"You want an apology."

"Yes."

He broke into a sneer and turned the glass upside down over my head, and suddenly, I was dripping with dark liquid all over my face. "I’m sorry," he said softly, making the crowd burst into guffaws of laughter.

But those voices didn't reach me.

I could only stare ahead, their laughter fading into the background, my surroundings blurring into a haze. All I could see were those deep green eyes peering at me coldly, their corners crinkled into a wicked smile. In that split, infernal second that seemed like it could last for hours on a row, I could make out that he was as remorseless as he was infuriated with me. He really didn’t think he had to apologize, that it was us at fault and not him. And as shocked as I was, I couldn’t help but wonder: why?

Why do they have to be so darn unfair?

"Come on, Sandra," Lisa whispered shakily and dragged me away. I kept staring at him in bewilderment. His brows crinkled ever so slightly, first with incredulity, then with scepticism and then wonder, until finally, he seemed as if he were guilty. He watched me for a second longer, then turned around and sauntered away.

I recall I was being dragged off to someplace quieter. I couldn’t make sense of my surroundings for a good few seconds, not until Lisa grabbed my shoulders and slammed me against a wall. "Could you, for once, have the decency to not intrude?!" she exclaimed angrily, shoving her jacket on top of my head to dry me off.

I blinked, realizing we were in the garden. Those people were nowhere to be seen. For the first time throughout the entire ordeal, I noticed she was visibly embarrassed. Her face was flushed, her voice trembling, hands cold. She looked like she’d burst into tears any minute. It took me a while to register that she was with him on her own accord.

I dropped my head. I couldn’t feel anything. My lips parted to word out an apology but I couldn't say it. She glared at me for a second longer, then threw her jacket on my hands and stormed off.

I kept staring at the floor for as long as I could remember. When it finally dawned in on me that my dress was done for, a sigh left my lips. There goes my low profile. How will I sabotage the meeting now?

"They haven’t met yet. You can still think of something," the ghost chimed in, making me look up at her abruptly. She was sitting on a tree a few feet away but her voice felt like it was echoing in my head. It took me a while to notice we had actually been conversing telepathically all along; she was reading my thoughts, and I, her voices in my mind. "Can I talk to you like this?" I said mentally, making her break into a grin and nod.

"Where’s my father?"

"In the banquet. Get moving."

With that, the ghost hopped down the branch and hovered into the banquet hall. When I walked back, my feet automatically took a longer detour all the way around the back of the building before entering the hall from the other archway. The ghost laughed. "Girl, you need some self-esteem."

"I have plenty of self-esteem," I murmured stubbornly. Both she and I knew I couldn’t take two steps inside the hall knowing he’d be loitering around somewhere. In fact, I didn’t have it in me to show my face at all. I felt humiliated, wronged, scared, and angry for being so scared all at once.

As I stepped inside the hall, barely close to the first tile of the floor, my eyes began wandering aimlessly. That incident hadn’t just shaken me, it had gobbled up my thinking as well. I couldn’t come up with a single idea on how to stop the meeting. 

Frustration filled me. I racked my brain for answers. Eventually, I decided to tell my mom I wasn’t feeling well and that I needed to go home. And that's when my eyebrows rose. Of course! My dress was ruined. I could always go home in this state!

The ghost scoffed. "For real? Can you imagine how badly that’ll go for you?"

I looked at her with a frown. "Bad?"

"Have some insight, Sandra." She placed a hand on my shoulder and looked at the hall with a dramatic flair. "Here you are steeling your nerves. You begin to manoeuvre through the crowd and finally reach your mother. She's busy talking with some of the ladies. 'Mother,' you whisper, tugging at her sleeve awkwardly. 'Can I go back? I think I ate something and my stomach hurts—' "

"Wait, what are you doing?" 

"Giving you a commentary about yourself," she said dismissively. "Now listen: Your mother crinkles her brow. 'Does it hurt too much?’ she asks worriedly. You nod, contorting your face in agony. Without much delay, your mother grabs your hand and rushes out of the hall like it's an emergency. You look over your shoulder. ‘Wait! Father is still talking!'

‘Let him talk!’ she says, 'That’s what we’re here for.’

‘But how will we get home?’ you retort, desperate to change her mind. And then you realize. Ah! It’s Nineteen seventy-seven. Mother knows how to drive."

I kept staring at the ghost, newfound anxiety beginning to fill me. Although ridiculous, her words did make sense.

"And with that, she drags you away to your car. You look over your shoulder helplessly. Far across the room stands your father conversing with that conglomerate. And next to him? That brat and his posse of madmen, grinning at you and wondering how the fiery Sandra Williams is running away with her mommy—"

"NO!" I exclaimed in horror, "What should I do?!"

She broke into a grin. "Allow me to possess you."