***
My fingers flew on the keyboard. I shivered in the cool, air-conditioned library, a sharp contrast to the heat outside. A quick search of Tommy Tucker revealed twenty thousand matches. I added our town and state. Two matches. Both links to the Maidenford Daily News, the town’s local newspaper. I clicked on the first link.
I scanned the article quickly. An accident on the train tracks outside of town. A bike accident. A fifteen-year-old boy killed at the scene. His name was Tommy Tucker. I held my breath and scrolled down to a picture of the victim.
My best friend stared back at me.
My dead best friend?
His hair was shorter in the apparent school-issued picture, and he was dressed in a dark-blue polo shirt with white stripes. It was odd seeing him in anything other than his standard gray T-shirt. But his smile, and his eyes, exactly the same as the Tommy I knew.
My hands shook, reading the article again. Tommy Tucker, 15, of 43 Jay Street, had died on impact. My address. Tommy had lived in our trailer. What the hell was going on here? How could any of this be true? He’d lived at my address. He’d died two years ago. How could I have been talking to him this morning? For the last four months?
Panic welled inside me as the facts raced haphazardly in my mind. He was dead. Not alive. The thought of someone playing a cruel joke on me flitted through my thoughts. But it didn’t make sense. None of this made sense. I gripped the mouse and enlarged the screen. The words screamed at me. Tommy Tucker, 15, died at the scene.
Confusion flooded my mind. Unlike any I’d ever experienced before this day. I had never doubted my sanity. Always viewed myself as a more level-headed person than not. But now, all sense of reasonable explanations flew out the window. All that was left was staring at me from the computer screen in the tiny town library. Dead boys don’t talk. They also don’t run through the woods and drink soda.
I printed the article and clutched it in my hand, exiting the library. My bike was parked at the curb. But instead of getting on it and riding home, I sat. The hot afternoon sun melted me, sending moisture running down my back. I avoided looking at the crumpled printout I clutched in my hand.
Instead, I took my sandaled foot and destroyed an ant hill lying on the curb beside me. I squashed it in a circular motion. Around and around. And got an odd pleasure watching all the little black ants scurrying for safety. They were real. I could see them and feel them crawl over my toes.
Real. How did I even know real from fantasy anymore? Maybe I was losing my mind. Just like Sam thought. Had I made up Tommy in my mind? Like Annie Tootles? I was thirteen years old. I couldn’t have an imaginary friend. And how could I have imagined him? He was a real person. Or used to be.
Slowly, I opened the paper in my hands. Tommy stared back at me again. I read the article. It said the same thing. Tommy Tucker had died while riding his bike on the train tracks. Hit by a westbound train. Dead on impact. My thoughts traveled back to the day I asked about riding bike, and he told me his was broken. An icy chill snaked through my body. He knew why he didn’t ride bike but couldn’t tell me. He must know he was dead, but why befriend me? Did he have a plan for me?
Numbness crippled me as the truth sank in. If he was dead, how was I seeing him? And talking to him? I remember how he’d grabbed my hand that first time he’d showed me the clubhouse. His hands had been soft and warm against mine. Real hands. If he was dead, were those ghost hands I’d held?
Chapter Fourteen
I went home after stopping at the grocery store where Sam worked. I told him it was a big joke. I’d known he was watching me. And I made him promise not to tell Mom. She had enough to worry about. Besides, she was still kind of pissed at me about the whole date thing. I didn’t want to argue with her about this. He looked doubtful at my lame excuse but said he wouldn’t say anything to Mom. I knew he was still worried about me. Even though I hated to admit it, he was a good big brother.
I wandered through the trailer. I was trying to find signs of Tommy. I knew it sounded crazy. But if he’d lived here, maybe he’d left something behind. Something that I’d missed. It would be easy for me to miss. I rarely spent time in here other than eating, sleeping, and watching TV. I paused in the hallway, wondering which bedroom had been his. My guess was Sam’s. It was the bigger one, and Tommy was an only child.
Glossy posters of rock bands and bikini-clad women hung on the walls, surrounding me as I entered his room. A large pile of dirty clothes lay in a heap beside his bed. Empty candy wrappers adorned his nightstand along with a sticky soda can. My brother was a pig.
I surveyed the room. I didn’t know what I was searching for in here. I hoped something would jump out at me. Something that related to Tommy. It had to be in the framework of the room. The floor. The walls. The ceiling. All these things were the same when he’d lived here.
I ran my hand along the dark paneled wall. Each section felt exactly the same as the next.
