It was a complete shock when I saw the head of a blonde boy peering over the stall door, staring down at me with a scrutinizing gaze. At first, I could only stare, but I managed to recover. Reaching for the roll of toilet paper, I snatched it and threw it at him with all my might. The roll went through his head.
I screamed. "Oh fuck no!" I get to my feet and pull up my shorts Then I slam open the door. As I expected, he was floating. "Give me a break. I thought this school was safe."
"You can see me?" The doubt in his voice was there, but it was just a sliver. When I raised a questioning brow, he whoops. "Oh, awesome! Do you know how long I've been wanting for someone to notice me? It's been decades – decades since someone talked to me!" He floated down, meeting my gaze. His eyes, hidden behind a pair of glasses, were bright. "And the one who noticed me is a babe. Best. Day. Ever."
I bring out my bottle of holy water and twist the cap off. "Hey, what's that?" he inquired curiously. Without a second thought, I pour the sacred water onto his head. He lets out a screech and disappears like smoke.
"And never come back," I murmured.
. . .
"Psst, babe, how do you solve that?"
I let out a small gasp, turning my head sharply to the culprit. It was him. He was bent down over my notebook, observing the problems written on the lines. I scowl and cover my page. "What are you doing here? I thought I got rid of you. Get out!"
He raised his eyebrows before pointing a thumb at my teacher, who was glaring daggers at me. "Is there anything that you need to say, Ms. Vargas?"
Color rises to my face. "No, Mrs. Smith. I'm sorry for interrupting the class." My gaze floats over to the blonde ghosts, who smiles innocently. "I just saw something really annoying."
"Well, whatever it is, get over it." Mrs. Smith adjusts her falling glasses. "You're in class now and it is a priority you must behave."
I nodded. I'm going to get this ghost for embarrassing me. I'll get my revenge.
But before I could shoot my signature death glare, he was already gone.
. . .
Students walked down the flight of stairs in a swarm, dozens of different pitched voices, steps, and laughs filling the air. I hate it after school; it's so noisy with the overly excited students. You get to go home, what's the big deal?
"Be careful, you might trip!" Damn it, I know this voice. It's that blonde ghost. Well, whatever. I'm not going to pay attention to him anymore. That should make him feel miserable.
He chatters on and on while I walk, something about being heroic, and I find it hard not to yell at him. He's different from most of the ghosts I've met from the past years. They usually don't converse much – they just follow you around or ask for favors ("Please, I need to tell him that I still love him!"; "Give him the money I hid behind the mirror."; "I need to apologize to my mom."; blah blah blah). But this guy – this idiot just keeps talking and talking. If he wasn't dead, I would have kicked him in the gut.
I settle myself onto a bench, which has the school's name carved into it, and place my bag down at the side. Then I bring out my phone, which has a pair of dangling hot pink earphones, and shove the earphones into my ears. I could hear Alfred protest, but I just blast Haven't Had Enough by Marianas Trench. As I did so, I couldn't help but smirk.
Suddenly, they cords are pulled by some invisible force, and they're sent flying into the air. Before I could comprehend what happened, the blonde ghost's pouty face comes into view. "I'm talking to you, you know."
I snarl. I must look insane right now to the rest of the other people, snarling at the air, but I don't care. "Do you know how much those cost? I bought those with my own money!" I brought out my other bottle of holy water and uncap it, splashing the blonde ghost aggressively. He lets out a scream and disappears again.
I hastily grab my bag and my fallen earphones, dialing my mom's number as I walked out of the campus. "Hi, Mom. I'm walking home today. Yeah, I'll be careful. Love you."
. . .
"Hello!" He chirps cheerfully, waving energetically at me. He floated in the air, legs crossed. "Glad you came today!"
"Crap. . ." I reach for my holy water, but then the weird stare from my sister stops me. I don't want her to be confused on why I just splashed the air with a bottle of holy water; that'll raise too much questions.
"What's wrong, Sorella?" my sister, Alice, inquired curiously. Her caramel brown eyes were filled with concern. Damn it, sometimes I regret not telling her of my gift.
I clear my throat. "Nothing. I thought I forgot something, but I remembered putting it in my bag."
"Oh, okay." Alice smiles in relief. "It's just that you look like you've seen a ghost."
I have, I thought bitterly. "What? Ghosts don't exist." I brush a loose lock of my hair behind my ear, shooting a small glare at the blonde ghost. "And if they do, they'd be annoying. Like, really annoying."
"Hah! I bet I could beat them up, dead or not." Alice chuckles and pats my back. "I'll send them flying!"
I smiled. "Totally." Then I gave the blonde ghost a You heard that~ stare. He gulps.
. . .
"Who was that scary girl you were talking to?" the blonde ghost demanded, hands on hips as he steadily floated in the air. "She looks sort of like you. . . Is she your sister?"
I idly stare at the cold pizza in my hand, completely ignoring the ghost. I hate Pizza Hut. They put too much sauce, too much cheese, and too much meat. I don't understand. Pizza is supposed to be a small, healthy dish! Not a heart-attack on a piece of bread.
"Dude, can you like, stop staring at that pizza and look at me for a second? I know you can see me so please talk to me." The falter in his voice made me look at him; his voice hasn't faltered once since we met. He was crying.
"Hey. . .," I say, feeling the tiniest bit of guilt.
He sniffed. "Forget it. This was a hopeless idea anyways." With that said, he disappeared. And I was left feeling guilty.
I wrap my uneaten pizza back into its tinfoil cocoon and place it into my lunch bag. Then I get up, turn, and make a dash out the cafeteria doors.
The air outside was warm and sticky, the complete opposite of the air-conditioned building. My hair flew behind me like a jumble of curly yarn and the wind hurt my eyes.
I needed to go somewhere private to summon him; it would be inconvenient if someone saw me screaming into the air like some crazed lunatic. But the word private doesn't quite go well with this school. It was overcrowded and students were everywhere – under the bridge, the back of the library, classrooms, the fields, everywhere.
But then, suddenly, it hit me: the janitor's closet.
I changed directions, heading for the direction of the cramped broom closet.
It was located under a flight of stairs at the A building. Everybody thinks it's haunted since it looks creepy, dark and cramp and all. But so far, I've seen no ghosts in it – trust me, I've checked.
When I reach my destination, I'm greeted by a group of students gathered around the stairs. Like, not the friendly greeting. It was more like a jump in my way and sneer greeting.
"Hey," the one who blocked my greeted. He was a senior, judging from the graduating tag on his collar. His hair was shaved into a thick Mohawk and he had piercings on his ears. "Wanna hang out a bit? We'd love to have a new friend, especially if they're a hot Italian transferee."
I raise an eyebrow. Placing a hand on my hip, I gave him the nastiest look I can muster. He laughs. "Wow, feisty. I like that. Come on, join in a little."
"I'm busy right now," I reply. "So, if you'd excuse me. . ." As I tried to get around him, he grabbed my wrist. His grip was tight, so tight I could see the blood pile up at my hand. I glare at him. "I said excuse me. Or do you want it in Italian?"
His small group of friends snickers and his face turns a rose pink. Shoving a stubby finger in front of my face, he growled, "Watch your mo—"
"Watch my what?" I inquired innocently. I raise my eyebrows and smile densely.
He lifts a hand and I know he's going to slap me. I narrow my eyes, challenging him, taking a position of defense. But before his hand made contact with my skin, the janitor's closet door flew open.
I was expecting to see the janitor, confused and disappointed, at the fight that was brew, but instead I saw the blonde ghost. He was inside the room.
"It's you. . .," I murmured.
Though my voice was low, he must have heard it since he smiled. Then, in a blink of an eye, the door closed again.
The lights above started to flicker and the window shutters closed and opened; the door of the janitor closet opened and this time, mops and different tools flew out.
The blonde ghost has become a poltergeist.
A noisy ghost.
"Ghost!" one of the seniors screamed, scrambling up the stairs. The others followed his example, sputtering nonsense, before the guy in front of me reluctantly followed. His glare told me he won't forget this.
After a moment or two, the ruckus stopped. The flights flickered once, twice, thrice until becoming stable; the tools floated in the air and set themselves down inside the closet before door closed. The blonde ghost then appeared in front of me, hovering an inch over my head. He was smiling.
I smiled back. "I could have taken care of it, you know."
"I doubt that," was his reply. "After all, the hero must protect the weak."
"I am so not weak. Anyways, sit down; I need to tell you something."
He blinked, but slowly floated down a little above the ground. "Go on."
I sat down next to him and took a deep breath. It was always hard. Apologizing. But one must know when they were wrong to become strong. So, a little hesitantly, I quickly said, "Sorry."
"For what?" the blonde ghost asked, staring at me with earnest eyes. "For ignoring me? That's okay. I'm used to it."
"It wasn't right, though. So, I'm really sorry. I won't ignore you from now on." I extended out a hand. "Let's be. . . acquaintances. I'm Chiara Vargas. What's your name?"
The blonde ghost smiled and took my hand, though his went through mine. We stared at each other before we burst into a fit of laughter. Oh, how stupid of me; ghosts can't hold onto living or solid things.
Once our laughter died down, we smiled at each other. "Alfred F. Jones," the blonde ghost replied. "That's my name. Remember it! It's a hero's name."
I rolled my eyes. "Sure."
"Hey! It's true!" He pouted. "Oh, and if we're going to be friends, stop pouring holy water on me. It hurts, you know."
"One, we're not friends. We're acquaintances. Two, I make no promises."
He shrugged. "Oh well. Good enough."
