Page 10 of Ghosts Don't Cry

“Aha!Youmust be our new student. Class, this is …”

“Ronan.”

“Welcome to Graystone Hollow High, Ronan.” He picks up a textbook and exercise book off his desk, and holds them out. “Take these. I don’t imagine you’ve had time to get supplies yet.”

“No, sir. Thank you.”

“Go and take a seat.” He gestures to an empty desk near the back, and turns back to the class.

A whisper ripples through the room, and eyes track my movement as I cross the floor to the empty desk in the back corner.

“Anothermid-year transfer?” someone mutters. “That’s likethreethis semester.”

I drop into the seat near the window, and shove my bag under the desk. The girl next to me shifts her chair slightly away. The guy in front keeps glancing back.

Let them look. Let them wonder. They can build whatever story makes them comfortable. I don’t care. I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to stop myself going insane.

Edwards returns to his lecture on the Civil War, specifically Sherman’s March, supply lines, and strategy. I reach down and take a pencil out of my bag, open the exercise book, and start to write, capturing details that probably bore most other people. History makes sense to me. Cause and effect. Action and consequence. Unlike most things in my life, there’s a logic to it, even if that logic is brutal.

He writes key dates on the board. His handwriting is neat, sometimes spilling into cursive. The other students whisper behind their hands whenever he turns his back, passing notes that have nothing to do with Sherman or the war.

Normalteenage things.

When Edwards asks about Sherman’s tactics, no one answers him. They all look down, away, and avoid eye contact. I know the answer. I know it because in some ways I’ve lived it. How sometimes burning everything behind you is the only true way forward. But my hand stays down.

I’ve learnedthatlesson, too. Don’t volunteer, don’t stand out, and above all, don’t give anyone a reason to remember your name.

The silence builds. Edwards waits, gaze moving over the rows. He stops on me, and I hear myself speak before I can stop it.

“He wasn’t just destroying resources. He was breaking their will to fight. Showing them that nowhere was safe until they surrendered.”

Everyone turns to stare at me. Edwards pauses, almost surprised, considering my words, then nods slowly, a smile spreading across his face.

“Very good. Thank you, Ronan.”

He continues his lecture, and I drop my head to focus on writing, pretending I don’t see him glancing my way between sentences. When the bell rings, he calls my name. I act like I haven’t heard him, up and moving while others are still packing their bags. I’m out of the door before he can stop me.

I slip into the closest restroom and lean back against the door. Across the room, my reflection stares back at me. Pale skin, dark circles under my eyes, too-long hair falling over my face. The bruise on my jaw has almost faded—a reminder ofwhat happens when you lower your guard and trust the wrong people.

Straightening, I look around for something to jam the door shut. I don’t want anyone to come in while I’m in here. There’s a trash can in one corner, and I drag it over to wedge it beneath the handle. Then I cross the floor until I’m in front of the sinks. Twisting the faucet, I splash water on my face. When I lick my lips, the water tastes wrong. It has a metallic aftertaste that’s different from Seattle’s or Portland’s. Even more so than the rusty pipes back home. Although that’s harder to remember now.

Home.

The word sticks in my throat. It’s been over three years since I walked out of that place, stopped being my mother’s son, and started being no one at all.

Sometimes, late at night, when the hunger and cold gets bad enough to make me stupid, I let myself wonder if she’s still breathing. If she remembers I exist. If she ever would have chosen me over the pills.

But I know better than to reach out and check.

Outside, I can hear students moving through the hallways. Someone tries the door, then bangs on it.

“Open the door!”

I don’t acknowledge them, and after a second or two, they move away, swearing. Normal kids with normal problems. Their biggest worry is passing a test or getting invited to a party. Mine is where I’m sleeping tonight and where the next meal is coming from.

So, I’ll do what I have to do. I’ll show up. I’ll stay quiet. I’ll do the work. And maybe this time, I’ll find a way to be more than just another ghost haunting someone else’s halls.

Maybe this time will be different.