I Heart You, You Haunt Me (6 page)

Jessa

I’ve always been the quiet girl.

I’m the good girl

who does

what she’s told

(most of the time).

Jessa is the loud girl.

She’s the bad girl

who makes you

want to be bad too,

because it looks

so good

on her,

with her pierced nose

and her wild hair.

She’s the youngest

in a family

with six kids.

I think she had to be loud

and bad

so she wouldn’t

be forgotten.

Jessa loves the movies.

We went to the movies together a lot,

while Cali and Zoe

played volleyball.

The first time we went,

Jessa said,

“Let’s stay and see another one.”

“I don’t think we’re supposed to do that.”

“Why not?” she said.

“No one will know.”

Then she pulled me into

another theater

to watch

another movie.

And then we went to her house,

where she showed me

the book of drawings she keeps.

Fairies,

elves,

dragons,

and wizards.

She is
such
a talented artist.

“When I turn eighteen,” she told me,

“I’m going to get a bunch of these

as tatoos.”

Yeah,

I don’t think Jessa

needs to worry

anymore

about being

forgotten.

Jessa is definitely

unforgettable.

In the very best way,

of course.

The Truth Hurts

“Wanna shower? Go somewhere?” Zoe asks.

“We could cruise around in my new car,” Jessa says.

“You got a new car?” I ask.

“What’d you get?”

“Well, it’s used, but new to me.

It’s a Mazda Protégé.”

Wow.

Guess things are happening

out there

in the big, blue world.

“Come on,” Cali says.

“Let’s split this joint.”

“Nah.

I’m not really up for anything today.”

Jessa stands up.

“Ava, this isn’t healthy.

It’s beautiful out. Come on.

You’re not the dead one, you know.”

“Jessa!” Zoe yells.

“Oh, God,” Cali says.

“Nice, Jessa.”

“Sorry,” Jessa says.

“I’m so sorry.

Forgive me?”

“You guys just don’t have a clue what I’m going through,” I say

as I pick at a loose thread on my robe.

“So tell us,” Jessa says.

“We’re here. Help us understand.”

I stand up.

“I have stuff to do,” I tell them,

which is a total lie

and they know it.

“Thanks for stopping by.”

I walk to the door, open it, and wait.

“Bye, Ava.”

“Bye, Hon.”

“I’m sorry, A.”

“Yeah,” I tell them, in almost a whisper.

“It’s okay.

See ya later.”

I go to the front window

and watch their beautiful, tan bodies

get into Jessa’s cute car.

They wave

and then the car

zips out of the driveway

and down the street

in a flash of silver.

The room gets cold.

Jackson is there.

“How come you can’t go out, Jackson?

Do you
want
me here with you all the time?

I feel like you do.

Will you get mad at me if I go with my friends?

I mean, I have a
life,
Jackson.

Or, I should anyway.

Do you get that?”

No answer.

“Why can’t ghosts TALK!?” I scream.

The Closest Thing to Talking

I sit on the couch

and cry

because everything is so

confusing

and mixed up.

Suddenly,

the music stops.

Oh, no.

No, please,

don’t go!

I shouldn’t have

screamed

like that.

This isn’t his fault.

Does he hate me now?

I stand up

and call his name.

“Jackson?

JACKSON!?”

“Please come back,” I shriek,

crying and pacing.

“Please don’t leave me

by myself!”

When I feel the cold air

flutter around me

like a butterfly’s wings,

I know he’s back,

and I collapse on the

couch in relief.

“I’m sorry for yelling, Jackson.

I didn’t mean it.”

There’s a whisper

inside my head

so soft,

I almost don’t hear the first words.

There are ghost rules, Ava.

I’m not allowed to answer your questions.

I don’t want to keep you from your friends.

I’m sorry I got mad before.

More than anything,

I want you to be happy.

I love you, Ava.

Be happy.

Road Trip

A few days before

the Fourth of July holiday,

they don’t ask me,

they just do it.

Mom and Dad

whisk me away

to the place of

sand and sea,

with the never-ending sound

of waves

thrashing,

lashing,

crashing.

I love that sound.

I love the beach.

I’ve packed my windbreaker,

my sun visor,

my flip-flops

and tank tops.

What I couldn’t pack

was my ghost of a boyfriend,

Jackson.

We’re about to leave

when I say,

“Wait! I forgot something!”

I grab my key

from my purse,

run inside the house

and up the stairs.

“I’ll miss you, Jackson,” I say

to the still, quiet air

around me

as I walk toward

the bookcase in my room.

“I’ll be back soon.

I promise.”

I return to the car

with a stuffed

yellow snake

stuck in the pocket

of my hoody.

Let’s Dance

I walk barefoot next to my mom.

The seagulls dance

across the sand

as the waves crash

on the shore.

The seagull waltz.

I dance around my mother’s

topic of conversation.

“You don’t talk about him.

Are you sure you’re doing okay?”

“Yes.”

“Ava, I’ll just say it.

I’m worried about you.

It seemed like you were doing fine.

But lately, I don’t know.”

“I
am
fine, Mom.”

She grabs my hand.

Squeezes it.

“I think it might be good for you to talk to someone.”

“A shrink?”

“A grief counselor.”

I stop walking

and let my eyes rest

on the blueness of the ocean,

thinking of Jackson,

wondering if he’s sipping my lemonade

or drinking my cocoa

or frolicking around

in my panty drawer.

“Isn’t it just so amazing, Mom?”

I put my arm around her

and put my head

on her shoulder.

“Sometimes, I think I smell him,” she whispers.

I don’t say anything.

The mother-daughter waltz.

Ghostly Tales

It’s hard

to fall asleep

in a room

that isn’t mine.

In the kite room

of the beach house,

kites are on every wall.

Blue ones,

red ones,

yellow ones,

and even one

shaped like a bird.

I quietly get up

and move over

to the computer.

I turn it on.

I Google “ghosts.”

I click and read

click and read

click and read.

A website claiming to be

“The Number One Resource on Ghosts”

says that if a person dies with “unresolved issues”

or “emotional baggage,”

he can’t move on

to “the higher plane.”

Does Jackson have unresolved issues?

Or emotional baggage?

Do I want to know if he does?

I find a message board

on another site

where people share their experiences

and ask questions.

It seems like each ghost is different.

Some only appear once a year.

Some only appear in dreams.

Some only haunt houses.

Some only show up in mirrors.

Jackson seems to be

a do-anything

kind of ghost.

That makes sense

because he was pretty much

a do-anything

kind of guy.

Lost

The walls are thin.

My parents are talking.

Talking about
me.

I tiptoe back to my bed.

Dad says, “The three girls and Nick

have been checking in with her, right?”

“Yes. But she still just sits at home most of the time.”

“She needs to talk to someone.”

“How do we get her to see she does?” Mom asks

“She doesn’t have to see it.

She just has to do it.

We have to make her do it.”

Oh. My. God.

My parents.

My friends.

They all

must think

I’m mental.

And Nick,

was he hitting on me

only because

he felt sorry for me?

I turn over

and cry into my pillow.

Jackson,

why aren’t you here?

I need you!

If I sleep,

will you visit me?

Can you find me?

Please.

Find me.

Flying Alone

The kites

lift me up

and take me away

to a place where I sleep.

I sleep without dreams.

Without Jackson.

Finally,

I rest.

Good Morning

Sunday morning

I wake up early

for the first time

in a long time,

feeling refreshed.

I head to the beach, where

I want to run barefoot

on the sand,

feel the sea breeze

on my skin,

hear the ocean sounds

in my head.

Maybe it will help

me forget

all the mixed-up stuff

going on

in my life.

But I’m not the only one

who is up early.

A black Lab

runs over to me.

I bend down to pet him.

He drops a stick

at my feet.

“Sorry.

He loves to play fetch,”

says the tan guy

with short, blonde hair.

I laugh and say, “Okay.”

Then I throw the stick into the ocean

and watch the dog

chase the stick

with everything

he’s got.

Like if he loses that stick,

his life will never be the same.

The waves cover him

for a second,

but he bobs to the top

with the stick in his mouth.

And soon he is at my feet,

ready to play again.

“Good boy,” I tell him.

His owner moves closer to me and says,

“His name is Bo.”

“Good Bo.” We laugh.

“And I’m Lyric.”

“Lyric?

That’s a cool name.

Do you sing?”

He breaks out

into an opera-style

rendition of

You Are My Sunshine.

I laugh and applaud.

He takes a bow.

“Wow.

So you’re not shy,” I tell him.

“Not shy at all,” he says

as he sits

on a piece of driftwood

and pulls on my arm

so I’m sitting

right
next to him.

Silly Nothingness

We people-watch

and talk

and laugh

about silly things,

like the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders

(he likes football)

and how he thinks that’s the easiest job in the world

and how I think, no way can that be even close to easy!

I wonder if he knows

I’m not capable

of anything more

than this.

I wonder

if he would care?

In the Moment

I am

talking,

and laughing,

and listening,

and talking some more.

Lyric is totally flirting with me,

which feels so weird

but flattering,

I guess.

He tells me a story

about a crazy friend of his

who’s trying to beat

the pogo stick

world record,

and the way he talks about

bounce bounce

bouncing

on that pogo stick

makes me laugh

hysterically.

And for the first time

in a long,

long

time,

I feel

ALIVE!

So Long, Farewell

Then I remember.

I remember him.

The one I will love forever

and the one who loves me so much

he can’t leave me behind.

“I have to go,” I say.

“Can I get your number?” he asks.

“I can’t.

It’s complicated.”

I turn and walk away.

I don’t want to say good-bye.

So I won’t say anything.

Bo barks.

He says it for all of us.

“Drop me an e-mail,” he calls out.

“It’s [email protected].”

I know he wants me to turn around

to say “okay”

or give a thumbs-up.

Something.

Anything.

I should turn and say,

I have a boyfriend.

I belong with him.

But the words refuse to come.

“I’ll see you in my dreams, Ava,” he calls to me.

I stop.

I get goose bumps.

I turn to make sure it’s really Lyric,

and not

Jackson.

He waves,

and I wonder who I’ll see

in my dreams

tonight.