#obols

My fingers dig into the leather seat, and there's a familiar prick in my palm as hysteria crawls up my windpipe, into the back of my throat. I swallow the scream, glancing at Mom, realizing the momentum of the car hasn't slowed.

She can't see the dead girl.

Of course she can't. My mouth tastes bitter at the thought—that's why we're in this mess. Mom can't see the dead, and from the one conversation we've had about it, she also believes anyone who claims to see the dead is a liar.

A bead of sweat trickles down my face, tickling my neck and I release my breath. I can do this, I remind myself. The dead are everywhere, and I took precautions as I was getting ready this morning. My perfume has a hint of rosemary, the evil eye dangles off a zipper on my backpack, and there's a bag of turmeric powder in my blazer pocket. Small things, but they should keep the souls at a distance. Soul, not ghost—I don't like that word. It implies transparency. The dead I deal with look as human as the day they died: solid, fleshy, and like the nearly decapitated girl hanging by her neck over the doors, they wear their deaths.

This is just a reminder of the rules I set for myself—and the reason I need them.

Rule number one: ignore the dead.

But as we approach, I can't take my eyes off her. How hard must she have fallen? She'd been a student at Nacoma Knight Academy. Her uniform is similar to mine, except instead of a blazer, she wears a knitted sweater—longer, with two pockets on the front—and a skirt that falls mid-calf. While I don't think she's one to cause me trouble, she's been here a while and her presence is a vortex, sucking my energy. It makes me jittery, like I've had too much caffeine.

Mom brings the car to a jerky halt. I stick my hands out to stop myself from colliding with the dashboard, only to realize the bell has rung. Students dressed like me and the dead girl race to buildings across campus. Several move in and out of the doors beneath her feet.

Suddenly I regret my choice of accessory—a pair of purple and blue nebula tights. Personally, my favorite pair of the hundreds I own, yet nothing screams geek like space tights. I could have waited a few months to introduce these to the student body.

I don't move to exit the car. Once I'm outside, I have to worry about screwing up again. I'm the new girl, and people will want to look at me, talk to me. I'll have to make sure they're actually alive. Sure, I want friends, but I also want to become transparent, blend in so well with the crowd I'm hardly noticed. I want to be normal. If I can't manage that, I'm not sure what is next for me: another school?

Probably not. Mom is done moving.

"Any more signs that you're seeing things," she threatened on the drive to Oklahoma, "And I'll commit you."

She's already been researching psychiatric facilities in our new state—I found them saved as bookmarks in her phone. Bringing up seeing the dead was the biggest mistake I'd ever made, but I was warned and I didn't listen.

Mom must have noticed how pale I looked after her threat because she had reached over, patted my leg and said softly, "They helped your poppa."

If that were true, he wouldn't be dead, I think, rubbing the face of my poppa's coin.

"Anora, stop grinding your teeth!" I jerk, startled by Mom's sudden command. It's the first time she's met my gaze since we got in the car this morning—the first thing she said other than put on your seatbelt.

I let go of the coin, its heavy weight settles against my chest, and I relax my jaw, unaware I've been clenching it. Mom sighs, which seems to soften the flicker in her eyes. She reaches to brush a few strands of hair out of my face.

"Honey, I know this all happened so fast, but this...this will be good for you...for both of us."

She smiles so I smile back, only to make her feel better. It is damage control, something I put myself in charge of since our transplant to this windy state is my fault.

It is always my fault.

"Would you like me to walk you to the door?"

Mom isn't smiling now and she taps the steering wheel with her fingers. I'm probably making her late for her interview.

I lift my backpack from the floor, stifling my impulse to take another deep breath. I need to say something reassuring. Something like, That's alright, Mom. I'll be fine. Don't worry. I love you.

Instead, I say, "No, Mom. That's all I need on my first day."

"Fine." She answers in that clipped, short-tempered tone she's been using with me for the last two months. "I'll pick you up after three."

I get out of the car, close the door and she drives off.

Then it's just me, the school, and the dead girl.

Well, crap.

A sign to the left of the sidewalk identifies this building as Emerson Hall. I turn in a circle. Now that I'm outside the car, I feel like I've been transported to another dimension. All traces of the outside world—the street we drove up and the black fence and gate—are lost amid acres of land and trees. Even the wind is different here—quieter, like it is trapped under a glass dome, exiling street noise.

I drag my gaze back to the dead girl hanging at the center of the building like some sacrificial god. Even now, this spirit is draining my energy, making me dizzy, and the longer she hangs there, the worse it'll get. If I want to get through this day—and every one after that—I'm going to have to ignore her.

Easier said than done.

I give Poppa's coin one last squeeze, slip it under my shirt, and march into Emerson Hall, avoiding the girl swinging over my head. Right now, I have to find my new normal, and part of that is pretending I am normal.

Inside, several students stand in line at a counter waiting to speak to one of three women behind a glass panel. I hang back at the entrance for a moment, surveying my surroundings, mostly waiting to see if there's an energy suck—an indication that there are dead nearby. When I'm sure everyone in the lobby is alive, I choose a line and wait. A couple of students turn to stare, but I avert my eyes, looking at anything else—the plastic plant in the corner, wooden chairs pushed against a dirty white wall, black and white photos of buildings and long-dead or nearly-dead people.

A television behind the glass runs breaking news, the screen is splashed with photos of a deadly plane crash, deliberately taken down by its co-pilot. Officials make guesses as to the motive and the only thing I can think is that there are now one hundred and fifty more people bound here on Earth, murdered. My stomach clenches tight. Mom doesn't like when I watch the news. She thinks I take it all too personally.

What she really means is she thinks I become obsessed, and I guess she's kind of right. There are certain stories I invest in, and I'll follow every piece of news released on the subject.

This one is no different.

I watch the news until it's past time for my first class, and no one else is left in the lobby but me.

A woman with blond hair and a pink blazer smiles at me.

"Can I help you?" Her voice sounds robotic, filtered through the round metal intercom.

"I'm new. I don't have my schedule—"

"Oh! You must be Anora Silby!" She retrieves a folder from her desk and hands it to me via a small opening at the bottom of the glass barrier. "Inside you will find your schedule and your student handbook."

I open the folder and stare at the materials. My schedule sits on top. I have already zoned in on my first hour: trigonometry...a.k.a. Hell.

"Be sure you are aware of curfew."

"Oh, I don't live on campus."

"Curfew is countywide," she advises. "No one's to be outside after midnight."

"Why?"

It takes the lady a moment to realize I've asked her a question. She blinks.

"It's always been like that. Since the twenties. You know, after the murders."

"No, actually...I don't know," I wave my folder around to remind her I'm the new girl.

"It's nothing to be worried about," the lady assures me. "There haven't been any murders since then. The curfew's just in place as...a precaution. It's best if it's obeyed."

She says it like a warning, like she thinks I'm one to break the rules. I can understand curfew for campus, but why is it countywide?

"Would you like a guide to help you find your classes?" Her voice brightens, her smile intensifies. It looks fake, and I get the sense I'm not welcome anymore.

"Uh, sure."

It'll be nice to have a map of this place in case I get lost trying to avoid the dead. The lady disappears from view and I take a closer look at the pictures on the wall. I'm partly hopeful I'll see a picture of the girl outside in one of the photos, but I don't find her. The images are mostly of buildings on campus in their prime. Gold plates beneath the frames indicate the year they were built. My favorite is Rosewater—that sounds calming.

I run my fingers over the cold metal, tracing the name.

"You must be Anora Silby." The voice is energetic and warm, but it startles me. I tear my hand away from the plate as if I've been caught stealing and yelp, twisting to find a boy standing beside me. He has striking blue eyes and sharp features. My gaze drops to his lips, which are initially pulled into a smile until I face him, then it falters.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

I study him for a moment—lively eyes, faint color in his cheeks, and...warmth. He's definitely alive. I guess I stare too long because he clears his throat and says, "Can I help you find your classes?"

"Oh...um...the lady was getting me a map."

A smile stretches across his face again, brightening his expression. "I'm your map." He extends his hand to me, keeping the other in his pocket. "Shy."

I stare at his hand, confused—did he just call me shy?

"Excuse me?"

He chuckles under his breath. "It's my name—Shy Savior."

"Oh." My cheeks flame and I want to hide. I fumble as I cradle my folder in my arm and reach for his hand. "Anora Silby...er...I guess you knew that."

"Yeah," he breathes, and then quickly adds, "But that's okay. You have a nice name."

He doesn't move his gaze from mine as he shakes my hand firmly, and it is a little unnerving, especially since the pigment of his eyes is so concentrated—seriously, he has to be wearing contacts.

"Um, are you going to let go of my hand?"

"Sorry." He drops my hand and snakes his behind his neck. "It's just...have we met?"

I laugh. "No. I think I would remember you, Blue Eyes."

Shy smiles and turns the faintest shade of pink. "You just feel so familiar."

"I hope I'm familiar in a good way."

God. I'd have to say that, wouldn't I?

I'm breaking my second rule: Absolutely no boys.

"Yes." He narrows those gorgeous eyes and my resolve weakens. "Yes, only in a good way."

I inhale and hug myself, feeling self-conscious.

"Mr. Savior, I think it's about time Miss Silby made it to class," the lady in the pink blazer advises from the counter.

Shy turns and smiles at her. "Yes. Sorry, Mrs. Cole." He looks at me, clearing his throat. "So, what's your first class?"

I'm glad the distraction gives me a reason to look away from him because my cheeks are on fire. I open my folder to look at my schedule. I'd seen it a few minutes ago but now, I can't remember anything.

"Um, Mr. Val, trig ... in Walcourt?"

Shy laughs.

"What?" I lean away to get a good look at his face, but he just shakes his head, eyes focused on my schedule.

"Nothing—what's your locker number?"

Forty-four.

Shy directs me out of the lobby, down a hallway flanked with a large trophy case and a couple bulletin boards covered with flyers for homecoming.

"The lockers, dorms, and cafeteria are all located here in Emerson," he explains. "It's a little inconvenient, but you just have to make sure you have everything you need for your first four classes before lunch," he pauses and nods to my locker, then the one next to it. "That one's mine."

I smile at him and it feels like I'm falling into a trap. "I guess I'll see more of you, then?"

"Yeah." He grins, showing his teeth, and runs a hand through his blond hair. I like the way his eyes crinkle at the sides when he smiles, all things I shouldn't notice about him, considering my rules. "Yeah, you will."

The sunlight blinds me as we exit Emerson and I blink several times to adjust my vision before turning to watch the girl overhead. She sways ever-so-slightly, propelled by nothing but the memory of the day of her death. Shy has stopped, too, and watches me, following my gaze to the bars.

"It was to keep people—"

"From jumping," I finish quickly. "I know."

He doesn't smile back, and he studies me. The intensity of his eyes makes me feel like he can see every layer of me.

"Why don't they take them down?" I ask.

He shrugs. "Aesthetics, history, a precaution. The windows in the dorms don't open, either."

"History?"

"This place used to be an asylum before it was a school. Back in the twenties."

Oh, that isn't good.

I look back up at the bars and then around. So far so good, I haven't encountered any other dead, but that doesn't mean they aren't here.

"Do you live on campus?"

He shakes his head. "No, thank God."

"That bad, huh?"

He sort of laughs but it sounds more like a snicker. "I already spend more time here than I like."

As we cross campus, I conduct another sweep of the grounds and notice a thin layer of decay has settled upon the landscape in the form of weathered brick, buckled sidewalks, and rusted pipe rails. These are flaws in its beauty—cracks the past has slipped through. The dead are a part of that past, and I want to fix it. The urge tugs at my heart, twines with my veins and bursts from my palm. The sharpness is startling, and I squeeze my fingers into a fist, knowing no good can come of it, no matter my intentions.

Worse, I'll leave my mark on everything.

It's like fixing a china doll after her face has shattered—you might find a rosy cheek and an eye, but nothing prepares you for the chips in the already-broken pieces or the glue that never stops oozing from those cracks.

"Are you a senior this year?" Shy asks. His voice startles me, and though the question grounds me, I want to tell him he doesn't have to keep up conversation just to be polite. Still, I answer.

"No, a junior."

"Good. At least you don't have to start your last year of school in a new place. Where are you from?"

"Chicago."

"Why did you move here?"

The question makes my stomach churn.

"Things...got complicated." A weak response, but an answer. I'm relieved when Shy nods and doesn't ask me to elaborate. "What about you?" I ask quickly. "Have you always lived here?"

"My whole life."

Surprising. Somehow, I can't see this being the only place he's ever lived. His smile seems sad, too, and I wonder if he feels trapped like I feel trapped.

We approach Walcourt, which is shaped like a rectangle with large square columns running the length of a cement overhang, and ugly white pipe rails zigzag to the doors. Inside, the place smells like must and mold. The white floor looks yellow under fluorescent lights.

We walk midway down the hall and Shy's eyes capture mine before he nods to a door on my right.

"That's Mr. Val's class. Just to warn you...he's a bit of a prick."

So that's why he laughed earlier. Great. Shy steps back and then twists toward the door. He knocks and doesn't wait for a response. I hear a deep, stern voice.

"Mr. Savior. What can I do for you?"

"I apologize, Mr. Val. I'm showing a new student around campus."

Shy opens the door a little more and now Mr. Val is visible. He has a thick, brown mustache, brown hair, and wears a brown suit. He stands behind his desk, a piece of chalk in his hand, mid-lesson. I meet his gaze last and find him staring at me, eyes as black as a night without stars. I can already feel his disappointment in me, like he's set the Earth on my shoulders and watched it roll off into space.

The only thing that makes me feel any better is that he looks at Shy the same way.

"This is Anora Silby."

"Ah." He places his chalk in the metal holder, dusts off his hands, and reaches for a clipboard on his desk. "Yes, Miss Silby. Come in."

Shy takes up half the doorway, but I brush past him. Heat rushes to my face, and I can't figure out if it is from being on display in front of twenty students or from the slightest bit of physical contact with Shy.

"You're excused, Mr. Savior. I'm sure if Miss Silby needs your services, she will find you."

The class snickers. I glance at Shy as he mouths the word "prick" before closing the door. I nod—a grin growing on my face.

"Miss Silby." My smile quickly fades, and I snap my head toward Mr. Val who clears his throat. The students behind me laugh again. "It's a good thing Mr. Savior isn't in this class. It already seems he is proving too much of a distraction."

Mr. Val hands me something that looks more like a work manual than a syllabus, and a massive trigonometry book, then directs me to one of the only seats left in the classroom—front and center. As I take it, I notice a girl with long dark hair staring daggers at me. Our eyes meet, but her expression doesn't change. The only reason I'm okay with it is because she's actually alive. I can deal with living bitches—but not dead bitches. There's a difference.

I pull out my notebook and try to catch up on what I missed in Mr. Val's instruction, and look through the syllabus. As if I need any more confirmation that my time at Nacoma Knight will be trying, I find that we have quizzes every day.

Sighing, I glance up to find the dead girl from Emerson Hall outside the window peering in. Her head dangles to the side, partially decapitated. Blood covers the collar of her sweater, drips from her nose and the corners of her eyes. My whole body suddenly feels prickly, like I've been wrapped in a blanket of spiders, their tiny legs skittering across my skin.

As if she senses my gaze, her sideways eyes snap to mine and her colorless lips pull away from her teeth in a crooked, black-blood smile, and I know that she's come to search for me.

I look away and focus on my desk, but the dead girl's gaze heats my skin like the sun.

Please let her lose interest in me.