“Why are you pushing this?” he grumbled in a low whisper as they entered the bustling cafeteria. A cacophony of sound assaulted him as he grabbed a tray and chopsticks.

“’Cause she’s cute and you need to get laid.”

“Please . . . never talk again.”

“Sanji, you asked a question. Besides, by the time I was your age—”

“No, no, no.” Sanjiv pulled on his huge, ghost-canceling headphones to block her out, which he resorted to only when she was at her worst. The distorted guitars of his favorite band, Beethoven’s Ghost, filled his ears.

Ching gave a dramatic heave of her shoulders and rolled her eyes. He rolled his eyes back and grabbed a tray of cardboard.

None of his friends had the terrible, late lunch period he had. It sucked and he usually just finished reading or whatever. He pulled out the collection of Elizabethan sonnets and went over the iambic pentameter, tapping lightly on the table.

And then there was an uncomfortable, cold sensation in the same rhythm on his shoulder. Cold COLD. Cold COLD.

Ching was swatting at him and saying something, but Sanjiv had bought these headphones specifically so he wouldn’t have to hear whatever awful thing she wanted to tell him. He gave her an innocent stare, which always drove her nuts.

She glared at him and made several obscene gestures. He restrained himself from sticking his tongue out at her. He’d managed to get through half of high school without people noticing how weird he and his ghost were; he could get through the last day of being sixteen.

But out of the corner of his eye, he could still see Ching working herself up into a furious tirade, so he gave in and pulled one ear of the headphones off.

“—GOD FORBID SANJI TALK TO A GIRL HE LIKES. YEAH, I’M THE BAD GUY!”

“You are an actual, literal, murderous pirate.”

“THAT WAS CENTURIES AGO!”

“Jesus Christ.” Sanjiv finished the last chicken nugget thing (they were pretty okay, actually), set his chopsticks down, and got up.

“Just talk to her! You’re going to regret this!” He couldn’t tell if that was, like, a suggestion of how he would feel if he missed out or a threat that Ching would make him regret it. “For once, just do something you actually want to do! What is the worst that could happen?”

The worst possible thing? He had the answer to that question because it had already happened, and like everything, it was Ching’s fault. In sixth grade he’d asked Ching to find out from Sarah Harper’s ghost if she liked him, and by the end of the day, every kid and ghost in the school knew Sarah’s answer.

Her answer was no.

“For once in your life—death—whatever, Ching, just fucking drop it!”

“Dude, I’m just trying to get you laid—”

“Well, I don’t want to! So just . . . stop!”