The Matchmaker's Medium

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The first time I talked to a ghost, I was five.

Of course, at the time, I didn’t realize she was a ghost. I thought she was just another girl in the bathroom, washing her hands. She looked normal to me, in her little jean shorts and pink t-shirt with a big flower on the front. Her pigtails were braided and really long, hanging down her back, the way I wished my hair would. My stupid hair was all poufy and curly, never laid down flat or looked right. I hated my hair.

I saw her when I opened the stall door to walk out into the main bathroom, as she leaned over the open hand-washing thing that always had water coming out of it. I loved that washing fountain thing.

“Hey,” I said, doing my best to be polite but not too weird. It was only my second week in school, so I was still pretty shy and didn’t know what to say or do most of the time.

She didn’t answer, just kept washing her hands, like she didn’t even hear me.

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