The Catastrophic History of You And Me by Jess Rothenberg

You mean you don’t know everything about being D and G? Well isn’t that a shocker.”
    “Okay, okay,” I groaned. “I get it. I’m sorry.”
    “Say it first.”
    “You’re the only one I’ve got,” I mumbled.
    “I can’t heeear
you . . .”
    “You’re the only one I’ve got!” I felt my face flush. “Now will you show me how the hell you did that or what?”
    He smiled. “First things first.” He grabbed my hand, pulling me close. Before I knew what was happening, it was as if we’d taken off on the most barf-tastic roller coaster ride of all time, spinning through the air at speeds so insane I wanted to throw up just thinking about them. My stomach was in my throat, my feet were on fire, and I couldn’t even hear the sound of my own voice against the wind, screaming for it to stop.
    Then, suddenly, it did.
    “Home sweet home,” said Patrick.
    I opened my eyes. Felt my whole body shaking and spasming and generally freaking out as gravity and inertia caught up with the rest me. “D-d-don’t ever d-d-do that again.”
    “I’ll make a note of it, Angel,” Patrick said.
    I didn’t like him calling me Angel. Just like I did
not
appreciate all the cheese-themed nicknames, or the way he always seemed to get information out of me without ever really telling me anything about himself. But for now, I was willing to let all of it slide.
    Because we were standing in my driveway.
    11 Magellan Avenue.
    The house was drenched in shadows. All the windows closed. All the curtains drawn. As if whoever lived here had moved away years ago. Or simply stopped caring.
    It had only been a few weeks since my death, which wasn’t long at all, especially in the grand scheme of All Eternity. But seeing the way the cool autumn light hit the roof—the muddy, yellow, uncut yard; the dried-up leaves in all of their messy decay; the eerie whisper of the ocean just a few blocks west—it suddenly seemed like so much longer.
    The place felt warped. Twisted. A ghost of its former self.
    Just like me.
    I couldn’t take my eyes away.
    “What happened here?” I asked.
    “What always happens,” Patrick said. “They lost somebody.”
    The sound of a door opening caught my attention. A little boy with unkempt dark hair, jeans, and a black sweatshirt jogged out and flew down the steps, not bothering to close the door behind him. He dropped his soccer ball on the driveway and kicked it hard against the metal garage door.
    BAM!
    BAM!
    BAM!
    It was Jack. In a flash, goose bumps broke out all over my body. He was so close. He was so
real
. His cheeks bright rosy red and his nose all stuffed up from the chilly autumn air. I wanted to run to him, to wrap him up in a giant bear hug and never let go. I watched him wipe his nose on the back of his sleeve. Then drop the ball and blast it again toward the garage.
    BAM!
    I took a step up the driveway, but stopped, realizing the total Dickensian bitch of it all.
    “He can’t see me.”
    “True,” said Patrick. “But on the plus side, your hair’s a little scary right now anyway, so maybe it’s for the best.”
    I reached for my unruly waves to try and smooth things out, but stopped when I realized Patrick was just taunting me.
Again
. I started to give him my usual glare but stopped when I heard the screen door swing open a second time.
    “Jack!”
    My mother’s voice.
    And then I saw her, leaning halfway out the front door. Her green sweater, the super-soft one Grandma got her for Christmas last year. Her tortoiseshell glasses. Her dark, wavy ponytail. Was it a little shorter than I remembered?
    Mom
.
    I felt my throat close up and tiny little pinpricks shoot across the back of my neck. I wanted to run to her. I wanted to run to her so bad.
    “Jack, honey, please don’t kick so hard against the garage. It’s too loud. Daddy’s trying to sleep.”
    “Sleep?” I said. “
Still?
What time is it?”
    It had to be at least eleven in the morning. And my dad was an early bird. He