It seems that you're quite the popular one at your school as well. Every third or fourth person we pass they say hello, give you a hug or flash you a smile. You're a lot different than I was though, mainly because you actually talk to them back. I reckon a lot of people at my school just wanted to be friends with me out of fear but with you it's like they want to be friends with you because you're nice.
It's crazy. And time-consuming. But what would I know? I'm just a ghost.
We all pulled over beside your locker and you turned to me and spoke in a low voice.
'Don't distract me too much today. I have important exams coming up and I need to get some work done.'
That's great but what am I supposed to do for the next six and a half hours?
'I don't know. Go have fun. But not so much that it would cause serious suspicion.'
You don't need to tell me twice.
* * *
Okay you know what's one of the perks of being dead? I'm not some crazy stalker girl, but there are a lot of hot guys in this school. I am currently sat on the desk of one of them just simply gazing. I like to think it's gazing anyway. Either that or I have some seriously frightening ogling going on. It's a good job he can't see me. He's too busy talking with his mates sat next to him. He really is very, very good looking with the bluest eyes I have ever seen.
I sigh, deep and meaningfully.
He looks up. Right at me.
I freeze on the spot. Can he see me? I thought you were the only one who could do that?
His mouth opens.
And he sneezes.
Beautiful. He can't see me. I feel a little disheartened by this. It wouldn't kill me (irony again) for some incredibly handsome guy to also have the ability to see me and be able to communicate with me.
I feel depressed again. Being dead can really, truly suck.
I leave that classroom and head straight into the next, via the wall. I'm stood facing the class, just behind the teacher. A mischievous smile finds its way onto my lips and I pick up the chalk (who uses chalk on boards anymore? I thought everything was done electronically).
I know I shouldn't; your words are ringing clear through my mind: Have fun. But not so much that it would cause serious suspicion.
I am just about to write, when something stops me. Not something. Someone. A boy. There's nothing particularly extraordinary about this boy, he's placed in the centre of the room surrounded by people with their heads buried in their work. He's the only one not writing something. He has dark, choppy hair and forest green eyes. But this isn't what stops me.
He is looking right at me. Not through me. At me.
And he's not sneezing.
He looks absolutely terrified.