Page 42 of Ghosts Don't Cry
The sunlight makes my eyes water.
What time is it? I can’t be late.
Coughing tears through me again, worse this time. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. The ground is so cold, but my skin burns.
Everythingburns.
I press my forehead against the wall, trying to find something solid to hold onto, but the world keeps spinning, while time slipsaway. My legs won’t work right. The floor keeps moving, shifting under me like it’s alive. I crawl toward where I think I left my backpack, and the movement sets off pounding in my head.
My shirt. It was hanging to dry … somewhere? Yesterday? Today?
Keep my head down. Keep my grades up.
Mom’s eyes turning glassy. The needles. The pills scattered across the bathroom counter.
“Just try it, baby. It makes everything stop hurting.”
My throat burns. The blanket is soaking wet—sweat, maybe blood. I’m freezing, shaking so hard my teeth rattle.
When did I last eat? Yesterday? The granola bars—when did she give me those?
Backpack. I need my backpack.
I pat the ground around me, searching. My eyes won’t focus. Everything blurs. Time fractures. Light changes. Shadows move across the walls.
The fever paints pictures. Mom’s face. Rick’s fists.
No. Focus. School.
I make another attempt to stand and keel sideways. My head hits the wall, sending new waves of pain through me.
Mom is signing papers at the rehab center. “Last time, baby. I promise, I’ll do it this time.” She’s back three days later, eyes empty, hands shaking.
Footsteps echo through the factory. Real? Not real? I don’t know anymore.
“Oh my god!” A voice. Female. The words come out choked and scared.Why is she scared?“Oh my god, Ronan.”
I force my eyes to open. She’s standing in the doorway, one hand over her mouth, the other reaching for the wall like she needs it to stay upright. The girl from history class. The note girl.
Phare.My lighthouse.
Her eyes are huge, filling with tears as she looks at me. At the blood on my lips, my shirt. The way I’m curled on the ground, shaking. She makes a sound, something between a gasp and a sob.
“I knew something was wrong when you didn’t show up this morning.” Her voice shakes. “I came straight from school. I waited. I thought maybe you were just … but you weren’t, and I—” She presses both hands to her mouth.
She’s across the room in three quick steps, and drops to her knees beside me. Her hand reaches for my forehead. The touch is cool against my burning skin, and I jerk back, hitting my head again.
“Don’t.” The word rasps out between coughs. “Don’t touch me.”
“You’re burning up.” Her hand hovers in the air between us, fingers trembling. “How long have you been like this?”
“Need to get to school.” I try to push myself up, but my arms don’t work. “Can’t miss the test.”
“School ended an hour ago.” Her voice is gentle, like she’s talking to something wounded. “It’s almost six.”
“No.” Coughing steals my voice again. When it finally stops, I force out more words. “I have to … Edwards’ test …”
“You missed it.” She shifts closer, slowly as though I might bolt. “You’re sick. You have a fever. You need help.”
