Absent

14: GREENVALE

I FIND HER IN BROOKE’S BATHROOM, CURLED UP IN THE handicapped stall. It takes a good ten minutes of cajoling to get her to unlatch the door. When it swings open, she stares at me for a moment and then slides down the wall again, clasping her hands around her legs, tucking her knees to her chin. The floor is still damp from Lucas’s flooding, but Greenvale doesn’t seem to care.

“Hi,” I say.

She expels a meek “Hey.”

“You can see me, can’t you?”

Just when I think she’s not going to respond, she nods. “I can see all of you. You and Brooke Lee and that boy who sits in the art room.”

“She can see us?” a voice says from over by the sinks.

At the sound of it, Greenvale slides to the back of the stall. I turn to find Brooke crouching on her death spot, peering curiously at Greenvale and me. She hadn’t been there when I came in; she must have just crossed over the school property line.

“It’s okay,” I tell Greenvale. “It’s just Brooke.”

I beckon to Brooke, who peers around the edge of the stall door.

“Brooke, Greenvale. Greenvale, Brooke.”

“You can really see us?” Brooke asks.

Greenvale opens her mouth and closes it again.

“It’s okay,” I repeat. “She won’t hurt you.”

“Yeah,” Brooke agrees amiably. “I can’t even touch you. I’m a ghost. See?” She passes her hand through the metal door, which is probably less comforting than she intends it to be.

Greenvale emits a shaky laugh.

“How can you see us?” I ask.

“No one else can,” Brooke adds.

“I-I don’t know,” Greenvale stutters. “I just can. You’re just there.”

“Could you always?” I ask.

“Not always.”

“How long?”

“Three years ago, my grandpa had a stroke,” she begins, then stops for a nervous swallow. “He moved in with us so my mom could take care of him.”

“What does your grandpa have to do with—”

“Hush,” I tell Brooke.

“He died in his sleep, in our house,” she continues. “Mom sent me down to the basement to get the extra table leaf for the memorial service.” She looks down at her fidgeting hands; they still under her gaze. “He was there, my grandpa, standing right there in the middle of the basement. I ran away that time, too. Upstairs. I locked myself in my room, but it wasn’t good enough. I couldn’t sleep or eat or . . . I kept thinking he was going to float up through the vents.”

“That’s why they sent you to Greenvale?”

“Greenvale Greene,” she says. I wince, but she shrugs at the nickname. “I’m used to it.”

“What did the doctors say?” Brooke asks.

“Nothing. I didn’t tell them that I’d seen my dead grandpa, didn’t tell my parents either. I’m not stupid. I knew what they’d think about that: crazy girl. I mean, crazier girl. My parents didn’t send me to Greenvale because I saw ghosts. They sent me because I wouldn’t leave my room. The doctors diagnosed me with social anxiety. They said it happens in Japan sometimes, teenagers who won’t leave their bedrooms. Maybe there are ghosts in Japan, too. Anyway, they let me out after a couple weeks.”

“And when you got back home?” I ask. “Was your grandpa still there? In the basement?”

“He’s gone.” She looks down. “He never came back. I should’ve talked to him. I should’ve said good-bye.”

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Do you know where he went?” Brooke asks.

“He was just gone. He’s not in the basement anymore. Not in the house. Or if he is, I can’t see him.” She shakes her head, then looks up at me through her bangs; her eyes underneath are a light greenish gray. And pretty, I realize.

“So you just watched us?” Brooke asks. “This whole time you’ve been watching us?”

“Not watching. Just . . . I’d see you. The first time I saw you, I ran away. All the way home.” She dips her head bashfully. “It was a few weeks after your . . . your death. You were walking down the hall after”—she turns to me—“Paige, actually.”

“Stalker,” I tease, but Brooke’s attention is fixed on Greenvale.

“Can other people see us?” she asks.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. I think it’s just me.”

“I know you were helping Usha with the—” I start to say, but Greenvale interrupts me with a squeak.

“Oh, no. Usha!” She puts her hands to her face. “I dropped her paint. I ran away. She’ll think I’m crazy.” She sighs. “Like the rest of them.”

“Maybe not,” I say. “You could tell her about me. You could explain how—” But I stop at the stricken look on her face. “No, I know. Of course you can’t.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. “But I can’t. They’ll send me back.”

“It’s okay. I understand.”

“And I’m sorry I ran away from you.”

“You were scared.”

“And I’m also sorry . . .” She hides behind her bangs again.

“What?” Brooke says.

She whispers, “I’m sorry you’re dead.”

“Thank you,” I say, then add, “Thank you, Harriet.”