Wraith (2 page)

“Y
OU OKAY,” DAD ASKED,
looping around and jogging back in my direction.

I slowed, meeting up with him on the cement pathway. “Yeah, I’m out of shape.” My chest constricted painfully when I tried to catch my breath.

I hated jogging. I was more than convinced it was the devil’s sport, but my dad loved it. On Sundays when the weather was nice, I followed him to his favorite trails and paths for some father/daughter bonding. Next time, I would talk him into bagels and coffee instead.

“You go ahead,” I told him, waving him down the path. “I’m just going to walk. We can meet up later.”

He frowned because this was not his idea of bonding. “You sure?”

I inhaled deeply and slowly, trying to level my breathing. “Totally. Go.”

Thankfully, he listened, and I watched his back as he picked up his pace and jogged away. I, too, increased my speed, but just to a fast walk. The trail itself was pretty cool. Nestled deep in the woods, on a piece of old government property, it wove back and forth next to a wide creek. Scattered throughout the woods were crumbling buildings and fixtures from an old waterworks facility. I had no idea how old it was, but my dad said it hadn’t been used in over fifty years. I glanced down at the creek and saw the remains of the huge dam that had been torn down when the facility closed.

I walked to the end of the newer cement path and crossed over the old stone bridge onto a dirt trail. In the summer, the entire area was covered by vines and plants growing wild, but since it had turned cold the beaten-down areas were easy to navigate, and I quickly found the one I wanted. My dad discovered this running trail when we moved, but I was the one who explored the side trails that led me to the ruins.

The ruins (as I called them) were the main part of the waterworks buildings planted deep in the middle of the woods. Outer brick shells of the buildings, crumbling steps that lead to nowhere, and old pipes and decaying wood abandoned years ago. It had a magical feel to it. Forbidden, yet compelling. The first time I found it, I was entranced. Not by the buildings or the history, but by the art.

Every surface still standing and not covered by the wild kudzu vines that choked every available inch of The South was tagged with spray paint. Signatures, jokes, cartoons, and free designs burst from every direction. The air was tinged with the scent of chemicals and discarded spray cans littered the ground. It was an artist’s haven. That first day, I lost track of time as I ran my hands over the slick, edgy pictures. Some were new, others old, with the faded earlier art partially hidden under the sheen of newer designs. In the open space between buildings was the ever-present remains of a bonfire—lighting, I would assume, for late-night painting and partying. Beer bottles, empties and cigarettes were scattered on the ground. The entire place reeked of juvenile delinquency.

The first time I found the ruins was during the summer, but today, in the colder weather, no branches or thorns caught on my long pants as I wove around the bushes and trees surrounding the trail. I climbed a small hill and as soon as I hit the top, my nostrils were assaulted by the familiar, yet harsh scent of acrylics and oil paint. Laughter bounced off the brick buildings and even though I couldn’t see anyone, I realized I wasn’t here alone.

I froze in my spot, overlooking the buildings. This was a night-time haunt for most people, and I was a daytime visitor. I wanted to see the artists behind the work.

Following a side path, I looped behind the main building, my feet squishing into the soft dirt on the ground. Loud clinks from the ball bearings echoed through the air as the painters shook their cans. I heard them before I rounded the corner of the building. The voices were male and young. Teenagers.

“Hand me that one,” one said. “Not that one, the other one...the red.”

I heard the
thunk
of a can changing hands and the sound of it being vigorously shaken. A thrill passed through my body. I wanted to watch.

I crept around the side of the building, my body close, scraping the sides of the brick at points. Peering around the corner, I saw them. Three boys clustered around the wall. The tallest had his back to me and was spraying the paint in long, quick strokes. His forearm flexed as he moved, finger poised tight over the trigger. He had a skull cap pulled down to his ears. I couldn’t see his hair; it was short and shaved off his neck. His back was wide and I could see where his shoulder blades cut into the green fabric because it was tight, on the verge of outgrowing it. A gray, long-sleeved, thermal shirt was pushed to his elbows underneath the green T-shirt, and he wore cargo shorts. The many pockets down his legs bulged with weight. I imagined the things he kept in there. Cigarettes and a lighter; he looked like the kind of guy that smoked. I supposed he had painting tools or other contraband also. The options were endless.

I looked at the other boys’ faces. Both cute and a little familiar. They probably went to my school—I didn’t know everyone. They looked older, but not much. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t hear their exact words. One of the boys picked up a can and shook it, holding it over the fresh paint on the wall, his finger hovering over the trigger. In a heartbeat the guy in the green shirt had dropped his own can and had him in a choke hold. I tensed against the wall, pulling back where I couldn’t see.

“What the hell, Michael?” he asked, his voice loud in the forest.

My heart buzzed unexpectedly at the sound of his voice.

“I don’t want your crappy tag over my piece. Go over there. Or there.”

I peeked around again wanting to see him. Wanting to see his face. “Oh, my God,” I said, low so they wouldn’t hear.

The boy from my English class on Friday had his friend, Michael, shoved to the ground and as they squabbled, his shirt rose and I could see the top of his boxers sticking out of the top of his too-loose pants.

“Dude, get off me!” the weaker boy shouted, kicking him in the leg. The third guy watched the entire scene in amusement from his spot on a large, rusted pipe lying on the ground, smoking a cigarette.

“Don’t mess with my wall,” the boy from my class said, pushing Michael down one last time. Satisfied, he reached his hand out and wrenched Michael off the ground, even brushing debris off his back. “Idiot.”

I would never understand boys.

They spoke in code, the loudest sound being the shaking clinks from the spray cans. I strained to hear their words. Michael, the boy who took the beating, got a wry grin on his face and asked, “So, what’s up with Allison?”

My eyes narrowed. There was only one Allison in our school.

He never stopped painting. “Not much.”

“She’s hot for you.”

“Maybe.”

His aloofness intrigued me. Allison was really pretty and very popular. Why wouldn’t he be interested? 

“She’s hot, too,” the other boy cut in. “Seriously, you need to consider that. You’ve been like a monk since they let you out.”

He looked up this time and smiled. Holy crap, the amount of smugness in that one expression.

“Eh, I don’t know,” was all he said turning back to the wall. Huge arching ovals filled the space, one after the other. He stepped back to assess his work, paint-splattered hands on his hips, and I saw it for what it was—or at least what it would be. They were eyes, big and wide. Open and watching. Dozens, with pupils pointing toward the sky. He picked up another can and shook it, intently focused on the wall, and again I watched as he made long, defined marks, as precise as if he used a brush. When he stepped back again, I saw that he had added layers of eyelashes, thick and long, to the rim of the eyes.

I was spellbound, mesmerized by the skill and workmanship he possessed. A bird cawed, bringing me from my thoughts, and I checked my watch. I’d been down here for too long; my dad would be looking. Backtracking around the building as quietly as I could, I heard the paint can rattle again, and the soft conversations of the boys as I left the dirt trail and found my way back to the pavement where my dad waited patiently.

“U
GH,” I SAID IGNORING
the chaos and echoing voices that filled the school hallway. I was shoulders-deep in my locker, trying to find my drawing pencil and eraser for art class that started in—I narrowed my eyes and checked my watch—five minutes.

“They’re in your bag,” Evan said from beside me. I hadn’t seen him all morning. “In the front pocket. Where you left them after your last class.”

“Oh, you’re right! I totally forgot!” I found the pencils right where he said they were. “I’m such an idiot sometimes.” If I could have kissed him, I would have.

“Are you talking to me?”

Crap. I did it again. Rule number one: Never talk to my ghost best friend in public. Especially school. It was harder and harder, though, to stop myself. Evan was such a routine part of my life.

“No, um…” Evan disappeared and I could see the annoyed face of the girl next to me. “Just talking to myself…you know…looking for stuff in my junky locker.” A book slid to the floor proving my point.

“Whatever,” she said, and turned in a huff, but not before I heard her breathe the word, “Psycho.”

No matter how many times I heard it, the word stung. I wasn’t a freak. I was a perfectly normal 16-year-old whose best friend just happened to be invisible to everyone else. “Stupid Evan,” I grumbled, blaming the only person I could. I slammed my locker shut, turned and found myself face to face with another student.

The new kid. The one from my class and the ruins.

“Oh!” I gasped, because he was too close and looking too intently at me. This was disconcerting for several reasons. The first, because he looked a little possessed and a lot angry, with his short hair and intense blue eyes, and second because no one at school sought me out. No one, ever.

After the infamous display I had with Evan when we first moved here, my status as freak had been solidified. Any hope I had for becoming socially viable at this school completely vanished. This simple fact bonded me to him even further, making him my lifeline. The irony wasn’t lost on me.

This kid, though, he looked at me and stood near me and he acted like he had something to say. He glanced over his shoulder, took a deep breath and whispered, “Who was that guy sitting behind you in English the other day?”

Oh.

My mind raced for an appropriate answer. “What guy?”

His forehead wrinkled at my answer and his jaw tightened as he huffed. “The one that pulled your hair.”

I gawked despite myself, shocked that he admitted it.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. No one sits behind me in that class.” I tried to say this with conviction and not as though it wasn’t pathetic that people didn’t like to sit near me.

His eyes widened and I saw a faint redness travel up his cheeks. “Oh. Well,” he paused, and ran his hand over the back of his neck, looking flustered, “sorry.”

With a mixture of relief and fear, I sighed and pressed my back against the row of lockers as he turned and walked away.

That relief was short lived when I realized the new kid
was
in my art class. Currently three worktables over and shooting daggers at me with soulful blue eyes. Not that I noticed things like that. They really just were pretty and soulful and, well, a little angry.

His name was Connor—I’d heard the teacher call it out at the beginning of class. Even though I’d been avoiding eye contact with him, it was hard to ignore his intense glare from across the room.

Thankfully we were busy the entire period, completing drawings that were due before Christmas break. We had to choose someone to draw a portrait of, and I chose Evan. As class progressed, though, and piercing blue eyes followed my movements, it was all I could do to keep my fingers from shaking while I worked on my picture. How he knew about Evan or could see him was unimaginable. Was he crazy? Was I crazy? Part of me was never sure.

“Looks like someone has taken a fancy to you,” Ava, my table mate, whispered next to me.

“Huh?” I asked with a frown.

“Over there.”

I looked in the direction she pointed. I mean, I had to look, right?

Connor stared at me, hard, and this time I noticed a smattering of fine stubble over his chin. Crap, crap, crap. My nerves were not helped by the fact he was so cute.

“I don’t think I’m what he’s looking at.”

Ava laughed behind her hand. “I don’t know, Jane, his eyes haven’t left you once since class started.”

“He probably just heard I’m a freak or whatever.” I didn’t mean it to come out as bitter as it did. But really, it was only a matter of time before he heard the gossip anyway.

“You’re not a freak.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well thanks, I guess.” Ava had never spoken to me much except for some comments here and there during class. Confused, I went back to work on the project in front of me. Hopefully, if I just ignored Connor, he would go away and things could go back to normal and maybe if I kept quiet Ava would continue to think I’m not a freak.

“Whatever, Jane, I think he likes you, but maybe you have other interests.” She ran her fingers over the edge of my drawing, the pad of her thumb grazing his curls. Her nails were painted black, matching her hair and the rims of her inevitable thick-rimmed glasses. I was jealous of her blunt-cut bangs that made her look like a modern day Bettie Page. “He’s cute. Boyfriend?”

My cheeks burned. “Definitely not.”

“He’s not your brother, is he? ‘Cause if so, I want to meet him.”

 ”No, not a brother either. He’s just…” I searched for the word. Talking about Evan was weird. “A friend. From my old school. A really good friend.”

Ava sighed and glanced at the portrait once more before focusing back on her own picture. “Well, let me know if he’s ever looking for a city girl. I’d love to meet him.”

Checking the time, my eyes slid to the clock hanging over the door, and I caught a glimpse of Connor at his table. His brow furrowed in question and I suppressed the desire to run my fingers across the lines and smooth them. The idea alarmed and excited me, so I forced my eyes away from his and back to my desk. I needed to ignore this kid. Forget he existed. I had a feeling that he was nothing but trouble, and the more I ignored him, the faster he would go away.

Yeah, right.

“I
THINK YOU SHOULD
talk to him.”

My boots made the leaves crinkle underfoot while we walked home. The whole day was strange and disturbing and I just wanted to get to the safety of my room. Evan had been pushing this whole “Pro-Connor” movement since we left the parking lot.

“You should,” he continued when I didn’t respond. “If he can see me—well, I would be interested to see what he knows.”

“He can’t see you, Evan,” I spat. I’d spent my study period thinking over my encounter with Connor. I had a theory. “He’s just messing with me. Somehow he found out about my outbursts or ‘episodes’ and he’s just screwing with me.”

Evan shut up after that—for a minute at least—leaving only the sound of cars passing by and leaves crushing under my feet.

“He can see me, Jane. I know he can.”

I stopped and faced him. The wind had picked up and the loose strands of hair that escaped my pathetic attempt at a pony tail whipped around my face. He stared at me with sad eyes. Something was wrong.

“Evan, you told me I was the only one who could see you. And that you were the only ghost I could see. Remember?” I waved my hands, risking looking ridiculous to anyone passing by. “We tested this. You can see other ghosts and I can see people but other people can’t see you. And for some reason I only see you.”

We
had
tested it. No humans around me were ever aware of Evan. Not at the mall or the crowded farmer’s market on Saturdays, nor on the train or at sporting events. He was invisible to everyone but me. And Evan often told me of other spirits we passed by, but I could never see them.

Somehow we were bound between two worlds.

“I don’t know, Jane—but he can. I know he can. Sometimes I think I understand the rules between us, but then other times…they seem to change.”

“Why don’t you talk to him then, if you’re so interested?” I asked.

Evan stared at me. He was chicken, too.

“Yeah, exactly,” I said, marching the rest of the way home in silence.

“W
HAT ABOUT NEXT WEEKEND?
Maybe on Sunday? I think students get in half-price.”

I forced myself to focus across the table at Ava, while she picked the chocolate candies out of her trail mix. “Sure…the art museum?” It came out as a question. You would think I would be more grateful sitting with Ava and her friends at lunch. Finally escaping my quiet corner of exile near the drink machines. After talking to me in art class she invited me to sit with them and then yesterday she brought up a trip to the Folk Art Museum. I’d agreed thinking it would never come to fruition but here she was making plans, while I ignored her to let my eyes drift to the table across the room.

“Yes, the art museum. But I don’t blame you for the distraction. He really is cute,” she said.

I fought back a blush. Connor sat at a table with several other guys, laughing. It wasn’t fair. He was here for a week and already had friends. I’d been here for eight months and had one (barely). Not only that, he was possibly crazier than I was, which only made the entire situation harder to swallow.

“Stop,” I said, but continued to look at Connor. His hair was still short, but the hair on his face was thicker. “I’m not distracted by him. Sunday doesn’t work for me. My family gets back in town that afternoon. How about the next weekend? I will be dying to get out and do something by then.”

Today was the last day of school before the Thanksgiving holiday. Fall had passed quickly and I was eager to have a couple days break, even if it did mean we had to make a three-hour drive to my grandmother’s house.

My thoughts were interrupted by a loud peal of laughter from the group of boys sitting with Connor.

“Totally. Not. Fair,” I muttered.

“What’s not fair?” Ava asked.

I scowled in the direction of his table, a little embarrassed that she heard me. “That. Him. Why does he have all those friends? Why are they nice to him? When I was new, it took me months to make…well, you know.”

There was a moment of awkward silence between the two of us. “I know it was hard for you at first, but you can’t compare yourself to Connor.”