Dead & Gone (DARAGON)

I was walking with a ghost

My mom would have one hundred
percent murdered me if she knew I was
flying down the Pacific Coast Highway
on the back of a motorcycle with my
arms wrapped around some kid I'd just
met. Like real, live, actual murder.

But she didn't know. And, in a weird
sort of way, I didn't care. It felt good to
forget about everything that had
happened to me, and it felt good to take a
break from crying. It wasn't like there
was anything I could do about it now
anyway. That's one thing I learned real
quick. You can obsess and obsess over
how things ended—what you did wrong
or could have done differently—but
there's not much of a point. It's not like
it'll change anything. So really, why
worry?

Plus, life after death was kind of, well,
fun. It felt like that weird but awesome
in-between place where you totally
know you're dreaming, but you also
know there are still ten perfect minutes
left before your alarm's going to go off.
(But in my case, the alarm is locked on
eternal snooze. And the dream lasts
forever.)

Patrick hadn't wanted to let me on the
bike with him, at first.

"Um, I don't think so."

"Come on."

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not your chauffer, that's
why."

"Please?"

He looked me dead in the eye and grew
quiet. I got the sense he wasn't playing
around. "I just don't think it's a good
idea, okay?"

"That's funny, because I think it's a
great idea."

Little did he know, I was terrified with a
capital T of motorcycles and always had
been. They were loud and dangerous and
Dad had so many stories about the awful
bike injuries he'd seen in the ER. But my
real fear—my true fear—came from
somewhere else. Somewhere deeper.

I wasn't about to tell Patrick, but the
reason I was so scared of motorcycles
was because, for as long as I could
remember, I'd had a horrible recurring
nightmare where I'd be riding on the
back of a bike—my face and arms lifted
up toward the bluest, calmest sky
imaginable—and then CRASH,
everything would go wrong. The sky
would darken. The wind would pick up.
I'd feel the driver begin to lose control.
And then I'd hear the sound of
screeching tires and crushing metal. I'd
feel myself being ripped from the back
of the bike, flying through billowing
smoke and heat until suddenly, always at
the last possible second, my eyes would
fly open and I'd wake up, gasping for
air.

Just like that.

Every time, always the same dream.
Always the same feeling of zero control,
zero gravity, zero chance of survival.
Besides the fact that I'd never even
touched a motorcycle, the weirdest part
was that I always seemed to have the
nightmare on the exact same day of the
year: the Fourth of July.

And sometimes, the smell of smoke and
burning fuel would stay with me all day,
even through the fireworks.

But my stupid phobia didn't matter
anymore. Because no matter how you
spin it, a girl can't die twice.

In other words, I had nothing left to lose.

"Please?" I said. "Just one little ride."

"What is it about no that you don't
understand?"

"What is it about no that your mom
doesn't understand?"

"Hold on. Did you just Your Mom Joke
me?"