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chp. 1 part 1Nev lay on her bed fast asleep, scoot sat on top of her dresser looking down at her, thinking of when he was alive, he could have had any girl he wanted except her, he had liked her since they where kids but she had never looked twice at him, now she never see him.
"oh how pathetic" a girls voice said "would you just get over it. Like you thought she will never see you again" the girl said "go away Clare" Scoot said the girlClare-just went to the bed to get a closer look at Nev "i don't see what you see in her" she said "just stop Clare" he snapped, she stood up strata and put her hands up "fine. But you should get over her you know" Clare said to Scoot.
Clare walked to the mirror and plumped her blond hair and straitened her cheerleaders uniform "ya know its wired the living can only see us in mirrors" Clare said and turned to face him, he didn't look at her, "like when you see someone but then you look again and there gone" she continued to him, he looked at Clare an
Prologue"come sit with us Scoot" said Clare, he looked at her then back to staring out the window, she turned back to the rest of the team and cheerleaders flipping her hair as she went, lathing to some thing a guy said "hay man you okay" asked Scoots best friend John, "yeah man I'm fine" he said.
Just then the bus swerved to stop from hitting some one in there lane that must have been drunk, "wow some people" Scoot said "yeah I know" John responded. Then there was a crunching at the back of the bus and they leeched forewords turning so as not to hit the care in front but going of the road and crashing down the side of the hill into the lake. no one made it.
Back in a small town Nev fell from her seat at dinner with a scream, in two days the ceremony was held for the dead.
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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