her. Having finally gotten caught up on sleep, I’m no longer a walking zombie. Gone are the veins of redness that ran through my otherwise bright green eyes. So long, tired and pasty complexion; my skin seems, dare I say, glowing compared to just a month ago. And so does my hair—no longer the drab auburn tresses that hung down the sides of my face. It now looks downright tousled.
“So, is it safe to assume your house is a ghost-free zone now?” Craig smiles, exposing the oh-so-adorable gap between his two front teeth.
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” I say, looking down at my wrist, where the bruise has finally healed. “I mean, sometimes, when I least expect it, I get a hint of him—a vibe, a feeling, a whiff of his spicy scent.”
Like the other day when I was waking up, I could have sworn I felt someone clasp my hand. A few days before that, when I was getting dressed, I thought I spotted a hockey stick propped up against the wall, but, when I looked back, it was gone.
“So, he’s still around,” Craig says, trying to be clear.
“In some way, I guess, he always will be.”
“That’s totally hot.” Raina grabs a sugar packet and attempts to fan herself down with it. “Any chance he has an available dead friend?”
I let out a laugh, wondering if Travis is watching over me right now, if he’s happy where he is.
And if his heart aches, too.
“You should totally go on one of those ghost-hunter shows,” she says. “You know .nbsp;.nbsp; the kind where the psychics help solve crimes and stuff.”
“I’m hardly psychic.”
“Well, what else do you call it? Last I heard, it wasn’t exactly mainstream to communicate with the dead—much less make out with them. How was that, by the way?”
I smile wide, just thinking about it. About him. Our last kiss in front of the lake, our fingers entwined, and our lips melted together.
“That good, huh?” Raina asks, winking at me. “I need to get me some ghost—fast.”
“Right,” Craig says, “because nobody with a pulse would possibly date you.”
While they continue to bicker, I lean back in my seat, noticing the sudden warmth in my palm.
And the smell of spiced apples all around me.
LIKE MOST DAYS, I was barely on time for Scarcity class.
It wasn’t a real course with grades and everything, so only the most pathetic meekers worked hard at it. The rest of us just showed up and tried not to fall asleep. Nobody wanted to fail, of course, because that meant repeating: another long semester of watching all those olden-day people starving and being diseased. At least regular History has battles; Scarcity was just depressing.
So when I walked in and saw what Mr. Solomon had written on the antique chalkboard, I groaned out loud.
FINAL PROJECT PROPOSALS DUE TODAY.
“Forget something, Kieran?” That was Maria Borsotti from the desk next to mine, her old-timey paper notebook out and ready to be scribbled in.
“This is not fair,” I said, dropping into my seat. Assignments were supposed to appear in headspace automatically. But one of the rules of the Scarcity classroom was that all the decent tech was switched off. Just like our miserable, diseased ancestors, we had to rely on our own brains, or, like Maria Borsotti, scratch glyphs on to dead wood pulp.
Learn to write by hand? For a pass/fail class? What a meeker.
I’d meant to put a reminder up for myself. The projects were first-come, first-scourge (Scarcity humor = hilarious), so most people had shot right into headspace the moment class had ended on Friday, racing to look up the easiest diseases before anyone else claimed them.
We were supposed to “embody” some form of ancient lameness, spending the next two weeks being blind or whatever. This was supposed to teach us what things were really like in the old days, as if sitting through an hour of Scarcity every day wasn’t depressing enough.
But I’d been distracted by Barefoot Tillman, who’d come up after class wanting help on an Antarctic camping trip. It’s hard to say no to Barefoot—who’s about two meters tall and the most beautiful girl in school. After talking tempsuits and penguins with her, I’d teleported straight to my climbing elective in the Alps. That started a busy weekend without pestilence or war or want: shopping with Mom on the moon, buckling down in headspace to work on my old-speak (my acting class was doing Hamlet), and spending all Sunday building my South Pole habitat for Advanced Engineering. The only time Scarcity had reared its diseased head was when my buddy Sho and I were simming some battle and I was like, “Whoa, people died a lot back then!” But then this airplane was bombing me, so I forgot again.
So here it was Monday, too late to do any research. As class officially began, headspace faded—my schedule, zero-g league scores, even the time of day, all gone. The world took on that weird, flat Scarcity look: one layer of vision, nothing to see but Maria Borsotti’s self-satisfied smile.
“Poor Kieran,” she said.
“Help me,” I whispered.
She looked away. “Well, I might have had a couple of leftover ideas .nbsp;.nbsp;”
Mr. Solomon started by clearing his throat. He said that was how people got your attention in the old days, because they were always ill.
“Well, people, I hope you’re ready for a life-changing experience.”
Low-level groans rumbled through the classroom.
Solomon raised his hands to silence us. “Perspective is the key to the next two weeks. This project shouldn’t dismay you. In fact, the better you understand how things used to be, the happier you’ll be about your lives now.”
And that was the real point of Scarcity class: making us all into appreciative little meekers who never complained—even about really annoying things like, say, Scarcity class.
Maria shifted closer and murmured, “Oh, too bad. I can’t seem to find my notes. But Mr. Solomon said he had a few extra ideas.”
I swallowed. Our teacher had threatened a serious nightmare project for anyone who didn’t come up with their own. Bubonic plague, maybe. Or athlete’s foot, which sounded like a good thing to have, but wasn’t. I felt like one of those nerdy kids who can’t find a buddy in gym class and has to run laps instead of playing zero-g.
“Who wants to go first?” Mr. Solomon asked.
Hands shot up, everyone eager to lock in their projects. I sat there frozen, my unassisted brain spinning hopelessly. Solomon called on Barefoot Tillman first.
