Haunted

Burning Bright

I'm Aly, a.k.a the Dead Girl. I'm the Dead Girl they talk about at school in hushed voices, I'm the Dead Girl they use as an example for road-safety assemblies, and I'm the Dead Girl who hasn't quite let go of life yet.

I died the day before I turned seventeen. I know, cliché isn't it? I'm like the cop who says he's going to retire the next day and then promptly gets shot. Seventeen isn't exactly the equivalent of retiring, but at least it wasn't sixteen. Sixteen hadn't been my best year.

A little backstory on me: I'm the kind of girl who sets five alarms to make sure I actually get up. And when I am up, I stand in front of the mirror for a shamefully long time, tugging at my clothes and turning this way and that, hoping against all hope I look better in real life than I do in that pane of reflective glass. I usually pull my wayward auburn locks up into a ponytail, most of the time because I'm too lazy to actually tame them, and then find whatever I can that's clean to wear. On the day I die, it happens to be an over-sized Smashing Pumpkins tee, so worn and so loved that the hems are beginning to curl and fray. I pair that with yesterday's acid wash jeans, hoping that maybe, just maybe, I look ordinary enough to be invisible.

Downstairs, I can hear Mom putting the dishes away with more force than was necessary, her subtle way of telling me that breakfast was ready and she better not have to walk all the way up here just to tell me that. I make my way into the kitchen, which is laced with the scent of slightly over-cooked toast.

A little backstory on Mom: She can get you off murder in the courtroom but she was a lost cause when it came to an oven and a hotplate. People have always said we look similar, sharing the same heart-shaped face and round, hazel eyes. The wild swathes of hair I have, however, were a gift from my Dad. Mom's is a fine, delicate strawberry blond, and she almost always has it curled in a bun at the nape of her neck.

Mom looks up as I approach, her customary good-morning smile fading into a frown when she sees me. "Aly, why do you have to wear that? I buy you so many things, c'mon."

I mock glare at her, crossing my hands over my chest. "I hope you don't mind, but I'm planning on dying my hair black and getting a tattoo." I pull up my sleeve and jab at my shoulder. "I'm thinking a giant scorpion battling a dragon right here, what do you think?"

Mom shakes her head, dumping two slices of over-buttered toast on a plate. "You know what, you should consider becoming a comedian."

The truth was, I never used to dress this way. Jeans and a tee were my staple now, sure, but there was a time when I preferred dresses and ballet flats. There was a time when I took pride in looking 'pretty'. There was a time when I didn't just want to fade into obscurity.

I take the plate of charred toast from Mom and slide into a barstool at the kitchen counter. "Dresses are lame, Mom. I wouldn't want people thinking I'm an actual girl or anything."

Mom smiles, pulling my hair out from its ponytail and draping it over my shoulders. "You are a girl, Aly. And a beautiful one at that."

I push her away, my mouth brimming with toast. "You have to say that, you're my Mom."

"I'm biased, it's true," she says, stirring her coffee. "I'm just trying to figure out why you're doing this angsty, 'woe-is-me' routine. It's not like you. I miss the old you."

I shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. "I was under the impression I had to do the rebellious teenager act before I was allowed to graduate?"

She narrows her eyes at me, lips pursed, and I know she doesn't buy it. "Aly, I'm a lawyer. You can't lie to me," she takes a sip of her coffee, hesitating to mop up the drops that spilled onto her blouse in the process. "Tell me what's really going on, and don't make me cross-examine you."

I paused, looking up into the face that was so much like my own, and thought about all the things I wanted to tell her. About the boy I'd fallen for and his ice-blue eyes that seemed to look right through me. About the way it had felt to have his hands in my hair, on my waist, trailing along my thigh. About the way he always tasted like cloves and how the entire world stopped when he kissed me. And, most of all, about the way he had shook his head while he dumped me, and how my chest had contracted so sharply I wasn't sure I would ever be able to breathe properly again. And how, ever since then, I had felt hollow and broken.

But I couldn't bring myself to say the words. No matter how tough Mom made herself seem, no matter how many slices of bread she over-toasted and no matter how often she used her lawyer face on me, I know that she's fragile. I know this because I was the one who had to hold her against the force of her own sobs the night Dad left, I was the one who wrapped my arms as tight as I could around her while her tears soaked through the fabric of my shirt. I couldn't bring myself to say the words because I knew that Mom was hollow and broken too.

I wanted Mom to believe that not all guys were like Dad, that there was some hope in the world. Most of all, I wanted her to believe that her daughter was safe from them, that she had learned from her mistakes. But I hadn't, and I was broken. And I couldn't let her know that.

But she was right, I couldn't lie to her. I had never been able to. Not in the first grade when I had accidentally broken my bedroom window, and not now. So, instead, I settled for a diversion.

I dropped my toast onto my plate, sucking the crumbs from my fingers, and drew in a deep breath. "You know what Mom? My life is none of your business," she stepped back, as if physically struck. "I can do what I want, wear what I want, act like I want, and I don't have to answer to you about any of it. In fact, you shouldn't even expect me to answer to you about it. It's my body and it's my life."

I was running out of steam for my fake anger, so instead I grabbed my bag from the kitchen counter, slung it over my shoulders, and stormed out of the front door, letting it slam behind me.

Outside, in the cold and the rain, I let the guilt wash over me. She'll get over it, I know she will, but I can't help but feel a sinking in my heart. I hunch against the icy breath of the wind, wedging my hands into my armpits to conserve some semblance of warmth. To take my mind of the cold, I let myself fantasize about moving to California someday, and soaking up the sun on white-sand beaches for the rest of my life.