The Convention

Once a year, coordinators are required to organize a weekly convention for everyone in their group. The main purpose of these meetings is integration, so it often feels like a week-long party. Of course, theoretically, we also discuss the current affairs of the Association and exchange experiences from the last year. Attendance is optional, but usually, everyone shows up anyway. Meanwhile, other groups also take over the responsibilities of the one coming to the center.

After years of difficulties with organizing a place of rest for one hundred people at a time, the Association decided to build a permanent center in the countryside. However, the coordinators were left to understand the date, supply, catering, and general plan of the week: some provided movie or game evenings, mini sports competitions, hare and hounds, and other activities. I have even participated a few times in group meditation classes.

I liked going there, although I didn't know everyone in my group, I was in constant contact with several people of a similar age. Most people in my group I knew by sight, and I had already avoided some of them from a distance. This year we had a convention the last week of August, so I was, even more, looking forward to the meeting. However, I did not think that something at the outset would spoil my mood. I entered the center and with a smile greeted the young girl who worked as a receptionist at the center during the conventions.

The average age of our group was quite low, so our coordinator was also the youngest among the ten. He wasn't even forty, and he was still nervous, even though it was the sixth convention he was organizing. He was also at the reception at the time.

"Nice to see you, Coordinator," I said cheerfully.

"You too 942." He smiled despite his exhaustion.

"Who did you put me in a room with this year?" I asked, curious if he would tell me the result of the draw right away.

The center had quadruple rooms and most of the coordinators raffled the place so as not to bother with potential conflicts. Ours especially did not like dealing with such and minimized their causes.

"You share a room with the media: 996, 975, and 913," the receptionist replied, after looking through some papers.

"Are you kidding?!" I shouted.

"Am I supposed to spend a week in the same room with this bit..."

"Watch your language 942!" the coordinator raised his voice.

I didn't know the first two very much, but the last number told me too much. Two years ago, our quarrel was the number one downhill sensation. 913 was a beautiful, long-legged blonde a few years older than me. Like me, she was a medium 2.0 as we called it in our circles, and unfortunately, she belonged to a group that used their skills to engage in romances with ghosts. I didn't mind love if it was already in someone's heart, but they obviously played with the feelings of others.

"That's the draw, don't pick on me" muttered the coordinator after a moment, rubbing his forehead. "Just try not to kill each other for the rest of the week, that's all I ask."

The only reason I was trying was that I liked him and knew that he was trying to fulfill his duties as well as he could. Apart from us, ghosts often participated in the conventions, be it the former media or simply our spiritual friends and acquaintances. So Tristan appeared with me as always, but for the first time, he accompanied me to the convention and demanded a story about what happened then.

I was in a bad mood and listening to the boasts of 913 and her friends about who they had hunted, I cast some attention on them and said some vicious comments about it. From arguing about how to approach ghosts and work, we moved on to fight. We tugged our hair a bit and smacked each other's cheek, that's the whole scandal, but since then we couldn't look at each other. The ghost asked for details, but I did not present them to him. I bet someone had a video, but never investigated the case.

For the first three days, we somehow managed not to speak to ourselves and keep people unhappy. Some people did not hide that they were counting on some replay, but something in me finally broke. I saw her trying to flirt with Tristan and I was furious. I approached them with force and was already clenching my fist and warming up if I had to punch someone a bit.

"If your T-shirt is falling off your shoulder, get yourself a smaller one," I said coldly as I reached them.

"Funny," 913 muttered dissatisfied with my presence. "Now get out and don't disturb the adults in the conversation."

"The funny thing is you flirt with my ghost and keep asking me to punch you," I said.

"I guess Tristan should make a comment about whether he considers himself to be someone's property," she said to the ghost.

"Actually, I'm her ghost," Tristan replied, a bit surprised.

"You see," I said triumphantly.

She muttered something under her breath and turned on her heel. This small victory, however, did not soothe the anger that was still buzzing in me, so I decided to go for a walk to calm down. Tristan followed me and tried to get my attention.

"Someone's jealous here," he said smugly.

"Listen up!" I turned around sharply, and I didn't like how close our faces were to each other. "I don't care what you do with who, but you have to stay away at least from her."

"But am I your ghost?" he asked with evident sadness.

"Yes, you are," I replied with a sigh. "After all you don't want to disconnect from me."