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YOU R
D i N E R Y O B F N D A E S E N
S i T C O EX R JUSTINE PUCELLA WINANS
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Also by Justine Pucella Winans Middle Grade: The Otherwoods Wishbone A Little Too Haunted Young Adult: How to Survive a Slasher
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Author’s Note
Dear Reader, I wanted to add a note on some of the content in this story, and to do that, I am going to share something a bit personal. When I was eighteen, I experienced emotional and sexual abuse. For years, even after I was able to get myself out of that situation, I felt completely isolated and alone. In my darkest times, I craved connection and understanding. The one place I was able to turn to was fiction, primarily young adult fiction. I found solace in characters who experienced pain similar to mine, but more importantly, I found hope in those who allowed me to envision a future free from it. Writers who didn’t even know me or what I went through somehow had the ability to make me feel seen. That is the power of stories: they create connection. For a brief, beautiful moment in time, we can share our pain and our rage and our fear and, above all, we can share our love and our hope. Your Boyfriend Needs an Exorcist is not a product of my trauma, although there are feelings of anger, pain, and insecurity within it. Instead, it is a product of my own recovery, of how fiction and found family (and, in my case, therapy) put me on a path to
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self-worth and self-love. I wanted to explore some of this in the way I do best: messed-up body horror with a sense of humor. I am not my main character, Schuyler, but like me, she deals with relationship-based trauma. It is referenced and spoken about, but none of it occurs during the present timeline of the story— because this book isn’t about experiencing that trauma. This story is about self-forgiveness. About giving yourself a second chance and learning that what was done to you doesn’t mean you aren’t deserving of love. I hope that all of you who relate to Schuyler, to me, know that you are strong, you are loved, and it is okay to do what you have to in order to survive. If you are in the position I was in, searching for connection and understanding in the pages of books, I hope you can find it. Whether or not it is from my words, I’m so proud of you for being here. For surviving. Things will get better. I also understand that references to trauma can be extremely triggering. I urge you to take care of yourself. The wonderful thing about fiction is you can always step away. Maybe the story will serve you in the future, maybe it won’t. It will be here for you regardless. Please give yourself grace and always take the space you need to care for yourself and heal. I appreciate all of you for taking the time to consider this book. For those who join Schuyler on her journey, I hope you have a good time. I hope you laugh and cry and maybe get a little creeped out. Regardless, I am forever grateful for this moment in your life we get to share. Writing for you will always be one of the best parts of mine. With love, Justine
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1 Smells Like Evil Teen Spirit
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ne might not expect evil spirits to ugly cry, but I am currently unliving proof that we most certainly do. I’m deep in the shaking kind of crying, sobs bursting through me in a terrible wail lamenting the fate of the little woodland creature I just ate alive. It’s hard to tell how long I sob—being dead really messes up your sense of time—and a part of me feels like I’ll never stop crying. “Oh, Schuyler, did it happen again?” I look over to the gate connecting my yard to my neighbor Papa Lloyd’s. Technically, his house belongs to the Miltons, a family with a wild number of children and dogs, but Papa Lloyd lived there up until his death. Fortunately, his life ended in a much less violent way than mine (he had a heart attack) so he’s just a normal ghost and doesn’t experience the unwanted bloodlust us evil spirits do. He’s kind and understanding and basically like the gay granddad for all the
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younger ghosts on the street. Not that there are many of us. Just me and Key. I can’t stop my heaving and sniffling as I speak, only getting a rough word out at a time. “I— Killed— Another— Rabbit— And— I— Didn’t— Want— To— And— I’m— So— Sad.” Papa Lloyd looks over at my mess. “Oh dear.” I sob again. He breezes through the fence, crouching to sit next to me. I can’t feel the hand he puts on my shoulder, but it warms my unbeating heart to know that it is there. “Hey,” he says. “It’s okay, sweetie. Let’s get this cleaned up with a proper burial.” We spirits look as we did when we died, so I can see Papa Lloyd’s tanned, wrinkled skin, his muscles from a lifetime of work, and the bright purple glasses he had on at the time of his death. What I can’t see are the eyes behind them. They say eyes are the windows to the soul, so I guess when you are just a soul, things look different from the other side of the window. There’s just bluish-white space where irises would be, but Papa Lloyd still has a way of showing his emotion despite this. Of showing his care. My sobs subside to a quiet, restrained cry, and I nod. It isn’t easy to touch and move things as a spirit, but since Papa Lloyd has been around a while and I’m an evil spirit (which comes with additional pros and cons, like extra strength and bloodlust), we manage it. It also helps that the poor thing is no longer alive. The only time I can touch the living is during my attacks, and even then, I’m fortunately only strong enough to take out small animals like rabbits and squirrels. 2
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Together, Papa Lloyd and I dig a hole in the dirt with our fingers and scrape the rabbit remains inside before covering it back up. “Would you like to say a few words?” he asks gently as we stand over the fresh grave. I sniffle. “I’m sorry, Mr. Rabbit, for killing you like that. If I had control of myself in those moments, there are many other things I’d rather kill. Like a large number of mosquitos, or a politician.” I bite my lip, more tears leaking. “But I’m sorry it had to be you. I’m glad that your soul is not here with us and is able to move on, and I hope your next life brings you wealth, and happiness, and if you’re a human, a really nice butt . . .” Papa Lloyd makes a gesture for me to wrap it up. “Thank you for your sacrifice, Mr. Rabbit. May you rest in peace.” “That was lovely,” Papa Lloyd says, wrapping me in a hug. Once again, I wish I could feel it. “I hate that I’m like this,” I say into his shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Schuyler.” He tries to pat my back, but it doesn’t quite work and he stops. “What teenage girl doesn’t turn into a monster when she gets emotional?” I pull back and give him a look. “Ha ha,” I deadpan. “You know it’s not the same.” He frowns, empty eyes sad. “I know, dear. But it is what it is. Someday, we’ll pass on and you won’t have to worry about any of this.” “Yeah,” I say, hiding my uncertainty. Everyone assumes death will answer questions about what happens after life, but us ghosts prove otherwise. We’re as 3
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clueless as the living, still stuck on the same plane of existence— albeit in different ways. There are three different types of ghosts: your average ghostly apparition like Papa Lloyd; spirits who are mere echoes of their deaths, reliving it again and again; and the rare, powerful, and disgustingly messed-up capital-E Evil Spirits, like me. We’re the lucky few who died such a violent death, we’re forced to carry that violence and vengeance with us into the afterlife. It’s why I have my attacks. All the rage and bad feelings build up until their horrifying release, in which only blood and flesh, ripped directly from a living source, satisfy me. Bring me back to myself. At least, that’s been my experience. I’ve never actually met another evil spirit. Everything I’ve learned about myself has been through Papa Lloyd, who has been around long enough that he was able to get info from an occult expert who used to walk her dog this way. It’s possible there are other evil spirits nearby, but none of us on Sycamore Avenue can actually leave Sycamore Avenue (another ghost thing: you’re stuck in the area where you died), so there’s no way of knowing. But I sure hope there aren’t more. When my best friend Key and I first died and found ourselves as spirits on this street, Papa Lloyd explained it like this: Spirits are the minority. Most beings who die move on to what really comes after. But some people get stuck. None of us are sure why we’re still here or what will happen to us when we do pass on. There are some living occult experts like the dog walker Papa Lloyd met who supposedly can help spirits get to the next realm, but they are few and far between. And I’m not sure I believe in people like that. If they do exist, none have 4
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made their way to Sycamore Avenue since the nice lady with the Labradoodle moved back East. To be honest, I don’t really care. I’m not someone who deserves to pass on. If anything, I already have more than I deserve here. I have my room in the attic of my old house, my tuxedo cat plushie Oreo, and Papa Lloyd and a best friend and the other neighbors. What more can I expect from an afterlife? “Do you have any plans for today?” Papa Lloyd asks. “It’s Thursday, so I’m going to join Mrs. Castillo when she watches our reality TV shows after her telenovelas later. There’s this one I love, Baker Matchmaker. It’s a dating show where a bunch of chefs come in and they choose a date based only on each other’s cooking. Plays on the way to the heart being the stomach or whatever.” Papa Lloyd lifts an eyebrow. “Interesting.” “They have queer contestants sometimes,” I continue. “It was cool to see a bisexual baker on last week, although she kind of played to the stereotype by making us look super indecisive.” “That sounds lovely.” Papa Lloyd can’t hide his chuckle. “I’ll probably be watching over the dogs then, but let me know how it is. It’s a different world out there, with queer dating shows on TV.” He lets out a long breath. “Sometimes I wish I was still a part of it, just to see how different it is now.” A long beat passes and sadness stirs in my gut. But I force on a big smile. Bad things happen to evil spirits when we get too emotional—the rabbit bones in the grave next to us speak to that—and I don’t think I can deal with another bloodlust breakout right now. 5
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I miss when my most stressful flare-ups were acne related. “Let’s be real, Papa Lloyd. You can be reborn a thousand times, and you’ll be a fabulous gay queen in every single life.” This gets him to laugh a real laugh, one that if I were to close my eyes, or look away, I’d believe the two of us are more than just echoes of the past. I up the wattage of my smile. “Have you seen Key around?” Papa Lloyd’s mouth goes flat. “No, but he always has a way of showing up when you want him.” Almost as if on cue, his voice cuts through the air. “You don’t have to say it like that. I’m not her dog, just extremely reliable.” Both of us turn to see Raymond Keyworth Jr., my best friend who refuses to go by any name other than Key and is the one real thing I have left from my old life. Aside from the hollow eyes I remind myself used to be a light blue, Key looks the same as how I’ve always known him. Forever wearing a StarCraft T-shirt, zip-up hoodie, and sweatpants, along with a kind smile that never seems to part from his lips. It’s a comforting, familiar smile. It also sends a painful twist in my gut. Because I don’t deserve it. “Did I miss another mealtime?” he asks, eyeing the fresh dirt and bloodied grass. It’s almost funny but mostly horrifying that he refers to my transformative evil spirit bloodlust as mealtime. But it’s not like I can ask him to stop. “Well,” Papa Lloyd says. “I’ll let you kids hang out. You know where to find me.” 6
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“Surrounded by chaos and dogs?” I ask. He chuckles. “So much for resting in peace, huh?” After a quick goodbye to me and Key, Papa Lloyd floats back over to his yard. Key steps up to put his arm around my shoulder, even though neither of us can feel it. “What was it this time?” Key asks. I grimace. “Rabbit.” He frowns, just slightly. “That sucks. But it was either him or someone’s pet.” He sighs. “I’m pretty sure rabbits can feel pain, so I hope you at least killed it quickly?” I try not to think back to the sound of teeth tearing flesh. “It was a quick death.” Key grins. “Well, that makes one of us at least.” If I still had a beating heart, it would have stopped. Key and I died in the same car accident, but I passed before he did, and while the difference had probably only been a matter of minutes, I’d give anything to take away those additional moments of pain he had to go through. Especially since it was my fault. “Key . . . you know I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—” “Hey, don’t get started on that again. I know you are. I’m just joking. The ghost thing brings out my dark humor.” His smile grows as he reaches out his hand to cup my chin and tilts my head up to look into the glow where his eyes used to be. “And you have . . . oh, all of eternity to make it up to me.” I snort. “Thanks, Key.” “Of course. I’m a very patient man.” I tear my gaze away from his wavy brown hair and freckles and instead look back to the house. “Want to come over?” 7
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Technically, Key doesn’t have a house like I do. He didn’t live on this street. I offered to let him stay with me as literally the least I could do, but he just laughed and said he preferred to haunt the various houses without ghosts. “Of course, Schuyler. Always down to spend time with you.” The backyard connects directly to the living room, two floors under my space in the attic. As we walk in, I glance at the large clock on the wall. It’s already afternoon. Shit. Time passes weird when you’re a ghost. I should have the same twenty- four hours as I did before, but it doesn’t feel like it. I imagine my heart pounding as I look to see if anyone is home, specifically the Castillos’ daughter, Wren. Key knows the family that lives here now, but he doesn’t exactly know I have a crush on Wren. Or that I’m bisexual at all. If Key saw me around her (even though Wren can’t see me), I’m worried he might start to suspect something. It’s not like I think he’ll react badly or anything. It’s just that . . . being around Key makes me feel like the living Schuyler Thompson again. It’s a good thing, a great thing. So I don’t want to do anything to change that. To make things different between us. It probably isn’t a big deal, but I can’t help but build it up in my head as one. Thankfully, the house is quiet. Empty. “You good?” Key asks, clearly concerned. I shake my head. “Um, yeah, sorry, lost in my thoughts. You know how I get after an attack.” “Do I ever.” He laughs. “Sometimes I wish I was the one who had to deal with mealtime.” I almost gasp. “No, Key, come on, you know I . . .” 8
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I deserve it, I want to say. Key continues before I can. “It’s just . . . to see you, Schuyler Thompson, as . . . that ? It doesn’t add up. You’re practically a cute little bunny yourself. I just feel like I’d be able to deal with that stuff a little better. So you wouldn’t have to.” I shake my head. “I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, Key. Especially not you. You don’t deserve any of this. Shit, you shouldn’t be here. You should be an adult with kids and a mortgage—” “No one can afford to buy a house anymore, Schuyler—” “That’s not the point! The point is that you’d still be alive if it weren’t for me!” My voice echoes around the empty house. Even though I don’t have a physical form anymore, it’s like the sound fills the space inside me. Like I am made only of those words, that guilt. The evil spirit in me perks its ears, the dormant hunger waiting for my emotions to once again fly off the handle. Key seems to sense this, putting both hands on the sides of my face. “It’s okay, Schuyler. What matters is that we aren’t alone in this.” He’s right. We’re here together, so I have all the time in the world to make it better. Even though I’m not sure how many years in the afterlife it’ll take to make up for all the years of actual life I cost him. “You’re okay,” Key says, voice soft. “We’re okay.” “I’m okay,” I say. I look back up to his face. “I’m sorry.” He waves all my apologies off, but I know he secretly likes them. Sometimes I feel like it’s all I can really give. “I know,” he says. “Now let’s do something fun before we endanger any more rabbits.” 9
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I force a smile. As much as I don’t want to think about my transformations or the death that comes along with it, I know that I should. Me and Key died the same way, yet only one of us became a monster. Papa Lloyd said that just because the conditions are right to become an evil spirit, that doesn’t guarantee someone will. It’s a chance, depending on the soul. But I know the truth, even if Papa Lloyd and Key won’t admit it themselves. It isn’t bad luck. Or coincidence. It’s my punishment.
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2 Haunt Me Maybe?
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here are few things that bond people like becoming ghosts together. Key and I were close in life, but our friendship got stronger in our afterlife. He was the one person I could confide in, the one person who understood me. Now, he’s also the one person I can talk with about our past lives. If I didn’t have him, I feel like there might not be much Schuyler left behind the monster. He’s annoying when we play games, though. “Come on,” I groan. “You can’t let me win once?” Key starts resetting the chessboard. “That wouldn’t be fair to you. You’ve gotten a lot better since we died!” “That doesn’t feel genuine when you’ve beat me four times in a row now.” Key smiles. “I said you’ve gotten better, not that you’ve gotten better than me.” He double-checks that the board looks the way Mr. Castillo had left it earlier. “That will take you at least another . . . I don’t know, five to fifty years.”
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I drop my jaw open. “You won’t let me win for fifty years ?” I stand from the couch. “That’s it, no more chess. I’m over it. I’m gonna burn this board.” “No, you won’t.” He’s right—I’d never. “Okay, but we aren’t gonna play it anymore. We’re going to play a game that I’m better at. Or at least one that requires less skill. Do you think they have Uno?” Key stands up. “Tomorrow, maybe. I should get going.” I frown. It isn’t like we always make plans or anything, but I was hoping Key was going to hang out for longer. My emotions are easier to control when he’s around. “You don’t want to stay for Baker Matchmaker ?” I ask. He laughs. “I don’t know how you watch that stuff—it just makes me miss food. And I’m not into dating shows. I get way too much secondhand embarrassment from witnessing rejections.” “Come ooon,” I say. “The rejections aren’t that bad. They literally sugarcoat them.” “You would say that, heartbreaker,” he teases. “You haven’t been rejected.” Maybe he’s right, but that’s only because I’ve never actually had the guts to tell anyone I liked them. In life, I had only been asked out twice. Once was actually by Key, who said he had feelings for me the summer before freshman year, but soon agreed that we were better as friends. Not to mention, barely two weeks later he started dating Mallory Johnson, so I think he just wanted a girlfriend. If anything, it made us become better friends. The other time I was asked out was . . . I don’t want to think about him. 12
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“Well, not everyone gets rejected on the show! The point is the drama. And the food, mostly.” Key makes a face. “We can watch something less . . . fake reality tomorrow. Besides, I have plans.” I cross my arms. “Do those plans involve messing with that new couple who moved in a few doors down? You already caused, like, three different families to move out.” Key practically turned haunting houses into his part-time job. He normally keeps to the other side of Sycamore, but he enjoys “welcoming” newcomers to the neighborhood. “You weren’t complaining when I got that homophobic lady to move out of this house.” Ugh. Ms. Gallagher was the worst. Key practically did community service by running her out of the house with his hauntings. Plus, it allowed the Castillos to move in. “Well, we couldn’t have her living next to Papa Lloyd,” I mutter. Key reaches out to squeeze my hand. “I’ll be back before you know it. Maybe we can check out a movie, or borrow some books from that writer down the street with the huge home library. Or I can finally convince you to come to that tech bro’s house and try the games on his amazing PC setup.” Unlikely. The one time he tried to explain StarCraft to me, my brain shut down. It went completely over my head, other than the fact that Sarah Kerrigan made me think extremely gay thoughts. I smile. “No on the video games, but yes to the other stuff. Thanks, Key.” “Don’t miss me too much.” 13
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I roll my eyes at his teasing. “I’ll manage.” With that, he heads through the wall to the outside. Key has invited me to haunt some houses with him, but that’s a hobby we don’t share. The only house I like to enter is the Castillos’, and that’s because it used to be my house. But I’m still respectful about it. I mostly keep to my room in the attic when they’re home, and when they’re not, I just watch TV since that’s my way to keep up with the world and my favorite thing to do. But any “hauntings” that happen in the house are purely accidental. Like leaving the TV on, mostly. Or sometimes I make little adjustments, like finding things that Mr. Castillo is looking for and putting them in plain sight, or cleaning just a few of the dishes so Mrs. Castillo doesn’t notice much of a difference but still has less to do, or making the air a little chillier when Wren is about to leave the house without a sweater and I know she’ll need one. They’re helpful hauntings, if anything. It’s the least I can do, since I’m sharing the house with them. I did it for basically everyone that lived here since my parents sold the place. Aside from freaking Ms. Gallagher, of course. I eye the clock again. Maybe Key’s timing is for the best. Wren should be getting home from school soon, unless she has rehearsal with her band or something. If I had a heart, it would flutter at the thought of her. A ghost couldn’t ask for a better person to accidentally haunt. Although Wren’s a little older than me (well, older than living-me was) at seventeen, and she doesn’t know that I exist, it sort of feels like we’re friends. So I’m always happy to see her. 14
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Time already passes quickly for me, but sometimes, when she’s at school, I wish it would move even faster. Wren Castillo is the most beautiful girl I’ve seen in my entire death. Unlike the Schuyler Thompson who once lived in this house, Wren is effortlessly beautiful. It isn’t like she looks like a model or influencer or anything, she just shines. Don’t get me wrong, there is an almost unbearable cuteness in the dimples she has when she smiles, how her wavy black hair falls over her shoulders, and the intensity of her deep brown eyes. But it’s more than that. It’s like she swallowed a star plucked out of the sky, and it shimmers from within her, casting a brilliant light everywhere she goes. Whenever I see her (which, considering I haunt her attic, is often), it is like my inner Romeo comes out, and I wish O, that I were her sky, that I could have that star inside me. Wait. No. I mean . . . shit, I’m glad ghosts can’t blush. Anyway, I was confirmed bisexual at first sight, and getting to know Wren only made matters worse. Yes, she’s achingly pretty, but it’s more than that. She makes me laugh, literally without trying. She likes to be cozy and stream shows and movies as much as I do. She plays bass guitar, which is like one of the all- time sexiest instruments. She’s a good friend, a good person. And maybe I’m not either of those things, but I always wanted to be. So how could I not admire her and respect her and, like, want to have her babies. Or whatever. It’s chill. I’m chill. I know nothing could ever actually happen between us anyway considering the whole I’m-Dead-and-Don’t-Have-a-Body thing. It’s a harmless crush. 15
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I bounce my leg. Is she coming home late today? Maybe when she gets here we’ll read a new book together (I got very good at reading over shoulders) or she’ll brainstorm song lyrics with me (while I am, of course, entirely silent, I feel like I give off a really encouraging energy) or I’ll tell her about me and Key as she’s chatting with one of her friends on the phone and I can delude myself into almost believing the encouraging and caring words she says are for me. Regardless of what we do, I’m just happy to spend time with her. Maybe I should write her a poem in the meantime. It’s good to practice touching and moving objects, anyway. I find a pad of paper and a pen. Roses are red Wrens are brown I like you so much I feel like a clown I scribble that out. Violets are blue Roses are red I’d totally kiss you If I wasn’t so dead Okay, I literally couldn’t write a good poem if it re- killed me. But poetry isn’t the only way to be romantic. None of this 16
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matters, really, but there is something so magical about having a crush. Possibility. Love. It almost makes a ghost feel alive. Regardless, I have to destroy all evidence of this because if anyone saw my writing, whether it be Key or Wren or Mr. Castillo or Mrs. Castillo, I’d never be able to go on with my afterlife. I think I’d be embarrassed enough to let the evil spirit just take over. Memories of blood, torn flesh, and dying, innocent eyes bring a wave of disgusted shame along with them. Never mind. “I have to bury these,” I say aloud. I float through the wall and out to the backyard, quiet as I can so Papa Lloyd doesn’t notice. I dig a small hole in the dirt, where so much of my shame lies anyway. What’s one scrap of paper on a street that’s a graveyard of my sins? At least this is just embarrassment stained with ink and not a horror stained in blood. The sadness wants to grow into sorrow, the guilt wants to grow into pain, and it all wants to grow into rage, but I can’t let it. Instead, I focus on Wren, and the bad feelings fade away. I can’t skip, but I’m skipping in spirit as I glide up to the house. From inside, I hear someone unlocking the front door. Finally. I practically launch myself into the hallway, ready to have a wonderful evening with just Wren and me and . . . You’ve got to be freaking kidding me. Wren is home. She’s taking off her Doc Martens, backpack hanging from her right arm which is extended against the door. She has the cutest smile, and strands of curly hair fall from her 17
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loose ponytail. It’d be picture-perfect, if not for the fact that she isn’t alone. Because next to her is Enzo Altamura. Her boyfriend.
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3 Break Up with Your Boyfriend, I’m Bored
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or every nice thing there is to say about Wren Castillo, there is a not-so-nice thing to say about this more recent addition to her life. Enzo is distant, rude to the point of almost being mean, and I once overheard him say that a Tesla Cybertruck “looked cool.” I just don’t think there are any redeeming qualities, to be honest, other than the fact that he’s annoyingly handsome. It’s like the universe was putting his stats together and leveled up the attractiveness so high that there wasn’t room for anything else. If they still give out senior superlatives in high school, he might be up for “Most Attractive” but could easily also win “Worst Attitude” and even “Most Likely to Torture Small Animals for Fun.” Not that I can totally judge, but I’m not doing it because I want to. Wren blows a curl from her face and adjusts her ponytail.
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“Ugh, my hair is refusing to work with me today. Maybe I should cut it all off.” Enzo makes a face. “Why? So you’ll look like a dude?” “Are you asking because you’d be into that?” Wren asks, playfully pushing him like he was joking. He rolls his eyes. “I think it would look bad, but it’s your hair.” I want to respect the Castillos’ boundaries by not punching their guests, but oh, it’s so hard. It would be one thing for someone to talk like that to me, who has plenty of practice with passive-aggressive comments, but the fact that he does it to Wren, who is literal sunshine, is more than I can handle. And what I find even more frustrating is that Enzo has it all—good looks, strength, an amazing girlfriend, life—and he’s totally wasting it by being an apathetic ass. Even in life, there were so many times I wished I were a guy instead of these assholes who take all their privilege for granted. I’d be so much better at it—probably a lot better than I was at being me. “You don’t have to be mean about it,” Wren says to Enzo. “I’m not being mean, I’m just being honest.” He sighs. “You’re starting to sound like my brother.” Wren smiles. “How is Vinny? I didn’t see him today. Did he stay home sick or something?” Enzo makes a face. “Who gives a shit? He’s fine.” “I don’t understand why you’re like that with him. I think he could use your support, especially after all that stuff with Scott . . .” 20
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“I’m not talking about this,” Enzo snaps. He runs a hand through his hair. “I need the bathroom. Just . . . drop it.” “Oh-kay,” Wren says. “Fine.” Enzo shrugs his backpack off onto the floor but takes his phone with him to the hall bathroom, so he might be gone anywhere from five minutes to nearly a full hour. I don’t know what it is about dudes and taking forever to poop— or choosing the toilet as a good place to sit doomscrolling. I would be more curious and less judgmental if he wasn’t being bitchy and leaving his literally perfect girlfriend alone. Well, almost alone. Wren sighs, sitting down on the couch. Man, she’s even gorgeous when frustrated. The little line that forms between her scrunched eyebrows as she types furiously into her phone would have any reasonable person immediately smitten. “Is something bothering you?” I ask, joining her on the couch. I know she can’t hear me. I know. But there’s a part of me that wishes so desperately that she could. That I could at least project my feelings enough for her to get some sense of them. With only the two of us in the room together, I can almost pretend. Imagine that I’m the one she’s dating, that I can give her all the attention she deserves. Make sure she never, ever feels alone. Not like I did. I scoot closer to her. “Whatever it is, we can talk about it. If you want. I’m not trying to be egotistical, but I happen to be a great listener.” I laugh, since it’s kind of a joke. All I can do is listen. Wren drops her phone onto her lap. “I’m so tired of this shit,” she mutters under her breath. 21
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I pretend she’s saying that to me. I guess, in some way, she is—she just doesn’t realize it. “I know what you mean. I’ve been dealing with . . . something frustrating as well. But maybe we can help each other.” Though I’m not sure she’d want to help me with my horrific need to consume living animals whenever I get too upset. “Or at least, be here for each other, you know.” I soften my voice. “I’m always here for you, Wren.” Gently, I reach my hand out, like I can actually place it on her knee. But I misjudge the distance and slip right through her body. She jumps a little. I freeze. Did she feel my presence? A chill? Something? That’s when I notice her phone lighting up with notifications. Wren grabs it, frustrated expression back in place. Disappointment washes over me. No. That was too much to hope for. I’m as invisible as always. The toilet flushes. Not long after, Enzo walks out of the bathroom. “So, you wanted to talk about your day or whatever?” Immediately after he asks, he flops down onto the plush chair next to the couch and checks his phone again. Before Wren can get a reaction out, he’s scrolling through and texting, attention fully on that little screen. I hate him. “Are you going to listen or just be on your phone?” Wren asks. “It’s called multitasking. I’m listening.” WHY IS SHE WITH HIM? “I’m just a little stressed with everything going on,” Wren starts. She brushes a piece of hair behind her ear, and it immediately falls back and it’s so cute I think I die a second time. 22
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“What’s going on?” Enzo deadpans, not even glancing up at her. “Same as usual. I’m already worried about college next year and decisions coming in and trying to stay on top of everything and now Reggie is starting drama in the band group chat. She’s going overboard critiquing Rhea’s vocals, and not in the giving-shit sibling way they usually do. Like, it’s too much. We can barely practice. So Danny doesn’t want to show up most of the time since they are bickering so much . . .” “Uh-huh,” Enzo says to his phone. “And I don’t know how to fix things, but I feel like it’s all on me. Like I’m the only one who cares about Kitty Fight.” “About what?” “Kitty Fight?” Wren asks incredulously. “My band?” “I still think that name makes no sense.” “You’re such a goddamn asshole,” I say to Enzo. “Are you sure you’re listening?” Wren asks at the same time. Enzo finally looks up. “Yes, of course. I just have other things going on in my life, too. You can’t seriously expect me to give you all my attention?” I want to punch him right in his stupid, handsome face. I want to see him bleed, see if that would be enough to get his attention. Anger starts to bubble inside of me, my fingers twitching. “You shouldn’t have to be the only one responsible for your band’s success,” I tell Wren. “You shouldn’t have to make them care. I love Kitty Fight’s music and I know you four are doing something special, you more than anyone, and maybe Reggie 23
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and Rhea just need a chance to see that. To see what your band means to people.” Of course, they don’t hear any of that. It’s only silence for Enzo and Wren as he returns to his phone and she sits back on the couch, defeated. “Why do you stay with him?” I ask. It’s not a question I, who once lived as Schuyler Thompson, have any right to ask. Not with my past. Not with my death. But I’m not judging her for doing it. I’m just sincerely wondering. Because Wren Castillo is nothing like who I was. Wren can’t answer, although her expression has me wondering if she is asking herself the same thing. She doesn’t stay on that long. “Well, you’re here. Shouldn’t we do something together?” she asks. Enzo sighs. “Do you want to make out or whatever?” That’s probably my cue to leave. To float back up to the attic and lose myself in a book so I can pretend I don’t hear any sounds from downstairs. Wren chuckles. “What a romantic proposal.” “I don’t have that long before I want to leave, but you wanted to do something, right?” He gets up and moves toward the couch, leaning over Wren. “You literally have the best girl ever and you don’t care,” I say. Wren crosses her arms. “You make it seem like kissing me is a chore.” “You’re the one making it a chore,” Enzo says. Wren snorts like it’s a joke, but he didn’t say it like one. He continues. “Come on, Wren. It’s not like you wanted to go out with me for the 24
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romance. Everyone knows what I’m like. You just wanted to be Enzo Altamura’s girlfriend.” He leans in to kiss her, but at the last moment, Wren stops him. “What does that mean?” Enzo rolls his eyes. “You know what it means.” “You think I’m just using you to be popular or something?” He actually looks confused. “I’m not shaming you for it. I’m just saying. I’ve already given you that, but you keep wanting more from me.” “You’re not giving her anything!” My anger burns, but it’s not just because of Enzo. I know that. Seeing Enzo reminds me of him. They’re totally different. Enzo’s disinterest is worlds away from the intense and controlling over-interest he gave me when I was alive. They are entirely different guys. Apart from both being white teenage boys, they don’t even look alike. But I remember feeling the way Wren does. Or, at least, how she seems to. Like she’s small, like she isn’t enough, like she will never be enough. And she deserves someone who can show her that she’s everything. My yearning and annoyance and anger and regret mix together in a flammable cocktail of negative emotions, and there’s not enough cute thoughts in the world to stop it from igniting. Sharp teeth burst from my gums and the roof of my mouth. My jaw unhinges, tearing open at the corners and expanding farther than possible to make room for the size of my jealous, vengeful scream. The skin of my fingers rips and splits, bone extending and bending into pointed claws. 25
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I’m not powerful enough to attack a human, not even like this. But when I lunge for Enzo, jaw wide open and claws outstretched, I don’t think. I’m lost to my emotions and seeing only red.
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4 An Angry Ghost’s Guide to Sudden Possession
I
nstead of sinking tooth and claw into Wren’s stupid boyfriend, though, I feel like I’ve smacked against a brick wall. And now I’m looking at Wren. Right at her. In fact, I’m leaning over her, one arm on each side. Confusion bubbles up in my brain, like I woke up after napping so long I can’t remember what time it is or where I’m at. More than that, I’m feeling. I feel the air around me, I feel the couch fabric under my palms. I feel a slight gurgle in my stomach. I feel Wren’s presence, her closeness. When I take in the way she looks, how beautiful she is when a slight scowl crosses her lips, I feel the excited beat of my own heart. Not the imagined memory of it, but the actual sensation. What the hell? I stumble backward, nearly tripping over the coffee table. I didn’t realize how dulled my senses had become in death. I
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think I forgot. Suddenly, they’re back in full force. It’s all so bright and loud and— “Enzo?” Wren asks me. “Are you okay?” She’s looking at me. Her eyes are on mine, seeing me. Something shifts in my pants. Wait. Enzo. Why is she calling me Enzo? I look around, but I don’t see him. And when I look down, I see a body that isn’t mine. A living body. Enzo’s body. Holy shit. “Bathroom!” I squeak in a deep voice that feels strange coming out of my throat. Without checking Wren’s reaction, I move to rush into the bathroom but smack my face against the wall. Shit. I can’t go through surfaces anymore. I’m in Enzo’s body. I’m in Enzo’s body. “Um . . . are you okay?” Wren’s voice asks again from behind me. “I’m fine,” I say quickly, face heated and stinging as I carefully step through the doorway into the bathroom. I shut and lock the door behind me. When I look in the mirror, Enzo looks back. “Oh, shit,” I whisper to myself. “Okay. It’s fine. You possessed Enzo for a minute, but it’s fine. Just . . . just leave.” I try to will myself out of his body. It doesn’t work. I feel like I’m constipated and desperate to poop, but no matter how much I squeeze and move, nothing changes. I lean in toward the mirror, touching the surface and watching in wonder as my actions make this boy in the reflection move. 28
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“Enzo?” I whisper. “Are you still in here?” Nothing inside of me, or him, answers. It doesn’t feel like he’s in this body with me, but how am I supposed to know what that feels like? It seems like in all the exorcism movies, the possessed person is there and fighting back. “Enzo?” I whisper snap. “Are you there and fighting back?” It sure doesn’t seem like it. There’s only silence, aside from the no longer familiar sensation of working organs. Oh, fuck. Did I kill Wren’s boyfriend? Did I kill him and hijack his body? Oh god. Oh no. Rabbits and squirrels are bad enough. I can’t just go around accidentally killing teenage boys, too. Especially not this one! Wren is gonna be so upset. I have to figure out a way to fix this. I try to calm myself down. Panicking isn’t going to solve the problem. I take in a deep breath—an actual breath. And it really hits me: I’m alive again. I’m going to fix this and give Enzo his body back, of course, but in the meantime, it can’t hurt to explore a little, right? At least until I figure out how to, like, self- exorcize. I take another deep breath, flex my muscles. It’s strange to have a boy’s body. When I was alive, I always felt like I had to try so hard at being a girl, to the point where I’d sometimes wish I had been born a boy. In part because maybe things would have been different with Mom if I were, but . . . I guess I also felt like I’d be better at it. Now I am a guy. At least, for the moment. Being alive feels similar to how I remember, but being in this particular body, so different from the one I had, is something entirely new. I pull out the waistband of my pants and underwear to take a peek before snapping it back shut. 29
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Jesus Christ, I have a penis. There’s a light knock on the bathroom door. “Enzo?” Wren calls from the other side of the wood. “Is everything all right in there?” I blink. What the hell do I do? “Um, yeah, fine.” I open the door. Wren’s leaning on the frame, looking unbearably pretty. All annoyance is totally gone from her face, replaced with concern. She steps up to me, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. My dick twitches in excitement. “What the fuck?” I ask myself at that new jump scare. Wren frowns. “Okay, what’s going on? You’re freaking me out.” If I’m freaking her out now, wait until she realizes I’m a dead girl possessing her boyfriend. “I’m, uh, I’m feeling sick. Actually. Sorry.” “Oh,” Wren says. “Let me take you home, then.” “Sounds good,” I say, before I remember that by take me home she doesn’t mean the attic of this house and instead means whatever circle of hell Enzo Altamura crawled out of. “Wait, I don’t—” “Come on, you should rest. We can hang out another time.” Wren doesn’t allow for any more protests, instead taking my hand. She pauses in front of the door, looking at me. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Yeah, how to breathe. How to function. How to be a living freaking person. “Backpack?” she presses. “Oh, yeah, right. My backpack.” I feel more robot than boy as I snatch up the bag from the floor. “Thanks.” 30
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We continue toward the front door. I should probably think of some excuse to stop this, but she takes my hand again so instead my mind is occupied with, She’s holding my hand she’s holding my hand oh my god oh my god she’s holding my hand. It makes it hard for quick thinking, or any brain activity in general. And then, suddenly, we’re outside. I glance over at the Miltons’ front yard, thinking maybe Papa Lloyd would be there, but he must be inside still. Wait. Would I even be able to see him? Desperately, I look around the street, panic rising up in me. What do I do? I’m in this asshole’s body and I don’t know how to get out and my crush is kidnapping me. I need help. “Key!” I say loudly. “Key!” He always seems to know when I need him, which is more often than not, because everyone knows I’m hardly good on my own. Wren gives me a look, holding up the lanyard that has her car and house key. “Yeah, I got them?” Suddenly, Key floats over from two houses down. He approaches with caution, face twisted in confusion. “Schuyler? Is that you?” Thank god I can see him. Thank god he can tell it’s me. “Uh, gotta puke!” I tell Wren, rushing over to a patch of dirt between the houses so I can pretend to vomit closer to Key. Key is at a loss for words, sputtering until he manages a “how?” “I don’t know!” I keep my panicked whisper low and fake some retching. “I just . . . I suddenly possessed this guy. It was an accident.” 31
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Key shakes his head. “Well, you gotta get out. Like now!” “I know that. I’m trying, but it’s not working.” “You can’t just live as some random guy,” Key says. “Who even is he?” “He’s Wren’s boyfriend and he’s the worst, but that’s not the most pressing thing here, Key!” “Sorry, sorry,” Key says quickly. “I’m not sure what to do. We have to get you out. I mean, you have to stay here. With me.” A pang shoots through my heart. It’s so strange to feel. “I know, Key, I . . .” “What can I do to help?” he asks. “Should I try to push myself in, too?” “No, I don’t want us both stuck in here. We don’t know what we’re dealing with.” “Enzo?” Wren calls from behind me. “Do you need help?” “No, almost done!” I call back to her before dropping my voice again so only Key can hear. “I’ll probably be kicked out of him when they leave the street, right? So I’ll be right back.” Key still looks concerned. “You can’t leave me, Schuyler,” he says. “I need you. I can’t be alone like this, I . . .” I swallow. “I know. I’m not going to. My spirit can’t leave the street, so I promise I’ll be right back.” I can’t read his expression, but I don’t have much time to figure it out as there’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn around to face Wren, who holds out a container of mints and a plastic bag. “I think my parents would prefer if you barfed in your own bushes,” she says. “Let’s get you home.” 32
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I can’t say anything to Key in front of her, so I just give him one more desperate look before Wren leads me over to her car. She leans to strap the seat belt over my lap. “You might have a fever,” Wren says. “You look red.” “Maybe,” I say, voice cracking. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you home, babe.” Which is . . . where, exactly? Wren pulls the car out of the driveway, turning onto the street. My breath starts coming out faster. I haven’t been in a car since . . . I look away as we pass the telephone pole a few houses down. It’s still so hard to face. Being in a car for the first time since Key and I died definitely doesn’t make this easier. I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing away memories of those last moments. I can’t think about it, I can’t think about it, I can’t— We’re approaching the end of the street. I’ll be kicked out of Enzo’s body any moment. I have to be. Right? My stomach tightens as we get closer to the stop sign. I turn around in my seat. Key’s there behind the car, following us, expression clearly worried. I wish I could say something else to reassure him. “Is something there?” Wren asks. “Not really,” I lie. “A squirrel.” “Oh, okay.” Wren lifts off the brake. “Apparently a bunch of squirrels and rabbits have been found dead in this area. There must be a coyote or something nearby.” “Weird,” I say, face heating. “I can’t imagine why.” Wren gives me a look. “Well, I just told you. Coyote.” 33
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“Right, right, coyote. Definitely. Makes sense. Hope people are keeping their pets inside.” That, at least, is a real hope that I have. I don’t want to accidentally eat someone’s best friend when I inevitably return to being an evil spirit. Wren turns off Sycamore, taking a left. I brace for whatever impact is coming but . . . I remain in Enzo’s body. Well, shit. “I’ll figure out a way to help you!” Key’s voice calls. “Just . . . hang in there!” Wren will hear me if I talk, so I can only put my hand against the window, nodding at him, until Key and his scared expression get farther and farther away. A strange blend of excitement and fear bubbles up inside me. I’m not supposed to leave. I’ve been stuck on Sycamore since my death. This isn’t supposed to happen. But, despite myself, I can’t shake the wonder at getting to see past my street for the first time in so many years. It doesn’t look too different, since I hadn’t died that long ago, but it almost feels new. “Since when did The Crab Shack close down?” I blurt. When I was alive, my parents didn’t plan dinners out often, but The Crab Shack was a silly seafood restaurant that we went to every year on my birthday. I always got coconut shrimp, a crab boil, and a Shirley Temple with the syrup brought out in a hollow toy shark. Instead of the nautical theme I was used to, the restaurant was now some abstract art, hip- looking place called The Spot. The hell does that mean? My chest sinks. The Crab Shack died too? It would have been a nice meal to have, just one more time, before I get out of this body. 34
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Once I figure out how to do that. “It closed down like two years ago, at least,” Wren comments. “You can be so oblivious.” “Ha. Yeah.” I need to be less obvious. But it’s just been so long. It’s hard not to marvel at being alive again. I roll down the passenger window, adjusting my head so I can feel both the wind and sun on my face. It’s incredible. Although it doesn’t erase the guilt over Key still being on Sycamore, not being able to feel any of this again. I shouldn’t be enjoying this. I should be trying to figure out how to get back. But I mean . . . Key will understand. It’s not like this was on purpose. And I have to be pushed out of this body at some point. (Do possessions have a time limit?) “How are you holding up?” Wren asks. “I’m fine,” I say, before remembering my excuse for acting so weird. “Aside from the fact that I’m about one speed bump away from shitting my pants.” She rolls her eyes but laughs. “Well, try not to get it on my seats.” “I’ll run outside and shit in the first yard I see with an American flag.” I rub my chin and hide my confusion over the strange feel of it. “Or one with a dog. They might not know the difference.” “Great plan, except I’m pretty positive you’d be caught on the doorbell camera.” “The what?” “The point is, try to hold it. We’re almost to your place.” 35
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My place. Which means Enzo’s place. Panic twists in my gut. I can’t go to Enzo’s house. What am I supposed to do there? What about his family? I don’t know anything about his personal life. And I don’t think his parents would appreciate me saying I stole their son’s body and that I don’t know where the hell his soul is at the moment, but I’m truly and sincerely hoping I didn’t kill him. My palms sweat. I need to get out of Enzo. But before I do . . . “I just want to say I’m sorry for earlier,” I find myself saying on Enzo’s behalf. “I’ve been pretty shitty to you, and you deserve a lot better than that.” A look of surprise crosses Wren’s face. “Oh, um. Thank you.” I don’t know what else to add. Wren deserves that apology, but she deserves it from her actual boyfriend, not the ghost temporarily possessing him. What the hell am I doing? If anything, I should be convincing her to dump his ass immediately, not swaying her to stay. I grind my teeth, trying to think of a way to start that conversation. “You have to poop that bad?” Wren teases. “Life is pain,” I joke, voice hollow. Wren stops the car on some random street. It’s right in front of a small, one-story house that looks like it has seen better days. The paint is peeling off the window shutters, the small porch has some cracked and missing planks, and the grass is overgrown and just about as brown as it is green. “My house?” I say, only it comes out like a question. “Last time I checked, yeah.” 36
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I don’t make an immediate move to step out. This is all so weird and happening so fast. I feel like I’m in some kind of messed-up dream, and I’ll wake up back in my attic, with my books and my constantly fogged up mirror and my plush cat Oreo. I can’t tell if that thought is relieving or disappointing. “Wren,” I say, twisting toward her. “I have to tell you something important.” I can’t tell her everything, but I can at least make up some excuse about why I can’t go into that house. “Not now you don’t. Go to the bathroom and get rest.” “But I really—” “Go. We’ll talk tomorrow.” She kicks me out of the car and after one final wave from her, she’s driving down the street, disappearing from sight. Leaving me alone, unsure of where exactly I am, in front of the house I apparently live in.
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