Page 9 of All Her Ghosts

“Stop it,” Mrs. Wilson snaps. “While, yes, salt conducts electricity and remnants are known to seek and consume electrical sources, saltisa purifier. It repels rot and therefore death.”

Sebastian recoils, nose wrinkling. He corkscrews back in his seat and our eyes meet like a circuit closing, the electric impact of solidarity sizzling through my veins, heating up my face.

Are you hearing this crap?he mouths, a barely hidden smile twitching up the corners of his lips.

“Anyone else? Another protective article?” Mrs. Wilson asks.

Without raising a hand, the third mean girl folds her arms and smugly says, “Iron.” Sebastian claps a dramatic hand over his heart. He swings back around, head tipped, blinking at her with elaborate incredulity.

“I don’t think I’ve heard anything so dumb in my entire life,” he whispers to me under his breath. But Mrs. Wilson writes it down anyway, nodding at this no doubt sage offering of ancestral wisdom.

“Correct. Iron is an impermeable barrier, as evidenced by our defenses outside. Ghosts cannot pass through iron in any way as the metal acts as a conduit, safely dispersing the remnant energy, neutralizing the manifestation.”

Pitched low, still for my ears only, Sebastian mutters, “Oh, so hand the thing that eats energy a lightning rod.”

The spark in my stomach kindles higher, lapping at my rib cage. I dig my knuckles into my sternum, but it doesn’t help.

“In sum,” Mrs. Wilson lectures over us, “so long as we follow safety procedures and keep our iron gates securely closed when not in use, we may consider ourselves an impenetrable fortress.”

“Except those iron gates open with electricity,” I mutter, shaking my head, “which we just established theyeat.”

Shooting me a sharp glance, Mrs. Wilson purses her lips, widens her eyes. A warning to stop saying all the inconvenient quiet parts out loud. We’re just supposed to drink the Kool-Aid, not ask why it tastes funny, but I am sick to my soul of swallowing lie after lie.

My teeth squeak before I realize I’m grinding them; my fingers are numb, my soul hazing slightly out of my body. I grip the desk with fourhands, flesh and party trick overlapping. Distantly, I remind myself to blink.

It doesn’t take. I stare, fixating, watching every uncomfortable twitch of her furred lip, turning back to the board like her work is done here, like I’ll tremble in fear at the suggestion of a glance, the whisper of a consequence.

“How else do we protect our homes?” she asks.

“Talismans,” a boy calls out.

“That falls under iron. More specifically?”

“Uh,” he falters. “Those suncatcher, pinwheel things? The, like… wind chimes that spin and glitter?”

Mrs. Wilson beams. “Ghost scares, yes. And why do those work?”

My lungs catch fire. Jaw hard, too loud, I tell her, “They don’t.”

Laughter spatters the room.

“She would know,” someone mutters. Mrs. Wilson’s smile doesn’t even falter.

“Something to add, Persephone? If you have an expertise, please share it.” If anything, her smirk tugs wider, an eager little glint in her beady eyes. “Stand up. Address the room. Explain to us the theory behind ghost scares.”

At least down south, they had the grace to hide their venom with a “bless your heart.” Here, I’m supposed to appease the hurt feelings of a mean girl who never figured out how to leave high school, only how to hide her meanness long enough to be put in charge of one. I stare her dead in the face, my dry stare a stubborn challenge, and refuse to concede.

Think I’ll shy from a public shaming? I’m not the one still wandering the same hallways I grew up in. A ghost too slow to know it’s dead.

“A lot of ancient cultures associate ghosts and mirrors. Ghost scares specifically stem from the Ancient Greeks, who used polished bronze mirrors to talk to dead relatives in the underworld. Victorians loved spooky stuff, especially appropriating it from every culture they could get their hands on, so it wasn’t a huge leap from ‘talking to your dead mom in a mirror’ to ‘dead mom is trapped in the mirror, let’s have a fun séance.’” I smile, too many teeth. “Does that answer your question? I can list my sources if you want?”

“Shut up,” somebody mutters. “Nobody did that. She’s just making shit up to sound smart.”

“Explains why her makeup looks like that.” One-third of the mean-girl trio giggles. “Spooky’s afraid of mirrors.”

“That is one explanation actually,” Mrs. Wilson says, as close as she can come to telling me I’m right without saying it. “The Victorians were much laxer with spiritual safety than we are in the modern day.”

Because the Victorians could afford to be, I want to scream.Because the ghostsweren’t there.Haven’t you been paying attention? Haven’t you noticed the difference yet between what youknowand what theytellyou?