Wintergirls by Laurie Halse Anderson

Emma?” he asks.
    It takes a minute to register that he’s talking to me, that I still haven’t told him who I am because it’s easier to lie. I should say “Much better, thanks, how are you?” with the good-girl smile, but I am too freaking tired.
    He pushes the soggy napkins to the end of the table.
    “Seeing dead people can be weird.”
    I hold my fingers in the steam rising from the mug and watch the cook working the grill, the toaster, and the blender. Cassie is sitting in every chair, laughing, chewing, pointing at the special on the menu.

    “She’s not in her coffin,” I blurt out.
    He freezes for a second, eyes fixed on mine. His hair is washed and pulled back into a short ponytail. The wooden plug in his earlobe has been switched out for a hollow bone circle that makes a round window next to his jaw.
    He’s wearing a button-down dingy shirt with a sad black tie. His hands are clean. He shaved, sort of.
    “I know,” he says. “That’s just her shell, not her soul.”
    I shake my head. “That’s not what I mean. She sat up in the coffin. Then she disappeared. Didn’t you see that?”
    He lays both of his hands on mine and leans forward. They’re so warm they should be glowing. “Do me a favor,” he says slowly. “Take a sip, close your eyes, and breathe.”
    “That’s dumb.”
    He smiles and nods. “Yeah, I know. But do it any-way.”
    My hands raise the mug to my lips again. I am muffled in white velvet sheets. The beads click on my abacus: twelve ounces of hot chocolate = 400, but I am freezing. I need to gulp the whole thing down and ask for more drink one mouthful and ignore the taste.
    I sip, set down the mug, no spilling, and close my eyes.
    Breathe, he said. I breathe in pancakes and french fries.
    Nervous smells.
    “Keep breathing,” he orders, his voice a rumble of far-away thunder.
    The cook puts something on the griddle and it hisses.

    Chair legs scratch the floor as the guy sitting at the table next to us leaves. Someone lifts a rack of glasses that tinkle together like rain. A couple of women laugh, their voices tripping over each other. The bathroom door squeaks.
    “Ready?” he asks. “Open your eyes. Don’t think. Just open your eyes and be still.”
    The diner comes back into focus: tables, chairs, lights, kitchen. Posters covering the walls. Through the hole in Elijah’s earlobe I can see the crescent moon and stars painted on the wall under the clock. The girl sitting next to it is not Cassie. Neither is the waiter refilling her mug.
    I turn in my seat to look around. Nobody here is Cassie.
    I’m safe.
    “Better?” he asks.
    “Better. Thanks.”
    “No problem.” He spears a forkful of waffle drenched in maple syrup. “You had a shaky moment. It happens.”
    He shovels the waffle into his mouth.
    “Wait,” I say. “Where did that come from?”
    He points to the table next to us. The waitress hasn’t cleaned it off. It still has her five-dollar bill stuck under the saltshaker, a half-empty cup of coffee, a dirty fork, and an empty place mat with syrup stains.
    “They were just going to throw it away.”
    “That’s disgusting, what about the germs?”
    “Free food never makes me sick. You want some?”
    “No way.”

    He laughs so loud that people turn and stare.
    “Are you always this strange?”
    He laughs again. “Stranger. See this?” He rolls up his sleeve to show the tattoo that takes up his entire forearm: a muscular half-bull, half-man thing riding a bike through a wall of flame, with wings sprouting from its legs and arms and helmet.
    “What is that supposed to be?”
    “He’s the god of bike messengers. Cool, huh? This vision of him came to me one day when I was delivering a package to a law firm in Boston. Saw him so clearly I thought he’d reach out and choke me. He had to go in my skin.”
    “You have visions.”
    “It’s a gift. You should see the tattoo on my butt.”
    “No, thanks.” I give the diner a quick glance. Still no