wasn’t a bump; there wasn’t anything.My hands passed through her like she wasn’t even there, even though I knew it was me; I was the one who wasn’t there.
I’d tried it with other people to see if that might work—up and down the rows, even the stupid sub, even Kelsey Pope. Nothing. When the final bell had rung, I’d walked out into the busiest intersection of the hallways and let them walk through me, all of them—well-rounders, biblicals, testos, burners, and the rest. The waves of people marched through me, and I’d tried to re-create the feeling I’d had with Usha of something fitting into place, a seat belt clicking, a deadbolt turning. But at the end of it, they were a procession of ghosts, and I was standing alone in an empty hallway.
I hadn’t planned on hiding what had happened with Usha from the other dead kids until I found myself not telling them. But it was the right choice, I reassured myself. Brooke would have pestered me with questions, and Evan would have worried himself sick about the ramifications of it. And for what? Who even knew if I could do it again? I decided that I’d keep it to myself for now.
“Let me get this straight,” Brooke says. “You think Usha is sitting around chanting your name?”
“She’s not chanting my name,” I explain. “It’s like—”
“Like she’s thinking it,” Evan finishes, “and you can hear her thoughts.”
“Yeah. Exactly. Like she’s thinking it,” I say. “You’ve never heard it?”
“Do I hear voices calling my name? No.” But she rises and stands by the edge of the net, staring off into the field as if what we’re saying has bothered her somehow.
The sun is almost gone now, its last few rays skating along the flat field. The soccer players amble off in twos and threes, balls kicked out ahead to chart their trajectory, the lines all meeting back at the school. The school building looks small from out here at the edge of the field, like you could jump off it and stand up on the ground with a ta-da!
“Did she say anything else?” Evan breaks into my reverie.
“Who?”
“Kelsey Pope. Did she say anything else about you?”
“No. I . . .” Inhabiting Usha had made me clean forget about Kelsey and the suicide rumor. But then a thought punches through me, strong and quick as the soccer ball through Brooke’s gut: If I could mark Usha’s quiz score, what else could I do? Could I walk around as her? Could I say things as her? Could I use Usha to tell people that the rumor isn’t true?
I think of Evan’s words in the library: We can’t talk to anyone, can’t touch anything, can’t change anything . I smile because maybe now I can do all of those things.
10: THE TASTE OF SALT
THE NEXT MORNING , I MEET USHA IN THE STUDENT PARKING lot, noting that her old station wagon has a new dent in it. She has a punky black lace dress on and red rubber rain boots, even though it’s far too chilly for rain. We head into the school, her breath a cloud in front of her face. I exhale nothing.
At the doors, one of the biblicals joins us, asking Usha how she’s doing about ten times. I roll my eyes. The biblicals took no interest in Usha until I died, and now they practically want to baptize her. They’re pleased, probably, that I supposedly killed myself; it gives them something to pray about. I’m so preoccupied with my thoughts that I’ve fallen back, so when Usha thinks my name and I lunge forward, my fingers just miss swiping her arm.
The next time Usha thinks of me doesn’t come until late morning in her first art class—sculpture and pottery with Mr. Fisk—which means I can’t take advantage of it then either. Since it’s Fisk’s class, that means Evan is perched on the low cupboard in the back of theroom, and I’m forced to sit next to him like I’ve stopped by merely for the day’s lesson.
The clock is a creeping sundial as Mr. Fisk spends most of the hour laboriously explaining glazing techniques. Even
I’d tried it with other people to see if that might work—up and down the rows, even the stupid sub, even Kelsey Pope. Nothing. When the final bell had rung, I’d walked out into the busiest intersection of the hallways and let them walk through me, all of them—well-rounders, biblicals, testos, burners, and the rest. The waves of people marched through me, and I’d tried to re-create the feeling I’d had with Usha of something fitting into place, a seat belt clicking, a deadbolt turning. But at the end of it, they were a procession of ghosts, and I was standing alone in an empty hallway.
I hadn’t planned on hiding what had happened with Usha from the other dead kids until I found myself not telling them. But it was the right choice, I reassured myself. Brooke would have pestered me with questions, and Evan would have worried himself sick about the ramifications of it. And for what? Who even knew if I could do it again? I decided that I’d keep it to myself for now.
“Let me get this straight,” Brooke says. “You think Usha is sitting around chanting your name?”
“She’s not chanting my name,” I explain. “It’s like—”
“Like she’s thinking it,” Evan finishes, “and you can hear her thoughts.”
“Yeah. Exactly. Like she’s thinking it,” I say. “You’ve never heard it?”
“Do I hear voices calling my name? No.” But she rises and stands by the edge of the net, staring off into the field as if what we’re saying has bothered her somehow.
The sun is almost gone now, its last few rays skating along the flat field. The soccer players amble off in twos and threes, balls kicked out ahead to chart their trajectory, the lines all meeting back at the school. The school building looks small from out here at the edge of the field, like you could jump off it and stand up on the ground with a ta-da!
“Did she say anything else?” Evan breaks into my reverie.
“Who?”
“Kelsey Pope. Did she say anything else about you?”
“No. I . . .” Inhabiting Usha had made me clean forget about Kelsey and the suicide rumor. But then a thought punches through me, strong and quick as the soccer ball through Brooke’s gut: If I could mark Usha’s quiz score, what else could I do? Could I walk around as her? Could I say things as her? Could I use Usha to tell people that the rumor isn’t true?
I think of Evan’s words in the library: We can’t talk to anyone, can’t touch anything, can’t change anything . I smile because maybe now I can do all of those things.
10: THE TASTE OF SALT
THE NEXT MORNING , I MEET USHA IN THE STUDENT PARKING lot, noting that her old station wagon has a new dent in it. She has a punky black lace dress on and red rubber rain boots, even though it’s far too chilly for rain. We head into the school, her breath a cloud in front of her face. I exhale nothing.
At the doors, one of the biblicals joins us, asking Usha how she’s doing about ten times. I roll my eyes. The biblicals took no interest in Usha until I died, and now they practically want to baptize her. They’re pleased, probably, that I supposedly killed myself; it gives them something to pray about. I’m so preoccupied with my thoughts that I’ve fallen back, so when Usha thinks my name and I lunge forward, my fingers just miss swiping her arm.
The next time Usha thinks of me doesn’t come until late morning in her first art class—sculpture and pottery with Mr. Fisk—which means I can’t take advantage of it then either. Since it’s Fisk’s class, that means Evan is perched on the low cupboard in the back of theroom, and I’m forced to sit next to him like I’ve stopped by merely for the day’s lesson.
The clock is a creeping sundial as Mr. Fisk spends most of the hour laboriously explaining glazing techniques. Even
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