Page 17 of Ghosts Don't Cry

“I don’t have a plan.”

“Liar.”

“Idon’t!”

She gives me a look that says she’s not buying it, but doesn’t push. Instead, she launches into a story about her disaster in a chemistry experiment, and I let myself be pulled back into the normal routine of our day.

But later, during English, I find my eyes on him again, watching him read. His copy of ‘Grapes of Wrath’is already filled with notes, margins crowded with words —some underlined twice, others circled. As though he’s having a conversation with Steinbeck himself.

I wonder what it would be like to see inside his mind. To understand what he sees when he reads those pages. To know what connections he’s making that the rest of us miss.

Mrs. Preston asks a question about the Joad family, and for a moment, I think he might answer. His hand twitches toward his notebook. His mouth opens slightly. But then he catches himself and the moment passes. Whatever he was going to say gets swallowed back down, locked away behind those walls he’s built.

It happens so fast that I wouldn’t have noticed if I wasn’t already looking at him. I witness the war that happens in that split second—the desire to engage versus the need to stay hidden. And the need wins.

It always wins with him.

After class, I watch him gather his things. First one to the door again. The hallway swallows him quickly, and he’s gone before I even make it out of the classroom.

I tell myself I’m just curious. That one note didn’t mean anything. It was just a small kindness, the kind I’d offer to anyone.

But I’m already thinking about writing another one.

Chapter Seven

RONAN

I don’t knowhow long I stand on the sidewalk outside of the house before I walk up the path. My boots stay planted on cracked concrete while I stare at white siding that’s gone gray in places, and a roof that sags slightly on one side. There’s a drive big enough for two cars on the right, with a lawn stretching out from the steps leading to the front door. A white picket fence separates it from the sidewalk, with gaps where slats have rotted through.

My fingers flex around the key in my hand. I’ve been gripping it tight the entire walk from Mitchell’s office, and it’s left an imprint of its shape in my palm.

High school teachers don’t leave houses to students who fucked up everything they touched. They especially don’t leave them to ex-cons who spent five years learning to survive in a concrete box. But Edwards was different. I know he came from money. I know he taught high school history because he enjoyed it. What I don’t know is why he’s left all this to me.

But, here I am. Standing on a sidewalk in front of a house that’s seen better days, yet still has hope written into its bones.

The key sticks in the front door lock when I finally move. I have to jiggle it, shoulder pressed against the wood before it finally gives. The door groans, protesting loudly, hinges crying out from disuse.

Stale air hits me first. Then dust. I make the mistake of breathing in as the door disturbs a dust cloud, and spend the next few minutes choking.

When I do finally step inside, my boots leave prints in the gray film coating the hardwood floor. The entrance hall opens up before me, wide enough that I could stretch out both arms and still not touch either wall. The walls themselves are covered in peeling wallpaper that might have been blue once. Now it’s the color of old cigarette smoke, and curls at the corners.

Everything echoes—my footsteps, my breathing, the slow drip coming from somewhere upstairs. Light filters through grimy windows either side of the front door, catching dust motes that dance in the air. A staircase rises on the left. Doorways open on either side. I move toward the one closest to me on the right.

The living room is larger than I expected it to be. An old couch sits against one wall, covered in a white sheet gone yellow with age. There are two armchairs, also covered, and a coffee table with water rings staining the surface. Empty bookshelves are built into the walls, their shelves bare and dusty.

A water stain spreads across the ceiling. The roof probably leaks. I add it to the mental list I’m compiling of things I’m going to need to fix.

My chest feels too tight. The dust is settling into my lungs, coating them, making it hard to breathe.

“Fuck.” The word bounces off the walls.

I back out of the room, and turn to the second door. This one is closed, and sticks when I try to open it. A firm shove gets it open, and I step through.

The kitchen is a time capsule. There are dishes still in the cabinets, covered in dust like everything else in the house. Plates with faded floral patterns around the edges. Bowls in various sizes. Old appliances that have seen better days line the counters, but the refrigerator still hums when I plug it in, and I think the stove will also work. The kitchen table is solid wood, chairs pushed in, almost like someone just left and never came back.

Coffee mugs hang from hooks, dust-coated like everything else.

I find the garage and workshop keys in the kitchen drawer, along with old takeout menus and a stack of blank notebooks. The notebooks are the kind Edwards used to hand out to students—good quality paper, sturdy covers. My name is written on the top one in his handwriting.