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That’s enough of that.
I don’t touch the burger again and can’t seem to gain any feeling of comfort for the rest of the lunch period, so when the bell rings, I jump out of my seat and race for the door.
Shy is quick to catch up and offers to walk me to my next class.
“Oh…I wouldn’t want you to go out of your way…”
“You have art in Hollingsworth, right?” And before I have time to wonder how he knows, he adds. “I…uh…took note of the classes we had together when I looked at your schedule earlier.”
I’m not sure why it takes me so long to form words, but Shy must assume my silence means something else because he averts his eyes.
“Sorry if I freaked you out.”
“You didn’t,” I say. “We should get to class.”
We walk quietly side by side, and I try several times to ask Shy not to put my name forward for Queen’s Ransom but can’t bring myself to actually speak. Maybe it’s because I’m afraid he’ll want something in return, like answers to questions.
Shy holds the door open for me when we reach Hollingsworth—a red brick building with three floors, a covered porch, and double hung windows. He walks beside me down marbled halls, decorated with student paintings, sketches, and sculptures, then gestures to a room on the
left where our class is located.
I start to enter ahead of Shy, but halt when I find the dead girl from earlier blocking my path, glaring at me from that horrible broken angle. I guess the precautions I took—the rosemary, evil eye and turmeric—are no match for the power of this soul, because she’s not moving.
I wrap my fingers around the straps of my backpack, a thin layer of sweat coats my skin, matting the hair around my neck.
“You okay?” Shy asks.
No.
I could feign food poisoning, turn and run to the nurse’s office. No one who’d seen what we had eaten at lunch would think twice about that lie...except Mom.
It’s that thought that propels me forward, through the spirit. I hate this. Hate it more than my move to Oklahoma, more than my new name. Walking through the dead means for the briefest moments, I feel what they felt upon their death. A violent pain ricochets from my neck and coils in my stomach, sending a rush of fire through me, and for a moment I think that piece of soy burger really will come back up. Then the pain is gone—as quick as a bone snapping in half, leaving an aftershock of nausea rolling through my stomach like a spiked ball.
I keep moving forward, and take my seat beside Shy, fighting to swallow the acid at the back of my throat. My whole body still feels as if I’ve had a fever that just broke—even my palms are sticky.
Our teacher, Mr. Seth, welcomes the class and begins to take role. He wears a sweater vest and black-framed glasses. As he calls names, I look toward the door. The spirit’s gone, but I have a feeling she isn’t finished torturing me.
“Miss Silby?” Mr. Seth’s voice reaches me and my eyes snap to his. “Miss Silby?”
“Yes?” The word comes out breathless.
“Are you all right?”
I press my clammy palm to my forehead, wiping away a thin sheen of perspiration.
“Yes.”
Mr. Seth watches me as if he thinks I’ll change my answer. I sink lower in my chair, and he relents, transitioning into a lecture on pointillism. I open my notebook and go to flip my hair over my shoulder when I notice blood coating the ends and dripping onto my lap. My heart feels like it’s caught in a vise, squeezing until I’ve no ability to breath. I reach for the matted hair glued to my neck, finding the skin is tender and coated in something sticky. I pull my hand away: more blood.
The nausea building in my stomach threatens to explode.
“Miss Silby, do you need to go to the nurse’s office?”
I clamp my hand around my neck but I can’t look at Mr. Seth because everyone in class has turned to stare at me—including Shy. Those eyes freeze me in place—hard and curious, scanning my body like a machine looking for disease. My stomach clenches. The last thing I need is to projectile vomit all over the place.
I stand, swaying on my feet and stumble out of the classroom.
“Miss Silby!” I race down the hallway, searching for a bathroom in this unfamiliar, god-forsaken place. Turning the corner, I stumble through a door, into a yellow-washed restroom that smells like must.
