Page 39 of Ghosts Don't Cry

The last ofthe students walk out of the building, their footsteps fading away. I pretend to reorganize my locker, but my eyes stay fixed on the exit.

Stay. Watch. Wait.

Something is wrong today. I’ve been watching him for long enough now to recognize the signs. He’d been gripping his desk during last period, his knuckles white. At one point, his pencil had stilled mid-sentence during the pop quiz, hovering over the page like he’d forgotten how to form words. His eyes kept closing during Mr. Edwards’ lecture, and I’m sure it was more than just tiredness. It looked like he was fighting to stay conscious.

At lunch, he didn’t reach for the half-sandwich someone left on the table nearest the door in the cafeteria, even though I saw him staring at it.

Each small tell adds up to something that makes me worry about him.

When he finally comes out of the restroom, his steps drag against the floor like gravity has turned against him. One hand trails along the wall, and I am certain that if he let go, he’d fall. Each step looks like it’s costing him something vital, somethinghe can’t afford to lose. I keep my distance behind him, and follow him outside. The October wind cuts through my padded jacket, making me shiver, but he doesn’t seem to notice the cold.

He makes it halfway down the steps before his legs give out. The sound he makes when he catches himself against the wall …God, thatsound … hurts my heart. I don’t know if I should approach him or not. We’ve traded notes, but we’ve never spoken. He treats me the same way he treats everyone else … Like I’m not there.

“Hey.” I speak before I can second guess it. “Are you okay?”

When his head lifts and his eyes meet mine, the world around me ceases to exist. I’ve seen eyes like that before in documentaries about war zones, when they show stills of kids who have seen too much, too young. Dark circles shadow them like bruises, but it’s the emptiness in them that makes my chest ache.

He looks haunted, his eyes dull and lifeless.

“Fine.” The word sounds rusty.

“You don’t look fine.” My heart is pounding so hard I wonder if he can hear it. “You look like you’re about to collapse.”

“I don’t remember asking for your opinion.” He tries to push away from the wall, but his legs betray him. This time when he stumbles, I’m close enough to catch his arm.

The way he flinches when I touch him is going to haunt my dreams. He jerks away like my fingers are burning him, but it’s too late. I’ve already felt the way he’s shaking, and how cold his skin is through the thin hoodie.

“When was the last time you ate something?”

The question sits between us. His jaw clenches, a muscle ticking on one side. I watch as he swallows, but he doesn’t answer me.

“I have some granola bars in my car.” My keys are digging into my palm where I’m gripping them too hard. “And bottled water.”

“I don’t need your charity.” His voice is harsh.

“Good. Because I’m not offering any.” I force myself to meet his stare. I feel like I’m looking into an empty abyss. “I’m offering food to someone who looks like they’re about to pass out. There’s a difference.”

Something flickers in his expression, a crack in the armor he wears, and for just a moment, I see past the walls to the pain he hides.

“Why do you care?”

The question sounds like a test. One he’s expecting me to get wrong.

“Because someone should.”

He stares at me for so long that I start to wonder if I’ve failed his test. Then he gives a slow nod.

“Fine.”

The walk to my car takes forever. He checks the parking lot three times, and it makes me wonder again what has happened to him to make him this way. When we finally reach my car, I open the passenger door. He just stands there, so I lean down and pull out two granola bars and a water bottle from the glovebox.

When I hold them out, his hands are shaking so badly he almost drops them. His fingers curl around the bars, and he just stands there for a moment, staring down at them.

Then he tears one open, and takes a bite. His eyes close, and he chews slowly then swallows. Each bite is small and savored, but his body language is screaming that he wants to devour it faster. It makes me want to cry.

Between bites, his eyes open to look around. Checking his surroundings. Always checking. I watch him from under mylashes, trying not to let him see. This is the first time I’ve been this close to him, and I’m taking in everything I can.

There’s dirt embedded under his fingernails. His knuckles are scraped raw. The cuffs of his hoodie are frayed, threads hanging loose.