Absent (Katie Williams)

Bosworth.
    Three days’ suspension for Lucas and Heath, and no one will listen when I protest that I, Heath, wasn’t part of the flooding. As I’vepredicted, Mr. Bosworth fingers me as the ringleader. In fact, he keeps saying to Lucas, “You can tell us if you weren’t a part of this, son.” Lucas doesn’t deny his guilt, but he doesn’t exonerate Heath either. Guess Heath is the same as me, some guy Lucas doesn’t know.
    We sit in the office for two full periods waiting for the adults to fill out the requisite paperwork and make the parent-or-guardian phone calls. Our classmates peer through the glass walls as they pass, double-taking at the sight of Lucas and me awaiting punishment together. And so the rumors will be shifting again. Heath practically lives in the office, but I wonder what they’ll say about Lucas, the school Boy Scout, the school hero, hauled in for the same crime. Mrs. Morello makes an impassioned plea for Mr. Bosworth to consider where the vandalism took place, that Lucas might be grappling with some very understandable issues around Brooke Lee’s death.
    “Yeah, right,” Lucas says, only loud enough for me to hear it.
    It’s not until Heath’s stepfather drives him away—as he turns out of the parking lot, I’m yanked from the backseat of the car and deposited on the school roof—that I remember Usha and the mural. The bell for sixth rang nearly half an hour ago. By the time I reach the hallway by the student parking lot, it’s too late. Usha is standing on a ladder, drop cloth pooling on the floor below her. Any questions I might have had about what she would do with the mural are answered. She brandishes a paintbrush, dripping white, and swipes over the lines of Brooke’s and my faces, turning them back into blank wall.
    “No,” I whisper.
    It’s gone, my connection to people, to life. She’s erasing it, sweep by sweep. Erasing me. I stand there staring.
    Maybe we should be trying to forget.
    Until I feel someone staring just as intently at me.
    Both Usha and I turn at the clang.
    Greenvale Greene has dropped a can of paint. She kneels to pick it up, but she keeps glancing at me, her eyes wild under the brush of her bangs.
    “What happened?” Usha says, and when Greenvale doesn’t answer, she begins to climb down the ladder. “You okay?”
    I step toward Greenvale. “Can you see me?”
    She turns back to the paint, but a small moan escapes her mouth.
    “Greenvale?” Usha says.
    “You can,” I say. “You can see me!”
    I take another step.
    Greenvale bolts.

14: GREENVALE
    I FIND HER IN BROOKE’S BATHROOM, CURLED UP IN THE handicapped stall. It takes a good ten minutes of cajoling to get her to unlatch the door. When it swings open, she stares at me for a moment and then slides down the wall again, clasping her hands around her legs, tucking her knees to her chin. The floor is still damp from Lucas’s flooding, but Greenvale doesn’t seem to care.
    “Hi,” I say.
    She expels a meek “Hey.”
    “You can see me, can’t you?”
    Just when I think she’s not going to respond, she nods. “I can see all of you. You and Brooke Lee and that boy who sits in the art room.”
    “She can see us?” a voice says from over by the sinks.
    At the sound of it, Greenvale slides to the back of the stall. I turn to find Brooke crouching on her death spot, peering curiously at Greenvale and me. She hadn’t been there when I came in; she must have just crossed over the school property line.
    “It’s okay,” I tell Greenvale. “It’s just Brooke.”
    I beckon to Brooke, who peers around the edge of the stall door.
    “Brooke, Greenvale. Greenvale, Brooke.”
    “You can really see us?” Brooke asks.
    Greenvale opens her mouth and closes it again.
    “It’s okay,” I repeat. “She won’t hurt you.”
    “Yeah,” Brooke agrees amiably. “I can’t even touch you. I’m a ghost. See?” She passes her hand through the metal door, which is probably less comforting than she intends it to be.
    Greenvale emits a shaky laugh.
    “How can you see us?” I ask.
    “No one else can,” Brooke adds.
    “I-I don’t know,” Greenvale stutters. “I just can. You’re just there.”
    “Could you always?” I ask.
    “Not always.”
    “How long?”
    “Three years ago, my grandpa had a stroke,” she begins, then stops for a nervous swallow. “He moved in with us so my mom could take care of him.”
    “What does your grandpa have to do with—”
    “Hush,” I tell