Shimmer (Riley Bloom #2)(7)

But that was nothing compared to the way I felt.

Our first assignment of the day—just after pinning our name tags to our chests—was to line up in two separate groups: boys on one side, girls on the other. And according to my teacher, I’d already failed that particular task.

One glance at my androgynous clothes and super-short, tomboyish haircut, and Mrs. Patterson had assumed the worst.

Assumed I was a boy.

“What with your … I just assumed that you…” Her hand fluttered before her, as her eyes searched for a distraction, some kind of escape.

And I stood before my giggling classmates, my eyes squinched and stinging, my throat hot and dry, experiencing the full brunt of what it means to be horribly humiliated for the very first time in my life.

I gazed at all the other girls, taking in a seemingly never-ending sea of curls and braids and barrettes and ribbons, all of them dressed in varying shades of pink and purple and sky blue—not so unlike that bratty ghost-girl Rebecca—and one thing became clear, perfectly clear: I was pretty much the worst thing a person could be.

I was different.

I was someone who didn’t fit in.

While I’d left my house just a little while before feeling nervous for sure, but mostly excited and good, fifteen minutes into it, I’d already been tagged as a freak.

I bolted from my place and made a run for the door. But unlike my real classroom, this door was locked.

So then I bolted toward the large windows, but they were locked too.

Leaving me with no choice but to gaze all around, searching for an exit, and struggling to settle myself as the horrible truth slowly crept upon me:

I was trapped.

Held hostage in a classroom full of giggling, mocking, sneering students, whose hysteria rose and swelled and became so contagious, even my teacher couldn’t help but join in.

Even though I knew, on some small level, that this wasn’t exactly real, that it hadn’t actually gone down in quite that same way, it’s not like it mattered. Deep down inside, all the way down to the very core of me, the very soul of me, the emotions were exactly the same as they had been that day.

I felt embarrassed.

Humiliated.

And fearful, and stupid, and completely insecure.

But worst of all, I felt angry.

Angry at my classmates for making fun of me.

Angry at my teacher for joining in.

Angry at myself for my inability to blend in, for not being like all the other girls, for not trying a little harder to fit in.

Surrounded by a chorus of laughter that threatened to swallow me completely, I railed against the walls, the doors, pounding harder and harder, until one laugh in particular stood out from the rest.

One, single, tinkly laugh that raised above all the others and lured me right out of that mess.

The classroom dissolved.

The teacher and students disappeared.

While the surrounding space continued to shimmer and shine as thick squares of ash rained down all around—drifting lazily as they made their descent, clinging briefly to my shoulders and feet before getting stirred up again. Transforming the scene into some kind of darkly glistening, sinister snow globe of sorts.

She stared at me, her face solemn, unforgiving, as her long slim fingers traipsed down the front of her ridiculous dress. Plucking at the folds of the big, wide, yellow bow that slashed right across her middle, she looked at me and said, “Hmmm, that seemed most unpleasant for you.” And before I had enough time to react, she added, “In fact, that must’ve left you feeling really awful and angry now didn’t it?”

I lowered my head, gazing down past the swimsuit and cover-up I’d been wearing ever since I’d arrived on the island, gazing all the way down to my ash-smudged toes and bare feet. Struggling to compose myself, to regain my balance, my bearings, but the truth was that whole scene she’d just manifested on my behalf had left me miles past shaken.

While I had no doubt she was baiting me, trying to upset me, get me all riled up and angry, I had no idea why.

All I knew was that despite the abundance of sparkles and bows and curls, this was one little ghost girl who wasn’t made of sugar and spice and everything nice.

On the contrary, I was pretty darn sure she was made of something much worse.

Rebecca had a dark side.

Possibly even a secret of some sort.

She’d been hanging around the earth plane for too long. So long she’d grown jaded and bored and, let’s face it, mean in a way that proved just how much she desperately needed to be crossed over before she could get any worse.

But even though I knew all of that, when my eyes met hers, I also knew there was no way I could go it alone.

I’d stumbled in where I clearly didn’t belong, and I had no idea how to get out of that mess.





6


Just as she had appeared, she disappeared.

In a flash of shimmering light that flitted its way across the graves until it vanished from sight.

Leaving me right back where I’d started, alone in that creepy graveyard with no sign of the psycho dog, no sign of the psycho girl, no sign of anything other than the long-forgotten memory she’d so effectively unearthed.

The impression lingering, clinging, refusing to let go—stubbornly growing and stretching until that one isolated incident became so big, took up so much space in my head, it easily trumped everything else.