Moonlight streams though your gossamer curtains as every few minutes you toss and turn among the covers. Unconsciously whisper to yourself as one by one you relive your memories over and over and over again, playing them back in your mind’s eye, begging to make your squeamish nerves stop. You catch yourself smiling at his shock and strange horror. Like the broken record that you are, you keep telling yourself that maybe he really wasn’t embarrassed. But you know there’s no way his face could have turned red because he liked you. Flip over and wipe your stinging tears on your pillow.
One year and two months. Hundreds of times you have stolen glances from across the room, pretending you weren’t absolutely thrilled to see his dark fluffy hair, pretending you really weren’t all that interested in every single thing about him, from his sagging jeans to his obnoxious orange t-shirt.
His voice sounds like the best mixture of gravel and honey. Maria says you’re a fool, but she is his sister after all. Danielle bets he’s a drug-addict, or better yet, a psychopath. Both of them are always are so clueless, but clueless is perfect when picking seats in the library to get closer to the guys’ table.
“He’s not an addict or a psychopath. Right Maria? After all, why would you care, Danielle?”
“How would you know?” Danielle asks. “It’s not like you’ve ever met or even talked to him.”
“Actually, he could be a psychopath,” says Maria. “I live with him and I couldn’t tell you that he isn’t. He ripped down my rainbow unicorn poster just ‘cause. You haven’t even met him though, so you wouldn’t know.”
But oh, you have met. You’ve known him for a long, long time.
“Hello? Are you hearing me? He’s a creep! He made fun of me when I got an 86% on my Macro Econ quiz and made the whole class laugh. He’s an arrogant prick, that’s what.”
Danielle sits, arms crossed in defiance. Maria nods in agreement. Maria and Danielle are so naïve. They are your façade friendship that hides who you are and what you are doing because he is worth every second and rush of blood through your aortas to vena cavas. Do everything to get closer, to sneak one more glance at him, to play a game that could end in disaster.
“Date of Birth: 6-23-97. Maternal Grandparents: Gina and Thomas Monroe. Social Security:_________”
Eyes glued to the computer screen, they get all squinty when his social security number is missing. You realize the website is crap. If only Marie would go on one of her rants again about how he always leaves out the toothpaste. His toothpaste. At times you really do pity Maria unknowingly revealing all that information about her brother, but you remember she is still obsessed with unicorns in high school, and you feel better.
He received a 98% in Algebra II. His mother dated his father for a year at Oklahoma State before they got engaged. His sister repeated kindergarten twice. His poodle’s name is Snoopy because his family isn’t very creative. He always sits at the third table in the cafeteria, fourth chair in. At 11:24 AM he leaves lunch at 12:23 PM he walks with Alec back to room 302 for his afternoon English class with Mrs. Sanchez where they are reading your favorite play, Much Ado About Nothing, and you dream he could one day, maybe, just not hate you as much.
Roll over. The pillow’s still too damn hot. Your thoughts drift to his ghostly image as memories continually resurface. Bite your lip so it can’t quiver. Flip over once more.
You remember sitting on the burning leather seats of your car, the music blasting so loud your eardrums might stop beating his name, when you hatch your idea. Leave him notes, lots of notes, everywhere. Your pen name? “Love, Ha!” No, that’s terrible. “Sincerely, Your Absolute Bestest, Sweetest, and Truest of All Loves!” What was in the coffee this morning? “The Ghost Writer.” Better. Actually, not terrible. What the hell, it will work.
For all of fall semester of your sophomore year leave little colored notes: one on his car, one in each locker, one in his textbook in the middle of Precalc, one in his book bag, one attached to the rose that your school hands out in a fundraiser on Valentine’s Day. You, yes, you are the CIA’s most recent and attractive hire, well, at least in the mirror. Everything goes well until you grow tired.
You grow tired of pretending that everything is okay, that you really aren’t stalking, but doing a “bit of research” just to find out a little more. I mean, c’mon. You hadn’t even found his social security number. Yet. It becomes so old playing the role of the secret admirer from fifty feet away and pretending that this was simply an experiment or a fleeting crush. You wish you could be more like him. His mind is like data and numbers. He got a 99% in Geometry after all.
But you, well, aren’t statistics or made of numbers. You are an observer, yes, but an emotional, complex distant friend absolutely failing at seeing the actual truth behind him and the truth about yourself. If you couldn’t see the truth, how could even Maria understand?
You see the dark shadowy circles below his beady eyes. You know that he was in a fight once again with his parents about grades, effort, about actually caring at all about them. He went silent after his brother left for college. They were best friends, but now they never say a word. He ignores his sister since it is easier to pretend she doesn’t exist than to cope with her aspergers. He gets good grades and laughs at other people’s misfortunes because for once someone else is hurting besides himself. He is a machine because machines don’t feel. They process long monotonous streaming lines of code as numbers fly by spanning their entire useful life until you press Ctrl-Alt-Delete and all you stare at is a voided, blank screen.
Tell him. Tell him it is you. This is too simple. Earlier, you slipped another note, your favorite note, into his locker and now just wait by the drinking fountains for him to open the door and find the little card. Your heart is thundering, legs shaking, and you feel that familiar warmth slowly creep across your face. You peek once more from the corner of your eye and suddenly see him swinging open the door to his locker. He spots the note, reads the intricate lettering, and, on cue, terrified as you are, you walk over, with one of your sheepish, pleased-with-yourself grins, and softly say, “Somebody had to be the Ghost Writer.”
He keeps staring down at that small card, the color of his face matching the note’s red hue. He slowly tilts his head and glances up at you, those beady eyes open wide, but turns back down to the note after he knows you’ve seen him. It is too much, you think. The agonizing silence lasts far longer than you expect—too long. Without a word, turn and walk away, pretending nothing has happened, pretending you didn’t just see a blank, empty screen after a short-circuit. Still sexily walk like an overly-confident Latina woman, imagining that maybe he’s watching from behind. He’s not looking.
He isn’t at school the next day, or the next, but you know why. He’s an expert at faking he’s sick, and his parents stopped caring. They don’t want another fight. The next week, you see him again, but nothing has changed. It’s just you and the absent social security number. The cliff is right in front of you and for some reason every bone in your body craves to jump.
In English you ask your teacher about The Great Gatsby, pretending you haven’t already read the entire book and that you aren’t extremely self-conscious because he has finally returned back to school from his “illness.” What if there were a way to communicate to him without, well, talking to him? You raise your hand and with a darting glance around the room, ask, “What if Gatsby knew all along that Daisy would never love him? What if he threw those parties and spent that much money knowing she would never fall for him?”
“Well, that would be, umm… interesting. What do you all think?”
Mrs. Sanchez gestures towards the class. The class just stares. He just stares. You’re reminded of a silly thought when you were little how people might have lasers for eyes when they get mad and could burn anything they looked at. He would be burning his book.
Days later, Danielle walks over to you at lunch, a slight smirk on her face. Unintentionally stare at her partially torn lace tights and her strange somber choker necklace, wondering why she is pretending to be someone she isn’t. Plopping down, she immediately says, “Got a secret for you.”
“What now? I told you I don’t have any money to buy those Girl Scout cookies from your sister.”
“No, not that. I have his number.”
Sit stunned. Don’t say anything or even move.
“He gave it to me. Me! I thought he hated me or something. Anyway, it doesn’t change anything, I mean, he’s still an asshole. Do you wanna play a practical joke with me?”
Slowly nod your head. Maybe he doesn’t like her. Maybe it is all his practical joke.
“Here. Take his number and text him pretending like you’re me. Give him hell.”
She hands you a scrap of red paper—your red note paper—and walks away, holey tights and all.
A practical joke? Damn. What are you supposed to do? It’s not like he isn’t already going through enough problems on his own. Decide to text him, but don’t pretend you’re Danielle. Pretend to be a confident you.
Get up the nerve to send a text, a short, sweet, but utterly blunt text. “Hi, this is Sofia. Do you like me or are we just friends?”
So stupid. Utterly stupid. Way, way, way, stupid, but you have to know. You have to kill the tension before it eats you alive. For the next ten minutes you squirm. Pretend you aren’t on the edge of the biggest risk of your life.
“You’re a good friend, but sorry, I don’t like you.”
This night will never end. Throw off your covers to simply lay in the cool breeze of the fan, letting its cold fingers caress your sweaty face and clammy hands. You’re shaking, but why?
He was the excitement among the mundane. He was a beacon of hope among the bleak lockers and bullies. He was a specter and shadow of your imagination and now, he’s gone.
“Your account has been deleted.”
“You are no longer friends on Facebook.”
“Are you sure you want to delete this contact?”
No. You’re not.
Your white trash can brims with torn-up scraps of little colored paper, full of all the attempts at notes and reminders of what you had become. Quietly, slowly, turn the lock and listen intently for its click as you imprison forever the obsessive monster part of you. Silence.
Almost overnight Danielle and Maria become wise and understanding like the best friends you never knew you needed. Your grades skyrocket like your 98% in Calc AB. Rediscover who you are behind the black shades of the sneak behind the scenes. Vow to never be a lifeless screen. Just don’t tell Danielle what you really did with his number.
The final step? Let time slip. Let it slip through your fingers as the lunch hour rolls by. Let it slip as you remember the blue and purple eyes of sleepless nights and remember his haunting presence devouring your heart while it still is pumping. Let your memories die away and give life to you, a person, no longer a specter. Let him drift away like your mind as your heavy eyelids close shut. Your pillow is finally silky and soft. Breathe in and out. Sleep.
The next day you open your locker, pretending the world around you is happy and that you’re fine. Everything is fine. Wish you could curl under your covers and disappear. Grab your Anatomy textbook and see something blue. A note. A small, simple note. You don’t recognize the handwriting.
“Ghost writers are the best writers.”