Page 23 of Ghosts Don't Cry
It took weeks to learn the rhythm of the school. When shifts change. Which teachers don’t notice. Who leaves food behind.
I watch. I wait. And I take only what won’t be missed.
Sometimes I catch myself doing the math—calculating calorie intake versus energy expended, weighing whether the risk of taking two pieces of fruit instead of one is worth the extra nutrition.
And then there’sher.
I catch her watching me sometimes, when she thinks I’m too absorbed in reading to notice. I can’t quite figure out why.Curiosity, maybe. It’s almost as though she’s trying to figure me out, because I don’t fit in the neat categories she’s used to.
Her eyes are a particular shade of brown that catch light differently depending on where she’s standing. Warmer here in the library than in the cafeteria’s fluorescent glare. She doesn’t look away when I notice her noticing me. Most people do. They can’t hold eye contact with someone like me. But she just tilts her head slightly, and gives me a half-smile.
It should make me nervous, and trip every alarm system I’ve built inside myself. Instead, it makes my chest feel tight in a way that has nothing to do with hunger.
Her note is still in my pocket. I didn’t know who left it at first, but she gave herself away with the way she looked at me. Her eyes kept going to my pocket, and she smiled when she saw me in the library. I’ve folded and refolded the note so many times the creases are starting to wear thin. It’s a quiet invitation I haven’t answered, but I can’t bring myself to throw it away. The paper feels alive, a constant reminder that someone actually noticed me.
The rest of the week passes without any more notes, and I tell myself it doesn’t matter. I should forget about it, about her, and anything that isn’t directly related to survival. But when the next note appears, slipped onto my desk before history class starts on Monday morning, my fingers move before I can stop them.
I glance around at the almost empty classroom, my heart kicking against my ribs. No one is paying attention to me as I unfold it carefully. The paper isn’t from a notebook, it’s thicker. The kind used for art projects. Her handwriting is neat, but not perfect, like she took care with each letter, but couldn’t write her thoughts down fast enough.
The book you were reading in the library last week. Cannery Row.Interestingchoice. Most people go for the obvious Steinbeck. Of Mice and Men or Grapes of Wrath. But Cannery Row? That’s different. That’s about people who live between the cracks, isn’t it?
Most people would ask why I spend every day in the library, or make some smartass comment about being a loner, or not having friends. But not her. She sees thebook, not the fact that I’m alone. She’s curious about what I’m reading, not why I’m reading it by myself. It’s such a small distinction, but it feels huge.
I read the note three more times before class starts, memorizing every loop and curve of her handwriting. The way she underlinesinterestingbut notobvious. The slight smudge of pen ink near the question mark, like she hesitated before adding it.
I should ignore it. I shouldn’t let this become a thing. I can’t afford attachments … but my fingers are already pulling out a pen, already forming words before I can stop them.
Some stories understand what it means to survive. I don’t mean to just exist, but actually survive. Steinbeck got that. He knew the difference between living and staying alive.
I fold it up during the passing period between classes, and wait until the hallway is crowded enough that I can slip it into her locker without being obvious. My palms sweat against thepaper. This is stupid. It’s dangerous. And everything I tell myselfnotto do.
But I do it anyway.
Her response comes the next day, tucked into the gap between the door and side of my locker. The paper is different this time, lined, and she’s added a little sketch in the corner. A lighthouse, standing against dark waves that crash against its base.
There is a difference between surviving and living. But his characters didn’t just survive. They found ways to live despite everything. They built communities in the cracks, and found joy in small things. What do you know about it? About the difference?
The words burn. They’re not an accusation or filled with pity. She’s asking a question as though she really wants to know my thoughts on it.
I stare at the note for longer than I should, tracing the lighthouse with my finger. The drawing is simple. The lighthouse isn’t perfect. Its lines are slightly uneven, its base wider than it should be, but it stands despite the waves crashing against it.
During study hall, I write my reply.
Survival isn’t a choice. It’s what happens when the world gives you nothing else. When every moment is about working out what you can afford to lose. Communities are luxuries. Joy is a distraction.
Distractions get you hurt.
I almost don’t give it to her. The words expose more than I mean to. But she asked, and something in me can’t deny her the truth.
Her reply is waiting for me when I go to my locker at the end of the day. This time, the lighthouse is larger, more detailed.
Sometimes survival looks like hope. Even when everything else looks like darkness. The characters in Cannery Row didn’t just survive because they had to. They survived because they found reasons to. They found people worth surviving for.
I don’t know what to do with that. Withher. With this odd dance of words we’re playing. Her notes make me think about things I can’t afford to consider. She’s asking me to imagine more. Towantmore. But wanting more is how you get broken in the first place. It gives you something to lose, and I’ve built my entire existence around having nothing anyone can take away from me.
But her words stay with me.
They found people worth surviving for.
