I don’t touch the burger again and can’t seem to gain any feeling of comfort for the rest of the lunch period, so when the bell rings, I jump out of my seat and race for the door.

Shy is quick to catch up and offers to walk me to my next class. This feels way too helpful, and I wonder what exactly his motive is here.

“Oh…I wouldn’t want you to go out of your way…”

“You have art in Hollingsworth, right?” And before I have time to ask how he knows, he adds, “I…uh…took note of the classes we had together when I looked at your schedule earlier.”

I’m not sure why it takes me so long to form words, but Shy must assume my silence means something else, because he averts his eyes.

“That might’ve been a little stalker-y. I didn’t mean anything by it. Sorry if I freaked you out.”

“You didn’t,” I say. “We should get to class.”

We walk quietly side by side, and I try several times to confirm that he’s not going to put my name forward for queen’s ransom, but I’ve embarrassed myself enough with that and just hope Lennon had it wrong.

Shy holds the door open for me when we reach Hollingsworth—a redbrick building with three floors, a covered porch, and double-hung windows. He walks beside me down marbled halls decorated with student paintings, sketches, and sculptures, then gestures to a room on the left where our class is located.

I start to enter ahead of him but halt when I find the dead girl from earlier blocking my path, glaring at me from that horrible broken angle. I guess the precautions I took—the rosemary, evil eye, and turmeric—are no match for the power of this soul, because she’s not moving.

I wrap my fingers around the straps of my backpack, and a thin layer of sweat coats my skin, matting the hair at the base of my neck.

“You okay?” Shy asks.

No.

I could feign food poisoning, turn and run to the nurse’s office. No one who’d seen what we had eaten at lunch would think twice about that lie…except Mom.

It’s that thought that propels me forward, through the spirit. I hate this. Hate it more than my move to Oklahoma, more than my new name. Walking through the dead means for the briefest moments, I feel what they felt upon their death. A violent pain ricochets from my neck and coils in my stomach, sending a rush of fire through me, and for a moment, I think that piece of soy burger really will come back up. Then the pain is gone—as quick as a bone snapping in half—leaving an aftershock of nausea rolling through my stomach like a spiked ball.