“You are so right, Amanda. Right, and also an excellent driver. Dare I say an Amandazing driver?”
“Thank you!” she says, then chuckles. “I guess I’m not like my mom in that way.”
“Oh, snap, mom burn,” I say as I check the back seat. Mason is finally gone.
That night, my parents insist on taking me out to dinner. The thought of being in a car again today makes my stomach feel like it’s trying to French braid itself, so I pick Pontillo’s Pizza because we can walk there. Nate is thrilled; it’s his favorite. I sit, detached, half listening to him try to convert my parents into fans of his favorite YouTuber while he waves a piece of cheesy garlic bread around for emphasis. It all feels so innocent and sweet that it makes me sleepy. I suddenly have an overwhelming desire to go to bed.
Once I’m finally in my room, though, I can’t sleep after all. I start thinking again about this morning in the car. Why the hell would Mason do something like that? Was that supposed to be some kind of practical joke? How could anyone think that was remotely funny?
I need to talk to him—alone this time. I start playing top ten pop drivel to bait Mason into showing up, but it doesn’t work. I can’t sit still anymore. I throw my door open, pound down the stairs, and head out the back door. It’s almost ten p.m., but it’s also my birthday, so all my mom says is, “Take your coat!” I don’t even do that.
Near the line of evergreens that mark the back boundary of our property is a big old oak tree with a swing. I used to spend hours on the swing, going higher andhigher until I felt like I was flying, enjoying the way it let me think about nothing at all. But I haven’t even been in the backyard since the summer. I feel about a hundred years older now.
I sit on the swing and kick back hard to get going. I’m determined to swing until my mind is blank. But it might be awhile. I keep thinking about what a mean trick that was from someone who’s supposed to be my friend. The wind is icy as I soar through the air, and I regret not taking a coat like my mom said, but I can’t bear to go back inside to the brightness and dry artificial heat. It’s claustrophobic.
So. Masonwasmy friend, but this isn’t really Mason we’re talking about anymore. We’re talking about the ghost of Mason, which might mean all friend bets are off. Maybe his soul isn’t his own anymore. If he’s in some version of hell, he could even be like a demon now or something. Not that I think he deserved to go to hell, but that’s based on the rules I know, rules that were basically just made up by living people. Who knows what the real rules are.
Oh man. I’ve been thinking he was appearing to help me, but maybe he’s doomed to torment me. I have felt sort of tormented by him lately. To care this much and then be trying to navigate his unpredictability, his mysteriousness, his total inaccessibility, is near impossible. Even as I’m thinking it, it doesn’t sit right, but fuck, it does seem like I’ve been entirely too trusting about this whole situation.
Just then, I hear the snap of twigs. I drag the heels of myboots through the crust of ice-covered snow to stop myself from swinging.
“Finally,” I say. Time to find out what side he’s really on.
“Oh, my apologies, did we have a date? I must have neglected to put it in my calendar.”
“Don’t. Don’t be cutesy. It’s not funny.You’renot funny.” I want to unleash some major scorned-woman fury on him, but the lump in my throat threatens to ruin my attack.
“So you don’t like my sense of humor. That’s fine. You don’t need to look so depressed about it,” he says.
I get up off the swing and walk a few steps toward the woods, turning my back to him so I can brush away the angry tears that are gathering.
He catches it. “Hey, okay, I’m sorry, what’s going on?”
“Why the hell did you do that to me?” I don’t really want an answer. I just want him to know how bad it hurt.
“What’s that now?”
“You made me think I had run over a real live person! Do you know how scared I was? That was too brutal. Too mean. Even for you.”
His voice is overly calm. “I don’t want to fight with you about this, I really don’t, but I feel like I should point out that you were the one doing the running over. I was just standing there.”
“Standing right in my blind spot!”
“Your blind spot directly in front of you?”
“Yes! It was the sun! And I was just coming over the hill, and … and …” Why is the truth so hard to say? Why does it getcaught in the back of my mouth like a too-big spoonful of peanut butter?
“And I can’t see!” I finally splutter.
He takes my place on the swing. “I know.”
“No, I mean I really can’t see. And not just the stars. Like I wouldn’t be able to find my way back to the house right now if the yard lights weren’t on. Like I’m going to end up entirely blind, same as my dad. My retinas are rotting as we speak.”
“I know,” he repeats.
“What do you mean you know? I sure as hell never told you. What, did Saint Peter or Mary Magdalene or some other heaven-type character grab one of those stone tablets and chisel in ‘BTW, Hattie has a genetic retinal disease’ right under ‘Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife’?”
“Ha. Not exactly. Just, when you could see me, and no one else could, I knew that your eyes were different.”
