I open my eyes wide but don't see myself anymore. I don't see anyone. Instead, I see an image of something real, something alive, something like a scene in a movie.

What ...

I close my eyes and open them again.

There I am.

What was that?

I realize I just imagined a cabin or a small house with a porch on it. A swing. Sometime in the afternoon. Just like that girl's painting.

I'm seeing things, and it's because I can't control my head. I can't control the earthquake going on inside it.

I leave the bathroom, remembering the first time an altercation like this happened. That was the day I lost the letter for Jocelyn, a letter that would change everything.

I'd give anything if I could go back and be given one more night, Jocelyn.

I'm walking around with a bloody piece of toilet paper on the side of my forehead, but nobody cares. I could have a missing limb, a squirting and bloody stump like the kind in funny horror movies. I could be spraying these kids around me, and they still wouldn't care. They'd go on laughing and leering and looking my way. They'd keep ignoring me, keep wondering what my name is and why I moved from Chicago and why I am so stuck-up/full of myself/quiet/shy/snobbish/fill in the negative blank.

I am a loaded gun, full of blanks.

When I enter Mr. Meiners' room for history a bit early, he surprises me by asking about the wound.

"What happened, Chris? Who did this to you?"

"Oh, you know," I say.

"No, I don't know."

"Just the same old story."

"Hold on." He reaches into his briefcase and pulls out a white handkerchief. "It's clean."

I pick the dried clump of bloody tissue away from my skin and apply the soft fabric.

"Thanks."

"You're getting close, Chris."

"Excuse me?"

Mr. Meiners shakes his head. I can see the smile underneath the beard, the friendly smile and the open eyes.

I go to my seat and know there's absolutely no way I'll be able to learn a thing the rest of this day.

The bus rumbles like some old mule carrying too much weight up a hill. The outside resembles the Russia of World War II that Mr. Meiners was talking about. Cold, lifeless, in a state of shock. We're prisoners on our way to a prisoner-of-war camp.

I can't do this anymore.

It's only January.

The bus jerks to a halt, sending all of us against the backs of the seats in front of us.

I need a license and then a car and a map, and I can leave.

I'm near the back of the bus and see a curly-haired guy with glasses eating a candy bar and watching me. I nod.

Then he stops chewing, as if something is wrong, as if somebody actually noticed this strange weird eating trance that he's in.

He looks at the rest of his candy bar, a Milky Way, and shoves the whole thing into his mouth. He chews it quickly, as if he's in a contest. Or as if he thinks I might try and grab it from him.

I gotta get out of here.

My hand rubs the edge of my temple where there's a nice, healthy scab.

"How was your day, son?" an imaginary mom might ask me.

"Same old story," an imaginary son might say back. "Got stabbed with a pencil. Insulted by a couple of girls."

"Why aren't you at track practice?" she'd ask.

I curse to myself.

I totally forgot about it.

Too late now.

I can hear Coach Brinks. "Where's Chicago? Somebody tell me where Chicago is! We're running a five mile for no reason other than I hate you all, so where is Chicago?"

Candy-bar boy is still looking at me.

"Buddy, come on," I say.

Unfortunately, he doesn't seem to understand English, because he just keeps watching until, fifteen minutes later, he stands up for his stop.

He leaves me a parting gift before he gets off. The wrapper for his Milky Way.

Nice.

27. Ghosts.

My future is waiting for me on the counter when I come home.

"Some drunken fool came up to me and passed it along."

Are you talking about yourself, Mom?

"He said that she pays really well."

Then maybe you should take the job.

I pick up the tiny, cut-out block of paper with a typed job listing.

Wanted: Strong teenager who works hard. Groundskeep, maintenance, indoor and outdoor work. Flexible hours.

There's a number at the bottom of the sheet.

"You trust the guy who gave it to you?"

"Al validated it. This guy who gave it to me likes me. He knew I was asking about a job for you. Said that the owner, Iris, pays well. If you don't mind the reputation of the place she owns."

"Oh boy."

"Do you have any other ideas?"

"There's a mountain man with big dogs who wants me to take care of them. Says he'll pay me in raw meat. That may or may not be human."

"That's not even funny."

"I'm not joking," I say.

And a part of me isn't.

"Did you already call?" I ask her.

"You have a job interview this weekend."

"Oh, come on. Where is this?"

"It's a place called the Crag's Inn."

I lean against the couch as I watch my mom, who seems a bit lost in the kitchen. "Are you serious?"

"Very."

"The Crag's Inn? Mom."

"What?"

"What do you mean, 'what'? The name alone sounds creepy. Like the hag's inn."

"You're going to go unless you give me an alternative."

"Why this sudden rush of me needing to get a job?"

"You need to keep occupied."

"Track's not enough?"

"Aren't you supposed to be there now?"

"Yeah. I forgot."

"You need to keep busy. Or else you'll get in trouble. Like back home."

"Why are you bringing that up now?" I ask.

I look in the fridge for something to drink and grab a can of generic diet soda that tastes exactly like generic diet soda.

"Chris, this job pays very well."

"Where is this Crag's Inn?"

"A twenty-minute drive."

"You going to take me?"

She smiles. "We need to think about getting that license, and then maybe you can drive yourself."

"In what car?"

"First things first."

I put the note down on the counter and stare at it.

I have a bad feeling about this.

Turns out I should have a bad feeling about it.

Turns out that everybody knows about the Crag's Inn and the lady named Iris who runs it. How many ways can you say haunted house?

Ray confronts me to see why I missed practice. I tell him I got sick, which is true because I did get suddenly and violently sick of Harrington High. I bring up the Crag's Inn.

"A job? There? Are you high?"

"My mom was told it pays well."

"I'm sure selling crack pays well too. Doesn't mean you should do it."

"Why? What's wrong with it?"

He just shakes his head. "Man, being new sucks, doesn't it?" He laughs and walks away.