Alyson Noël: Shimmer

I hesitated, still a little shaken from the whole head-spinning display, and waiting to see what else she’d come up with, what else she had planned.

But when nothing more happened, when she chose to remain as the same, over-accessorized version of herself, I nodded slightly and said, “I’m Riley.” Hoping that alone would suffice, since I had no intention to curtsy. Not then, not ever.

Only to hear her reply, “Riley?” She squinted, her eyes becoming two tiny pinpricks, devoid of all light. “Why, excuse me for saying so, but isn’t that a boy’s name?” She tilted her head to the side and stared. Her eyes providing no clue to what her real thoughts might be. And strangely, unlike a lot of the other dead people I’d met before her, I was unable to hear them. Somehow she’d found a way to hide them from me.

“Do I look like a boy?” I responded, more than a little miffed by her comment, and wanting her to know she was treading on very thin, very shaky ground.

But she just pressed her lips together and shrugged daintily. Taking her own sweet time to reply, acting as though it was just too close to call. As though she was actually wavering between the two choices of male versus female.

I was about to walk away, deciding I’d had enough of her games, when she brought her hand to my shoulder and tapped.

Only once.

Light and quick.

Yet that was all it took to instantly transport me all the way back to my very first day of school.

Back to the skinny, scrawny, jeans-and-sweater-wearing version of me, sporting what could only be described as a very ill-advised pixie cut.

A very ill-advised pixie cut that seemed like a good idea at the time (mostly because my sister, Ever, had gotten her hair cut short too), but that ultimately left everyone, both classmates and teachers, assuming I was a boy.

It was as though I’d gone back in time.

I watched as the series of crumbly, old grave markers magically transformed into a group of small desks, while the clump of tall, creepy trees, with the wide, hollowed-out trunks and long spindly branches that reminded me of the gnarled old fingers on a storybook witch’s hands, turned into chalkboards and easels.

The walls closing in all around me, keeping me, trapping me, until what had once been an old, forgotten, abandoned cemetery transformed into an exact replica of my kindergarten classroom. The scene playing out exactly as I remembered, complete with hysterically laughing, fellow five-year-olds, and an overly apologetic, red-faced teacher.

“Riley, I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Patterson said, her shoulders lifting in embarrassment, as a spot of color burst forth on her cheeks.

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.

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.