Page 16 of Ghosts Don't Cry

“What about him?”

“Doesn’t it seem strange? The way he just appeared and won’t talk to anyone?”

Cassidy shrugs, twirling her pencil between her fingers. “Maybe he’s shy. Or doesn’t like people.Somepeople don’t, you know.”

“It’s more than that.”

“How do you know?”

“I just … notice things.”

“Yeah, you do.” She grins. “Like how you noticed Mike before I did, and told me I should ask him out.”

“You were making googly eyes at him every day in the cafeteria. I had to say something before I threw up from the disgustingness of it.”

“Googly eyes?” She throws a wadded up piece of paper at me. “Ido notmake googly eyes.”

“You absolutely make googly eyes.”

We’re both trying not to laugh now, and Mrs. Carson shoots us a warning look from the circulation desk. Cassidy makes an exaggerated innocent face, then leans closer, dropping her voice to a whisper.

“Okay, but seriously. What is it about this guy that has you so interested?”

I consider the question. “I think he’s alone. Like,reallyalone. Not just new-kid-that-hasn’t-made-friends-yet alone.”

She turns to look at the dark-haired boy with his head bowed over a book in the darkest corner of the library. He’s positioned so his back is to the wall, and can see anyone approaching.

But I can’t stop watching him. His essays always come back with perfect grades. I see Mrs. Preston hand them back, the red A marked clear at the top, but he never raises his hand in class. He never volunteers or engages beyond those brief, brilliant moments when a teacher asks him a direct question.

But why? What makes someone so determined to disappear?

He’s been at our school for two weeks before I write the first note. It’s nothing dramatic. Just an offering of information that might interest him.

The library has a better copy of Steinbeck in the reference section. The one with his original notes.

I slip it onto his desk before history class starts, then pretend to be absorbed in my book when he walks in. From the corner of my eye, I watch him find it, watch his fingers unfold the paper with a gentleness at odds with his rough exterior. I watch him read it once, then twice, a small frown creasing his forehead. Then he folds it carefully and tucks it into his pocket.

He doesn’t look around, or try to figure out who sent it, but the next day I spot him in the reference section, fingers tracing over Steinbeck’s marginalia. He reads slowly, sometimes pausing to write something in his notebook. His expression is different here—softer, more open. And something about it makes me smile.

There's a beauty in watching someone connect with something they love. The way his shoulders relax slightly, and his breathing seems to even out. For these few minutes, whatever weight he's carrying seems lighter.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Cassidy says at lunch.

“What thing?”

“The thing where you find someone who needs saving.”

“I’m not trying to save anyone.” I focus on my sandwich, so I don’t have to meet her eyes. “It was just a note about a book.”

“Uh-huh.” She steals my apple. “Just a book … right.”

“It was! The librarydoeshave a better copy. I was being helpful.”

“You’re always helpful.” There’s no judgment in her voice, just affection. She bumps her shoulder against mine. “It’s your superpower. Or your fatal flaw. I haven’t decided which.”

“Could be both.”

“Definitelyboth.” She steals one of my fries now. “What’s the plan with this one? Are you going to actually talk to him at some point?”