Page 11 of All Her Ghosts
He sees my world full of ghosts, and he can’t let them go either.
“Oh yeah? You sure you don’t want to expand your repertoire? You’ve already memorized all the government lies, what’s a few new ones, right?”
Striding over to her desk, the teacher rips a drawer open and smacks a stack of detention slips down like a talisman, bending to scribble his name on one like she can banish him. The whole time she stands there, shaking her head, pretending she’s so sad. Acting like she regrets this.
“I don’t know how they did things at your last school, Mr. Lokke,” she says, “but here, we showdecorum.”
Sebastian grins with too many teeth.
“Never met her. She cute? I’ll show her anything she wants.”
A certain silence swallows the room, hungry and expectant. The other kids shrink down to minimize the target they present, but their eyes dart between Mrs. Wilson and Sebastian, memorizing every detail to relay around their lunch tables later with dramatic flair.
Through her teeth, Mrs. Wilson says, “A second detention can be arranged, Mr. Lokke.”
But Sebastian practically glows, alive and alight with mischievous excitement. Grinning, he presses his hands flat to his desk and stands.
“Hell, make it three. Four, if you’re feeling feisty,” he says, and pops her a wink.
Mrs. Wilson’s pointing finger shakes. “Go to the principal.”
“Absolutely, toots, you got it. Just one thing real quick.” And before she can stop him, Sebastian strides up to the board. He swipes offIndustrial Revolutionwith the sleeve of his gray hoodie, leaving a wicked black streak across the fabric, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy scrawlingState Propagandain thick, black permanent ink.
I cover my mouth, stifling a noise somewhere between a laugh and a horrified gasp.
Remnant Safety always happens on October 1. He remembered, and he came prepared.
“There you go,” he announces. “Fixed it for you.”
Shaking, apoplectic, Mrs. Wilson hides her rage, but I see through her. Her eyes dart to the landline, to the pile of detention slips—what does she do if empty paper threats don’t weigh enough? Her authority over the classroom questioned, nervous flickers of laughter kindle throughout the room. The other kids lean forward, transfixed, daring to giggle behind their hands, eyes darting between the boy and the teacher with eager glee at his small anarchy, at the little empress so easily overthrown.
Quietly, through her teeth, she tells him, “Get out.”
“If my lady commands it,” Sebastian says, folding into an elaborate, hand-twirling bow.
But he’s only looking at me.
I can’t breathe. I stop trying. Sebastian tilts his head, fixed in the deep curve of his bow, and pauses. A half-second hesitation, but time slows in that electric, bubblegum moment—the echo of David Bowie still heavy on every exhale, his whole body aimed at me—and I know he’s not going to leave. Not unless I say so.
What if I don’t? What happens if I ask him to stay? If I hold out my hand like I were reaching for him under a library table and he takes it?
What ifIleave? What if I just stand up and walk out of this room? They can’t stop me; they can’t put their hands on me. I can get up and start walking and never stop. What could they do? Write the name I hate on a slip of paper? Call my mother? And what could she do? If I disappeared into the wind, where her little white lies andfor your own goods would never reach me.
In that single instant of terrifying freedom, I flinch. Time restarts in a jolt. I mouth,go, and hate myself as soon as my lips shape the word. But Sebastian rises out of his bow unaffected. He grins at me as he circles around for his backpack and passes me on his way out of the room, dropping an overheated hand on my shoulder.
Even through my sweater, my skin burns. The residue remains long after the door closes, the flames in my rib cage blistering my throat, heat haze swimming in my eyes. I clamp my teeth, fingers clenching. My bones creak with the effort of containing me.
For a blistering second, I’m positive that if I fall out of my body now, I’ll never be able to wedge myself small enough to fit again. I’m… afraid.
“Persephone,” Mrs. Wilson says in the tone of someone who’s been saying it awhile.
I blink the blur out of my eyes to find the whole room staring, Mrs. Wilson standing by my desk, frowning.
I swallow hard. It takes me too long to remember how to speak—to blink, my dry eyes gritty.
“What?” I manage.
She sucks in a deep breath, about to roll into a scold, but pauses. Her brows furrow.
