Free Bridge: a shade short story by Jeri Smith-Ready Page A

creeps,
    and Connor sleeps,
    and Siobhan weeps,
    Mickey…
     
    Mickey exists.
     
    ♪
     
    Siobhan has to pee.
    But the truck stop is new,
    so I can’t follow them.
    Ghosts can only go in death
    to the places they went in life,
    like a hamster in a Habitrail.
     
    Mickey puts on his blinker.
     
    “Don’t leave me.”
    I lunge forward,
    grab for the steering wheel,
    hoping
    this time I’ll touch something,
    this time they’ll hear me.
     
    This time is like all the rest.
     
    The car turns,
    and I’m left standing in the highway.
    A red Jeep,
    the top down,
    full of blondes
    already sunburned,
    drives through me.
    I’ll never get used to that.
     
    Screw this traffic.
    I can go anywhere in an instant.
    I can be Danny Ocean in three…two…
     
    ♪
     
    A seagull shits right through me.
     
    I wander the beach,
    the sun blaring my form
    into nothingness.
    Invisible, I can stare all I want.
     
    A girl with Aura’s dark wavy hair
    and bronze skin
    sips an iced tea,
    then sets the open cup on her belly.
    As she swallows,
    her throat bobs,
    then her tongue peeks through her lips,
    gathering the moisture she missed.
    Water beads on the cup,
    plummets fearlessly,
    like a skater on a half-pipe.
    When it reaches her skin,
    it joins her sweat
    and travels on,
    over her waist
    and under the string of her
    candy-striped bikini.
     
    I could write an entire song
    about the journey
    of that one drop of sweat.
     
    But I turn away.
    It feels wrong to watch.
    These girls are here to be seen,
    but not by someone they can’t see.
    So guilt keeps me from lingering.
    I may be dead,
    but I’m still Catholic.
     
    I head for the boardwalk
    to find someone
    who can speak my words to Mickey.
    I can’t use Aura
    or my little brother, Dylan,
    or anyone else I care about.
     
    Only a stranger
    won’t judge
    me
    or Mickey
    for letting this keep us apart.
     
    Only a stranger
    can hold up the wall
    we need between us.
     
    Until we’re ready to tear it down.
     
    ♪
     
    Occasionally,
    sometimes,
    —okay, usually—
    people ignore me.
    Post-Shifters pretend they can’t see
    the ghosts around them.
    It’s cool, I get it.
    They have lives that can’t stop
    every time a ghost needs help.
    (And we all need help.)
    They have lives.
     
    But after 233 days of death,
    I can tell the difference
    between being ignored
    and being invisible.
     
    The arcade is full of shadows.
    I’m standing in one now,
    next to the Skee-Ball court.
    But no one sees me.
     
    I step in front of a scrawny guy
    who looks fifteen or sixteen
    in his oversize D.C. United jersey.
     
    “Dude, help me out. I just need—”
     
    He walks through me,
    counting his tickets
    out loud to himself.
     
    A girl with blond pigtails
    sucking a green lollipop
    bends over to slip tokens into a driving game.
    Her jeans shorts ride up,
    giving a glimpse of pink underwear.
     
    I step up next to the game.
    “Sorry to interrupt,
    but I need a huge favor.”
     
    She plops her teeny ass
    into the driver’s seat
    without so much as a twitch
    at my voice
    or my semifamous face.
     
    As she starts to play,
    I wave my hand between her and the screen.
    She holds the wheel steady,
    pressing the accelerator,
    sucking the lollipop,
    which twists her muttered curses
    into drunk-sounding slurs.
     
    I step back.
    Survey the crowd.
    Try not to panic.
     
    Above us,
    a banner stretches the length of the arcade,
    The BEST WEEK EVER logo
    frames the words,
    Congratulations, Class of—
     
    “Damn it.”
    Senior Week.
    No one here is young enough to see me.
     
    I fly through the arcade,
    turning somersaults,
    flailing my arms like a clown,
    hoping someone brought
    their little brother
    or sister
    or niece or nephew
    or cousin.
     
    But who would bring a kid to Senior Week?
    Parents know better.
    They hear the stories.
     
    I am so screwed.
     
    ♪
     
    The boardwalk never seemed so loud,
    so bright,
    so complete
    as it does right now.
     
    I’m here
    but not.
     
    They stagger through