creeps,
and Connor sleeps,
and Siobhan weeps,
Mickey…
Mickey exists.
♪
Siobhan has to pee.
But the truck stop is new,
so I can’t follow them.
Ghosts can only go in death
to the places they went in life,
like a hamster in a Habitrail.
Mickey puts on his blinker.
“Don’t leave me.”
I lunge forward,
grab for the steering wheel,
hoping
this time I’ll touch something,
this time they’ll hear me.
This time is like all the rest.
The car turns,
and I’m left standing in the highway.
A red Jeep,
the top down,
full of blondes
already sunburned,
drives through me.
I’ll never get used to that.
Screw this traffic.
I can go anywhere in an instant.
I can be Danny Ocean in three…two…
♪
A seagull shits right through me.
I wander the beach,
the sun blaring my form
into nothingness.
Invisible, I can stare all I want.
A girl with Aura’s dark wavy hair
and bronze skin
sips an iced tea,
then sets the open cup on her belly.
As she swallows,
her throat bobs,
then her tongue peeks through her lips,
gathering the moisture she missed.
Water beads on the cup,
plummets fearlessly,
like a skater on a half-pipe.
When it reaches her skin,
it joins her sweat
and travels on,
over her waist
and under the string of her
candy-striped bikini.
I could write an entire song
about the journey
of that one drop of sweat.
But I turn away.
It feels wrong to watch.
These girls are here to be seen,
but not by someone they can’t see.
So guilt keeps me from lingering.
I may be dead,
but I’m still Catholic.
I head for the boardwalk
to find someone
who can speak my words to Mickey.
I can’t use Aura
or my little brother, Dylan,
or anyone else I care about.
Only a stranger
won’t judge
me
or Mickey
for letting this keep us apart.
Only a stranger
can hold up the wall
we need between us.
Until we’re ready to tear it down.
♪
Occasionally,
sometimes,
—okay, usually—
people ignore me.
Post-Shifters pretend they can’t see
the ghosts around them.
It’s cool, I get it.
They have lives that can’t stop
every time a ghost needs help.
(And we all need help.)
They have lives.
But after 233 days of death,
I can tell the difference
between being ignored
and being invisible.
The arcade is full of shadows.
I’m standing in one now,
next to the Skee-Ball court.
But no one sees me.
I step in front of a scrawny guy
who looks fifteen or sixteen
in his oversize D.C. United jersey.
“Dude, help me out. I just need—”
He walks through me,
counting his tickets
out loud to himself.
A girl with blond pigtails
sucking a green lollipop
bends over to slip tokens into a driving game.
Her jeans shorts ride up,
giving a glimpse of pink underwear.
I step up next to the game.
“Sorry to interrupt,
but I need a huge favor.”
She plops her teeny ass
into the driver’s seat
without so much as a twitch
at my voice
or my semifamous face.
As she starts to play,
I wave my hand between her and the screen.
She holds the wheel steady,
pressing the accelerator,
sucking the lollipop,
which twists her muttered curses
into drunk-sounding slurs.
I step back.
Survey the crowd.
Try not to panic.
Above us,
a banner stretches the length of the arcade,
The BEST WEEK EVER logo
frames the words,
Congratulations, Class of—
“Damn it.”
Senior Week.
No one here is young enough to see me.
I fly through the arcade,
turning somersaults,
flailing my arms like a clown,
hoping someone brought
their little brother
or sister
or niece or nephew
or cousin.
But who would bring a kid to Senior Week?
Parents know better.
They hear the stories.
I am so screwed.
♪
The boardwalk never seemed so loud,
so bright,
so complete
as it does right now.
I’m here
but not.
They stagger through
and Connor sleeps,
and Siobhan weeps,
Mickey…
Mickey exists.
♪
Siobhan has to pee.
But the truck stop is new,
so I can’t follow them.
Ghosts can only go in death
to the places they went in life,
like a hamster in a Habitrail.
Mickey puts on his blinker.
“Don’t leave me.”
I lunge forward,
grab for the steering wheel,
hoping
this time I’ll touch something,
this time they’ll hear me.
This time is like all the rest.
The car turns,
and I’m left standing in the highway.
A red Jeep,
the top down,
full of blondes
already sunburned,
drives through me.
I’ll never get used to that.
Screw this traffic.
I can go anywhere in an instant.
I can be Danny Ocean in three…two…
♪
A seagull shits right through me.
I wander the beach,
the sun blaring my form
into nothingness.
Invisible, I can stare all I want.
A girl with Aura’s dark wavy hair
and bronze skin
sips an iced tea,
then sets the open cup on her belly.
As she swallows,
her throat bobs,
then her tongue peeks through her lips,
gathering the moisture she missed.
Water beads on the cup,
plummets fearlessly,
like a skater on a half-pipe.
When it reaches her skin,
it joins her sweat
and travels on,
over her waist
and under the string of her
candy-striped bikini.
I could write an entire song
about the journey
of that one drop of sweat.
But I turn away.
It feels wrong to watch.
These girls are here to be seen,
but not by someone they can’t see.
So guilt keeps me from lingering.
I may be dead,
but I’m still Catholic.
I head for the boardwalk
to find someone
who can speak my words to Mickey.
I can’t use Aura
or my little brother, Dylan,
or anyone else I care about.
Only a stranger
won’t judge
me
or Mickey
for letting this keep us apart.
Only a stranger
can hold up the wall
we need between us.
Until we’re ready to tear it down.
♪
Occasionally,
sometimes,
—okay, usually—
people ignore me.
Post-Shifters pretend they can’t see
the ghosts around them.
It’s cool, I get it.
They have lives that can’t stop
every time a ghost needs help.
(And we all need help.)
They have lives.
But after 233 days of death,
I can tell the difference
between being ignored
and being invisible.
The arcade is full of shadows.
I’m standing in one now,
next to the Skee-Ball court.
But no one sees me.
I step in front of a scrawny guy
who looks fifteen or sixteen
in his oversize D.C. United jersey.
“Dude, help me out. I just need—”
He walks through me,
counting his tickets
out loud to himself.
A girl with blond pigtails
sucking a green lollipop
bends over to slip tokens into a driving game.
Her jeans shorts ride up,
giving a glimpse of pink underwear.
I step up next to the game.
“Sorry to interrupt,
but I need a huge favor.”
She plops her teeny ass
into the driver’s seat
without so much as a twitch
at my voice
or my semifamous face.
As she starts to play,
I wave my hand between her and the screen.
She holds the wheel steady,
pressing the accelerator,
sucking the lollipop,
which twists her muttered curses
into drunk-sounding slurs.
I step back.
Survey the crowd.
Try not to panic.
Above us,
a banner stretches the length of the arcade,
The BEST WEEK EVER logo
frames the words,
Congratulations, Class of—
“Damn it.”
Senior Week.
No one here is young enough to see me.
I fly through the arcade,
turning somersaults,
flailing my arms like a clown,
hoping someone brought
their little brother
or sister
or niece or nephew
or cousin.
But who would bring a kid to Senior Week?
Parents know better.
They hear the stories.
I am so screwed.
♪
The boardwalk never seemed so loud,
so bright,
so complete
as it does right now.
I’m here
but not.
They stagger through
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