Haunting Zoe (2 page)

I don’t so much hear the door open as much as
I feel it, that nagging sensation of being watched. Turning slowly,
I come face to face with the last person on the planet I expect to
see.

Zoe Reed.

She’s standing there in torn jeans and a
light brown sweater, a grey scarf hanging in loose drapes around
her neck. Her brown hair is pulled back in a loose bun with undone
strands hanging wildly around her face.

I don’t think we’ve been in a room alone
together in maybe four years—not since middle school. We used to be
best friends; she was the one person who knew all my secrets. Then,
her father died and she sort of pulled away, retreating into this
little shell I never could break her out of. Eventually, I quit
trying, and we went our separate ways. I’m amazed she even bothered
coming to the funeral. The last few times I’d caught her eye in
school, she was glaring at me like I was a gallon of month-old
milk. Sort of like the way she’s looking at me now.

As if she can see me.

Reaching around, she grabs the door and slams
it shut with a loud thud.

“What is your freaking
damage,
Logan?”
she demands.

I’m so stunned that, for a moment, I’m
totally speechless. Looking around quickly, I make sure there’s not
someone else she’s yelling at.

“Excuse me?” I manage finally.

She squints, glaring at me.

“I’m being punked, aren’t I? This is some
stupid reality TV show or something right?”

I can’t believe it. She is talking to me. I
have a nearly irresistible urge to throw my arms around her and
scream
halleluiah
. Only her enraged expression keeps me
still.

“Does your family know you’re alive? I mean,
seriously, if this is some dumb publicity stunt for the reporters
out front…” She trails off, making a disgusted noise deep in the
back of her throat. “Say something, Logan.
Please
. Find the
magic words to make this whole mess not be the most horrible thing
a human being has ever done in their entire life, ever.”

“Zoe?” I ask, unable to keep the pleased grin
off my face. She really can see me. So why is she so pissed?
Shouldn’t she be happy I’m alive? Or maybe not alive, but you know.
Here
. “What are you talking about?”

“You are a giant douche hammer, you know
that? I mean, what is this? Some idiotic attempt to get extra
credit in English class? Tom Sawyer 101? I mean, those people think
you’re dead! We all thought…” She trails off again, and I can feel
the tension radiating off her like heat waves. This is the Zoe I
remember. Once, when we were little, she got so mad that a GI Joe
she left in the yard got mowed over that she had a fit and took the
whole mower apart piece by piece with a screwdriver. If I can’t
calm her down—and fast—she is going to go completely nuclear.

I tilt my head to the side, offering her a
relaxed smile. I’d forgotten how pretty she is when she gets really
mad. A flush of color rises to her cheeks, and her eyes widen as
she presses her lips into a narrow line. I’m still so amazed she’s
here that I can’t help but whisper, just to make sure.

“You can see me?”

And that’s when she flies off the handle.

“Okay, that’s it. I’m not falling for this…
whatever this is. I’m going to march in there and tell your mother
right now.”

Her tone is so high that I can’t help but
laugh a little.

“You’re going to go tell my mommy on me?
What, are we five again?”

She flips me off and spins on her heel,
pulling the door open and charging out of the room. I try to grab
her, but my hand goes right through her arm.

“Wait!” I holler down the hall, but she’s
speed walking for the chapel. I follow her as she steps into the
center of the aisle, catching sight of the coffin for the first
time. Her pace slows as she approaches it, her steps faltering as
she sees me lying in the casket.

In the back of the room, Bruno gets to his
feet, as if he’s going to go after her, but her mother and her
friend Carlos both jump up and rush to her side. I step back into
the hall, out of her sight. Bruno is watching her with worried
eyes. I forgot—he had a thing for her a while back. He’d even asked
me for her number once. I’d blown him off then, partly because I
didn’t actually have her number anymore, but also a little because
she was mine once, and even though that was years ago, I couldn’t
quite stomach the idea of sharing her with anyone, even now.

I step behind the door as Carlos and her mom
leads Zoe out of the foyer and outside, watching as they gather her
and load her into the passenger seat of her mom’s car. When I
finally walk out onto the front steps, Zoe glances over Carlos’
shoulder, catching sight of me again. This time she doesn’t look
angry, just shocked and confused.

They pull off, and I stuff my hands in my
pockets. I decide to give her a couple hours to calm down before I
go see her again. I mean, there has to be a reason she can see me.
And maybe, she knows what’s going on with me—why I’m stuck here.
Maybe she can help.

As I turn to head back inside, all I can
think is,
Why did it have to be Zoe
?

***

I watch as the storm clouds gather in the dim
afternoon sky, the air grows thick with the promise of rain, and
the first shard of lightning streaks across the sky. The workers
hastily operate the wench, lowering my shiny black casket into the
hole at my feet. My family has long gone home, all that’s left now
are the piles of flowers and the two men in blue jumpsuits. One
hops in the bobcat and begins scooping large bucketfuls of dirt to
fill it in.

They finish their work quickly and scurry to
the shelter of a crude building near the rear of the cemetery. Just
as they step inside and close the door a roll of thunder echoes
across the sky and the rain lets loose. I don’t feel it, not the
drops hitting my skin or the bit of the cold water. It might be
because I’m too numb—too overwhelmed for the day—to feel anything.
Or it might just be a perk of being dead.

After Zoe had seen me at the wake, I’d been
so sure there would be someone else, anyone else, who would have
the same ability. I should have known it was too much to hope
for.

Zoe and I had been best friends as kids. We’d
made mud pies, had secret forts in the woods behind my house, she’d
even been my first kiss. As innocent childhood kisses go, it had
been pretty memorable. But all that changed after her dad died. I
remember knocking on her door every day that summer, only to be
sent away by her mother because she didn’t feel like company.

Every. Single. Day.

She ended up homeschooling for a while and by
the time she came back, we were in high school. I had new friends
and new hobbies. We just didn’t fit in each other’s lives anymore.
I got popular, and she got bitchy.

And that was being generous.

For the most part we’d managed to stay clear
of each other, until the end of school last year when my best
friend Bruno had asked me for her number out of the blue. Even as
an unexpected feeling of jealousy and possession had flared up
inside me, I’d jokingly slapped him on the shoulder and told him
he’d be better off asking out a pit viper.

I close my eyes, trying to remember what the
inside of her house looks like. The air around me changes and when
I open my eyes, I’m in her kitchen. The storm is still raging
outside and above me the simple chandelier flickers. Zoe is
standing there, her back to me. Her long, messy brown hair is
hanging in loose strands and she’s in what I assume are her
pajamas, her feet bare.

The lights flicker again, harder this time,
and she turns to face me, a glass of milk and a plate of pizza in
her hands. I watch as her eyes focus on me and I can’t help the
momentary feeling of relief.

She really can see me, even now. Whatever had
happened at the funeral home hadn’t been an isolated incident. Then
as I stare into her doe eyes, they widen, her face pales, and I see
her mouth open. The plate and glass slip from her fingers and crash
to the floor, shattering in every direction.

I hold out my hands in front of me.

“Don’t move,” I say calmly.

Then she screams.

***

Zoe steps backwards, which is exactly the
wrong thing to do, and I hear the glass crunch under her foot. She
cries out, lifting her foot and getting off balance. She falls
backward into the shards of white plate and clear glass.

“Stop moving,” I order. “You’re going to cut
yourself to shreds.”

She screams again, this time the sound is
hoarse, like she can’t quite get her vocal cords to cooperate. I
sigh, rolling my eyes.

“Will you please stop screaming? Seriously
Zoe.”

Her mouth clamps shut, but she’s still
breathing heavy, her face flushed. I wait, folding my arms across
my chest, for her to relax and process.

“What are you doing here?” she manages
finally.

I don’t miss a beat with my response.

“What am I doing here, as in in your kitchen,
or do you mean here in more general terms? As in why am I not—”

She cuts me off.

“Rotting in the ground somewhere?”

I feel my nose crinkle at the thought.

“I was going to say dead, but thanks for the
vivid.”

She frowns at me skeptically then turns her
arm to examine the damage. A thin line of blood is dripping from
her elbow, a small sliver of glass stuck in the skin.

“I’m bleeding,” she complains.

“That’s what happens when you fall into a
pile of broken glass.”

She shoots me a nasty glare.

“Shut up Logan.”

Ah, yes, that’s the Zoe I remember. Brave,
yes. Clever, yes. And with a mouth that could make a sailor
blush.

She grabs the glass sliver with two fingers
and pulls. The blood flows faster, but she doesn’t seem to be too
bothered by it. She tosses the sliver aside and sets her forearm
against the floor, using it to push away the remaining glass and
clear a path.

She examines her cut foot for only a moment
before grabbing the fridge door and hoisting herself to her feet.
She steps around the glass carefully, her eyes trained on the slate
grey tile floor, and limps down the hallway to the bathroom.

I follow and turn the corner just in time to
see her close the lid on the toilet and take a seat, a large white
plastic box on her lap. Silently I watch her clean a large gash on
the bottom of her foot then tend to her arm. I lean against the
counter and cross my ankles.

“That probably needs stitches,” I offer
softly, not wanting to freak her out anymore than I already
have.

She doesn’t look up but I swear she looks a
little green. I didn’t know that actually happened to people. If I
had to guess, I’d say she was trying very hard not to puke.

She puts a band-aid over the cut on her arm
then closes her eyes tightly. Though she doesn’t make a sound, I
can see her lips moving as she counts to ten before opening her
eyes again.

“Still here,” I say, waving my hands.

“Why?” she asks, and her tone isn’t angry or
afraid, it just sounds tired.

“Why what?”

“Why are you here? And what exactly are
you?”

She finally looks up, and her eyes are rimmed
with red, the tip of her nose pink, like she’s about to cry. I
swallow.

“I’m here because for some weird reason you
can see me when no one else can.”

I try not to let my irritation leak into my
voice, but it’s hard. Why, of all people, did it have to be Zoe?
This is like some bad cosmic joke.

“Why can I see you?” she asks.

My brow furrows as I realize she has no idea
what’s happening any more than I do.

“Do you see dead people often?” I ask
tensely.

She tilt her head, giving me a duh look.

“No. You’re the first.”

I throw my hands in the air, beyond
frustrated. I’ve spent days like this—the invisible dead guy—and
now that someone can see me, not only is it the last person on the
planet I want to deal with, but she’s completely useless to
boot.

“Great. Just freaking great. The one person
who can see me, and she has no idea what’s going on.” I don’t
realize I’m speaking out loud until I catch her eye, and see the
silent hurt swimming there. I soften my tone. “I was really hoping
you’d have some answers.”

The hurt in her eye is quickly replaced with
a flare of anger.

“Well, I don’t. So maybe you should just,”
she hesitates, waving her hand. “You know. Go.”

I raise one eyebrow.

“Go where exactly?” This wasn’t exactly a
vacation. My options were pretty limited at the moment.

She stands up in a huff. “I don’t know! Go
into the light or something. Shit, what do I look like? A ghost
expert?”

I try to keep calm.

“You look like the only person who can see or
hear me,” I answer honestly. What I should have said was
thank
you
, I realize a moment too late. Thank you for seeing me,
because, it means I’m not crazy. And I’m not alone.

She sighs and pinches her nose.

“This isn’t happening. This is some bad
dream.”

My face falls into a frown, the last of my
anger dying away in a wash of relief.

I’m not alone anymore.

I hold onto that thought.

“Yeah, that’s what I told myself too. For
days I stood in my living room screaming at my parents while they
sobbed over my picture. I thought I was losing my mind. Then I
followed them to the funeral. And I saw you.”

And you saw me
. I don’t say it out
loud, but the words hang between us like an invisible white
flag.

She motions for me to move and I step aside.
She puts the first aid box away under the sink and leads me to her
room. It hasn’t changed much over the years. Same thick emerald
green comforter, same old high backed floral print chair in front
of a tiny TV. The only changes are a large oak desk and a laptop.
As I step further inside I realize the room even smells like her, a
distinctive smell something like honeysuckle, but not quite. It
brings back a lot of memories, things I hadn’t thought of in
years.