1 My mother and Jenna were on the sofa when a news report came on. The anchor, visibly upset, announced that a boot camp had abused its students, leading to a quiet, depressed girl's death. Before it finished, Jenna laughed. "Kids are so fragile these days. A few smacks and they die? They just need discipline." My mother agreed, feeding her a chip. "Exactly. My Chloe was the same, always pretending to be depressed. But since I sent her to that camp, she's improved. She even writes letters now." As she spoke, she took my blood-stained final letter and, without reading it, tore it up and threw it away. A sharp pain tore through my soul. Mom, if you knew the dead girl was me, would you feel satisfied? If so, I'm glad. It's the last thing I can do for you. … My younger brother, Leo, came home from skipping class to play basketball, bursting through the door and making a beeline for the kitchen fridge. He grabbed a can of Coke and started chugging it down. Mom immediately dropped the chips and hurried over with a damp towel for him. She gently wiped the sweat from his brow, her voice full of adoration. “Oh, look at our Leo, all grown up! With a body like that, you could be a model. Who cares about school? Tell your homeroom teacher it doesn’t matter if you’re at the bottom of the class. You’re destined for great things.” After finishing his Coke, Leo glanced around the house. “Is that useless girl not here? No wonder I can drink this out in the open. Where’d she go?” Mom scoffed, the disdain in her eyes impossible to hide. “Hmph. Sent her off to a behavioral boot camp. That sister of yours has a stubborn streak that needs to be broken. The camp and her school have called a few times, but I haven’t bothered to answer. So annoying.” Hearing those words, my ghostly form, standing right beside them, flickered with a sudden awareness. A fragile hope sparked within me. If Mom had just answered the teacher’s call, maybe they would have brought my body home. Just bring me home. Lay me to rest. Then I wouldn’t have to be a lost soul, forever trapped in this place. The thought filled me with a desperate longing. Talking about me always irritated Mom, but with Leo in front of her, her expression softened back into that of a loving, gentle mother. “She’s not like you. You might not get good grades, but you’re a good, sweet boy. Your sister, on the other hand… always walking around with a face like death, like someone owes her a million dollars. What good are her grades then?” “It’s so frustrating,” she went on. “Last weekend, I went to her parent-teacher conference. Her teacher told me I should pay more attention to her, that she seemed a little depressed. As if we’re neglectful parents or something.” Jenna stood up, passionately agreeing. “Exactly! It’s not like you starve her or anything. She’s just faking this depression to make you look bad!” She covered her mouth with her hand, a mischievous smirk on her face. “No offense, but don’t you think your Chloe is just like those girls we used to hate in high school? The ones who acted all fragile and innocent just to get all the guys to fall for them?” Mom erupted in laughter, her body shaking. “You know, you’re right. What rotten luck, giving birth to a two-faced little actress. Who else has my luck?” Ashley, the girl with the worst grades in our class, couldn't stand me. She hated that I did well, and she especially hated that her favorite biology teacher always praised me in class. One day, during the long lunch break, she dragged me into a bathroom stall. Her eyes were filled with contempt as she grabbed my chest, her fingers digging in hard. “No wonder all the guys in class are obsessed with you, writing you all those love letters. You’re just a little slut who developed faster than the rest of us, huh?” She leaned in, her voice a cruel whisper. “What do you do at night? Get yourself off under the covers?” I kept my head down, too scared to say anything. A curtain of dark hair fell over my eyes, hiding the world from my view. But my silent, submissive posture only seemed to infuriate her more. “Still faking it! You think playing the innocent victim is going to make me feel sorry for you? A girl knows a girl.” She raised her hand and slapped me hard across the face, her eyes blazing with hatred. “You’d better watch yourself. Stop putting on that slutty act. The next time I see you asking my favorite teacher a question, it won’t be just a slap.” The incident left me with deep psychological scars. From that day on, I grew more and more withdrawn. I avoided eye contact. I was afraid to speak more than a few words to anyone, terrified of accidentally setting someone off. That was why my homeroom teacher thought I was depressed. After the parent-teacher conference, she had pulled my mother aside, her voice filled with genuine concern, suggesting she take me somewhere to relax. But what awaited me outside the school gates were words far more painful than any slap or taunt. In the car, after my mother asked why I was so quiet and I tried to explain, she just laughed. Jenna, sitting in the passenger seat touching up her makeup, smirked. Her voice dripped with disdain. “What, is depression some kind of fashion statement for you kids now? Everyone’s got some kind of psychological issue. If you ask me, you just haven’t been hit enough.” She turned around, looking down at me as I cried silently in the back seat. “Besides, if you’re getting bullied and people are spreading rumors about you, don’t you think maybe, just maybe, you’re part of the problem?” “Look at you right now. Who are you trying to fool with this weak, pathetic act? Playing the victim. If you ask me, you had it coming.” My mother heard the venom in Jenna’s words and froze for a second. She glanced back at me, a flicker of pity and regret in her eyes. Her lips parted as if to say something, but no words came out. Jenna caught the look instantly. “Tsk,” she clicked her tongue, her face hardening. “Don’t you dare feel sorry for her. That’s not how you raise a kid. You’ve got to stamp out these dramatic tendencies, or you’ll end up with a manipulative little monster on your hands.” “I know a great behavioral boot camp I can recommend,” she said. “Thirty-four hundred a session. Send your daughter there for a good workout. She’ll come back obedient as a lamb. You can thank me later.” Ever since their school days, my mother had been the least popular one in their friend group, while Jenna was the undisputed queen bee. There were a few years, before I started elementary school, when I remember being cherished by my mother. The memories are hazy, but I recall sunlight warming my skin as I sat on a grassy lawn. My mother’s face was wreathed in smiles as she lifted me high into the air, her perfect teeth flashing as she cooed and made me laugh. Her perfume was the sweet scent of summer peaches, and I would giggle uncontrollably, a carefree little duckling. Then, one day, Jenna saw me, and the ridicule began. “Look at the way your daughter stares. Did you see that? She was totally checking out that cute guy.” My mother was stunned. As a mother, she knew her five-year-old daughter was simply captivated by the colorful pinwheel the man was holding. But the thought that her friend, the one she was always trying so hard to please, was actually talking to her, made her fold. She went along with it, her voice timid. “You’re right. Already looking at boys. So shameless.” The memories tumbled through my mind, fragmented and sharp. I suddenly remembered my first day at the boot camp. The first thing the instructors made us do was shave our heads on the drill ground. Some of the girls refused. Their punishment was a cattle prod that left no visible marks. One of the older male instructors zapped a girl in front of him, sending her crashing to the ground. He leered at her crumpled form. “Listen up. Any girl sent here is not some pampered little princess anymore. You need to remember your place. You’re nothing but filth in this camp.” “Follow the rules, you get to eat. Don’t, and all that’s waiting for you is pain.” The terrified girl choked back her tears. Her hands trembled as she picked up the electric clippers and began hacking away at her own hair. Her beautiful, waist-length locks fell to the ground in clumps, until she looked like one of the shorn, docile sheep from my childhood memories of the countryside. What’s the difference, I wondered, between us and livestock here? In that moment, I knew. This wasn’t just some ordinary boot camp. It was a hell designed to break our spirits and trample our dignity. For dinner that evening, we were given a small bowl of white rice with a spoonful of white sugar sprinkled on top. A few girls who had been there longer than us devoured their food like starving animals, their eyes vacant as they mechanically shoveled the rice into their mouths, like robots performing a programmed task. Even though I wasn’t hungry, I copied them, forcing mouthfuls of rice down my throat. In a strange and hostile place, the best way to avoid trouble is to blend in, to not stand out. The rain outside hammered against the glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows, a dense, rhythmic drumming like a thousand tiny nails. A sudden clap of thunder startled me, pulling me from my memories. I looked down at myself and realized my form was so transparent, almost like I was made of rain. For some reason, after death, my spirit was confined to this house. I think it was because of my last words. The agonizing, desperate cry echoed in my ears again, and I trembled uncontrollably. I was so scared. I curled my spiritual form into a ball and hid in the closet. But the wish I made as I died still reverberated around me: “I want to go home. Mom, I want to come home.” In the living room, Jenna was lying with her head in my mother’s lap, whining like a child for Mom to peel grapes for her. She was a completely different person from the one who had slapped me at the camp. Ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring. The sudden shrill of the phone cut through the air. My mother glanced at the caller ID and her face lit up. But the voice on the other end, my father’s voice, was tight with urgency. “Where’s Chloe? Isn’t she home? Why are the police telling me to fly back? They said they couldn’t reach you. Chloe… they said something happened to her, but they wouldn’t say what over the phone.” My mother panicked at his accusatory tone. Her eyes darted around the room as she scrambled for an excuse. “Chloe? She’s right here at home! She’s fine! You must have gotten a scam call.” Hearing my father’s voice, a warmth spread through a cold corner of my heart. My nose stung, and I felt something wet drip down my face. Can ghosts cry? My father had been working in London ever since I was in elementary school. He only came home for the holidays, and every time, he would bring me beautiful dresses and special layer cakes from the city. His voice trembled now, low and terrifying. He demanded she start a video call and show him where I was. “Where is she? Why can’t I see her?” “You said Chloe was at home! Where is she? What have you been doing all day? How can you not even take care of your own daughter? Did you send her to one of those awful boot camps?” “The police said she was hurt at a camp. They told me to come back immediately.” Hearing that my father already knew part of the truth, Mom finally started to panic for real. But she quickly composed herself, forcing a casual tone. “Chloe’s just at a camp to learn some social skills. A little scrape is no big deal. She wrote home just a few days ago saying everything was fine. I just finished reading it today and threw it in the trash.” As she spoke, she rushed toward the trash can, intending to fish out the letter and show it to him. “Chloe’s a timid little thing, she wouldn’t even fight back if someone hit her. I’m sure she’s fine…” She reached into the trash can to retrieve the letter she had torn to pieces. My heart, or what was left of it, swelled with anticipation. I was sure that once she saw the letter, she would come get me. They would piece me back together. And then I could finally leave this place that held my soul captive and be reborn. But just as her fingers were about to touch the paper… The unthinkable happened.
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