sinking through the floor. I drop through the cottony insulation and sheathed electrical cords, through a government class set up like a mock court, through another floor that becomes a ceiling, another classroom flickering with the light of a projector, another floor, and then the basement,and a stack of old gymnastics mats that, comically, do nothing to break my fall. My legs drop through the mats, and I land at last, crouching on the dirt floor next to a croaking pair of ghost frogs.
As soon as I get my feet under me, I stand and race up the stairs, slamming my hovering boot soles down neatly on each step. I climb the next flight and the next and the next. Then it’s down the hall and through the door into the physics classroom.
The sub ambles between the desks, sweeping up the last remaining quizzes. Usha’s quiz is still on her desk, but he’s headed to her now. I hurry forward, heedless of the desks that pass through my legs, focused only on the rectangle of white paper as if it’s a beacon, a lit doorway through which I must pass.
I get there a moment before he does and glimpse the quiz paper just as he snatches it away.
I see it, though, the last answer.
Marked B.
9: NAMES
“DO YOU EVER HEAR PEOPLE SAY YOUR NAME?” I ASK BROOKE and Evan.
Mere feet away, the goalie paces from one end of the goal to the other. We’re in the soccer goal, right inside where the ball is kicked, Brooke stretched out long, Evan and I crouched under the drape of the net. The field is bald but for a few stubborn patches of ashen snow. The team is shivering, sweatshirt sleeves pulled over their hands. I can feel it, too, the cold, but it doesn’t chap or sting me. It’s as if I’m only imagining what it feels like to be cold, as if I’m only saying the word cold . It’s round in my mouth like a stone.
Shouts sail from the other end of the field, where the soccer ball dances between the feet of the eager players. I’m hoping the ball will stay over there. Brooke, however, likes it when the play comes this way. She rises and mimics the goalie’s movements, shifting behind him. If a kick gets by, she’ll pivot as if to catch the ball thathe couldn’t. But, of course, it just punches through her gut and socks into the net behind her.
“Do people talk about me?” Brooke says. “Yeah, all the time. They say, ‘Brooke Lee is hanging around your boyfriend’ or ‘Brooke Lee has syphilis’ or ‘Brooke Lee is getting an abortion after school.’ ”
“I mean since you died.”
“In that case, it’s more like ‘Brooke Lee traded hand jobs for cocaine’ or ‘Brooke Lee snorted lines off the bathroom floor.’ ”
I look away guiltily. Usha and I used to say things like that about Brooke. Everyone did. Though that’s hardly a good defense.
“Do you mean just your name?” Evan asks. “Like someone is whispering it, but you don’t know who?”
I sit up on my knees. “You’ve heard it, too?”
“I used to hear it. Down the hall or just behind me. Evan, Evan . Really quiet. Almost too quiet to hear.” Brooke and I share a look. This is the most Evan has ever spoken about his death.
“Could you tell where it was coming from?”
“Not really. I heard it mostly right after I died, then less, then eventually it stopped. I haven’t heard it in years.” He looks away with a half shrug. “Honestly, I thought I’d gone crazy. Crazy enough to hear things, anyway.” He looks at me. “But you hear it? Your name?”
“Sometimes,” I say carefully. “One of the times, I thought it was Usha’s voice.” That’s what it had sounded like, that moment during the physics quiz when I’d plunged my hand into hers. It was the same whisper that she’d leaned over, desk to desk, and poured into my ear during class hundreds of times before.
When I climbed back up to the physics classroom, I tried to repeat what I’d done, to slip back into Usha’s body. I tried for the rest of the hour, but this time there
As soon as I get my feet under me, I stand and race up the stairs, slamming my hovering boot soles down neatly on each step. I climb the next flight and the next and the next. Then it’s down the hall and through the door into the physics classroom.
The sub ambles between the desks, sweeping up the last remaining quizzes. Usha’s quiz is still on her desk, but he’s headed to her now. I hurry forward, heedless of the desks that pass through my legs, focused only on the rectangle of white paper as if it’s a beacon, a lit doorway through which I must pass.
I get there a moment before he does and glimpse the quiz paper just as he snatches it away.
I see it, though, the last answer.
Marked B.
9: NAMES
“DO YOU EVER HEAR PEOPLE SAY YOUR NAME?” I ASK BROOKE and Evan.
Mere feet away, the goalie paces from one end of the goal to the other. We’re in the soccer goal, right inside where the ball is kicked, Brooke stretched out long, Evan and I crouched under the drape of the net. The field is bald but for a few stubborn patches of ashen snow. The team is shivering, sweatshirt sleeves pulled over their hands. I can feel it, too, the cold, but it doesn’t chap or sting me. It’s as if I’m only imagining what it feels like to be cold, as if I’m only saying the word cold . It’s round in my mouth like a stone.
Shouts sail from the other end of the field, where the soccer ball dances between the feet of the eager players. I’m hoping the ball will stay over there. Brooke, however, likes it when the play comes this way. She rises and mimics the goalie’s movements, shifting behind him. If a kick gets by, she’ll pivot as if to catch the ball thathe couldn’t. But, of course, it just punches through her gut and socks into the net behind her.
“Do people talk about me?” Brooke says. “Yeah, all the time. They say, ‘Brooke Lee is hanging around your boyfriend’ or ‘Brooke Lee has syphilis’ or ‘Brooke Lee is getting an abortion after school.’ ”
“I mean since you died.”
“In that case, it’s more like ‘Brooke Lee traded hand jobs for cocaine’ or ‘Brooke Lee snorted lines off the bathroom floor.’ ”
I look away guiltily. Usha and I used to say things like that about Brooke. Everyone did. Though that’s hardly a good defense.
“Do you mean just your name?” Evan asks. “Like someone is whispering it, but you don’t know who?”
I sit up on my knees. “You’ve heard it, too?”
“I used to hear it. Down the hall or just behind me. Evan, Evan . Really quiet. Almost too quiet to hear.” Brooke and I share a look. This is the most Evan has ever spoken about his death.
“Could you tell where it was coming from?”
“Not really. I heard it mostly right after I died, then less, then eventually it stopped. I haven’t heard it in years.” He looks away with a half shrug. “Honestly, I thought I’d gone crazy. Crazy enough to hear things, anyway.” He looks at me. “But you hear it? Your name?”
“Sometimes,” I say carefully. “One of the times, I thought it was Usha’s voice.” That’s what it had sounded like, that moment during the physics quiz when I’d plunged my hand into hers. It was the same whisper that she’d leaned over, desk to desk, and poured into my ear during class hundreds of times before.
When I climbed back up to the physics classroom, I tried to repeat what I’d done, to slip back into Usha’s body. I tried for the rest of the hour, but this time there
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