He Gets The Ghost In The End

BY : Rick_Andrew
Category: +1 through F > Amazing World of Gumball, The
Dragon prints: 424
Disclaimer: I do not own 'The Amazing World of Gumball' nor any characters from said series. I do not receive any profit nor any sort of other credit from writing this.

She wore garish orange headphones and was somewhere else in them. I liked her looks - - well, actually I was attracted because I'd never met a ghost.  Her bangs draped aslant on her broad face to one side of her forehead, hiding an eye, kinda emo.  She had a hair clip that looked like a butterfly--or was it a skull ? Not very welcoming. 

Another boring day in Simian's class.  I'd just moved to this snoring little town from California since Mom got the job.  

I can be pretty confident, when I know what I want- - I just wanted to talk with her a moment.  

I waved for her attention, and with one hand she popped her headphones askew to hear.  "Whatcha listening to?"

"AB CD."  Headphones back in place.

Sesame Street?  Not by the jagged sounds that had scrawled forth from her headgear.

She noticed I was still looking.  She removed her headphones and slid them onto my head !  I'm sure my eyes went wide -- I was surprised she'd do that.  

Ye gads--punk rock.  I don't know anything about it, but she likes it.  Sounded to me like sounds Dad kept making when he broke his ankle and still tried to pound the bass drum through his gig.  I didn't tell her that.  How could she be so pretty and listen to this...stuff?

She started looking smug -- I wasn't sure what about, but handed the phones back: "Wow," I said--keeping a smile, stalling to form words.  "They're pretty--metal," I commented.  (Had I even made a real sentence?)  "Is that your favorite stuff?"  

Her lip curled like I'd put a harmless but yucky dried-up dead bug on her desk.  

"It's not stuff.  It's heavy metal."

And she put back her headphones and turned away, closing the channel.  Argh !  I thought a moment.  Then I waved again. Indignant, she pulled off the phones.  

"I didn't mean "stuff" --I just couldn't find the right word.  It's great music.  Sorry, I'll let you get back to it," I said - -and she did.  

Boy, she sulks.  Best-looking girl in the room, though.

That night at home, I marshalled my own stuff--there's hardly any walking space in my room: too much poundage of music instruments and recording gear.  

We're gonna make it--went the lyrics that had been forming in my head the past few weeks -- not really about anything in particular, except moving from another state and starting in a new school.  Now--as my thoughts bumped along trying the words' rhythm with chord changes of my guitar-- that notion "gonna make it" felt to me like it was starting to get a life of its own.

My first guitar looked like a Fender Jaguar -- and it played like roadkill. I was so happy when Dad said he'd trade me his Strat knockoff when we moved.  I don't even think he kept the Jag wannabe.  Dad's guitar plays great, even stays tuned.

Wait'll you hear me play--ghost girl!  

These words just wanted to get a start somewhere. Or a someone.  I decided the someone would be ghost-girl.  I felt like a guy who'd just gotten a set of wheels !

My computer tracked as I laid down some bass and some drum kit (the electronic kit'll do for tonight, I told myself), guitar and the vocal. A chorus.  Mom interrupted me for dinner, but I had just finished the first section neatly. And it went from there, more sections of song.  The late-spring night got dark.  Finished !

I had to sneak back onto my feet again after bed: I couldn't find a flash drive, and I had forgotten to burn a disc.  But I had it in my backpack next day.

My heart pounded, CD in-hand.  "Hey," I chilled.  She wasn't impressed.  

"I got this track for you to hear ! "  I pestered.  "I think you'd like it."  I put the CD on her desk.

"Metal?" she demanded.

I panicked a half second.  "Give it a listen," I steadied, displaying a confident grin.

"If it's not metal, I won't like it."  With one finger in the center, she slid it back toward me.

"It's metal," I begrudged, a little hurt.

Watching her pick up the disc, I noticed nothing on her gear appeared to spin a disc nor accept any kind of a plug. 

Miss Simian was closing the door to begin taking roll. 

"Take it home," I urged my difficult new acquaintance.  "Give it a listen."  Looking her over, I saw the attractive ghost had no place to carry anything.  

"Please?" I resorted, lowering my voice to a whisper, not wanting the teacher's attention.  "I'm new here.  Make me feel like I have one friend here--just for a day, ok?  Listen a couple minutes?"

After a moment of eye contact with the one eye not hidden by bangs, she sighed and without a smile gave it a place in her desk cubby - - more sulking.  Before class, I surrepetitiously watched her look for writing on the disc--finding only my name and phone number.  At the end of class my CD had disappeared with her. I didn't try to sit near on the bus ride home, pretending to share her cool detachment about my music.

I had caught her name during roll: Carrie, I mused.  

That was Friday.  

Monday, I hadn't slept well.  I had stayed up surfing all the bands I could imagine Carrie listened to.

"Okay - who was that?" she asked.  Her headphones were absent.  I actually had her attention!
"I made that CD."
"I know  - - but who are those guys?" she said.
"Those guys?" I considered.  "Oh ! Not guys - -just me.  I did all the vocals.  I did all that."
"All that?  Who did the guitar?"
"I play. Did you like it?"
"Well, who did the drums ?"
"I did drums.  I made all of that music."
"There were singers too.  You couldn't have been a vocal group."
"Listen to them: They're all me.  You listened, didn't you? You like it?"
She seemed out of questions a moment.  
"I liked it" - - with a hint of a smile conceded she.


Author note


Elmore is terrible about who they put in school.

In one episode, we learned Carrie was 327 years old.

Yet she's in middleschool. Why? Well--if you had to deal with Grandma all day every day, and the county offered some guise for leaving the house--you, too, might flee the house on a regular basis.

I'm sure Elmore gets more federal and local funding for each chair they keep filled--but there's ambitious, there's overzealous, and there's off-the-chart wacko. Mandating a 327-year-old attend--wacko.

Christian's not actually a middleschooler--he's the other adult stuck attending the school. He's 19 and was about to graduate high school: When the family moved from California, Elmore classified him into middle school. Dad's sorting it out.

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