks up, his eyes practically fall out of his skull as he studies my protective hold on Mercy.

  “Hey . . .” He stands between Carrie and me. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing.” I tilt my head, daring Carrie to say whatever vicious thing she seems to be brewing up in her head. “I was just about to wish the birthday girl here a happy birthday.”

  Damian smiles, but it’s awkward. “Right. I uh . . . I saw that in the parking lot. Happy birthday.”

  “Happy birthday, Carrie.” Mercy’s soft voice has the effect of a lightning strike on the birthday girl.

  It snaps Carrie out of her confusion and hurtles her into straight-up bitch. She grins, and it’s all sugar-sweet condescension. “Aww, honey, you’re so sweet. Now”—she flicks her wrist—“run along with all the other special-ed kids, or you’ll miss out on all the paste eating.”

  “Carrie!” I’ve never wanted to slap a woman in my entire life until now.

  Carrie’s face morphs into pure evil as she seems to enjoy the response picking on Mercy brings out of me. This shit is over right fucking now.

  “Damian, walk Mercy to class.” I hug Mercy close and make eye contact with Carrie when I dip down and press my lips to the top of Mercy’s head.

  I feel more than hear the quick intake of Ghostgirl’s breath against my chest.

  My cousin corrals Mercy, using his body as a shield, and she looks up at me with concern.

  “I’ll see you at lunch.”

  She nods, and Damian leads her away.

  Once they’re out of sight, I target Carrie. “Amber, I need a minute alone with your friend.”

  “Um . . .” Amber stutters and shuffles on her feet, but Carrie doesn’t even spare her a glance, so she scurries away.

  She crosses her arms at her chest and glares. “You ready to tell me what’s really going on between you and Powder?”

  A growl works its way up my throat, and I clench my fists to keep from grabbing her by the neck and throwing her against the bank of lockers. Fuck, knowing her, she’d probably like it. She wants the thug life, the rough and dirty? I’d love to show her, but I’m not that guy. I’m not my father.

  I step close, and she leans away, but the pride in her won’t allow her to take a step back. I sift my fingers through her hair, cup her jaw, and smile. “I hate to do this to you, seeing as it’s your birthday and all.” I put my lips to her ear. “I’d rather take your ex-dick Frankie to prom than be anywhere near a bitch like you.” I pull back and glare.

  Her mouth gapes as though she’s got something to say but can’t find the words.

  “Don’t worry. You shouldn’t have a hard time finding a replacement as long as you keep your mouth shut and your legs open.” I wink and turn around, leaving her stuttering in the hallway.

  I am a dick.

  This is my fault.

  I was ready to use Carrie, to take advantage of her legal adult status, but somewhere between agreeing to prom and now, everything has changed.

  A voice in my head whispers it’s Mercy who’s changed me. That’s partially true. After all, her presence brought out Carrie’s inner ugliness, which not even her model good looks can cover up. I couldn’t stomach spending even a minute alone with a woman who would be so cruel to someone as vulnerable as Mercy. No way.

  I slam my backpack onto my desk and feel Damian eyeing me. “Don’t say it.”

  He sniffs and twirls his pencil with two fingers while trying to hide a smile directed at me. “No clue what you mean, cuz.”

  The final bell rings, and I slump into my seat. Students shuffle in, and I keep my eyes forward, trying to avoid the look I’m getting from Damian. Not until Carrie and Amber breeze in do I turn and look at my cousin.

  He smirks.

  “Fuck off,” I mumble just as Carrie sits in her spot just a seat up from mine.

  Mr. Grinaldi addresses the class, and while Carrie swivels to the side to take out her stuff, she catches Damian’s attention. “I need to talk to you,” she mouths to my cousin.

  His eyes bulge out of his head. “Me?”

  She grins and bats her eyelashes. “Yes, you. After class.”

  I watch between them as Damian nods dumbly, and I roll my eyes. If she thinks she can sweet-talk him into getting me to change my mind about prom, she’s out of her mind.

  With everything else I have going on in my life, the last thing I need to worry about is petty high school bullshit.

  “EVERYTHING LOOKS GOOD. As long as you pass finals, I see no reason why you shouldn’t graduate.” My guidance counselor, Mrs. Leonard, leans back from her computer after going through my grades and smiles. “It’s pretty obvious you’ve been working your tail off this last semester. Are you sure you don’t want to at least apply to some local community colleges?”

  I shift a little in my seat. She’s been trying to convince me that college is the best thing for me since the day we first met, but my goal is to get custody of my brothers, and I’ll never be able to do that unless I get a place of my own and a full-time job. College doesn’t fit in the equation. “I’m sure.”

  She sighs and frowns slightly. “If you have a change of heart, it’s never too late.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” I bend down and grab my backpack. Lunch hour started ten minutes ago, and I wanted to swing by Ms. Murphy’s, to check in on Mercy and see if she’s okay after the shit that went down with Carrie this morning. “Thanks.”

  She nods, and I try to pretend I don’t see the way the wrinkles around her eyes deepen with disappointment. I hate letting her down. She’s always been cool, but I’m in no position to live my life solely for myself.

  I push out into the vacant hallway and follow the sound of murmured voices and the smell of stagnant food. I have only enough time to eat my sack lunch, so I avoid the hot-lunch line and head straight for the tables, where Carrie is cuddled up to my cousin. I grin and shake my head. I should’ve expected that her sucking up to him had little to do with me. She just went from one Vega to the next.

  Damian’s probably crapping himself with excitement. He’ll look better in fuchsia than I would have anyway.

  “Milo?”

  I stop and look down to find Mercy sitting at a table with some of the kids from her class. She smiles up at me, and if we weren’t in school, I might be tempted to lean down and kiss her. An empty spot is next to her, and without thinking, I drop down into the seat, straddling the bench to face her.

  “Hey, Güera. What are you doing here? I thought you liked to eat with Ms. Murphy.”

  She’s wearing her sweatshirt, but she doesn’t have the hood pulled up. The sleeves go down past her palms so that only her fingers show as she picks at a sandwich on her tray. “I . . .” She dips her chin, and I don’t miss the rush of color that floods her pale cheeks. “I wanted to see you.”

  “Oh yeah?” I study her closely, and my heart beats a little faster, knowing she braved the cafeteria just for me. “Is everything okay?”

  She nods, and I’ll be damned, but even her neck takes on color. I imagine we’re alone where I could get close and run my nose along the slope of her ivory neck, feeling the warmth of her blush and breathing in her orange blossom scent.

  “Good, Güera.” I force myself to sco
ot back a little before anyone gets the wrong idea, which would be the right idea, but they don’t need to know that. “I was hoping I’d see you too.”

  “What is Güera?” The big kid sitting on the other side of Mercy leans forward.

  His question gets the attention of the two girls sitting across from her as well as of Mercy herself, and she looks up at me with those wide, curious eyes.

  I never thought about using the nickname before, but I also never thought I’d have to explain it . . . with an audience.

  I run a hand through my hair and rub the sore muscles at the back of my neck. “Ahh, well . . . It’s Spanish.” Maybe that’ll be enough to satisfy their—

  “Spanish for what?” the big guy asks.

  “It means”—I look at Mercy and hope she sees the apology in my eyes—“white girl.”

  I don’t pay attention to anyone else’s reaction but Mercy’s. She’s stoic for a couple seconds and then suddenly bursts out laughing. She covers her mouth to avoid drawing more attention to herself. Her eyes fill with tears, but before I can panic that I’ve upset her, another wave of laughter hits her.

  The other kids at the table don’t find it nearly as funny and go back to their meals without as much as a sideways glance.

  “Why is that funny?” I’m smiling now too as Mercy sniffs and wipes at her eyes.

  “I always thought you were clever, Milo.” She giggles again.

  “I am.”

  “White girl,” she mumbles, shaking her head. “That’s not clever.”

  I suddenly feel like a huge asshole. “Hey. I won’t call you that anymore.”