Life After High School. Is It Scary? You Bet

By Risty Maskell and Silver15

Disclaimer: Don't own nothing wish we did though

Summary: Gee…. Let me think….Nope can't tell you.

A/N: I didn't own that poem in my last chapter either. Damn.

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After my speech, I saw a lot of people crying. I glanced back at the podium. And I walked back up.

"I would just like to say," I said. "A verse to that poem that I made up."

"Here's to the kids who are different

Kids like my big brother Mark

Because when he died

My hardest I tried

To keep him alive in my heart."



That made some people smile. I wiped the tears away from my eyes and made my way down the stairs. Julia took over and said a little speech. I didn't really hear any of it. Frodo was holding me while I cried into his shoulder.



After the whole service, I went looking for Emma and Billee. TI couldn't find them. Benny came up to me. I asked him where they were.

"They went back home, Emma wasn't feeling to well. Don't get mad."

"I won't. I understand."

Vinnie came up to me then and I gave him a hug. The hobbit was really very sad. Julia came up with Charlie, Mazza and Fiona.

"Jamie, we're going to the old house to look at some photos of Mark. Want to come?"

"Sure." I said, so Frodo, Vinnie, Me, Mazza, Charlie, Fiona and Julia all walked to our old house and went inside. Julia still had her key.

We all sat on the old couch and Julia got the photo album off the shelf. There were some shockingly funny photos in that album. I decided to keep a few. There was me trying to flip Mark over from the new move he taught me. I kept looking at it and trying not to cry.

I got up from the couch and went up the stairs. No one questioned me. I held Ria in my arms and opened the door to Marks room, which had not been opened for eight years.

The room was still a mess, like it always had been. I looked at all his old stuff. It was all so familiar. Like he had never died. Like he was still alive.

"Jamita. What are you doing in my room?"

I whirled around. There was no one there. My eyes wide in fright, I glanced all around me. There was nothing. No one, anywhere. What was going on?

"Jamita," said the voice again. "Why are you in here? It's the middle of the night."

The voice sounded oddly familiar.

"Mark?" I whispered, my mouth going dry.

"Yes?"

"Is it really you?"

"Of course it's me. Who else would it be? Now, what's wrong? Were you scared of the storm?"

"What storm?"

"Don't tell me you haven't heard the storm. It's blowing a gale."

"Mark, if it really is you? Why can't I see you?"

All of a sudden, a dim whitish glow appeared beside me. I jumped.

"Mark…" I said, trembling. "You're dead…"

"How can I be dead?" He asked. "I'm right here."

"M-mark, you died eight years ago."

"Oh. You mean I really did die after that?"

"Y-yes."

"Well, I'm here now. I guess my spirit has some unfinished business to take care of."

"W-what would that be?"

"Probably to tell you not to be sad. You were my favourite sister after all."

I stopped trembling. Marks ghost, I guess that is what he was, stood and stared at me.

"Who is that?" It surely can't be Samantha."

"Samantha and Jesse are dead too."

"How?"

"Dad."

"Well, who is this?"

"This is my baby, Ria."

"I'm an uncle?" He said, a smile played about his face. The face I had known and loved for such a short period in my life.

"I guess you could say that." I said.

"Jamita…I think I have to go now. Tell the others not to be sad…thank you for the memorial."

And he faded away. Just like that. Suddenly, it felt like a heavy blanket had been pulled off my heart and I felt happy again. For the first time since Mark had died, I felt happy without a backup thought of sadness.

I looked around the room. It seemed lighter now. Ria was sleeping so I settled her on the bed and looked around a bit more.

After about an hour of digging around, I found a small trapdoor, under the bed. I pulled it open. Inside there was a wooden box. Carved with little intricate designs. I pulled it out. I blew off the dust and opened it.

Inside were all sorts of things. Photos, letters, small toys, rings, money, and Marks diary.

I opened the diary, hoping Marks spirit would forgive me. The first page was written when he first got it, around about the time I was three. A really long time ago.

I fast forwarded to the last entry.

September 3rd 1994. (Morning)

Dear Diary,

Well I finally did it. I finally taught Jamita how to flip a person in self defense. She was really very funny. Julia and Jake are watching from the back stoop. Samantha has her little friend, Dawn, over and they are playing in the sandbox. They look so cute. Benny and Lucas have come over for a while and they are watching a movie while I write this. It seems weird, a guy keeping a diary. But I can't confess all my personal thoughts to Mum, Dad, my siblings, or even my closest friends. Not even the principal, Elrond, would understand. I'd better go, Benny is egging me to watch this stupid movie.

(Evening)

Dad came home, pissed drunk again. It makes me so mad. Why does he treat us like this? Does he even care? I don't think so. I got a right ear bashing from him just before, just for walking in front of him while he was watching the TV. Life isn't fair. He beat me up again. Elrond is worried about me and my brothers and sisters. He wants to find us a different home. Somewhere where there isn't violence. But I told him if that happened, we'd all be separated. And I didn't want that. Oh Jamita has been taking a poetry course, she's just handed me her homework to proof read. I'd better.

(Later)

Wow, I never knew my little sister had a poetry streak in her, she wrote a fantastic poem, I think I'll put it in here.

The Girl Next Door

Do you remember

Many years ago

When we were young,

How we used to play together

Every day?

It seems like yesterday-

The childhood world

Of clowns and cotton candy

And summer days

That never seemed to end

When we played Hide 'n' Seek

From four o'clock until dusk

Then sat outside on someone's stoop

And listened to the crickets

And slapped away mosquitoes

And talked about our dreams

And what we'd do when we grew up

Until our mothers called us in.

And do you remember

That one winter when it snowed

For days and days on end

And we tried to build an igloo

Like the Eskimos?

Or when we made a game

Of raking leaves

All up and down the street

Until we'd made the biggest pile

The world had ever seen

And then we jumped in it?

Or how about the time

We gathered honeysuckle

From your yard

And sold it to the neighbors?

And the grand day when finally

The training wheels came off our bikes

And we were free

To explore the whole world

In an afternoon

So long as we stayed

On our own street



But those days passed by furtively

And we grew up, as children do.

Until we reached a day when we

Assumed that we were to grown up

To play amid the trees on summer nights…

And when I see you now

You've changed in ways I can't explain

You're like a rose that blooms before it's time

And falls victim to the February frost.

Because the waist on your jeans is getting tight

Symbolic of a youth that's not your own

And your face is pale and green-

You don't look well.

I see you scowling at the street

From the window in your room,

It's rare to see you smiling anymore.

And when a car pulls up outside

You run downstairs and out the door

With a suitcase in each hand

And the car speeds away

And the girl next door is gone.



And I long once more

For the summer days

When I stood on your porch

And banged on your front door

And bade you to come outside to greet

the afternoons adventures

Won't you come out to play, once more?

For we are still so young…



My sister is a great writer. But I 'd better go. It's passed midnight and I'm dog-tired. I'll write in the morning.

Yours,

Mark.



I wiped a tear away from my cheek. Mark had kept my very first poem in his diary. I knew then and there that he would always love me, alive or dead. I decided to keep the diary. Maybe I could read it when I was feeling down. That had been the day before he was killed.

I picked up Ria and went back downstairs.



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A/N: No I don't own that poem either. That poem belongs to Amanda Dykstra, her poem was published in 'Chicken Soup for the teenage soul, volume one. Cya! Hope you enjoyed it!