Page 15 of Ghosts Don't Cry
Mr. Edwards returns to his lecture on Sherman’s March. I should be taking notes—this will definitely be on the AP test—but something keeps drawing my attention back to the corner of the room. It’s not the new student himself, but the way he sits and watches the room. The way his pencil moves across the paper. The way he nods or shakes his head along with what Edwards is saying, catching details I didn’t even notice.
There’s something almost hungry in the way he absorbs the information. His focus is complete,absolute, as though this classroom is the only thing that exists for him right now. Most students zone out, checking phones under desks, passing notes, staring out of the windows. But this boy is locked in on every word Edwards says.
“He wasn’t just destroying resources.” His voice is quiet but steady, cutting through the classroom silence when Edwards asks a question no one wants to answer. “He was breaking their will to fight. Showing them nowhere was safe until they surrendered.”
The words hang in the air, loaded with understanding that goes beyond the textbook. Edwards nods slowly, and I catch something in his expression. Recognition, maybe, or it could be concern. The kind of look teachers get when they see something in a student that worries them.
I write his words in my notes, and underline it twice.
“He looks like trouble wrapped in sin,” Cassidy whispers as we pack up after class.
She’s already pulling out her phone, probably to text Rachel or Claire about the new development. In a school this size, new students are always prime gossip. Fresh blood means fresh stories, and everyone wants to be the first to claim they noticed something interesting.
“Did you see how he just disappeared when the bell rang? Ignored Edwards calling his name, and just got the hell out of there.”
“Becauseyoualways stay to chat with the teacher after class,” I point out, gathering up my books.
But I noticed it too. The way he was out of his seat, bag over one shoulder, and moving toward the door without acknowledging the teacher was speaking to him. First one out, gone before most of us even stood up.
“That’s different.” She tosses her hair over one shoulder. “I’ve earned my right to be rude. I’ve been here since kindergarten.”
I laugh, but my attention goes back to the empty desk by the window. There’s something different about this one. Something that doesn’t fit the usual pattern of transfers and their attempts to blend in. Most new students try too hard, smiling at everyone, asking too many questions, desperate to find their place. This boy is the opposite. He seems to be actively working to remain invisible.
The next time I see him is in English. Same position—back corner, near the exit. Same intense focus on his notebook. Same notebook, in fact. Maybe it was a last minute transfer, and he hasn’t had a chance to buy more yet … or maybe he can’t afford to.
The thought makes me uncomfortable.
When Mrs. Preston starts class by announcing we’re starting ‘The Grapes of Wrath,’his entire posture changes. There’s a slight straightening of his spine, a shift in the way he holds the pencil. His fingers spread out over the notebook. And for just a moment, his expression opens, showing interest, maybe even hunger, before the walls slam back into place.
Interesting.
Something tells me this boy has already read Steinbeck’s work. Maybe more than once. The look on his face wasn’t about discovering something new, it was about returning to something familiar.
Over the next week, I find myself watching him. Not obviously. I’m not Amy, who thinks subtlety is something that happens to other people. But I notice things. The way he's always alone, moving between classes like a ghost, claiming empty corners and exit rows. How he hides in the library referencesection during lunch. In the hallways, people flow around him like he isn't even there.
He always shows up early to history and English, reading ahead in the textbooks before anyone else arrives. He turns pages carefully, as though books might break if he’s not gentle. Sometimes there are dark circles under his eyes, and a slight tremor to his hands when he thinks no one is looking his way.
And he wears the same three T-shirts in rotation. On Thursday, the black one has a tear near the hem that wasn’t there Monday. By Friday, the gray one has a frayed collar. Small details that most people wouldn’t notice, but I do. I always do.
“Earth to Lily.” Cassidy waves her hand in front of my face. We’re in the library during study hall, supposedly working on our calculus homework. “You’re staring again.”
“I’m not staring.” I drag my attention back to the textbook on the table. “I’mthinking.”
“About?”
“About how math is slowly killing my soul.”
“Liar.” She taps my notebook with her pencil. “You’ve been on the same problem for ten minutes.”
“It’s a hard problem.”
She snorts, then leans back in her chair, studying me. “You did algebra in your sleep last week. What’s really going on?”
I hesitate, then nod toward the dark corner where he’s sitting. “Just wondering about the new guy.”
She doesn’t even have to look to know who I’m talking about. “Ronan.”
“Yeah.”
