It hurt that they liked Candy better than me.  Every Friday we sat in Erica’s basement, red scarves draped over lamps, incense from the Spencer’s Gifts burning on the coffee table, our preteen bodies hunched over a Ouija board.  A Christmas tree in the corner, colorful lights dimly glowing. Tanya’s fingers splayed on one side of the planchette, Sarah’s on the other. Once the questions started and the voices were hushed whispers, I felt the air turn buzzy with waiting, hoping.

That’s when Candy came out, speaking through my body, a shy voice, telling a story of a teenage tragedy: cigarettes, an angry boyfriend, a flipped car, a prom night ruined.  Tanya cried the first time Candy came out, holding my hand, telling Candy she was safe now. Erica looked afraid but enamored.  Sarah nodded along, like she’d expected Candy to appear, like she’d already known she was present inside me all this time. 

I thought Candy would make them see me as someone other than the girl Erica’s mom invited out of pity. I thought Candy would make them forget the cigar-stained car, greasy hair, the hand-me-down sweaters. But at school they didn’t look up when I opened my locker. My waves and smiles went unmet.  So, the next Friday when they giggled and pulled out the board wondering if Candy would come back, I knew she’d always appear.