Scary Kids (NaNoWriMo 2019)

Chapter 11.

For a second I was sure that everything that girl said was completely gross. And then that second turned into minutes, then hours. It was still gross by the time I blew the doors of the hallway wide open and saw Elijah standing on the outside waiting for me.

"I've been trying to get these doors open for twenty minutes," he tells me. "How did you do it?"

"They've always opened from the inside," I point out.

"Yeah, I get that," he says, "but how did you open them without even touching them and then somehow keep them glued to the walls?"

"It takes practice," I reply.

"What kind of practice?" he pushes on.

"The kind of practice that falls into your lap."

He takes a moment to choose his words carefully, "Will you fall into my lap then?"

"What?!" I blurt out.

"Just teach me," he begs, "Please? I want to learn."

"Ummm," I contemplate, "okay."

"Really?" he asks.

"Yea- Yes. Fine. I will help you," I say.

"Great," he smiles. "Where do we start?"

I look at him pointedly, "You want to start now?"

"Yeah. Better now than later."

"Okay," I huff.

I survey the ground around me to see if I could find anything that might be a useful prop. When I notice a half-shaved off pencil edged under the lip of the lockers, I pry it from the floor and return to my spot.

"So, this pencil," I show it to him gripped in my hand, "ummm... Shit, I don't actually know where to start."

"Seriously?" he says annoyed.

"Hey, it's been a while since I taught myself so... Shut up!" I say throwing the pencil at his face.

Expecting it to hit this barrier and fall, I was surprised to see it go right by and hit Elijah.

"Ow," he whines.

"Holy shit," I say excitedly. "How did we not notice this?!"

"What?" he questions.

"We can still pass things across to each other."

"Well, you're the only one who can actually do that, but maybe if you would teach me-"

I cut him off, "Just, shut your mouth. I'm thinking."

"About what?"

"About how to get out of this stupid situation," I tell him.

I really was. Things were finally coming together. Everything that had passed through the doors to this school all had one thing in common. They all had matter. They were real. Wait, am I not real? Anyways, if I was strong enough, which I know I am, to manifest myself, maybe I could get out of here. Still, I don't think I should, not yet.

"Nevermind," I lie, "I've got nothing."

"It's okay," he consoles me, "we'll figure something out eventually."

"Yeah," I agree, "you're right."

We don't say anything for a minute.

"Frank still hasn't said anything," he tells me, changing the subject.

"I'm not surprised," I reply, "but what did you talk to him about anyway?"

"Sports," he says simply.

"Sports?" I ask.

"I thought he might like to talk about something, I don't know, manly."

I let out a laugh at his sentence.

"Hey, don't judge me," he tries to get me to stop. "he's from the forties. I don't know where he stands on things like-"

I don't stop.

"I'm just digging myself into a hole, aren't I? I give up!" he declares.

We sat across from each other practically all night and I tried my best to show him how to pick things up. It's so similar to holding his hand, but not being on the same side means I can't remind him of the feeling.

"Maybe we should try again later?" I suggest as the sun starts rising.

"Okay," he says somewhat disappointed. "What should we do then?"

"I don't know, just not I Spy again," I reply.

"What if we got to know each other better?"

"Aren't we best friends already?" I point out.

"Yes," he agrees, "but I don't even know what your favourite colour is, or your favourite food."

"Well, I can't eat anymore, so what good would that do?"

"Oh, come on Harper," he says, "just indulge me a little."

I silently pace in my head for a moment, "I'm seriously not that interesting."

"Sure you are," he tells me. "Weren't you on the yearbook committee?"

"That certainly didn't last long," I answer.

"Sorry, bad example," he apologizes. "Tell me what instrument you played in eighth-grade music class then."

"You were there, shouldn't you already know this?" I retort.

"Please just tell me anything," he begs dramatically on his knees.

"Jeeze, whoever said you were good at track?"

"What?" he questions.

"You should have joined the drama club, you'd be perfect," I say.

"Nah," he tries to reject the compliment, "I was never cut out for that kind of stuff."

"Bullshit," I call him out, "I bet you memorized every single line of Romeo and Juliet in tenth grade."

"Now you're just showing off," he says.

I crawl up onto my hands, getting closer, "Maybe I am and what are you going to do about it?"

"Break open this fucking curtain," he tells me.

"Well, if this was a curtain, you could probably just rip it."

"Smartass," he smirks.

I respond sarcastically, "Oh my god, that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"But really," he says, "you could do anything. Ten years down the road you could have a Ph.D. in nuclear space travel or something."

"I don't think ghosts can have a Ph.D.," I reply.

"Shut up," he finally tells me, while I imagine him shoving me, "anything is possible."

"It feels more like everything is impossible," I say.

"Why are you so sad and dark about things?" he questions.

"Why are you so happy?" I reply with my own question.

"Who knows," is the answer he gives me.

As Elijah takes a few steps to settle himself, he spins on his spot and notices a cavalcade of black cars being led by the sheriff. It seemed like it would never end until the last car, a hearse slowly passes the street in front of him. His expression fell and whatever was left of his life faded from reality.

I manifested my body as clear as I could, and in not being wrong, I trampled right through the threshold and held him as close as I could in my arms.