I’m not a fool; I know I’m not very popular. When you’re at the smelly end of the popularity ladder, you know where you stand. It doesn’t matter if you’re the most unpopular kid in school or the third most unpopular kid. The stink of it touches everyone near the bottom rung. So, at twelve years old, I’ve gotten used to the bullying and torment, but being ignored is probably the worst.

My mom used to make excuses for how they treated me, saying ‘Thomas, they just don’t understand you,’ or ‘Maybe they’re bullied, and they’re taking out their frustration on you,’ (like that makes it okay?), or my all-time favorite ‘They’re jealous of you.’ Ha . . . I’m gonna say the last one was definitely a swing and a miss; no one was jealous of my life. But Mom always followed with, ‘One day, all these bullying problems will go away.’ I hope that’s true; perhaps that will be today? I doubt it.

The morning was warm, unusual for Fall. I remember nothing about waking up, getting dressed, or even what I had for breakfast. I’m not hungry, so I must have eaten, right? Have you ever had a meal then forgot what you ate twenty minutes later? I hope so; then, I won’t feel so weird about it.

The soft breeze blew through the Oaks and Maples, the limbs shivering under the windy caress. Leaves of yellow, orange, and red dripped from the branches, each trying valiantly to defy the grasp of autumn and maintain their lofty perch, but they knew their fate was sealed. Piles of leaves hugged the side of the road, waiting for the city to come by and scoop them up. I wanted to stomp through the mounds of color, kicking the leaves into the air, but it took every bit of willpower to resist the urge. I was sure the adults staring at me from kitchen windows would yell and scream, then tell Mom. She has enough to worry about; I can’t add that too.

Ahead, Jimmy Turkelson came running out of his front door, his trumpet case in one hand, his book bag in the other.

“Hey, Jimmy!” I yelled.

Jimmy was like me, one of the Unpopulars. They called him band-geek, whereas I was just a geek. I wonder if band-geek is higher on the ladder than just a regular, everyday geek?

He didn’t answer. I know he recognized my voice. We had lunch together with the chess club in Mrs. Schoenberg’s room every day. We didn’t really like chess, but it served as a safe refuge; none of us enjoyed the horrors of the cafeteria. The Unpopulars were walking targets for spoonfuls of mashed potatoes and cartons of milk . . . no thank you.

“Jimmy!” I shouted again.

Still no reply. He climbed into his dad’s Volvo, and they headed for school, likely for band practice before school started.

I waved at him as they pulled out of the driveway, but still nothing.

A lump formed in my throat.

“I thought we were friends,” I whispered to myself.

Throughout lunch, we would talk about Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter (we both liked Nearly Headless Nick and Moaning Myrtle), never getting stuck in an uncomfortable silence. But he just ignored me.

The lump moved down into my stomach.

I sighed, my breath sounding like a hissing tire. “I thought Jimmy was my best friend.”

A hollow loneliness wrapped around me, making the air feel still as if lifeless. The chirping birds seemed to lose their beautiful songs as the leaves overhead grew pale. Everything around me felt empty as I continued my trek toward school.

When I finally reached the steps of Salem Middle School, I noticed a huge black ribbon stretched across the front of the school. That’s weird, I thought.

Kids piled out of the busses, the typical laughter and insults unusually absent. I stayed back, unwilling to join the chaos. Someone had tripped me enough times to know the end of the line was where I belonged.

The sound of instruments tuning up trickled from the gymnasium.

“Why was the band in the gym?” I asked Becky Rollins, the last to leave bus 12.

She didn’t respond . . . what a surprise.

Have you ever had one of those days where everything felt . . . wrong? I had the feeling about today.

I followed the last kids into the school. Instead of heading for lockers, Mr. Jacobs, the math teacher, directed everyone to the gym.

“Becky, are you the last one off the busses?” Mr. Jacobs asked.

She nodded; Becky didn’t talk very much.

“Hello . . . I’m still here,” I said. Neither responded.

The sadness punishing me over being ignored by Jimmy now turned to anger.

“Mr. Jacobs, is this some kind of joke?” I asked.

All I heard in return were footsteps echoing through the now empty hallway, well, empty except for me.

Anger gathered under my skin, making it prickle. My jaw ached; I realized I was clenching my teeth. I relaxed a little but couldn’t keep my hands from clenching into fists. Fury blossomed within me, sending waves of heat across my body. Sweat trickled down my forehead as the cruelty of this joke hammered into me.

“The entire school was ignoring me.” I wanted to scream, well, maybe that’s what I needed to do.

For the first time in my life, I wouldn’t back down. The principal, Mrs. Sinclair, would hear what I thought about this terrible prank. I didn’t care if I got in trouble or not; she would listen to what I had to say.

I stormed down the hallway. A few locker doors hung open, hurried kids not closing them all the way. I slammed them shut, venting my anger on the narrow metal door. Turning the corner, I headed straight for the gym. Mrs. Sinclair was speaking to the students, saying something serious. There were no jokes, no laughter; everyone was quiet as a gravestone. The principal’s words sounded garbled, my rage making them difficult to understand.

Just before I reached the doors to the gym, I came to the recently installed full-length mirror. Above it, dark purple words stood out on the yellow wall.

IMAGINE WHOM YOU WANT TO BE IN 10 YEARS, THEN MAKE IT HAPPEN.

I stared into the mirror and gasped. My skin tingled, then turned cold as if a million icy needles pricked my flesh.

What’s happening to me?

Before me stood a vision of myself I didn’t recognize. My skin was a pale white mixed with a faint shade of gray. A grayish-yellow aura floated around my head like a colorful mist. I reached up and tried to touch it, but my hand passed through the pale fog. Bright white orbs sat where my normal blue eyes would have been. I wore the same clothes as I had on yesterday, I never do that. The shirt and pants were torn in places as if ripped apart violently. But worst of all . . . I could see through myself!

“Am I a . . .” I didn’t want to finish the thought.

A large sign hung from one wall of the gym: “Memorial for Thomas Briar.”

I glanced inside the gym. Lucas Miller, the most popular kid in school, was at the podium. “I was in the same Spanish class as Thomas. We would work on vocabulary together, and he would always help me with the difficult words.”

What a lie. Lucas never noticed me. I’ve been in school with him since we were six, and he’s never spoken to me.

Another student took the podium; more lies spewed out to help with their own guilt.

I sighed and sat on the ground next to the door.

I’m dead. I’m a ghost.

My body was an empty shell filled with sorrow and tears yet to be shed, the soul of a wounded child trying to cry out for help, but no one would ever hear me.

“I am utterly alone,” I said to no one. “Now, I am truly invisible.”

“You are only if you wish to be,” a voice said from behind.

I glanced over my shoulder and found another ghost standing nearby. At first, fear gripped my soul with its merciless claws. I felt my heart beat faster, the tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump pounding in my ears. Taking a step back, I tried to speak buy my mouth was completely dry, my tongue suddenly dumb and unable to work.

“You need not be afraid.” The woman, maybe my mom’s age, took a step closer. She wore a long, brown dress, a thick white collar around her neck. It was as if she’d just stepped off the Mayflower. Bright orange loops of color floated around her head, the intricate weaving of hues moving and pulsing as if alive.

I put my hand to my chest, trying to still my heart, but . . . . wait a minute. “I can feel my heart?” I took another step back.

She nodded. “Sometimes I find myself sweating, which doesn’t make a lot of sense considering I’m dead. We do this to ourselves just like we create the bodies we see. Our minds, or maybe our souls, I’m not sure which, creates our bodies, heartbeats, sweat, tears . . . all the things we need so we can feel like ourselves.” She took a step closer. “My name is Martha Corey, and I am a friend.”

“How do you know you’re a friend?” I asked. “You might be here to kill me.”

Martha laughed. “Kill you . . . you’re already dead.” She reached out and offered me her hand. “For the first time, you’ll find everyone is equal in the Land of the Dead. We’ll all hoping to cross-over someday and see what comes next. But for now, we exist next to the living, but they cannot see or hear us.”

“Cross-over? What does that mean?”

“I’ll explain soon.” Martha smiled. I’m sure she was trying to ease my fears. “For now, let’s leave this place. Watching your funeral or memorial service never makes you feel better. I know; I’ve seen countless ghosts do it, and they all wished they had just let go. That’s what you need to do . . . let go of your old life and accept this one.” She extended her hand a little closer to me. “Do you think you can do that? Let your old life go?”

I glanced at all the kids in the gym, then turned back to Martha. With a sigh, I took her hand.

“Excellent.” Martha pulled me closer and led me away from the service and toward the school’s exit. “I have so many ghosts for you to meet. You’re going to find no one judges, and no one bullies in the Land of the Dead. We have much more important things to do.”

“And what’s that?”

“Learn.” She squeezed my hand. “We try to learn about our emotions, about how to help others, about how to be a better person dead than we were alive. When that happens, we can cross-over to whatever comes next.”

“And what comes next?”

She shrugged. “No one knows. When you cross, you’ll have to come back and tell me.”

Martha chuckled, her laughter instantly contagious. We both laughed as we stepped out of the school, and I started my new life in the Land of the Dead.