Chapter 7: I'm so lonely and dead

I'm very disoriented in the mornings. I'm also paranoid in the dark, so I always lock my door.

I wake up and I can barely remember what day of the week it is let alone my new ghost friend. When I catch a glimpse of something wandering around my bedroom, I feel a rush of fear and squeak loudly, throwing the covers off as I sit up.

"Good morning," Sharpay drones, obviously annoyed. "Too bad you wasted a lot of it sleeping."

Wiping my mouth, I glance at the digital clock on my night stand. "It's seven."

She thrusts her aristocratic nose in the air. "I would wake up at six."

"You would? Do you sleep now? How do you know?"

"No, I don't sleep now, but I visited my house again and everyone wakes up at six, so I assume I would have, as well," concludes Sharpay.

"I don't need the extra hour, so why not sleep?" I roll off my mattress and start making my bed. "What did you do last night?"

Please don't say you were hanging out here, I mentally beseech her.

"I had already explored my house, so I wandered around yours." Then she adds as an afterthought, "Didn't take me as long."

"Sharpay!" I exclaim indignantly.

"What? Do you have anything to hide?" she asks with nonchalance.

"No, but it's just … odd. Having a stranger see everything."

"I'm a ghost," Sharpay snaps. "I can't tell anyone anything, and I don't plan on sticking around much longer."

I let my shoulders drop. Well, she wouldn't have had much to do. It's not like she could have flipped through the diary I kept in middle school, anyway.

The sound of my mother's footsteps penetrate my thin door. Sharpay notices her, too, and we both remain silent.

"Gabi?" she calls inquisitively and knocks. "Wake up. It's seven. Don't be late for school. I'm leaving for work now, okay?"

"I'm up," I reply, reaching for the doorknob while Sharpay drifts out of sight. "Bye, mom."

She smiles, deepening the wrinkles near her eyes. "Bye, Gabi, have a good day."

"You, too," I return as she turns away to walk down the hall toward the stairs.

When she's gone, I shout, "Sharpay?"

She appears in front of me. "I went to have a look in your closet … " She trails off, and then shivers.

I frown. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that if you want to have a chance with that Troy guy, you better hope I'm around long enough to help you because you definitely need it."

Sharpay doesn't follow me around the whole day. She is starting to seem more and more like her old self, who would strongly disapprove of my schedule.

She chooses not to join me in my Chemistry class and listen to the teacher lecture us, but instead sits in on Ms. Darbus' drama class. Apparently, the freshmen class is extremely pathetic but the senior students in the Advanced Drama class after have some spectacular talent.

It's like she constantly has to be talking. She drops into my history class to tell me how goofy these guys were, but I discretely shush her, which makes her go all, "Fine, if you don't like to be entertained, I'll let you continue living your boring life," and she leaves.

I hope she takes time to calm down because in Calculus, the teacher, Mr. Wilson, hands out ten-page booklets and calls this monstrosity a pop quiz.

In horror, I flip through it quickly before starting. I don't recognise half of it.

My hand shakes as I pen my name and read the first question.

Around the third page, Sharpay pops in. Shit.

"Gabriella!" she exclaims. "Is there any way you can switch into this drama class?"

I ignore her, expecting her to notice the seriousness of the situation. The room is silent, except for the scratching of graphite on paper.

Mr. Wilson, though, is on his computer. The screen is turned away from us, but everyone knows he is going online shopping for man-scarves.

"Are you listening to me?" she asks impatiently.

Without looking up, I shake my head and gesture to the booklet and for extra emphasis, I circle 'Pop Quiz' on the top of the page.

"I'm so lonely," she moans, "and dead. The least you could do is show a little compassion."

I pretend to not hear her and start punching numbers into my calculator, which I thankfully didn't forget today.

Frustrated, she groans. But I'm not prepared for her to cover my sheet and calculator with each of her splayed hands.

Sure, she's a little translucent and I can go through her, (although not without freezing) but the numbers are blurry because Mr. Wilson has a bizarre penchant for small fonts (to be able to fit more on the page, probably).

I move the paper, but she stands in the middle of my desk so it cuts her in half and her body is covering it completely. I can't move it on to my lap because it would look too suspicious to the teacher. If I hold it upright, the guy behind me's going to copy my answers.

I'm about to pull my hair out. I attempt to swat her out of the way, but I am unsuccessful.

"This," she says, "is how I feel. I can't do anything I want to do."

I do feel for her. I do, I do. The girl's dead. I'd like to help her, but just not right now.

Panic mounting, I stare pleadingly into her eyes.

I can't scream at her to go away, or make any noise. Mr. Wilson would assume I'm cheating and give me a 0 on the quiz.

Sharpay only opens her mouth to begin blabbing on about something, knowing I have not choice but to listen.

Taylor McKessie, who sits beside me, lifts her head for a brief moment to glance my way. She gives me a pitying look when she sees my unmoving hand and furious face before resuming her work. I see she only has three pages left.

Finally, I take the pencil and start writing on the blank side of the page in huge letters. She peers at her torso curiously and gasps when she reads my message:

SHUT THE FUCK UP.

She glares witheringly at me and in an instant, she's gone.

I sigh contentedly, satisfied for now. I'll make up with her later.

I'm so focused on finishing, that after she leaves I'm in auto-pilot, not thinking about anything other than math.

I manage to complete the quiz on time (but unfortunately didn't get to double check it) and relax in my seat after Mr. Wilson picks it up.

Then it slaps me in the face like a thick slice of cold bologna. The tips of my fingers and toes go numb.

I forgot to erase the message. A string of curses run through my mind.

Good Lord, please let the meanest teacher at East High have mercy on me.

"Mr. Wilson!" My hand flies up so fast my shoulder almost pops out of its socket. I practically jump out of my seat. "Mr. Wilson, I forgot something. I--please--let me fix it. I'll be quick, I promise. Just one minor thing. I won't do it again. Just one. Please, please … " I think I repeat the word 'please' twenty-seven times.

He's cross and turning red, not believing I would act so immaturely. "You know the rules, Miss Montez. I never allow any student special treatment," he huffs, turning away.

"But--"

"If you say anything more, I will rip up your quiz."

Oh, please do.

Arg, I want to cry.

"I understand," starts Taylor calmly, looking concerned. "I have moments like that, too. And you just think to yourself, "Why did I choose an answer that was so obviously wrong?""

I stare at her. This is far worse that she could imagine. I'd rather rip the page out, losing marks for everything on there, than let him see those four underlined words.

I know it's beyond my control now. I want to talk to Taylor, make an intellectual friend, but I'm too stunned to reply. I lose my chance when she packs her bag and walks through the doorway.

Glumly, I, too, join the students out in the hall making there way to the cafeteria, seeing as it's lunch now. But I'm not paying attention and I bump into one of them.

After I apologise, I see that it's Troy.

"Oh, hey, I was looking for you." He grins genuinely, a 'hi-how-was-your-day-I-missed-you' grin that I would love to see after coming home from a long shift at work … damn it, I have to learn how to control my thoughts.

"Hi, Troy," I say mechanically.

He furrows his brow at my demeanour. "Are you okay? Where's--." He looks around.

"She's not here."

"Oh." Troy nods curtly in understanding.

"No!" I yelp. "She's not with me, but still in the school somewhere."

He chuckles. "I see. How's everything going?"

"We can't talk about it here," I state matter-of-factly.

"I know where we could go."

And then he takes my hand to lead me away from the crowd, the warm sensation returning feeling to my fingertips and momentarily pulling me out of my worry.