It's a Wonderful Death - Sarah J. Schmitt Page 0,36

you than doing the right thing.”

“I don’t need a lecture from some dead chick,” I mutter. I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up as the air crackles with tension.

“On that we will agree to disagree,” she says calmly.

And now the gloves are off. “Do I know you?” I ask, unable to figure out why she’s being so rude. “Seriously, Angelica, if I did something to you, tell me what it was so I can say sorry and move on.”

A hollow laugh trickles over her lips. “There is nothing you need to say to me.”

“Then why are you so angry?”

As soon as my accusation fills the space between us, I see Angelica regain her composure. “Anger isn’t something that lasts long up here.”

“Really?” I answer, unconvinced. “Because you seem to be channeling it pretty well.”

This time, she gives me a wry grin. “What can I say? I’m stubborn. That’s something we have in common.”

The wind stirs and the energy in the space changes once again. “It’s happening now, right?” A shiver runs down my spine. “Is it possible that I could screw things up more than the first time?”

“Yes,” she says, and I look up to see compassion in her eyes.

“So what do I do?” I ask, wishing I hadn’t spent so much time arguing with Angelica and more time gathering as much information as possible.

“This is your journey, not mine. I can’t tell you what to do. But deep down, there is good in you. Remember what I said about doing the right thing.”

“It’s not always the easy thing to do,” I repeat, letting the words wash over me as the mist in front of us begins to shimmer. Slowly, a familiar world begins to take shape. We’re standing in the middle of the playground near my house. It’s a bright morning and the place is packed.

“Can they see us?” I ask.

She shakes her head.

“What’s happening?”

“Just wait,” she says, staring at the scene, her eyes searching for something or someone.

And then I see myself. I’m eight, and my family has just moved in to our new house. I don’t know anyone, but every day I come here, hoping to find a friendly face. That’s when I see Abby Richards, the first best friend I ever had. I watch her walk up and whisper something in my ear and the next thing I know, we’re catapulting ourselves off the swings and racing down the slides like we’ve known each other our entire lives.

Time speeds up a little and I watch the summer sun give way to the bright colors of early fall. Abby’s parents are sending her to the Catholic school across town, but every afternoon, at 3:15 p.m., we meet on the merry-go-round until the sun ducks behind the trees. On this particular afternoon, I meet my first mean girl. She’s a sixth grader named Claudia, and from what I remember, she did everything she could to make Abby miserable. No matter how hard Abby tried to stay out of her way, it didn’t work. I think the whole fight between Claudia and Abby began earlier in the day, at school, but now it’s about to make an encore performance at our sacred place.

A few minutes later, Claudia’s friends arrive. I was expecting this. Every queen of the playground needs loyal subjects to do their bidding and more importantly, they need people who fear them. Once she has an audience, Claudia begins following Abby, taunting her in a loud, cruel cackle. “What’s the matter, Blabby Abby? No teacher here to protect you now? Are you scared?”

I hear my voice rise above the din of the laughter. “Ignore her, Abby. She’s just trying to make you mad. Come on, let’s go to my house.”

And then, like a roller coaster ride, time rushes forward before a jerking stop. It’s winter. The park is deserted. I’ve almost forgotten about Angelica, but when I glance over, her face is a tapestry of pain and sadness. I start to ask her what’s wrong, but the running footsteps crunching against the fresh snow stop me.

It’s Abby. She’s crying and looking down the street toward my house. She’s waiting for me and instantly I know what’s about to happen. I watch in silence as my child-self races to the merry-go-round. I wrap Abby up in my arms and she begins to sob. My face is easy to read: I have no idea what is going on. At least I didn’t. Not