“Since when do you believe in ghosts?”
“Since Emma died,” I say, feeling my jaw stiffen.
He glances down the hallway, checking to make sure my mother’s out of earshot. “Dinner’s in a half hour,” he says in a lame-o attempt to ignore me.
It’s an unspoken rule in our family that we’re not allowed to talk about Emma. Ever since she died five years ago, it’s almost as if she’d never existed. My parents hired movers to come and clean out her bedroom and turn the space into a home office—an office that no one ever used. Meanwhile, my mother dove headfirst into her work at the candy factory, taking any and all shifts she could get, so she wouldn’t have to think. Or spend time at home. So everything would just go numb.
It’s gotten a little better over the years, but my mother’s never really been the same.
And I suppose I haven’t been, either.
Part of me blames myself for Emma’s accident. She had asked to borrow my roller skates that day so that she could practice her spins in the driveway. But I said no. And so Emma ended up going for a bike ride instead. She rode by herself to the park and crossed a main intersection without looking twice.
She never came home.
“I asked you a question,” I say, staring hard at the side of his face. My father refuses to meet my eye.
“This is a good house with good people in it,” he says, talking to the wall. “End of story.”
“It’s not the end.” I shake my head. “Why didn’t you tell me? Didn’t you think I’d find out anyway?”
“We don’t believe in ghosts,” he snaps.
“No,” I say, biting back. “You don’t.”
“Dinner’s in a half hour,” he repeats, pulling the door closed behind him.
I tell him I’m not hungry, but I don’t think he hears me.
Because he’s already left the room.
VNWILLING TO FALL ASLEEP last night, I burned away the hours doing more online research.
And learning more about Travis.
About his love for hockey and all things Bruins; how he loved to go camping, even in cold weather. And how he had to deal with a major loss, too.
His father died of heart failure when Travis was only seven, leaving Travis completely devastated.
The whole idea of it—of how human Travis sounds in news articles and testimonials, and how it seems we had a few things in common—keeps me awake through all of my classes, my mind whirling with questions.
But, now, at the end of the school day, I’m beyond exhausted. Even the cracked vinyl seats in the bus feel cozy. I sink down into one near the back and stare out the window, waiting for the driver to finally reach my stop.
And that’s when I feel something brush against my shoulder. I turn to look.
It’s him, sitting in the seat behind me—Travis.
“Hello, Brenda.” His pale blue eyes are fixed on mine. The gash in his forehead is no longer there.
My mouth trembles open, surprised at how good he looks, at the broadness of his shoulders and the intensity of his stare. I look away, wondering if anyone else can see him, but it appears that we’re alone, that all the other kids have already been let off at their stops.
He leans forward and rests his hand on the back of my seat, revealing the muscles in his forearm and the scar on his thumb. “You’ve been doing some research about me,” he says.
I manage a nod and slide my hand away, afraid he’ll try to grab it, like in my dreams.
“Have you found what you were looking for?” he continues.
I shake my head, knowing that I haven’t. When Emma appeared to me that day, she had one goal in mind: to say goodbye. I have no idea what Travis’s goal is.
“What do you want?” I ask, wondering how this is even possible, how he’s even sitting here right now.
He smiles as though amused by my confusion. “First,” he says, leaning in even closer, “what I don’t want is to hurt you. But I do need your help.” His hand glides along the back of my seat, just inches from mine again. “I can’t force you to stay with me in your dreams; it obviously doesn’t work and I was stupid to even try.” He glances at my wrist. “The truth is I need you to want to stay with me, to want to help me and hear me out. I won’t be able to rest until you do.”
I take a deep breath, thinking about my sister, Emma. In some ways, I’m not at rest, either.
Travis swallows hard, continuing to study me. “I could help you, too, you know.”
“I don’t need any help,” I say, my voice quavering over the words.
“Not at all?”
I glance away, avoiding the question, feeling the heat of his breath at my chin. He smells like baked apples.
A second later, the bus pulls up to my stop.
Travis moves his hand so that it rests on top of mine, making my heart thrash around inside my chest.
“Will you help me?” he asks.
My lip quivers, noting his urgent tone. Part of me wants to tell him yes; another part wants to wake up out of this dream and never sleep again.
“Getting out?” the bus driver asks.
I meet Travis’s eye, watching him watch me, focusing a moment on his full, pale lips and the tension in his jaw.
“Hel-looooo?” the driver shouts.
A moment later, I feel my body being shook. I reluctantly open my eyes, only to find some blond-haired girl with huge green glasses standing right over me, trying to shake me awake. Everyone on the bus turns to look at me—there are at least twenty kids. The bus driver glares in my direction from his rearview mirror. “Getting out?” he repeats.
I nod, grab my book, and then scurry out the door.
LATER, AT HOME, I struggle to fall asleep, to pick up where my last dream left off, but my visit from Travis has left me more mentally awake than ever. Even though, physically, I’m beyond exhausted.
At breakfast the
