So I folded. Heaved a big, loud sigh and sank right down onto my turquoise-colored couch, where I leaned back against the cushions and clutched a purple satin pillow flat against my (completely flat) chest. Watching as my mom, my dad, my grandpa, and grandma busied themselves with admiring all the changes I’d made in my room.
They examined the color of the walls, tested the bounce and firmness of my bed, ran their hands over my silk headboard, my dressing table, the silver picture frames that punctuated the walls—all the while exclaiming how grown-up and sophisticated it looked. Correctly assuming those were the buzzwords, they were quick to repeat them again and again.
I watched them in action. Watched with a big, solid lump lodged right in my throat. And when my grandma sat beside me and placed her hand on my knee, when my grandpa sat cross-legged on the floor with Buttercup right at his feet, when my mom and dad both perched on the edge of my bed—I continued to watch. Taking in the varying shades of pale skin, blond hair, and blue eyes they all shared, and realizing it was like looking at old, and really old versions of myself.
We were family.
Alive, dead, it didn’t make the least bit of difference. Wherever we might go from here, wherever we might end up, there was no doubt we’d always hold traces of each other.
I was never as alone as I’d thought.
They looked at me, eyes expectant, my grandpa taking the lead and speaking for all of them when he said, “So, tell us where you’ve been, already! Tell us how you got that glow of yours!”
And because I loved them—because I knew they loved me—I did.
5
My grandpa taught me to surf. My mom helped me to paint a somewhat decent landscape. My grandma showed me how to swaddle a newborn in its blanket, while my dad showed great patience when he let me sing lead in his band. And as much fun as I had, after a while, there was no doubt it was time to move on.
While none of them actually said as much, it was clear I couldn’t carry on like that forever. It was time to strike out on my own. Build some kind of life outside of Soul Catching and family. Maybe even make a few friends.
So I set out to do just that, with Buttercup right there beside me. My direction clear, my intentions pure, everything looking so bright and upbeat, so full of promise—or at least that’s how I felt right up until the moment I saw them.
Even though I have a history of spying on everyone from my sister, Ever, back when I was alive—to A-list celebrities after I was dead—to the former teachers, neighbors, and friends I sometimes checked in on from the Viewing Room—on that particular day, spying was the furthest thing from my mind.
On that particular day, I was really and truly just minding my own business as though all thoughts of Bodhi and Jasmine had been erased from my brain.
But the second I stumbled upon them—the second I saw the way they acted when they thought no one was looking—well, even though I knew I should’ve moved on, I found that I no longer could.
My legs went all clumsy and heavy. My limbs froze in place. And all I could do was just stand there and gape, knowing I should go before one of them saw me.
Only they didn’t see me.
They were too busy looking at each other.
Bodhi sprawled across the grass, his back propped against a thick tree trunk, his legs thrust out before him, while Jasmine curled up beside him, her head on his knees.
He read from a big book of poetry, employing long, thoughtful p
auses to allow the words to sink in. One hand grasping the book, the other smoothing her long, dark braids, causing the glass beads to chime and swish in a soft, lilting melody—causing her lips to curve, her face to glow, and her eyes to grow all sparkly and dreamy.
Like a scene from a movie—the kind Ever and her friends used to watch.
The kind that just a few years before would’ve made me go: blech! and: gag! And make an entire soundtrack of gross-out sounds to go with it.
But not anymore.
Watching them together like that … well, it gave me that weird, hollow feeling again.
It made me feel so quiet and wistful—I suddenly knew what it meant to feel melancholy.
And when Bodhi lifted his hand, flattened his palm, and manifested a beautiful flower he then tucked behind her ear—a jasmine for Jasmine—well, I couldn’t stop watching—even when the sight of it made my insides start to swirl.
This was not the Bodhi I knew.
This was not the straw-munching, semi-pro skater dude who really liked to argue—or at least he really liked to argue with me.
Things were different with Jasmine.