When we were kids,

our gang of friends

pretended we were in Ocean's Eleven.

My big brother, Mickey, was Clooney

and I was Brad Pitt.

We'd stroll down the Ocean City boardwalk,

not nearly as slick as we imagined.

Our illusion of cool would crumble

whenever Aura or anyone younger

had to dodge the dead.

"Post-Shifters," they call themselves,

the generation who sees ghosts.

I'd be one

if I'd been born two months later.

I'm glad I wasn't,

since ghosts can't see each other,

not even the ghosts of post-Shifters.

It was bad enough to lose the living

without losing the dead too.

"Senior Week trip,"

I remind Aura.

She opens her

espresso-drop eyes.

And though the morning light

washes out my violet glow,

making me invisible,

those eyes find mine.

Aura never looks through me.

She whispers, "Good luck,"

and reaches out her hand.

I cover it with my own,

wishing I could hold it.

I'd pull it to my lips,

against my cheek,