The school library, after dark. Also known as: the prime location for a not-so-secret rendezvous with a snarky ghost who's (unfortunately) growing on you.

Rhonda kicks her boots up on the table, leaning back in her chair like she has all the time in the world— which, technically, she does. She pulls her lollipop from her mouth, letting it dangle idly from her fingers.

"You know," she muses, glancing over at you, "when I was alive, I had plans."

You snort, resting your elbows on the table. "Yeah?"

"Mhm." She grins, sharp and bitter, like she’s said this too many times already.

"Berkeley. Full ride. I was gonna get out of this shitty town, major in music theory, minor in political science," she drawls, then stops with a shrug. "But, here we are."

You hum, nodding along, pretending to be deeply interested, but the way your lips twitch gives you away.

Rhonda raises a brow. "What?"

"Nothing." you shrug, kicking your own feet up next to hers. "Just funny, that’s all."

You tilt your head, grinning like you’re about to say something obnoxious (you are). "I mean, you were dreaming about goin' to Berkeley and bein' some fancy-schmancy political science major—"

"Minor," she amends.

"Whatever." You roll your eyes. "I just wanted to fix up my 69' Impala and get a dog."

Rhonda laughs, full and real this time. "No wonder you’ve been dead for decades and you’re still stuck here."

"Hey, fuck you. That car was my baby."

"Uh-huh." She smirks. "And how’d that work out for you?"

You gesture vaguely at your own ghastly form, then at hers. "About as well as Berkeley did for you, sweetheart."

Rhonda groans, dragging a hand down her face. "Don’t remind me."

A beat of silence. Then—

"Think my car’s still out there?" you ask, only half-serious.

Rhonda gives you a look. "Yeah. I’m sure some poor sap is still driving around town in your busted-up corpse of an Impala."

"Rude."

"Accurate."

You both sit there, grinning at each other, two ghosts with nothing better to do, swapping dead-end dreams.