Page 52 of Starrily
He turned away, and his gaze landed on the teacher’s desk. A round sign with a funky font proclaimedMrs. Levahn’s Class. The last bits of joy evaporated as he slid his fingers over the sign, only the pain from the gut punch remaining.
Whatdidhe think would happen? They’d never give the classroom to someone else? Rename it intoRaleigh Tate Memorial, keep it undisturbed, bring flowers and candles to the door every year?
He stumbled toward the door, nearly overturning a cut-out globe displaying the Earth’s interior on the way. Outside, he shut the door and leaned on it. What was he doing here? Digging into useless memories? It wasn’t as if he could come strolling in, announce to everyone he was back, and life would return to normal.
It wasn’t evenhislife anymore.
“Raleigh!”
He whipped his head at the call. A boy ran down the hallway toward him, and Simon froze.
The boy ran past. “Riley!” he shouted again at another boy exiting a classroom a few doors down. “Come on, we’re gonna be late!”
The two boys ran back past Simon, who stayed frozen to the spot for a few more moments.
Silly him—the boy wouldn’t be one of your students. They’d all have moved on to high school by now.
A part of him wanted to dig more, desperate to find some sign of reassurance, of remembrance, something that would ease his pain.Nothing will. It’s too late. The only way to ease it now is to not think about Raleigh anymore.
He forcibly shut the memories away—or tried to, at least—and returned to the gym. Calliope had already started her talk, and he watched her from the back of the stands. She’d adjusted the contents of her presentation to a younger audience, and at the end, a woman—was she the new science teacher, Mrs. Levahn?—came to the stage. Hands popped up one by one as students asked more questions, Calliope’s face brightening with each answer she gave.
The principal joined them and asked for a round of applause, which promptly followed. The students were dismissed back to their classes, some running away as if they couldn’t wait to get out of here, others lingering behind.
Jessica took a few more pictures by the stage, then went to talk with Calliope.
He should go, too. Congratulate her on another successful talk. But as he moved down the stands, he stumbled and would’ve lost his balance if it weren’t for the back of a seat he instinctively grabbed.
He looked down, expecting a gum or an empty drink can—something a student would’ve dropped.
His foot was inside the stands, sunk into the floor as if the latter were made of water, not metal.
Sheer panic swallowed his scream.
Simon sat on the same seat that intercepted his fall and lifted his foot. He touched it—and his hand passed through it.
His heartbeat rose into his throat, and his ears rang. He glanced around frantically, unsure of what he was looking for—someone to help, or making sure nobody saw what had happened? The students had left, and Calliope was still on the stage with her little group, engulfed in a lively discussion.
Simon closed his eyes and tried to bring his pulse down. After a minute, he gingerly put his foot back on the ground. It made contact. He breathed out.
Three times now. And this time, it was the foot, not the hand. As much as he wanted to brush away these strange happenings, an alarm at the back of his head started to ring, louder and louder.
Something was horribly wrong with him.
Simon hadn’t suffered another incident by the time he got home, but that didn’t soothe him in the slightest. He paced around his house, wearing down the pristine wooden flooring, until he gave up and sat down with his laptop.
He knew searching the internet was a bad idea, but he couldn’t help himself.
He tried “resurrection,” which led him to “reincarnation,” but nothing seemed helpful. Famous figures from myths and legends and ancient history, who died and were resurrected, made immortal even, by the gods.
Simon didn’t believe any god, if it existed, would care for him so much to bring him back to life and make him immortal. And with his recentincidents, he felt anything but immortal.
His fingers hovered above the keyboard while he thought, and then he searched for another word.
Ghosts.
Naturally, a whole lot of conflicting information came back.
Ghosts weren’t real.
