I See You

Confused

"Hey," Mystic Quincy says in a sultry voice.

I sighed, and continued to walk to class, knowing she's not talking to me. No one talks to me, no one notices me, ever. I speak to no one, and no speaks to me. Not for two years now.

"I'm talking to you," she demands someone's attention. The unruly and loud crowd in the hall goes quiet, waiting to see who she's talking to, who dares to not answer the queen bee.

"Hello?" She questions, frustration filling the word.

"Somebody better answer her before she loses it," I say aloud, knowing no one could hear me.

"What the hell?" Mystic Quincy demands.

I turn around just as her best friend quickly drags her in the opposite direction, but not before we lock eyes.

Her adoring look gives me chills.

It's not for you stupid, she can't see you.

I sigh again, my mood back to melancholy, heading to class as the bell rings.

Kaitlyn Gabrielle, get a hold of yourself.

I'm late for class for the first time in my existence. First time in my life, and my current situation.

Let me explain that, yeah, I am a ghost. I've been one for a little more than two years, the day before I turned thirteen. I'm fifteen, as of last week.

Or rather, I should be fifteen. I still look the same age as I did when I died.

I don't know why I'm "still here", I've got no "unfinished business". I lived an average life, I wasn't popular, but at least I knew some people. I had a great home life, two parents that loved me and a brother, Kellan.

Mom and Dad were so proud that i skipped two grades, entering high school at twelve, almost thirteen. Kellan was the best brother ever, even though he was only three and a half.

He'd be six by now.

I miss them.

A few hours later, I'm in another class. And I'm not late for this one. I'm super early, so that means that my tardy in the second class of the day and this one would cancel each other out, right?

"Okay, I want opinions! I need views!" the teacher, Ms. Kalama, demands loudly. "Was Hamlet crazy or brilliant?"

Half the class groans, but I lean back on the window.

Normally I sit in any open seat, but this class is full to the brink, so I sit on the counter by the window, crisscross.

I love Mrs. Kalama's class best, and if I hadn't died I'd probably be teacher's pet.

I'd been dreaming about Mrs. Kalama's class since I listened to her monologue introduction at the "meet your teachers". I was already finished speaking with mine, and as I was about to leave I heard it.

I don't know what came over me, really. It was like I was in a daze, controlled, or at least influenced, my her words. Its the day I fell in love with English class. Sure I'd been smart enough to skip a grade or two, but my then twelve year old self hadn't chosen a "favorite" subject.

I listen to the smart kids in the class nervously offer what they thought and zoned out when the slackers gave their half- assed guesses.

I know, I know. Why don't I leave?
Why do I go to class when I don't have to? Why do I keep up with the exact schedule as I would have, had I lived?

Again, let's explain my location issue. I died at the high school, so I'm stuck here, at the high school. I go to class, because, one, this is a school, and two, seriously, how else am I to keep myself entertained?

Being a ghost isn't what it's cracked up to be. I can't mess with people, can't talk to people, can't leave the school, and can't really do anything but watch and listen.

I would be a junior now, meaning I've had to go through two summer vacations. You'd think I'd be happier to be absolutely alone at the school, as no one can interact with me anyway, but those two and a half to three months are the worst. Not only is no one there, but everything is shut down.

No electricity, meaning no TV, no computer, no lights. I spend those months in the library during the day, when I can actually see the words on a page.

Yes, I can move things.

But part of this "ghost" thing is that even if I did try to get someone, anyone, to notice me is that any action I make is unconsciously ignored because of it. It gets me a bit confused at times when I take the time to actually think about it.

Summer nights consisted star gazing on the roof, trying to memorize the stars in their infinite numbers. I still haven't memorized the constellations, though.

Its lonely being a ghost, but I feel less alone around the crowded hallways, because I can actually have a chance to pretend that I'm normal.

That I'm not dead. That I'm anything but what I am. Nobody may hear me when I speak, but at least I can respond. At least I can speak, and concern myself with distractions to numb my very boring existence.

"Alright," Mrs. Kalama interrupts my downward spiral. "Those were very enlightening! I want you to construct a one page, front and back paper on the themes the class discussed today." The bell rings. "It's due after the weekend!"

The class groans, gathering their items, then leave as fast as possible.

Mrs. Kalama just sits down, shuffling though her papers.

Its the last class of the day, so I stay looking out the window, hovering an inch over the counter, as all the lucky students get to step past that boundary and go home.

What I wouldn't give to go home.

Just as the last bus of students leaves, a car, followed by two others, tears into the rapidly emptying teachers' parking lot.

I watch, interested, as it's after hours now.

I watch as Mystic Quincy angrily exits her fancy car, almost sprinting towards the school, followed by at least four of her friends. They are yelling at her to stop. To stop running, to stop being crazy, to just stop and listen.

She doesn't and soon they disappear though the front gates.

All of a sudden, from behind me, Mrs. Kalama stands up, her chair flying backwards to tip over and land on its side.

The shouting gets louder, echoing though the recently empty halls. They grow louder and louder until they tumble, all (I count) six of them, into the classroom.

An odd weight settles on my shoulders, and I stop my hovering. Shaking off the oddness, I tune into the conversation in front of me.

"What is the meaning of this?" Hisses Mrs. Kalama, in a tone I've never heard from her, that almost has me back away. Almost.

"My Queen," starts Starr, one of Mystic's best friends, "Mystic insists that her mate was here this morning, at the school." She nervously rubs the back of her neck, as the others stay silent.

"She was," Mystic growls. "She is."

Mrs. Kalama looks confused, "But I thought your mate was-"

"I don't know," Mystic shrieks, "All I know is I saw her! I know I did! My mate!!!"

"Did anyone else see anyone?" Mrs. Kalama asks.

Everyone shakes their heads, "No, My Queen."

"What the heck?" I wonder aloud (as usual), speculating one the strangeness of this situation. "Queen? Mates? What is going on?"

Seven sets of eyes turn my way, but only one captures my entire attention.

The beautiful green eyes turn an even more beautiful yellow as the voice of the one and only Mystic Quincy hisses one word possessively. "MINE!"