A/N I reached 100 reviews! I am so happy! Carry on reviewing though, Imay even reach150! I like this chapter, as it starts to tie in with the summary. And, it has the cutest dead/alive guy ever in it! Characters based loosely on those created by Meg Cabot. I own the plot, but not the words in bold. I also (unfortunately) own Lizzie.

Chapter 11

I screamed. I'm not a screamy chick, but I did. I mean, a guy just appeared in front of me. What would you have done, offered him tea?

His cry was startled too, but deep and quiet, not high-pitched and loud, like my shriek. He put a hand to his chest, and muttered, "Nombre de Dios!"

"Huh?" I asked, stepping backwards and catching my breath.

"Its no use calling on your higher power," I informed him as I swung the pink tasselled chair to my new dressing table around, and straddled it. "In case you havent noticed, He isnt paying a lot of attention to you. Otherwise, He wouldnt have left you here to fester for-" I took in his outfit, which looked a lot like something they'd have worn on the Wild, Wild, West. "What is it, a hundred and fifty years? Has it been that long since you croaked?"

I shrieked again and fell backwards onto Lizzie's bed, blinking once, twice, registering what had just happened. It was like a daydream, only more vivid. The guy from the window seat leant over me, concerned.

"Are you ok?" he asked. his voice was flat and unaccented, although it was clear he was part Spaniard, as his colouring and foreign mutters indicated.

"Your dead," I breathed.

"Oh well done," said the guy sarcastically. " But what I do not understand is how I can speak to you and you can see me when I am, as you so obviously pointed out, dead. Are you one of whom they speak of?"

"Which clique are you referring to, the freaks or mediators?" I sat up, causing the dude to move out of my way.

"I'm guessing a mediator."

"Look," I said, standing up fast, and swinging my leg round the back of the chair. "You can do all the hanging about you want, amigo. Slack away. I dont care really care. But you cant do it here."

"Jesse," he said, not moving.

"What?"

"You called me amigo. I thought you might want to know I have a name. Its Jesse."

"Jesse," I whispered. "Your name's Jesse. How did I know that?"

"I'm not sure," said Jesse, in a low tone. "But are you ok?"

"I...I keep getting these flashbacks. Only...they're not flashbacks, as I dont remember these things happening to me."

I realised once I said that, Jesse might get mad at me for not answering his question. God knew he had a dangerous face. Jesse, instead though, took my hand. It was warm (though that was impossible, he was a ghost) and callused. I dont have many dead people touch me. I see loads, but mostly I ignore them. They come to me, crying for help, but I cant help them. I dont know how.

"How many of these...things have been you had?" he asked, boring his dark, almost black, intellegent eyes into mine.

"Two," I replied. I didnt feel the same angst towards Jesse as I did in these dreams. This dude was soothing me, and I needed soothing. I wondered though, if this guy would come within 100 feet of me if he knew I'd killed someone and done drugs both within a month. "Jesse, what's a mediator?"

Jesse pulled away in surprise. "You dont know? You know you are one, but you dont know what you are? Miss, what is your name?"

"Suze," I replied. Jesse frowned at this abbreviation.

"What is your name?"

I glared at him. "Look. Just tell me what you want, and get out. I'm hot, and I want to change clothes. I don't have time for-"

He interrupted, as amiably, as if he hadnt heard me talking at all, "That woman - your mother - called you Suzie." His black eyes were bright on me. "Short for Susan?"

"Susannah," I said, correcting him automatically. "As in, 'Dont You Cry For Me.'"

He smiled. "I know the song."

"Yeah. It was probably in the top forty the year you were born, huh?"

"You know my mom?" I squealed, pulling back further.

"Not unless your mother is Conchita de Silva, like my own, or Samantha Carmichael, downstairs," he replied. "Another daydream?"

"Yeah," I whispered. "in it, you said you heard my mom call me Suzie."

"Short for Susan?" he asked. My eyes widened in surprise.

"Susannah," I said. The words tasted scary as they rolled off my tongue. "As in, 'Don't You Cry for Me'"

"I know the song." He smiled sadly.

At that moment, Lizzie waltzed through the door, hair wet.

"Hey," said sweetly. "Were you just talking to yourself?"

To save Liz the confusion I was feeling, I simply replied, "Yeah," in feigned embarrassment. I turned to face Jesse, but he had gone.