“Not to you, though?”

I couldn’t help but ask. Joshua didn’t seem offended, because he just laughed.

“Nope, not to me. I do fit, which is the ironic thing. But within reason, I’m going to do what I want without worrying about what other people think.”

“Like talking to an invisible dead girl?”

“Exactly.” Joshua grinned, but then the corner of his mouth quirked up in thought. “You know, this might actually have something to do with Ruth.”

“Huh?”

“My grandma Ruth. She’s the one who told me ghost stories about the bridge when I was a kid. She’s into all that communing-with-the-spirits stuff . . . she and a group of old ladies from around here.”

I balked. “What, like a coven?”

Joshua frowned. Clearly, the fact that he had a ghost-obsessed grandmother hadn’t really struck him as relevant until now. He pondered the thought for a moment and then shook his head, albeit a little indecisively.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I do know they believe in a lot of unbelievable things. I guess I always thought they were full of it . . . until today.”

Joshua gave me an appraising look, and I ducked my head again. I understood his look well enough: I was one of those unbelievable things.

Shakily, I asked, “Do you think she’d have a problem with me? With my . . . existence?”

Joshua shook his head again, looking slightly more assured. “No way. Even though Ruth believes in ghosts, it’s not like she can see them. Besides, she’d probably just be excited to know I proved all her theories right if I told her about you.”

My laugh heightened in pitch, betraying the apprehension I suddenly felt about this topic. “Well, let’s just agree you’re not going to give her a Ouija board anytime soon, okay?”

Joshua must not have noticed my anxiety, because he laughed, too, and settled easily against the concrete table. He was right about his grandmother, of course; my performance in his classroom, unseen by anyone but him, proved it. Yet this seemed like a good moment to change the subject from the supernatural, so I launched into another series of questions about his life.

We continued talking long enough for the gray clouds to clear completely from the sky and then for the subsequent blue to shift into pinks and purples. As the sky changed, Joshua spoke a little about his friends, but mostly about the things he loved: horror movies I’d never seen and musicians I’d never heard of (surprise, surprise, so long after my death), but also literature. When he mentioned how much he liked Ernest Hemingway, an immediate response leaped out of my mouth before I even had time to ponder it.

“Ugh, I hate the way Hemingway writes.”

“Huh? I thought you said you couldn’t remember anything about yourself?”

“I can’t. I don’t,” I floundered. “But . . . I think . . . I do remember not liking Hemingway.”

In reaction to the very name of the author, I had another one of those strange flashes. Suddenly, an image was bright and clear in my mind: a book in my hands, a thin paperback collection of short stories I read while sitting cross-legged in the grass. Summer sun lit up the memory, brighter than the one now setting upon Joshua and me.

I struggled to shake myself from the reverie; and when I did, Joshua looked at me expectantly, almost excitedly. I went on, frowning from the effort to recall the details of the flash.

“I remember . . . I actually remember reading this short story . . . something about a woman and man having this awful conversation while he’s dying on safari. Anyway, I remember thinking, ‘This is not for me.’”

We were silent for a beat, and then he blew out one heavy breath. “I guess I’d have to question your literary judgment but . . . well, I’ll be damned, Amelia.”

“Yeah.” I paused and then, reverently, added, “Dude.”

Joshua laughed and reached absently to brush his fingers across the back of my hand, which I’d laid on top of the bench. The sudden burn on my skin was familiar now—no less fantastic than it was earlier today but a little more expected. And very welcome.

I shivered at his touch, and, inexplicably, the edges of my vision began to blur. At first I thought the shiver had done something to my eyesight. But I quickly realized the change in my vision had nothing to do with my shaking.

Judging from the abrupt shift in my surroundings, I was having another flash. This flash, which followed so soon on the heels of the last one, seemed to have pulled me into some nighttime setting.

Now I knelt in the grass, huddled over a cold, metal object. A small telescope, I think, propped up on short, tripod legs. I couldn’t really focus on the telescope, though, because my face was tilted up to the night.

Above me, the sky was the kind you could only find in a place almost devoid of man-made lights. I could see the stars—all of them at once, it seemed. Millions of them washed across the sky, glittering and flickering in the darkness. I wanted to gasp from the impossible beauty of them, but the flash wouldn’t let me; apparently, whatever memory I was experiencing, I had no control over it.

I’d resolved to enjoy the view for however long it lasted when a noise from behind startled me.

“Focus, Amelia,” a female voice cautioned. “You aren’t going to get a science credit if you don’t at least try to finish your work.”

Beyond my control, the flash-me sighed. “Yeah, yeah, Mom. And if I wasn’t homeschooled, class would’ve been over about six hours ago.”

My thoughts raced. My mom? I was talking to my mom?

I wanted so badly for the woman to continue speaking, for the flash to keep going, I felt almost physical pain when it ended, shimmering and fading around me until the afternoon sunlight flooded back into sight.

Now I was free to gasp all I wanted.

I dragged in a ragged breath, one that must have frightened Joshua, because he immediately spun around to face me.

“Amelia?” he asked. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

I shook my head. “I . . . I’m not sure. I think I just remembered something else.”

“What?”

For the briefest second, I thought about lying to him. I had the inexplicable urge to keep this memory all to myself, to hoard it away like some secret. But looking up into his midnight blue eyes, the moment passed. I didn’t want to keep anything from him; I wasn’t even sure I could.

“My mom,” I answered. “I remembered my mom, I think.”

He flopped heavily against the picnic table, obviously stunned. “What do you mean? Did you see her?”

“No, I just heard her voice.”

“Huh,” he said, staring blankly out into the tree line. “I think I’m a little confused by how this ‘remembering’ thing works for you, Amelia.”

“You and me both,” I muttered, looking down at the bench.

Concentrating on the cracks and imperfections in the concrete beneath me, I tried to recall what I’d heard: the tenor of my mother’s voice, the flavor of her words. Were we fighting in that memory? Had she been angry with me, or I with her?

When I looked up at Joshua, I realized he had turned back to me and was waiting for some further response.

I sighed and shrugged. “Honestly, Joshua, I have no idea how I’m remembering all this stuff. Or why. I kind of think it has something to do with you, actually.”

Joshua blinked. “Me? Why?”

“These flashes of memory—I never had them before I met you. And now I’m getting them more and more. Twice, just now, while we were talking. So . . . I think maybe you might have triggered the memories somehow.”

Joshua pondered the suggestion for a moment and then he broke into a huge grin. “Well, that’s a good thing, right?”

I bit my lip, frowning. “Yeah, I guess so. It’s just a lot to take in, you know?”

“Definitely,” Joshua murmured. I could tell from the glow in his eyes, however, that he wasn’t really thinking about how this was a lot to take in; he looked . . . excited. Thrilled, in fact. He confirmed my suspicions with an emphatic nod. “No matter what, Amelia, you have to admit it’s still pretty cool.”