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of spilled paint, the brightness of which made me think of a new box of crayons.
    Mr. Connelly, the drawing teacher, stood by the door, checking off names and giving instructions. “We’ve got two classes in here this period,” he said. “If you’re here for Intro to Drawing, tape a piece of newsprint to one of those drawing boards and pick a bench on the right side of the room.” Most of the students in the room had moved to the right; it looked like only two were in the more advanced class on the left. They were left alone to do as they pleased for the most part. Luckies.
    Like most intro-level electives, Intro to Drawing had everything from overeager freshmen to uninterested seniors who just needed an art credit to graduate. Once my class was settled, Mr. Connelly gave the usual orientation spiel. Then he explained that we’d be studying perspective first, and he told us to sketch a view of the classroom from our seats, paying special attention to angles and lines.
    I’d barely penciled in the walls and floor when someone behind me hissed, “Hey!” Figuring the hisser was talking to a friend, I ignored him.
    He didn’t give up, though.
    “Hey, girl with the black hair!”
    I wasn’t in the mood. Continuing to ignore him, I sketched in the windows.
    Then something brushed by my feet. I looked down to see my messenger bag sliding slowly away from me. I stomped on one corner, pinning it in place, then turned to glare at the sandy-haired guy tugging on the strap.
    “Quit it.”
    It was one of the bullies from the hallway, the ones wearing the Palmetto jerseys. I hoped he’d gotten detention for not following the dress code. He grinned at me with the kind of perfect teeth that were probably sporting a full set of braces a year or two earlier—with green and yellow spacers, I bet. More interestingly, a ghost was peeringcuriously over his shoulder. The ghost also wore a jersey. Dress codes don’t mean much when you’re dead.
    “How come you didn’t answer me?” the guy asked.
    “I’m busy.”
    “You’re that Addison chick, right?”
    “Why?”
    “Your dad runs that funeral home.”
    The guy turned to his fellow jersey-wearing jocks. “See? Told you it was her.”
    A blond girl squinted at me. “And you seriously live right there in the funeral home? How can you stand it with all those dead bodies around?” She wore a snug yellow T-shirt with CHEERLEADER and a palmetto leaf printed in green across the chest. How come no one seemed to be following the dress code but me?
    “It’s just my dad’s job. And we live upstairs. Not with the bodies.”
    Cheerleader wrinkled her nose. “Doesn’t it smell?”
    Oh, I
so
did not have the patience for this garbage. “The bodies are nothing. It’s the ghosts you gotta watch out for.” I gave Ghost Jock a pointed I-see-you glance, then stood up and moved to another bench.
    Some ghosts know right away that I can see them; it takes others longer to catch on, and Ghost Jock was apparently of the slower variety. His eyes widened andfollowed me. Like Henry the janitor, he was blue and filmy and translucent.
    “Is she serious?” Cheerleader whispered to the head jock.
    “Don’t be a dumbass, Cherry,” Head Jock said back.
    (
Cherry? Really? Come on.
Her name matched her glittery red lip gloss, and that was just sad.)
    “But I heard she freaked out in the hall this morning.”
    “She’s making it up.”
    I went back and stood beside Head Jock and quietly said, “I think the ghost standing behind you would back me up.” I knew I was committing some kind of popularity suicide by squaring off against a jock and a cheerleader this early in the year, but I didn’t care. I hated them on principle.
    Ghost Jock rolled his eyes and gestured for me to be quiet.
    “What the hell do you mean?” Head Jock glanced around.
    “He’s tall, dark haired, and he’s wearing a Palmetto jersey. Number Forty-eight. Friend of yours?” I grabbed a fresh sheet of newsprint and