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Authors: Kristi Charish
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to admit it was pretty.
I pushed open the door to the first stall, turned the lamp on and wiped the mirror down with glass cleaner I kept in my bag. Satisfied any residual stains were gone, I pulled out the red lipliner I kept in my backpack in order to contact Nate.
Nate, you there? I wrote in the top left corner of the mirror.
I counted thirty seconds before the ghost-grey glass fogged up and letters from the Otherside etched themselves underneath mynote in a tight, slanted, capital-letter script—the only way Nate’s writing was legible.
YOUR LATE, K. WHERES MY APPOLOGY?
Oh, for the love of…Well, at least he’d had the decency not to write backwards. Just below Nate’s fogged note, I wrote: Learn to spell and maybe you’ll get one .
I waited. A minute passed with no reply.
I rolled my eyes. Hold a grudge much? Nate, get out of the mirror .
STILL WAITING , came Nate’s fogged reply.
I glared at the mirror. “Come on, Nate,” I said, knowing full well he could hear me. Down here the barrier was thinner. Something to do with proximity to water and magnetic fields from the west coast plates.
SAY IT.
I sighed. Eventually, Nate would get bored and come out on his own. Unfortunately, if we had any hope of making rent this month, I needed him for a seance. Tomorrow.
I caved in word if not in spirit. “Fine. Seattle grunge rock reshaped the international music scene. There. Happy?”
… AND?
I swore. “Nate—”
SAY IT .
Oh, for crying out loud. “And grunge style had significant societal influence that reverberated through the fashion world. Truce?” I gave my grey reflection in the mirror my best stop-screwing-with-me expression. I couldn’t see Nate yet, but I knew damn well he could see me.
TRUCE was finally scrawled across the mirror.
“Thank god,” I said. I stepped to the side to give him room.
Watching a ghost materialize is a rush, even if you’ve seen it a hundred times. An ash-grey fog slid out of the mirror and coalesced in front of me. A pair of red Converse sneakers formed first—Nate usually materialized from the feet up—followed by ripped jeans and a bright-yellow happy-face T-shirt with a red plaid flannel shirt tied around his waist. I don’t think Nate had ever actually worn the damn plaid shirt, just figured it was part of the grunge package.
His head came last, complete with his dated brown shag. So many things went through my mind. “Can’t afford a haircut?” topped the list, followed closely by, “What idiot gave you a pair of nail clippers?” Ghosts can’t create things. They’re dead, so it’s beyond their scope. But mimicking from memory is well within their repertoire, meaning Nate was perpetually stuck in 1995.
“Hey K,” he said, grinning ear to ear.
I crossed my arms. “I hate it when you goad me like this, Nate.”
His grin widened. “You apologized already. Can’t take it back now.”
“I mean your haircut.”
Nate’s smile faltered and he turned to study his reflection in the mirror. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing at all, if you meant it to look like you scalped a ferret and stuck it on your head.”
He ran his fingers through the mess. “It does not look like a ferret.”
“While drunk. With a pair of nail clippers.”
Nate frowned at me. “It’s a social statement against conformity. You just admitted—”
“I know, I know. No need to rub it in. Now come on,” I said, and opened the door. “I’m having a lousy night.” I gave him and his outfit a sideways glance. “Do people still seriously buy that nonconformity shit?”
“All the time. Whoa.” Nate darted around me to get a better look. “What’s with the Christmas lights? I haven’t been out of the game that long, have I?”
By “out of the game,” Nate meant how much time had passed since he’d crossed the barrier. It’s easy for ghosts to lose track of time on the Otherside. Nate was better than most, but he still got jumpy when I moved the
I pushed open the door to the first stall, turned the lamp on and wiped the mirror down with glass cleaner I kept in my bag. Satisfied any residual stains were gone, I pulled out the red lipliner I kept in my backpack in order to contact Nate.
Nate, you there? I wrote in the top left corner of the mirror.
I counted thirty seconds before the ghost-grey glass fogged up and letters from the Otherside etched themselves underneath mynote in a tight, slanted, capital-letter script—the only way Nate’s writing was legible.
YOUR LATE, K. WHERES MY APPOLOGY?
Oh, for the love of…Well, at least he’d had the decency not to write backwards. Just below Nate’s fogged note, I wrote: Learn to spell and maybe you’ll get one .
I waited. A minute passed with no reply.
I rolled my eyes. Hold a grudge much? Nate, get out of the mirror .
STILL WAITING , came Nate’s fogged reply.
I glared at the mirror. “Come on, Nate,” I said, knowing full well he could hear me. Down here the barrier was thinner. Something to do with proximity to water and magnetic fields from the west coast plates.
SAY IT.
I sighed. Eventually, Nate would get bored and come out on his own. Unfortunately, if we had any hope of making rent this month, I needed him for a seance. Tomorrow.
I caved in word if not in spirit. “Fine. Seattle grunge rock reshaped the international music scene. There. Happy?”
… AND?
I swore. “Nate—”
SAY IT .
Oh, for crying out loud. “And grunge style had significant societal influence that reverberated through the fashion world. Truce?” I gave my grey reflection in the mirror my best stop-screwing-with-me expression. I couldn’t see Nate yet, but I knew damn well he could see me.
TRUCE was finally scrawled across the mirror.
“Thank god,” I said. I stepped to the side to give him room.
Watching a ghost materialize is a rush, even if you’ve seen it a hundred times. An ash-grey fog slid out of the mirror and coalesced in front of me. A pair of red Converse sneakers formed first—Nate usually materialized from the feet up—followed by ripped jeans and a bright-yellow happy-face T-shirt with a red plaid flannel shirt tied around his waist. I don’t think Nate had ever actually worn the damn plaid shirt, just figured it was part of the grunge package.
His head came last, complete with his dated brown shag. So many things went through my mind. “Can’t afford a haircut?” topped the list, followed closely by, “What idiot gave you a pair of nail clippers?” Ghosts can’t create things. They’re dead, so it’s beyond their scope. But mimicking from memory is well within their repertoire, meaning Nate was perpetually stuck in 1995.
“Hey K,” he said, grinning ear to ear.
I crossed my arms. “I hate it when you goad me like this, Nate.”
His grin widened. “You apologized already. Can’t take it back now.”
“I mean your haircut.”
Nate’s smile faltered and he turned to study his reflection in the mirror. “What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing at all, if you meant it to look like you scalped a ferret and stuck it on your head.”
He ran his fingers through the mess. “It does not look like a ferret.”
“While drunk. With a pair of nail clippers.”
Nate frowned at me. “It’s a social statement against conformity. You just admitted—”
“I know, I know. No need to rub it in. Now come on,” I said, and opened the door. “I’m having a lousy night.” I gave him and his outfit a sideways glance. “Do people still seriously buy that nonconformity shit?”
“All the time. Whoa.” Nate darted around me to get a better look. “What’s with the Christmas lights? I haven’t been out of the game that long, have I?”
By “out of the game,” Nate meant how much time had passed since he’d crossed the barrier. It’s easy for ghosts to lose track of time on the Otherside. Nate was better than most, but he still got jumpy when I moved the
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