Absent (Katie Williams)

Brooke.
    “He died in his sleep, in our house,” she continues. “Mom sent me down to the basement to get the extra table leaf for the memorial service.” She looks down at her fidgeting hands; they still under her gaze. “He was there, my grandpa, standing right there in the middle of the basement. I ran away that time, too. Upstairs. I locked myself in my room, but it wasn’t good enough. I couldn’t sleep or eat or . . . I kept thinking he was going to float up through the vents.”
    “That’s why they sent you to Greenvale?”
    “Greenvale Greene,” she says. I wince, but she shrugs at the nickname. “I’m used to it.”
    “What did the doctors say?” Brooke asks.
    “Nothing. I didn’t tell them that I’d seen my dead grandpa, didn’t tell my parents either. I’m not stupid. I knew what they’d think about that: crazy girl. I mean, crazier girl. My parents didn’t send me to Greenvale because I saw ghosts. They sent me because I wouldn’t leave my room. The doctors diagnosed me with social anxiety. They said it happens in Japan sometimes, teenagers who won’t leave their bedrooms. Maybe there are ghosts in Japan, too. Anyway, they let me out after a couple weeks.”
    “And when you got back home?” I ask. “Was your grandpa still there? In the basement?”
    “He’s gone.” She looks down. “He never came back. I should’ve talked to him. I should’ve said good-bye.”
    “I’m sorry,” I say.
    “Do you know where he went?” Brooke asks.
    “He was just gone. He’s not in the basement anymore. Not in the house. Or if he is, I can’t see him.” She shakes her head, then looks up at me through her bangs; her eyes underneath are a light greenish gray. And pretty, I realize.
    “So you just watched us?” Brooke asks. “This whole time you’ve been watching us?”
    “Not watching. Just . . . I’d see you. The first time I saw you, I ran away. All the way home.” She dips her head bashfully. “It was a few weeks after your . . . your death. You were walking down the hall after”—she turns to me—“Paige, actually.”
    “Stalker,” I tease, but Brooke’s attention is fixed on Greenvale.
    “Can other people see us?” she asks.
    “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I think it’s just me.”
    “I know you were helping Usha with the—” I start to say, but Greenvale interrupts me with a squeak.
    “Oh, no. Usha!” She puts her hands to her face. “I dropped her paint. I ran away. She’ll think I’m crazy.” She sighs. “Like the rest of them.”
    “Maybe not,” I say. “You could tell her about me. You could explain how—” But I stop at the stricken look on her face. “No, I know. Of course you can’t.”
    “I’m sorry,” she says. “But I can’t. They’ll send me back.”
    “It’s okay. I understand.”
    “And I’m sorry I ran away from you.”
    “You were scared.”
    “And I’m also sorry . . .” She hides behind her bangs again.
    “What?” Brooke says.
    She whispers, “I’m sorry you’re dead.”
    “Thank you,” I say, then add, “Thank you, Harriet.”

15: SPREADING RUMORS
    EVEN THOUGH HARRIET CAN SEE ME, I FEEL MORE INVISIBLE than ever. Usha has painted over the mural, and I still haven’t been able to undo the rumor of my supposed suicide. The next morning dawns, and the only not-so-terrible news is that Mr. Fisk has left the drop cloth up to let all that white paint dry. I don’t have much time left until the mural is really and truly gone, only a day or two more when people will pass that drop cloth and think of me. There’s no more time for half measures.
    I decide to inhabit Chris Rackham, the roundest of the well-rounders, class president and likely valedictorian. In class, I try to keep a straight face as everyone, including the teachers, turns to me for the answers. When I was alive, I rarely participated in class discussions. It seemed like such an act, so obvious what the teachers were waiting to hear, so easy to say the words to please them. But, hey, I’m a well-rounder now. I’ve always had the answers; now I may as well give them. And everyone is glad that things have gone as expected.
    Funny that I am not unglad about this. Class, it turns out, goes by more quickly when you’re part of the conversation. I decide that maybe the well-rounders aren’t completely dumb about acting smart. I discover something else, too. If I answer the teacher’s questions, I can sometimes sneak in a