Ghost Program by Marion Desaulniers

known him well until recently, as an acquaintance he’d been a reliable and steady personality.  I’d liked him then, and now I felt something more.
       “I just hope you’re not jumping into a relationship without knowing where it’s going,” said mom.
       “It’s not like that, mom.  He just offered yesterday...”  I almost said when I was attacked but caught myself.  “Spending the summer in Seattle will allow me to get away for awhile.  It’s a constant reminder....of what might’ve happened when that guy broke in last night.”
        Mom had a strange look on her face as if she knew there was something I wasn’t telling her.
       “And you think it’s safer in Seattle, Sam,” she slowly as if pondering her own words.  Her lips parted slightly, and I could see her white, bleached teeth.  “People get shot every day in Seattle.  We came here because it’s safe.” 
       I doubted that people got shot everyday in Seattle.  It was Seattle, not Detroit, and mom was prone to exaggeration.
       “How ironic,” I replied.
       That made her smile, and she began to hum as she straightened up the kitchen, washing a pot in the sink and wiping the countertop.
       I finished the last few bites on my plate.  “I’m gonna go to class.  Bye.”  I grabbed my backpack and keys and walked out the door into dazzling sunlight.

 
     
    ❃ CHAPTER 8 ❃
     
     
     
       T he house didn’t look so sinister in the light of a clear day, although its yard was wrecked.  Wind had uprooted several pines during the night, and their spindly roots jutted out of the moist ground at least ten feet high.  Branches and debris littered the driveway so thick, I wondered if tires could take it without flattening, and there were even pieces of tar paper that had detached from the roof during the night and fluttered to the front lawn.  I walked to my car and opened the driver door, setting my backpack on the passenger seat as blue jays swooped and sang over me, but how could they be so cheerful?  Their homes must have blown away in the gale.  I backed out of the driveway, not failing to notice a police cruiser sitting at the bottom of it.  Had it been there since yesterday?
     
       The highway to town wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be as most of the larger debris had been cleaned off the road, leaving only smaller pieces of wood and leaves to litter the roadway.  I passed where the old pine had almost fallen on us.  Transportation workers had sawed straight through it, leaving its two ends on both sides of the road.  As I approached my college, I could see the Pacific ocean glittering off in the distance, the water blue and sparkling. 
     
       I pulled off the road, parked, and found my way to my first class, English composition taught by Mrs. Pinkerton.  More than a few students were noticeably absent.  I wondered if power had been restored to the whole town or only parts of it and how many of its houses had been thrashed severely by falling trees.  Mrs. Pinkerton began class by asking if there was at least one student who’d take notes for those who couldn’t make it to class because of yesterday’s weather, and a black-haired scene girl raised her hand.
       “Thank you.  If you’d just make copies, you can hand them to me at the beginning of class tomorrow.”
       The girl nodded and smiled.
     
       The thirty minute lecture on thesis writing bored me, and although I took notes and appeared interested, my mind began to wander as I thought about my nightmare and realized that I was not looking forward to my class with Mr. Breame.  My dream had seemed too real, too vivid, too unforgettable, and I questioned whether it held any significance or I just had an overactive imagination. 
     
       Soon English was over, and I walked alone through the narrow hallway to computer programming, stopping to buy a soda out of a vending machine and taking sips of the delicious, sweet