Zarar says Jamie has a mild concussion and five stitches on her forehead. Jamie is here.

Jamie is a living, breathing person. She’s resting at Terry’s.

Clearly, I’m not the only one who can see her. So that only leaves two other possibilities and neither makes logical sense. The first is that everyone in my life has lied to me for as long as I can remember, and the second is Jamie is a ghost.

I can’t entertain the first option so I have to entertain option two: ghost.

I’m very lost. My future is nothing. It makes sense that a guardian angel would send me a ghost like in A Christmas Carol to help me turn things around. Maybe she’s the Ghost of End of Summer Present. The Ghost of Present Failure. The Ghost of Chronic Injuries.

Doctor Mariana thinks I’m fine, just experiencing some shock. She says I should take it easy for the rest of the day and get back to regularly scheduled activities tomorrow. I don’t tell her about my nonimaginary imaginary friend.

I nod and thank her as she scribbles some notes down on a pad. Zarar’s analyzing me from his spot near the door, like there’s a riddle etched across my face.

I’m not going to find peace of any kind until I work up the energy to confront the ghost.

Please be a ghost. A ghost that’s taken physical form. A weird physical ghost. Maybe my new career path could be ghosts.

14. A Girl Is Clammy

JAMIE

August 29, Saturday Evening

Colorado

They’re screaming again.

This time I kind of knew the fight was coming. It’s going to be their last one. Dad promised. We’re leaving. He promised it’d be just the two of us. He promised I’d get to be an actress and I would never have to go to ballet again. Ballet has way too many rules. I don’t want to wear pink. I don’t want a tutu. I don’t want to dance to classical music and point my toes. Dad said when we leave, we’ll be free to do whatever we want.

Siri strolls into my room as I’m shoving clothes into my dance bag. The sight of her makes me bristle with irritation. She’s gotten so annoying this year.

Somehow, we look almost exactly alike. I’m two years older than her, and no one can tell! She’s four. She’s a baby.

We’re not Siri and Jamie anymore. People call us the “twins.” We’re not twins. I’m older. I came first. We’re not the same.

Siri’s skinny arms fall by her sides. “What are you doing, Jamie?”

I keep my voice cool. “Leaving.”

“What do you mean, leaving? Can I come? Where are we going?” Four-year-old Siri exhales the questions in a cheerful frantic rush.