Manifest Read Online Free PDF Page A

Camy. I wonder what he’s thinking.
    No. I don’t.
    I don’t care what he’s thinking or why he’s here. I don’t want to see him or talk to him. Or do I? I can’t help but notice again how cute he is.
    Mrs. Tremble’s voice drones on and on until finally, thankfully, the bell rings. I wasn’t taking any notes so grabbing my stuff only takes half a second. I’m turning, pushing my chair back and about to exit the row when Alyssa reaches out and forcefully grabs my elbow.
    “Look, don’t think because I let you slide once I’ll do it again. Know your place and stay in it.”
    I pull out of her grasp. “Get out of my face,” I say, giving her a look that I hope says I’m not playing. Because I’m not. There’s no way I’m going to fight over a boy, especially one I’m not even interested in. But I have no intention of letting her bully me either.
    I am already walking away when I hear her screeching something about “new girl,” then her voice sounds funny and she screams. Turning back, I see her just as her feet flip from under her and she hurls face-first to the floor.
    “Ohmigod, Alyssa! Are you all right?” Camy is right there, dropping her books and falling to her knees to help Alyssa, who is looking up, her eyes shooting daggers at me.
    As for me, I ignore the daggers and resist the urge to laugh at her fall. Why? Because I’m more stunned at the fact that Ricky’s standing right next to where Alyssa was a few seconds ago. His arms aren’t folded over his chest anymore. Instead his head is thrown back as he laughs. Nobody can hear the sound but me, just like nobody in that room knows he’s probably the one who pushed Alyssa.
    Great, now my ghost friend is fighting my battles.

five
    I slam the door to my bedroom shut, not sure why I’m mad, just knowing that I want desperately to be alone.
    I get that feeling a lot—the wanting to be alone. It’s Friday, so I toss my books into a corner vowing not to touch them again until late Sunday night.
    Kicking my shoes off, I move toward my bed. Not because I’m sleepy but because I want to get off my feet. Lazy-teenager syndrome, Grandma Bentley calls it. I talked to her last week. She asked me to come to South Carolina to spend the summer with her. I didn’t answer because I don’t really want to go down South where heat waves suffocate the air twenty-four hours a day and the most exciting thing is riding to the Piggly Wiggly for a frozen fruit bar. Compared to that, Lincoln seems like a resort in the Bahamas.
    My thoughts of summer are interrupted by what I see on my bed. Right in the center of my puffy blue comforter is a sketch pad, charcoal tip pencils, markers and paints.
    Had Janet been reading my mind? Maybe she has some freaky power, too. How had she known I’d been thinking of drawing, something that once had seemed to be all I could think of? For a second my fingers tingle as I see theart supplies. I want to touch them, to pick them up and lose myself in my sketches.
    No. That was in my other life. The one where I was a normal—well, somewhat normal—teenager and all was well.
    All is definitely not well now, I say to myself as I use my arm to push the contents off my bed, ignoring the sound as they scatter on the floor so that I can lie down.
    I roll to my side, pulling my knees up to my chest, cradling my head on my folded arm and sigh.
    This is my life now. This is all I do.
    Go to school.
    Come home.
    Sleep.
    Think.
    You really need to get a life.
    I jump at the sound of his voice but don’t bother to turn to look at him before saying, “That’s cute coming from someone who’s dead.”
    He laughs and the butterflies in my stomach flutter. You didn’t like the gift your mother bought you?
    “How can you tell?”
    Well, it was rude to throw it on the floor no matter how you felt about it.
    “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
    But I gave it to you anyway. You know how many kids would kill for their parents to do something