The Ghost and the Goth

wouldn’t listen. She chose to hang out with those people, and she chose to go to that party. We didn’t have anything to do with that.”

As I said it, I realized it was true. Maybe I could have changed things, maybe I could have saved her if I’d heard my phone that night. But she was the one who’d chosen to dump us as friends. All I’d done was miss a phone call from someone who hadn’t spoken to me in months. She didn’t even leave a message.

I felt lighter suddenly, relieved in some way. I would still have given anything to see Lily whole and healthy again, even if she didn’t want to be my friend. The fact that I wouldn’t, though, was not my fault. It was the combination of a hundred factors, only one of which — answering my phone — I’d had control over.

However, my words did not have the same effect on Joonie. “You don’t understand,” she said tonelessly, her eyes fixed on some invisible point in the distance.

I caught her by the shoulders and shook her gently. “You have to stop. This wasn’t your—”

It was at that exact moment I saw Alona on the stage, surrounded by every dead person I’d ever seen haunting the halls at Groundsboro High, and I knew I was in trouble.

First, if you’re wondering why our cafeteria has a stage, it’s the same reason we have cafeteria tables on different levels. Our cafeteria doubles as an auditorium, which some flipping genius dubbed a “cafetorium.” As you walk out of the lunch line, you’re on the same level as the stage but directly across the room from it. Then there are steps leading down to the various tiers of tables. Alona’s crowd, the so-called first tier, hang out, ironically enough, on the lowest level, what serves as the orchestra pit when the drama club decides to shed its student-written, angsty, and apocalyptic plays for the rare cheerful musical. It’s the farthest from teacher supervision, so no surprise in their choice there. From there, the level of popularity decreases as you go up. Joonie, Erickson, and I eat in the glass-enclosed courtyard when it’s nice enough, which puts us completely off the map as far as popularity is concerned. All the better.

But the stage … the stage was the holy grail for the first-tier crowd. Clearly, it was a position they felt should be theirs — sitting high above the disgustingly average crowd — but this was one benefit they were denied. Ever since some kid, no doubt a first tier, broke his leg jumping off the stage a few years ago, no one is allowed up there during lunch except the members of the drama club, and then only if they’re preparing for a production. This winter, everyone got high on the fumes when they painted sets for their spring production, Death and Sundaes. I have no idea what it was about, but it involved a lot of black-and-red painted sets and complaining from the first-tier girls when the occasional spatter came flying in their direction.

So, really, I guess it shouldn’t have come as a surprise that Alona had taken advantage of her invisible-to- most-of-the-world status to claim the stage for herself. Still, it was more than a little shocking to find her sitting on a barstool behind a section of what appeared to be a 1950s diner countertop (another prop … don’t ask, I have no idea how it relates to death or sundaes), taking what appeared to be notes while ghosts waited patiently in a long and winding line for their turn to speak with her individually.

“What the hell?” I muttered.

Joonie snapped out of it enough to look at me, really look at me. “Are you okay?” She rested her cool fingers on my arm. “You look like you’ve seen a—”

I didn’t wait to hear the rest. Pulling away from her light grip on my arm, I started down the stairs, heading toward the stage. I won’t be as melodramatic as to say that the entire cafetorium noticed and held their collective breaths, but I did see heads turning. After all, I hadn’t been lower than the third tier since starting here almost four years ago. That was just like asking one of the first- or second-tier jocks to hit you, a fight you’d also be blamed for starting.

“Will, what are you doing?” Joonie’s loud whisper followed me down the stairs, but I didn’t turn back.

However, the second my foot touched down on the first-tier carpet, a ripple of noise and movement spread through the room, people turning to whisper and watch. Normal conversations died down until it grew quiet enough that I could have sworn I heard the rustle of the carpet fibers beneath my shoe when I took my first step.

Alona’s crowd did nothing at first but stare. After all, this was their inner sanctum; no one dared to knowingly trespass here, and those who found themselves here by some kind of accident or misunderstanding (new kid; geeky guy under the illusion that because Misty had asked to cheat off his chemistry test that he would be allowed to acknowledge her existence; the occasional utopian fool who thought that popular people “are just people too,” etc.) usually broke quickly under the weight of a nasty stare from so many perfect faces, and ran away. But not me, oh, not me.

I stayed away from Alona’s friends and edged closer to the table of junior-class elites, the second table pushed up against the stage. They still thought they were better than me, but they’d hesitate longer on starting a fight, waiting for the seniors to react first.

When close enough, I pulled the cell phone from my pocket. “What are you doing up there?” I asked, trying to sound casual. “Who are your new friends?”

At first, I didn’t think it would work. How would Alona hear me, let alone know that I was talking to her? In this particular case, though, the ear-ringing silence that accompanied my approach into forbidden territory actually benefited me.

“Will?”

I heard her voice, but I dared not look up at the stage. At this angle, I’d look crazy, staring at nothing. Well, crazier.

Seconds later, her white gym shoes appeared, and she knelt down, her blond hair swinging over her shoulders, releasing that familiar, sweet, perfumey scent. “What are you doing down here?” She sounded perplexed. “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“What am I doing? What are you doing?” I asked through clenched teeth. “You’ve got half the Groundsboro cemetery up there with you.”

She glanced back over her shoulder, as if she hadn’t been aware of this fact until I mentioned it. “Yeah, well, they just keep showing up. I think someone’s passing out flyers or something.” She laughed.

“Oh, ha, ha. It’s very funny. What are you doing up there?”

She shrugged. “Taking notes. As your spirit guide, it’s my job to—”

“As my what?” This time, I couldn’t help but stare up at her.

She rolled her eyes. “Your spirit guide. You know, someone who helps you work with the spirits.” She paused thoughtfully. “I’m kind of like your manager.”

“My what?” I said weakly. I couldn’t seem to stop repeating myself.

“Manager. You know, like you’re the talent and I’m the one who hooks you up with the people who need you. Besides, it keeps them quiet”—she jerked her head toward the ghosts behind her—“if they think someone is listening, and it gives me a chance to do something nice, right?” She shifted slightly to stare at someone or something over my right shoulder.

“But I—” I didn’t even know where to begin.

“Oh, heads up. Nine o’clock. You’re about to get your face beat in.” She turned her head and gave me a sunny smile. “See, I’m being helpful already.”

I started to turn to my left, but then, remembering Alona’s previous difficulty with the clock concept when facing me, I turned to the right instead — three o’clock — to find Chris Zebrowski and Ben Rogers approaching.

“If you get out of here right now, they’ll probably leave you alone.” Alona pushed herself back up to her feet.

“Wait,” I said.

“I can’t. Do you see how long this line is?” She rolled her eyes with a sigh. “I’m going to be here all day.” She shook her head and started back toward her position at the counter.

“Alona,” I whispered as loudly as I dared. Nothing like shouting a dead cheerleader’s name in the middle of the cafeteria to get people to stare at you. Not that I needed the help.

“What’s up, Will Kill? You lost?” Ben Rogers’s oily voice came from behind me.

I turned to find him and Chris behind me, ready to face off. Ben had his hands in his pocket, a deceptively relaxed pose, but tension ran through his shoulders. He might have been a rich, lazy son of a bitch, but he didn’t shy away from a fight. Next to him, Chris, Alona’s ex, made no pretense that this was anything but a fight. A shorter,