“Ghosts don’t sing in tune you know,” she said, twirling a length of red hair around her thumb, the tip purpling. “It can drive you crazy.”
I’d met Sarah over a week ago, but I can’t say I knew her better. She offers these declarations, “The vet said my pet frog died of influenza. I think he was murdered.” But never carries on with an explanation or the slightest hint of mirth. I mean, that may be my fault, as despite being thirteen and Scottish, I’m really bad at spotting sarcastic, dry humor; especially here in America. So, as I watched Sarah allow her thumb tip to survive another day, I finally broke.
“Ok, how do you know ghosts don’t sing in tune? And why would anyone murder a frog? And, well, that’s just the beginning of my questions. Because, I’m sorry, but I can’t tell if you’re pulling my leg or just a really dark person or , I dunno, weird.” I wished I hadn’t said weird the moment it pushed its way into the air. I am weird. What’s more, Sarah knows it. I think it may be the only reason she speaks to me. So to imply that perhaps I don’t like weird people is both wrong and dangerous to our new and fragile friendship. “Not that any of that is bad. I’d just like to know because I’m not good at telling when you’re serious.”
“Is it the accent? Like, you can’t tell by tone? I have a hard time telling if you’re serious sometimes, especially when you talk about Scotland. Like, do people there really eat sheep stomach?” Sarah said the last two words in an approximation of my accent. I tried not to smile.
“We do. Now, answer my bloody questions woman.” No good. I smiled.
Sarah took a slow breath. Her pale skin pinked under the splatter of freckles across her cheeks, “I see dead people.”
“Ok, that was a joke, right?”
Sarah had been reclined on a large root of the oak tree we lounged under, but she sat forward to look me in the eyes and said, “Yes.” The sideways autumn sunlight made shadow shapes on the ground.
I sensed I was not going to get any answers so I boldly stood up, dusted my trousers and hoisted up my backpack, as though leaving.
“I think you have a hard time knowing when people are joking because you don’t joke much yourself.” She cocked her head and furrowed orange brows.
“Perhaps. But that doesn’t answer my questions.” I attempted a sigh.
Sarah stood as she spoke, not looking at me, “My mother killed herself in our house two years ago. Sometimes...I think I hear her singing. She never could sing worth a damn, so maybe ‘ghosts’ is too much of a generalization.”
I took her hand to steady her as she wobbled, off kilter on the root. I promised myself not to let go, if she didn’t let go. She didn’t.
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