CHAPTER SEVEN
The dream starts like any other.
I'm in a field on a sunny, clear-skied day. The long grass sways in the warm breeze, tickling my ankles, and the wind brushes against my cheeks, warming them. I'm walking towards my house – the house I lived in as a young child – when Sarah skips into my view, smiling.
"Hey Melly," she teases, knowing how much I hate the nickname.
I don't let her see my annoyance, instead opting for a happy reply. I'm in a good mood today. "Hey Sarah," I say, smiling.
"My mum said that we can have a sleepover at my place, but that we have to wait until the weekend..." she pauses, and I nod, my dream-self recalling having asked her about it, "until after the storm has passed," she finishes.
Frowning, I look up, and sure enough, large grey clouds have swept in over the horizon, blotting out the golden rays of sunlight. The field abruptly seems a whole lot gloomier; its beautiful green grass looks grey, as if someone has changed the setting on a camera from colour to grey scale.
And suddenly I'm fifteen, and so is Sarah. Her face has matured – the chubbiness has fallen away to reveal prominent cheekbones and a slightly pointed chin – and her blonde hair has darkened to a light brown. Her brown eyes have darkened, too, and something tells me that her experiences have hardened her – taught her to put up defences and stay hidden behind masks of smiles and laughter.
She extends her hand for me to hold, as if we're still five years old and carefree, and I take it, shocked by the cold that seeps into my skin where our hands touch.
"You're cold," I say. "You sure you don't need a jumper?" I cast a look down at her arms, free of goose bumps, and shiver in the icy breeze.
"No. I don't feel the cold."
And then I wake up.
-:-:-:-:-
I go through my normal morning routines – brushing my hair and teeth, eating breakfast, getting dressed – without being mentally present. While I'm saying good morning to my mother, my head is thinking of Sarah – of her cold hands and dark eyes – and of how much she reminds me of myself. While I'm chatting to my father about California, my mind is trying to convince me that it was just a dream – that Sarah probably does in fact feel the cold and that she is in no way like me.
At school, I'm still shaking off the remnants of my dream as I do equations in math. I try to focus on the equations in front of my eyes – on the x's and y's – but they all jumble up together until they're indecipherable.
It's not until lunchtime that thoughts of her finally leave me, and I sit alone under the tree on the field, the grey clouds up above threatening to rain. Caden joins me halfway through lunch, mentioning how his Geography teacher kept him back for not doing his homework.
I only nod, not really in the mood to talk.
He looks up at the sky. "I suppose you'll be moving soon."
I shoot him a glare, telling him to stay off the topic, but he either ignores it or doesn't see it. "How long now do you think? A week? Two?
"Can we please not talk about this?" I snap. I regret it instantly. "Sorry, I'm just not in a good mood."
"You don't have to apologise. I can understand why you'd prefer to stay off that topic." He smiles sadly, and a feeling of warmth spreads through me at his kindness. He's the first person to ever accept me for me, disease and all. I try to ignore the questions that accompany that thought – questions like Why? – but I fail. Years of being treated unkindly have made me overly suspicious and sceptical.
When the bell goes, I head off to science alone, almost glad that Caden isn't in my next class. I take my seat at the back of class just before the teacher launches into her lesson, explaining the difference between compounds and mixtures.
Soon after the start of class, the chilling feeling of the cold comes over me and as I realise what's happening, my heart begins pounding in chest and my hands start shaking. I take my eyes off my work, neglecting my pen, and look to the left, mentally preparing myself for what I'm about to see.
But all the preparation in the world wouldn't have helped, because when I look, the man is standing just outside the window, so close that I can see the slight wrinkles on his face and the startling blue of his eyes. I tense up the moment I see the ghost, and even when a strong gust of wind blows into the room, freezing me to my core, I don't move an inch.
He's looking at me with an intense gaze which causes my heart to beat faster and louder, until I'm sure the whole class can hear it. Everything in me is screaming at me to run, to get away from him as fast as possible. But the disadvantage of being the only one able to see him is that I can't. If I did, someone would ask why, and what could I possibly say? That there was a ghost out the window?
Fear swirls inside of me, and something else too – an undercurrent of terror. I stare straight back at the ghost, willing him to go away – to leave me alone – but even if he could hear my thoughts, I doubt I'd be very convincing; I'm shaking from head to toe, and not just from the cold.
All of sudden, the glass window separating us smashes into a million glittering pieces. I scream and bring my arms up to my face as shards of glass rain down on me, slashing my arms and face and sending burning pain racing through my body.
All at once, I become conscious of other people screaming too and dashing to the other side of the classroom. I, however, remain rooted to the spot, too afraid to move – to do anything other than breathe in and out, a constant rhythm that calms my racing heart.
"Are you alright, Melissa?" comes the teacher's panicked voice. I lower my arms, which are covered in scarlet blood, and see her standing in front of me, reaching out to touch my arm before thinking better of it and pulling back.
Everything around me is covered in glass, some shards are even lodged in the desk, and I soon become aware of the hot blood slowly rolling down my forehead. On the other side of the room, the rest of class is talking in hushed voices, but a few jagged sentences reach my ears:
"...was her. The freak did it...smashed the window with her eyes..."
Of course, it's all ridiculous. I didn't smash the window. Not with my eyes, not with my hands, not at all.
Suddenly, I remember the ghost and my eyes jump to the window. He's gone, and so is the cold.
"Melissa?"
The teacher asks, and I realise that I haven't answered her question yet. "I'm – I'm fine. It just stings."
She nods, trying to remain calm but looking more than a little freaked out. Because of me, I think, and I know I'm right. She believes that I did it too, and now she not only dislikes me, but fears me. "I think you should go to the school nurse," she says, not because she's concerned, but because she wants me out of her classroom. I nod and stand, stepping over the glass and making my way to the door.
The room is silent as I leave, and I feel their eyes on my back even after I've left the class.
I walk down the empty hallways, wincing at the pain in my arms and forehead, and pretending not to notice the blood rolling down my arms and off my fingertips, leaving a trail of small scarlet circles. By the time I reach the nurse's office, I'm certain that there's still glass under my skin and nerves bubble up inside of me at the thought of getting it out.
I knock on the door.
"Come in!"
I enter the clean white-walled room to find the nurse talking to a younger girl with a nosebleed. When the girl sees me, her eyes go wide and she jumps to her feet, dashing out the door. I ignore her, instead focusing on the nurse, whose light brown hair has been pulled back into a tight ponytail and kind brown eyes are staring at me. I've never been to see the school nurse before since I never get sick and when I've gotten hurt in the past, I've always refused to go. No one ever wants to help me when I'm hurt, so why would the school nurse be any different?
I've always imagined her to be forty with wrinkles, and you can understand why when she has a name like Edith, so her youthful looks surprise me.
She smiles. "Melissa, I presume?"
I nod slowly, surprised. I had expected her to have more of a reaction to the blood all over my arms and forehead.
"Come take a seat," she says kindly, patting the bed covered in white sheets beside her. I walk over to her and sit on the bed's thin mattress. "May I ask what happened?"
I nod and swallow. "The window next to me smashed."
She doesn't ask any further questions, which I'm, grateful for. "Show me your arms." Cautiously, I extend them out to her, hoping that she doesn't touch me.
She doesn't – just scans the, with her eyes. "The cuts are deep, but not deep enough to require stitches. However, you might still have some glass under your skin, so we'll wash off the blood and then hopefully I'll be able to pull it out."
I nod, disliking the idea already.
Before I know it, the blood has been cleaned from my skin and she's standing in front of me with a pair of tweezers. I grimace. When she asks, I extend my right arm and wince in pain as she digs around for the shards of glass wedged in my skin.
"I've heard a lot about you, you know," she says, obviously help me through the pain. "Is it true? What they say?"
I shrug. "It depends on what it is that they say. I take the heat out of the air? Yes. I smash windows with my eyes? No."
She raises her eyebrows when I mention the last part, and I shrug again before wincing right after as pain threads up my arm.
"One down, probably at least eight to go," she says, and I resist the urge to pull away from her.
Half an hour later, I'm glass free and covered in band aids. I refused for her to put a band aid on my forehead, however, where a piece of glass has sliced through the skin, leaving a cut that extends from my hairline to my left eyebrow. It's not bleeding anymore, thankfully, which is the only reason the nurse allowed me to go without the extra band aid.
"I suppose I probably won't be seeing you again, am I right?"
I nod.
She looks strangely disappointed. "Well, it was nice to meet you, Melissa."
"You too," I say as I get up and head for the door.
"It's not your fault, you know?"
I turn around. "Sorry?"
"It's not your fault that people die – that you make the air cold. It's never been your fault."
For a second I just stand there, frowning. Are those tears I see in her eyes?
"Someday," she continues her voice warm, but strangely sad, "it will all make sense."
Okay, definitely starting to freak me out.
"What will?" But she turns away and starts packing up her equipment. "What will?" I repeat.
She looks at me and smiles. "You should probably leave now."
And so I do.
I take my time walking down the empty hallways, feeling both stunned and confused, and hoping that the bell will ring before I reach the classroom. I really don't feel like going back into that room and sitting down at that same desk next to the smashed window while people whisper about me, thinking I can't hear them. My arms are stinging and my head hurts and all I want to do is go home and lock myself in my room for the rest of the day.
I'm turning the corner, my eyes focused on the ground, when someone calls me name. I look up to see Caden, walking in my direction.
"What are you doing out of class?" I ask, surprised more than anything to see him.
"I was at the bathroom," he says casually. Then he sees the deep red cut on my head and the band aids covering my arms. "What happenedto you?"
"That ghost we saw the other day was outside the window in class. One second I was staring at him through the glass, and the next, the window shattered. I've just been in the nurse's office."
Caden looks shocked. "It just...broke? Just like that?"
"Just like that," I confirm. "He didn't touch it or anything, it just shattered."
"What about the rest of the class? Did anyone else get hurt or see him do it?"
I shake my head. "No, but now everyone thinks I can smash windows with my eyes." I let out a soft, shaky laugh. "Ridiculous, right?"
He just stares at me, and my stomach drops. Not him too.
"So how did it happen?" I ask, pretending that he agreed with me. "Did the ghost just smash the wall by looking at it?"
Caden shakes his head and frowns, seeming confused. "I don't think so. I've never seen them do that before. You sure he didn't touch it?"
"Positive."
"And what about you?"
"You're joking," I say, wishing that he would agree with me. "You don't seriously think I did that?"
He looks away, and all I can do is stand there while his silence does all the talking. He thinks I did it. He thinks it was me.
"I suppose I better get back to class," Caden says eventually. "The teacher will be wondering where I am."
"Yeah, sure. I'll see you later." As I continue on my way, I wonder if he noticed the bitterness in my voice.
Even now, I still fill jittery and nervous, as if my body can feel that something's not right. And something isn't right. There's no way that window could have smashed on its own. Something or someone has to have done it. Things like that don't just happen.
When I near the classroom, I stop and lean against the wall, refusing to enter. I'm developing a headache as a result of hitting my head yesterday and thinking too much today. All this morning I've been puzzling over Sarah and my dream, and now, on top of that, I have to add a smashed window, a ghost and a strange school nurse to my list of things that don't add up. Nothing in my life is making any sense and it hurts so much. I just want to go home and sleep until it all feels like an extremely distant memory. Of course, that won't happen for at least another hour as I still have one class left until the end of the day.
The bell goes minutes later, and I head off to class, promising to forget the incident that happened in Science. But I can't, nor can I completely convince myself that it was the ghost who shattered the window.
Because something is telling me that it wasn't the ghost;
That it was me.