Shimmer

Really and truly speechless.

My eyes darting all around, searching for Bodhi and Buttercup, wondering if they were somehow behind it, determined to freak me out, creep me out, and teach me a lesson about making up my own assignments.

But when I turned back to her, er, me, er, it, I started to get really annoyed by the dress. I mean, seriously, one frivolous accent would’ve been more than enough, but to add frills and lace and ruffles and bows and buttons that actually sparkled and shone, well, it clearly amounted to complete and total overkill.

Besides, anyone who knew me knew I wouldn’t be caught dead (literally!) wearing a dress like that. So that meant either Bodhi was seriously determined to get back at me for ignoring his rules, or someone else, someone who obviously didn’t know me at all, had made the mistake of seriously underestimating me.

“Sorry.” She smiled, instantly transforming my features into ones that belonged to someone else, someone who was totally unrecognizable to me.

The hair became brown and curled instead of blond and limp, the eyes a deep hazel instead of bright blue, the nose long and elegant as opposed to, well, the way mine was built, and a chest that bloomed into something a little more substantial than the pathetically flat version I was stuck with.

A chest that bloomed in a way mine never would.

But for some strange reason, she chose to keep the dress, which, had it been me, would’ve been the very first thing I would’ve ditched.

“It’s always good for a scare though. Which I guess is why it’s just too good to resist.” She laughed in a way that lit up her face, the sound of it light and melodic and, well, tinkly even. Though her gaze stayed the same, heavy and observing. “It’s naughty of me, I know, but sometimes…” She gazed all around, and I mean all around. Her head spinning in quick circles, her neck creasing and twisting in the most grotesque way as she wrapped her slim arms tightly around her impossibly tiny waist. “Well, sometimes I just can’t help myself.” She looked at me again, her head having rotated all the way back until it snapped into place. “But, seeing as you’re dead like me, I’ll play fair. I’ll stop with the games. Oh, and please excuse my lack of manners. My name’s Rebecca, by the way.” She smiled and dipped deep down into what I immediately recognized as some old-school, ladylike curtsy. Bowing her head before me, and revealing an array of even more ribbons and bows that meandered their way down her back.

I hesitated, still a little shaken from the whole head-spinning display, and waiting to see what else she’d come up with, what else she had planned.

But when nothing more happened, when she chose to remain as the same, over-accessorized version of herself, I nodded slightly and said, “I’m Riley.” Hoping that alone would suffice, since I had no intention to curtsy. Not then, not ever.

Only to hear her reply, “Riley?” She squinted, her eyes becoming two tiny pinpricks, devoid of all light. “Why, excuse me for saying so, but isn’t that a boy’s name?” She tilted her head to the side and stared. Her eyes providing no clue to what her real thoughts might be. And strangely, unlike a lot of the other dead people I’d met before her, I was unable to hear them. Somehow she’d found a way to hide them from me.

“Do I look like a boy?” I responded, more than a little miffed by her comment, and wanting her to know she was treading on very thin, very shaky ground.

But she just pressed her lips together and shrugged daintily. Taking her own sweet time to reply, acting as though it was just too close to call. As though she was actually wavering between the two choices of male versus female.

I was about to walk away, deciding I’d had enough of her games, when she brought her hand to my shoulder and tapped.

Only once.

Light and quick.

Yet that was all it took to instantly transport me all the way back to my very first day of school.

Back to the skinny, scrawny, jeans-and-sweater-wearing version of me, sporting what could only be described as a very ill-advised pixie cut.

A very ill-advised pixie cut that seemed like a good idea at the time (mostly because my sister, Ever, had gotten her hair cut short too), but that ultimately left everyone, both classmates and teachers, assuming I was a boy.

It was as though I’d gone back in time.

I watched as the series of crumbly, old grave markers magically transformed into a group of small desks, while the clump of tall, creepy trees, with the wide, hollowed-out trunks and long spindly branches that reminded me of the gnarled old fingers on a storybook witch’s hands, turned into chalkboards and easels.

The walls closing in all around me, keeping me, trapping me, until what had once been an old, forgotten, abandoned cemetery transformed into an exact replica of my kindergarten classroom. The scene playing out exactly as I remembered, complete with hysterically laughing, fellow five-year-olds, and an overly apologetic, red-faced teacher.

“Riley, I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Patterson said, her shoulders lifting in embarrassment, as a spot of color burst forth on her cheeks.

But that was nothing compared to the way I felt.

Our first assignment of the day—just after pinning our name tags to our chests—was to line up in two separate groups: boys on one side, girls on the other. And according to my teacher, I’d already failed that particular task.

One glance at my androgynous clothes and super-short, tomboyish haircut, and Mrs. Patterson had assumed the worst.

Assumed I was a boy.

“What with your … I just assumed that you…” Her hand fluttered before her, as her eyes searched for a distraction, some kind of escape.

And I stood before my giggling classmates, my eyes squinched and stinging, my throat hot and dry, experiencing the full brunt of what it means to be horribly humiliated for the very first time in my life.

I gazed at all the other girls, taking in a seemingly never-ending sea of curls and braids and barrettes and ribbons, all of them dressed in varying shades of pink and purple and sky blue—not so unlike that bratty ghost-girl Rebecca—and one thing became clear, perfectly clear: I was pretty much the worst thing a person could be.

I was different.

I was someone who didn’t fit in.

While I’d left my house just a little while before feeling nervous for sure, but mostly excited and good, fifteen minutes into it, I’d already been tagged as a freak.

I bolted from my place and made a run for the door. But unlike my real classroom, this door was locked.

So then I bolted toward the large windows, but they were locked too.

Leaving me with no choice but to gaze all around, searching for an exit, and struggling to settle myself as the horrible truth slowly crept upon me:

I was trapped.

Held hostage in a classroom full of giggling, mocking, sneering students, whose hysteria rose and swelled and became so contagious, even my teacher couldn’t help but join in.

Even though I knew, on some small level, that this wasn’t exactly real, that it hadn’t actually gone down in quite that same way, it’s not like it mattered. Deep down inside, all the way down to the very core of me, the very soul of me, the emotions were exactly the same as they had been that day.

I felt embarrassed.

Humiliated.

And fearful, and stupid, and completely insecure.

But worst of all, I felt angry.

Angry at my classmates for making fun of me.

Angry at my teacher for joining in.

Angry at myself for my inability to blend in, for not being like all the other girls, for not trying a little harder to