Ghost Girl

Chengyue Zhang, China

Today, strolling down the familiar red-brick pavement, I reached, habitually, for a hanging pagoda branch but soon discerned that what I picked off was not a leaf but flowers. Multiple off-white florets, each the size of a pencil point, clustered sparsely on a thin twig. On each floret, two translucent petals stuck up like a pair of butterfly wings, while the rest bundled up in the shape of a bell. Have these delicate little things always been here? We walked along this street everyday after school, and my impression of the pagoda trees had always been of a tree full of budding leaflets. Perhaps, I was too obsessed over that exuberant greenness to notice the flowers.

Then, to get a closer look I peeled open the petals, and the whole thing disintegrated in my hands. Pieces of white jade and broken filaments laid about my palm. Really thinking about it, I do recall evidences indicating the existence of these flowers: the sticky sweetness that lingered on the soles of my shoes during the hottest and rainiest months of summer; the pale, decaying bits submerged in the soup of dirt and pollen, trod over by passersby; and the flecks of light that fell on your hair.

In my palm were flowers, pagoda flowers. Upon the branch, their older companions had rotted, blow-dried crisp and frail by wind. 

And this, Jing-yuan, is a confession long overdue. It is written not for you but for me—my peace of mind. It is written not to you but to us—who we used to be. Also, don’t worry about accuracy. It’s just a story after all.

—

I feel trapped in my new long, red coat with embroidery on its sleeves. It fits a bit too tight, making it hard to move my arms around. She would not like this coat either. Jing-yuan never likes anything this ‘feminine.’ Stars barely shine through the cover of night. The wind tears through heavy cold on the street, humping along the silence and smell of gasoline. 

My phone has no interest in cooperating with my woolen fingers, so I shed my gloves. I scan the QR code between the two handles of the bike. It is quiet for a while, and then the Mobike sends off a loud, squeaky melody resembling a Christmas tune. Startled, I jump and nervously glance around into the dark street. There is no one. I look down to my phone again:

“Merry Christmas, the bike went on vacation temporarily! :-) Please come back tomorrow morning.” 

Hahaha, how cute… Very appropriate while it’s nine p.m., and I sort of need the bike to go home after this stupid TOEFL junior prep class! The two rows of birch trees by the sidewalk whine in the wind. I attempt another bike. The same thing happens. A car or two swoop by. Their front headlights expose me like a stagelight yet move on just as fast, becoming a bright, impersonal dot of light pollution. Maybe the driver notices me wandering on an empty street, lost.

The streetlamp blinks. And there she is, leaning against a big blank billboard right next to the bus stop across the street, a silhouette against the white light glowing between two sheets of plastic canvas. A piece of metal hangs on the side of the placard and flaps in the wind, beating on the pole periodically. She stands there unflinching, poised in a purple Nike ‘Just Do It’ T-shirt. It is the same one she wore in my lockscreen picture, bold and perfect against her tan skin. What do I do now, Jing-yuan? How can I go home all alone?

She gazes vaguely in my direction, seeming to nudge me with silence: You know what to do. It’s obvious. Sensing my reluctance, she presses further. It's not weak to seek help.

We were close. So close that I could fill out her expression without looking. Or rather, I remember her just an instant before I snapped that photo amidst the waves of strangers in NYC a year ago. She had stopped walking in the middle of the sidewalk and was curiously studying a dark-colored poster with a masked man in a boat. She faced away from me, and I noticed that the baby hairs by her hairline had cute curls to them. They stood upright and sort of glimmered under the nightlight of the city, like the newly grown mane of a cub or the rays of yellow lines that kids like to have shooting from the sun in crayon drawings. Even then her presence occupied the whole of me.

I have no other choice, so I dial my mother's number.  “Mom—” 

“You finished class la? Come—”

“MOM— Mobike’s not working.” I state plainly and squeeze my eyes shut. 

“Sha? What do you mean it’s not working?” I turn up toward the dark sky— “Go find another bike ya.” —but a teardrop spills over. 

“b…bushi…” I open my mouth to answer her but stop upon hearing that flimsy sound coming out of my throat. I slowly let out the rest of that shaky breath, and the white fog is immediately blown away. Jing-yuan, look. There are lights dancing in the sky. They are pretty— no, brilliant.

“Bao-bei...” mother urges gently. 

But what are they? Stars, or lights seeping through the window of a family gathering for a Christmas party— or is it a New Year celebration already? 

I feel that one drop— “It’s just not.”— of a scalding tear rolling out of my eye and swaying its path toward my nose, yet before finding its path—“They are all in maintenance… and I can’t…” —to my lips, it has run cold and is soon dried by the sharp wind roaring against my face. “walk to the subway station. It’s dark, and by the time I arrive, the last train will have already left.”

“I see… You know how to call a taxi on your phone?”

A taxi. I glance at Jing-yuan for advice. You like bikes. You enjoy riding and racing the wind to whichever place in the world. I have always wanted to take you on a ride on my dad’s bike, the spunky one, white with light blue prints, that he used to ride me to school with. I have been practicing. I will pedal you through Xin-wen-hua Jie shaded by pagoda trees. Chasing the wind, I can take you beyond here, to the moon, or to the sun if you’d like. But maybe you wouldn’t like where the wind will lead us, so I will be content anchored to the tar road by the few extra grams of your trust. And on this earth, we’d go in squiggly lines, but we’d always stray together, centers of gravity aligned. You will laugh and dangle your feet by the back wheel. And maybe you will let go with one hand to catch that one leaf falling down. 

By contrast, a car is a cage. Who would want to be confined in a two cubic meter worth of place, stuck and reliant on another human being. 

“No… H-how” I stutter. “How am I supposed to call a taxi as a…”

Don’t say it! My heart throbs against my chest. Don’t. I stare down at my sneakers and open my mouth again. “Can you not c—” come pick me up.

More tears pour out, so I laugh. I laugh at myself, choking on my own words. 

“Why are you wearing a dress?” Jing-yuan asked me, as we stepped on deck of the ferry toward Ellis Island. She squinted, scrutinizing me up and down. “You said you didn’t like dresses.”

Sea breeze lifted up the hem of my garment. It wasn’t a lie! Of course I don’t like dresses. My mom bought this thing for me! I wanted to explain myself, but the words collapsed under a vivid awareness of the past.

That day, under that big, big pagoda tree whose roots penetrated the pavement, where we hung around everyday after school before absolutely having to part our ways, I told her that I, like her, hated wearing dresses. New leaves were sprouting, and the air was crisp. We each balanced on an exposed root and rejoiced over another secret quirk we shared. 

“Bao-bei, are you crying? I can call a taxi for you. Don’t worry.” The softness in my mother's voice finally reaches my ears. I shiver under her tenderness.

“No… I can figure it out myself.” 

“Are you sure?” She asks. “Mom loves you.” 

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.” I hung up. 

I wipe off my tears. I call the nearest taxi. I wait, feeling stifled in my red coat.

During the end of my primary school years, I picked up a weird habit. On my way back home everyday, I always plucked out one single leaf from the pagoda trees, usually a tender leaflet at the tip of the pinnate. I would enclose it in one palm and carry it up to my apartment on the ninth floor. There, I’d take out a wooden 2B pencil, dip the tip of the lead in ink, and write on the leaf: sometimes her name and sometimes a wish for happiness. Then, I would place the leaf between my lips, foisting my will upon it, as a synthetic sweetness seeped in between my teeth and dissolved in my mouth. Slowly licking the leaf clean one last time, I would release it from the window. I’d kneel on my desk and watch it taken by the wind. Sometimes, if the wind was feeling cruel, the leaf would just spiral downward and soon disappear in the big piles of rusted bicycles at the foot of the building. Sometimes, the wind would take the leaf farther off, spinning around and around until it became a peck of green in the gray sky. 

The leaves were dead though, I knew, from the moment I plucked them from the tree. I knew also, no matter how strong the wind was, they would eventually fall onto the earth, stepped on or simply unnoticed. You could say I had a thing with those sad, sad leaves.

Across the street, Jing-yuan fades in and out of my vision, blurring in between dusts of my memory and lights. 

“Yuan-yuan. You are always so… brave.” Broken words escape like bubbles, fragile bubbles with all their vibrant, subtle colors reflected from the light that is her. Wind blows through the space between us. 

Jing-yuan noticed me aiming my phone toward her, so she turned and made a goofy face. I snapped a picture, so she would continue to gaze at me with all her liveliness: eyes opened big, mouth squeezed together, and cheeks sucked in, creating a dimple-like indent on both sides. Then, she released it and laughed, “E eh eeh heh eeh…”

No, it was not a laugh, but breathing. That sound came out every time she inhaled, trailing and whirling in the howling wind. Things are ebbing away.

Am I as vivid in your memory as you are in mine? 

Chengyue is an international Chinese student studying at an American High School. They are a 11th grader, and they mostly write proses and journalism pieces. In their free time, they enjoy watching anime, playing through their musical theatre playlist, and having non-philosophical conversation with friends.