I don’t say anything. I just close my eyes and breathe.

He bangs on the door again, so hard the hinges squeak. He whispers the next part through the door crack. “I’mma start calling you Little-Dick Jake. Your whole family probably has little dicks.”

“I’m not interested in a date with you, Chad.” My voice is weak.

People laugh at my comeback, but it’s not as enthusiastic. It’s awkward, and my attack wasn’t strong enough or believable enough, which is why I usually don’t say anything. I don’t have muscles or play sports, and in a fight with him I’d end up with a mutilated face and no support. Grady’s out there too and saying nothing. I guess I let our friendship down.

Chad is quiet. I’ve won this round.

I sit on the toilet and wait for everyone to leave before coming out into the silent locker room. I’m going to projectile vomit all over the tiles if I don’t get my mood in order.

Bullies in the real world need to be handled too. I wish my power could amount to more than just death and soul projection. If I can’t even handle life, how the hell am I gonna banish Sawyer?

When I get outside, everyone’s already running the warm-up laps. I hug my sweatshirt, press my beanie to my ears.

Don’t pass out or throw up. One foot after the next.

The ecto-mist is busy today. Crackling like static in the tennis court fence, spiraling up the yokes of St. Clair’s belfry.

Is all of that mine to use and control?

Two people arrive on either side of me. Fiona and Allister. Allister, whose St. Clair Saber Cats sweatshirt is so tight against his arms I want him to put me in a headlock.

“You know, you don’t always have to run by yourself, Jake,” Fiona says.

She runs kind of like a scavenger, small and determined, her whole body twisting in the motion. Allister runs like an Olympic triathlete, his torso upright and his fists bunched up by his chest.

“Do you two know each other?” I ask.

“We bonded over our love for Fruits Basket in trig,” Allister says. “Aaaaand at some point we realized we had a mutual friend.”

“Who, me?”

“Duh, you,” Fiona says.

“Where’s Amanda?”

“Somewhere else. I’m not even sure we’re friends anymore.”

“What happened?” Allister and I ask in unison.

“Jinx!” he says. “You owe me . . . um . . .” He looks at Fiona and cancels his thought.

What were you going to say? I wonder. What do I owe you?

Fiona squeezes her ponytail tighter so it jostles against the back of her neck. “Nothing happened. She’s just judgmental. All she wants to do is talk about what people shouldn’t be doing.”

“Sounds like pure hell,” Allister says.