Haunting Zoe by Sherry Ficklin Page B

life. If so,
you’d think there would be a whole lot more of us hanging around.
As far as I can tell, it’s only me.
    My parents arrive in a black town car. Mom is
in the same dress she wore to the Black and While Gala—last year’s
fundraiser for the local Civil War Museum and Historical
Society—and Dad is in a charcoal grey suit that almost perfectly
matches his salt and pepper hair. His expression is stern, but I
can’t tell how Mom’s doing, thanks to the black sunglasses she is
wearing that are so large they cover half her face. They walk
slowly up the stairs, arm in arm. It’s as if they are somehow
holding each other upright as they walk into the foyer.
    A slender woman in a soft, blue dress greets
them at the door, a black folder in her hand. The entrance is
decked out in while lilies and greenery. A long line has formed
just outside the chapel, where a large book sits on a podium. I
breeze past them to get a look at what’s inside.
    It’s a memory book. People are signing in.
Beside their name, they are leaving little messages like, “Miss
you, buddy” and “I will never forget that time you scored that goal
in overtime.”
    I recognize some of the faces in line.
Cassidy and Becker are already here, standing in line, their faces
solemn. The twins are here, and Bruno. Even a few of Kaylee’s
devoted followers are clustered in a large group near the back.
    More people funnel in, my teachers, my
lacrosse coach, and even my dentist and his family show up. The
more people arrive, the more stifling the room becomes, until I’m
hot and I can’t breathe. Can ghosts have panic attacks? I clutch my
chest. The pain is deep, like my heart is trying to push its way
out of my chest. Even though no one can see me freaking out, I
break into a sprint, running from the room and down an empty
hallway. Behind me, the organ begins playing and it’s like the
whole world is crashing down around me. I can’t think straight. To
my right, the door to the coatroom is cracked open so I rush
inside, hoping to drown out the sound.
    I don’t so much hear the door open as much as
I feel it, that nagging sensation of being watched. Turning slowly,
I come face to face with the last person on the planet I expect to
see.
    Zoe Reed.
    She’s standing there in torn jeans and a
light brown sweater, a grey scarf hanging in loose drapes around
her neck. Her brown hair is pulled back in a loose bun with undone
strands hanging wildly around her face.
    I don’t think we’ve been in a room alone
together in maybe four years—not since middle school. We used to be
best friends; she was the one person who knew all my secrets. Then,
her father died and she sort of pulled away, retreating into this
little shell I never could break her out of. Eventually, I quit
trying, and we went our separate ways. I’m amazed she even bothered
coming to the funeral. The last few times I’d caught her eye in
school, she was glaring at me like I was a gallon of month-old
milk. Sort of like the way she’s looking at me now.
    As if she can see me.
    Reaching around, she grabs the door and slams
it shut with a loud thud.
    “What is your freaking damage, Logan?”
she demands.
    I’m so stunned that, for a moment, I’m
totally speechless. Looking around quickly, I make sure there’s not
someone else she’s yelling at.
    “Excuse me?” I manage finally.
    She squints, glaring at me.
    “I’m being punked, aren’t I? This is some
stupid reality TV show or something right?”
    I can’t believe it. She is talking to me. I
have a nearly irresistible urge to throw my arms around her and
scream halleluiah . Only her enraged expression keeps me
still.
    “Does your family know you’re alive? I mean,
seriously, if this is some dumb publicity stunt for the reporters
out front…” She trails off, making a disgusted noise deep in the
back of her throat. “Say something, Logan. Please . Find the
magic words to make this whole mess not be the most horrible thing
a