Hurry up. I don’t want to be late.

Yes, I know where I’m going, so hurry up or we’ll miss it.

What do you mean, “how would you know where to go”? Her house is just three houses away from where mine was.

She was our neighbor’s daughter. My dad and I drove her to swim practice once. I’ll tell you about it as we go. Hurry up, for the love of God. Glide faster. I’ll tell you once we get going. I’ll tell you about her. About the ride to swim practice and the ride back. About why we need to go there now and why I need to save her.

Quit complaining about how far we have to go. I’m going to start now.

On the way to the swimming pool— it was dark out, a winter night—  she sat in the front passenger seat, head lolling; she was sleeping soundly. Her head looked like it was chopped off— supposed to be chopped off— but it wasn't done properly. I wanted to reach forward and snap her long, tan neck. I wanted to finish the job and chop off her head properly; to end her misery.

Her skin was sallow. Unhealthy, almost, in the dim light that came from outside the car— the headlights were on, and we were driving on a narrow, empty road. Her hair fell over her face, a thick black curtain cutting off the world from her.

My father played music. The Frozen soundtrack, because that's what my cousin— well, your brother—  wanted to hear the last time he was in our car. You had been sitting where I sat, putting on mascara meticulously while staring with wide eyes at your own bare reflection in the car window. You scratched your bald head and you listened to Lil Wayne and you were a bit too liberal with your naturally allotted leg space.

What? You were! You totally were, shut up. Let me finish, you impolite ghoul.

Your sneakers had ended up on my side of the backseat somehow. I found the pair of white Converse a week after after your...thing.

Well, I don’t say it because that’s weird!

Okay, fine. Whatever. I found your Converse sneakers under the front passenger seat a week after your funeral.

Happy?

Do you think your brother might want them? Just because they’re yours?

I dunno, he might want something else to remember you by; he still thinks about you often, even though it’s been two years since your death now. I know your family searched for that pair of shoes after they cleaned out your closet. I mean, yeah, they’re burnt and scuffed and they’re a particularly ugly, ashy shade of brownish black now, but...your brother might want them?

No, she didn't wake up until we got off the car. If you’re so invested in my story then stop distracting me with sassy side comments and irrelevant questions and let me tell the story.

She only woke up when we got off the car and shook her awake. We didn't stay to watch her swim. We went to get McDonald's instead. My father bought her a strawberry smoothie, to be nice. And to make up for playing the Frozen soundtrack. Which was your brother’s fault, by the way.

She stayed awake on the ride home. Her hands were cold when I passed her the smoothie. She didn't look at me, but I'm fairly sure she mumbled her gratitude.

My dad tried to make small talk with her. You know he likes to do that kind of stuff. He thinks he's being polite. He asked about school. Grades, teachers, classmates. Boys.

I froze up a little when they started talking about the last thing. But she answered all his questions perfectly; not a single beat skipped, not a blink out of sync.

He asked about how life at home was going, stuff like that. Do you like it much here. Do you miss the heat of the tropics. How about you join us for camping this summer, my daughter will love it.

She never looked back at me once. I stared at her long, tan neck and felt the urge to snap it again.

But my dad didn’t notice anything. You know him, he never does.

Dad: How are your parents doing?

Her: Fine, just fine.

Dad: Do they like it here? Are they used to the climate?

Her: They complain, but they're fine with it.

Dad: Does your dad like cold weather?

Her: Not really. But he hates warm weather more.

Dad: Is he moodier during the summer, then?

Her: Depends on the day.

Dad: Is he moody often?

Her: That's a question I'd rather not answer.

Dad: Aw, come on. I work with him everyday, I know what he's like. Come on, say it. He's moody, isn't he?

And then— she paused here. Looked down at her cold hands holding the cup of strawberry smoothie. She scratched her head gingerly. "Yes."

Then she looked back at me. A brief glance. But it was there. I know.

Dad: He told me the other day that he threw away your laptop because you were too distracted to focus on school. What a waste of money, I thought. Is he really strict with you?

She glanced at me. “Sure,” she said. “He's pretty strict.”

Dear God— what do you want now? Of course I know where we're going, idiot. Stop worrying so much. Let me finish.

For the umpteenth time, I know where I'm going. We drove past this block when we were driving her home. I remember because this is where we passed when she actually turned her head around (just a tiny bit) to look back at me, and—

You better keep quiet this time, or you're going to get it. We’re not going to get mugged. It’s impossible for us to get mugged. And I know for a fact that there's a small clearing past that streetlight. That's where she turned her head back to face the front again, to answer my dad's question.

Which was something about whether or not she thought her laptop being thrown away was a waste.

Her: Yeah, I do. But anything for my grades, I guess.

She answered in a flat tone. I stared at the back of her head and— don't interrupt me now, we're getting there— she must have sensed it or something. She turned her head back; took her hands off the smoothie (clamped the cup between her thighs, skinny like the lines that ran parallel on the sides of the road; hands on the center console), body rotated to face me completely. Her slanted almond eyes bored into mine. She asked me, "Do you think it was a waste, Ceci?"

And I couldn't reply. My mouth glued shut. I thought of that time when— you were there too, then. I know you must have been watching me. I didn't realize it before, but I do now. You were there, weren't you?

You remember how he snatched it off her table and smashed it on the ground? And how he grabbed her by her hair, pulling her to her feet, throwing her against the wall?

And me, outside their door, horrified, witnessing something I wasn't supposed to, my hand raised to knock on their door, about to ask her out to the movies?

How I ran back across the street, to the safe and blissful innocence that shielded my house and into my bedroom, almost slamming the door off its hinges?

You saw, right?

The following day, when I walked past their house on my way to the bus stop— it was garbage day, the trash was out on their driveway— I saw the top half of her laptop, cracked and splintered. It had been wrenched off the bottom, forcefully detached from the keyboard. I winced.

She showed up to the bus stop avoiding my eyes. I avoided hers too. We didn't speak to one another for a while.

Her asking me if I thought her father “throwing” her laptop was a waste— those were the first words she spoke to me since the incident.

I couldn't do it, Hailey.

My mouth clamped shut and I replied with silence. You understand, right, Hailey? I didn’t know what I was supposed to do to help her, I didn’t know.

She was disappointed when she saw my tight lips and my glassy eyes. Her head dropped down and her hands cupped her smoothie again. We didn’t say anything to each other for the rest of the ride. When she got off at her house, she only glanced at me briefly and waved a half-hearted goodbye.

I have to save her now, Hailey. I didn’t do it two years ago. I couldn’t. But I can now.

Be careful. There’s a sharp turn up that street, so slow down. That’s where my crash happened. You remember, right?

Of course I do. It’s my death, of course I’d remember. You pulled me out of the wreck and left my dad there. He’s still mad about that. He thinks he should have been taken too.

Yeah, whatever. I know you can’t control it. I’m just saying he’s mad about his kid dying before he did.

The last time I saw him, I heard him telling one of his coworkers that he’s moving to Florida permanently, with your family. I’m sure he’s in Florida somewhere right now, talking to your mom about it. That’s all he ever talks about these days. I think he’s going to join us soon. His blood pressure’s been getting a bit too high for a 53 year old. Or maybe those years spent smoking are finally going to bite him in the rear end. I did tell him to quit it— I told him I wasn’t going to have another family member die from cancer, not after you, but did he ever listen?

Here we are now. Do we knock or something? What’s the procedure?

We just enter? What?

Alright, I’m new to this, okay? I just died a year ago. You’ve been dead for two. You clearly have had more time to get used to this ghost thing. Anyway— help me open this. Her door won’t budge.

Oh, Christ.

We’re late, Hailey. She’s on her way already.

The pills, Hailey.On the night stand, do you see? She even left a letter, goddammit, how cliché. We’re too late.

Well, what’s going to happen now? How do we know if she’s going to join us or not? Is there a signal? What do we do? Do we just— pull out her soul or something? This is ridiculous. I failed to save her again.

What do you mean, “she’s not coming with us”, she took 20 painkillers— look at the stupid bottle, half of it’s gone— she’s not going to make it, Hailey. We were too late. I was too late.

But how is that possible, Hailey? Stop this, you’re giving me false hopes. She took twenty of those—

Wow.

Do we— Do we call someone? Leave her a note? Can we call 911?

Okay, let’s go get the neighbors, then. Hurry up.

Do you really think she’s going to be fine when the ambulance comes? Can we save her now?

Right. Yeah. I’ll shut up. But— do you think..?

Okay. Yeah, I think I can manage communicating like that. It can’t be that hard to talk to you in my head.

Okay okay OKAY, I got it. I’m hurrying.

Okay, I got him to wake up. Have you gotten his dog yet?

Lure it into her backyard now. He’s looking out his window at the kennel—

He got the hint. He’s heading to her backyard right now. Turn on the stove, make it smoke or something.

He saw the smoke? When— how? He’s not even there yet?

Oh I see him! I see him now— unlock her back sliding door, then, what are you doing? Hurry up! Open her bedroom door so that he’ll see she’s in there.

Okay, so he turned the stove off— He saw her? Has he dialed for the ambulance yet?

Is she still alive?

Is she going to make it, Hailey?

I know that you don’t know; this is the part where you tell me random inspiring things to lift up my hopes.

Yeah, I have hopes for her. I know her chances are slim, but I’m still hoping.

Shut up. I hoped for you too. I was there by your hospital bed when you left, okay? I had hopes for you too, so don’t pull this nonsense on me.

I hoped that you would somehow survive and beat your cancer and that you’d stay in remission forever. I hoped that you’d be able to spend more time with me and visit me often with your brother and that we could listen to Lil Wayne in the car together while your brother sang Let It Go and that your hair would grow back and that we’d be able to see each other become old and wrinkled old ladies.

Of course I was sad when you died, Hailey, we all were.

For her I don’t hope for much, I just— I hope she lives and recovers and that the police read that letter and call for child services and that she goes away to college in the fall and that she never has to see her father ever again for the rest of her long happy life.

I appreciate that comment, but I think you’ve been reading too much young adult fantasy novels. I’m not going to date her. I’m literally a ghost, Hailey. I’m sorry your teenage fantasies of having an undead significant other will never be fulfilled. You should probably stop pushing your dreams and aspirations onto me, anyway.

I’ll just....check on her from time to time. I’ll see how she turns out. I’ll see if she’ll ever get that master's degree in English that she wants. If she’ll ever find the courage to visit my grave. If she’ll ever adopt a dog and live in an apartment in New York City, like she said she was going to. If she’ll ever turn her head back, rotate her body to face me completely, and bore her slanted almond eyes into mine again.

I’ll see, Hailey. I’ll see.