“No, you twit! Murph, could you at least try not to be so gullible?”
This is definitely Mason. I’m still waiting for an answer. “Well, then …?”
There’s a pause, then a shrug. “I’m here to see you,” he says finally, sitting down on a rock next to me.
He’s here to see me.Electricity runs along my skin, and theother goose bump moments from the last few days flash in my mind. “Were you at the funeral?”
“Are you kidding? Wouldn’t you want to go to your own funeral, see who would come? What everyone thought of you? Of course I was there! And I’ll tell you a secret. I discovered something important.”
Revelations from beyond the grave. I inhale sharply. “What?”
“I should have hooked up with Becca Reardon when I had the chance. She was verifiably heartbroken at the church!” Oh yeah, Becca. That was the name of the girl with the pixie cut faking status she didn’t have.
“Mason, jeez! Can you be serious for one second?” I turn to where he’s sitting, but there’s nothing there. Shit, shit, shit. Did I make him disappear? I sit as still and as quietly as I can. I concentrate on my breath, lungs filling up, chest expanding, lungs emptying out, belly button in. Please come back. Please come back. Pl—
“I also might have noticed that Becca wasn’t the only one feeling a little weepy.” He’s back, sitting on the other side of me now. Smirking, as usual.
I smile.Stay awhile.My limbs loosen. “Oh, you mean me?” I say. “I was just filled with emotion about mortality in general. Life and its meaning. You know, existential crap.” I untangle my braid and start weaving it again, trying to look nonchalant the way I always have when I’m with Mason. But my insides are doing somersaults and cartwheels and backflips. What is goingon? This can’t be! But it feels realer than anything else that’s happened in weeks.
“Sure you were. Like, ‘life is meaningless without Mason’ kind of existential crap, amirite?” He smiles, too. I go to give him a little shove, but my hand just moves through open air. So that’s an added wrinkle. I guess feeling real and being tangible are not the same thing.
“Whoa. Why can’t I touch you?” I ask.
“I’m dead, dummy.”
“I got that. But you look totally three-dimensional. And … the leaves crunched under your feet before!”
“How should I know? I’ve only been dead for like three weeks. I’m not exactly an expert.” He lifts his hands and drops them, and they seem longer and thinner than ever. I have an urge to hold them, then shiver at how futile that would be.
“Fair point,” I say. I guess we’re both a bit clueless about what’s happening, which is surprising. Not just because he’s dead, but because I’ve always sort of thought of Mason as having more definitive answers than me.
“Besides, you should count yourself lucky,” Mason says. “I tried to hang with my mom—I practically swung from the chandelier in our living room—and she never even twitched. It sucks, ’cause I really wanted to tell her some stuff. But nope. Looks like you get me all to yourself.”
I wonder in that moment how he feels about being dead. Is he sad? Is it a relief? I think about asking, but I don’t.
It’s almost like he can read my mind. “But enough about me.That’s boring. How are you, Hattie? You seemed a little unstable there for a second, with all the rock throwing and the sniffling. More of grieving yours truly, I assume?”
I feel guilty as I realize I wasn’t sad about Mason at all in that moment, that what made me saddest was exclusively about me.
“I’m good. I’m fine,” I say, trying to gloss over the truth.
“You sure? Don’t want you getting all desperate on my account. Don’t isolate, Murph. I eavesdropped on several sessions with the grief counselor about me, and that was the main takeaway.”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I hug my knees. “I’m actually doing okay.” He looks doubtful, so I add, “I might even have a date tomorrow.”
Mason pounces on this information in a way that makes me instantly regret it. “Oh, really? Well, that’s a very modern interpretation of grieving. Not the same as wearing black every day, is it? But no, seriously. I like it, Murph. You should escape a little. Who’s the lucky guy?”
I try to backtrack. Oof, how can I still feel so self-conscious in front of someone who’s dead? “It doesn’t matter. It might be nothing. I’m not even positive it’s a date.”
A car goes by on the bridge over the creek and it brings me back to reality. I wonder if the driver can see me. More importantly, can they see Mason? Or does it look like I’m talking to myself?
“Nope. You have to tell me. No one needs to live vicariously more than me.”
“Fine. Richard Walker.”
“Little Dicky? Did not see that coming. You are full of surprises.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” I run my hand over my face.
