A Note From Me, Heather

You might be like me—not a complete loser, but kids at school target you for things like your raspy voice and pimply skin, which, by the way, can’t be cured with medication or a little nip and tuck. When I thought my freaky life couldn’t get any worse, it did. My DNA gifted me with another characteristic I can’t undo—seeing ghosts. And, yes, it is genetic. My Aunt Geneva, known far and wide for being weird, not only sees them, she’s apparently having a relationship with one.

The good news is . . . there is no good news. Ha ha. Seriously, though, I’ve heard some freaks like me grow up to lead a happy life without lasting scars. At least that’s what my dad always tells me, and I keep hoping he’s right. He thinks he grew out of his teenage geekiness, which he did, but unfortunately his genes matured him into an almost as gooberish adult. Come to think of it, I’m not sure he’s the best example to offer you. Sorry.

Anyway, I’m going to tell you about some of my other adventures with haints, which is Southern-talk for ghosts. For the record, I do not get off on being a ghost handler. If you have the same kind of problem as me, you may want to check out my blog at www.maureenhardegree.com/heathersblog.

Yeah, Maureen lets me blog on her website. What can I say? She likes my weirdness. Maybe you will, too.  Because like me, you know they’re out there. Ghosts, I mean. Tell me about it.

—Heather

The Ghost Handler Series

Stay tuned for lots more adventures with Heather and her ghost-friends.

Coming Next: Hainted Love

Haint Misbehavin’

Book One

The Ghost Handler Series

Maureen Hardegree

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead,) events or locations is entirely coincidental.

Bell Bridge Books
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
ISBN: 978-1-935661-93-1

Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright © 2010 by Maureen Hardegree

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers. You can contact us at the address above or at BelleBooks@BelleBooks.com

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Cover design: Debra Dixon

Interior design: Hank Smith

Art credits: Girl's face © Fallenangel | Dreamstime.com

:Ma:01:

Dedication

To my sweet Cynthia, this book is for you.

Chapter One

It was now or never. Today, the first official day of summer vacation and my campaign to somehow, some way, make my sister Audrey find my presence in this world a positive rather than a negative.

Okay, so it’s not like I thought I could go from major irritation to pal in a matter of two months, or just because I’d turned fourteen on my last birthday. But deep down, I knew I could be normal enough that she wouldn’t automatically leave when I entered a room—especially now that we shared something in common other than our genetics. We could have a real moment here—if she was willing to help me with the one little problem that surpassed the outbreak of bacne I’d spent most of last night worrying about.

I padded down the hall of our suburban Atlanta house, listening for Audrey’s voice, much like mine minus the rasp. Her snort of laughter rose up the second story foyer, then trailed off into the blare of the TV.

“Audrey?” I called out as I came down the stairs. No answer.

I snuck a peek into the den.

Audrey’s pudgy friend Karen, who might actually hate me more than my sister did, sprawled on the couch in the family room in what Grandma would say was an unladylike fashion. Karen had spent the night, and I’d successfully avoided her for most of her visit by staying in my room.

Taking a deep breath, I skirted through the dining room and into the kitchen, where I found Audrey dipping her finger into a large bowl of yellow batter studded with shiny semi-sweet chips. A half dozen, super-sized muffins cooled on the rack on the granite-topped island, tantalizing me with their chocolaty scent. Compliments were usually welcome. I’d give it a shot. “Smells good,” I said.

Audrey’s long face scrunched into a scowl. “What do you want?”

“Um, I don’t know how to . . . ” I glanced back toward the den, where Karen still appeared to be engrossed in some reality show. But one could never tell. “Look. Mom isn’t here, so I need your help with . . . something.”

Audrey pushed her scraggly brown bangs out of her eyes. “Fine. What is it?”

Undoubtedly sensing the potential to heap psychological damage upon me, Karen scurried into the kitchen. “What’s what?”

“It’s nothing. Forget about it,” I said, glancing over at the digital clock on the oven, which had to be flashing the wrong time. Unless I overslept—again.

“Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of Karen,” Audrey assured me in a half-irritated tone.

“No, I can’t.”

Hey, I knew my response might throw Audrey into full-fledged aggravation, but I had to risk it. You don’t share some things in front of people who hate you more than David Butler’s armpit stench. Karen couldn’t know what my problem was. She’d text it all over Pecan Hills.

“No, I can’t,” Karen taunted, mimicking my husky voice, only making it sound far worse than it was.

My face burned, never a good thing for someone like me with hypersensitive skin. At least I wasn’t itching . . . yet. I went to the fridge and grabbed a bottled water, hoping they’d forget I’d ever said anything about needing Audrey’s help. I’d figure out my problem on my own.

As I tried to escape, heading toward the back staircase, Karen blocked me. She stood there examining me as if I was some freak sideshow at the circus and I wasn’t living up to the hype. “Aren’t you going to scratch yourself?”

No ‘hey, don’t pick on my sister,’ issued from Audrey’s lips. No ‘Heather can’t help having weird skin.’ No channeling of Marcia Brady, Denise Huxtable, or D.J. Tanner, all excellent TVLand examples of how older sisters should act.

“No, she isn’t!” Audrey hollered for me, not that she could control my skin. Not even I could control my skin. Audrey bit into one of her hoarded muffins, then waved her hand in front of her mouth, waiting for it to cool down enough to chew.

I should have enjoyed karma burning her, yet it barely tickled me. My sister wasn’t making even a half-hearted attempt to protect me.

“Are your feelings too hurt to answer, Heather?” Karen asked, her voice dripping fake sympathy as thick as cane syrup. “You’re not going to cry, are you?”

Not in front of her, I wasn’t. I don’t know why I let her get to me. I hated it. I hated her.

I twisted off the cap and took a swig of my water, attempting to swallow the growing lump in my throat. “Thanks a lot, Audrey,” I said, despising how even I could hear the tears in my voice. I bolted around Karen and out of the kitchen.

“Heather!” Audrey yelled as I ran up the stairs two at a time. “Heather, come on.”

Doomed to solve my dilemma on my own, I made a beeline for the bathroom, then shut the door and stared at the paper-wrapped tube, hardly bigger than a highlighter, lying on the counter. It seemed harmless, but to me it was the scariest, yet most exciting object in the house. I eyed the pink box that had been sitting between the tower of Dove soap and the plastic sack of ultra-thin maxi pads inside the linen closet. The sheet of instructions lay unfolded across the sink, clearly written, yet impossible to follow.

Pounding rattled the bathroom door in its frame. Probably Karen come to harass me some more.

“Come on, Heather,” Audrey groaned. She turned the doorknob back and forth. “I know you’re in there.”

Hope filled my heart. Audrey did care. She was looking for me out of concern.

She pounded again. “I’ve gotta go. Let me in.”

Deflated, I padded across the cool tile to unlock the door. “All right. Geez.”

“What’s your problem anyway?” she asked.

Sure, I knew it was a rhetorical question, but she was here. I might as well give it a shot. “If you must know, my problem is that I don’t know how to put a tampon in.”

And with the pool beckoning, I had to learn fast. No way was I showing up in street clothes. I wanted to impress hot lifeguard Drew Blanton, not stick out as the lone dweeb, sitting on the side, dipping my legs in the water while everyone else swam.

“God, it’s no big deal.” Audrey slapped the tampon into my hand, shoved the instructions under my arm, pushed me out of the bathroom, and slammed the door in my face. “The directions are on the paper. Duh!”

Not sure if I was more hurt or angry, I stared at the bathroom door. “Where’s the welcome into the sisterhood of menstruating women?”

A snort was her only response. You’d think we’d at least be able to bond over that. Especially since my period had taken forever to get here. I was going into ninth grade in the fall, and I’d only been waiting for this milestone since reading Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret at age ten. I really wanted the whole monthly cycle; I welcomed anything that would make me more rather than less normal, which in turn would make Audrey like me. Or so I thought.

I straightened out the instructions and studied the diagram as I plodded down the narrow hallway to my room.

Maybe I’d put the tampon experiment off until tomorrow. If I didn’t show up at the pool today, Drew might wonder if I was sick. Maybe he’d call the house to check on me . . . which was pretty much impossible since he didn’t know my name. “Why today?” I whined.

“Why what today?” my younger sister Claire asked. She was standing in the doorway of her room, next to mine, and smelled faintly of Coppertone. She’s the good sister. With her Hawaiian print tankini and the front of her light brown bob clipped to the side with a barrette, she looked ready for a day at the pool . . . and adorable. I swear I don’t hate her for it.

“I’ve officially entered womanhood,” I announced, grabbing hold of her sunscreen- moistened arms. Then I squealed. I couldn’t help it.

She squealed back in a higher pitch, and we hugged and jumped up and down, doing our happy dance, kind of like a bad polka, in the middle of the hall.

Audrey came out of the bathroom and stopped to stare at us, her long face pinched in disgust. “You’re too weird.” Her “you” meant me, not Claire. She liked Claire just fine.

I wanted to stick my tongue out at the queen of poopiness but that wouldn’t exactly make her like me, so I stifled the urge. Barely.

And I’m not that weird. Sure, I cut the tags out of my clothes. And, yes, I can’t sleep on bed linens lower than a 400 thread count. I even admit to training myself not to focus on the toe seams in my socks. Okay, so I’m a little weird, but I’m definitely not weird with a capital “W” like Mom’s sister Geneva. She claims she has a ghost for a friend.

Under the scraggly fringe of her overgrown bangs, Audrey narrowed her beady brown eyes. “Don’t you have something you have to do, Heather?”

“Uh, no.”

“Then I guess you weren’t paying attention last night at dinner when Dad said he was taking a half-day.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Oh, and he’s going to want the body count.”

Crappola. I was toast.

The body count is for Japanese beetles, not people, so don’t get all freaked out. Beyond the regular dishwashing, table-setting, and laundry-folding rotation, Audrey, Claire and I, his home-grown pest-control labor, fill big Mason jars of soapy water with beetles we pick from Dad’s grapevines.

Yeah, it seems cruel, and, sure, beetles have to live. But they eat the wide, deep green leaves on Dad’s scuppernongs, turning them to a lace that affects the fruit. The fruit is all-important to my Dad. He makes wine . . . in our basement. You’d think they don’t sell it at Kroger.

Claire smiled sheepishly from the doorway. “I got up at nine. I already posted mine.”

“Excuse me, but you’re supposed to be the nice sister!” I yelled as I ran for the stairs. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I don’t know.”

Yeah, right.

She followed, hurling her excuses at my back. “You went to bed late. I figured you were tired.”

I continued on my way, tripping over the tennis shoes someone left on the bottom step.

“Or that you’d edge me out of the competition,” I said, slamming into Karen, who was blocking my path to the back door.

“Did I hear correctly? Have you at long last become a woman, Heather?”

Leaving her nastiness and the comfort of air conditioning behind, I pushed Karen out of my way, headed out the back door and slammed it behind me. I grabbed the broad straw hat I’d left on one of the rocking chairs in the breezeway and placed its scratchy brim on my head. I was already sweating.

Just to clarify that I’m not some kind of competitive nut, the daughter with the highest body count at the end of beetle season gets fifty downloads for her iPod.

Oh, and when I say my dad has grapevines, I don’t mean one or two along the fence line. I mean pretty much the whole backyard is terraced, like one of those valleys in California in miniature.

I’d made my way through one third of the yard, sighting only a few beetles, when I heard frenzied barking. Not more than a few seconds later, Roquefort, our stinky beagle, who hates hats for some unknown reason, ran in circles around me, carrying on as if I was some stranger.

To calm her, I frisbeed my hat to the ground. Even if the sun blistered the top of my head, it had to be better than having my dog bark incessantly. “See, girl, it’s just me.”

Roquefort added nosing to the barking.

“What’s wrong with you?” I couldn’t get my beetle killing done and more importantly come up with an excuse for my Dad with that insane beagle trying to herd me down the row.

Being tired wouldn’t cut it. Wait. The whole period thing might work to my advantage. Especially if I lied and said I had cramps. Perfect.

If you want to be treated like an adult, you have to start acting like one. My mother’s most recent lecture rang in my head like she was standing next to me blathering on about responsibility. I guess an adult wouldn’t lie about why she didn’t get out of bed at a reasonable hour to euthanize Japanese beetles.

A cloud scuttled across the sun, bringing me a much-needed break from its scorch. At almost the same moment, the air brushing my right shoulder grew unusually cool. My skin pebbled, which was really odd. As hypersensitive as I was, that had never happened before.

Roquefort stared at something to the right of me, like cats do to freak out their owners. Whining, she backed up as if some creature was advancing upon her. Only there was nothing there.

The chill bumps on my right arm spread down to my hand.

That’s when I saw a girl dressed like Laura Ingalls from Little House on the Prairie, complete with wheat-colored braids and a stark white pinafore over a blue calico dress. She stood at the end of the row, smiling, exposing the gap between her front teeth.

“God, you scared me,” I said, then breathed. I hadn’t heard the hinges on the gate squeak. “How’d you get back here?”

Roquefort growled, her head lowered.

“Stop it!” I yelled.

Our dog liked most hatless people and usually rolled onto her back, begging for a belly rub when she had the chance to make a new acquaintance or reconnect with an old one. I didn’t get why Roquefort didn’t like this little girl.

The cloud moved, and the sun returned to blind me.

I blinked against the glare, dark spots floating before my eyes. Great. Now I was going to have cataracts from sun damage by the time I was thirty. Thanks, Dad.

I raised my hand to shade my eyes and looked for the girl, who’d suddenly vanished. If she was lurking in any of the rows on either side of the one I was in, she surely wasn’t standing.

Still holding my Mason jar of soapy dead beetles, I knelt down on the hard-packed clay and scanned the hot earth under the rows next to me. Nothing.

I rose to my feet, and the girl popped up between the vines two rows away.

Roquefort bayed as if the moon was up and she was tracking a fat possum. The girl disappeared again.

“I’m not playing Hide-n-Seek, little girl,” I said, in case that’s what she thought we were doing. I had to get on to my Drew watching at the pool. I didn’t really want to know why she was wearing a Halloween costume in June, either. I didn’t need the aggravation, especially when I was about to have a sunstroke.

And yet, a sunstroke might not be the end of the world. If I fainted in the vines, which seemed very likely at the moment, Dad would find me collapsed on the ground. He’d feel guilty for making me go on beetle patrol. With tears choking his throat, he’d call 9-1-1 and beg me to stay alive. Hunky EMTs would arrive, and Karen would be jealous. Audrey’d tell everyone she worked with at the neighborhood pool that I’d had a heatstroke. Drew might send me a bouquet of “get well” roses . . . if only he knew who I was.

A rush of wind rustled the grape leaves near me, bringing me back to reality. The kid was back.

“Hide and Go Seek, come on, let’s play,” she drawled in what I’d call a hillbilly accent. You know, the kind they give southern people on TV and in the movies ‘cause they haven’t figured out we don’t usually sound so country anymore, at least not in the suburbs of Atlanta.

She disappeared again, but her laughter rang out, as if she was still standing in front of me. Either I was delusional or this kid was a master ventriloquist.

“Um, like I said, I’m not playing. Did you hear me, little girl?”

The girl’s voice rang out from under the row of vines behind me. “You’d best stop calling me little girl. My name’s Amy.”

Okay. I could handle a lonely kid. Maybe she’d just moved to the neighborhood and hadn’t made any friends her own age, which I was guessing to be around ten.

I have to admit that little kids aren’t my thing. My idea of hell? Working in the St. Mark’s nursery Sunday mornings.

“There aren’t any more of you out here, are there?” I asked.

“Nope. Just me.”

Amy must have crawled out from her hiding spot when I wasn’t looking because the next thing I knew she was standing in my row. Her gaze dropped to my bare legs; she stared. Okay, so I didn’t have a good base tan yet. It wasn’t a crime.

“Does your Mama know you’re out here in your bloomers, Heather?”

Now that gave me the heebie jeebies. I knew I hadn’t told her my name. “What about my shorts?”

She giggled and turned her face away as if she was embarrassed. So maybe it wasn’t a costume. Maybe she was a Mennonite or something.

Since the kid already knew my name and could possibly tell on me for being mean, I probably should play with her. On the other hand, if I played with her, her mom might ask me to baby-sit. “I’m too busy to play.”

“We’re playing. Now.” Amy sounded as miffed as Audrey does when someone leaves two Pringles at the bottom of the canister. I swear I don’t do it on purpose . . . most of the time.

The little girl balled up her fists like she wanted to hit me, and then, I swear to God, she levitated off the ground. My heart drummed in my chest.

There had to be a logical explanation for it. I must be having a sunstroke for real. I felt my forehead. My skin was sweaty, but normal, except for that tingle I feel just before I erupt in hives. I backed up to gain a little perspective. Amy followed. I don’t think heatstroke manifestations can do that.

That left me with three options. I was insane, I was still in bed sleeping, or this Amy girl was playing some kind of cruel trick on me.

She looked real; she wasn’t all filmy, so she had to be real, right?

I steeled myself and focused on her arm. Slowly, I extended my pointing finger. My skin cooled, then crawled as my fingertip touched her sleeve, which suddenly lost its substance, yet remained three-dimensional. I poked right through her like she was some hologram, but no hologram was dimensional.

Oh, my, God. I was crazy. My pulse sped so fast I could barely hear anything else. I stumbled back away from her, dropping the jar of dead beetles.

If I wasn’t insane? Then this kid who could levitate and turn translucent was magic, or she was dead.

My legs no longer worked. I was stuck, planted just like the vines that surrounded me. I tried to swallow, tried to remember how to breathe. “What are you?” I managed to croak.

“I done told you, I’m Amy.”

She levitated higher—as if I needed any more convincing of her ghostly nature at this point. Her little ankle boots rose nearly a foot off the ground. She came eye to eye with me, only her brown eyes didn’t reflect back my image.

The elastic in the waistband of my underpants started to itch, and then I felt the two metal hooks in my bra and the elastic in the bra band rub against my skin along my rib cage, like it always did when I was nervous. I started scratching the top of my head, then at the bumps rising on my neck.

The temperature of the air around me turned frosty. I rubbed my itchy arms against the chill. “I’m not sure what you are, Amy. I’m not even sure that I’m awake. For all I know, I could still be in bed, and you’re some bad dream. But just in case I’m wrong, could you please go away?”

“Nope.”

I prayed that if she was truly a ghost that she wasn’t like Geneva’s, who according to my aunt, was bent on sticking around. “Why not?”

She shrugged. “I wanna play Hide and Go Seek.”

Okay, this had to be a dream. Ghosts in movies don’t play cheesy kids’ games. They wanted to go toward the light or something like that.

“If you don’t play with me, Heather, you’ll be right sor-ry,” she sang.

That’s when one of the galvanized wires training the grape vine closest to me pinged and dropped its burden like someone had snapped it with cutters. The whole vine arm with its spurs and large leaves slumped, nearly touching the ground. It was rust, not Amy, because Amy didn’t exist, because I was in bed having a nightmare, because fate wouldn’t be so cruel as to stick me with a whiny kid ghost after years of trying to live down a nickname from preschool that wouldn’t die.

Finally able to move, I swung around. I was going back to bed where I would wake up on the right side, the side where your sister’s best friend didn’t make fun of you getting your period, the side where people didn’t see ghosts, particularly the little snotty kind who attempt to blackmail you into playing games with them in the backyard.

Ignore the cool air and the feeling that she’s watching me. Act normal. Pretend she’s not here.

As I marched and scratched my way to the end of the row and up the side path toward the house, my little haint tagged along after me, making the vines shake in my wake, much like my stomach.

I crossed the patio and stepped inside the breezeway, then glanced behind me, hoping she wasn’t there, but she was. Amy was focusing on the prominently displayed white board. The screen door banged behind me.

“What’s this?” Amy asked.

“Nothing that would interest you. It’s just a little insignificant competition between me and my sisters.”

The grind and squeak of the garage door gears activating jerked my attention away from Amy.

Audrey stuck her head out the back door. “Dad’s home!”

Yah. Despite the scratch attack in full throttle, I managed to roll my eyes. “Figured that one out myself.”

She slammed the door, and I turned toward Amy. “Now would be a really good time for you to leave.”

Amy didn’t take the hint. Instead, she gazed at the felt eraser resting in the white board’s tray until it hovered several inches in the air.

“Don’t you dare,” I hissed, attempting my best babysitter-is-going-to-put-you-in-time-out tone. I’m sure I didn’t seem all that threatening with the whole hive situation going on.

The door to Dad’s car slammed shut.

Air rushed along the front of my body as Amy moved forward, toward me. Then a chilly tingle started at the surface of my already overly stimulated skin and burrowed into my gut. My body felt like an itchy, too-tight pair of jeans. I couldn’t see Amy.

Without me really wanting it to, my hand stopped scratching. I pushed the hair out of my eyes. Oh, my, God. It was like someone else was in charge of my body. The little brat was inside me, controlling me.

I needed lots of Benadryl and an exorcist, and not necessarily in that order. She forced my hand to pluck the eraser from the air. In a flurry of felt-covered Styrofoam I couldn’t control, I wiped off Claire’s, Audrey’s, and my counts.

I was close to hyperventilating as I struggled to regain control of my body. To ensure that Audrey didn’t have another reason to hate me, I picked up the green marker and popped the cap, which landed somewhere under one of the rocking chairs. I remembered what Audrey and Claire had posted. No one would ever know the counts had been erased. But when the marker squeaked as Amy forced my hand to write “milion” under my name, I knew she hadn’t left.

“Two l’s, Einstein,” I snapped. “Get out of me!”

She whooshed out at the same moment Dad opened the door from the garage to the breezeway. I dropped the marker, which landed softly on the outdoor carpet at my feet.

Dad frowned at the board that no longer reflected a week’s worth of my sisters’ tallies, then glanced pointedly at the green marker, then at my face, which I suspected would soon pop with hives. He was doing the whole waiting thing. I hate when he does that. He says nothing, and I have to guess what he wants me to say, sort of like charades, only not any fun.

I cut to the chase. “I didn’t do it.”

His hazel eyes widened behind the small oval lenses of his glasses. “So who did? Roquefort? Or your imaginary friend?”

Imaginary friend. I stopped itching and started sweating as I suddenly remembered my imaginary friend from childhood. I’d been four years old, and I’d called her Amy.

Chapter Two

Since yesterday’s white board incident, I hadn’t seen Amy . . . exactly. I felt her presence, though, like a constant breeze. Cold and frazzled, I jumped at every vibration, anticipating our next interaction. Audrey, of course, viewed my sweatshirt-wearing in the middle of summer as further proof of my unworthiness, which didn’t really help my goal of getting her to like me.

Hazy memories of playing with Amy in the plastic turtle sandbox we used to have in the backyard returned to me, too. We’d have these swinging contests to see who could go highest and fastest. And when we’d played Hide and Seek, she’d always hole up in the Magnolia tree.

I had questions I needed answered—like why me? Why now?

My knowledge of movies featuring ghosts didn’t help me calm down either. From what I could see, ghosts rarely did anything nice, unless their name was Casper or they were married to some woman who cries really pretty.

Thanks to my worries turning into nightmares, I woke up so early the next morning the robins were still digging for worms. Having nothing better to do, I headed out to the killing fields, not that the iPod downloads were all that important to me anymore. I had worse problems than losing some competition to my sisters.

After I’d scraped I don’t know how many beetles to their soapy deaths, and couldn’t get the least bit excited about it, I turned the corner of the row I was working on and waded into a pool of frigid air. My skin chilled in a rising wave from the nail beds under my Spicy Tomato toenails, up over my drawstring pajama pants, past my torso and shoulders to the crown of my head. I shivered and glanced up at my little ghost nemesis floating above the vines and providing me with a clear view of old-fashioned bloomers.

Maybe I should try turning the tables, show her I wasn’t afraid, even though I was. “I see London, I see France, I see Amy’s underpants.”

She blushed, which kind of surprised me. I didn’t know ghosts could. Then she grabbed at her skirts and drifted down to ground level. “Are you gonna play with me?”

“Depends.” I hadn’t played Hide and Seek in years, and I didn’t want to do so now with someone who had the unfair advantage of being able to completely disappear. Then again, I didn’t really want to deal with any more of her tricks, either. “Don’t you have anyone else you can ask?”

Back and forth around her pinky, Amy twirled a strand of wheat-colored hair that had escaped her braid. “I asked you.”

Claire liked kids and the fact that Aunt Geneva had a ghost friend. Maybe, with a little encouragement, Amy’d glom onto her. But what kind of sister would I be if I palmed the ghost off on the only sister I got along with? Easy answer—the Audrey kind.

“So if I play games with you, that’s somehow going to help?” By help, I meant move her toward the light, but I suspected getting her to hit the highway to heaven couldn’t be as easy as playing a game—especially if Aunt Geneva’s ghost had been hanging around for years.

Oh, God. What if I could see Aunt Gen’s ghost now? What if she could see Amy? The cereal I’d had for breakfast rose in my throat.

Amy shrugged. “Maybe it’ll help, maybe it won’t.”

The vines closest to her trembled, disturbing several of the beetles. They flicked their iridescent wings and moved further down the row.

“If you tell me exactly what I’m supposed to do to help you and why it has to be me, I’ll do it. I swear.”

Carefully avoiding my gaze, Amy shrugged a second time. She knew. The little stinker just wasn’t telling.

“Fine. Can you at least give me an inkling why you’re all of a sudden showing yourself to me now. I mean, again.”

“Nope.”

It had be related to my hypersensitivity and getting my period, which was the only thing of significance—other than seeing Amy—that had happened yesterday. And, of course, I must have inherited the family ghost gene.

Amy flitted up and down the row a few times, then returned to where I stood. She stilled and hovered right in front of me, like one of the hummingbirds that come to Mom’s feeder. “Let’s play.”

“What if I don’t want to play?” I asked, bracing myself for her answer. Yes, I was provoking her, but I had to know what I was up against. Maybe it wasn’t as bad as I imagined.

She kicked the hard mound of dirt near my feet. Clay chunks and a fine rusty dust rose briefly, then showered down on my feet and flip-flops. “If you don’t play, you get into a heap of trouble like you did yesterday.”

My cereal inched even higher up my esophagus.

Her wheat-colored braids swung as she cocked her head to the side. “How come you didn’t have to pick a switch? When I did something wrong, my mama’d send me outside to pick a switch from the privet hedge. She’d nettle my calves but good.”

The occasional spanking and kneeling in the corner I’d experienced didn’t seem all that harsh compared to switching. “Parents do other stuff today, like take away your life-line to the outside world.”

“Huh?”

“They’d rather inflict mental and social damage . . . just . . . never mind.”

I couldn’t get the picture out of my head of some woman in a long skirt slapping at Amy’s legs with a long-whip-like twig. She must have had a horrible childhood. I wondered if that was why she was still here, why she wanted to play.

And if I played with her enough, she’d move on, right? She’d stopped being my imaginary friend at some point, so maybe the playing had worked but only temporarily. I wanted a permanent solution. Maybe I could figure out how to make her go away if I knew how she’d died.

“I’m beginning to remember more about how much fun we had when we played before,” I said, “but I can’t exactly recall what it was that . . . brought you to your current state. Will you tell me?”

“Nope. It ain’t none of your beeswax.”

Um, no, it really was my business. After all, she was haunting me, making my less than stellar life even more complicated. I fully admit to being a tad selfish. I squeezed the grooved glass neck of my jar that had also cooled in Amy’s presence.

She flickered in and out like the higher cable channels when there’s a storm. “I ain’t telling you another thing ‘til we play Hide and Go Seek.”

Wishing there was some other way to get her to leave, I stalled, plunking a few more beetles into the cool Mason jar. “So is this how it works? I play with you, and you go away?”

“I done told you, I’m done talking.”

“Yeah, but here’s my problem. I don’t want to waste my time. I need to know what I get for playing.”

“A considerable amount of fun.” She giggled, then disappeared completely.

The air around me heated back to a normal late May morning temperature—somewhere in the upper seventies.

“Hey!” I yelled. I hadn’t agreed to play.

“Hey, yourself,” Claire said, her flip-flops slapping the flagstone on the patio. I hadn’t heard the door open.

My stomach just about fell out of my butt. The stupid tag I’d forgotten to cut in the back of my new shirt scraped across my warming, rapidly hypersensitizing skin. I gulped air back into my lungs. That was close. Claire could have caught me talking to Amy. I tried not to think about that stupid tag scratching my tender flesh. I tried not to think about Amy lurking close by and listening.

“So, do you want to go to the pool today?” Claire asked. “Audrey’s working and she said she’d give us her snack bar discount.”

“I doubt Audrey said ‘us.’ She probably said she’d give it to you.”

“Same thing,” Claire said.

“I don’t think so.” The last thing I needed was my little invisible friend accompanying me to the pool. The potential for disaster was colossal. And if I embarrassed Audrey while she was at work, she wouldn’t forgive me until she was in her thirties or forties.

“I can’t believe you don’t want to go. Drew’s working today. Katie said Drew’s buzz cut is beyond cute. He looks even better than before, if you can imagine that.”

I could imagine it. Not that I’m obsessed or anything. I do have this recurring daydream, though, where I walk through the gate and onto the pool deck and find Drew skimming pine straw and dead horseflies off the water’s surface, and he drops the skimmer, lowers his mirrored shades, and stares at me with those polar blue eyes that turn my skin to gooseflesh. Pretending I haven’t noticed him, I unzip my cover up, revealing honest-to-God, luscious breasts, displayed to great advantage by the gold lamé triangles of that string bikini Mom said was too old for me, which really meant too sexy.

Trouble is, I only have lust-worthy breasts in my Drewdreams. Mine are closer to cherry tomatoes, but now that my hormones were kicking in (Yay, me!), I had high hopes they’d grow to prize-winning, beefsteak size. Unfortunately, I had bigger worries than my bra size today.

The air to my left cooled. Amy reappeared. “Who is Drew? What’s this pool?”

Claire didn’t seem to hear or see Amy. Roquefort could. The rest of the family? I couldn’t wait to find out.

“Why don’t you start in the back rows, Claire, and we’ll meet in the middle?” I suggested. Once she was far enough away, I could explain to Amy that neither one of us were going to the pool.

“I said who’s Drew? What’s this pool?” Amy asked louder than before, making my ears ring.

From the back fence, Claire shouted. “Hate to tell you, Heather, but I’m going to increase my lead. There’s tons back here. When I win, though, I’ll give you some of my downloads, ‘kay?”

“Thanks!” I shouted over Amy’s unrelenting questions.

“Who’s Drew? What’s this pool!”

“Drew is a lifeguard. A pool is a fancy swimming hole,” I whispered.

The patio door opened, and Roquefort charged toward us, howling, then scrabbled under the vines to where I was. Roquefort growled at Amy. Amy gave the dog the evil eye. Tucking in her tail, Roquefort skulked around Amy to hide behind me and whined.

“Where is it?” she asked, twirling a piece of her hair.

“Down the street. It’s boring.”

“What? I can’t hear you,” Claire called.

“Just muttering to myself,” I lied, scratching under that tag on my shirt, and wondering why Amy had stopped with her questions. That couldn’t be good. Heart pounding, I glanced over at her.

Her gap-toothed grin firmly fixed on her face, Amy bargained, “Take me to the swimming hole, and I’ll forget all about our Hide and Go Seek game.”

“No,” I said loud enough that Claire showed up at the end of my row, looking at me like she thought maybe there was good reason for people to find me a wee bit odd.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah, I just lost a couple of beetles. They flew off,” I lied, then added a little I-don’t-really-care-about-this-silly-competition laugh. “I’m never going to win at this rate.”

“Please take me,” Amy begged, her voice sweet, her little freckled face quite angelic.

“So you can leave the yard?” I whispered.

Amy pursed her lips and squeezed her eyes shut, looking just like the last kid I ever babysat—Hollis McDermott. He used to put on a similar constipated expression right before he’d hold his breath. He somehow thought not breathing would scare me into doing what he wanted. But Amy couldn’t breathe even if she wanted to. She was dead already. Dead. I blinked.

There was something about that word dead that bothered me. I didn’t want to feel sympathy for Amy, but there it was welling up to the surface of my conscience like oil on a pepperoni pizza. My throat tightened as I wondered what it had been like to die when you’d never really lived. Amy had never finished school. Most likely, a cute boy had never kissed her. She’d never married and had kids of her own. All she wanted was to have a little fun.

“I can leave the farm if’n you say I can, Heather. Please? I swear I’ll be good. Do you know what it’s like to be stuck back here, year after year, waiting for you to see me again? Please?”

I squatted down under the vines so Claire couldn’t see me. “Let me get this straight. You’re a ghost, who I thought was an imaginary friend when I was little, and you can’t materialize anywhere but in yard?”

Amy nodded emphatically. “For now.”

“And you can only come with me other places if I say you can?”

Her ghostly gaze focused on the clay at my feet. “Sorta.”

“Define sort of.”

“Do I hafta?”

“If you want me to take you to the pool, you do,” I whispered in a rush of anger, then worried that I’d made her just as angry.

“You’re meaner than an ol’ sow.”

“I’m not trying to be mean. I’m trying to use my time efficiently. How can I help you if I don’t know the rules?”

“All right.” She sighed, stirring the air, making my nose and fingers so cold I wished for gloves and a knit cap. “If’n you let me accompany you, I can go to the swimming hole. But I hafta do something nice for you, first.”

“Really?” Now that was an interesting wrinkle. I wondered if this good haint deed was sort of like a genie wish. If Amy had to grant my heart’s desire, I knew what I wanted—Drew.

No, wait. Maybe I wanted Audrey and all her friends to think I was cool. If they did, then he—

“Who are you talking to?” Claire asked, creating a cloud of red dust as she flip-flopped up my row.

“To myself—again.” I laughed half-heartedly. “I’m getting as bad as Aunt Geneva.” In so many disturbing ways.

Claire didn’t dispute the comparison, and the tag inside my shirt began to bother me again, only worse than before.

“Looks like you should just admit defeat,” Claire said.

Wait a minute. I thought she couldn’t see Amy. “But how. . . I thought you. . .”

She stuck her jar next to mine. Claire’s beetle layer was somewhere between two to three inches. Mine? Maybe a little over an inch.

Okay, she meant the beetles, not the ghost.

Where had Amy gone off to?

I didn’t have long to wonder. Cool air rushed from behind me. My whole body tingled like it did that time in the mountains when I jumped into water so cold it hurt. That tight jeans feeling came back, too. My teeth set to chattering, my stomach growled, and I had a sudden hankering for sausage, biscuits, and sawmill gravy.

Hankering?

Amy was inside me again.

I gave in to the urge to scratch the skin under my hateful tag, which I knew would only bring temporary relief, and afterwards, my skin would itch more. But I couldn’t stop myself. Several mosquito bites chimed in, and I scratched those, too.

Amy took control of my free arm, forcing me to reach for Claire’s jar.

No way was I letting her win. I fought back, probably looking like I was having what Amy would call a conniption fit.

Claire’s eyes, the same shade of hazel as Dad’s, grew large. “What are you doing?”

My hand gripped the bottom of her mason jar and yanked it from her grasp. Claire’s mouth gaped open as I upturned the glass, spilling the beetle juice and dead beetles onto the furrowed ground, where it splashed onto a clump of crabgrass and wet the lower half of my right pajama leg. Several beetles caught on the thin printed cotton.

Claire stared at me unblinking, a poster child for slack-jawed horror.

Now you’ll have a better chance at winning, Amy’s thought intruded. Having someone else’s perceptions flash through my brain was beyond disturbing.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

Hurt lent a harsh edge to Claire’s normally pretty voice. “To think I was going to give you some downloads if I won. I never expected you to do something like this to me.”

Translation: She might expect Audrey to do it to me, or vice versa.

“I’m really sorry. Here, take mine.” I fought Amy’s resistance and shoved my jar into Claire’s hand. “I’ll post zero as my count for today.”

Without so much as a thank you, Claire stomped off, my jar in her hand.

“Will you get out of me?” I hissed, rubbing my freezing arms and wondering if I could get hypothermia from ghost possession.

Amy stayed right where she was. Why should I?

“Maybe because I won’t take you to the pool if you don’t leave my body alone.” Of course, if she stayed inside me, she’d come along wherever I went. And who knew what she’d make me do.

So you’ll take me?

“You’re forgetting you have to do something nice for me, and you haven’t.”

I did do something nice. I dumped your sister’s beetles.

“That’s a pretty screwed up view of nice. I may not even get to go to the pool today if Claire tells Mom about what you made me do. Now get out of me. I didn’t give you permission to use my body for your dirty work.”

You noticed me. You’ve been talking to me. So I can enter you without so much as a howdy-do.

Yet another rule. I needed to write these down. “Don’t you want to do something more interesting than go to the pool? Don’t you want to move on? Can you see the light? Move toward it if you do.”

I want to go to the dadblame pool. Amy’s voice vibrated within me, more peevish than before.

I tried to will her out. I tried reasoning. “Hey, if you’re so into pools, you should really appear to Audrey. She goes there almost daily. You’ll get along great.”

Audrey can’t see me. No one else in your family can see me, just you and your ol’ dog.

“Why?” I asked right before our beagle delivered her infamous three part howl and shot off toward the patio, where there was good chipmunk hunting this time of day.

I don’t rightly know. Please, I want you to take me to the pool, Heather. I swear on my Mama’s teacakes I won’t do nothing contemptible.

“And why should I trust you?”

Your daddy loves his muscadines, don’t he?

That’s when she reached out with both of my hands and started plucking the miniscule fruit clusters. Try as I might, I couldn’t stop her. Amy could destroy his entire crop if she chose to do so, and everyone would think I did it. If she could do that, what else was she capable of?

Everything inside me screamed, don’t give in, but I had to for Dad’s sake. It was what someone who wanted her parents to think of her as an adult would do—sacrifice her own happiness for someone she loved.

“Fine!” I yelled. “I’ll take you.”

Amy left my body and took on her ethereal form, braids swinging as she skipped joyfully in front of me.

After the trip to the pool, she’d have had her fun, and she’d go away. Unless the pool wasn’t enough fun.

The skin underneath my shirt tag started itching again. Okay, if going to the pool didn’t do the trick, I’d just have to find some other activity that would. Not that I needed anything else to worry about now. I was already over the limit and well on my way to neurotic as I prepared to explain to my mom why I’d dumped Claire’s beetles.

Chapter Three

Two days later, after I’d fulfilled my sentence. Dad was at work at the state environmental protection division, Mom was teaching a potholder weaving class at the craft store, and I worried myself into a mild rash. Today was the day I not only had to take Amy to the pool as promised in hope of getting rid of her, but I also had to attempt tampon use. With dread akin to sitting next to Supergeek on the bus, I managed to insert the stupid thing. But I have to say I felt like I’d been corked. I tried not to focus on the little paper plug inside me and the string hanging out. I didn’t want to start itching there.

Unfortunately, Audrey was working at the pool snack bar today, which meant if Amy decided to do something like break the webbing on all the lounge chairs, I wouldn’t exactly ingratiate myself to my older sister. My skin prickled in dread.

Loaded down with over-stuffed pool bags and a small cooler, Claire and I started off on foot in the sweltering heat. Amy was with us but she wasn’t floating close enough to prevent me from perspiring. And let me say right now, there’s nothing like a long, sweaty walk uphill on a scorching day to make a person appreciate air-conditioning. Since I couldn’t exactly talk to Amy in front of Claire, I kept mouthing the word “behave” like a mantra as we trudged up the big hill to the pool.

At last. the swim pavilion rose before us amid the waves of heat rising from the asphalt. It shimmered like a mirage. Claire’s chin-length bob swung as she slid the electronic key into the wrought iron gate and pulled it open. Relieved to be out of the sun, I entered the shaded picnic area, stood off to the side by one of the faded red plastic trashcans, and scoped out the best vantage point. My Drew-dar picked up the lifeguard of my dreams on the other side of the pool, in the chair high above the diving well, his life-float at the ready if he should have to save some lucky someone.

Drew Blanton, hot lifeguard extraordinaire, had to notice me. And I had to watch Drew wind his whistle lariat around his index finger, first one way, then the other. I know it’s lame, but he’s that cute.

For a moment, I toyed with pretending to have cramps in the deep water, so that he’d save me. But faking something so serious would be uncool. It wouldn’t exactly score any points with Audrey either.

Drew’s mirrored lenses reflected the blue sky and rippling water, where some boys from middle school were playing Sharks and Minnows. I wished his sunglasses would reflect me.

“Hey, you!” he called out, adjusting the backwards brim of his navy blue cap and pointing in my direction. He waved.

“Princess and the Pe-ea,” a kid with pale white skin and freckles crooned as he ran past me and earned several short bursts on the whistle from Drew.

“Walk!” he yelled, then cupped his mouth and called out, “Hey!” He made some sort of motion that looked like he was either conducting a symphony or writing and pointed toward the pavilion.

Claire poked me in the arm with her bony finger. “I think he means you.”

I rubbed the tender flesh that would be a full-fledged bruise by tomorrow. “No, duh, Claire. I’ve been called Princess and the Pea since Young Three’s at preschool.”

“That’s not who I meant. I think Drew is trying to get your attention.”

Now he was waving both gorgeously muscled arms. Surely not at me.

The plastic fastener on the back of my halter-top started to irritate the skin underneath. Oh, my, God. At long last, Drew Blanton, the hottest rising junior at Pecan Hills High, knew of my existence. Should I walk over to him, or should I remain aloof?

Just to be sure, I looked behind, noting Mandy Shepherd in a hot pink and orange string bikini signing in her short blond friend—also in a string bikini. See, other moms let their daughters who are my age wear them.

“Uh, no, Claire,” I said. “He’s waving to the pretty girls.”

Mandy walked past us, tossed her long, glossy black hair over her shoulder and smiled. “Great suit, Heather.”

“Thanks.” I couldn’t hate Mandy. Sure, she had skin the color of a Starbuck’s latte and most every guy liked her, but she was nice. Not once in all the years we’d been in school together had Mandy called me Princess and the Pea. She’d never made fun of my husky voice either.

Pleased as a girl with a ghost could get, I eyed my new halter bikini, not a string, thanks to Mom’s rules. But this soft turquoise and chocolate hipster was a more revealing cut than I’d ever worn before. Mandy liked it. I couldn’t wait to tell Audrey.

Right behind Mandy, Amy materialized semi-opaque and agog. Her eyes wide, she stared first at the kids in the pool and then at the mommies talking. I think she was horrified by the display of skin. I had been, too, the first time I saw Mrs. Cheever’s cellulite and stretch marks. Thank you, Lord, for giving me a mom who not only hates the pool but also knows when to hang up the two-piece for one of those skirted jobbies.

Amy managed to tear her gaze from Mrs. Cheever and gawked at the expanse of water free of kids. She was so entranced, I wondered if maybe she was afraid, if maybe she’d drowned.

“That pool ain’t muddy a’tall,” she said, the awe in her voice as clear as the water refracting the sunlight. And awe was good, I thought. I hoped. I prayed.

One of the lifeguards blew his whistle long and loud.

“Seriously, Heather, Drew’s pointing at you,” Claire said. “I think you’re in trouble.”

“Me? What did I do? I just got here.”

Drew stood in the stand and blew his whistle. “You!”

I pointed to myself, then raised both hands and shrugged, which was really hard to do considering I had four towels in my pool bag strapped to one shoulder and I was holding the full mini-cooler.

“Sign the book!” he yelled.

“Oh, sorry!”

“God!” Audrey shouted from the snack bar forty feet away. “It’s not enough that you make my life a living hell at home, now you have to do it here, too!”

And here I thought I was the one in hell. In my defense, I’d like to point out that three days ago, we only had to sign in guests. We also had to pay additional fees for these guests, which I think is totally unfair considering the bazillion bucks our parents pay to be members. The powers that be must have changed the procedure while I was serving time.

Luckily, Amy was ethereal. She wouldn’t cost me any money, but I wasn’t sure about other costs I might incur, like my dignity. So far, all of maybe five minutes, Amy hadn’t stirred up any trouble. That boded well, right? She had to have fun in the sun. Who didn’t?

“So where do you want to sit?” Claire asked. “How about there?” She pointed to the row of white plastic lounge chairs on the far side of the pool.

Claire’s spot would give us plenty of profile gazing, but I wanted full frontal Drew viewing. Now, the row of chairs lined up by the fence fulfilled that requirement and also provided us with the added bonus of the lifeguard office prospect. “How about there?” I said, and started walking fast, without running, to stake out our territory.

My sweet sister followed, her flip-flops slapping on the wet cement behind me. “Don’t you think it’s too close to the kiddie pool?”

“But look at the maximum view potential,” I said and placed my cooler, pool bag with tags and multitude of towels on three loungers in the full sun.

I know what you must be thinking. Yes, bringing at least four towels every time I go to the pool is a little odd. You would, too, if you got rashes from wet towels. Once, I even got hives and had to take Benadryl.

“What view?” Amy asked, squinching up her freckled nose.

I pointed to Drew, then turned my lounger around and lowered what was now the front so it was barely tilted. I could pretend to read and tan my backside. Truth be known, I was starting to get a butt and was proud of it.

“Why’d you wanna look at him?”

I gathered my unruly hair into a clip and whispered under my breath, “Because he’s really, really hot.”

“Course he is,” Amy said. “He’s sitting full out in the sun while everybody else is splashing in the water.”

Tempted as I was to roll my eyes, I didn’t. Amy had to have fun today, and I had to behave like I was normal to prove to my sister that I wasn’t as much of a weirdo as she thought. With that in mind, I devoted my attention to getting tan, slicking my body down with the low SPF oil I’d secretly purchased at the drug store.

“Can you do my back?” I asked Claire, who was wearing the thirty SPF like we were supposed to. “I’ll only wear it for an hour, I promise.”

She sighed and seemed about to say something along the lines of “you’ll be sorry,” but then seemed to think the better of it and reluctantly poured the sweet banana and coconut scented oil in the palm of her hand. “Turn around.”

“That oil’s gonna fry you up to a crisp,” Amy said, as Claire spread the tanning oil from my shoulders to the back of my bathing suit. “Like when Mama oils the chicken before she roasts it in the wood stove.”

It wasn’t cooking oil. Hello. I shoved the bottle of Banana Boat toward her.

“Infused with rare extracts of banana, carrot, and coconut,” Amy read. “Sounds like you’ll be cooking something to me. No SPF. What’s SPF?”

“I don’t need SPF!” I yelled.

“I’m not going to rat on you,” Claire said, thankfully not realizing I hadn’t been talking to her. “But I’d make sure Audrey doesn’t find out.”

Thank God, my older sister was busy with a customer and hadn’t heard me. She would snitch on me in a nanosecond.

“Let’s lay out for awhile,” I said, motioning to Amy to take the empty chair next to me.

Back and butt to the sun, I settled onto the towel-clad lounger, propped at a slight angle, and pretended to read the novel I’d brought with me. Periodically, I’d turn the page, but do not ask me about the content. I was counting the things I loved about Drew.

I loved the way he sat, his back against the chair, his legs bent, yet relaxed. Nice definition in the thighs and calves, which let a person know there was power and strength enough to spring off that stand and save someone at a moment’s notice. And he wasn’t too hairy, like the other lifeguard here today, who even had tufts sprouting from his back. Eww! Mom said hairy chests were popular in the seventies and eighties. I wondered if Drew waxed his chest. It was super smooth.

“So all we’re gonna do is set here in the sun?” Amy complained after a total of maybe five minutes. From her spot on the lounge chair between me and the baby pool, she stirred a welcome little breeze that ruffled Claire’s Teen Vogue. “I’m bored.”

Her words tempted Fate, and Fate answered by bringing closer to us this bratty little kid and his brother who looked just like him only smaller. They’d been roughhousing over in the kiddie pool.

“Jack, stop that,” said their belly ring-sporting mother. Like Malibu Mom’s lackluster attempt at scolding was going to stop wrestle mania. Her voice rose, though, as she continued gabbing with Mrs. Cheever about her birthing experiences, which I have to say, now that I could hear their conversation, grossed me out more than Mrs. Cheever’s back fat.

Jack and mini-Jack fell on top of Amy. Her ghostly arms and legs flailed with theirs.

“Knock it off!” I yelled in my best angry babysitter voice. I didn’t need to have my haint both bored and riled up.

“Who’s gonna make me?” the older stinker challenged.

The younger one swiped at the snot running out of his nose. “Yeah. Who’s gonna make him?”

Amy decided she’d try. She floated up out of the lounger and kicked the older one in the shins, repeatedly. Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to feel it.

“Boys,” the mother said, standing up and tying a sarong around her waist. “Get your sandals on. I know you like making new friends …” She smiled, nearly blinding me with her freshly bleached teeth. “But Mommy’s hungry. Since you’ve been so good, today, we’re going to get some ice cream.”

Good? That was good behavior?

The little hellions made faces at me, then ran, not walked, to their mother.

The smaller one scooped all his pool toys scattered across their table into his arms.

“Leave ‘em, sweetheart,” she said, grabbing her wallet and keys. “We’ll be back.”

“Oh, joy,” I muttered under my breath and took the opportunity to prevent a second round of wrestling when the dynamic duo returned. I spread one of my extra towels over a once-again-reclining Amy. The terry cloth must have tickled because she laughed. I wondered how long her good mood would last.

For good measure, I sat our mini-Igloo at the end of Amy’s lounge chair, close to but not touching her feet, a barricade to any further incursions.

“Oh, look at this.” Claire pointed to a page in her magazine. A model dripping with beads in a bohemian chic skirt and camel colored tank pouted back at me.

“Nice. I bet Mom could show us how to make those.” It was great having a creative mother. If only we could convince her to dress in a less fashion-deprived manner. God only knew what message she was wearing on her t-shirt today.

Speaking of moms, this haggard looking one in lime green Crocs limped past us with a girl toddler in pigtails clinging to her neck and a second of the boy variety with goggles strapped to his head wrapped around her leg. Scary. Twins.

The boy’s face was all pinched like he was about to let loose on a whine to end all whines. I nearly made the sign of the cross as she dragged her load back and stopped right in front of me, obstructing my view. Couldn’t she tell I had a man to admire, and he was getting ready to blow the whistle for Adult Swim?

Yet another thing I loved about Drew—the way he lifted the whistle to his mouth. Drew had what I would call a pretty mouth. The top lip was thin in comparison to his fuller lower lip. Very kissable if you know what I mean. Not that I could see it now.

I cleared my throat, hoping that Mrs. Mom would get the picture. She didn’t.

Amy apparently did and laughed, and I suspected she’d done something to keep the woman from moving. Maybe that was her idea of fun.

I heard Drew blow the whistle and call, “Adult Swim.”

Luckily, the mom moved to the side in time for me to watch Drew stretch his tall build toward the mid- afternoon sun, highlighting every sweet sinew on his killer bod.

“Heather,” Claire said, pinching me. “Your mouth is open.”

I couldn’t help it. I didn’t even care that I’d have another bruise or that I had a ghost to entertain so I could move her on to the next realm. Drew’s beauty was jaw-dropping.

He tossed the baseball cap and sunglasses he’d been wearing aside, and I have to say, the new buzz cut suited him. He dove into the water and swam all the way to the shallow end of the pool, near me. As I tried to calm my tingling skin, he emerged from the water, climbing up the steps to the pool deck like one of those slow motion commercials.

Water streamed from his high cheekbones to his Adam’s apple to his smooth, muscular chest, to . . . Well, you get the picture.

All of a sudden, chilled water sluiced from the top of my head down my face and neck. I shrieked. “Claire! What did you do that for?”

“You needed it,” she said, looking at me over the rim of her oversized sunglasses. She raised one eyebrow in a way that made me feel like she was the older, wiser sister, then she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Don’t get all crazy. But he’s coming this way.”

No, coming or even walking was the wrong verb. What Drew was doing was more graceful, sensual even. He cocked his head to the side, trained his icy blue eyes on the chair next to me, then on me.

Feeling every loopy nub of the terry cloth beneath my thighs, I quickly grabbed the Marshmallow Sparkle Lipsmacker I’d been using as a bookmark and reapplied a frosty, glossy glow. I debated whether I should take my hair out of the clip and toss it. It, after all, could become one of my best features by the end of the summer when I hopefully would have saved enough money to have it highlighted.

Drew stood there, dripping in his modest red swim trunks and staring down at me. I really hoped Audrey was taking this in.

“What can I do for you?” I asked, for once glad that my deep, raspy voice wasn’t the sweet simper other girls my age perfected. It made me memorable. And my voice could be viewed as attractive, right? That’s why he was now staring. He was so . . . turned on?

My skin itched horribly right where the plastic fastener linked the two sides of my top together. I scratched near it, but that just made the patch under the plastic itch worse.

Drew pointed to the lounger next to me. “Um, is that your chair?”

I glanced over at the spot I’d staked out for Amy who was invisible to everyone but me. She waved and exposed the gap between her front teeth as she smiled.

Oh, my, God. Drew Blanton wanted to sit next to me! And Amy was in the way.

I took a deep breath and noted a hint of citrus in the air. I sniffed again. Chlorine, Drew’s sun-warmed skin and citrus. I’d go to the drugstore and sniff all the suntan lotion until I found the one that smelled like him. Maybe I’d dab a little on my pillowcase to enhance my Drew-dreams.

“The chair’s all yours,” I said with a grin I hoped wasn’t too goofy. Amy, bad little haint that she was, remained in a reclined yet defiant position.

“Great,” he said, smiling back with nice straight teeth. He must either have naturally good spacing or his parents had spent some major moolah on braces. Didn’t matter. He had perfect teeth and a perfect smile.

Rather than sit down, he turned to the mom who’d been walking around with the attached toddlers. “Ma’am, this spot is free.”

He leaned over to move the cooler when I did, and doofus that I am, I bumped heads with him. Please, please, please, I prayed, hoping Audrey hadn’t seen my less than smooth move. Though he had the opportunity to look down my bathing suit top, he didn’t even try. How deflating is that?

But he had noticed me, and that was a fantabulous thing, right?

I wasn’t sure, so I spent most of the next Kid Swim contemplating whether this first official encounter was a victory or a defeat. I could now say “hi” to him because he’d talked to me, recognizing my existence. Recognition was a start. And I gave my extra lounge chair to the mommy, so he thought I was nice. But being nice could make me seem uncool. Didn’t all the guys worth having always go for the mean girls like Audrey and her friends? I’d banged heads with him, too, so he must think I’m a klutz.

To make my misery more complete, Amy whined, and whined, and whined. “I don’t have me a bathing costume. Or a chair to sit on. I’m plumb bored. When are we leaving?”

I glanced around. Mrs. Mom was in the kiddie pool tossing a squishee ball with her toddlers. Claire had gone to the snack bar to take advantage of Audrey’s discount. No one else was paying attention, so I put my earbuds in to make it appear like I was singing along to some music. “Look, Amy, you asked to come,” I whispered. “You begged me.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and scowled.

“We’ll leave by two. Okay?”

Amy glanced to the clock hanging between the boys and girls bathrooms. I wondered if she would make the hands move faster. “How ‘bout half past one?”

“Amy, I know this is hard for you to understand because, well, you don’t know what it’s like to crush out on a boy. The longer I stay, the greater the opportunity for Drew to talk to me.”

“But I want to have fun.”

“You can. Go in the pool. Play with the other kids.”

A little voice inside me, call it intuition, told me I should probably leave. Amy wasn’t happy. And if your ghost isn’t happy, you’re not going to be happy either. But I was stupid. I didn’t listen. My Drew fix required another hour.

About twenty minutes later, when Drew was back on diving well duty and I’d broiled enough to warrant a quick dip, I padded over to the well, making certain to stay on the wet pavement and not burn the soles of my feet.

Amy followed, her laughter drifting over the tinkle of the water spigot refilling the well. She stopped and bent down to stick her ghostly hand in the stream of water, splattering it every which way. Thank goodness she found something to amuse herself with. I could relax.

Since I was a pretty good diver and Amy was occupied, I figured why not show off a little? It wasn’t like my diving would embarrass Audrey. I might even impress Drew.

I walked to the end of the board, sprang, and molded my long body into a classic dive position. Mid-air, though, my confidence imploded. If Amy got tired of her water play, she could take this opportunity to de-pants and uncork me.

Time slowed. Seconds seemed to stretch into minutes.

Oddly enough, the breeze blowing against my chest while I was descending toward the deep, glassy surface seemed more pronounced than usual. Specifically, my breasts tingled more than I’d recalled they’d ever tingled before.

My first thought? Hot damn! I can actually feel them growing.

My second thought? I’m topless.

Chapter Four

Oh, my, God. Oh—my—God! My top was flopping at my waist. I couldn’t scream. Even more people would look, and Drew, if he wasn’t already watching, would see how un-luscious my lady lumps were. Please Lord, please Lord, make me invisible, I prayed, breaking the surface with nary a splash. And what about Audrey? What if she’d seen?

Underwater, blue-tinted legs kicked and skinny kid backsides protruded through floats away from the deep end. I swam upwards one-armed, the other folded across my chest, and broke the surface to a renewal of that breezy feeling and great applause from a pack of roving middle school boys. Mortified, I looked down at my goose-pimpled flesh, treaded water, and debated how I could pull my top up without flashing anyone or drowning.

“Her name should be Princess and the Peas!” one of the boys shouted in a nasally voice.

A loud cannon ball-sized splash drowned his buddies’ responses. Seconds later, a mini tidal wave formed, slapped my face, and choked me as I fought to remain afloat, keep my breasts covered, and breathe.

Too busy to realize the back closure of my halter-top must have been barely clinging to my waist, I wasn’t aware that whatever was tickling its way down my leg was my bikini top until it was beyond easy retrieval. In despair, I watched the brown and turquoise fabric sink to the bottom of the diving well.

Amy’s laughter rose above the splashes and shouts. She was sitting on the brick coping beside the metal ladder I should be using to climb out, kicking her ghostly booted feet in the water, and waving. I needed help, and it wouldn’t come from her.

The hard look I sent her way merely encouraged her to laugh louder. Where was Claire? I glanced around desperately, realizing I had no other choice. I had to dive to the bottom of the well to get my top.

I took a deep breath, filling my lungs before my descent, and the freckled middle school demon who’d taunted me earlier dove over my head and into the well. He beat me to the top, mostly because one-armed swimming is about as easy as getting rid of a ghost. As he came back up to the surface, I tried to snatch my top away from him, but again, I wasn’t all that effective with one arm.

Making my awkward way back up to the surface, I seriously considered the benefits of drowning. One—I’d no longer have to deal with Audrey and her friends. Two—I wouldn’t have to worry about one of those middle school twerps uploading every embarrassing moment of my topless dive to YouTube so that my humiliation would go global. And three—I wouldn’t have to deal with my ghost. Unless. . . she stayed with me for all of eternity because I hadn’t given her enough fun. Crappola.

Out-of-breath and still clutching my chest, I broke through the surface.

From the pool deck beside the diving well, the boy shook my bikini top. “You want it? You want it?” he teased, then tossed it to one of his friends. His friend pitched it to some other boy who needed some major dermatological intervention as I paddled to the side, trying to get Drew’s attention.

“Can I get a little help here?” I finally yelled up at my idol, who seemed totally clueless. Amy was probably making him deaf.

Drew looked down and frowned.

“Those boys have my top,” I explained, jerking my head in their general direction, all the while hoping my legs didn’t give out.

He blew his whistle long and shrill. “Hey, return the girl’s top! Now!”

The freckled juvie pervert walked across the pool deck to stand next to the ladder, next to Amy. He held up my dripping halter and snorted. “Girl? I couldn’t tell.”

I cringed.

Why couldn’t Amy do useful stuff, like put that boy through a similar torture to mine? A debriefing to be exact, then I’d ask him if he really was a boy. The pool patrons would cheer, and he’d move to another state, too mortified to return to school.

“You want it, come get it,” the boy said, dangling my top just out of my reach.

Drew whistled again. “That’s it, Justin! You’re out for half an hour. Sit on the bench after you give the girl her top. Say anything else, and I’ll call your parents and send you home.”

My knight in shining sunscreen! Defending me against middle school pooligans. If only he could see Amy, I was sure he’d defend me against her, too.

“Aw, man!” the boy grumbled, then threw my top at me. The damp Lycra stung my face as it hit. I nearly choked again.

I was about to try reattaching my top underwater, but Claire had made her way to the ladder with a dry towel. She held it up like a screen for me and helped me wrap myself in it.

My normally husky voice was barely a whisper as full as it was of tears that I refused to let fall in front of the gawkers. “Not too many people saw, right?”

“Um . . . what do you consider too many?” Claire asked, then bit her lip.

Great. Everyone had seen.

Wobbly-legged from treading water for too long, I managed to limp past the loungers and tables with my head high, but itchy. I felt people’s stares, heard their snickers.

As I passed near the snack bar, Audrey’s distinctive whine rose above the other conversations. “She did it on purpose just to embarrass me. God, I can’t wait to graduate and get away from her.”

My skin felt hot all over. With the back of my hand, I swiped at the warm trickle running down my face. I knew taking Amy to the pool would be a disaster. But somehow, I never imagined anything would happen that could make Audrey hate me any more than before. Like I’d been about everything else, I was so wrong.

The women’s bathroom shone like a beacon ahead, probably due to the sun hitting the fresh white paint on the door. I’d go in there to regroup and calm down. Struggling to swallow the lump in my throat, I pushed through the swinging door. I dropped my towel and put my wet top back on, triple-knotting the damp halter ties around my neck. My hot skin still hadn’t cooled.

Wary, I dared a peek at myself in the mirror above the chipped porcelain sink. I was definitely more than a little pink, not good. I turned half-way around to check the back view and lifted the elastic on my bikini bottom, noting the distinct contrast of white butt cheek and deepening pink, burnt leg flesh.

Amy appeared in the mirror. I wanted to shout at her, but I settled for shaking my fist. To be sure no one else was in the bathroom with me, I checked the yellow metal bathroom stalls and the shower before returning to the sink area to blast her.

“What do I have to do to get you to leave permanently?” My voice echoed off the tiled walls.

Amy floated out of the reflection to the stalls, then back again to the sink where I was standing. A haint’s version of pacing, I guess.

“Remember how you said if you had fun, you’d tell me how to get rid of you? I think it’s time for you to explain.”

“Well…” Amy sighed. “I guess coming to the swimming pool was fun for you. But it’s been as exciting as shelling peas for me until your bathing costume fell down.”

“You mean until you untied it,” I corrected.

“Oh, I had nothing to do with it falling down.” She crossed her heart and spit over her shoulder. “I swear.”

My hope of getting Audrey to like me by summer’s end popped like a balloon stuck with a pin. I was doomed even when the ghost wasn’t involved. “So did I, or didn’t I fulfill the fun quota today?”

“Quota?”

“The amount of fun you require before you tell me how to get rid of you.”

Tapping her index finger against her cheek, Amy pondered my question.

Jeopardy music played in my head as I waited for her verdict, hoping, praying, considering a novena if necessary to encourage her to answer with a “yes,” so I could get back on track with my summer plans.

She stopped tapping her finger and smiled at me, gap-toothed and happy. “Nope, I think you can do better,” she twanged.

I balled my hands into fists, tried to keep my voice even, but, oh, how I wanted to yell. “So you’re not going to tell me what to do to make you leave?”

“I’ll tell you once I’ve had me enough fun.”

“Seriously, Amy, I’m not that interesting. The pool’s about as exciting as it gets around here. Can’t you find somebody else to haunt?”

“No. I like you, Heather.”

I guess I was too involved in my ghostly turmoil to hear Drew call Adult Swim. But he must have, because I found him leaning against the brick wall next to the bathroom door when I walked out. An arm’s length away from Drew was the Coke machine, where the hairy lifeguard was pressing every button to an electronic sold out flash. Drew held a bucket full of cleaning supplies. I guess he was waiting for me to come out so he could disinfect the toilets. Audrey and her friends would make the most of the opportunity presented; they’d talk to him. She’d think I was a goober if I ignored him.

“Hey, thanks for helping me with those boys,” I said, getting lost in his gorgeous icy blue eyes. Oh, God, I was staring. Had he said something? Was he expecting a response? I had to say something. “Middle schoolers can be so immature.”

“Yeah.” He looked at the closed door expectantly, then back at me. “I take it you’re not in middle school,” he said, implying that he thought I was, or worse, that I looked like I was in grade school.

My burnt flesh actually flared higher. “Uh, no, I’m a freshman. Or I will be this fall.”

“Really? Did you just move here?”

I didn’t appreciate the surprise in his voice. “No, I’ve been fortunate enough to have lived in Pecan Hills my whole exciting life.”

His mouth twitched like he was tempted to smile at my sarcasm, then he poked his head into the bathroom. “Anyone in here?” he called.

“It’s okay,” I reassured him. “It’s empty.”

“So where’s the girl you were talking to?” he asked.

I swallowed, trying to ignore the itchiness that now competed with the nearly unbearable pain of my sunburn. “Um, I think she left through the door to the tennis courts.”

With an odd sort of whoosh that felt like a cold breeze blowing inside me, Amy entered my body for the third time in less than a week. My core temperature must have dropped twenty degrees. So now I was itchy and freezing.

Walking away from Drew was my only option. Who knew what Amy would make me do if I stuck around?

Prepared to fight to take that first step, I was surprised at how easy it was to lead myself from Drew and any additional embarrassment. A little too easy.

“See you around,” I said, shocked to be fully in control of my mouth. What was Amy up to?

“Yeah,” he said, squinting, so that I could barely see the blue gorgeousness of his eyes. “What’s your name again?”

Oh, my, God. Drew Blanton wanted to know my name. Okay. What was it? I couldn’t remember my own name.

“Princess and the Pea!” Freckle boy shouted, and one of his buddies walked over to the nearby bench of shame to press fists with him.

“It’s Tildy, Heather Tildy,” I said, suddenly remembering, then realizing with dread after I’d said it that I sounded like a James Bond wannabe. All I needed was a sardonic smile. I already had the freakin’ deep voice. My God, if Drew hadn’t already decided I was a superfreak, he would now.

Okay, calm down, Heather. Just save face and walk away.

Have you ever noticed how confident older girls walk when they are more than a little proud of their total package? How they swing their hips seductively and hold their heads high?

Let me say right now, I have never attempted that I’m-so-hot stride, nor have I ever really thought of myself as sexy. I mean, I’d fantasized about Drew lusting after me, but I wasn’t delusional.

As I pivoted toward the lounge chairs and my nice sister who would console me, Amy decided to try out a bootylicious strut, using my body like a puppet master.

I kid you not, as I walked away from Drew and hoped my bikini bottom wouldn’t ride up my butt cheeks, she forced my hips into such an exaggerated swing that I wanted to melt into the concrete deck to escape the humiliation.

Instead, I forced my lower limbs to stop. I looked back over my shoulder at Drew, who was biting his full lower lip and staring at me as if he was debating whether he needed to call 9-1-1 for a straight jacket. His forehead wrinkled, revealing worry lines I’d never noticed before.

I shrugged. “I guess I should have warned you about my oddball sense of humor. The walk was a joke.”

“Yeah. Right,” he said, shaking his head as he entered the girl’s bathroom with his cleaning bucket.

Amy sailed out of me, and the sun seemed to beat down even harder.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Audrey’s roar filled the air. If she could have left her window at the snack bar, I think she would have killed me. Seriously.

Our family vacation to Jekyll Island was coming up in a little less than four weeks, and Amy wasn’t tagging along with me to the beach or to anywhere else in this stinking town, for that matter. If she asked to go, my answer would be a big N-O. Even if she plucked all Dad’s grapes and I was blamed, I’d gladly suffer the consequences. As long as those consequences didn’t involve me being forbidden to go to my first boy-girl party, or being banned from the beach, or worse yet, being sent to Aunt Geneva’s for the rest of the summer.

Claire’s fingers dug into the burnt itching flesh of my upper arm as she pulled me toward our lounge chairs. “We’re leaving.”

“Stop. You’re hurting me.”

She loosened her grip, slightly. “Heather, what is wrong with you, lately?”

I decided to level with her. “It’s not my fault. See, this ghost took over my body.”

“Ha, ha. Very funny.” She let go of my arm and started folding up my towels. “I think the heat and bathing suit trauma have warped your brain.” She reached out and poked my forearm, leaving a white mark that lingered for a second or two. “And as I suspected, you’re really burnt.”

“It’ll turn brown by tomorrow.” I hoped. I prayed. I gathered the rest of my stuff.

“What are we gonna do when get back to your house?” Amy asked. She should have been begging my forgiveness. “Oh, I know. Let’s play Hide and Go Seek.”

Giving her the silent treatment, I zipped up my white cotton cover-up and noticed the toddler with the goggles sitting next to me, shaking his can of orange soda.

I thought duck, just as he popped the top. The carbonated orange liquid spurted up and out like orange fireworks with a six-foot diameter trajectory.

“No!” his mother screamed, and everyone including the boy, Mrs. Mom, his pig-tailed sister, and my sister, got sprinkled with sticky soda. Everyone, that is, but me. I seemed to be coated in some sort of ghost Teflon.

They were too busy wiping off and grumbling to notice that I was dry and unstained. Why Amy would want to do something nice, albeit weird, I had no clue. But something told me I’d soon find out, and it wouldn’t make me any happier than I had made Audrey today.

Claire and I started walking home in silence. Amy was kicking a rock the size of a gumball along the sidewalk in front of Claire, who didn’t notice, thanks to the street traffic. Or maybe my sister was just so angry with me for embarrassing her that she didn’t find it odd. Then again, she could be focusing on the yellow jackets and wasps she was attracting, thanks to the soda shower.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” I asked as we moved out of the street and waited on the curb for a silver minivan to pass.

Claire waved a yellow jacket away. “What else is there to say?”

“I don’t know. Maybe, wow, you must have been embarrassed when your top fell down. That’s called sympathy.”

The van passed. Claire looked both ways and resumed walking in the road. “Yeah, well I’m not so sure you didn’t do it on purpose.”

Heat rose from the sun-warmed asphalt adding to the increasing discomfort I was experiencing thanks to my own stupidity. My skin felt unnaturally tight. I stopped in the middle of the street. “Why would I want to reveal my so-called chest to everyone including Drew? I could understand you thinking that—if I’d had a boob job. But, hello, I’m not exactly endowed!”

A gas-guzzling Hummer headed straight toward me and honked for me to get out of the way. I trotted to the curb.

The guy in the Hummer slowed down and leaned his head out of the driver’s side open window. All the windows were lowered in his modified tank. His long bangs ruffled in the blast from his air conditioner vent. “What’s your problem?”

“People like you wasting our fossil fuels!” I yelled back.

Claire started walking away from me. Actually, with her rate of speed, I should have used the word running.

The guy in the Hummer peeled away only to screech to a halt at the four-way intersection ahead. Jerk.

“Come on, Claire. Wait up!”

She thought about it for a second or two, then paused in front of supergeek Xavier’s house, a place I didn’t want to linger. All I needed was to somehow be associated with him, and I could kiss away any hope of redeeming myself in Audrey’s eyes. It was bad enough that Claire was even embarrassed by me.

“I don’t like being the center of attention,” she said. Two wasps circled her head.

“And I do?” I asked.

She gazed at me over the rim of her sunglasses.

“Look, I know you think my weirdness rubs off on you, and that people will now point and say, hey, it’s the sister of the topless girl—”

“The sunburned, topless girl with the hoochie mama walk, don’t forget.”

“How can I? If it makes you feel any better, Claire, I was flying the freak flag so high today, I doubt anyone even noticed you came to the pool with me. And your hair is lighter than mine. Worse case scenario, they might think we’re friends. Some people might not guess we share a similar genetic code.”

Claire smiled begrudgingly. “You really think so? I’m so scared about school this fall. I don’t want people to point at me.”

Having been pointed at most of my life, I understood. Claire was going to be a sixth-grader. The leap between grade and middle school was far from easy. I didn’t want to make it harder for her.

“Give me your pinky,” I said, crooking mine towards her.

Claire hooked her long, narrow finger with mine.

“I swear that I will be normal. I will not embarrass you or myself like I did today, ever again.”

No way could anything surpass the horror of what had gone down at the pool.

I expected vapor girl to either return to her usual spot among the scuppernongs when we arrived hot and sweaty back at the house, but she didn’t. She followed me inside as I snuck up the back stairs, carefully avoiding my mom and her lecture on skin cancer, which was a given once she noticed my sunburn.

The cool green walls of my room normally soothed me. Even the color’s name is calming—celadon. Not today. Not after what I had been through. Not with Amy in here with me.

I squirted my lavender linen water on my bed, which apparently made it more interesting to Amy, who floated over there after examining my photo board, the left corner of it in particular. So I had taken some photos of Drew I’d copied from Audrey’s high school yearbook. That didn’t make me a stalker. It’s not like I camped out in front of his house.

I turned on the radio, so I could claim I was singing if anyone noticed I was talking.

Amy reclined against the pillowed back of my daybed.

“In case you didn’t notice,” I said, hands on hips. “I didn’t give you permission to come with me into my room.”

She gnawed at a ghostly nail. “Oh, I don’t need permission no more.”

“Since when? You told me—”

Amy, fast learner that she was, raised her ghostly hand like I’d done to her the other day. “I did a second nice thing for you, not that you’d consider thanking me.”

I was stumped—completely. “How could anything you’ve done today be considered nice?”

“Let’s see. I stopped that orange phosphate from getting on you, which meant those yeller jackets bothered Claire on the way home, not you.”

Now that she’d saved me from a soda shower, she could go anywhere with me and materialize? Not good. Not good at all. “But doesn’t the mean stuff you did cancel the good?”

“What mean stuff?”

I threw one of my wet towels at her. “You made me swing my hips in front of Drew.”

She laughed. “You wanted him to take notice of you, and he did.”

“Notice in a good way, like, oh, Heather, she’s really cute or witty. Not, oh, Heather, she’s the weirdo, itchy exhibitionist. He must think I’m a loon.”

Amy smirked. “You don’t look like no bird to me.”

“I don’t mean loon the bird, I mean loon as in loony, as in crazy, mad, insane, which is what I am because I’m arguing with a ghost.”

I had a big problem with her added mobility. If she wanted to, she could pretty much hang with me twenty-four, seven—guaranteeing that neither Audrey nor Drew would see me as anything other than a joke or an embarrassment. But first things first, I needed to get this damp bathing suit off. “Turn around,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because I’m about to get naked, and I don’t want you looking.”

Amy turned her back to me and stretched out along my comforter.

I rifled through my chest of drawers and pulled out a tagless, oversized pima cotton tee and loose oversized tagless, cotton knit shorts. In case you didn’t know, cotton is the fabric of choice for those of us with skin sensitivity issues.

My sunburn stung more sharply as I moved. It actually felt like my skin had shrunk over my muscles. I glanced in my dresser mirror, and noted the lacy red rash marbling the stark white skin where my wet bathing suit had pressed for too long. It started to itch.

I slid the tee over my now pounding head and red shoulders. Even the part in my hair hurt.

Amy left my bed to hang on one of the blades of my ceiling fan. She spun around slowly in a circle. It looked disturbing, yet fun. Fun enough to fulfill the good time requirement? I wondered.

“Heather?” Mom called from the hallway outside my door. I tensed. She hadn’t heard me talking to Amy, had she?

“Will you please set the table for dinner?” she said, voice louder, closer to the door.

“Let’s go. You gotta do your chores,” Amy ordered, leaving the fan, like setting the table was excitement to end all excitement.

I scowled at Amy, then reminded Mom, “I’ve got dish duty. It’s Claire’s night to set.”

“I know, but she’s not feeling well. She has growing pains.”

Yeah, right. “So give her some Advil.”

Mom opened my door. The look on her face said ‘no backtalk.’ “Set the table. If Claire’s feeling better after dinner, she’ll help you with the dishes.”

“Fat chance of that happening,” I said, a little too loudly to qualify as under my breath.

The skin between Mom’s eyebrows wrinkled. She entered my sanctuary, arms folded over the cleavage that hadn’t passed down to me. But maybe that was a good thing. Maybe the same gene that gave her normal-sized breasts also gave her the propensity to wear oversized tee shirts with goofy sayings on them.

She examined me from my burned part down to my red toes, which were maybe a couple of shades lighter than the spicy tomato polish I’d painted them. “Do you have a sunburn?”

“I don’t know,” I lied. “Do I?”

Amy flitted around my mother. She reached out and touched Mom’s wavy brown hair.

“Where’s your pool bag?” Mom asked. “I want to see the sunscreen you used today.”

“It’s no big deal.”

“Oh, really? Are you going to think it’s no big deal when you’re forty and the dermatologist tells you that you have skin cancer?”

Amy listened to the rest of the lecture—intently. I tuned it out, focusing on the wall behind my mother’s head, noting how her nostrils flared in time with her inflection. Her southern accent, what we here in Georgia call a Piedmont accent—very elegant—was much more pronounced when she was angry.

When Mom paused for a breath, I had no clue what she’d been saying, but I’m sure it was something along the lines of surgery, chemotherapy, and dying at a young age all because one day at the pool I attempted to get a tan.

I nodded. “Um, hmm.”

As Mom continued on, I began to think she sounded a little like the teachers in those retro Peanuts cartoon specials. You know, wha, wha, wha, wha, wha, wha, wha.

Then Amy whooshed by me, which really hurt because of the sunburn.

“Hey!” I shouted, the pain making me careless.

“Don’t hey, me, young lady,” Mom said. “No pool for the rest of the week.”

No pool? No Drew?

“So what am I supposed to do?”

“Help me with the craft camp.”

“Camp,” Amy repeated, doing a haint version of a happy dance. “That sounds like fun. I wanna go.”

“Yeah,” I told Mom, “like I want to be around a bunch of little kids.” I had my hands full with one who wasn’t even alive.

Mom smiled. You know the one—that sort of smug, I’m-the-parent-and-you’re-the-child- you-must-listen-to-me sort of smile. “Then it’s the perfect punishment. You’ll come with me tomorrow.”

Amy clapped her hands.

“Are you sure you really want to do that?” I made sad puppy dog eyes at Mom. “I mean, I’m not exactly good with little kids, like Claire is.” I let the implications wash over her.

Mom dropped her arms to her sides, and I saw the message emblazoned across her chest: Embarrassing My Children, Just One More Service I Offer. “You’ll manage just fine, sweetheart. Now set the table. Dinner’ll be ready in ten minutes.”

“I’ll come down. Just give me a minute,” I said.

Mom remained standing in front of me like I’d forgotten to add something to my capitulation.

“Oh, all right,” I said. “When I help you tomorrow, I’ll be all sweetness and light, okay?”

Mom nodded. “Put some aloe on that burn.” She started to leave, but stopped just shy of the open doorway. “And you know I’m only punishing you for your own good.”

“I know, okay?” I swear, she goes on and on about these things. Make your point, don’t rub my nose in it.

“Punishing?” Audrey said from the hallway. I could actually hear the smile in her voice. She must have gotten done with her shift.

“What did she do now?” she asked, then poked her head in the doorway. She looked at me through those beady brown eyes like I was the stupidest person on the planet.

“Go away, Audrey,” I growled. “This is my room and you aren’t part of the punishment.”

Almost immediately, I recalled one of my goals for the summer was getting her to like me. Pissing her off, further, was not a good move at this point.

“Heather.” Mom said my name like a sigh and raised her hand to her forehead. I guess I was giving her a headache. “Can’t you try to get along with your sister? For me, at least? Audrey isn’t being mean. She’s concerned.”

That’s my mother, always believing the best of everyone . . . except me.

How it killed part of me, the part that was still ticked off at Audrey, to do it when I knew full well I had every right to be poopy. But what hurt worse was knowing how much Audrey hated me. Maybe letting her win this round would make her see I wasn’t so bad.

“I’m sorry,” I said, actually meaning it, because I knew I’d embarrassed her at work and probably at a much deeper level than any I’d sunk to before.

She shook her head sadly in fake sympathy, making me wish I hadn’t meant it. “Yeah, you are sorry.”

Mom raised her hands in surrender and left, and I remained in my room with a bratty little ghost who was humming a ditty about going to camp.

Why hadn’t Audrey told Mom what I’d done at the pool, I wondered. Was she was saving the revelation for a better occasion, like dinner? What little appetite I had, left.

I wasn’t stupid. I’d figure out how to become less of a freak before school started, and when I did, Audrey would forgive me. Step one—get rid of Amy. She said she wanted fun, so I’d give it to her. What ten-year-old didn’t like crafts?

If going to the Michael’s craft store with Mom didn’t work, I’d come up with a veritable smorgasbord of activities. I didn’t intend to spend the next week, much less the entire summer and—God forbid—the school year at the mercy of Amy’s ghostly moods.

Chapter Five

What exactly, I wanted to know, had I done to deserve this? Sick at heart and ready to pop with hives, I gave my mop a rest and surveyed the once orderly craft classroom that Amy and I had transformed into a tie-dyed war zone.

We’d arrived at the Michael’s store without incident even though I’d borrowed Audrey’s new white micro-tee without asking—only because I didn’t have anything that was clean. I swear. Oddly enough, Audrey hadn’t bitched me out yet for borrowing the shirt without asking. I guess she was more interested in arriving on time to meet Karen and her other friends than in tattling on me. Or she was saving it for the right moment—guaranteed to provide me with maximum penalty.

At first, Amy happily flitted about the classroom while I covered the worktables in brown paper, then placed tee shirts and this new tie-dye string product on top of the paper. Yes, I wished my mother had told me about the tie-dye prior to my wearing Audrey’s shirt. But I wasn’t in full panic . . . yet.

The strings have the dye on them, so, all the know-how this project required was showing the kids how to tie their shirts with their colored strings and then helping them submerge the tees in a bucket of water. An easy, Skill Level One, twenty-minute craft that wouldn’t get Audrey’s shirt ruined, right?

Wrong.

From what I’ve observed, ghosts are fascinated with water. Or maybe it’s just my ghost. Considering Amy spent part of her life toting water from the well and was not “well-versed” in indoor plumbing, I should have known turning a knob for water would be a mind-blowing experience for her. But I was more focused on other things like when Audrey would tell on me, how long she would let me worry about it, and what the repercussions would be.

Once the little kids started filing into the classroom, I gathered the plastic-handled buckets and brought them to the sink. Mom greeted the children with her happy-aren’t-we-going-to-have-fun voice. “We’ll be getting started in a few minutes once my assistant Heather finishes setting out the materials. How about if you all take a seat and tell me your names?”

The swish of water flowing from the spigot I turned on drew Amy like spilled orange soda drew bees.

The air directly behind me cooled, which for a moment felt nice considering the extent of my sunburn. Tingling from the crown of my head all the way to my heels, I shivered as Amy entered my body again. She flicked my hand in and out of the stream of water running from the spigot.

“You almost done, Heather?” Mom asked, sounding a wee bit impatient.

I glanced back at my mother and the shiny little faces, then focused on the sink. “Out,” I said in an angry whisper.

You can’t make me, Amy thought back in my brain, but she weakened enough that I managed to gain control of my hand to turn the chrome knob to off and carry the buckets to each of the tables, spilling not a drop.

Caught up in helping the little brats, I mean children, knot their strings, I actually forgot Amy was inside me until I started dumping the dye-tinted water from the buckets.

The plan was for Mom to teach her pupils a song about blending colors while I readied the tees for rinsing.

With no trouble, I emptied the first six buckets and piled the wet tees on the counter beside the sink. As I reached for the handle of the seventh bucket, which held a t-shirt that belonged to Morgan, a five-year-old who’d insisted on a purple-string-only shirt, Amy regained control of my body.

Normally I wouldn’t bother to find out one of the brats’ names, but Morgan was so annoying I learned her name without really wanting to. She was heading to kindergarten in the fall. I know about kindergarten because she told me twelve million times, while I was forced by my mother to help her cut the purple bits of dye string from the other colors.

Let me do it, Amy said.

“No,” I whispered under my breath and reached for the handle.

My hand missed the handle and went straight into the violet-tinged water. I splashed water onto the table, soaking the heavy brown paper. The water dripped down onto the folding metal chair next to me and the tiled floor.

You’re making a big ol’ mess, Amy said. Just let me do it.

“No,” I said louder, loud enough that Mom ended her song before they got to green on their third verse.

“Heather, stop fooling around.”

Morgan’s pale blue eyes grew round, her little brow furrowed. For a moment, I paused to wonder how a five-year-old had worn worry lines into her forehead. Her expression reminded me of someone. I just couldn’t recall who. Not surprising considering I was engaged in a battle to end all battles.

As I fought Amy for control of my body, I lurched over to the next table and knocked the bucket completely over. Dye water spewed everywhere, including onto Audrey’s white micro-tee.

“Heather,” Mom called out, making the “er” like a growl.

But how could I worry about her when I was trying to force Amy out of me. Why I bothered to fight the ghost, I don’t know. I was going to be dead anyway in a matter of minutes because Audrey’d be here soon to pick up Mom and me.

“Are we having fun yet?” I shouted, since I apparently had control of my mouth.

Mom’s face grew redder and redder, approximating the color of my sunburnt skin. She’d blow as soon as her crafters were gone.

As I slipped and slid my way to upending the rest of the buckets, most of these nameless, faceless kids hooted. They must have thought I was performing for them. One little boy let loose an evil laugh. He scared me.

Other than Mom, Morgan was the only other living human in the room who didn’t think what I was doing was funny. She actually tugged on my Mom’s shirt, which today said All I ask is that you treat me no differently than you would the Queen. “You should put her in time out. That’s what my mother does when I’m making bad choices.”

What a pain in the butt—a five-year-old offering parenting advice.

Once there was nothing left to spill, Amy gave up, left my body, and hovered in the back corner of the room pouting. “You shoulda let me do what I wanted.”

Yeah, I could imagine how much better that would have been.

With every inch of my skin hurting from the contortions Amy put me and my sunburned skin through, I started mopping my mess. My worry about what Audrey would say when she saw what had happened to her shirt expanded exponentially.

I wanted to protest to Mom that I hadn’t made the mess, all evidence to the contrary. However, telling her a ghost had entered my body and made me do it could have two possible outcomes. No, make that three, and none of them were good.

One was that I was just like her sister Geneva. Two was that I was crazy, and I’d have a little overnight-for-observation visit on the adolescent unit of the hospital psycho ward. And three, Mom would tell me that I had the most active imagination she’d ever been privy to and that I should become a writer some day.

“You know I’m not about to tell you nothing now,” Amy said, calico-covered arms folded over her chest as she hovered, angry-faced and in the way of my mop.

The kids’ parents started arriving, so Mom rinsed the tees, then placed each one in an individual quart-sized plastic bag with the children’s names on them—something I was supposed to do.

“I mean it,” Amy said. “I coulda had fun today, but you wouldn’t let me!”

I continued giving her the silent treatment. Now, I had to find my way out of a more immediate predicament—Audrey’s wrath over her no longer white shirt.

About ten minutes after what most people would consider forgivable, all the kids but two—the boy with the evil laugh and Morgan—had been picked up by their moms or babysitters. The boy sat in one of the chairs swinging his legs and singing the color song Mom taught him, over and over and over. I think I preferred the evil laughter.

With worry etched across her forehead, Morgan alternated between watching the clock and scanning the aisle by the big picture windows. Moms who forget their kids should be shot.

That’s when I realized contact with this ghost was adversely affecting me, even more than I’d suspected. I didn’t want to be sucked into feeling sorry for this kid. The babysitter vortex was right around the corner. I wouldn’t baby-sit again. Never. Ever. Especially since I needed to keep my evenings free in case Drew ever asked me out.

“Hey, Morgan,” Mom said, drawing the little girl’s gaze from the windows. “Can you help me find the lollipops I put in my bag? I know I have some in here, but for the life of me, I can’t find them.”

Glad to have something to do other than wait, Morgan smiled, and I noticed she hadn’t lost any of her perfectly spaced, white corn nibblet baby teeth. “What kind of lollypops are we looking for?” she asked, smile turning to frown. “Are they in a bag?”

As cool as Mom was for helping distract the kid from being upset about her mom or dad or whoever forgetting to pick her up, I doubted she’d be as nice about me ruining Audrey’s shirt.

Eyes to the floor, I resumed mopping toward the doorway, dreading the passing of time until my doom as I endured Amy’s constant glare. A small part of me felt fortunate she, too, had resorted to the silent treatment to let me know she wasn’t happy. I didn’t think anything could lift my spirits as I reached the pair of sandaled male feet next to the door. I looked up.

Imagine if you will, the moment of joy that filled my heart upon seeing the lifeguard of my dreams leaning against the doorframe, jingling the keys in the pocket of his long khaki shorts. Even the ugly fluorescent lighting couldn’t fade his tan. His pale blue eyes sparkled. I dropped my mop. “Hi,” I said, then looked down at the mop.

“Hi.” He looked at the mop and bit his lip. “You want me to—”

“Drew!” Morgan squealed, making tracks across my freshly mopped floor and holding her grape swirl safety-pop tightly in her little hand.

I think he’d been about to say ‘pick it up for you.’ Yes, I am a dork, I thought as I bent down to pick up the mop. I was still pretty much incapable of moving.

His arms flexed in an oh-so-pleasing manner as he lifted soon-to-be kindergartner Morgan and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Hey, squirt.”

“Where’s Mommy?” she asked.

Mommy? Oh, my, God. I could see the family resemblance . . . now. The brat was his sister. I was thankful I was wearing a tagless shirt.

“She’s in a meeting,” Drew said. He looked over at my mother. “Sorry I’m late. Did my mom at least call and tell you I was coming?”

“No, I’m sorry, she didn’t.” Mom glanced down at the clipboard of contact information she keeps for the enrolled children as I headed to the sink. “But she does have brother Drew on the pick up list. So it’s fine.”

“Thanks,” he said, smiling his perfect smile, which I now knew was genetic since the kid had the same grin.

Some woman whose shirt had crisp, starched lines, chose that moment to push past Drew and Morgan and me. With one eye watering and blinking—contact trouble was my guess—she sighed. “I guess you thought I wasn’t ever coming.”

Uh, yeah.

What had I been doing before Drew arrived? Oh, yeah mopping. I was about to take the mop to the sink to rinse it, but I noticed Drew’s fingers for the first time. They were long and tapered, not what I’d expected. I figured a guy who must work out like he did to have those guns and that six-pack, now covered in a light blue polo that matched his heavenly eyes, would have muscular fingers. I kind of liked that he didn’t. It was unexpected. I wondered if he was an artist or musician in his spare time. Maybe liking art ran in the family.

Forcing myself to walk away, I headed to the sink. I rinsed and rung the mop, then debated whether I should rinse Morgan’s shirt since Mom was busy talking to the little boy’s perfectly ironed mother.

Why hadn’t anyone told me Drew had a younger sister, who, apparently, liked the color purple and Mom’s summer craft classes? I wondered if Audrey knew. Audrey. Yikes! She’d be here any moment now. Life as I knew it was over. Poor Amy, neither one of us would have any fun for a good long time once Audrey caught sight of her ruined tee. Unless I bribed her.

“Bye. See you soon, Nick,” Mom said, her sneakers squeaking along the tile floor toward me. “Let me get Morgan’s shirt for you, Drew.”

While she gave the tee a final rinse, I headed to one of the dye-stained tables with a bucket of bleach water and a sponge.

“You know what happened today?” Morgan asked as they waited.

“You made a tie dye shirt,” Drew answered.

“Yes, and that girl there was very bad.”

I glanced up at two pairs of identical blue eyes focused on me. Identical furrows formed on their foreheads. I rubbed at my itchy skin around my neck. Using my fingernails to scratch was too painful with a sunburn.

With her polka-dot bow and soft brown curls bobbing, Morgan recounted all the bad things I’d done, scarcely taking a breath in between items in the list.

Could I get a little help here, I thought, trying to reach Amy telepathically.

I must have succeeded because she just shook her head at me.

Drew’s look of concern morphed into a smirk, and my heart sank. He must think I’m a total loser. “Yup, she’s trouble all right. I almost had to put her in time out at the pool. Looks like she didn’t use her sunscreen, too.”

Not knowing what else to do, I shrugged. I couldn’t let him see the humiliation I was feeling. The only good thing was that my skin was already red.

Having zipped Morgan’s tee in a plastic bag, Mom placed her hands on her hips. “You got in trouble at the pool, Heather? Why haven’t I heard about this? Wait a minute. So you’re the lifeguard Drew?”

Yes, my mother, not always quick on the uptake, chose that precise moment to figure out that this Drew was the same Drew. I guess he and Morgan have different last names.

Mom then had the decency to turn red as she and he realized the implications, i.e. that I talked about him.

That’s when Audrey entered the classroom. Who knew how long she’d been standing there. “Hey.”

Drew nodded in acknowledgment.

Audrey’s overly lined eyes narrowed on the ruined micro-tee. She wet her lips, and I knew I wasn’t going to like what she was going to say. “Yeah, Mom this is the infamous Drew Blanton. Lucky me, it’s not like I don’t hear enough of how cute you are at the snack bar. It’s the main topic of conversation between Heather and Claire at the dinner table, too.”

Drew blushed.

This was worse than killing. I couldn’t move. I was planted to the tile floor and couldn’t look away even though, technically, I was the train wreck.

I didn’t know who was worse, Audrey or Amy, who for once, didn’t find my humiliation funny. But what was up with Audrey? She still hadn’t played her trump card—you know, the fact that I was wearing her shirt and had ruined it.

Amy floated out of her corner with a frown. “She’s meaner than a snake. Don’t Audrey know family comes first?”

Apparently not.

When my sister noticed what must have been a look of horror on my face, she turned her fake smile into an equally fake expression of shock. “What? Did I say something I shouldn’t?”

Morgan’s worry furrows deepened. She pointed at me. “You like my brother.”

Was it dogs or kids who forget things quickly? I was rooting for a form of partial amnesia to descend upon everyone in the room. If only Amy could manipulate time for me, I’d like to go back and cover Audrey’s mouth in duct tape.

“Come to think of it,” Audrey said, “Cute isn’t the word you or the girls at the pool use. It’s hot, right? You say he’s hot.”

“Audrey!” I croaked. Futile as it was, her name was the only coherent word I could push past my lips. My skin itched so badly I was willing to forget about the sunburn. I fought the urge to go into full scratch attack in front of him.

“That’s enough.” Mom’s tone let everyone know continuing on the road to snotty sister of the year wasn’t wise.

“Well, thanks Mrs. Tildy,” Drew said, finding his ability to speak fairly quickly considering he must have been almost as embarrassed as I was. “I gotta get squirt to Tae Kwon Do. See you around, Audrey . . . Heather.”

I couldn’t find joy in the fact that he remembered my name. He couldn’t even look me in the eye.

Amy flitted over to me and patted my shoulder, cooling the skin she touched. “It’ll be okay, Heather. I think he likes you,” she lied.

I appreciated her being nice and all, but how pathetic was that? I was now worthy of pity from a ghost.

As Drew walked away from me, I tried to forget my humiliation and enjoy the way he moved. His broad, muscular shoulders, the way he held his head, his firm. . . Let’s just say, he was as good-looking going as coming. Not that he’d ever be coming near me in the future.

I imagined I was wiping Audrey away as I scrubbed down the stained plastic tabletop for a third time. She ripped several squares of paper towels from the roll near the sink and wadded them up to wipe off the wet table tops I’d covered in the bleach solution, not realizing she was helping me.

What should have happened today was that Morgan should have told Drew that I was really nice, because I’d helped her cut all the other colors out of her tie dye string, and that he should go out with a nice girl like me. If Amy and Audrey hadn’t been destroying my life, it would have happened. Okay, it might have happened.

First things first, though. I couldn’t focus on Drew when the ruined shirt was hanging over my head like my haint.

“Can we stop by Old Navy?” I asked, casually tossing my sponge to the counter next to the sink. I sprinkled powdered cleanser over the stainless steal sides and sink bottom.

“After what happened here today, you expect to be rewarded?” Mom said.

I winced, anticipating how much angrier Mom would be in a matter of seconds. “No. I expect you want me to live. I’m not sure how much longer Audrey can refrain from killing me.”

“For what?” Mom asked.

“For wearing her shirt and getting dye all over it,” I said as I scrubbed down the dye-splatters. “I can use my allowance.”

Mom shut her eyes. I guess the sight of me was too much, or maybe breathing in the scent of acrylic paint, unfinished wood, dried flowers, and craft supplies calmed her. “Heather, please tell me you at least asked Audrey if you could wear the shirt. Please tell me you didn’t take it without asking.”

To lie or not to lie, that was the question. “Does it really make a difference? It’s pretty much ruined forever.”

“Of course she didn’t ask,” Audrey whined. “And I, being the nice person that I am, didn’t bring it up until now because I didn’t want to upset you.”

Crappola. She’d outmaneuvered me with mom. I’d scored no points with Audrey, either. You’d think she’d at least be grateful that I was taking responsibility and buying her a new shirt.

Mom let out a heavy sigh. “Fine. And while we’re out, I’m buying a doorknob with a lock for your closet, Audrey. I’m tired of you girls taking Audrey’s clothes.”

No, she was tired of hearing Audrey bitch about it. I knew I was.

Amy snickered, which meant she would probably do something to make the lock not work, and, of course, I would get blamed, or . . . , my heart leapt to my throat, she’d do something horrible at Old Navy.

I needed to apologize to Mom for everything else that had happened today.

“I’m sorry, Mommy,” I said, using the name from the good old days of Elmo and tickles. “I didn’t mean to make such a mess.”

Mom, who’d been packing her leftover ziplock bags, looked up from her rolling craft cart. “Apologies alone aren’t going to cut it, Heather. I want to see a change in behavior.”

Audrey’s scowl broke into a wide grin. “Fat chance of that.”

I ignored her comment. “What exactly would you like me to do for the rest of this week to prove I can change?”

“I’m not sure,” Mom said. “But I’ll think of something.”

Audrey tapped her index finger against her mouth for a minute, continuing to smile. “Allow me to make a suggestion.”

A shiver went down my spine.

“From what I understand, you have three novels to read this summer,” Audrey said. “I believe your presence is required at the library.”

Evil genius that she was, she didn’t seem to understand that her suggestion could brand her, by association, as the sister of geek weirdo.

“No library yet,” I said, hoping Mom would agree. “I’ve got the whole rest of the summer to read.”

“Li-berry. What’s that?” Amy asked, getting in front of me and blocking my view of my mother’s face, which I needed to see to figure out what argument might work in my favor.

Amy moved, and Mom gazed straight into my soul, where she should have seen how going to the library the first week of summer vacation would seal my fate as a freak forever. “If I take your sister’s suggestion, I should be able to trust you to behave at the library of all places, shouldn’t I?”

“What’s a li-berry?” Amy asked again, only louder.

“A place to read books,” I said under my breath.

Sure, as a kid, I used to beg to go to the library, and Mom shouldn’t have a single qualm about me behaving. But Mom wasn’t sending me there alone. God only knew what sort of havoc my wispy ball and chain could wreak in a place where people shushed you if you got too loud.

“I have a better idea,” I said as we exited the crafting classroom. “Why don’t you just take me to Borders to buy the books? We can stop on the way home.”

Mom turned off the lights and locked the door. She started toward the registers, her black craft cart rolling smoothly along the waxed linoleum, her tennis shoes squeaking. I didn’t think she was going to answer, but suddenly she stopped in the paint and stencil aisle. “I’ll tell you why. Because your father and I pay taxes that fund the library system in this county.”

Shoot, I’d stirred what Dad calls the liberal beast.

“I wanna go to this li-berry,” Amy said, smoothing her pinafore. “I like to read.”

“But what if the one book I want to read is checked out?” I whined at my mother. I usually didn’t whine because Audrey did, all the time, and it irritated me, but drastic times called for drastic measures. I was sacrificing myself in a way Mom would never understand. I was protecting her and the library both. And hey, whining worked for Audrey. She got an Ikea shelving system for her room. Maybe it would work for me, too.

“If the book you want is checked out, then you’ll have to pick another one or get an interlibrary loan,” ever-practical Mom pointed out. “And Audrey, you can drive your sister to the library.”

“Sorry, I gotta work tomorrow.”

What mattered most to Mom were grades.

“You know the school is going to test us on the books we read,” I said, “I’ll need to review what I read before the test if I want a decent grade. And knowing my luck, they’ll be checked out when I need to review them.”

Her tried and true, mother-knows-best smile spread across her tan-free face. “Then, Heather, I’d suggest you take good notes on the novels you choose. Don’t think I don’t know how you’d procrastinate if I bought those books.”

“I wouldn’t. I swear.” I flashed her the most contrite expression I owned. I knew it was good; I’d practiced it in the mirror.

Mom examined me like she suspected I was coming down with a fever. I half-expected her to do the forehead check. “What aren’t you telling me? I get the sense there’s more to your reluctance than meets the eye.”

I groaned. “Fine. I’ll go to the library. Are you satisfied?”

“Very,” said Audrey.

“And when you get off work tomorrow, Audrey, you’d better head over there yourself,” Mom said. “Last time I checked, you had a reading list, too.”

Score one for Mom!

Amy hovered close. “That’s a sight better than getting switched.”

Only time would tell.

I could make it through an hour or so at the Five Points Branch without anyone seeing me. Maybe, just maybe, taking Amy there wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Amy had probably never seen so many books in her life. It would be fun for her. That is what she kept saying she wanted—fun. What if, while under the guise of checking out a couple of books on my summer reading list, I actually did some research on hauntings?

If she wouldn’t tell me how to get rid of her, maybe a book would. It wasn’t like some ten-year-old from the early twentieth century would even suspect what I was doing. The sooner she left, the easier time I’d have getting Audrey to like me and Drew to realize I was more than a buffoon.

I almost patted myself on the back, but with the sunburn and all, a pat could ratchet the low, dull pain to higher levels. I smiled, and the burnt skin around my mouth ached.

“Why are you so happy?” Amy asked.

I shrugged. I wasn’t tipping her off to my plan. How could it be anything but a win-win for me?

Chapter Six

Skeptical that this trip to the library would actually go my way, (yeah, I wised up) I waded through the waves of heat rising up from the pavement bordering Five Points Road. The two-lane asphalt ribbon cut through the wooded hills and widened to four up ahead near the library and the large tract of bulldozed red earth that had been tall trees last week. I mean, come on, it’s not like I had a choice. I had to go. Even though I was slightly smarter than the average fourteen-year-old yearning to attend her first boy-girl party, none of my well-laid plans had come to fruition . . . yet. I had only the tiniest scrap of hope left, but I clung to it.

“I don’t understand why anyone would want a bunch of clothes that look like somebody done wore ‘em,” Amy said, bringing up her favorite topic since the trip to Old Navy. “My mama wouldn’t have spent good money on ratty old clothes if’n she could afford new.”

“I know,” I reminded her, adjusting my backpack slung over the shoulder that was less burnt. “You’ve only told me this about fifteen jillion times. These clothes are what’s fashionable in the twenty-first century.”

Amy looked down at her ghostly pinafore and scuffed boots. “There’s some things I ain’t never gonna understand.”

Me, too. Like why this ghost was haunting me and why I had to have a summer reading list at all.

Why don’t adults just admit that even though they had real summer vacations with no bridging workbooks or reading lists that required journaling when they were our age, that they believe in making our generation even more miserable than theirs was?

Oh, they don’t entirely take away our summer vacation. No, it’s a greater form of torture to just suck all the lazy joy out of it.

“I hope this li-berry’s more fun than that shop you took me to.”

“It will be. I promise.” I hoped. Our adventure had to be fun for Amy if I wanted her to tell me the secret to getting her to leave. I couldn’t continue acting like a freak for the rest of the summer, incurring Audrey’s wrath and Drew’s smirks.

The satin tag, which I just now realized I’d forgotten to cut out of my shirt, created a painful scratching sensation, just below my neck, on my still sunburnt back. “Libraries are full of books, and people can take them home as long as they bring them back. You like books, don’t you?”

“’Course I like books. I ain’t ignorant.”

Not waiting for the light, Amy crossed into the on-coming traffic. A cement mixer ran right through her as she walked and talked her way to the sidewalk on the opposite side of the road, making her sound like she was shouting into a fan. “Mama’d read me and the twins Bible stories. And if the boys were good, and we got the supper dishes done early, I’d sometimes read them Uncle Remus. You ever heard of Br’er Rabbit?”

“Yeah,” I said, not wanting to get into the reason we didn’t read those stories much anymore. How would a kid who died when pinafores and ankle boots were all the rage understand political correctness?

The crosswalk sign flashed its stick man, so I hurried across the warm asphalt and caught up with Amy. “Now when we get inside the library, I’ll have to look up the call numbers for my books on the computer.”

“Computer—what’s that?” she asked, as usual curious about everything.

“A computer is that thing in my room that’s sort of like a TV, but it stores information.” She’d learned what a TV was thanks to my addiction to reality shows. I put Arthur on for her when I thought about it. She liked it better than reruns of Top Model and Project Runway.

Don’t think just because I said I needed to look up call numbers that I don’t know fiction’s cataloged alphabetically. I was being sneaky. My true intention was to look up the nonfiction books on hauntings (my back up plan in case this trip didn’t meet her fun standard) — once Amy was safely occupied. That shirt tag felt about five inches wide. How I wanted to scratch the skin underneath, but I couldn’t. Scratching might alert Amy to my nervousness.

“I’ll check out some Arthur chapter books for you, if you behave,” I promised.

“Sure ‘nough?” Amy asked, then beamed at me and added a jaunt to her ghostly step.

Fortunately, I managed to distract her from the Five Points Branch water fountain hazard.

“Hey, look at how the doors open without pushing or pulling,” I said as the second set of automatic double doors slid open and the AC blew at us. I also pointed to the self-service check-out bar code detectors, which she floated over to examine as this retired couple scanned their hardbacks.

Determined to get in and out as fast as possible, I nabbed an empty upholstered chair in the center of the library that allowed me a good view of Amy’s roamings while I figured out which books on my ninth grade reading list were contenders for my attention. I didn’t see any other teenagers here, just old people and little kids. Word about me being at the library during the first week of summer break would not be making the rounds. Yay, me!

Amy flitted about the building for a while but soon gave up on finding anyone with the imaginary friend gene, or maybe the pull of the children’s books was too strong. She picked a spot at one of the short round tables where a picture book with a broken spine lay open. Without pulling the chair from the table, she sat down, so that she basically went through the table. She flipped the pages of the book, which must have been Walter the Farting Dog because she kept saying “fart” and giggling. I glanced around to see if anyone, other than me, noticed her.

For a moment, I thought I was home free, but then a little girl with dark braids, who was following her jumper-wearing mom up and down the rows, stopped and stared right at Amy, like she had the imaginary friend gene. Her mother continued down the waist-high shelves picking books with silver medals on the covers.

Stop, I thought at Amy. Either I hadn’t mentally reached my haint or she was ignoring the warning. She kept flipping pages of the book.

The backs of my burnt thighs warmed against the soft chenille fabric covering my chair. I hadn’t even had the chance to review my list of book choices, and I was looking at trouble with a capital “T.”

The little girl caught up with her mom and tugged on her mother’s freckled arm. “Look,” she said, pointing right at Amy.

I gripped the arms of my chair, wondering what I could do to distract the two that wouldn’t get me kicked out of the library. I could pretend to sprain my ankle! I stood up, prepared to twist and land in a heap.

The mom stared at what must look to her like pages turning on their own, then up at the ceiling air vent. “It’s the air conditioning, sweetheart.”

I exhaled, not realizing I’d been holding my breath. Thank God most people don’t believe the obvious—there was a ghost turning the pages. It’s been my observation that parents especially try to find a logical conclusion for anything out of the ordinary.

But I couldn’t exactly let down my guard. The little girl had seen Amy and had confirmed that I wasn’t the only one who could see her; she was broadcasting her frequency big time. I plopped back down in my chair and forced myself to read the instructions for my summer Language Arts assignment all us future freshmen were handed on our last day as middle schoolers. The sooner I made my selection, the sooner we’d get out of here.

I practically gagged over the earnest words. The primary purpose of Pecan Hills High School's summer reading program is to lead students to an appreciation of good literature and to help them discover that reading is enjoyable.

Like most of us didn’t already know that reading was enjoyable. We read, maybe not literature, but we weren’t sitting in front of the TV playing video games all the time.

The Language Arts teachers should have admitted to the real purpose of this assignment—to force us to read stuff outside of popular fiction so that we could pass some test like the CRCT’s with high scores.

While I’m thinking about it, I want to go on record and say that I never understood how reading a hot romance couldn’t accomplish the same goal.

I scanned over the study questions I was supposed to answer “thoughtfully and thoroughly.” The teacher actually bolded those words.

The air grew frigid. Amy poked the paper.

“Stop,” I whispered under my breath in the most threatening way I could muster. I resumed reading the instructions.

Write down each character's name as he or she is introduced, and describe each one. As you read, indicate the importance of each character in this book. Summarize what happens in the book. What are the important conflicts? Blah. Blah. Blah. Snore.

As long as I didn’t fall asleep, I could deal with those questions. At least the theme was something I could relate to—Family: The Ties That Bind. Or choke, as the case may be.

Amy poked my paper again.

“Will you quit?” I hissed, earning a “sh-h” from a gray-haired man standing next to what must be his granddaughter. She snapped her gum while perusing the tween paperback display.

“What are they doing?” Amy asked.

“Who?” I looked up, and my stomach just about fell out of my butt.

They were the little boys and girls who’d trooped into Children’s section while I’d been figuring out what I had to do with the books once I read them.  Kids were taking spots in the carpeted amphitheater for Story Time, some with their parents, some without, some whining, some running with shoelaces untied, some in the drooling and babbling stage sitting in their strollers. The stroller babies would start screaming soon. I smelled it in the air, or was that a diaper in need of changing?

You hear about war veterans having flashbacks of battle. Well, I think I might have just had a babysitting flashback. It figured I would pick the absolute worst time to arrive at the library. Story Time could prove scarier than the tie-dye class.

“Heather, can’t you hear me? I asked you, what are those boys and girls doing?”

“They’re sitting,” I whispered back, hoping that would satisfy her, but kind of knowing my answer wouldn’t.

“I can see that. But why are they sitting there? What’s gonna happen?”

“Someone’s going to read to them.”

“When?”

Wishing the storyteller would get her butt down in the big blue chair, I rubbed the back of my neck. “I don’t know. Soon.”

Come on, lady. I needed a distraction for this ghost.

Tuning out the evil around me, I darted my eyes down to my list of reading choices: Anne of Green Gables. . . Anything out in DVD couldn’t be that bad. Choice number one taken care of.

Amy poked the paper again.

“What?”

“I’m bored.”

“You won’t be bored once the storyteller gets here,” I whispered and hoped that saying it made it so. “If you would leave me alone for a couple of minutes, I could finish reading this stupid piece of paper and make my selections. Why don’t you pick a seat?”

With a huff, she headed toward the amphitheater area. I went back to my list. Little Women, now there was a good movie. Choice number two done. Only one more to pick from the list. I ruled out Where the Red Fern Grows and Out of the Dust. Too depressing.

Cold Sassy Tree. Set in Georgia, that would be a plus. Cold and sassy sounded good to me.

I looked up to see that Amy had been waylaid on her way to Story Time. Standing next to this boy in skater clothes, she was making his shoulder-length, highlighted hair stand on end. I pushed myself up and out of my chair.

“Stop it,” I said really loud, earning angry glares from the grandpa and his granddaughter. That’s when I realized I was getting so used to seeing Amy that I was now forgetting almost everyone else couldn’t see her.

If I could just get her to Story Time, I’d have five minutes to search the nonfiction and grab one of my choices from the adult fiction shelves.

Amy stuck her tongue out at me, then released the boy’s hair. As she approached me, all the while walking through the waist high bookshelves rather than on the carpeted aisles, the halogen bulbs in the recessed lights in the ceiling above blew in time with her progress. She flew up to the top of three big windows brightening this cozy part of the library. She pushed the clasps, and they released one after the other with a loud zip, zip, zip.

I walked really fast toward the windows. “What is your problem?” I asked, though I’d really like to try out the old parent standby—yank and spank.

“I done told you. I’m bored.”

A little kid with white blonde hair in one of those bowl cuts crawled over to me. “Who are you talking to?” he asked, then stuck a finger up his nose.

Amy left the blinds and raced toward me like she wasn’t going to stop. I braced for impact, and she splashed into me like a bucket of ice water. I shivered from the cold. “A ghost,” she made me say.

“Not uh.”

“Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye,” came out of my mouth with a rural accent that I, a suburban girl, had never possessed.

He waved his free hand through the air next to me. His other hand was still employed in booger extracting activities.

Get out, I thought, hoping she could somehow hear me like I heard her when she was inhabiting me. He’ll tell his mom, they’ll make us leave, and you won’t have any fun.

“See that book?” Amy forced me to say, then lifted my hand to point to Arthur’s Tooth, displayed prominently on the shelf closest to where I, I mean, we were standing.

The book slowly rose several inches off the laminated wood top; its pages ruffled.

The little boy wiped his finger on his shorts, then ran off to find his mom as Amy released the book, which landed on another book standing up. It fell, as did the rest in the row, like a bunch of dominoes.

“Get out,” I managed to whisper between my gritted teeth.

No, she responded from inside me.

Get out now, or no Arthur books.

My eyes, which apparently were under my control, trained on some lady wearing a pink princess cone hat with a matching sheer scarf attached at the point. Thank God. The storyteller had arrived. She was making a beeline over to the little carpeted amphitheater.

I guess you don’t want to hear the story, I thought at Amy.

My little haint tried to force me to walk, but I clung to the bookcase for dear life.

“All right,” Amy said as she floated out, surprising me that our struggle hadn’t gone longer. “You don’t have to be so ornery.”

She stuck her hands in the pockets of her ghostly pinafore and stared at the volunteer, who’d been intercepted by one of the moms. “Why is she wearing a dunce hat?”

“It’s a princess hat. She’s probably reading a story about a princess,” I said, almost amused by Amy’s observation.

“I thought princesses wore crowns.”

I didn’t want to get into some long explanation of medieval fashion. I was, however, curious about how Amy made the connection between the cones. “Did you ever have to wear one at school?” I asked.

Amy shook her ethereal head. “Nope. But my friend Martha Carrie did when she missed five arithmetic problems in a row. That old school marm we had didn’t much like her. She made Martha Carrie sit on a stool in the corner with the dunce cap on her head.”

“Pretty harsh.”

“Maybe, but it’s a sight better than getting paddled.” Amy sailed over to the big blue chair and sat in it before the storyteller could. The ghost must have forgotten people other than me couldn’t see her, too, because when the lady reached the chair and turned to lower her generous behind, Amy didn’t move.

Panic turned my blood to ice. Amy couldn’t enter this woman. Could she?

I was about to scream “Don’t do it,” when Amy exited the chair and moved to the left second row, carpeted in rose.

With my heart beating at what must be an irregular rhythm, I grabbed my backpack from where I left it by the chair and rushed to the computer terminals. I typed in my card number and searched for books with the words ghost or haunting. The long list that displayed was mostly fiction. I scrolled down.

Bingo. The Complete Dummies’ Guide to Ghosts and Hauntings. And the Five Points Branch had a copy on the shelves. I clicked on the title to get more information including the call number. As I reached for the scrap paper and pencil in the acrylic container to my left, my screen started blinking like it had the hiccups. I clicked the mouse again. I pressed control, alt, and delete. Nothing changed.

I moved over to the next terminal, and started over again. I didn’t even finish typing the word ghost when this terminal froze, too. Amy? No, it couldn’t be her, I’d be cold. Plus, I’d see her.

Not seeing my ghost or feeling her presence close by, I proceeded to the next empty terminal. As soon as I touched the mouse, the whole screen blinked. That’s when I felt a chill behind me and, suddenly, the road grit between my toes from the walk to the library in sandals started rubbing me in an extremely dissatisfactory way.

Had she seen the words I’d typed?

I glanced over at the now empty spot in the amphitheatre where she’d been sitting, then to the space behind me that seemed empty.

Amy illuminated, then waved toward the kids listening to the storyteller.

A girl in the pit elbowed the boy next to her and pointed at Amy. He looked, his large brown eyes widening as Amy did some sort of hoe-down dance.

“They see you,” I hissed, then looked around to make sure no one else was aware of the conversation I was having.

“’Course they can see me.” She pointed to me and made the crazy sign.

“How?” I asked.

“Well, I’m letting anyone who can see me, see me right now. And those two have their own ghosts. So I figured why not show myself to them? I was nearly bored out my mind.”

More ghosts? Didn’t I have enough to deal with already? A little dizzy and nauseated, I slumped back against the computer carrel. “Okay. So if there are more ghosts here, why can’t I see them?” I asked, hoping I’d somehow caught her fibbing.

“They don’t want you to see them,” she answered like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“They meaning the kids, or the ghosts?” I qualified.

Her young twang sharpened with irritation, as if I was the one in need of a dunce cap. “The ghosts.”

At this point, the suspicious stare of a tall librarian stationed at the information desk fixed on me. Just below the sign with lettering stating the obvious, i.e. Information, she stood there wearing a sour expression and an old black cardigan matted with little balls all over the front.

I figured the best thing to do was tell her the truth, so I fought the rising tide of itchiness and raised my hand like I was in school. “The computers keep freezing on me.”

She sped over, smelling faintly of mothballs and cigarette smoke (not a good combination by any stretch of the imagination, especially since I was already a little queasy). She pressed some keys, checked the keyboard cord. Hit control, alt, delete, like I had. Nothing changed. The screen continued to blink.

Another librarian, this one with fat upper arms, short gray hair, and an assistant-in-training name plate, waddled over to the circle of computer terminals and started trying to unfreeze the other computers Amy had whammied.

“Were you able to type your number in?” she asked, her voice very sweet Kindergarten teacher-like.

“Yes, ma’am,” I answered, following my rule of always using ma’am and sir when it looked like I was about to get in trouble. Being polite sometimes worked the same way as a get out of jail free card in Monopoly. “I just wanted the call numbers so I can check out some books.”

“So why did you move to the other computers when the first one stopped working?” the tall, mothball lover demanded.

I wanted to say Duh, but I didn’t. “Because the one I was using froze. What was I supposed to do? I have to find my books.”

The tall librarian turned to the gray-haired one with the assistant-in-training tag on. “Call computer support. Get a technician out here.”

“I didn’t do anything,” I said, just to make sure the literal Library Dragon didn’t think I had, then snuck away to the stacks while Amy stayed with the computers, earning the ire of other library patrons and vindication for me. They couldn’t blame me now that I was nowhere near the scene of the crime. I did feel a little guilty, though, that my ghost was well on her way to destroying the system the library would probably have to hire an expert to fix.

My shirt tag made itself known again as I methodically trolled up and down the stacks stopping to read titles with bumblebee-colored spines until I found the one I needed, The Complete Dummies Guide to Ghosts and Hauntings, sitting by its lonesome on the shelf, a huge gap between it and its closest neighbor, a guide to extraterrestrials.

As I took hold of my prize that was almost as thick as the SAT prep book Mom bought Audrey, I wondered if there was some recent paranormal phenomenon in the area that was causing people to check out all the other ghost books.

I flipped past the table of contents to the history chapter and learned that ancient civilizations used to have festivals honoring the dead. They’d invite the spirits of their ancestors into their homes to eat. Afterward, if they politely asked the ghosts to leave, they did.

Okay, so Amy wasn’t a relative, but maybe this party idea had merit on some level.

There was an entire chapter on exorcism, but involving the church would mean people would hear about it and label me as beyond weird. Not my goal. I put that idea on the backburner. A little side note mentioned silver was a deterrent to ghosts, but I couldn’t wear silver since I was (surprise) allergic to it. Salt, too, had protective properties. Now that I could do.

I poked my head out from the stack I was in and searched the computer area for Amy. I didn’t see her. Not good. Before I took another step down the aisle, I heard the plunk, plunk, plunk of books dropping to the floor somewhere behind me, like heavy out-of-tune piano keys.

Certain it was Amy up to no good, I tucked my book under my arm to hide the title and hustled down the stacks until I found her, five rows away. She was levitating some book, whose back cover quotes touted the thing as “a gripping, thought-provoking read” and “a thorough examination.”

“What are you doing?” I whispered.

Amy continued to read what must be the preface, which must have been difficult for her, since she hadn’t turned the page yet. The books beside her kept sliding off the shelves to drop to the carpeted floor. If she thought I was rewarding her bad behavior with Arthur books, she was sorely mistaken.

So I wouldn’t get blamed, I set my ghost book down and my backpack on top of it to keep Amy from seeing the title. I started picking up tomes about health, vitamins, herbal supplements, and the bubonic plague? My skin crawled at the thought.

Right as I was about to tug whatever she was reading from the air, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the supergeek who rode my bus standing at the end of Amy’s row staring at me. Just what I needed. Xavier Monroe.

Mind you, he didn’t offer to help me pick up the mountain of books. He just leered at me with either spit or drool dribbling out of the corner of his mouth just below his wannabe mustache, like I was the latest Texas Instruments calculator.

As if my summer couldn’t get any worse. Now, thanks to Amy, I was an object of geek lust.

Chapter Seven

“I could use some help here,” I said, raising my voice enough to, hopefully, snap Xavier out of his trance-like state. I didn’t want to be mean, but I didn’t want to encourage him either. It’s not like I was jonesing to seal my fate with a label worse than weird. And trust me, in Audrey’s book, Supergeek was not a step up.

He blinked at me, then removed a couple of the books from the giganto pile. He examined the call numbers on their spines and glanced up at the mostly empty shelves. I guess he was trying to figure out where to put them.

The scent of camphor wafted toward me.

“You? Again?”

I turned to face the tall librarian who’d been dealing with the frozen computers. She tapped her loafered toe softly against the carpet and glared.

The clasp on my sandals, the ones I’d been assured were nickel free, irritated the skin underneath. Itching and blistering would follow, sure as thunder followed lightning.

“I didn’t do this,” I said, glancing back at Xavier for confirmation. “Can you please tell her I didn’t do this?”

Supergeek turned bright red and remained mum.

“It doesn’t look like your friend is vouching for you, Miss...?”

“Tildy. Heather Tildy.” There I went again with the James Bond thing. I had to stop doing that. “And he’s not a friend. I hardly even know Xavier.”

“Yes, you do,” he said, his formerly squeaky, nasal voice, now deep and manly and mad. “I live in your neighborhood. I was in your Language Arts class.”

This new voice didn’t fit his average stature, shaggy brown hair, and striped collared shirt, which I now noted had a Gwinnett County Public Library Volunteer nametag. Even better. He worked here. And I thought I was flying the freak flag pretty high.

My guess was that he also played Sims, read Kafka, and would run for Student Council this fall. All reasons to avoid him if I wanted to change from weirdo to way cool.

The librarian sniffed. “So which one of you emptied the shelves?”

Amy waved her arms in front of the woman. “Me. I did it. I did it!”

I sent her a look that should convey “shut up” even to a ghost from the previous century.

“Neither of us did,” Xavier answered, and I was almost grateful. I could tell he suspected me of having something to do with the book berm. Then I got worried. The fine hairs on the nape of my neck rose. What if Xavier expected something nice in return for saving me, like public acknowledgement or a date?

“Okay, I confess,” I blurted. “I emptied the shelves.”

Supergeek smiled, revealing his braces. “Pretty hard to do with your back turned and the books flying off the shelves five rows behind you.”

“How would you even know where I was?”

He pointed to a chair. “I was sitting there, when it happened. No one was in the row. No one that I could see anyway.”

My palms grew sweaty. Think, Heather. Think. I had to steer him away from the truth. “Maybe it was an earthquake.”

“Interesting hypothesis. But an earthquake wouldn’t unshelve books row by row.”

“It could. Maybe. And how would you know? Are you some expert?”

Yeah, tinsel teeth’s been in the gifted program since first grade. He continued to smile at me.

“Just leave. Please. You’re not helping,” I said, then looked around for Amy who’d gone all invisible on me.

The librarian shook her head. “I’ll get a cart. Miss Tildy, if you and Xavier would please place all the books on the cart in numerical order, he’ll have an easier time reshelving them.”

“I guess my break’s over,” Xavier said with a sigh as his boss stomped down the color-blocked carpet to nab an empty cart for us.

“Sorry,” I whispered. I’m sure he expected more of an apology on my part or, heaven forbid, me saying I owed him. No way was I giving him that kind of leverage. He could single-handedly destroy what was left of my hopes to make Audrey find me less of a pain and Drew to find me somewhat appealing.

Xavier met the Library Dragon halfway down the main aisle while I fanned the air around me, trying to locate any pockets of cold that might be my ghost.

Craning my neck, I looked around for Amy as he wheeled the cart back. Not a sign of her anywhere. Dampness spread under the arms of my shirt, making the seam connecting my sleeve soggy. No telling what trouble she was getting into now. But I had to fix this mess first.

Quickly, I knelt down and started loading the cart.

“Are you okay?” Xavier asked. “You look like you’re about to faint.”

“I’m fine. I just want to get these books put up and head home. You know?”

“Yeah,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at the librarian who was watching us both from several stacks down the aisle. “So. . . um. . . do you have any vacation plans this summer?”

“Mm, hm,” I said loading books willy-nilly.

Xavier rearranged the ones I’d placed on the cart. “Maybe this would work better if you hand them to me and I put them in order.”

“Fine. Whatever.” I picked up three more, and as I waited for him to place them in the right order, I suspected that he’d suggested doing it this way to keep me here longer. Come on, come on! I had a ghost most likely getting me into more trouble.

The wetness under my arms spread. The damp feeling was starting to snake down my spine. I could feel the shoulder seams and the collar seam in my shirt rub against my sunburnt skin.

“So where are you going—for vacation?” he asked.

“The beach.”

“Which one?”

“Jekyll Island.” I resumed handing him books.

“Me? You ask.” He pressed his hand to his chest. “Well, my parents haven’t really talked about going anywhere. I guess we’re having a staycation.”

Guilt body slammed me. I remembered that Xavier’s brother had died last October from a peanut allergy. I shouldn’t be so . . . cold. But, seriously, I had to get a move on.

I doubled the load of books in my arms. “Maybe they’re planning something as a surprise for you.”

“I doubt it.” Xavier said, his eyes darting to the tall stack in my arms. He cleared his throat as he removed the top three books.

Before he could ask anything like if I had plans for Saturday night, I jumped in. “Xavier, I know we don’t know each other all that well, but I need to ask you a favor.”

He eyed me suspiciously. “Okay.”

“See, I’m already in trouble with my parents and I’ve got to get home in time for dinner.” I glanced down the aisle, still not seeing Amy. “So I was wondering….”

His smile faded like gum that had lost its flavor. He took the rest of the books from my aching arms. “Go ahead and leave. I’ve got it.”

“But the—”

“I’ll tell her I offered. Just go.”

Yeah, I felt lousy for leaving him with all the work, but I had a ghost to find. I tucked my ghost book under my arm and swung my backpack up on my shoulder. I hurried down the aisle, glancing this way and that for Amy. After ducking briefly into the fiction section for a copy of Little Women, I proceeded to the automated check out, all without a peep or a poke from her.

Worried that she’d headed home without me, I glanced out the main doors into the light-filled entrance way and saw her playing in the water fountain. A liquid sheen spread over the tile floor, darkening the pale gray grout. I actually felt the sweat rise from pores and bead on my upper lip as I headed toward the doors at a fast, increasingly sweaty clip, determined to take my wayward ghost home.

The library’s alarm system sounded as I passed through the bar code sensors. Every eye in the whole stupid branch must have been on me. Humiliated, I raised my arms and the two books I’d just checked out, like a surrendering criminal in a Cops episode. I didn’t have time for this crap. We’d need an ark in a few minutes.

“Now what?” my favorite librarian said loud enough that several people in the magazine section near the door turned and told her to hush.

“I checked these out,” I said, waving the books in front of her. “Your scanner must be malfunctioning.”

“Give me your card, please.”

I fished my card from my pocket, and the woman fed it to the slot reader. The books in my hands showed up on the computer screen.

“See? Can I go now?”

“Backpack,” she said, motioning for me to hand it over.

I swung it off my shoulder and realized it felt heavier than it should with a binder, a wallet, and house keys. Amy!

“Unzip it,” she ordered, holding the bag and looking more smug than she should considering the amount of dandruff on the shoulders of her dark cardigan.

With dread and a real need for another shower, I did as she asked, discovering a thick book about the 1918 Influenza pandemic—the book Amy’d been reading while emptying the shelves. It had to be over three hundred pages—not exactly what I’d call fun reading.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t realize it was in there.”

I glanced over to the entrance again. The water in the corridor hit the half-inch mark. Biting my lip, I scanned Amy’s book. She had to have a reason, and I was going to find out what it was.

“So,” I started my interrogation, “Was almost getting me kicked out of the library forever your idea of a good time?”

“Huh?” Amy asked, floating through the sidewalk, her feet hidden in the concrete. I don’t know why ghosts do that. It’s like they have to prove where the natural elevations are.

“Our deal, remember? You told me you wanted to have fun. This day seems to have hit the humiliation meter at a slightly lower level than the pool, but I’m wondering if you consider it a good showing.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking on about, Heather. I reckon the li-berry was tolerable.”

Tolerable? After what I’d just been through, after putting some sort of hoodoo on the computers, visiting with other kids who could see her, and attracting the attention of Xavier?

“I’m so glad to hear it,” I said. “You know, I haven’t yet heard a thank you from you for checking that flu book out. You could’ve asked me and saved me a little embarrassment. I don’t really want to add the title thief to my repertoire of weirdness.”

“Sorry.”

“Sorry enough that you’ll tell me the secret to making you vamoose?” I asked.

She paused and rolled her ghostly little eyes at me. “What do you think?”

Quite frankly, I thought I was in deep doo-doo. I’d tried the pool, craft camp, the library. What else was there for a girl who couldn’t drive and had never been on a date? Date. That reminded me.

“And another thing,” I said. “Why’d you have to get Xavier’s attention?”

Drew, who was uber easy on the eyes, brawny, yummy, was the guy I wanted. Xavier wasn’t. I couldn’t make myself feel something I didn’t. Riding the high school bus this fall was going to be excruciating. Unless . . . unless Audrey liked me enough by the end of the summer that her friends would give me a ride home from school, and I wouldn’t have to ride the bus and endure more of Xavier’s stares.

Oblivious to the trauma she’d caused, Amy crossed Five Points Road. After looking both ways, I followed her across the car free asphalt.

See? I did listen to my mom sometimes. Plus, I really didn’t want to end up like the flattened squirrel jerky in the gutter.

But I had to focus, to get to the bottom of Amy’s pilfering.

“You know that flu book looks kind of hefty for a ten-year-old. I’m thinking you might need a dictionary or you’ll have to ask me what some of the words mean.”

“I ain’t a dunce,” she said in a surly tone. She floated faster.

“Geez, I didn’t say you were, but this book was written for adults. The point being that you might need me to help you read it, and I’m offering to help you.”

Amy faded a bit as a cloud blocked the sun. “Truly?”

“Sure. It’s what the friend of an imaginary friend would do. And maybe in return you can tell me why you tried to steal it. So did someone in your family die from the flu?”

Rather than answer, she looked through me. It was almost as if I was the one who was transparent. The air around me cooled, and I actually shivered in the early evening heat.

Maybe I shouldn’t push the kid, but she had to be lonely. She had to miss her family. All those years she’d spent trying to get me to notice her again. And the years before that, when no one saw her.

I should put more effort into helping her, not just for my own sake. I guess when it came right down to it, I’d been going through the motions, saying that I was providing her with stellar amounts of fun, but not really doing it. I’d try harder. Well, as hard as I could considering I was grounded.

I suspected something about the flu was bothering her. Otherwise, why would she steal the book? I had to get her to trust me enough to tell me what made that book so important to her, too. Trust would come from her believing I was trying to give her fun.

We arrived home to the scent of a spaghetti dinner and tons of barking by Roquefort, who circled Amy repeatedly then went on one of those crazy beagle runs throughout the house, the kind that makes you wonder if what dogs feel is similar to what you felt when you were a little kid and you’d spin until you fell down.

Glad that I was home and could take my sandals off, I bent down to remove them and their irritating clasps from my feet.

“Heather,” Dad called from the top step of the back staircase. “Your room hasn’t been cleaned.”

The skin on my shoulders, which had bothered me before, now started itching like crazy. Yup, my shoulders must be peeling. My bra straps rubbed against the tender new skin distracting me as I tried to think of some valid excuse. Amy stuck with me, but didn’t offer any suggestions.

“I told her not to leave until she got it done,” Audrey chimed in from the vicinity of the dining room, where she should be setting the table since it was her night according to the schedule.

Detour time. Avoiding the back stairs and the dining room, I grabbed the saltshaker off the kitchen countertop and shoved it in my pocket. Amy didn’t seem to care. The salt definitely wasn’t like kryptonite. I cut through the den only to be outflanked.

As I swung into the foyer, Dad blocked me from the front staircase. He raised his eyebrows in expectation of some sort of explanation about the state of my room.

“I know. I’m sorry. I woke up really late, then I had to get started on my summer reading list, and I sort of got tied up at the library.” Surely being at the library would score me some points.

“I want it dusted, vacuumed, and the piles of dirty clothes washed by bed time tomorrow.”

“I will. I promise,” I said and watched Amy slowly ascend the stairs and head toward my room. She was definitely depressed—not exactly what I was hoping for—especially since not having fun was a deal breaker.

Audrey chimed in. “That’s it? God. If I didn’t clean my room when I was supposed to, I’d have my allowance cut off.”

“Well, you’re the one who suggested I go to the freakin’ library as punishment,” I reminded her, in a way too saucy tone, considering one of my goals for the summer was to get her to like me. I did not remind her that she was supposed to start her summer reading, too. I could have, but I didn’t.

“Mind your own business, Audrey!” Mom yelled from the kitchen.

“But it’s not fair,” Audrey whined.

“What’s not fair?” Claire asked, bebopping down the front stairs with her bedazzled cell phone in hand.

“Don’t get her started,” I warned.

“Pour the milk, Heather,” Dad said.

I almost said no that it was Audrey’s job as table setter, but I didn’t. Helping her might score a few points. I needed to keep a running list, so I could remind her or maybe present it at the end of summer and prove my worthiness.

So without complaining, I left my backpack on the bottom post of the staircase and headed into the kitchen, where Mom was tossing the salad. Her shirt today said Am I getting older, or is the supermarket playing great music?

Older. Definitely, I thought as I poured regular milk for me and Claire and chocolate for Audrey.

Grandma handed me the basket of toasted garlic bread.

Looking forward to spaghetti and meatballs, I took my seat next to Claire in the dining room. She set her cell phone next to her plate and kept looking at it. I guess she was expecting an important call—not that we were allowed to take calls during dinner.

In the time I’d consumed three meatballs and about half my pasta, Claire was still pushing her food around her plate. Maybe one forkful had made it into her mouth.

“Aren’t you hungry?” Mom asked.

Claire looked at her cell phone. “No. Not really,”

Mom reached over to feel Claire’s forehead. “Are you sick?”

“No,” Claire said, then sighed.

“So what’s the deal? What’s wrong?” I asked, cutting to the chase and noting that Amy was now lurking by the front stairs, listening to our dinner conversation, which in my opinion, was far from scintillating.

“Well . . . the new Tanner Chatham movie’s been out for a couple weeks,” Claire said, tucking her hair behind her ears. She glanced at her cell phone again. “I really want to see it, and normally Heather would go with me. But she can’t because she’s in trouble. So I called all of my friends, and no one was home.”

The great vacation exodus struck again. My best friend Tina was on a cruise somewhere in the Caribbean. Lucky her.

“Can you wait a week?” Dad suggested, helping himself to more salad. “Surely one of your friends will be back by then.”

“It’s closing, like, tomorrow.”

A-ha. You’d think if she’d been that fired up to see this movie, she would have said something sooner, like last week. But no, a day before it leaves theaters and enters the twilight zone before release as a DVD she must see it.

Audrey’s overly drawn eyebrows came together in a scowl. “No way! You have to do the dishes.”

“I’ll do it another night,” Claire offered.

“So sorry, but I’ve had plans to go with my friends to movies for over a week,” Audrey said. “You’re not horning in at the last minute.”

“Please,” Claire said, looking pitiful, which as the baby of the family usually worked to her advantage. She had Mom and Grandma wrapped. Dad not so much.

“I don’t want to see the Tanner Chatham movie,” Audrey argued. “And you and I both know you won’t sit in the theater by yourself.”

“Maybe Heather can sit with you,” Grandma suggested, not recalling that I, with the exception of the library, was on restriction from going anywhere for the sunburn.

Hope kindled in me for about a second. Part of me was grateful to Grandma, and part of me was seething. I mean how fair is that? Whatever Claire wants, Claire gets?

Audrey slammed her half-full glass on the table. Chocolate milk sloshed over the sides and formed a ring, quickly soaking into the tablecloth. “Heather isn’t going anywhere.”

Chapter Eight

“So are you now agreeing to take your sister to the movie and let her sit with you?” Mom asked, scooting her chair back. She jogged into the kitchen, returned with a roll of paper towels, and handed them to Audrey.

“I told you I have plans. Plans that don’t include Claire and Heather,” Audrey answered in that pitch right before the full-on whine as she made a really poor attempt at blotting up the spilled milk with two squares.

“That doesn’t explain why having Claire sit with you is a problem.”

“Why? Why you ask?” She growled, literally. “Because she’s just starting middle school. I’m a junior. It’s not fair.”

Amy floated into the dining room and perched herself on the buffet table in between Grandma’s tarnished silver service and the antique clock that didn’t run anymore. The salt in my pocket wasn’t keeping her away at all. Either it had to be out of the shaker or the information in the book I checked out was bogus.

From the complacent smile on the haint’s face, I could tell she was enjoying episode 3,814 of Life Is So Unfair to Audrey. And if she found the dinner drama interesting, I suspected she’d probably like to go to the movies. Movies were fun, more fun than the library for sure. If Amy got over her blue funk, she’d elaborate on how I could get her to leave. I wouldn’t have to resort to salt and reading the rest of the book I’d checked out. I just had to get Dad to agree.

Audrey’s whine shifted into high gear. “You give Claire and Heather whatever they want, whenever they want. Might I remind you that Heather wore my shirt to Michael’s without asking?”

Okay, I could see Audrey’s point; me getting to go to the movies wasn’t fair. However, I hadn’t ratted on her for not going to the library to start her own summer reading today—not that I was getting any credit for it. “I don’t know why you’re still upset about the shirt. I bought you a new one. And it’s not like you don’t always get what you want, either.”

Not a good move on my part.

Audrey bobbed her head like we were on some episode of a crummy reality TV show. “If I get everything I want, then where’s my Mustang?”

“I don’t know,” I said, leaning toward her across the table, really tempted to spit in her snide overly made-up face. Summer goal be damned. “Maybe it’s in all that furniture from Ikea Mom and Dad bought for you. You know, the stuff you whined about until they spent a wad on the entire shelving system, bed and dresser, not to mention the new comforter set from PB Teen. If there’s anyone who gets screwed on a regular basis in this family, it’s not you.”

“Oh, and who is? You?” she screamed.

With her ghostly hands poised to choke my snotty sister or perhaps to pour what was left of the chocolate milk over her, Amy advanced on Audrey.

Oh, my God. I’d seen that look on Amy’s face before . . . in the past, when I was little. I remembered.

There was this one particularly hot summer day, when Audrey, her friend Lisa, who looked like Strawberry Shortcake, and I were swinging in the backyard. Audrey and Lisa jumped off and ran away from me, saying I had to be five to play with them and not weird. They both stopped mid-yard and pretended to scratch themselves. They called me “Princess and the Pea.” Yes, I can thank my sister for that fantabulous nickname.

That’s when Amy first appeared. “I’ll play with you,” she’d said. And after all these years, here she was ready to defend me when Audrey was still being poopy. Guilt ate at me. Had I really been trying hard enough to help her?

I made eye contact with Amy and shook my head. Pissing Audrey off even further wouldn’t help anyone, least of all me.

Grandma, a big believer in that study about red wine making you healthier, took a sip of her Merlot. “Heather went to the library today like you asked, Catherine. And she helped with the craft camp yesterday.”

“Helped?” Mom repeated, nabbing an extra large slice of the garlic bread. My mother is a bread fiend. Don’t ever put a basket of rolls next to her, seriously.

“The girl can’t help being a bit of a klutz,” Grandma offered.

The corners of Dad’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. Smiling was good. “She must get her grace from the MacCormack’s.”

Thanks, Dad, for yet another reminder that I acted like Aunt Geneva.

“I guess one movie wouldn’t hurt,” Mom said, her reservations melting like the butter on her garlic bread. “What do you think, John?”

Dad adjusted the glasses on the bridge of his nose, then met my gaze. “Heather did spend a few hours improving her mind today.”

“Does this mean you’re letting me go?” I asked because, knowing my dad, it could go either way depending on his mood, how well he liked dinner, and the phase of the moon.

“I can’t believe you people!” Audrey said, dropping her fork on her plate.

“If we’re going, we have to leave in fifteen minutes,” Claire said, adding to the suspense of the moment as we all awaited Dad’s final edict.

“Does this mean Claire’s doing the dishes tomorrow?” Audrey yelled.

“Do you want to go, Heather?” Dad asked.

A harder question to answer than you’d think. On the one hand, saying no would score points with Audrey. She wouldn’t have to take me to the movies and I’d have an extra dish day. On the other hand, a movie might make my ghost happy.

“Well, yeah.” Of course, I wasn’t sure Amy would behave. She’d been good at Old Navy, bad at Michael’s and the library. But she liked TV and, apparently, family drama, so that improved the odds in my favor, right?

“May I be excused?” Audrey asked, tone definitely snarky.

“Certainly.” Dad gestured for her to pick up her plate.

She scooted out of her chair, took her plate into the kitchen, where she slammed it on the countertop, rattling the glassware in the cabinet above. She stomped up the back stairs and down the hall to her room, most likely to touch up her make-up, and slammed the door behind her.

I hoped taking Amy to the movies was worth the setback with Audrey.

“I’m ready when you are,” I said, then smiled at my nice sister.

Claire looked at me, in a mode similar to Audrey. “You’re not going to wear that, are you?”

I trained my eyes downward and caught the red splotch on my shirt, highlighting my barely existent cleavage. I pushed away from the table without asking to be excused.

While my mother and grandmother debated the merits of stain removers they’d used over the years, Amy followed me out of the dining room, her demeanor pretty subdued. The flu thing must still be bothering her. Otherwise, she’d be asking me fifty million questions like what is a stain stick and what does it do, blah, blah, blah.

I grabbed my backpack on my way up the carpeted stairs with my faithful ghost. Wondering what clean clothes I had, I passed a fuming and freshly shellacked Audrey on the stairs.

“Hurry,” she said.

“Don’t I always?”

I ignored Claire’s faint yet perceptible “no” wafting up from the foyer and sped down to my room. Audrey was probably texting her friends about the indignity of having her sisters go to the movies at the same time she was. I don’t why she was so upset, it wasn’t like we’d be in the same theater. It wasn’t like I could embarrass her sitting in a theater.

Once in the quiet chaos of my room, I slung my backpack with heavy book inside onto my bed, then carefully extricated my sunburned self from my spaghetti-stained tee. I tossed it onto the growing dirty clothes pile by my desk and checked my baggy shorts for spots.

“You want to come to the movies?” I asked Amy. I loosened my bra straps to ease the rub against the new skin emerging, and glanced in the mirror. No question about it, peeling shoulders were just plain ugly. At least my face was turning brown.

Amy, who hovered next to the window, didn’t answer. Something outside in the terraced vines had her complete attention. Probably Roquefort spazzing out.

“It’ll be fun,” I said.

For experimental purposes only, I took the opportunity to sprinkle salt on the floor and in my pockets, then entered the closet and contemplated the sparsely filled shelves and overflowing hamper, noting that one of my softest, most favorite tees—the one with metallic pink flowers painted on chocolate brown cotton—was wadded up next to the shoe rack. I retrieved it from the floor. Wrinkled but spotless. Then I sniffed it and nearly fell over from that sour dirty clothes smell that had infiltrated the cotton and consequently my nasal cavities.

“You know,” I said to Amy, “the movies are just like TV—only bigger.”

She walked through the wall into the closet even though the door was open. “How big?”

As I suspected, the salt was . . . salt. It contained no protective powers.

“The movie screen is bigger than the garage,” I said. “I bet you’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Will the movie be like Arthur?”

“Not exactly. It’s longer. There won’t be any cartoon animation. And there will probably be kissing.” Maybe even in the audience. One time, I went to the movies, and midway through the flick I could actually hear the couple behind me slurping on each other. I was so disgusted I had to move. And the people had the nerve to complain about me blocking their view when I got up to find a new seat.

Amy squinched her nose. “Boys kissing on girls?”

“Yup. But you can cover your eyes if it bothers you.”

Amy left the closet, and I glanced up at the stack of long-sleeved sweaters and fleece. I settled on my super soft, extra-large UGA hooded sweatshirt. I could easily go no bra in that. Off it went.

As I slid the sweatshirt over my head, I heard the distinctive bing of a text message coming in on my phone. I pushed up my sleeves and headed to my desk. After moving some papers and books, I found it, then read the text. Tina. I looked at the time on the bottom right of my screen. This would be short.

Hey, what’s up? Tina wrote.

Not much. Typical boring summer, I typed back. With the exception of my ghost. She was over by the window again, staring out the panes at Dad’s vineyard, like I had after our first dog died. That dog was a fluffy, white West Highland Terrier named Katie Bellafester. Even though I knew Katie was gone, I’d still find myself at the window looking for her in the backyard. I couldn’t shake the feeling Amy was watching for something that was lost, too. Or maybe it was someone.

I looked down at the small screen and picked up the words boy and Jet Ski. Tina was one of those lucky girls who attracted cute males no matter where she went. I’d say it wasn’t fair, but I don’t want to sound like Audrey. That’s great, I typed back.

Audrey yelled, “Heather, it’s time to go! If you don’t come down right now, I’m leaving you!”

I typed, Hate to cut this short, but I have to go. TTFN.

“Amy, are you coming?” I asked as I got out of my chair and ran over to the dresser to search for something in the jumble that would keep my hair off my neck.

She shrugged and continued to stare out the window.

“It’s now or never,” I said, bending over to coax my hair into a big banana clip.

Amy turned to face me, and her deep sadness permeated the room and me.

As much as I hated having to live life with the weird label, I realized I’d already lived four years longer than Amy. I’d probably experienced four times as much.

“Come on. It’ll be fun,” I said, forcing a light tone to my words as I slipped my feet into some worn but comfortable athletic shoes. I wasn’t sure if I was doing it for me or for her, but I had to shake Amy from her mournful mood.

Before Mom allowed the three of us to leave the garage, she gave us the standard speech about talking to strangers and being at the appointed spot after the movie on time so Audrey wouldn’t worry. There may have been more, but I zoned out thinking about how, if Mom could, she’d tag and track us like wildebeests on the African savannah.

Audrey’s angry silence weighed down the air in the van as she drove off, then dropped us at the curb in front of the centroplex ticket booth all without saying a word.

Only a couple of people were ahead of us at the window, so we didn’t have to wait long to purchase our tickets.

“Two for The Believer,” Claire said, then squealed as she pushed two twenties into the till.

With a snort of derision, the guy with long sideburns manning the booth pressed the appropriate buttons. Amy watched in fascination as our tickets spit out of the stainless slot. The attendant gave us the tickets and our change, which might stretch to cover a large bucket of overpriced popcorn.

Somehow, I thought Amy was right behind me, but when we showed our tickets to the perky girl at the entrance, my ghost wasn’t visible. I glanced back at the booth. Small slips of tickets spewed up inside the glass, turning it into a life-sized snow globe. Amy had to be feeling better.

Grinning from her latest whammy, she floated inside the theater, and found me perusing the long line for snackage with great displeasure. Sure, the popcorn smelled great, as did that sweet sugary scent of candy, but I really didn’t think any of it was worth the time we’d spend waiting to get waited upon.

I turned to Claire. “Please tell me you don’t want anything.”

Claire pouted. “It won’t take that long. I can’t go to the movies without popcorn. Besides I’m hungry.”

“Fine,” I said, determined not to boss her around even though she’d had the opportunity to eat dinner a half an hour ago and she was wasting her money.

The manager came over to help and served customers at about forty times the speed of the girl with humongous hoop earrings. It was like he’d gotten some of that liquid high-speed from the cable commercials. He was one big black and white blur as he filled two drinks at one time, scooped popcorn, grabbed boxes of candy, and made change.

Just watching him made me dizzy, so I had to redirect my focus. That’s when I noticed the tall guy with a buzz cut in the front of the line. I knew from the way he held his broad shoulders it was Drew. I’d gotten a really good look at him from behind at Michael’s; it was forever etched in my brain. My hands grew sweaty; I wiped them on my baggy shorts.

He leaned down to say something to a slender girl with gorgeous auburn hair who was smiling up at him, his date. I now had confirmation that Drew Blanton liked redheads, but I could never be one, thanks to Aunt Geneva. Acting like her was bad enough; I didn’t want to look like her, too.

With a cardboard holder, popcorn for two, a big drink, and a box of Hot Tamales firmly between his hands, he turned around. I like cinnamon, too, I wanted to say. Somehow, I assumed the Hot Tamales were his. Candy probably never passed the girlfriend’s lips.

Faint freckles dusted the tops of the girlfriend’s cheekbones and the bridge of her nose. She had that creamy white skin with pores so small you can’t even see them. Her pretty green eyes and pert nose made me want to kill her.

I’d been “blessed” with the MacCormack nose, which Claire tried to make me feel better about by saying my face would look weird with a small one. Claire meant well.

I should have worn my good jeans, the ones that make my butt look nice, but the back of my legs were still burnt and I’d stupidly chosen comfort over style. With my baggy shorts and big collegiate sweatshirt, I could easily make an episode of What Not to Wear. I hadn’t washed my hair either. Thank God, I’d put on some lip balm on the way over, so at least my mouth wasn’t all peely.

All I wanted was for Drew to walk on by.

Please. Please.

“Hey, there’s Drew!” Claire pointed.

By the time my tongue formed the “n” in no, Amy’d noticed, too. She jostled his arm. He juggled his snacks and popcorn right next to me, then looked to see who’d hit his elbow, unaware of the ghostly hand reaching into his tub, grabbing popcorn, and showering me with the kernels, which in a matter of seconds landed on my head, shoulders, and feet.

I stared down at the popcorn covering the laces of my Nikes. Maybe he wouldn’t recognize me if I kept my gaze fixed on the floor.

“Sorry,” he said as Claire brushed the kernels from my shoulders and picked it out of my hair. I wouldn’t look up. I just kept staring at the popcorn at my feet.

“No problem,” I replied, not wanting him to feel bad for something my ghost had done and realizing too late that my raspy voice would give me away.

His tanned toes lined up perfectly in his pool slides. They hadn’t moved. Not good. Not good at all.

“Heather, right?”

I had no choice now but to look into his gorgeous face. “Hi.”

“Sorry. I don’t know what happened. I think someone pushed me from behind.”

“It’s okay; it’s not like I thought you’d done it on purpose.” I looked around for Amy. She was right above us, reclining on the giant, blow-up Juju Fruit display hanging from the ceiling.

Drew nodded to his girlfriend. “This is Rachel.”

She smiled so sweetly, so fake. “Hi. Love your hair.”

And people thought I was delusional.

I shrugged. “Well, thanks. Lesson one for this up-do—forget about washing your hair.”

She laughed like she was sitting in the audience of some cheesy sitcom. “You’re right, Drew. This kid is funny.”

Kid? All right, now that little jab was below the belt.

“I’m glad I finally get to meet you. Drew told me all about the pool and Michael’s.”

“He went to Mom’s class?” Claire asked, hazel eyes wide with shock.

“No, he saw me after, when he came to pick up Morgan, his little sister.” And, thanks to Audrey, he knew I thought he was hot. Correction: he knew that Claire and I thought he was hot.

“Glad to see you got the dye off your face,” he said with a teasing sort of twinkle in his eyes.

“Yeah, well, you scrub something a million times, and oddly enough it comes off.”

He smiled, and I wondered why he thought I was so funny, not that I minded any form of attention from him, and then I remembered the funny ones never get the guy, not the hot guy. They get some goofy supergeek, like Xavier. I didn’t want to be the funny girl.

“Hey, you wouldn’t by any chance be willing to baby-sit Morgan some time, would you?” he asked.

Pro: I might get to see Drew. Even better, I might be able to see his bedroom. I could worm my way into his life. Con: I didn’t like little kids, babysitting gave me a rash, literally, and I’d never see him because he’d be out with Rachel while I was babysitting. Plus, Morgan most likely thought I wasn’t mature enough to baby-sit her. And the kid knew martial arts. She should come with a sticker warning to any future babysitters, none of which would be me.

Claire smoothed her bob and chimed in. “Oh, Heather doesn’t baby-sit. She hates kids. I’m the babysitter in the family.”

Now he looked confused. “So, wait. Why were you helping your mother with that craft class if you hate little kids?”

The redhead checked her watch. “We’re probably missing the trailers.”

Sorry, sister, I had Drew’s attention. I wasn’t going to relinquish it. “Punishment,” I said.

His pale blue eyes sparkled. “For what?”

“It’s pretty lame.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“I was punished for getting a sunburn. My mom has this thing about skin cancer. And about making bad choices, as Morgan would say.”

“Morgan told you that you made bad choices? It’s weird, isn’t it? How she talks like she’s an adult.” Drew’s kissable lips twitched. He was going to smile. “She’s right. They both are. Oh, and aloe gel is good for peeling.” He looked straight down at my nose.

My eyes crossed as I looked to see if my schnoz was peeling. It made me dizzy, so I had to rely on another sense. I ran my index finger from the bridge to the tip. A faint but perceptible raised edge surrounded the ridge of my nose. An island of pink in a sea of tan, most likely. I wouldn’t even get to enjoy any of the brown.

“Thanks. See ya around.”

“Right,” he said, still smiling, because of me.

Rachel took hold of his arm and steered him toward the guy in the red vest checking tickets and directing people on which way to turn in the wide carpeted hallway.

Once he was out of hearing range, Claire squealed. “Oh, my, God. Drew Blanton talked to you.” She shook her finger at me. “And why didn’t you tell me about seeing him at Mom’s craft class?”

“Why would I? It was humiliating.” I moved closer to the candy counter and shot a glare up at Amy sprawled on her JuJu Fruit chaise. “And Audrey told him we think he’s hot.”

“No way.”

“Way. I was too traumatized to even speak about it until now.”

The ghost yawned. Translation: I’m plumb bored. Bad things happened when Amy was bored. “Let’s hurry,” I suggested.

Claire ordered Sprite, Sour Patch Kids, and popcorn minus the sticky butter sauce that really isn’t butter. I don’t want to know what it is. Seriously.

Okay, the first mission of the summer had been accomplished, but with unforeseen complications. No longer was I the nameless, tall, skinny girl who went to the pool a lot. Drew had noticed me. Yay me! He even knew my name. By the end of the summer, my reputation as a weirdo could become a dim memory in everyone’s mind. If Drew liked me, other people would like me. Maybe even Audrey. The problem was that I wanted him to think of me as alluring, not funny.

Now I had to change his perception of me, which was fifty million times harder than getting him to notice me. First impressions are lasting ones. Everyone, except ghosts, apparently, knew that.

Chapter Nine

Juggling her cardboard tray of junk food, Claire moseyed her way into the one theater in the centroplex that hadn’t yet been converted to the oversized stadium seating everyone, including me, prefers. My eyes itched as soon as I inhaled the room’s lemony freshness. Not more than a second later, my nose clogged. I figured I’d be okay, though, once I got off the carpet.

My little haint? She was floating in front of the huge screen illuminating her netherworldly pixels.

The lights dimmed to half-strength as Claire and I scanned the sparsely populated rows. I noticed Audrey sitting in the very back with her friends. So much for her pledge to never set foot in a Tanner Chatham movie.

I tuned out the loud Coke commercial barraging my eardrums, which thankfully weren’t itching, and focused on the light strips as we trudged up the steps to a row in the upper center portion of the theater, not close enough to draw Audrey and her friends’ fire. Maybe if I showed her that I could be in the theater without anything weird happening, I could get back on track with my toleration campaign.

“You go first,” Claire whispered.

Rather than point out that I always have to be first, I made my way down the floor and nearly did a split as the sole of my tennis shoe made contact with some spilled candy, yet again reminding me that I didn’t need a ghost to help me look like an idiot.

Heart at full-thumping speed, I clutched at one of the seats, managing to stop my slide.

“Nice job, Grace!” Karen’s snarky voice called out. Giggles erupted.

I glanced around to estimate how many people witnessed my clumsy glide, and noticed some guy at the end of my row waving. Yup, my luck sucked.

Of all the nearly empty rows in this particular theater, I found the one Xavier Monroe was sitting in. I raised my hand briefly in salute to him, said “Hi,” then slumped down in the spring-loaded chair closest to me. Movie trivia questions flashed on the screen.

“Heather, is that you?” A girl’s voice called out. It sounded a whole lot like my best friend Tina. But it couldn’t be, because Tina was still on her cruise. She would have called me first thing when she got home.

And yet again I was wrong. There was no mistaking the swing of her long ponytail or the killer tan that spoke of days lazing in the Caribbean sun.

“Hey, long time no see.” She sat next to me, wiggled her eyebrows, then nodded in Xavier’s direction. Translation: Why are you being nice to Xavier?

“He did me a favor,” I said and slunk down further in my chair. Not to be gross, but snot was flooding my throat. My eyes burned like I’d been swimming open-eyed without goggles.

“Ooh, how cool is this? On the cruise, the guy I was texting you about, the one with blond curly hair who wore ‘Sean Jean’ clothes?” Her inflection rose and fell as she made her way to the point of her sentence. “Did I tell you he plays tennis, too? Yeah, well, he’s been e-mailing and texting me since I got back.”

The connection to what was previously mimed? My guess: the fact that Xavier and her cutie were both boys.

Before I could ask how long she’d been home, Tina dug her bony fingers into my arm, which would, yes, add a few more bruises. “Ooh, something else I almost forgot to tell you. Suzanne got contacts! What do you think?” She whipped her head and looked back at Suzanne, who hadn’t bothered to come say hi or wave. “We went shopping at Phipps yesterday. Her mom got a hotel room for us and we got room service. Of course it wasn’t as good as the room service on the cruise, but still. Her mom even let her buy two hundred dollar jeans.”

Claire’s eyes widened as she paused her popcorn shoveling and absorbed the magnitude of two hundred dollar jeans.

My eyes were tearing and itchy, but not because I was perfectly justified in being upset that Tina spent time with Suzanne before she’d even called me. The seat upholstery must have been cleaned, too. I rubbed my irritated eyes, which only inflamed them more. I prayed it wouldn’t get any worse. I did have a layer of fabric between me and the seat cushion, and that should help, right?

“Is this the movie?” Amy asked, settling next to Tina. “’Cause if it is, it’s not very exciting.”

Tina shivered; she rubbed her arms. I motioned for Amy to give Tina a little space, and she obliged. Thank God. Normally, I’d be happy that Amy was behaving, but it only made me worry that she’d do something really bad later.

Claire slurped on her gargantuan drink, reminding Tina of something else she had to share.

“Ooh, I forgot to tell you, I tried my first virgin Pina Colada on the cruise. The cute guy I was texting you about, he . . . ”

Amy angled her head, one braid swinging lower as she examined Tina. “Don’t she ever stop talking?”

I shrugged, knowing that Tina would exhaust herself eventually, or the movie would start.

Tina paused for a breath, then frowned. “I don’t know why you two don’t get along.”

“Who?” I asked, because I hadn’t been listening and hadn’t realized the cruise channel had changed.

She tightened the elastic on her ponytail. “You and Suzanne.”

Right. Like she’d forgotten. “Um, don’t you remember her mimicking me wobbling in the heels I got for Easter?”

“Oh, that.” She waved her hand in dismissal. “She was just kidding.”

“Odd how she always seems to be kidding about me and no one else.” I rubbed my eyes again, then scratched my hairline. There wasn’t a spot on me that wasn’t itching from chemical overload. I popped two Benadryl fast melts while Tina rambled on.

Amy cocked her head to the side. “You all right, Heather?”

I nodded. So maybe I wasn’t all right now, but I would be in a couple minutes.

Tina continued her chatter, her voice rising and falling in waves. “Well, I like you. Maybe she needs to get to know you better. She has really sensitive skin, too. Maybe not as sensitive as yours, but you two should be able to bond over that. And I told her that you had a famous artist in your family. She was impressed. Especially when I told her one of your aunt’s sculptures was at the High Museum.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call Geneva famous.” Notorious. Eccentric. Weird.

“But she has a loft, and she knows musicians,” Tina argued.

And a ghost, I thought. Can’t leave him out. You’d think I couldn’t get any itchier, especially if I’d taken my medicine, but if the urge I was now feeling was any indication, I’d say that theory was wrong.

“All I’m saying is that you should hang out with Suzanne more,” Tina said.

“That’s kind of difficult when she doesn’t invite me.” I waved in her general direction. “Case in point.”

“So invite her to do something. You may find you have more in common than you think.”

Maybe we did. Maybe I hadn’t given Suzanne a fair shake. If she could think Aunt Geneva’s art was cool, she couldn’t be all bad.

Claire crinkled the cellophane wrapper as she moved on to her Sour Patch Kids candy.

“Oh, did I tell you?” Tina said, switching back to the cruise. “This other boy on the cruise, who wore Obsession for Men, kissed me in the moonlight. It was too wet and sloppy, but—”

Thankfully, she couldn’t elaborate further because the previews were starting and the theater darkened. She ran back to her seat with Suzanne.

Amy moved over to the spot next to me positioning her body as if the chair was down. Her proximity gave me a slight shiver. The screen brightened with trailers for upcoming movies, and she pointed toward the lovey-dovey couple two rows ahead.

Drew. He had his arm lying across Rachel’s shoulders. I bet she’d said she was cold so he’d cuddle her. I bet she wore her thin spaghetti strap top just so she would get cold. I wanted to hate her for it, but I knew if I were in her situation I would do the exact same thing.

The surround sound logo flashed on the screen, and the speakers blasted, vibrating my insides. I knew the medicine wasn’t working. No way would I be able to sit through the whole movie, which pretty much shot any chance of the movies becoming Amy’s holy grail of fun.

“I’ll be back,” I said to Claire and Amy, then left my seat, hunching over so I didn’t block too much of the screen for people behind me. I girded my loins.

“What do you want?” Audrey snarled before I even reached her row.

“I don’t feel good.”

“So?”

Yeah, Audrey got short-changed when it came to empathy. “So I might have to go home.”

“Just take your medicine!” she yelled, earning several shushes.

“I did.”

“Then give it some time to work,” she said in a pained, put-upon tone.

“I have. I need to go home.”

Karen leaned forward, “Then call your mom!” She whipped her big head back toward Audrey. “God, she probably did this on purpose.”

Yeah, right. And what would my motivation be?

There’d be no help from Audrey, that was clear. I hurried down the exit aisle, then scooted to where Claire was sitting and squatted next to her. “Look, I’m having a reaction to whatever they used to clean the theater. I’ve gotta get out of here. Go sit with Audrey.”

Misery furrowed Claire’s brow. She grabbed her purse and headed up to the top of the theater.

Amy joined me on the lobby bench next to the big cut out of the upcoming James Bond movie. I took another Benadryl, then fished my cell phone out of my purse and called Mom. No answer. I tried the house line, Dad, Grandma. No one was picking up.

Amy’s company lasted all of one attempted call. The water fountain drew her like a siren song. Not wanting a repeat of the library, I drank the water. I’m not sure how much but it was enough to keep it from spilling onto the carpet and to make my bladder full. Yeah, just what I needed—a bursting bladder to go with the full-fledged allergy attack.

A risky proposition indeed. If I went in the bathroom, Amy’d create havoc.

The distinct cackle of Audrey’s friend Karen wafted down the long hallway. She and two other girls were making a beeline for the ladies room. Her eyes trained on me. “You’re still here?!”

“Obviously.” She wouldn’t get to me this time.

Her long flat-ironed hair a contrast to her pudgy face, Karen leaned her head toward her toadies. “What amazes me is that they come from the same gene pool. I mean, look at her. She dresses like shit.”

As she glanced back over her shoulder to see if her arrows hit their mark, I crossed my arms over my chest. So I wasn’t a fashion plate. I wouldn’t cry about it. Not that Karen or her friends could tell. Thanks to my allergic reaction, I probably looked like I was crying.

“Them’s fighting words,” Amy said. “Are you gonna sit there and take it, Heather?”

“What choice do I have?” I whispered. Fighting back wouldn’t exactly endear me to my older sister.

Karen laughed as she pushed through the bathroom’s swinging door, releasing the sound of flushing, which made me have to go more. I crossed my legs determined to hold it until Karen vacated the premises.

Amy floated in front of me, angry-faced. “You go in there and tell her she don’t got no right to talk ugly to you.”

“No,” I whispered, miserable from holding my bladder and my hurt.

“Then I will,” Amy said and smiled broadly, revealing the gap between her front teeth.

Don’t get me wrong. I appreciated that she wanted to defend my honor; it was more than Audrey had done over the years. But strange as it may sound, I felt responsibility for my ghost even if no one could see her but me. She could make everything a lot worse.

After several deep breaths, I followed her into the bathroom and found Amy mimicking Karen as she applied and reapplied her lip gloss.

I took two steps forward, and Karen, mouth puckered for another layer of lacquer, met my worried gaze through the looking glass. “You’re pathetic.”

That was all the gauntlet Amy needed to leave the joys of mimicry and take control of Karen’s hand holding the lip gloss wand, tracking it across the girl’s full cheeks, then up, then sideways in an abstract manner, pretty much treating her face like a canvas.

“What in the… My hand. I can’t stop my hand.” She screamed as frosty tracks gleamed from her forehead to her chin. “Oh, my God, it’s like my hand’s possessed!”

“You!” she shouted at me. “You’re doing this! Stop!”

Amy let go, which, yes, made me look guilty. “I swear it’s not . . . ”

Karen bolted from the ladies room.

“Me,” I finished as Amy disappeared behind the handicapped stall, leaving nothing but her booted feet visible.

The slide of a metal bar sounded from behind the stall closest to me. I turned away from the mirror. Similar clicks marched down the row rapidly, followed by all of the stall doors slamming open as Amy pushed them, revealing the remainder of Karen’s friends sitting on their respective pots. Screaming involving foul language and my name ensued.

I headed back to the bench where I’d been sitting. Yes, I still had to pee like a big dog who’d been cooped up in a house all day. Hives rose on my skin as I tried calling Mom, Dad, and Grandma and got voicemail yet again. What was the deal?

I took another fastmelt Benadryl. Was that four? I would not scratch, I would not scratch.

“You don’t look so good,” Amy said.

“Thanks.”

She hovered in front of me, twirling a braid and eyeing me, then her face lit with a shimmery glow. “I’ll be back.”

“No, don’t leave!” I said loudly, her words giving me chills, or maybe it was the Benadryl. She’d do something worse than her trick on Karen and I’d pay for it. Despite my lack of energy due to my drugged state, I wobbled to my feet, fully prepared to corral Amy.

That’s when Supergeek emerged from behind a large fake potted plant. “Who are you talking to?” he asked.

My heart sped, flooding my ears with the rushing beat. I played dumb for all it was worth. “When?”

“Just now.”

“No entiendo,” I said, recalling one phrase from my lackluster study of Spanish that was always the right answer as far as I was concerned.

“Right. A remarkably similar answer to the question about how the books fell.”

I tamped down the twinge of guilt that hit me right between the shoulder blades. Yeah, I’d left him to clean up the mess. But I had to think of an excuse for now, this minute, which wasn’t easy given the amount of antihistamine clouding my brain. “Maybe I was talking to myself.”

“I don’t think so.” He rocked back and forth in his weird shoes that were like a combination sandal and hiking thing.

“You know, you’re missing your movie,” I said, sitting back down.

“Yeah, so are you.”

One of the theaters opened up and people complaining about a projector breaking passed us by. From the snatches of conversation I overheard, it was the Tanner Chatum movie. Great. Amy’d whammied the machine. Probably for me. At least Audrey’d have to take me home now.

I added up the rest of the evening—she’d encouraged Drew to talk to me, she’d repaid evil Karen, and now she’d made sure I could get out of here. She wasn’t trying to make my life a living hell, she was trying to help me. It all made a woozy sort of sense. I’d pay Amy back for this kindness—I’d figure out why she was here.

Out of it as I was, I didn’t notice Xavier was still standing in front of me until his goober friend walked up next to him and inhaled loudly in horror.

“What?” I asked.

“Your face, it’s all puffy,” he said and stared. Other people who walked by now stopped to join in the staring. I felt more like a sideshow freak than ever.

“Is she with you?” a squinty-eyed usher with short hair and a figure that provided no clue as to his-her gender asked. The usher’s voice was much deeper than mine, yet not totally out of the realm of possibility for a female.

“No,” I said.

“But I know her,” Xavier clarified and leaned in close, forcing me to gaze into his worried brown eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Define okay.”

“I’m not kidding around.” He knelt down in front of me, examining my legs. “You’ve got hives. Your face is . . . ” He thought better of insulting me. “Do you have an EpiPen? Do you need to go to the hospital?”

“I don’t think so.” Balling my fists, I fought the urge to scratch, which was getting more difficult by the second. Why wasn’t the medicine working? Other people started gathering to watch the spectacle that was me, which only made my itching worse, as impossible as that sounds.

I couldn’t see Amy now, but I knew she was sitting close enough that the right side of my body, from my upper arm down was cold.

“What are you having a reaction to?” he asked. “Something you ate?”

“No, it’s whatever they used to clean the theater,” I said.

Several of the people staring heard me say something about the cleaning fluid, stopped, and added their complaints to the shemale usher, everything from scratchy throats to stuffy noses.

The manager of the theater, the one who’d been so fast at the snack stand, joined the growing mob. “Young lady, are you okay?”

“Not exactly.” I couldn’t stand it anymore and went into full scratch mode. Amy popped back into view, hovering above me.

“Should I call 9-1-1?” Xavier asked.

“No,” I croaked. “My sister will take me home.”

“Everyone back away,” Xavier said to the people crowding us. “Give her some air.”

Yeah, I now felt even worse about leaving him to pick up all the books at the library. I was probably freaking him out—especially since his brother died of an allergic reaction.

The manager started handing out free movie passes to everyone who was affected by the broken projector or the cleaning fluid.

“Let me through!” Audrey shouted, pushing aside gawkers and seekers of free passes. “Don’t you people have something better to do?”

Xavier stood his ground next to me until she narrowed her gaze at him. If she could have pulverized him into dust, she would have. Seriously.

She dug in my purse for another couple Benadryl and pushed them between my swelling lips. “Why the hell didn’t you call Mom?”

“I did. I got voicemail.” I didn’t think I could o.d. on extra Benadryl. Was I up to five? Or six? Maybe Amy knew.

Woozy, I leaned back against the bench.

Audrey’s friend Karen hee-hawed. “Not so brave now with your little extra sensory tricks, are you? Payback’s gonna be a bitch.”

Drew stood off to the side watching which meant that he might care about me a little bit, right? I imagined him kneeling in front of me, pledging his love and offering me a promise ring.

“Why didn’t you come back into the theater to get me?” Audrey asked in a shrill tone that shredded all the warm fuzzies I was feeling thanks to my Drewdream and the multiple doses of allergy medicine.

Wasn’t the answer obvious? “Because you would’ve gotten mad.” Like now.

Audrey groaned.

Xavier’s friend tugged on his arm. “Let’s go.”

“Is she going to be okay?” he asked.

Karen snorted. “As okay as someone as freaky as she is can be.”

Barely able to keep my swollen eyes open, I closed them. I didn’t want to see the anger and embarrassment on my sister’s face. No wonder she hated me. I hated myself. “Just take me home, okay?”

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll bring the car to the door. Claire, you stay here with Heather. Don’t go wandering off somewhere like you usually do. Heather, don’t go to sleep. I can’t carry you.”

Claire sat down next to me, clutching what was left of her Sour Patch Kids candy. I tried to keep my eyes open.

“You don’t like him, do you?” Karen asked, voice dripping with disdain.

“Who?” I braced myself for her to explain in excruciating detail the reasons why Drew Blanton would never look at a girl like me except as an example of what chemical sensitivity can do to a body.

“Supergeek,” she snarled. Literally.

“Oh.” Relieved she hadn’t honed in on the object of my affection, I stalled. I needed a fine balance here. I didn’t want to hurt Xavier’s feelings, but I also didn’t want people getting the wrong impression—especially Drew. “Not like ‘like,’” I said. My itching finally eased, and I focused on Karen’s somewhat fuzzy image. “But he’s okay as a person, I guess.”

“He’s not that bad,” Claire chimed in. “If you put him in some Abercrombie clothes and shaved the moustaschy thingee, he wouldn’t look that bad.”

“But how,” Karen asked, “are you going to change his geekazoid brain? He volunteers at the library and he’s an altar boy.”

Claire leaned across me. “So? If he likes Heather and she likes him—”

“I don’t like him!” I yelled.

All evidence to the contrary, meanness is Karen’s m.o., not mine. I didn’t want to hurt Xavier’s feelings, especially since he was worried about me.

“You’d better not.” Karen warned. “Audrey’s already living down your Carrie moment in the bathroom. Unless you can be somewhat normal before school starts, we’re dropping her. Hanging out with Supergeek isn’t a step in the right direction!”

Her threat hung in the air as I glanced over to where Xavier stood, staring at me, his dark eyes glittering with either hatred or tears. I couldn’t tell for sure which, but my chest burned at his humiliation and my own eyes filled. I didn’t want to worry about him and his feelings. I had my own feelings to deal with. Plus a ghost that I really needed to get rid of if my plan of normalcy had any chance of succeeding. I had to get off this downward spiral.

I must have dozed off for a second because the next thing I knew someone was tugging on my arm.

“I just wanted to say thanks,” a familiar female voice said.

For what, being a freak? I opened my eyes to Suzanne and Tina waving their free passes at me.

“Um . . . You’re welcome.” I looked to Tina for the 411.

“That cleaning fluid is bothering me, too.” Suzanne turned around to show me the splotchy rash on the back of her thighs. “I’m going to have my mom write them a letter.”

Tina tried to pantomime something. Head laying on hands, eyes closed. Looked like sleep. No duh, I was sleepy. I nodded.

Tina rolled her eyes at me. “Heather was going to ask you to sleep over at her house.”

I was?

Amy danced a jig in front of me. “Man alive! I ain’t had a sleep over since Martha Carrie invited me to her house. Mr. Smith got mad at us giggling about the cat jumping on the rafters and made us sleep outside in the cold with no quilts or nothing. We liked to about froze.”

“When?” Suzanne asked.

“This Friday,” Tina answered for me.

“But aren’t you—” Claire started to speak. I clamped my hand on her knee, the threat of ‘horse eats corn’ heavy in the air. Restriction ended Friday. I’d ask Mom tonight. It was perfect timing. Grandma was going off somewhere with her senior group this weekend. We could stay in her mother-in-law suite.

“Yeah, this Friday,” I said, suddenly a whole lot happier. If she was the person Tina claimed her to be, by the end of the sleepover, Suzanne and I might be better friends. If Suzanne and I were friends, Audrey’d see I was trying to fit in more. So would her friends. And if my slumber party was as much fun as they usually are, Amy would finally confide in me why she’d remained here on earth when the rest of her family had moved on.

Come Saturday, I’d be well on my way to finding eternal slumber for my little friend, to being less of a thorn in Audrey’s side, and to transforming Drew’s impression of me from zany freak to potential girlfriend . . . unless this party sucked.

Chapter Ten

“Truth or dare?” Audrey asked, the Bioré strips lining her forehead, nose, and chin, giving her the look of a woman recovering from an extreme makeover.

Sleepover Tip #1: If the party gets boring and you’re trying to keep your friends, siblings and a ghost happy, you’ve got to resort to risky activities.

Oh, and you may be curious as to why Audrey’s hanging out with us, considering that she doesn’t really like me. My parents forced me to invite her, which just goes to show how clueless people over forty get. I’m not sure if it’s the loss of brain cells with age, or the accumulation of mercury from having those old silver-colored fillings, but my parents actually thought including Audrey would please her. And it did, which in turn made the butterflies I had about the evening grow to the size of pterodactyls. She hates me even more than before thanks to her friends now threatening to dump her because of what happened at the movies.

Claire looked up from sorting through her basket of nail polish and leaned forward, squinting. “Truth.”

“We didn’t have any celebrities on our cruise,” Tina shouted from Grandma’s bathroom that was decorated in the same apricot, green and cream colors as the rest of the suite that not only looked but also smelled like it belonged at the beach, thanks to the Ocean Breeze air freshener she used. “You’d think a cruise line with a name like Celebrity, would, hello, at least have one or two on board . . . ”

Audrey flared her nostrils, then eased back against the cushions of the loveseat opposite me. She flicked her tongue quickly over her bottom lip like a snake. “So, Claire, are you sick of hearing about Tina’s cruise?”

Claire’s bob swung as she turned her head to look at me. I tried to reach her telepathically, not that it had ever worked before. Lie.

“Um, can I have another question?” Claire asked.

Audrey smiled, the hardened Bioré strips crackling at the movement. “You said truth.”

“Please?” Claire asked, her eyes shifting to the bathroom door. “Pretty please? I’ll tell you anything else you want to know.”

“I don’t want to know anything else.”

Suzanne left Tina and returned to where we were sitting. She started peeling off her strips, showing the little oil plugs to us. “Oddly fascinating, isn’t it?”

Audrey made a face. “Oddly gross that you’re sharing.”

“What’s gross?” Tina asked, emerging from the bathroom. She preened, batting her thickly shellacked lashes. “How do you like my smoky eyes?” She lifted the Teen Vogue she’d brought with the step-by-step instructions and before and after photos.

“Very. . . smoky,” I said. What I was thinking was that she resembled a raccoon.

Amy hovered next to the end table where I’d placed my coke on top of Grandma’s latest issue of Southern Living. She stuck her nose over the fizz escaping from the popped top. “I had a Coca-Cola one time when Daddy and Mama took me to Atlanta to get some new shoes at one of them fancy stores.”

“That’s real nice, Amy. Thanks for sharing,” I whispered.

Tina glanced from Claire to Audrey whose eyes were locked. “What?”

“I’m just waiting on Claire’s answer,” Audrey said. “She picked truth. So, Claire, are you or are you not sick of hearing all about Tina’s cruise?”

Tears welled and threatened to spread the smoky make-up down Tina’s cheeks in little charcoal trickles. I could no longer pretend to be gracious to the sister I disliked more than conjugating Spanish verbs.

Audrey drummed her acrylic nails against her can of Red Bull. “We’re waiting to hear your answer, Claire.”

Claire paused in painting her toenails a metallic chartreuse. Her foot rested on one of the empty, grease-spotted pizza boxes. “I liked hearing about the cruise when Tina first got back.”

“But you’re tired of it now. Right?” Audrey pushed.

“I guess.” Claire stood with half-painted toes, separated by foam hearts and hobbled over to hug crestfallen Tina. “I’m sorry.”

Tina hugged her back, but I could hear the hurt in her voice. “It’s okay. I didn’t realize I was being so annoying.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “If I had to give a prize for most annoying this evening, you wouldn’t be the winner.”

Audrey couldn’t have missed the implication, but it didn’t seem to bother her, which meant something worse was on the horizon.

“Okay, Tina. It’s your turn,” Audrey said, snuggling further under the crocheted throw as Amy giggled. “Truth or Dare?”

“Truth.”

Audrey wet her lips, and I knew this was going to be bad, worse even than Claire’s question.

Before she could ask anything, I shouted, “No!”

“She already called truth,” Suzanne said, the gap between her close-set, muddy brown eyes seeming even narrower now that she’d switched to contacts and was saying something I didn’t like. Didn’t she realize we were in a battle, and Audrey was the enemy?

“Audrey hasn’t asked the question,” I pointed out. “Therefore, Tina can change her mind.”

Tina looked at me with untroubled raccoon eyes. “I’m fine with the truth.”

I gripped the armrest on the loveseat to brace myself. This was going to be bad.

“Do you masturbate?” Audrey asked.

What? I was expecting something bad, but not that. Nobody, and I mean nobody, asks about that.

Claire choked on her Sprite. Tina turned Bulldog red; her smoky eyes watered. Amy asked me, “What’s that? What’s masterate?”

“I’ll explain later,” I said under my breath, but to be honest, I wasn’t going to. A strange sense of relief washed over me that I hadn’t been the one asked, which in turn made me feel guilty.

Audrey spread her fingers out to admire her manicure as if she’d asked something innocuous, like whether Tina ever thought about going all the way with Michael. “Well, do you?”

“You don’t have to answer,” I reminded Tina once I’d gained my voice, but it was decidedly higher than my usual deep, smoky rasp. “You can change to a dare instead.”

“She can’t change her mind, now,” Suzanne said in support of Audrey. “Rules are rules.”

Some b.f. she was. I needed to regroup. The goal here was to make the Suzinator have a good time, to show Audrey that if Suzanne liked me then she should, too. If it made her happy to rake us all over the proverbial coals, fine. If everyone besides me was having fun, Amy would have fun. And if Amy had fun, then she would tell me how to help her flutter off to heaven, and my life would return to semi-normal and be nothing like Aunt Geneva’s.

I was next. I had to prepare. Audrey must have something worse in her arsenal for me. No way in hell was I answering a truth. But a dare could be so much worse. I had no idea what to do.

Hanging her head, Tina sighed. “It’s okay. I’ll answer.” She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “Sure, on occasion.”

Claire sat stunned.

“Are we having fun yet?” Amy asked from her spot sitting half-in, half-out of the sofa opposite Audrey’s. “’Cause this sure don’t seem like fun to me.”

I ignored Amy and smiled at Audrey to show her I wasn’t scared. I could only deal with one issue at one time. Living problem, then non-living problem.

“Your turn, Heather,” Audrey said, smiling back, like she hadn’t disemboweled Tina. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth. No, dare. No.”

“Would you make up your mind?”

One truth I knew absolutely. Audrey was determined to bring me down in front of my friends no matter what I picked. I crossed my arms over my chest in my best, Bring-it-on, bee-yotch expression. “Fine. Dare.”

“Good,” Audrey said. “Xavier lives on the other side of neighborhood, right?”

“Right.”

“And he, I hear,” Suzanne added, her eyes shifting sideways to Tina, then back before faking a British accent straight out of a Jane Austen movie. “Thinks rather highly of you.”

Betrayed by my supposed best friend.

Audrey glowered.

Tina shrank away from me, burrowing into the corner of the loveseat like she expected me to hit her. Not good. It was worse than just Suzanne knowing. “Well, she asked why you were being so nice to Xavier at the movies.”

“But you didn’t have to tell her. Who else?” I managed to croak.

“Who else what?”

“Who else did you tell?”

“Um, when Michael asked me to go out with him, and we were talking on the phone, I think I might have mentioned it to him because we were talking about crushes and that boy I told you about from the cruise. But I don’t think he’ll tell anyone.”

Yeah, right.

“He’d better not,” Audrey said, frowning like her life was destroyed, not mine. Technically, though, if word got out, Karen would make good on her threat.

I could see it now. Michael would tell the entire junior varsity football team. By the time school started in August, the rumor would morph into me wanting to have Xavier’s baby. I had to do something. Maybe I could start an alternate rumor to counteract this one. I’d tell everyone I went out with a hot boy on vacation. It would be in Audrey’s best interest to support the fib, so she wouldn’t call me out on it.

“I know,” Suzanne said. “Ride your scooter over there and roll his house.”

“But . . . ” Claire began. She knew what I did, that if I tp’d Supergeek’s house, everyone would take it as a sign that I liked him back—especially since Tina had told blabbermouth Michael that Xavier had the hots for me.

However, compared to what Audrey’d asked Tina, this was easy. “No problem, hand me a roll.”

“But Dad said we couldn’t leave,” Claire reminded.

“What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Audrey said, surprising me. Shouldn’t she come up with something not involving Xavier?

Unless, she’d weighed everything and figured if she dared me to leave, and I did, then I’d get caught before I got to Xavier’s house, and Dad would ground me for the rest of the summer so I couldn’t embarrass her. No way was I going to let her get away with that. “Yeah, we promised Dad, so I guess you’ll have to figure out another dare.”

Audrey tapped her finger against her chin, next to the spot where a pimple was forming, probably from meanness. An evil glint lit in her beady brown eyes, or maybe it was just the way the candlelight was hitting her face. “Something else, something else. . . Maybe I should give you several choices, all of which don’t break Dad’s rules, and you can pick the one most appealing to you.”

My heart thrummed with apprehension, but I feigned nonchalance. “Whatever.”

“Choice one: call Xavier and tell him you think he’s hot,” Suzanne said with a laugh. “Ooh, even better, tell him that you just woke up from a sexy dream about him. Then at the end of the conversation, you say, ‘Psych.’”

Pass. As annoying as his crush on me was, I wasn’t going to hurt him again.

Tina jumped in. “Choice two: Take a random selection of your Grandmother’s medicine and see how messed up you can get.”

Nada. Stupid and possibly deadly.

Audrey gave Tina the constipated look for that. There was some small comfort in knowing she at least didn’t want me o.d.ing. “Choice three: French Kiss Tina.”

Eew. Not gonna go there. “Is there a fourth?”

“Sure. You can go down to the basement and get a bottle of wine for all of us to share.”

Dad hadn’t said no alcohol, so technically I wasn’t breaking a rule. I’d seen Mom and Dad split an entire bottle between them, and they never seemed to get drunk. We’d be sharing it five ways. Dad wouldn’t miss one little bottle of wine.

No problem. I could do this. I could deal . . . especially if it helped Audrey work out her anger so we could move on to some sort of truce-like state. Plus, Suzanne might think I was cool if I succeeded.

Amy flitted back and forth in front of me, pinafore rustling. “Not uh. You can’t.”

“Dad’s still awake,” Claire warned. “He’ll hear you.”

“I know how to handle Dad,” I said with bravado that surprised even me as I tiptoed out of Grandma’s suite. I heard the water running upstairs and figured he was getting ready for bed. If he heard the door to the basement open, he’d come down to investigate, so I’d have to be really quiet. Midway through the darkened family room, I narrowly avoided the snoring, dark lump otherwise known as Roquefort. I couldn’t let her down into the basement with me. She’d make too much noise.

I gave Amy the universal finger to puckered lips sign, which hopefully translated to “Shh” for ghosts, too.

She must not have understood. “You ain’t supposed to drink spirits.”

“We aren’t,” I whispered as I reached the basement door. “We’re having wine, which Jesus approved of or he wouldn’t have turned water into it.”

I twisted the dead bolt, which made a quiet click. Upstairs, the water stopped. Holding my breath, I waited for Dad to stomp into his bedroom. Carefully, I turned the knob, then pulled the door that sometimes swelled in the summer. It opened with the tiniest squeak.

Shutting the door softly behind me, I stole down the wooden stairs, which creaked. Roquefort, who was now awake, started snorting, sniffing, and whining on the other side of the door at the top of the stairs. Hurry, Heather.

I flipped on the light switch at the base of the stairs and glanced at the wall-o-wine in Dad’s tasting room. Grabbing a bottle from the bottom left side where there were already a few empty spaces, I sneezed from the dust. I nabbed one of the corkscrews Dad left laying on the table and booked it back up to the top of the stairs.

“You’d best not open that wine,” Amy said like she’d somehow become the boss of me.

“It’ll be okay,” I reassured her. “Dad’ll think he drank it.”

“And what’ll you do with the bottle?”

“Hide it under Grandma’s bed, then when the coast is clear, like when everyone’s asleep, I’ll put it under all the rest of the recycling. Mom and Dad will never know.”

“What you’re doing is plain wrong,” Amy said, hovering close enough to make me wish for thick flannel pajamas and a fluffy bathrobe. She blocked my reach for the doorknob. “Your father won’t like it when he finds out. And he will.” She shook her finger at me. “You can’t trick him any sooner than you can catch a weasel asleep.”

Roquefort whimpered on the other side of the door. “It’s just me, girl. Shh.”

Amy’s whole Jiminy Cricket thing was really annoying me. “You’re wasting my time. Move.”

She walked through the door and was waiting on the other side when I opened it. I patted Roquefort. “Good girl.” Now for a distraction. “Where’s your pork chop? Where’s your pork chop?”

The dog ran toward her bed in the laundry room where she often hid her squeaky toys.

I thought I was home free.

“What are you doing?” Audrey, or should I say Benedict Arnold, called down from the top of the back staircase. “I hear you sneaking around, Heather. Da-ad!”

“See? I told you,” Amy said in her best country twang.

I could ignore Amy, but I had no clue how to handle Audrey’s trap. I had no money to bribe her with. I’d spent my allowance on the movies and the shirt I had to buy her. “Hey, dish duty for a week hangs in the balance, Audrey. Your call.”

Audrey sneered. “Da-ad!”

“Come on, you dared me to do it.”

Roquefort pranced up to me, squeaky pork chop in mouth. Then she looked up at the back staircase, where Audrey was contemplating whether to follow through with her dastardly plan or let me go.

I wasn’t risking getting caught red-handed. I had to stash the evidence. I ran for Grandma’s room, and the dog chased me and barked like we were playing some game.

As soon as I was in Grandma’s suite, I kicked the door closed behind me. “Lock it!” I said to Claire, then lifted the bottle and corkscrew.

Everyone but Amy clapped, even Suzanne. Yes, triumph is sweet, even if it’s short-lived.

Roquefort jumped up on the bed to sniff everyone’s stuff, then she ran over to lick Tina’s hand. All of a sudden, she stopped and cocked her head to the side, her loving beagle eyes gazing worriedly at the locked door.

“Heather!” Audrey pounded. “What were you doing in the basement?”

“She should know what you were doing, right?” Tina said, scratching her head in confusion.

“What? I can’t hear you!” I yelled back, searching the room for a hiding spot, then I lowered my voice to answer Tina. “Audrey’s pretending she didn’t send me to the basement on a dare. I guess it was all part of some plan of hers to get me in big trouble. And in this light, I don’t know if I’d trust what she said about being popular, either.”

“Good point,” Suzanne said. “No offense, Heather, but Audrey makes me glad I’m an only child.”

Roquefort clawed and whined at the door.

“Should I let her out?” Claire asked.

“No!” Tina, Suzanne, and I all yelled in unison.

Amy materialized in front of me. “You’re gonna get a whoopin’.”

“Not yet.” I had to find a hiding spot. Then it would just be my word against Audrey’s. With no evidence, I wouldn’t be in trouble.

Under the bed? No. Too obvious. The linen closet in the bathroom! I sped toward the bathroom, but slammed into a pocket of cold that stopped me in my tracks. That’s when Amy jumped into my body with such force I got a brain freeze worse than any ice cream could create. She made me turn around and plod back toward the fireplace. The next thing I knew I was lobbing the bottle, narrowly missing the series of framed photographs in different colors and sizes displayed along the mantel. The bottle smashed into shards like champagne against the prow of a ship. Wine permeated the air.

“What was that?” Audrey shouted from the other side of the closed door.

You’re gonna open that door, Amy said from inside me.

Not in this lifetime, I thought back.

Amy whirled me like a dervish toward the door I wasn’t opening. The pizza, coke, and handful of M&M’s I’d snacked on rose in my throat. I thought I would vomit.

Pizza crusts flew, half-drunk cans of soda spilled in my wake, nail polish remover poured off the coffee table and onto the carpet as I fought to stay away from the door and any chance she might have to force me to open it.

“Stop it!” I yelled, over Claire, Tina, and Suzanne’s screams. “Get out!”

You’ve gotta listen, Heather.

Kind of hard when I’m about to spew everything I’ve consumed over the past few hours.

You’ve gotta stop and open the door.

Oh, how I wanted the tug-of-war to stop, but I wasn’t letting Audrey in. I’d be as dead as Amy when Mom saw this.

I reached for the loveseat and clung to the pillow-backed cushion. Amy fought to get me up. I squeezed my eyes shut and tightened my grip. That’s when I heard a loud rip, and Amy released her hold on my body.

Knowing I’d regret it, but unable to stop myself, I opened my eyes to feathers released from the torn loveseat being lifted up and scattered by the ceiling fan to land on the furniture surfaces like a dusting of snow.

Heavier pounding started on the door. “Heather. Open up, now!”

Dad! Crappola!

Suzanne unlocked the door, letting Roquefort out and my Dad and a very pleased looking Audrey in. Suzanne pulled out the cell phone she’d tarted up with bling. “You’re not just weird, like everyone says, Heather, you’re crazy. I’m calling my mom.”

“See Dad,” Audrey said, pointing to the wine-stained brick. “She can’t be trusted.”

“Please tell me it wasn’t my 2001,” he groaned, then walked through the feathers, which floated up briefly as he passed, to reach the shards, which he lovingly cupped in his hand. “Tina, I think you’d better call your parents, too. Tell them I’ll be driving you and Suzanne home. You won’t be seeing Heather for a while.”

“Do they have to go?” I asked.

“Did Tina try to stop you?” Dad countered. “Did Suzanne? How about you, Claire? Did you try to stop your sister?”

Claire hung her head, and I felt even worse. “It’s not Claire’s fault. She didn’t make me get the wine.” Or toss it, or dare me. I glared at ratfink Audrey.

Tina gathered her sleeping bag and overnighter. “We were playing Truth or Dare, Mr. Tildy, and it got a little out of hand. Audrey’s the one who dared Heather to get the bottle of wine.”

Audrey had the decency to blush. “So? That didn’t mean she had to do it.”

“Come on, Tina,” Suzanne called out from the relative safety of the family room. “My mom said you can stay over at my house.”

Eyes downcast, Tina shrugged. “Okay.”

I wanted to hear her say she’d rather go to her house than stay at Suzanne’s. I wanted her to make Suzanne pinky swear to keep my apparent mental breakdown on the down low. Was Tina even my friend anymore?

“Thanks,” I said, imbuing the one word with as much sarcasm as it could hold.

Pout firmly in place, Amy hovered near the ceiling fan. She was supposed to have the time of her un-life tonight and move on, like she’d promised. But apparently, as with everything else about this evening, I was wrong.

Could my life possibly get any worse?

The answer? A resounding yes.

Arms loaded down with pillows and a large overnight and duffel bag, Tina stopped just inside the threshold and turned back to face me. Her brow furrowed. “You didn’t take your Grandmother’s medicine, like I suggested for a dare, did you?”

“Oh, my, God!” Audrey shouted. “Dad! Dad, they dared her to take Grandma’s prescription medicine, just like that article in Seventeen magazine. And she stupidly took it. That’s why she went berserk.”

Just shoot me now.

Chapter Eleven

“You’ll stay in here the rest of the night cleaning this room if that’s what it takes,” Dad said, pinching the bridge of his nose like he had a massive headache, which technically would have been Audrey’s fault, not mine. If the snitch hadn’t gotten him out of bed, the room would have been cleaned up without anyone ever knowing. Except for the white spot on the carpet . . . and maybe the wine splotch on the brick fireplace.

“No allowance until you’ve paid back the money it takes to fix the carpet,” Mom added, her hair surprisingly in place for the middle of the night. The dark puffy circles under her eyes made me feel more than a wee bit guilty. Not that I’d let them see it.

Standing before them, I crossed my arms over my chest, which was all the defiance I could muster and still live. “Can’t we just put a plant on the spot to cover it, or maybe buy a bigger end table that looks like a trunk? I’m just saying that’d be less expensive, and you’d get your money back faster.”

“Unbelievable.” Dad turned to Mom. “She’s not taking any of this seriously, is she?”

Yes, I was. Geez. My whole reputation heading into high school was hanging by a precarious thread, and he was talking carpet stains. He was the unbelievable one. Plus, my haint friend was no closer to departing my world. But I was going to come up with a new plan.

As I knew he would, Dad continued his lecture. “When I was your age …”

Mom stood next to him nodding like the politicians’ wives on TV, and occasionally adding in a word or two or twenty. Stuff about taking responsibility for my actions, about how I wasn’t a kid anymore, blah, blah, blah, yawn. The only thing that could make this moment any worse would be to have Audrey in here enjoying my misery. Thank God, Mom told her to take Roquefort out for a potty break. I guess I could also take comfort in the fact that they believed me when I literally swore on Grandma’s bible that I hadn’t taken any medicine. Not that Suzanne and Tina heard it.

With great reluctance, when Dad got back from dropping Tina and Suzanne at Suzanne’s house, he’d thought he’d reassure me that my friends didn’t hate me by telling me Suzanne and Tina didn’t say a word in the car. Yeah, he’s clueless. Their not speaking meant only one thing—the text messages were already flying. The news of my break with sanity would be all over Pecan Hills by noon tomorrow. Suzanne would add juicy details via phone as soon as the sun rose, and I’d never break free of the weirdo label.

Dad regained my attention when he started on a string of questions starting with “What were you thinking?” to which Amy sang “Amen” every time he paused for breath.

“See, I told you,” Amy added for good measure during a particularly long pause, stabbing the end of her braid at me. “I knew you’d get yourself in trouble, and you sure enough did.”

Thanks to her. Why in the world was she ragging on me? And would someone here recognize that I had been dared to get the wine by my own, sixteen-year-old, pain-in-the-butt sister, who should be the one on trial, not me!

“Do you understand what I’m saying to you, Heather?” Dad asked.

Oops. I had no idea. “Yes, sir,” I said, mostly because my ‘yes-sirs’ shorten lectures. Not this time. My legs were starting to cramp from standing for so long.

New verse—how I was setting a poor example for Claire. Again, I wanted to interject, what about Audrey?

I tried not to zone out, but every time Dad made a new point, he repeated it a jillion times like he was stuck on a verbal treadmill and couldn’t get off. “Got it. Yeah, I understand. I promise I’ll never do it again. I will keep Claire in my thoughts always. Can I sit?”

He nodded, so I slumped down onto the cushions of the loveseat that wasn’t torn and watched him pace back and forth in front of the hearth as he droned on about taking something that wasn’t his when he was a teenager and the consequences. Not sure how that related, but if I asked I might be here until the sun rose.

He took an even deeper breath, which signaled a change of some sort, possibly the end to the lecture. Please? But no, he moved on to the evils of under age drinking.

“Come on, Dad. I didn’t have a single sip of the wine, which technically means I didn’t do any under age drinking. At the most, you can chastise me for under age spilling or intent of a minor to drink wine.”

The lines bracketing his mouth deepened. “And what did you plan to do with the wine once you brought it back here?”

Okay, so my attempt at humor wasn’t working. How about some logic? “Well, you and Mom have emptied a whole bottle during dinner, and there were five of us, so, like, I don’t really see how that is any big deal.”

“She doesn’t see how it’s any big deal,” He repeated to Mom, who shook her head sadly. “What about the little thing we call the law? What you attempted is illegal. Did it ever occur to you that I could be arrested for serving alcohol to a minor?”

“And you both think I’m overly dramatic. That wouldn’t happen. You’re blowing this all out of proportion.”

Audrey returned from letting Roquefort out, adding a dose of smugness to the dismal smell of defeat in the room. “So what’s her punishment?”

“None of your business,” Mom said.

Audrey faked a look of concern. “But it is. If only I had known that Heather would really go downstairs to get the wine and that she’d planned to really drink it, I would never, and I mean it, never have dared her to do it. I feel like it’s partly my fault.”

“Partly?” I snorted. My parents were actually buying her load of crap.

She licked her lower lip, her signature move before something dastardly emerged. “I think Heather should have to stay here with Aunt Geneva when we all go to the beach. We have to nip this rebellion for the rules in the bud. I mean, if she’s already sneaking wine, what will she be doing as a senior in high school?”

“Hey, no fair,” Amy said, stomping her booted foot. “I ain’t never been to the shore, and I don’t know that I’ll take a liking to this aunt of yours.”

Like she was going to be around that long. Was the trip what my ghost was holding out for?

“Dad, Mom, please, I’ve been looking forward to this trip since January. Don’t take it away.” Yeah, I whined.

“The purpose of a family vacation is to be with family,” Mom said, giving Audrey what I call the evil eye. “And since you’re chiming in without being asked, I’m thinking you should share a room with Heather at the beach.”

“But you already said I get the crow’s nest,” Audrey spluttered. “And Heather and Claire said they’d share.”

Finally, something to cheer me up—Audrey’s potential misery. I beamed at my sister. “Claire’s going to really like her room. It has its own balcony, doesn’t it?”

“If you don’t want any further enhancements of your vacation experience,” Dad added, “you’d better go to bed.”

Once Audrey left, pouting, Dad rocked back and forth on his heels. I gripped the armrest and braced myself for the real punishment.

“What would you suggest?” he asked, surprising me.

“Um, are you saying I get to pick?” Oh, my, God. A gift from heaven. If only I could think of something that they thought was bad, but that I could easily live with. “Well, I really love my iPod. I guess you could take it away for a whole week. Boy, that would smart.”

I tried to tear up, but wasn’t the least big successful.

“An excellent start,” Dad said. “Continue.”

“So, that’s not enough?” I asked, cursing myself for not being able to produce tears when I need them.

Mom shook her head.

“Okay. No TV either.”

“Good. Keep going.”

“No pool?” No Drew-drooling. This was starting to hurt.

“Considering how much you like Morgan’s brother,” Mom said. “That’s commendable, but I think we should go back to the electronics. Let’s have you turn in your cell phone, for good measure. No text messages or calls. Should we take away the computer, too, John?”

“No, she’s going to need it for research.”

Research? Mom’s face blurred in the real tears welling up. I swiped at my eyes and swallowed the lump in my throat. “But—”

“But she’ll still be able to e-mail and IM her friends,” Mom interrupted.

“True, but I doubt she’ll have time.”

That’s when I found out Audrey had been outside the door listening. “You can always put a block on Heather’s e-mail and IM account.”

“You’re supposed to be upstairs,” I screamed, my husky voice even huskier laden with tears. “I think Mom and Dad can handle punishing me on their own.”

Mom sent my evil older sister that heads-are-going-to-roll look. “Audrey, upstairs or you’ll join your sister on the couch and you’ll be researching creative solutions for sibling rivalry.”

A small white feather sifted down from the ceiling fan and settled on Dad’s shoulder. He met my gaze. “You have a ten-page paper due a week from today. The topic is underage drinking and how it can destroy your life.”

How about a paper on how a ghost and an older sister can destroy your life? I glared at Amy, who seemed well pleased. She floated over to him and patted his shoulder.

Dad shuddered. “I’m feeling a draft. Did your mom leave the damper open again?” He started fiddling with the contraption inside the fireplace. “That’s funny. It’s closed.”

“Come on, Dad. Mo-om,” I whined. “It was just one bottle, and it wasn’t like we were going to drive anywhere after we drank it.”

“Maybe you don’t need your computer,” Dad said. He looked over at my mother. “Is my old typewriter from college still in the attic?”

The corners of Mom’s mouth quirked upwards, like ruining my summer was some joke. “Don’t scare her, John.”

“I hope you’re satisfied. I will now be completely miserable.” No TV, no iPod, no cell phone, no pool. I would be completely isolated with no one to talk to but Claire, Audrey, and a ghost. “And one week isn’t enough time. I had two months to write a paper last year. I suck at writing papers.”

“Good,” Dad said. “Punishment isn’t supposed to be easy.”

What if I didn’t do it? What if I just napped and read magazines and shrugged when the due date came?

“Don’t even think about not turning something in,” Dad added, like he’d read my mind. “You won’t like the consequences.”

Consequences, hmm. Maybe Amy needed some. Maybe I’d been going about this all wrong trying to appease her desire for fun. Oh, yes, I knew exactly what to do about Amy jumping inside me whenever she felt like it, and it involved some consequences she’d hate.

Although my little haint thoroughly enjoyed the sentencing, she skipped out on my many appeals that were ultimately denied. She returned as I slid a fresh-scented disinfectant cloth over the bathroom countertop, removing the sprinkles of dark eye shadow and powder Tina had left behind.

I sensed someone staring and swiveled around expecting to find Amy floating near by. The space, however, was only space. I could now add paranoia to my growing list of weirdo characteristics.

Turning back to the mirror, I startled, then drew in my breath sharply as a little something extra reflected back, namely a ten-year-old with a gap between her front teeth. My heart pounded as if she’d said, “Boo.”

“Can’t you use your powers for good rather than evil?” I asked.

Amy scrunched up her nose. “Huh?”

“I mean, why don’t you help me clean up the mess you made?”

“I done what I done to help you,” Amy said like she was proud of it.

“I’m so blessed,” I muttered, leaving her reflection in the bathroom to return to the fireplace. If anyone from school saw me, I was certain Cinderella would replace my Princess and the Pea nickname.

For what seemed like the fifty-millionth time, I scrubbed the bricks with a stiff brush and some baking soda. Most of the wine had absorbed into the mortar and, no matter how much I scrubbed, it stayed.

“That ain’t working,” Amy pointed out.

“Ya think?” I grumbled to myself about how this predicament was her fault and Audrey’s. No matter how many times I said it, nothing changed, including my dwindling hope that life would get better for me once I officially entered high school.

I was almost done. The only remnants left were the stains and the feathers that had settled on the fan blades above me. I guess I could have turned on the fan to remove them from their perch, but I was exhausted. I just wanted to crawl into my bed and find out why my ghost hadn’t left—not necessarily in that order.

“So if you did a third nice thing for me, why are you still here?” I asked in a low voice as I put the cleaning supplies away under the sink. “Shouldn’t you be free to move on to the next realm, or at least find another ‘friend’ to haunt?”

“Are you saying you don’t want me around?” Sadness tightened Amy’s voice, making me feel guilty when, excuse me, I was the victim.

“I thought you were having a good time tonight. That’s what you said you wanted, right? To have lots of fun? So why did you go all crazy on me?”

Amy’s face pinched, then wavered. “Disobeying your parents’ rules ain’t fun.”

“Only if you get caught,” I pointed out.

Her pain seeped under my skin, like it was mine. Oh, my, God. She’d done something worse than I had, and she’d paid for it. “Amy, what did you do? Did not following the rules have something to do with your death?”

Her anguish, which had become mine, intensified, but she wouldn’t answer me. Yeah, an answer in and of itself.

“Look, I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll try to follow the rules more if you’ll stop entering my body.”

She screwed up her face. “I don’t know ‘bout that.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause I like it. It’s fun.”

“Well, it may not be fun anymore.”

She tilted her head to the side and looked at me. “How’s that?”

“Maybe if you keep jumping inside me, I’ll retaliate by doing something that upsets you—like not listening to my parents.”

“Are you trying to bargain with me?” she asked.

“Bargain, blackmail, call it what you will. You enter my body, I defy my parents.”

She huffed, squeezing her fists at her sides. “Oh, all right. I won’t never go inside you no more.”

“Thank you,” I said, relieved that there would be no more disasters. I mean it wasn’t like she could do much damage without entering me, right? “You know, Amy, if you would tell me what you need to move on, I’d try to provide it. Obviously, there’s more to you staying here than wanting to get your quota of fun or performing what you seem to think are good deeds. For the record, making me do stuff I don’t want to do isn’t a good deed in my book.”

She said nothing in response, but my gut twisted with her pain.

These phantom feelings were worse than any label I’d have to live down or any research paper I’d have to write. I had to get her to tell me.

Chapter Twelve

After several days of frustration, and Amy refusing to tell me what I needed to know about her not following her parents’ rules, I woke exhausted and depressed. Not only do I suck at cracking open books I’m supposed to read, like Little Women and that influenza thing Amy picked out, but I suck worse at writing.

Apparently, I knew next to nothing about how to incorporate quotations, when to paraphrase and when to use a direct quote, and what made someone an authority on the subject of underage drinking. Blogs in general and conversations taken from MySpace lacked credibility, according to Dad. He’d pretty much marked a big X through two full days of writing and research. I had no clue what he wanted.

So I Googled research papers, hoping there was some template in the ether that could help me. What popped up was a link to a website that catered to teenagers who hate to write. They even had a 25% off special, due to summer being their slow season. I clicked through the topics, and they, indeed, had a paper on underage drinking.

If I ordered it, I’d at least have an idea about what my parents expected out of me. It would just be a guideline. It wasn’t like I was going to turn it in as my work. I’d continue to do the real research. Even get some books from the library since Dad told me I couldn’t rely on the internet alone.

I filled out the order form, walked to the bank to withdraw from my savings account for a money order, and mailed the form off on my way to my next stop, the library. The research would look authentic because it was.

Pretty dicey, I know, going to the one place I could almost guarantee I’d run into Xavier. But I was determined to fulfill my latest punishment so that I could go on vacation and attend Suzanne’s party next month, if she’d invite me. I hadn’t heard from her or Tina at all. Maybe she’d called and left a message, but Audrey was keeping it from me. Hey, a girl can hope.

As soon as the door to the mailbox drummed shut in front of the UPS Store at the strip mall, Amy started on me. “What you’re doing is wrong.”

“Surely, they had mail back in . . . whenever you were breathing.”

“That’s cheatin’, Heather. I saw what you did.”

I glanced around the parking lot. Some mom was filling the back of her minivan with enough grocery bags to feed the football team and paying no attention to me. I didn’t have my iPod to divert suspicion that I was talking to myself. Nor did I have one of those blue ear thingies.

“Look, I had no intention of getting the wine until Audrey dared me. I didn’t drink it. And you’re the one who made the huge mess, which, by the way, I had to clean up without your help. Why should I be punished when technically I did nothing wrong?”

Amy flipped the skirt part of her pinafore up and over her face. “It’s gonna end badly. I feel it in my bones.”

“You don’t have any bones. And besides, Dad didn’t say I couldn’t buy a paper to use as an example. He said I had to turn one in on the appointed date and that I had to research and write it. So I’m doing the research, and I will write my own paper.”

“Ah, Miss Tildy,” an older man’s voice boomed. Father Flaherty. “And how are you today?” he asked, rolling the “r” in “are.”

I’d been so busy explaining the facts to Amy, I hadn’t noticed him pulling into the parking lot. I wouldn’t yield to what all the ladies my mom’s age called his “charming” Irish brogue. Even if he looked like Santa Claus without the beard and hummed Sinatra tunes. “Hi, Father.”

“And where are you heading, this fine day?” He mopped his forehead with an old-fashioned handkerchief. “’Though fine might be stretching it a bit. I think we’ve got a scorcher on our hands.”

Made hotter by the black asphalt under my feet and having to stop to chat with him. He had no idea what I had done with the wine and all. He had no idea what I’d just sent off for. It wasn’t like he could see into my soul. Right?

“Um, I’m heading to the library.”

“What a good girl you are.”

Guilt body slammed me. What I was doing? Ordering that paper wasn’t wrong, but I could actually feel the UV rays burning my skin. I didn’t deserve it, did I? And I’d left without Claire, who wanted to go to the library with me, but she wasn’t ready, and I needed to go to the bank and mail the form without her knowing.

Amy angled her head to the side and peered at the priest’s stiff collar like she thought it might be making the accent. “Why’s he talk funny like that?”

“He’s Irish,” I whispered under my breath.

“Like them potatoes?”

I faked a smile at her—no teeth.

“Most girls your age would be sunning by the pool on a day like today. Or,” he winked at me, “are you going there just to see Xavier?” He grinned at me like he thought Xavier was some catch.

“Research is what I’m doing. It has nothing to do with Xavier.”

“Yes, yes,” he said, eyes twinkling like he didn’t believe me, like he thought I had the hots for Xavier Monroe. “Have a lovely day, Miss Tildy.”

“Thanks,” I said, then decided I should maybe ask him something about my ghost. Everything I’d tried hadn’t helped. Maybe I needed a professional.

“Father?” I called out to his back.

His bushy eyebrows drew together as he turned back to face me.

“I was hoping that you could maybe help me with something.”

Amy’s pinafore and worn calico dress swayed as she flitted about the sidewalk, then perched herself on the post box to swing her ethereal legs and hum some old spiritual. The only words I could make out were “Oh” and “holy.”

“You see. I have this . . . ” I glanced at my haint. “This problem.”

Amy dropped from her perch to the sidewalk in front of me. She balled her ghostly fists. “I ain’t a problem.”

Father Flaherty’s wild and wooly eyebrows—you know the kind that make you long to take a pair of scissors to them—drew together in concern or disbelief. I have no idea why hair goes haywire on old men. When he was alive, my grandfather even had weird hairs growing out of the end of his nose and ears like haystacks.

I tried to find words that wouldn’t make me sound crazy, which was pretty much impossible. Best to just say it. “I think there’s this ghost who’s haunting me.”

His eyebrows drew even closer, forming what looked like one long, gray, fuzzy caterpillar. “What exactly leads you to believe there’s a ghost?”

“The fact I can see her,” I admitted, really wanting to scratch my underarm. I knew I shouldn’t have tried the deodorant sample—even if it was unscented—that came with the Atlanta Journal-Constitution this morning.

The sparkle in his eyes gone, Father Flaherty took a deep breath and held it, eyeing me like I was one of those rude people who leave their cell phones on at Mass. “You realize, Miss Tildy, that what you’re claiming is a very serious matter.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What exactly is this entity doing when you see it?” He asked.

“Making my life a living . . . hell. No offense.”

“None taken.”

“To be specific, she ruins electronics, and she entered my body and made me mess up my grandmother’s room.”

“So now, let me see if I understand what you’ve told me, Miss Tildy. You say you’ve been possessed by a demon?”

“I wouldn’t call her a demon. I’d call her a ghost. You know, a real person who died and her spirit is stuck here.”

“I ain’t stuck.”

I ignored Amy. “I have no idea why she can’t move on. I’ve tried asking and she won’t tell me, so I thought maybe you could help her. Sticky souls are more your thing than mine.”

“Yes, yes, however, the Church doesn’t recognize what you call ghosts in that way. If there’s something haunting you or your house, it’s a demon. I’m not trained for that specialty. I’d have to call the Archdiocese.”

The Archdiocese? Wetness spread under my arm and combined its discomfort with the itchy seam; I almost started to scratch right in front of Father. “I didn’t say I was possessed by the devil. I just want you to make this little ghost girl leave, okay?”

“Thanks a heap,” Amy said, twirling her braid and watching the priest like she wasn’t sure if he could make her leave.

“Yes, yes.” He fished his cell phone out of his pants pocket. “Perhaps we should call your parents.”

“No, don’t!” I shouted before he could punch the first digit. “Look. It was . . . all a joke.”

“A summer prank?” The twinkle returned to his eyes. “Is your friend Xavier in on it?”

“No. And Xavier isn’t my friend.”

“Why not? He’s a very nice boy.” His brogue rolled the “r” in “very.”

Father Flaherty droned on. “A good altar server. From what I understand, Xavier’s brilliant. He led the middle school debate team to victory his mother tells me and he’s a shoe-in to make the junior varsity team as a freshman.”

Yes, what every girl dreams of—the geeky debate team guy. I almost rolled my eyes.

“That’s great and all, but I don’t really know him that well, okay?” And I didn’t want to feel guilty about it.

“You should get to know him. I think the boy could use a friend like you, Miss Tildy. Losing his brother hasn’t exactly been a walk in the park for him.”

Point Father Flaherty. Now, I felt even worse. Sympathy, empathy, whatever—I didn’t want it.

“Perhaps you should come to Teen Life, Miss Tildy, then you could know him, and he could have a positive influence on you.”

The only way I was joining the Teen Life group was if Drew belonged, and he didn’t.

“I’ll think about it,” I said and practically ran across the parking lot.

Tip: Always say you’ll think about something you don’t want to do when an adult has you cornered. That way you’re not lying, and they stop bugging you—usually.

So Amy, and I trudged on, past the hardware store, the drugstore, and hit the sidewalk over by the Assisted Living complex. We crossed the street at the red light in silence, which was really odd for Amy.

Amy ignored the water fountain at the entrance. Without a peep, she watched me slide the influenza book in the return slot. Why keep it if I wasn’t going to read it? She didn’t even seem to care when the useless Complete Dummies Guide to Ghosts and Hauntings followed its predecessor.

Even though technically someone might construe it as breaking my parents’ rules, I headed to the computers to check my e-mail before getting to the research. Amy followed without protest.

I met my ghost’s gaze and spoke under my breath. “Please don’t whammy these until I get my work done.”

Amy nodded sullenly.

I opened my e-mail account. Hit the new message icon, put in Tina’s addy. Hey, I just now got to the library and managed to get to the e-mail. I’m on major lock down at home.

“You’re supposed to be doing your book work,” Amy said.

“Hush, I’m thinking here,” I whispered. It was hard enough with all the little kids arriving for Story Time. Just my luck that I hit the library during the greatest likelihood to encounter small children. But I couldn’t worry about them now, I had to save my friendship with Tina.

About the sleepover, I guess I really screwed up. I didn’t mean to scare anyone or get you guys in trouble with my dad. Do you hate me? I can understand if you do. There’s no hope of Suzanne inviting me to her party now, is there? I hit send, then re-read the message.

Oh, my God. I sounded desperate and needy. I hit new message again. Disregard the last message in the subject line. So what’s up? You didn’t get in trouble with your parents, did you? If so, I’ll make it up to you. And Suzanne. Your oldest and dearest friend. J I hit send again, confident that this message was better. But then I started thinking that reminding her that I was her best friend, therefore Suzanne couldn’t be, was also desperate. Tina and I were growing apart. Suzanne would take my place.

I hit new message again. Disregard the last two messages.

After an hour or so of research, all the while keeping an eye out for Xavier so I could avoid him, I copied passages from books for added authenticity from what I prayed Dad thought were credible authorities and tucked them into the growing stack of pre-work in my backpack.

Once my paper arrived via snail mail, I’d get additional information from the works cited list, locate and copy portions of those books and articles, carefully organize my thoughts, sit in front of the computer with all of it, and Voila! I would fulfill my punishment. I’d be happy. They’d be happy. Life would be semi-normal, with the exception of my little friend following me around.

Amy was really starting to worry me. She didn’t take advantage of one opportunity to pull tricks on the people here. The kids sitting down to Story Time didn’t lure her, nor did the prospect of frying the computers.

I wondered if she was coming down with something. Could ghosts get sick? Or was it the conversation with Father Flaherty?

The current issue of Seventeen had an article about underage drinking that was credible. Yay, me! And I could briefly peruse the rest of it as a reward for all my hard work. I was reaching for the magazine when I saw Xavier walk in, so I hurriedly grabbed it and a stack of Teen Vogues, more reward, and slipped under his radar and into the special collections room, full of old photos and junk chronicling the history of Pecan Hills. I took a seat in a grouping of high-sided carrels in the center of the room smelling faintly of mildew—the perfect place to hide and possibly nap—and yawned.

Except for Amy, I was alone. It was so quiet, other than the hiss of the air regulator, and the chair I’d picked was so comfortable I nearly dozed off while reading about the fashion trends for spring. Yeah, the magazine was a couple months old.

Amy perked up right as I was about to start the article which included detailed instructions about how to change my girl-next-door looks to something more glamour worthy. She started tampering with one of the cases displaying old stuff.

“Stop it. The last thing I need right now is to set off another alarm and get kicked out of the library.”

“I’m bored,” Amy said, and snuffed her nose like she had a cold and no tissue was available. “I wanna leave.”

She flitted under the carrel grouping while I checked my wristwatch. “One more hour. Surely you can behave that long. You’ve been doing so well.”

That’s when she started zipping and unzipping my backpack. Zip, zip. Zip, zip.

“Cut it out.”

“It’s wrong what you’re doing, Heather.” Her voice floated up with a definite country twang. “You’re gonna get caught. You’re gonna regret it.”

I placed my index finger on the last paragraph I’d been able to absorb which recommended wearing your usual clothing but giving it a slightly more daring edge, like leaving more buttons open on your polos for a hint of cleavage. “You aren’t the boss of me, Amy.”

“I expect not, but that don’t mean I can’t tell you when you’re doing something wrong.”

“Yes, it does. You aren’t my mom or one of my sisters. You’re not even a real person anymore.”

Her transparency wavered. “I am real. I lived. I had a real family. I have your family, now.” Then she started to boo-hoo. Loudly. I didn’t know if anyone else could hear her, but I sure could. Even though most people never heard her talking to me, that didn’t mean she couldn’t open a channel if she wanted to. If she could move objects and ruin electronics, she was capable of just about anything.

“Stop. I didn’t really mean it.”

That’s when Amy’s cries degenerated into moans that sounded a lot like Jacob Marley in that old black and white Christmas Carol movie, and I got confirmation of my fear. People other than me could hear her caterwauling. This woman with puffed up lips opened the door, poked her head in and glared at me as best she could considering the muscles in her forehead weren’t working. When had Botox come to Pecan Hills?

“What?” I said. Couldn’t she see my mouth wasn’t moving? Did she think I was a ventriloquist?

She shut the door with a “Hmmph.”

“Come on, Amy, I don’t want to get in trouble. I don’t know what the limit is, but I think I’m close to getting kicked out of here permanently.”

How would I explain to my parents that I couldn’t go back to the library? I could see how that would go down. Hi, Mom, Dad. Guess what? I can’t finish researching my topic because I got kicked out of the library for making too much noise, moaning like a ghost to be exact. Yeah, have fun at Jekyll Island without me.

Of course the librarian with the dandruff was on duty, the one who didn’t like me.

“You again?” she said, and motioned for me to gather my backpack.

I grabbed the stack of magazines, too.

“Leave them,” she said, nostrils flaring wide enough that I could see the hairs in her nose she hadn’t bothered to clip. When I got home, I was checking my deformed nostrils for hair.

She escorted me past the fiction stacks and the information desk and scanners, where she stopped. “Do you have any books you’ve forgotten to check out today?”

My backpack didn’t feel that much heavier than when I arrived. I mean, I did have a stack of copies in there. I eyed Amy, who was examining her scuffed up, oxblood boots like she’d never seen them before. “No, ma’am, there’s nothing but paper and pens in here,” I said, pretty confident Amy’s zip-zipping earlier hadn’t involved any pilfering.

The literal Library Dragon pointed me toward the doors. Xavier walked out of the circulation room, and I didn’t need any greater incentive to leave and leave fast.

As I passed through the bar code detectors, the alarm beeped. Crappola. Amy’d done it again.

With a loud sigh, I backed up, turned around to face the Library Dragon, and unzipped my backpack to find a ratty old book alongside my copies of articles on underage drinking. I stomped over to the scanner, fed it my card, which it spit out because I had a fine of one dollar and eighty-five cents.

“Pay your fine, Miss Tildy, then you can check out your book.” The scent of mothballs nauseated me as she reached for the book.

Amy pushed against my arm so that the backpack and what lay in it swung out of the woman’s reach.

“I, um, don’t have any change on me,” I said. “I spent it on my copies, ma’am.”

“Let me see that book.”

“Don’t let her,” Amy piped up.

Before she could do anything else, I placed the book on the closest counter. “You know what? I don’t want the book anymore.”

The librarian dabbed her nose with tissue, then motioned for me to bring the book to her. She wadded up the tissue, shoved it up the sleeve of her dandruff-covered cardigan, and flipped the book open to one of the inner pages stamped in red ink with Property of Gwinnett County.

As she examined it, her eyebrows met her low hairline. “How dare you try to take something from special collections! I have a good mind to call the police.”

Do people ever have bad minds? Just curious.

My skin itched. Oh, yeah, it was hive time. I crossed my arms to scratch both forearms at the same time. “I swear I didn’t know I couldn’t check it out. I mean it was sitting out in that room,” I lied. “And I was so upset you were making me leave, I forgot I had it.”

“Go, Miss Tildy. And don’t come back here for at least two weeks.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said.

This penalty put a huge, freakin’ dent in my paper-writing plans.

I took one last glance at the Library Dragon pursing her lips as if she was sucking on a straw, then scanned the room for Xavier, who’d watched my latest humiliation go down and was now making a bee-line to intercept me. By my calculations, I’d make it to the door before he would . . . if I ran.

Through the bar code detector, the inner doors, the outer doors, I sped forward, not looking where I was going, and slammed into a hard, warm body, that smelled like it had just emerged from a shower with a fresh-scented soap.

Chapter Thirteen

“Sorry,” I said, then looked up into Drew Blanton’s gorgeous, icy blue eyes. I had propelled myself into Drew’s fantastically muscular chest. My breath caught in my throat, and I made this weird gurgling sound.

“Do I even want to know?” he asked, taking a step back.

“No. You don’t. Trust me.”

He smiled, and all residual itchiness from setting off the alarm left me.

“Please?” he asked, looking at me like I was keeping the best secret in the world from him.

How could I deny Drew? I shrugged. “Someone was making moaning noises, and they thought it was me, and then I tried to check out a book that no one can check out. And that wouldn’t have been a problem if I hadn’t . . . let’s just say, it’s complicated.”

He scratched the side of his head. “Wait. Moaning like you’re—”

Yeah, I saw where his mind was going. “No! Like a ghost.”

Speaking of which, where was Amy? I was realistic enough not to hope she’d moved on permanently.

That’s when I regained enough of my senses to hear the automatic doors opening and shutting behind me and realized I was activating the sensor. I moved far enough away that it shut for good.

Drew was nodding like the weird things that happen to me all made some sort of sense to him. And why wouldn’t they? He’d placed me in the funny category. I had to break free of these confines. Show him that there was so much more to me.

“So why are you here?” I asked, trying to extend our conversation. I turned to the side so I could get a clear view of the water fountains. Not that I could exactly go back in there to drag Amy out if she was playing in the water.

“I’m here to pick up Morgan,” Drew said.

So much for being clever. “I should have figured that. It being Story Time and all. I mean, I’m not stupid. I just thought maybe you could have been checking out a book, or . . . I don’t know.”

My face heated. Why couldn’t I channel my inner cool chick?

“I guess I gotta look at that list soon. I bet you’ve started your summer reading.”

“Yeah.” So now I was not only funny but a real dork. “I mean I checked it out. But I haven’t started reading it yet. But I will. Little Women. It seemed like it was interesting, but I can’t seem to . . .” I glanced up at those pale blue eyes and forgot what I was saying. Oh, yeah, Little Women. “Maybe you’ve read it . . . or seen the movie?”

“No,” he said, smiling. “Haven’t seen you at the pool lately, either.”

He’d noticed. Oh, my, God. Breathe, Heather. Think. Say something. A movement by the window caught my eye. Not Amy. Xavier. No. No. No.

“Yeah, well I haven’t been able to do the whole fun in the sun thing, lately.”

“Don’t tell me you’re being punished again,” Drew said.

“Don’t tell me Audrey hasn’t already given you the lurid details.”

He smiled. “She said something weird about you having a sleepover and drinking and taking drugs with your friends, but that didn’t sound like you.”

“Because it isn’t. Like me, I mean.” I squeezed my hands into fists. “She makes me so mad. Okay, I admit to taking the wine from the basement. We were playing Truth or Dare. No big deal, right? And she dared me. But then she somehow got it in her head that I took some of my grandmother’s pills, which I didn’t. Be glad you don’t have an older sister.”

He squinted at me. “I always thought it’d be nice. Don’t you ever go to her for help and stuff?”

“That would be a big no. In case you haven’t noticed before now, she doesn’t like me.”

“That’s too bad.”

“Yeah, but I have Claire.” I smiled at the thought of my nice sister and how excited she’d be when I got home and told her about this conversation. “We talk about everything.”

He nodded. Xavier stopped pacing inside the expanse of window and looked like he was heading out the doors to join our conversation. I wasn’t waiting for Amy. She could find her way home on her own. I had no doubt she would, fond of me as she was.

“I gotta go. Oh, and whatever you do, Drew, don’t tell Audrey I got kicked out of the library today. She’s already lobbying my parents to take away my vacation. I will die if I have to stay home with Aunt Geneva.”

“Don’t worry. It’s cool.”

I started to walk away, and I could feel him looking at me.

Was it only because I amused him? Or was I right about my butt looking good? I might have a shot at a real, honest to goodness date.

That’s when I stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk.

Yeah, I had to do something about the goofball factor.

On the long, potentially stroke-inducing walk home, Amy never turned visible, but I felt a cool breeze blowing behind me every time my pace slowed so I knew she was tagging along.

As I turned the corner on to Red Bud Road, someone in a red VW bug honked, then pulled half-on-half-off the shoulder about ten feet in front of us, churning up some pebbles. My evil sister, her friend Karen, who was driving, and one of their minions—I think her name is Vanessa. If that wasn’t the girl’s name, it should be. She looked like a Vanessa.

In case you forgot, Karen’s threat of cutting my sister out of her posse due to my ghost’s and my spectacular performance at the movie theater was still registering at high orange. What was it that my Language Arts teacher always said—“The better part of valor is discretion?” Engaging with them could end badly. I kept going.

Audrey stuck her head out of the passenger window as I attempted to walk past. “You’re on restriction. What do you think you’re doing?”

“I had to go to the library.”

“Oh, that’s right. You have to write that paper.” Audrey and her friends laughed like my punishment was a thigh-slapper.

Karen leaned forward over the wheel, past Audrey. “Get in. We’ll give you a ride home.”

Sure, I debated for about three seconds in the sweltering heat, then nodded. I could take the abuse for five minutes. Maybe it would appease Karen enough to lower her threat to elevated. Besides it was so hot, it took most of my energy to breathe. If I didn’t have to walk the rest of the way home, I wasn’t.

An SUV with dark tinted windows pulled up behind the bug, but couldn’t go around it with steady traffic passing in the oncoming lane.

“Hurry up!” Audrey shouted over the putt-putt of the bug.

Vanessa scooted over, and I tried to get in, but Karen drove forward, then stopped.

Audrey yelled, “Come on, Heather, you’re blocking traffic.”

Debating the wisdom of attempting to get in the car a second time and knowing whoever was in that SUV behind us was watching, I walked forward. Please, whoever you are, do not spread rumors of my humiliation on FaceBook.

Just as I my left foot touched on the floor mat, the bee-yotch gunned the gas. The bug lurched forward again, then stopped about five feet away. “Come on, Prin-cess!”

The SUV scooted up to where I stood, adjusting my backpack. The window lowered.

“If you fall for that prank again,” Drew’s deep voice called out over the faint strains of Rod Stewart singing some song my mom would like, “you’re not the girl I think you are. Get in.”

Noting a distressed looking Morgan locked into in her purple booster on the bench seat behind Drew, I climbed in and reveled in the fact that Drew Blanton cared. . . about me. My hand shook as I adjusted the air conditioner vent to blow toward my face. “Thanks.”

Yes, I know, not clever or funny. Boring.

Leaving a little rubber on the road, Karen’s bug squealed off toward our house. My heart pounded as I imagined what their faces would look like when Drew dropped me off. But then I realized that with my luck, they wouldn’t see. If I told them, they’d think I was lying.

My joy somewhat deflated, I locked my seatbelt. “Interesting music choice.”

“Squirt likes it,” Drew said.

“And how does she know who Rod Stewart is?” I asked, adding a teasing lilt to my raspy voice. I had all of three minutes to charm Drew. I wasn’t going to waste a second.

“Not me, if that’s what you’re thinking. My mom and Ryan, Morgan’s dad.”

I almost sighed aloud in relief that my hero didn’t have a weakness for aging pop stars who start singing old people’s music.

“Why are those girls being mean to you?” Morgan asked.

“They’re friends of my sister,” I said. “They’re always mean to me.” I knew it didn’t really answer the question, but how did I explain my sister’s warped friends to a five-year-old?

Drew kept his eyes on the road. “Tell me where to turn.”

“Not that Audrey’s friends being poopy bothers me,” I lied.

Drew shook his head. “It bothers you, and they know it. Like I tell the squirt, you gotta ignore it or laugh it off.”

Confirmation that he cared about me. Oh, my, God. I almost stopped breathing. Wait, now. I had to get a hold of myself.

“Are you going to do something silly today?” she asked me.

I looked back at Morgan, who was adjusting her stretchy lavender headband, the lines of her frown much too deep for a little kid.

“You never can tell,” I said, wiggling my eyebrows.

Morgan wasn’t amused by my answer, but Drew smiled. I loved how something I said tickled him. I loved how his hands kept a loose hold on the steering wheel at four and eight o’clock. I loved that he cared how Audrey’s butthead friends treated me. And in a matter of minutes, I would love the expressions that would break on all their faces when I climbed out of the car and Drew leaned over to kiss me. Okay, so the kiss was pure fantasy.

“Take a left. And the next right,” I said, happy just knowing that Drew drove me home. Even if no one saw or believed me.

As Drew pulled into the driveway, the drama was at a fever pitch. I had to hand it to Audrey, she already had Grandma outside wringing her hands and one of my parents on the cell phone from the way she was shouting into her razor.

Wishing his SUV didn’t have dark windows, I got out. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Any time,” he said, and I got goose pimples even though I knew he didn’t really mean it.

“It’s some guy,” Audrey said into her phone, then graced me with a snide smirk. “Some strange guy. Heather got into a car with a stranger.”

“He’s not a stranger. Even you know—”

Grandma hugged me against her soft frame, cutting off my air and therefore my sentence. “Don’t ever scare us like that again.”

“I wasn’t the one scaring you,” I pointed out once I could fill my lungs again.

Drew wisely retreated down the driveway, then drove forward again and lowered the dark tinted window so that his gorgeous face was completely visible. Yay, me!

“Heather,” he said, “You left your backpack. Here.”

Audrey’s face fell. Karen and Vanessa gaped as I took my backpack from the most gorgeous junior at Pecan Hills High. I swear I did not leave it on purpose. But I proudly admit it was a stroke of unconscious genius.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” he said. “And be a good girl, so you can get off restriction. I miss seeing you at the pool.”

My heart was near about ready to burst. Drew had conferred his seal of approval on me. It was a wonder Audrey and her friends didn’t bow at my feet. Why weren’t they now bowing and telling me they weren’t worthy?

Audrey snorted. “How much did you pay him to say that?”

Always at the ready to believe the worst of me, Karen and Vanessa laughed, but I could see from the uncertainty in Audrey’s beady brown eyes that she was a little stunned and unsure of her own status now that Drew made it known that he liked me. Yeah, I understood that it was only as a friend . . . probably. But still.

I couldn’t top my brief moment of triumph, so I went inside. I had an important matter to take care of with Amy. I ran up the stairs, and dropped my backpack near a pile of papers teetering on the corner of my desk next to a pocket of cold air that had to be my haint. “I know you’re here. The least you can do is apologize.”

She materialized, pouting, hands hidden under her ghostly cotton pinafore. “I ain’t the one who was being mean.”

“So getting me banned from the library and almost arrested for trying to steal a book from special collections doesn’t require an apology?”

Amy looked through me, chilling me, even more than the air-conditioning spewing from the vent above the desk. My papers slid off their precipice and fluttered down to the floor.

“You do realize that if I don’t go to Jekyll Island, you don’t go. And Aunt Geneva might be able to see you, and then Audrey will know without a doubt that I’m the biggest freak, and she’ll tell everyone because even though people believe it, blood isn’t thicker than water, and I will be the pariah of the freshman class—”

“I could go if’n I wanted to,” she interrupted, in a taunting tone.

“Right. So then why do you hang around me all the time? Why don’t you leave?”

“I don’t want to. Besides leaving is not what true friends do.”

“Are you my true friend?”

“Why else would I keep that boy you don’t like from coming outside to talk to you when you’re making eyes at Drew?”

Okay, I was actually touched. “You did that, for me?”

“Yup.”

“But I . . . you . . . he . . .”

“You’re not making a lick of sense.”

No I wasn’t. What she’d done was pretty nice.

“I’m sorry.” I tried to hug Amy, and probably would have looked pretty stupid or crazy if anyone walked in on me.

She shrugged off my attempt at affection, but she wasn’t going to derail my need for some answers about what had happened at the library. Especially when she just now admitted that she could leave if she wanted to. “What’s so special about that book? Why did you want it?”

“It’s mine.”

“So it’s some book you had as a kid. Who cares if the library has it now? Don’t you want to give someone else the opportunity to read it?”

She stamped her ghostly foot through the shag rug and underlying hardwood. “No! No one has a right to read my private thoughts. I don’t want strangers to know.”

“Okay, I’m officially confused. Private thoughts? What is this book? What will they know?”

Her body wavered like heat over asphalt. “It’s my journal. I don’t want people reading it. I don’t want strangers knowing my family died because of me.”

That’s when some of this haunting business started to make sense. What was keeping Amy here had nothing to do with her wanting to have fun with me. That had been a decoy. She couldn’t go be with her family because she felt guilty.

As with everything else ghost-related, moving her along was going to be more complicated than I’d originally thought. “Listen, Amy, I’m going to help you get back to your family.” Somehow.

“I don’t want to be with them,” she said. “I want to be with you. Even if you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.” I tried patting her ethereal shoulder. I hoped she wouldn’t take this opportunity to cry and moan like she had at the library. “How could I hate my imaginary friend? But you know you can’t stay with me forever.”

Hurt flickered in her. I could hear it like a radio frequency.

“Seriously, Amy. Some day I’ll go to college and have a life outside this neighborhood. When I get really old, I’ll die, too, and I’m planning on going to heaven, not staying here. What will you do then?”

She made the constipated face at me. “See? You do hate me. If you didn’t, you’d say I could come with you. But you don’t think I’m going to heaven. You think I’m going somewhere different.”

Somehow we were no longer on why she felt guilty. “Look, sometimes you do things that embarrass me or get me in trouble, and it makes me mad, but I don’t hate you. And I don’t think you’re going to—”

“Don’t say it!”

“Then again we can’t be sure of where any of us are going.”

“You think I’m bad.”

“It doesn’t matter what I think. I’m not the one doing the accounting. That’s between you and the Big Guy.” Time to switch tactics. “Don’t you think your family misses you? That they want you with them?”

She kicked at the pile of clean clothes folded in my laundry basket that I hadn’t yet put away like I was supposed to. “Can’t I just be part of your family?”

“How would that work when I’m the only one who can see you? Your family is probably waiting for you. They’ve been waiting an awfully long time.”

“People don’t wait for people they hate.”

“Did your mother or father ever say they hated you?” Now I sounded like Mom, when we were talking about why Audrey and I couldn’t get along.

“No, but how do you know they don’t?”

“Because . . .” Nothing. I had nothing to convince her, just like Mom never had anything to convince me except the statement that we were family and that Audrey loved me in her own way. But I couldn’t let my relationship with the bee-yotch affect my ability to move Amy along.

“See? You can’t think of one.” She folded her arms over her chest and glowered at me. “I’m not never leaving.”

Oh, yes, she was. My problem? I couldn’t get back into the library and that special collections room for at least two weeks. Something in there might prove to Amy her family didn’t hate her. If the library had her diary, maybe they had other Malcolm memorabilia.

A girl, after all, had a right to protect her vacation and the rest of her life. Amy wasn’t going to be a permanent fixture in mine.

Sure, I know this all looks selfish on the surface, but my haint friend would be happier in the long run with her own peeps.

Whether she wanted me to or not, I would prove to Amy that her family still loved her.

Chapter Fourteen

Let me say right now, I do not recommend tramping around the woods at night, trying to find some creepy old cemetery, no matter how close to your house you think it is.

Remember how I’d wanted to help Amy? Well, this was where I wound up. Sure, I’d uncovered a Malcolm family tree on the internet that showed other Malcolms named their daughters Amy, so there wasn’t, like, some huge stigma attached to her name, which in my mind meant that her family didn’t hate her. But no. That didn’t convince her. She repeated that she “wasn’t going.” To her parents and heaven, I assumed.

I couldn’t go either, meaning back to the library yet to access the stuff in special collections.

So I got the brilliant idea to find her gravestone. Back then people sometimes wrote stuff about the people who died on the gravestone. Not like today, where they just give the name and birth and death dates. So I found the cemetery where I was almost 100% sure she was buried. I even showed Dad and told him that I’d stumbled upon the Malcolm family stuff in the special collections room and that I was interested in finding this cemetery that had to be close to our house.

He offered to help me . . . once I was off restriction and had turned my paper in.

I couldn’t wait that long. Especially since I found the old cemetery map that I overlaid on a current one, and, presto, I knew where the cemetery was. Not too far from the house, in some woods, or what people now call green space. It was too tempting not to sneak out. Mom and Dad were sound asleep. They’d never know.

Roquefort pulled me along the road. We didn’t have sidewalks or much of a shoulder, so I came dangerously close to twisting my ankle in some of the divots in the ground that sloped toward the run-off ditch.

I’d calculated that it would take me around forty-five minutes to find the cemetery. I had some of Mom’s newsprint and a hard, waxy Conte crayon to take a rubbing. No cell phone, of course, because they’d hidden it from me until I was off restriction. I put a whistle around my neck in case someone attacked me, and I had some pepper spray I’d taken from Mom’s purse, but I felt pretty safe with Amy and the dog along. I figured a ghost made a great security guard, as long as she wanted to cooperate. I crept along with my flashlight in one hand and Roquefort’s leash in the other. My backpack also held my EpiPen, just in case.

Once we got to the section of undeveloped land where I suspected the cemetery hid, the stupid dog wanted to run off. She kept her nose to the ground, snorffling the scent of some animal. I had a hard time controlling our rate of speed.

Amy sniffed the air. “Smells like rain.”

“Nice try, but I checked the weather forecast,” I said. “Ten percent chance of a pop-up shower, i.e. not gonna happen.”

The deeper into the woods I went, following this old path, the more worried I became, not that I’d admit it to Amy.

If that wasn’t bad enough, Roquefort added to the evening by baying loudly, then dragging me behind her into a mess of briars where she stopped and whined like she was hurt. So I had to reach down to help her out of the briars that stabbed me like hundreds of sharp needles despite my long-sleeved tee. Luckily, the thorns couldn’t penetrate my thick jeans. I added a tick check to things I had to do before going to bed.

Thanks to my trusty flashlight we found the path again.

“Roquefort, you’d best be a good girl,” I said, checking her paws, petting her. I got a wet lick on the cheek. Dog slobber. I guess that meant she was grateful.

She seemed anxious to move along, and I didn’t want to be out here any longer than I had to. We resumed our walk through the mashed leaves and pine straw.

All was fine until I heard a sound like the whoosh of a full garbage bag being tossed above me. I looked up and saw the dark outline of an owl gliding through the pines. Was it only seconds later, a tiny shriek filled the woods only to stop abruptly.

“Mouse or vole,” Amy said matter-of-factly.

I tried not to shudder or be shocked, but I’m not a big nature girl. To be honest, though, as gross as rodents being carried off by large predatory birds is, I had plenty of other worries tensing me up.

What if the dead people came out of their graves like in that classic Thriller video? What if I gathered more ghosts? And then I had to help, like, four or five of them?

“Do you even know where you’re going?” Amy asked, now just far enough in front of me that every frond she disturbed whipped me in the face.

“Of course I know,” I lied. I mean, I thought this was the right path, but it was dark, and it didn’t look like anyone had used it in a while.

A gust of wind stirred the trees, branches creaked, the thin-trunked pines swayed. Yet another fear gripped me. What if I met up with some serial killer disposing of a body? Roquefort would roll over and ask him to rub her belly. Amy would be happy. I’d join her in the afterworld, and we’d become tag team haunters.

No. I had to think positively. Amy was trying to throw me off. For some reason, she didn’t want me to see that graveyard.

I stopped when we reached what appeared to be a fork in the path. I unzipped my backpack. I flashed the light on my map. No fork. The flashlight flickered like the battery was losing juice.

“Stop it,” I said, certain that Amy was somehow affecting the connection. If I couldn’t see, I’d be in real trouble. It wasn’t like Roquefort was Lassie. And no, I didn’t have any extra batteries. I would have brought some if there’d been any in the battery drawer.

“Go left,” Amy said.

Right side of the path it was. I shoved the map back in the pack and took the route opposite the one Amy picked.

“I said left.”

“Oh, so now, suddenly, you’re all gung-ho about my coming out here?” I asked and kept on my not so merry way. “So much so that you’re going to tell me where the stupid graveyard is? Like I believe you.”

“Suit yourself,” Amy sniffed. “I don’t care if you go the wrong way.”

“And I don’t believe you,” I said, noting the clearing up ahead, probably where the cemetery was.

That’s when my foot found a big hole. My flashlight and the leash flew out of my hands. Pain shot up my leg as the rest of my body thudded onto the leaf-littered ground.

“Roquefort! Here, girl!”

Roquefort barked somewhere off in the distance as I gingerly probed my ankle and the lower half of my leg. No bones protruding. That was good.

“Come back you stupid dog!”

I knew the ankle was sprained at the least. But I’d come this far, I wasn’t turning back now. Amy needed her parents. I needed her gone.

Rustling in the woods sounded to my left as I teetered up on one foot.

Growling, that didn’t sound like my beagle, came from somewhere near the rustling. Every follicle on my head raised its hair, most likely due to the hives erupting underneath them. I felt them popping all over my face. “Roquefort?”

The growling grew louder as did the rustling in the undergrowth. I hobbled to a tree I couldn’t climb and hid behind it, hugging the rough bark like it would make me invisible. I gathered the nerve to peek.

A not so little raccoon emerged from the underbrush.

My heart raced. Adorable as raccoons look on animal planet, the real thing is a little scary. And in case you were wondering, no, rabies wasn’t on my summer to do list.

That’s when my stupid beagle bounded out of the darkness, dragging her leash behind her. She chased off the raccoon, then circled back and knocked me over. She proceeded to lick my face, leaving behind the unmistakably stinky scent of dog breath. I’d probably get a rash from her saliva.

I grabbed hold of her choke collar and with the leash firmly in hand, I maneuvered my weight up onto my good leg, then tried out my injured one. I hobbled over to my flashlight shining up on this ginormous Tulip Poplar, then spotted my map and tried to determine how far up the path I’d gone. I heard a car drive by in the distance. Then a rumble of thunder. Just what I needed. I swear I wish the meteorologists could get it right just once. Ten percent, my big toe!

I had to find the cemetery and get home before the rain, which might just skirt around me if I was lucky. But I hadn’t been lucky so far, so I wasn’t counting on it.

I limped my way into the clearing, sweeping my intermittently bright flashlight left to right. Grass was up to my knees.

Speaking of knees, I fell to mine right about then as my foot sunk into a second hole, which I discovered was the corner of a grave when I raised my elbows on the freshly flattened weeds and came face to face with a headstone. Not Amy’s. But the engraving did say Malcolm.

If I hadn’t known the family plot existed, I’d definitely have missed it. Some of the oldest markers had fallen over or maybe someone had knocked them down. Others had sunk. The only part of the rusted metal fence left was covered by what looked and smelled like honeysuckle vines. I nearly stepped on the twin marble angels that may have been markers for Amy’s brothers.

I flashed the light over the stones, most of which were dark with vines. It looked like some of the oldest stones were under the canopy of the woods. A tall Civil War obelisk rose above the rest.

Amy had told me that when she was a girl, she and her mom would go to the churchyard and tend her mama’s family’s graves, they were Smiths. They’d pull up weeds, bring fresh flowers, wash the grime and mildew from the headstones.

I estimated where Amy’s grave would be based on the little angels and the crumbled brick coping that divided off a subset of the Malcolm family. But I was wrong; the name said “Harmon Malcolm.” Amy’s dad. I had to be close, though.

I flashed the light as I walked around the coping again. “Come on, Roquefort. Hunt Amy’s grave for me.”

Roquefort wasn’t listening. She was too busy licking her paws.

Fearing ticks, I bent down to rustle the grasses to see if there was a stone down lower than the mostly knee high oblong slabs with carving only starting to wear. I crawled down the two rows, then noticed that there was some extra space at the bottom of the second row, where someone could put a casket sideways if they’d wanted to.

Jackpot. There it was. I could clearly see the name Amy chiseled in the rock. Everything else that had come before her name, and there was something, was covered by some vines that seemed to be imbedded in the cool granite.

The placement was odd, but that didn’t mean her family hated her.

I pulled some of the small leaves off easily with both hands, but some of it was really woody and hairy. It wouldn’t release. I tried a second time after pushing up my sleeves and fell backwards when I yanked, which didn’t help my ankle. A pinecone jabbed my back. I wiped the sweat from my forehead.

As I approached it a third time, determined to get the stuff off so I could get my rubbing and go home, the old Girl Scout saying chimed in my head, “leaves of three, let it be.” This wasn’t poison ivy. I couldn’t be that stupid, right?

I wasn’t itching as I examined the leaves. Some were large, dull green and notched but others weren’t notched at all. And from what I could recall the leaves in those pictures I’d studied were smaller, glossy and had some red on them. I was fine.

Yanking again where one of the vines was firmly rooted to the soil, I succeeded. Dirt sprinkled my face. But all this work only led to one measly root and a tiny portion of the vine coming down. I could see the word daughter. Big help that was. The thunder sounded again. Closer.

Dang it! I couldn’t stay. I’d have to come back unless . . .

Roquefort barked and sniffed the vine, wagging her tail. “You’re right, girl, this was a total waste of time.”

“I could have told you that,” Amy said, reappearing as I hoped she would.

“Can you help me get these vines off?” I asked. “Pretty please?”

Amy gave the vine-covered headstone the once over, then crossed her arms over her chest. “Nope.”

“Why not? I’ve seen what you can do to a grapevine. Whatever this is should be a piece of cake.”

“Don’t care if’n it’s easy or not. I ain’t helping you ‘cause I don’t want to. Besides, you gotta go. It’s gonna rain.”

“Why don’t you want me to see the stone?” I insisted. “Do you know what it says?”

“No, and I don’t wanna. Come on, Heather. If’n you get wet, you might catch yourself a death of cold and then you won’t be able to go to the swimming hole to see Drew.”

My haint might no longer be of this world, but she understood my “currency.”

As I trudged home, my tender ankle throbbing, I saw the first flash of what I prayed was heat lightning because real lightning meant a real storm, and a real storm meant I’d get wet.

“See,” Amy said. “I told you rain was coming.”

Eight one thousands later, a thunder boom shook the ground.

Roquefort whined and looked back at me with woeful beagle eyes.

“Hey, if I had a way to get home faster, I’d take it, dog.”

Then I smelled it. Rain. Heard it, too, plinking toward me.

Warm, fat drops plopped on my face, my arms, taunting me. And then the deluge fell, soaking me. The thick denim jeans I’d been so proud to have thought to wear when I entered the briar patch absorbed the rain and grew heavier with every sopping, aching step I took.

Roquefort, not a dog who liked getting even her feet wet, much less having a bath in the tub, cried.

My flashlight petered out to a weak glow as I reached the windy base of Red Tip Road. The steep hill and narrow asphalt shoulder gleamed slick in the rain. Maybe Roquefort would pull me up the road like she’d yanked me down it. That would only be fair, especially when a person had a tender ankle and could hardly see due to the water streaming down her face.

But what did my stupid dog do? She lay down on the shoulder of the road and wouldn’t budge.

I yanked, and I yanked. She didn’t seem to care that we could be hit by some car careening out of control. She wouldn’t even pick her head up for the doggie biscuit I fished from my wet pocket. Yeah, it was a bit moist.

So I had to carry the stinky beast. And let me say right now, the only thing worse than wet dog is wet, stinky dog that won’t walk.

“You know, you could help,” I said to Amy.

“Car!” she shouted, and I limped off into the rapidly filling ditch that paralleled the road.

I hoped, no, dreamed that the vehicle was an SUV with tinted glass and that Drew was inside. He’d see me and stop, offer me a ride home. When he noticed the limp, he’d scold me for not telling him that I twisted my ankle. He’d scoop me up into his arms and—

A huge splash of water drenched my already doused face and hair. I sputtered and watched the tail lights of a truck with big tires recede into the rain. The spray of puddle water added the nuance of motor oil to the wet dog fragrance permeating my body. No way could this night get any worse than it already was.

Twenty minutes later, the rain tapered off to a steamy mist and I thought things were in fact looking up even though every movement of my arms and legs ached, not just my ankle. Roquefort and I were close. All I had to do was turn the corner and I’d be home. I could get these wet clothes off, towel dry, and slide into my nice, fluffy bed with semi-clean sheets that at least didn’t smell like dog.

Roquefort must have sensed we were close, too. She struggled against me and dropped to the ground. I scrambled to keep hold of her leash as she strained forward, prancing around the corner, choking against the chain around her neck.

Once I had her under control, I looked toward my house—the brightly lit brick colonial at the end of the cul-de-sac. At first glance, the lights made me think warm, home, yay! But then I noticed all the downstairs lights were on, which meant someone was awake, and that someone probably knew I wasn’t in bed.

I had to come up with a reason to be out with the dog. I was walking her because she cried to go out and . . . I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I decided to take her for a walk . . . and it started raining, and this stupid jerk splashed a puddle on me when he was driving by. Ooh, that was good. Mixing a little real with the made up stuff made it so much more convincing.

“You’re in big trouble,” Amy said, as I closed in on the mailbox at the end of our curved driveway.

“No, duh!”

I decided to make the most of my twisted ankle and limped in a more exaggerated manner. I hung my head, just in case someone was looking out the window.

That’s why I didn’t see it until I was practically on top of it—Aunt Geneva’s vintage Honda Civic that at one time had been white and normal.

Chapter Fifteen

For a moment, I just stopped and stared. No one else had a car like Aunt Geneva’s, and she liked it that way, said it was easier to find it in a parking lot. Um, yeah.

She’d welded bits of scrap brass onto her car so that as it aged, it turned green and looked like metal lichen was growing on it. Whatever paint had been on the car had since peeled off or rusted. I wasn’t sure if the car was hideous or cool. But having her here could only mean one thing; Amy had to vamoose.

“Hide,” I said.

“She may sense me anyway.”

My pulse sped. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t let fear win, though. “Well, then, stay outside in the vines. I don’t want her to know about you.”

Another thought rocked me. I tried not to hyperventilate. “Is Aunt Geneva’s friend with her?”

Amy shrugged. “You’ll know when you go inside.”

“Yeah, I figured that much. What do I do?” I whispered as Amy did her invisible thing. “Amy!” I called in a slightly louder whisper.

She didn’t answer.

I wouldn’t panic. If I saw this ghost friend of Geneva’s, I’d just pretend I didn’t.

Sweating, I tried to sneak in quietly, but my shoes squelched and stupid Roquefort ran to her water bowl and slopped it everywhere.

“Where the hell have you been?” Dad asked, flipping on the overhead light so that one of the recessed lights shone in my eyes like a spotlight. Yup, he was cussing so I knew I was in big trouble. “You’re soaked.”

“I refuse to speak without my attorney present,” I quipped, hoping to break his stern expression with some humor.

“You think that’s funny? You think we’re playing a game here?” He asked, his arms folded over his inside-out white t-shirt. That wasn’t a good sign. Nor was Mom’s bedhead.

“No, sir,” I said. “I was out walking the dog.” I jingled the leash for emphasis and met Dad’s unbelieving gaze. And that wasn’t a lie, technically.

Roquefort looked up from her water bowl, panted for a few seconds, then stuck her nose in the empty food dish, and sniffled around. I could relate. I was hungry, too.

“Should I get the dog some . . . ” My voice trailed off as Dad’s face flushed red and that vein in his temple pulsed.

I stared down at the puddle I was making on the tile. I glanced over at the bowl of fruit on the island, where the ripe, brown-spotted bananas called out to me. I was hungry and tired. I just wanted to eat a banana, then go to sleep in my comfy bed.

“Calm down, John. She’s okay,” Aunt Geneva said, entering the room. Her hair was a lighter shade of red than the last time I’d seen her. I’d call it Mango Sparkle. Her lips were an almost perfect match to the hair. Weird. Even though it was almost three a.m., she looked fresh. She pushed up the sleeves of her faded, extra-large man-sized denim shirt like she was getting ready to chisel a piece of stone. Not a stretch since she sculpted stone, too.

Toes tapping to the beat of his ill-concealed anger, Dad focused on her. “Geneva, with all due respect, I don’t need your two cents right now.”

“So why did you ask me to drive over here?”

“I wasn’t the one who called,” Dad said and sent a pointed look toward my uncharacteristically quiet mother.

I was almost grateful because not only was Aunt Geneva deflecting some of Dad’s anger, she must not have brought her friend. At least, I didn’t sense anyone with her. I craned my neck to see behind her into the family room. No ghost, as far as I could tell.

“Your father asked you where you’ve been, Heather,” Mom said and handed me a towel. “If I were you, I’d tell him the truth.”

“I did. I was out walking the dog.”

“At night, in the rain?” Dad asked and pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose like he couldn’t wait to hear my reason.

“She wanted to go for a walk,” I said, lying now with all my imagination could muster, and watching Roquefort look up at Dad panting as if I hadn’t carried her most of the way home. “I heard her whining and scratching at the door when I came down to get some water, so I thought why not? I didn’t realize you’d all have a cow about it.”

“Where’s the glass?” He asked.

“What glass?”

“Your water glass.”

I glanced over at the smooth granite countertop free of glassware, near the equally empty sink. “Um, I guess I must have brought it up into my room when I went to put on my clothes and tennis shoes.” I had plenty of glasses in my room to choose from if they demanded evidence. I’m sort of notorious for forgetting to bring them back to the kitchen.

Now for the bait and switch. “Mom, can you look at my ankle? That stupid dog pulled me into a hole. It’s really sore. I had to limp all the way home. That’s what took me so long.”

Mom made a move toward me, earning a stern look from Dad. The whole for-God’s-sake-don’t-give-her-any-sympathy look.

Mom countered with her patented she’s-our-child-and-she’s-hurt look.

“Well, don’t stand on your ankle,” Aunt Geneva said. “Sit down.”

I complied, sure that I had successfully detoured them. I tugged up the wet legs on my jeans, untied my soggy shoelaces and removed my wet socks and tennis shoes.

Mom poked my twisted ankle, comparing it to the other one. “It’s a little swollen,” she said, getting up to open the freezer door of our side-by-side. She returned with a bag of frozen peas and a long speech about family and making good choices. I tuned most of it out.

Aunt Geneva was trying not to smile. She must have some dirt on Mom. I had to remember to ask her about it later.

“Let’s get back to the so-called walk, shall we?” Dad said, now pacing the tile floor like an attorney prosecuting me.

He didn’t care about my ankle. “Who were you meeting?”

“I wasn’t meeting anyone,” I said facing his gaze without a twitch. I wasn’t lying about that. I had to make the most of my truthful statements.

I heard someone quietly descending the back stairs. One of my sisters coming to listen, no doubt.

“So you weren’t meeting a boy?”

A short evil snort sounded from the part of the stairs hidden by drywall and the desk cabinetry. Audrey. And I thought the evening couldn’t get any worse.

“No. Like I said, I was walking the dog.”

“So why are you all scratched up?” Dad asked.

Still maintaining eye contact, I explained, “The stupid dog ran into some briars and I had to go into them to get her out.”

“Why didn’t you come back when it started raining?” Mom asked. They were double-teaming me now.

“The storm came up fast. I got soaked, so I figured I might as well keep walking.”

Audrey poked her head around the wall, then popped it back when Mom looked over to where I was looking.

“Why the long sleeve shirt and jeans?” Dad asked.

“I just grabbed stuff off the floor. I guess I wore this or was considering wearing this when Claire and I went to the movies.”

Another snort from Audrey’s general vicinity.

Unfortunately this time the reference to my sloppy habits didn’t throw Dad off.

“You know what? We’re going to skip the rest of the questioning phase and move right on to your punishment. Your mother and I both know there’s more going on here than you’re admitting, and you’re choosing not to be forthcoming. So here’s the deal. Since you have such a fondness for walking the dog, you can walk Roquefort for an entire month, including while we’re at the beach.”

Not bad. Not good, but I could live with it.

“And you’ll write a ten page paper on the dangers of going out alone at night in addition to the one you’re currently writing on underage drinking.”

“You mean this paper?” Audrey said, sauntering down the stairs in her sleeveless granny nightgown and waving a stack of typed paper bound in plastic. “Imagine my surprise today when a padded envelope arrived in the mail for you.”

“Hey, you can’t open my mail!” I shouted, but no one seemed to care that I’d been violated.

“You didn’t,” Mom said, disappointment flavoring her words.

“Oh, yeah, she did.” Audrey tossed the report onto the kitchen table in front of me.

“I had hoped you hadn’t given in to the temptation,” Mom said.

“What do you mean?” I asked, confused and worried, very worried.

“Well, when your father and I discovered you were missing tonight, we knew the only way you could contact anyone was through the computer. He tracked your activity, and we saw that you’d visited Paper Busters.”

Guilt spread over me, thick and smooth, like peanut butter on a piece of white bread. There’s not much worse than disappointing your parents, except listening to the lecture on making better choices while your older sister is gloating even though her ugly butt should be in bed.

“You spied on me?” I asked, incredulous that my own parents didn’t trust me. “What about my rights as an American citizen? And how about Audrey opening my mail?”

Dad walked over to the kitchen table and picked up the underage drinking essay. He flipped through the contents. “I’ll be keeping this. Maybe you should stay home with Aunt Geneva while the rest of us go on vacation, Heather.”

“No. Please, Dad. I only wanted the paper as an example of how to do it the right way. I have all my own research in a file. I can show you. I’ll finish both papers. And I’ll walk the dog. Anything but staying with Aunt Geneva.” I know, I’m violating one of the rules of parent negotiation—never admit what would hurt most because they’re bound to use it against you.

Geneva cleared her throat. “Can we back up here? I mean, I understand that I’m only supposed to be here as moral support for Cath, who may I remind everyone, was hysterical and wanted to put out an Amber Alert, but I’m not exactly digging the whole staying with Aunt Geneva as punishment thing. I’m the cool aunt. How can I be a punishment?”

“You are cool, but I really like the beach,” I said. “Sorry.”

“And let’s not forget the whole ghost thing,” Dad said. “Maybe the girls are old enough now that they find it odd that a grown woman walks around saying she has a ghost friend.”

Aunt Geneva narrowed her gaze at my father. “Lucky for you, I’m going to forgive you for that remark but only because I know you’re stressed. And might I add that I hardly think spending a couple of weeks with me, going to hip restaurants and coffee bars, plays, and concerts, and possibly the day spa for a massage, manicure and pedicure is really what anyone in their right mind would call punishment.”

I dared to look at Aunt Geneva. She winked at me.

“Thank you,” I mouthed.

“I’ll think about it,” Dad said. With my paper, the only means I had to figuring out how to write a decent one, tucked under his arm, he walked to the sink and poured himself some water. He took two Advil, presumably for the headache that dealing with me and Aunt Geneva had given him. He checked the time on the stove and sighed. “I’ve got to get up in four hours.”

I handed my mother my thawing bag of peas and limped toward the stairs. Mom went to the linen closet to get a pillow and blanket for Aunt Geneva to sack out on the couch.

I could see why Amy wanted a different family. I knew I did. How would I convince Dad that I was trustworthy enough to go on vacation with the rest of the family? Tell him the truth about Amy? Yeah, right, like that would work. He’d put me in the same loony bin with Geneva. There had to be some other way.

While Mom and Dad turned off the downstairs lights and Roquefort settled into her bed, I dragged my aching body up the stairs. My night had accomplished nothing other than burning off a ton of calories through aerobic exercise and ticking off my parents further. I was no closer to figuring out why Amy thought her family hated her and why she wasn’t with them in heaven. I was no closer to moving her to that highway to heaven.

“What’s that on your face?” Audrey asked when I reached the top of the stairs. I really don’t think hate is too strong a verb for what I was feeling toward my sister. I mean she ratted on me. I, at least, would have let her get away with it and just blackmailed her.

“Go away.” I limped and, since I was starting to itch, thanks to the emotional trauma activating my skin, scratched my way to my room.

“Seriously, you’ve got red marks on your face.”

“Yeah, I know. I got scratched by some bushes.”

“How?”

“Knowing Roquefort you have to ask?”

“When I walk the dog, I walk the dog. She doesn’t walk me.”

“Girls!” Mom yelled from the front stairs. I could hear her trudging up the carpet and the flick of light switches being turned off in the dining room and living room.

“You stink like dog. You need a shower,” Audrey added.

I glared at her, then called over my shoulder, “I’m trying to get to bed, Mom. Audrey won’t let me.”

“Heather, just ignore your sister. Not another word. Dad has to get up early in the morning.”

“But she—”

“I don’t care who started it, I’m ending it.” Mom reached the top of the stairs and pointed me toward my door at the end of the hall.

Certain that I was the most unloved middle child in the entire world, I turned my back on Mom and the beeyotch. At least I could sleep on a comfortable bed. Well, I could have if Amy weren’t lying in my spot, on my bed. I slammed the door.

“Heather!” Mom said in warning.

“Sorry,” I called out, but I didn’t mean it.

Amy remained in a reclined position.

“Move,” I said, pulling the extra throw pillows out from under her head and tossing them on my dirty clothes pile on the floor.

“What’re you being ornery with me for?” she asked, rising up from the bed but still lying in a prone position. “I told you not to go.”

“I wouldn’t be in this predicament if it weren’t for you.”

She flitted over to the dirty clothes pile and propped up the pillows like it was her bed. “I told you not to buy that school theme, too.”

“Gee, thanks. I appreciate how you never say I told you so.”

“Heather, you’ve got it wrong. I’m trying to help you. It’s what family does.”

So she’d been listening to the lecture in the kitchen rather than stay outside with the grapevines like I told her to.

“We love you no matter what, but we want you to make better choices,” Amy said, echoing my mother’s sentiments, which got on my last nerve.

“How about you, Amy? Did your real family want you to make better choices? How come you don’t believe they love you no matter what? How come you believe mine do, and yours don’t?”

Amy spun around the room faster than Roquefort when she’s excited. The curtains and her braids swung. Papers flew off my desk. The fan’s blades turned. Then she settled on the end of my bed and hung her head. “It’s not the same,” she said, her voice small and miserable. “I did something much worse than you did.”

“Yeah, like what?”

I expected ‘I cut the rope holding the bucket for the well,’ or ‘I dropped a pail of milk,’ or ‘I stole apples from the neighbor’s orchard.’

Instead, she remained silent. The room grew frigid as she left her spot on the bed and hovered over to the window. She stared as if she could see out to the backyard through the closed blinds. It got so cold in the room I could almost see my breath. “Stop it.”

She turned her gaze back to mine, and I felt the depth of her pain.

“Stop,” I repeated, my voice wavering from the mourning I felt all the way to my soul.

“You’ve been wanting to know, so I’ll tell you. I killed them.”

Chapter Sixteen

This killing Amy’d mentioned had to have been an accident. I mean, I’d know if my ghost were some sort of Lizzie Borden, right? And if her family hated her, they wouldn’t have buried her in the plot with them. Unless she’d killed them all, and someone else buried them. Their graves weren’t in a churchyard. Did that mean something?

Unable to open my eyelids, I rolled onto my back and scratched my arms. Not good. Not good at all. My face and arms were unusually warm, too. And itchy. I must have developed some new allergy. I swear my life sucks. And if whatever was going on with my skin wasn’t bad enough, I realized I had to go back to the graveyard and the library’s special collection room to get to the bottom of Amy’s little pronouncement. Maybe find her obituary in the paper once I had the death dates of the family. But how and when could I? I was practically under house arrest and running out of time to write not one, but two papers.

First things first, though. I tried to pry open my eyes again, but it was like the lids were glued shut. I probed the flesh around my swollen, crusty eyes. Okay, I’d dealt with the swollen thing before, but crusty was different. My situation was a little worse than I thought.

I probed further, past the eyes to my nose and cheeks where my fingertips encountered raised blisters and a warm sticky fluid. I screamed.

Let me just say, if someone in your family screams really loud, you shouldn’t take your time finding out why. Even if that someone is a bit dramatic on occasion.

I raised my voice higher. “Someone! Anyone! Help!”

Eventually, after what seemed like twenty minutes to a super itchy person who might just be dying of some dreaded oozing disease, someone padded into my room. I couldn’t tell who, but I could hear the person breathing.

“What’s up?”

No whining. Not quick on the uptake. Must be Claire.

“Oh, my, God, Heather!” Her voice and she, I assumed, moved closer. Her call for my mother was in the hysteria range. “Mo-om!”

Okay, this was bad. Probably one of my worst allergic reactions yet.

“Are there hives?” I wasn’t sure because, hello, I couldn’t see. All I could do was scratch.

“Um, I . . . I don’t know what it is. But it’s bad, really bad.”

Mom entered the room and walked over to me, tennis shoes squeaking on the hard wood floor. “Oh, Heather!”

I couldn’t remember the last time I changed my sheets. Maybe it was a severe dust mite allergy from not changing the sheets or was it food-related? What had I eaten yesterday? Teriyaki chicken, saffron rice, salad with Italian dressing. No dessert. Water. Couldn’t have been the food. Maybe it was some plant in the woods or in that briar patch that dumb dog dragged me into. Or the vines on the gravestone that I pulled up by the roots.

“Claire, get me a couple washcloths, wet them with cold water,” Mom said. “It looks like poison ivy. Every time you get this, it’s worse. Can you breathe okay, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” I answered still unable to see. Knowing it was poison ivy made me itch even more. Even the space between my fingers itched.

“Don’t scratch!” I thought I heard Amy say, so I figured she was here watching all the action. Had Aunt Gen left? What if she came up here and sensed Amy?

I tried to think of something other than the urge to run my fingernails over the skin of my face and arms. The left side of my body was much colder than the right, so I assumed Amy had landed there.

“Let me see your legs,” Mom said with a sigh.

I kicked my comforter off.

She lifted my pajama legs. “Good. Looks like the jeans you wore last night protected you. And your ankle’s back to normal. Stand up for me. Let me check your back.”

“What she needs is a mixture of buttermilk and baking soda,” said Grandma MacCormack, who was home for once. I think she was standing somewhere around the vicinity of my dresser. I had no clue when she’d come in my room because, yes, I still couldn’t see.

“Serves her right,” said Audrey.

“Who asked you?” I countered, turning toward her snotty voice.

She snorted. “Looks like karma bit you in the butt.”

“If karma was biting last night, all that would be left of you is bones! Now, get out!” I yelled in her general direction and added a couple of swats, missing of course, because, yes, I couldn’t see where to aim.

“You look hideous,” Audrey added.

I flailed my arms toward her again, unable to make contact.

I must have gotten close because she screamed. “Don’t get those oozy arms near me!”

“Audrey, that’s it. I’ve had it with your behavior,” Mom weighed in. “You’re writing that paper on sibling rivalry. If you don’t, you’re staying home with Aunt Geneva, too.”

“Why is everyone so down on me?” Geneva’s throaty voice rang from the hall.

No, not her. What if she saw Amy? My itching intensified. I reached up to scratch my nose and my hands were blocked.

Grandma, who smelled like Elizabeth Taylor’s Passion cologne, her favorite, helped me lay back down on the bed. She must be getting ready to go to her book club or to her volunteer job at St. Mark’s. “You know, it doesn’t seem like it now, but it could be worse, Heather. Your Aunt Geneva got poison ivy once from climbing up a tree. She was wearing a dress, and it was all up her thighs. She had a difficult time going to the potty.”

Lovely image.

“Thanks so much for sharing, Mom,” Aunt Geneva said from somewhere near the closet.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.” Yes, I think Claire gets her cluelessness from Grandma. “I’m going to make up that paste for you, Heather. No scratching, or you’ll scar for life,” she added before she left, which really isn’t a thing a girl who finally has Drew Blanton noticing her and possibly liking her as more than friends really wants to hear.

“That’s just an old wives’ tale,” Aunt Geneva said, her voice now close to my bed. She must have a mug of coffee because I smelled it. “You go ahead and scratch as much as you want.”

“Speaking of wanting, that coffee smells good. I think I’d feel a whole lot better if I had a Starbuck’s frappachino.”

Did anyone offer to drive there to get me one? No.

“You know what?” Mom said to no one in particular, “I don’t think we have any buttermilk.” She walked over to the doorway and yelled, “Mom, you’ll have to use regular milk! The baking soda is either in the cabinet on the left side of the stove or in the refrigerator!”

“How about some oatmeal?” Grandma called back up the stairs.

I started envisioning the coating they’d put on me. It wasn’t an attractive vision. But if my arms and face stopped itching, I’d wear it almost gladly.

“I’ll go ask at the Beckman’s,” Claire offered, which meant two possible things. If Claire was willing to run to the neighbor’s, I must look really bad. Or Claire wanted to take the opportunity to ask the Beckman’s if their cute grandson was going to come for a visit this summer, putting her own interests ahead of her severely compromised sister. And yes, she’s supposed to be the nice one.

Grandma huffed up the stairs, her signature scent preceding her as she re-entered my room. “Here’s the paste. I used sweet milk instead so it’s not as thick.” She snapped her fingers. “Wait a minute, I just remembered this other remedy I read about in one of my magazines. A banana peel helps with the itching. I know we have those.”

Add banana peels to the oatmeal pasty, swollen, scabby vision playing in my head.

I started trying to pry at least one of my eyelids open and managed to see this silver thing in my face. I focused on it, too late realizing the silver thing was Audrey’s phone and she’d been taking pictures of me.

“I can’t wait to show these to Drew,” she said. “He’s going to howl.”

After a trip to the emergency room for prednisone, I was pretty much confined upstairs the rest of the day, which was a good thing because I might just kill Audrey if only I could figure out how to do it with my feet. The doctor warned Mom that the medicine might make me irritable and nervous. Like I could be any more irritable.

I couldn’t use my hands at all. They were covered in a shriveled concoction of cracked baking soda, milk and oatmeal. Grandma figured all three would defeat the oozing red sores covering my face and arms from the elbows down. The banana peels, thank goodness, were forgotten.

Of course Mom, who always believes Audrey, assured me that my pain-in-the-butt sister was only teasing me, that she would never do anything so cruel as to show Drew the pictures. I didn’t have that kind of blind faith in Audrey’s goodness. If she hadn’t shown him the pictures she took of me this morning, it was only because she’d figured it would put her on the outs with her oh-so-important friends, who might choose not to associate with her if I added scarred and ugly to my already less-than-stellar, weirdo reputation.

The absolute worst thing about being covered in poison ivy and being on restriction was the boredom. All I could do was stare at the ceiling fan and listen to the activity or lack thereof downstairs.

I heard Dad come in, the usual ‘Hi, dear. How was your day?’ from Mom. Then Dad’s mumble turned angry. What’s this? I couldn’t be the one in trouble this time. It had to be Audrey.

I wasn’t missing this! I eased off my bed and scooted over to the door, leaving a trail of dried oatmeal paste behind me on the hardwood and shag rug. Leaning against the doorjamb, I listened.

“I’m telling you I felt something in Heather’s room,” Aunt Geneva said, her voice was in the anger range, too.

“Something?” Dad asked. “Something other than misery at being caught sneaking out of the house at night? Something other than the mess and the dust bunnies living under her bed?”

“I’m not kidding around, and I don’t know how else to put this, so here it is. There’s a presence in Heather’s room.”

“A presence, huh? How do you know?” Even I, a floor above, could feel Dad bristling with disbelief.

“I can sense it. It’s sort of like my friend, but different. It’s a cold vibration.”

Dad sighed. “That’s called air-conditioning. You were probably standing under the vent.”

“Amy!” I whispered loudly. “Amy!”

She didn’t materialize, but my jewelry box opened and something started rummaging through the necklaces. “What?” Amy asked.

“Why didn’t you leave this morning when Aunt Geneva came in?”

She must have put on three necklaces because it looked like the beads were hanging in mid-air. I glanced into the mirror and saw Amy’s gap-toothed reflection clearly as she grinned, then slid several rings on her ghostly little fingers.

“Amy!”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, she’s downstairs telling my parents she sensed you. You’ve got to steer clear of her. Okay?”

She added multi-colored metallic bangles to both of her calico-covered arms.

“Amy!” I hissed, feeling the oatmeal crust crack on my face. A large patch fell to the floor and broke into smaller crumbles.

Footsteps jogged up the stairs. My heart beat so fast I wondered if I was having a heart attack. “Amy!”

Rapid footfalls headed down the hall toward my room. The squeaky spot squeaked. “Get out!” I whispered as loudly as I could without having Dad hear me.

“Don’t have a conniption. I heard you,” Amy said, then left, I think.

All the jewelry fell to the floor with a jangle and brief staccato tap of beads.

Dad knocked on the half-open door, then pushed through it to frown and glance around my room, his eyes behind the oval lenses of his glasses taking in the piles of dirty clothes, the collection of used mostly empty glassware, and the jewelry and dried oatmeal paste crumbs sitting on the hardwood floor. He said nothing. Just chewed his spearmint gum and looked. I knew it was spearmint because that’s what he always chewed on his ride home from work at the state EPD.

“I’ll clean it up tomorrow,” I promised in as weak and sickly a voice as I could muster. Gaining his sympathy could only improve the situation, right?

He peered into my closet. “Were you talking to someone?”

“No, just to myself.” I shrugged. “That’s what happens when you’re bored and you’ve had a near death experience from poison ivy.”

“Poison ivy you acquired by sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night,” he reminded me.

I padded over to my bed and lay back down. I knew what was coming and wasn’t going to take my next lecture standing.

“So how are you feeling?” he asked.

“Well enough considering I’m banned from listening to music or watching TV.” I gave him the sad, puppy dog eyes. “And I can’t even turn the pages of a magazine.”

With not an ounce of sympathy, he loosened his tie and sat on the end of my bed. “I want to hear why you’d risk traipsing through the woods at night.”

“I was looking for that cemetery I . . . ” Oops. A chill ran down my spine. I hadn’t admitted the part about going into the woods. “How’d you know?”

“Scratches and poison ivy like you’d rolled in it? Few people in this neighborhood have crabgrass in their lawns, and you want me to believe you stumbled into briars and poison ivy.”

Oddly enough, I felt a certain amount of relief that Dad figured out I’d been in the woods.

“A cemetery, huh? You sure you weren’t meeting some boy. Perhaps the one who drove you home from the library the other day?”

I wish.

I met his bespectacled gaze without flinching. “Look, if you don’t believe me, check out the maps in my backpack. I’d get them for you, but. . .” I lifted my crusty arms.

Dad scratched the side of his head. “I still don’t understand why this trip of yours couldn’t wait.”

“Because . . . ” What could I tell him? Getting a ghost to move on took precedence over everything else in my life? “I guess I’m just impatient.”

“And why are these graves so important to you?”

“I don’t know. Why is wine so important to you?”

Dad adjusted the nosepiece on his glasses and sighed. “Okay, I see the point about obsessions. But making wine isn’t dangerous and it doesn’t require me leaving the house in the middle of the night.”

“I had to see if I was right.”

“About what?”

I groaned. I was going to have to tell him to some degree. “I had to see if I was right about Amy’s family.”

“Who’s Amy?” he asked.

“The girl who lived here way back when. Remember? I told you I wanted to find her family’s cemetery.”

“And how could a grave tell you if you were right about something dealing with her family?”

“Well . . . ” Picture me wincing. “She thinks her family hates her, but I know they probably don’t. I mean you don’t hate me, right? No matter that I do things that you’d prefer I didn’t. But then I haven’t killed anybody, though sometimes I like thinking about the wonderful day Audrey goes off to college and how my greatest hope is that she doesn’t come back until Thanksgiving when she does. Did you know—”

Dad raised both hands. “Whoa. Go back. How do you know what someone in the past thinks? Were you reading her diary in the library?”

“Um …” My heart beat triple time in my chest. I looked down at the pink skin and cracking oatmeal patchwork that was my hands. Avoiding the complete truth in this instance was right choice. Yeah, I wanted to be treated more like an adult, but wouldn’t an adult whose father already had borderline high blood pressure skirt the truth for his sake? “Yeah, the library has her journal.”

“I’m confused.”

He wasn’t the only one.

The blinds on my double window fell, first the one, then the other. Yes, Amy.

Dad got up off the bed and walked over to the blinds to examine them. “Your Aunt Geneva seems to think there’s more going on here than rebellion.”

“Don’t you tell him nothing,” Amy said, appearing in the warm spot at the end of the bed where Dad had been sitting. She smoothed her filmy calico skirt and pinafore.

“No duh. But it would help me if you wouldn’t call so much attention to yourself,” I said under my breath. In a much louder voice, I said, “So what does Aunt Gen think is going on?”

Dad fiddled with the pull, making sure that metal thingee caught and held the blinds halfway up the window. He shook his close-cropped, balding head and turned around to face me. “A ghost.”

I forced a laugh so fake that he couldn’t possibly think it was real.

He stopped chewing his gum.

“Just listen. Okay? This isn’t easy for me.” I wet my lips. Real tears filled my eyes. “Everyone, including you, always says I’m getting more like Aunt Geneva every day. And I hate it.”

His forehead folded into even lines like the blinds on my window. “Go on.”

I took a shaky breath. “Everybody thinks I’m weird anyway, and if you all start believing I have a ghost, just because Aunt Geneva thinks so, I might not ever be considered normal. So the answer to your underlying question is no. The stupid things I’ve done are no one’s fault but my own. As much as I’d like to have a ghost that no one but Aunt Geneva can see—”

“She didn’t say she could see one. She said she sensed it.”

Relief filled me. I had to milk his doubt for all it was worth. “And you believe her? Over me, your child, the fruit of your loins, who could have taken the easy way out and latched on to this ghost alibi?”

“Why are you lying?” Amy asked, sounding hurt that I’d denied her. “I know you see me. And you saw me yesterday and the day before.”

I whispered under my breath, “It’s called self-preservation.”

He squinted at me. “If you aren’t telling me the God’s honest truth right now . . . ”

“Do you think I want to be any more of a freak than I already am?” I cried, eyes and nose running over the oatmeal paste that was rapidly turning gooey and gloppy.

Not a man who was comfortable with waterworks, even with three daughters, a wife, a mother-in-law, and a female dog in the house, Dad started jingling the change in his pocket. He cleared his throat twice. “No, I don’t think you want to be more of a freak. Ah, geez . . . I didn’t mean that I think you’re a freak. It’s just that I didn’t get much sleep, then your Aunt Geneva suggested there was something—” he made quote marks in the air— “‘paranormal’ going on, and the blinds fell like someone released them. . .”

I sniffed really loud.

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt for me to take you to see the grave,” he said.

“Does this mean I get to go on vacation, too?”

Dad took a deep breath. “Get those papers done, and we’ll talk.”

I had about a week and a half until vacation. Ten days to prove that Amy was loved by her family, and write two ten-page papers, and recover from a monster case of poison ivy, and make sure my Dad didn’t see or hear anything that might make him believe Aunt Geneva and realize I was the one who was lying. Piece of cake.

Chapter Seventeen

I didn’t know for sure if Dad was suspicious that I was being haunted, but he was being nice to me, too nice. And in answer to what I suspect you must be thinking, no, I’m not paranoid!

It had been a week since my chat with Dad. The poison ivy had healed for the most part, and I had turned in a snore-inducing paper on underage drinking as well as some proof that I was working on the ten-pager about sneaking out of the house late at night. Out of the blue, Dad offered to take me to the cemetery in the morning. Seeing as it was already Friday night, the family was leaving for vacation on Monday, and I hadn’t finished paper number two, I almost said no. But then I’d miss a prime opportunity to help Amy, and therefore myself, so I agreed.

When Dad kindly asked if anyone else wanted to come, Audrey informed us that she thought cemetery hunting was stupid and that she couldn’t possibly help. She was lunching with her snotty friends at Sub-a-Dub, the sandwich shop where the popular high school crowd gathered. Claire, nice sister that she was and always would be, offered to come with us but had already promised to help Mom at her decorative flip-flop craft class. Grandma reminded us all for the fifty-millionth time that she doesn’t sweat and didn’t need to be tramping around the hot, humid woods. I was relieved. The more is not the merrier when you’re dealing with a high probability of ghost shenanigans.

Oh, I almost forgot. Earlier in the week, I’d gotten a Get Well card via snail mail from Tina, who’d heard about the poison ivy. So I guess we were on the mend even with the desperate e-mails I’d sent from the library. My calling, texting, and IMing privileges hadn’t yet been restored, so I couldn’t talk to her. But I at least had hope that we’d be bff’s again soon. Of course, I also feared that my hope would be dashed unless I could move Amy on her way and thereby decrease my potential for future weirdness.

After a rousing chorus of some morning song mutilated by my Dad, I dragged out of bed Saturday morning, dressed and stumbled downstairs to find him packing Mom’s van with enough equipment for an expedition to Mount Everest.

A giant, hand-crank flashlight? Okay, maybe we’d be there long enough for it to get dark, and maybe is stretching it. But the rope and bungee cord? I was desperate to know if this was actually a fact-finding mission or step one to a psychiatric intervention like I’d seen on the Learning Channel. Best to reassure him I was sane.

“Hey, Dad, you know that talk we had?”

“Can you hand me the mini-cooler?” he asked, which really wasn’t an answer.

I gave the cooler to him, and he placed the square Igloo between the first aid kit and the sprayer thing he uses for killing fungus. “So?” I prompted.

“So what?” he asked.

I groaned. “So do you remember the talk we had last week?”

“Sure. Did you put your bug repellent on?”

“Dad, you’re not listening to me.”

“John,” Mom called from the breezeway. “Could you please take Roquefort?”

Roquefort added her whine to Mom’s plea.

“No!” I said, perhaps a bit too forcefully. Roquefort had been, shall we say, a little gassy since last night’s pilfering of half a plate of stuffed mushrooms from Grandma’s book club. The dog had taken advantage of the lights going out during a thunderstorm. When they came back on, most of the hors d’oevres Grandma had set out for her friends had vanished and Roquefort was licking her guilty chops.

Mom walked over to the van. Her t-shirt read If I’m Talking, You Should Be Taking Notes in bold red letters. “Let’s put it this way, the gas can be expelled in the woods with you, or it can fill up the house and be waiting for you upon your return.”

“Just put her in the backyard,” I suggested. “Unless you’re afraid Roquefort’s emissions will hurt the grapes.”

Dad looked up from securing some long handled hedge trimmers. “Get the leash.”

Me and my big mouth. So I located the supposed means of controlling the stupid dog, put her in Mom’s van, and we headed out.

I’d been cooped up in the house for so long it felt good to be out and about, even if my companion for the day was Dad and, of course, Amy. Amy decided she’d ride on the top of the van rather than inside it next to or behind Roquefort. I didn’t blame her. Her transparent stockinged and booted feet dangled through the van roof.

I was about to bring up Aunt Gen’s suspicions again—to assure Dad that they were unfounded—when Roquefort let one fly right as we turned the corner and were fast approaching the Monroe’s house.

“No more mushrooms for you, dog,” Dad said, waving the air in front of him.

I had to get oxygen in my lungs, so I pressed the window button.

Xavier, who was standing outside his house watering his mom’s wilting flowers and who must have super sonic hearing, looked up and waved.

As Dad slowed for the four-way stop, I tried to slink down in the captain’s chair, but the seatbelt and my clothes sticking to the cloth seat prevented much movement. Yet another reason why Mom and Dad should’ve bought the more expensive leather option.

“What are you doing?” Dad asked.

“Hiding,” I said, squirming yet making no downward progress.

Dad stopped the van completely. “From him? You’re hiding from the altar boy?”

I glanced back over at Xavier, who’d adjusted his hose nozzle to off and dropped it to the ground while I’d been squirming. He was heading toward me like he thought I wanted to talk to him.

Dad laughed.

“I’m glad you think this is so funny.”

He put the van in park. His mouth twitched as he fought to control his laughter.

“I don’t like Xavier,” I said. “And he won’t stop liking me. It’s embarrassing.”

Amy floated down through the roof of the van, veered to the way back and started fiddling with something in the trunk. When she settled on the back bench seat, she had a self-satisfied look on her pert little face. Not good. Not good at all.

I pressed the button to roll down the window all the way and pasted as much of a smile as I could muster on my face. Roquefort promptly leaned forward to stick her snout out, snorting and sniffing the window ledge, leaving a wet trail.

Xavier’s wispy mustache, the one I wished he’d shave off, drew my attention as he leaned in. If he could shave the rest of his face, why not the hairs above his lip? He looked for a spot free of dog slobber where he could place his hand, then seemed to think the better of it. “Hey, Mr. Tildy, Heather. So where are you off to so early?”

Early? I checked the digital clock. Eight-thirty? Dad said that the day was half over when he sang me out of bed. No wonder Claire wasn’t out in the grapevines getting her quota of beetles.

“We’re doing a little cemetery clean up,” Dad said, then wiggled his eyebrows at me like the knowledge that I was into cleaning cemeteries would somehow make Xavier dislike me and solve my problem.

Unbelievable. He’d used the “c” word in front of Xavier, which probably brought back all the sadness of his brother dying.

“Cool,” Xavier said, shocking me. “If you could use an extra hand, I’d be happy to help. But only if it’s okay with you, Heather.”

Unable to dash the glee in his voice, I heard myself say, “Sure, why not?”

Maybe his brother had been cremated. Maybe that’s why he wasn’t leery of cemeteries.

Roquefort whined, so he patted her head and rubbed behind her long ears.

Having Xavier along wouldn’t be so bad. Sure, I wouldn’t get to spend the time convincing my father that I’d grown up and deserved to go to the beach with the rest of the family, even if I hadn’t finished my paper about late night escapades, but I’d find another time and place to prove myself to him. And it wasn’t like I couldn’t throw Xavier this bone. I mean, it wasn’t like anybody would see me with him in the woods.

Dad turned off the car engine. “We’ll wait for you to change.”

Xavier looked down at his oversized shorts, leather fisherman’s sandals with white socks. Yah, socks with sandals.

“The cemetery’s in the woods,” Dad explained. “There’s ticks, poison ivy. You might want to wear some pants, long sleeves.”

Amy pointed at Xavier’s feet. “I ain’t never seen shoes wear plumb away like that other than those slapping things you and your sisters wear to the swimming pool. Why can’t he buy new ones with no pieces missing?”

I had no clue how to explain sandals, much less socks with sandals, and shrugged.

“When we stop for lunch, my treat,” Dad added, “Heather will tell you all about her new hobby researching the family who had a farm around here.”

Stop for lunch? Stop for lunch meant eating in some public place. People would see me with Xavier. My belly button started to itch, and I fought the urge to scream ‘no way’ at my dad while Xavier practically skipped into his house.

As soon as he shut the front door behind him, I faced my father’s smirk. “You are so mean. Did you have to invite him to lunch, too?”

“Come on, Heather. He’s had a rough time of it, and he’s lonely. The least you can do is be kind to him. Xavier’s a nice boy.”

“Yeah, I know,” I grumbled. “Have you ever thought that’s the problem?”

I couldn’t stand the itching and lifted the edge of my t-shirt to glance down at the spot where the metal button on my jeans rubbed against my navel. The whole indentation was raised and red. I oh-so-carefully scratched the edge of my innie.

“What would it hurt to spend a little time with Xavier?” Dad asked, turning on the radio and tuning in WABE and “Weekend Edition” with Scott Simon.

Only what little hope left of improving my reputation, but don’t let that worry you.

“I know you probably couldn’t tell to look at me now,” Dad said, “but I was a geek in high school.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him not much had changed. “No offense to your former status, but being seen with Supergeek won’t exactly catapult me into the normalhood I seek.”

Dad adjusted his glasses. “Some day fitting in won’t be so important to you.”

“Yeah, like when I’m thirty-five and I’m married to some guy losing his hair, no offense again, and we have two kids. But I’m not thirty-five, I’m fourteen.”

“You’re funny, Heather,” Amy said with a giggle.

Dad sighed as if he was disappointed in me. I hate when he does that.

Time to change the subject. “I was kind of hoping I’d have a chance to talk to you alone, you know, daughter to father.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, like he didn’t really want to hear what I had to say. “Talk away.”

Roquefort chose that opportune moment to let another one rip. Yeah, I wasn’t happy.

While Dad used all the technology at his command to disperse the odor, including opening the back vents and putting the fan on full blast, Amy floated up to the front and sat on the console between me and Dad. “That dog’s stinkier than an unmucked pig sty. Can’t you plug her with something, like one of your Daddy’s wine corks?”

Although Amy’s idea for controlling the stink had merit, the best I could do in Mom’s van would be an art gum eraser. I checked the glove compartment, and found, oddly enough, gloves. No art gum.

I snapped the thing shut and glanced at the clock. Eight thirty-seven. Xavier would be back soon. It was now or never. “Um, I’ve been wondering. You still believe me about there being no ghost?”

“Mm, hmm,” Dad said.

“And you don’t think I’m, like, insane or anything, right?”

“Right,” Dad said, in a similar manner to the “yes, dears” he feeds my mom when he’s reading the newspaper and we all suspect he isn’t really listening. But then he surprised me by going into the details of why he believed me. “Your Aunt Geneva doesn’t have a ghost friend, either. She pretends she does because she likes the attention it gets her. In the art world any eccentricity is exploited, and it makes good business sense for her to have some quirk or gimmick. Here comes your friend.”

Dad took the car out of park after Xavier climbed in with a more than healthy dose of cologne. To impress me, I guess. Let me say right now, it didn’t.

The car beeped its displeasure that Dad hadn’t waited for the automatic door to finish closing, so he had to put it back in park.

Amy glanced at Xavier then pinched her ghostly nose. “He’s worse’n that beagle. Can’t you do something?”

I angled one AC vent toward my face and the other toward Amy’s.

Dad hiked an eyebrow at me, then gazed through the windshield at the road. “So Xavier, how’s your summer going?”

“Pretty good. I’m mowing some lawns for spending money and volunteering at the library.”

“The library. Hmm,” Dad said, then he glanced at me pointedly as we waited for the traffic to clear at the entrance to the subdivision so we could take a right onto Red Tip Road.

“Yeah. It looks good on a college application,” Xavier said, “and I figure learning my way around will help me in the long run. When it’s a slow day, I can look up stuff I’m interested in and read.”

“See, Heather,” Dad said, “some children do educate themselves without coercion. And they think about getting into college before they hit high school.” Luckily for everyone in the car, Dad didn’t launch one of his lectures.

“Speaking of the library, Heather,” Xavier said, leaning forward. “The suspension should be over in two more days.”

“What?” Dad asked, nearly steering off the road, before he jerked the wheel back.

I swung around to stare daggers into Xavier. What on God’s green earth made him think I’d actually told my parents?

And my dog had the gall to lay her head on Xavier’s thigh.

“It’s no big deal, Mr. Tildy,” Xavier said. Naïve boy that he was, he thought explaining would make it better. “She accidentally put a book into her backpack that couldn’t be checked out. Probably to make it easier to carry around and she forgot it was in there. It wasn’t like she was trying to steal it. She most definitely will be allowed to use the regular library again, just not the special collections.”

Dad’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. His knuckles whitened. “Really?”

“She wouldn’t have even been suspended if it had been her first offense,” he added, then had the decency to wince when he realized he’d tattled about my other infraction.

Okay, so now I was totally screwed. I’d willingly given up the whole ghost alibi, too. And if I went back on my word and said something like Dad, I swear it wasn’t me, it was that ghost I told you didn’t exist, I’d be worse than the boy who cried wolf.

“Pull off at the bottom of the hill,” I said. Determined to prove that old saying that the best defense is a good offense, or something like that, I added, “And just so you know, the only reason I got suspended was because someone made me write a stupid paper and I was forced to go to the library to do research.”

“No, siree,” Amy said, shaking her head. “The reason you got suspended was them beeping noises.”

His mouth pressed flat in anger, Dad pulled off to the side of the road at the bottom of the hill and parked on a flat spot of weeds near two posts and a chain blocking vehicles from proceeding. A rusted “no dumping” sign that I hadn’t noticed before hung from the chain links.

Amy left the car and sat on the chain, making it swing and creak. The June heat hit me in a slow wave as I opened my door.

Xavier focused on the chain seeming to move of its own accord. Using his hand to shield his eyes from the sun, he glanced up at the treetops, which weren’t moving, then back to the chain. He scratched the side of his shaggy-haired head.

Wishing I could somehow telepathically indicate to Amy that she really should stop swinging, I squinted in the bright sun and tried to get my bearings. Everything seemed different in daylight.

That’s when I noticed the other sign posted to a tall, thick pine with bark segments the size of Dad’s shoes strewn about its wide trunk. No trespassing. Violators prosecuted.

Amy saw the sign, too. She snickered. “I guess y’all won’t be venturing into those woods now.”

Every inch of my skin not already sweating, released its perspiration as I envisioned my name linked to Xavier’s in the weekly police report published in the Gwinnett section of the AJC. “You know, this may not be a good idea.”

“What if the police come by?” Xavier asked, apparently sharing my concern.

Not giving a rat’s behind about the sign, Dad got out of the van and opened the back hatch. He handed Supergeek a pair of Mom’s gardening gloves, the ones with the hot pink rubber palms and fingers. “Not a problem. Just say you’re visiting a cemetery.”

Xavier glanced down at the gloves dubiously, like he knew pink wasn’t his color, then slipped them on. Dad pulled on his own gloves and grabbed the sprayer. Roquefort hopped out and Dad grabbed her leash with his free hand. She didn’t even try to yank him along; she trotted at a normal pace for once, like she’d been trained or something.

Debating the likelihood of Dad’s claim that cemetery hunting was a get-out-of-jail-free card for trespassing on private property, I stayed put.

About a hundred yards down the path, Dad realized I wasn’t part of the expedition. He turned back toward me. “You chickening out?”

“No, but—”

“Stay here with me and swing,” Amy called out from her seat on the rusted chain.

“But what?” Dad asked, miffed that he’d gone to all this trouble and I was balking.

I pointed to the sign. “I didn’t see that at night.”

“I told you, cemetery visitors are exempt.”

If I stayed, Amy stayed and probably went on vacation with me, not to mention high school and college. No getting around it, I had to see that epitaph. “Fine. Let’s just go and get it over with.”

“Let’s not,” Amy said with a smirk.

Much as she didn’t want to, she came with us, pouting all the way as I trudged down the path, sweat trickling along my spine and into my panties. With each drip, I reminded myself of my ultimate goal. What was written on the headstone would help my haint move on.

“Follow the path until we reach the fork!” I called out to Dad who got way ahead of me and Xavier because Xavier was determined to match my pace no matter if I sped up or slowed down.

Every few yards he’d stare at me, so I looked anywhere but at him and noticed the brown thrashers poking around the leaves and pine straw littering the path. I guessed they were looking for worms to eat.

Amy made kissing sounds on her arm. “That boy’s over the moon in love with you.”

I glared at her, then adjusted the elastic band securing my ponytail. We made the turn, neck and neck, and saw Dad up ahead by the fork with a very well-behaved beagle.

“You should go back,” Amy suggested, her freckled face suddenly earnest with concern. “It’s against the law. I think I hear one of them sirens.” Only Amy said it like “sy-renes” and she followed up with an imitation wail that made Xavier glance back down the path toward the van.

“Go right,” I called, hoping Xavier would forget Amy’s siren, put it into gear and team up with Dad. No such luck; he stuck with me.

When we got to the clearing, Dad pointed out all the poison ivy on the trees at the wood’s edge. Bush and climbing vines—something else I hadn’t seen in the dark.

“You stay here in the shade, Heather, and guard the herbicide,” Dad said. “Don’t touch anything. Especially not Roquefort.”

The stupid dog, now free of her leash, was rolling in a big patch of the poison ivy.

“Where are the graves?” Dad asked.

I pointed in the general direction of the brick coping. “The rubbing I want most is on the grave laid out long ways. The rest of the family seems to be lined up in rows.”

“That ain’t the right one,” Amy lied, then disappeared.

“Found it,” Dad called back. He knelt down to pull away the ivy vines, not even trying to uproot the plant like I stupidly had. He just scraped it from the granite with his pocketknife.

“Toss me the backpack!” Dad yelled.

I handed it to Xavier, who at long last left my side and brought it over to Dad. Dad unzipped the bag and took the rubbing of Amy’s grave, then looked up and wiped the beads of sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

Wetness trickled down my own neck. Moisture pooled in the bends of my knees and elbows. My jeans stuck to my sweaty thighs. But the air to my immediate right was cool. Despite her protests, Amy’d stayed, which meant she cared, which gave me hope.

“Do you want me to do all of them?” Dad asked, probably praying I’d say no. But I needed to check those epitaphs and find out why mischievous Amy thought she was a murderer.

“Yes,” I said, feeling guilty that I was pretty much doing nothing but sweat when this had been my idea from the get go.

Xavier moved on to cleaning off the twin angel topped graves belonging to Amy’s brothers Robert and Andrew.

Once Dad completed the first part of his mission, he carried the rubbings back to me. One belonged to some Malcolm male who died in 1918, so I figured that accounted for Amy’s interest in the influenza epidemic. Amy’s father Harmon died in 1964. She obviously hadn’t killed him.

Noting that none of the headstones mentioned murder and that four of the death dates were in close succession, the twins Andrew and Robert, Amy’s mother Carolyn Malcolm, a couple of days before Amy, and then Amy. So technically, since she was the last to die, she could have murdered them, but I sensed that she hadn’t. I wondered what had killed them all, some illness? A fire? Maybe she’d dragged them from a burning building. I sorted through the newsprint until I found the rubbing of Amy’s headstone. The words were pretty, not the kind of thing you’d say about a killer.

Knowing she was lurking nearby, I read the epitaph out loud, “With heavy hearts, we commend to heaven sister and much beloved daughter Amy Malcolm” and emphasized the “beloved.”

“They just don’t inscribe headstones like that anymore, do they?” Dad said, kneeling down next to me. He pumped the sprayer. “What do you think mine should say?”

“How about vines on the brain?”

“Very funny.” He started squirting herbicide on the leaves of three I should have let be, making his way slowly around the plot.

“We’ll come back in a couple weeks and finish up, maybe replace the fence,” Dad said. “What do you think?”

I just wanted to go home and get these clothes off before the seams in my sweaty jeans started bothering me. “Yeah. Great. Whatever.”

“I’d be happy to help with the fence, Mr. Tildy, if Heather doesn’t mind,” Xavier said.

“She doesn’t,” Dad answered for me because I was taking too long to reassure the boy.

I was going to say it myself. Really. I’m not that mean. But I wasn’t looking to engage in any small talk with Xavier. Small talk is the first step to the inevitable “What are you doing Saturday night?” And by not getting all chatty with him, I was saving Xavier the inevitable pain that asking me out would cause. Because I’d have to say no.

“Thanks, Xavier,” Dad said, “We’d appreciate your help.”

Amy illuminated at their manly exchange. She twirled a braid. “Your daddy’s nice. Nicer than most.”

Yeah, he was. And sometimes, that was the problem.

Once we dropped Roquefort the incredible farting dog back at the house, Amy seemed sad again. I guess it was seeing the headstones of people she’d loved.

Worried as I was about how Amy would behave at lunch, I couldn’t beg off to stay at home citing that fear that my ghost would misbehave. Remember, I had already assured Dad repeatedly that there wasn’t really a ghost. If I tried playing that card now, I’d get more than a reprieve from lunch with Xavier. I’d get that psychiatric evaluation I was worried about.

Dad let Xavier pick the lunch spot, and knowing my luck, as you do, can you guess what place he picked? Yup, Sub-a-Dub. Pretty much the last place I wanted to be seen with Xavier during peak Saturday afternoon rush.

“Um, Dad, I think Audrey’s going to be there today with her friends.”

“And that’s a problem?” He asked, frowning.

In so many ways.

Chapter Eighteen

You know that thing adults say, about everything “going to hell in a hand basket?” Well, I never had a clue what it meant until this lunch with Xavier. I mean, I know what hell is. But what exactly is a hand basket? And how could you go to hell in one?

Let me set the scene for you. A sub shop crowded with everyone who was anyone at Pecan Hills High except the lifeguard of my dreams: my sister and her poopy friends who were glaring at me from their booth; my dad, who apparently thought Xavier was quite the catch; Supergeek Xavier, and let’s not forget haint Amy, who refused to accept that her family loved her and who had the potential to take out her angst on me and anyone in her vicinity when she got bored.

At least Dad had the decency to let me change into a fresh shirt and shorts, so I wasn’t completely gross.

I tried to make it seem like Xavier wasn’t in our party by looking everywhere but at him. Remember, I had that threat hanging over me (you know, Karen promising she’d dump my sister from her clique if I went out with him). I’d say the threat level at this moment had risen to red, i.e. extreme. Yeah, my skin was way itchy.

I counted the number of people—seventeen—who stood between me and the sandwich maker, then decided to keep my gaze fixed to the floor so Audrey and her friends couldn’t tell if I was talking to Xavier. I had the skills to survive this day. After all, I’d kept a ghost hidden from my family for weeks.

“Hey, Heather!” a familiar voice shouted. Tina?

I looked up and tapped Dad on the shoulder. I nodded toward Tina. “Can I? Talk, I mean.”

“Sure,” he said and resumed his squint at the large menu board, like he wasn’t going to order what he always did—turkey on whole wheat, twelve inch.

Tina smiled, so I knew the get well card wasn’t a fluke. Her dark eyes sparkled. We were cool. “Aren’t you excited about Suzanne’s party?” she asked.

“Uh, no. Should I be?” Why would I be excited about something I hadn’t been invited to?

I heard snickering coming from a nearby table followed by the word “geek” and “princess,” more laughter.

She cocked her head to the side and squinched up her nose; her ponytail swung. “Why not?”

“I wasn’t invited,” I admitted as the other conversations around me stilled. Thanks so much for making me say it loud enough that more people were now staring at me. My face burned.

Amy pushed Tina’s long ponytail, making it swish again.

Tina frowned. “But she said she would. I got my e-vite last week.”

I could tell she really was upset for me, like a good friend since pre-school would be. I guess I’d find something else to do that night. Mope perhaps. Moping sounded good.

“Don’t feel bad, Heather,” Xavier said, moving closer to me like someone was crowding him from behind—most likely Amy. “If she’s not going to invite you to her party, you don’t want her for a friend.”

But that was the problem, I did. If Suzanne deemed me as cool enough to invite, then my life could start changing. Maybe. If I could convince Amy to fly heavenward. If my pain-in-the-butt sister and her friends would stop making fun of me. If Xavier Monroe would find someone else to crush out on.

Tina mouthed, “Why are you here with” then slanted her eyes toward Xavier.

“Long story,” I mouthed back, then made the mistake of glancing over at Audrey whose beady eyes gleamed with feral anger.

“Do you two think I can’t read lips?” Xavier asked and placed his hand on my shoulder.

I shrugged it off.

Glancing down at the time on her cellphone, Tina yelped. “I gotta go. Call me when you’re off restriction, ‘kay? I’ll check with Suzanne about that invite.”

We eventually got our sandwiches, and, stupid me, I thought things would go smoothly once I’d maneuvered my body sideways to beat a family of four dressed in baseball gear and nabbed the open back-corner booth.

The booth, you see, has some advantages—it’s furthest from the door, it has a huge a/c vent blowing right on top of it, and best of all, my sister and her friends couldn’t easily see me and therefore Xavier.

Everything, however, started to go off plan when Dad didn’t notice me patting the vinyl seat next to me, which would indicate to most mortals that I wanted him there. Even nonmortal Amy had it figured out and shook her head sadly when Dad slid across the bench on the opposite side of the table, leaving Xavier with the option of sitting next to Dad or me. Guess which seat Supergeek chose?

At least most of his cologne had worn off and he wasn’t one of those guys with putrid sweat. I mean, I wouldn’t stick my nose in his armpit or anything, but his sweat didn’t smell rank.

Xavier pulled the epitaph rubbings from my backpack and started reading through them while Dad arranged his drink cup, chips and sandwich on the table. “These graves for this family, why are they so important to you?”

Tempted as I was to tell him I was trying to help a ghost of my acquaintance—to freak him out enough to get him to scoot further away from me—I didn’t. How could I when Dad would then wonder if Aunt Geneva was right? “I ran across the information in the special collections room, then researched it online. I suppose I found it . . . intellectually stimulating.”

Dad raised an eyebrow. Amy, who’d settled onto the bench seat beside Dad, hooted, ruffling my stack of napkins.

“Interesting,” Xavier said, his voice conveying skepticism. “Your answer is almost as convincing as the one you gave when you forgot to check out that influenza book.” Xavier laid Amy’s epitaph on top, not that she’d glance down at it.

I still felt a wee bit guilty that I’d brought the book back to the library without reading it, especially now that I knew some relative of hers died in 1918. I hadn’t started Little Women yet, either. My middle name should be Procrastination.

Wanting to tear into something, I bit off a huge hunk of my “Italian” sub. Who really cared if the bite was larger than lady-like? Maybe that would gross out Xavier and he’d stop liking me.

Dad scooted over an indignant Amy, then stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to the bathroom.”

I didn’t excuse him. I couldn’t speak with a mouthful of sub, so I pounded the table to let him know I wasn’t happy.

Now it was just me and Supergeek looking cozy without Dad.

Xavier sported a self-satisfied smile. I chewed and swallowed as much as I could without choking so that I could remind Dad not to take his usual amount of time, which bordered on forever.

Oblivious to the potential damage to my already fragile reputation, Dad headed off whistling and picked up a complimentary USA Today. Great. I’d be here for another hour easy. And in that hour, even more people would see me with Xavier thereby sabotaging any hope I had to ever be seen as normal. The longer I sat here with Xavier, the greater the potential for Audrey’s boot out. Plus, and this was big, Amy might get bored. The urge to scratch nearly overwhelmed me. But if I did, I’d look like even more of a freak. I fought it.

“So,” Xavier said, toying with his straw. “I guess you’re pretty upset that I mentioned the library suspension to your dad?”

Um, yeah. I raised my index finger to signal that he needed to give me a minute, then chewed and chewed. Amy floated through the table and pushed against Xavier who moved even closer to me and didn’t seem to notice it wasn’t by his own efforts.

What, I’d like to know, had happened to her keeping him away from me?

“Here’s how I’d like to make it up to you,” he said, a tease of a smile spread to a full-fledged grin with a hint of dimple. For a fraction of a second, I actually thought he was kind of cute, even with that stupid wannabe mustache. “I’ve got tickets for the Black Orchids concert June twenty-first. Thumb’s up for yes. Thumbs down for no.”

I swallowed, took a sip of water, and signaled a thumb’s down. “Sorry, we’ll be on vacation.”

“Then I guess I’ll just have to make it up to you when you get back.”

“You don’t have to. Really.”

I would have said more, something more about how he was nice to want to make it up to me, but that’s when Audrey must have decided her and her friends’ angry glares weren’t enough. She stomped over to our booth. “What are you doing with him and here of all places?”

“We’re eating,” Xavier said, spreading his hand before the feast of subs like she was an imbecile. I almost smiled.

“He helped us clean the cemetery,” I added.

“It figures. You did this on purpose, didn’t you?”

“No,” I said. And that was the honest truth.

Audrey curled her lip at Xavier, then directed her beady little eyes back at me. “You’re trying to make the whole family laughingstocks, especially me. When I told you I was coming here for lunch, that meant you and your goofy friend weren’t welcome.”

I felt bad for Xavier. I felt worse that I’d been thinking something close to what she’d actually had the lack of tact to say aloud. I didn’t want to be like Audrey. I didn’t want to treat someone else the way I’d been treated just because I was different.

“What is this?” she said, lifting the newsprint rubbed with Amy’s epitaph. “With heavy hearts, we commend to heaven sister and much beloved daughter Amy Malcolm. Don’t think we’ll be writing anything like that for you. It’ll be more like: With happy hearts, we commend to heaven weirdo and much ostracized . . . ”

Drew walked through the door, and all I could do was stare. He pulled off his aviator sunglasses and placed them in the pocket of his white t-shirt, which was just the right amount of tight to hint at the bronzed buffness beneath. I hadn’t seen him since he gave me a ride and dropped me off at the house.

Xavier was saying something. I couldn’t quite hear him because my heart was thudding so loudly. My skin even tingled like Drew was standing next to me, but he was at the other end of a whole restaurant full of people. Talk about chemistry.

His black Reebok pool slides squealed against the waxed linoleum as he took his place at the end of the line. Two cute girls in front of him with super straight flat-ironed hair turned to look and giggled, revealing mouths full of metal. That had to drive him crazy. People giggled at me for a different reason, and it drove me crazy. Hey, Drew and I had something in common.

He moved up to where I couldn’t see him, but luckily my heart had slowed to a normal beat so I could hear him order a foot long turkey and vegetable on whole wheat, with Swiss cheese, yes to banana peppers, no to jalapeños, which meant that he wouldn’t have hot pepper breath if he were to kiss me.

I closed my eyes and tried to imagine how he’d kiss me if we were dating and had come here to eat. While we were waiting to order, he’d place his hand on my back, showing everyone he was proud to be with me, that we belonged together. We’d split a sandwich and would negotiate the toppings. We’d both say no onions, no jalapeños at the same time and smile, knowing the other was thinking about kisses. He’d put his arm across the back of the booth, and when no one was looking, he’d lean close and softly brush my mouth with—

Xavier snapped his fingers in front of my face. “Earth to Planet Tildy. Do you copy?”

I pushed closer to the wall and strained to hear what Drew was saying next. “A chocolate chip cookie, super-sized sweet tea, no lemon and these.”

“What’s he getting?”

Xavier rolled his eyes, then looked for me. “An apple and a banana. Should I call the AJC, so they can put it in Peach Buzz?”

“Very funny,” I said, noticing for the first time since Drew walked in that Audrey had fled the booth. So had Amy. That didn’t bode well.

“A hundred and fifteen dollars for a combo? You’d better redo your math!” A man with a gruff voice yelled.

“I’m sorry,” the girl working the register said. “It must be a computer malfunction.”

More like a ghost malfunction. I pushed against Xavier. “Let me out.”

Xavier slid out of the booth, stood up, and stepped out of my way. “And where are you going? No wait, I don’t really need to ask.”

I believe I left a layer or two of skin on the vinyl seat as I emerged from the booth. Not a good thing for most people, even more of a bad thing for people with hypersensitive skin.

With the backs of my thighs throbbing, I peeked behind the counter.

Amy hummed a little ditty as she left the register and floated on to rising loaves of bread, which she punched down with a giggle. Bags of chips, popped one by one with enough force that the potato chips, pretzels and Doritos went airborne, like gold, brown and orange confetti, which then landed on the counter, the employees behind the counter, and the customers standing in line.

Concerned and shocked voices rose around me. I had to do something. But if I did, I might seal Audrey’s fate with her friends and my own as a bona fide weirdo.

Amy turned toward the self-serve soda fountain where Drew was standing with his large sweet tea in one hand and a plastic lid in the other. I knew what was coming next.

“No!” I shouted, determined to save Drew no matter what. Everyone but Amy looked at me, including Drew whose polar blue gaze stopped long enough on me to freeze the usual progression of the embarrassing flush rising up my neck.

Amy kept her back to me, the part between her wheat-colored braids straight as her spine. She pushed the lever for ice and a fountain of cubes spewed onto the grate, which quickly filled and flowed down onto the floor below. Not satisfied with the lever stuck in the on position and the growing level of her ice mess, Amy depressed the soft drink buttons. The spigots poured in a torrent, overflowing the grate, and cascading down the cabinet base like a class two waterfall.

“Whoa,” Drew said, backing away from the machine.

An employee in a yellow polo shirt grabbed a mop and a rolling bucket, presumably with cleaning solution in it, and rushed forward to do battle, scrabbling and sliding. The bucket’s sudsy contents spilled on the floor with a little gap-toothed ghost’s encouragement.

Okay, so I had a big decision to make here. Should I make myself more of an object of ridicule than I already was and brave the spilt cleaning fluid, soda, and ice to unplug the machine, which would at the very least give me a bad case of dermatitis, especially since I shaved my legs this morning? Or should I stay where I was and allow the destruction to continue?

“Stop!” I yelled a second time, slipping in the expanding lake of carbonated beverage, detergent and ice, and landing hard on my hands and knees. I crawled through the cold, sticky mess to the outlet like I was a freakin’ marine slogging through the mud to get past enemy lines in one of those World War II movies Dad watches.

“What does she think she’s doing?” A snotty voice, most likely belonging to Karen or Vanessa, asked.

The cold kept my skin from itching or maybe it was the hard tile under my bony knees distracting me from the scratch attack to end all scratch attacks that was sure to come.

At last, I reached the outlet. Wiping the concoction on my shirt, I noticed the rash already forming along my hand in the pattern of the poison ivy scar. I tugged the fat plug. A tiny current arced, and I thanked God that I wasn’t electrocuted.

You’d think my father would have emerged from the bathroom during some of this hullabaloo, but no. Maybe the fan prevented him from hearing the screams of horror and the machines going berserk. Maybe it was just my fate to always be in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong ghost. At least I’d managed to shut off the machine.

Expecting applause for my heroics, I rose gingerly to my feet at the edge of the pond. None came.

“Thanks,” the short guy with the mop said, as he swept the super absorbent strings in front of me. At least one person recognized that I saved the day. Of course, I’d been the one who brought my mischievous ghost to the sub shop. But I’d make it up to everyone. . . somehow.

Audrey’s friend Karen shouted, “Ooh, look at Heather. How long do you think it’ll take before she has a scratch attack?”

“Shut up.” Drew sent a pained expression in her direction. Oh, my, God. He defended me . . . sort of. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah.” I smiled at Drew across the icy soda pond. This was the second time in a month that he’d come to my rescue. My insides felt all gooey and melty like nacho cheese sauce.

Xavier was maneuvering to help me to dry tile, but I worried that would make Drew think we were a couple, so I moved in the opposite direction, which almost looked like Xavier and I were dancing as I picked my way around the ice floes.

Despite my best avoidance moves, Xavier managed to get to me and grabbed hold of my elbow as if I needed help walking, as if he were my boyfriend.

“Let go. I’m okay,” I said, with perhaps more irritation than was necessary.

That’s when the front door whooshed open. A man in a white, short sleeve shirt and thick black tie standing just out of the door’s trajectory widened his bloodshot eyes. He took in the destruction. “What’s going on? I leave to make a deposit at the bank and everything goes to hell in a hand basket.”

See? It’s not just me thinking it.

The boy with the mop looked up. “The machines and stuff went crazy, sir. I think it was a power surge.”

Karen cleared her throat and pointed at me. “No, it wasn’t. That girl, she’s, like, the girl in Carrie, and, like, we . . . ” she pointed to everyone else in the booth, including my sister, “we think she had something to do with the machines freaking out.”

Vanessa, Audrey’s other friend, nodded. “Yeah, and um, it wasn’t just the machines. She made all the chip bags pop. Well, everything but the Sun Chips. But, like, no one wants to eat those.”

Ever the staunch defender of my honor, Audrey remained silent.

The store manager trained his wild gaze on me.

“Believe me, sir,” I said, my heart pounding, my husky voice even huskier as I feared I’d somehow have to pay for all this destruction, which really wasn’t my fault. “If I had that kind of ability, I wouldn’t be wasting my time eating lunch. I’d be doing a show in Vegas and charging admission.”

Drew said nothing, but I knew he was thinking “you go, girl.” I mean, he hadn’t liked it when Karen played that car game with me and he’d told her to shut up earlier.

Something stronger than anger burned inside me, much like the rash heating up on the outside. I’d had it—with Amy, with Audrey, with everyone. I wouldn’t bottle up my feelings any longer. Who cared if people thought I was weird? Who cared if Audrey’s friends dumped her?

Adrenalin rushing through my veins, I picked my way over to Karen’s booth. “You know what? I may be weird, but at least I was smart enough to unplug the machine rather than sit on my ass like you and do nothing to help. And you know what else? I’m sick of you making fun of me for something I can’t control. I have hypersensitive skin. Deal with it!” I kicked Audrey’s foot, forcing her to look up at me. “And Audrey, impossible as it may seem, I’m even more sick of you. You let your friends be mean to me, you always have. You stink as an older sister. Family should come first.”

Amy tugged on a super straight strand of Audrey’s hair. “Yeah.”

“Like we care what you think,” Karen snarled. “Forget this, we’re going to Dairy Queen.” She pushed me out of the way. Vanessa tossed her freshly highlighted hair, then followed. Audrey remained seated, probably planning the best way to kill me, or dare I hope she finally saw how unfair they all were being to me? How she could find better friends?

Karen paused in front of the door. “Are you coming, Audrey, or are you staying with your weird sister and her even weirder boyfriend?”

“He’s not—” I stopped. There was no need to diss Xavier in front of everyone. He was merely an innocent bystander.

For the longest time, Audrey didn’t move. I dared to hope that she was going to stand up for me.

That’s when, all the while not looking at me, Audrey slid out of the booth and started walking toward her mean-girl friends.

It figured. I bit my cheek to fight the urge to cry. I’d sworn I’d never cry in front of her and her friends years ago, and I wouldn’t. Tasting blood, I focused on the fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling fixtures and prayed the tears filling my eyes wouldn’t fall. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

“Benadryl or EpiPen?” Audrey asked.

What? I glanced across the sub shop. She was standing next to the booth I’d been sharing with Dad and Xavier. She had my purse unzipped. I glanced over at her friends still standing by the door.

“You are so making the wrong choice,” Karen said and flounced out.

Audrey rolled her eyes. “You’ve got little blisters all over your legs and from your hands all the way up to your elbows, Heather. So which medicine?”

“Benadryl and the hydrocortisone cream,” I squeaked.

She’d picked me over Karen? I pinched my wrist. I wasn’t dreaming. No, this was all too real. Including the stare from the angry store manager.

He rocked back on the heels of his black loafers and eyed me coolly as Audrey brought me my medicines.

“My father’s in the bathroom, sir.” I said unscrewing the cap of the cream. I started slathering it over my shins and calves. “He’ll assure you that I have no superpowers.”

That’s when Drew stepped forward. “And I can vouch for Heather. She was nowhere near the register and the chips when they started going haywire.”

“Or the bread,” the girl in the hairnet behind the counter added.

“Thanks,” I said, my voice huskier than usual. I loved Drew. My breath caught. Oh, my God. I loved him. My feelings had deepened beyond crush.

“No problem,” my defender said. He truly was a knight in shining sunscreen.

Xavier shook his shaggy head like I was the one who didn’t get it—whatever it was. Amy, who was standing next to Xavier, bowed her head, placed her hands in the pockets of her pinafore and struck a pose, the perfect picture of a docile early twentieth century farm girl.

Drew glanced at Xavier who was still hovering around me.

“Yeah. Um, I guess you’re heading to the pool?” I said, wanting to prolong our conversation as I popped a fast-melt pill out of the blister pack.

Audrey snorted. Yeah, considering what he was wearing, my question was pretty lame. I guess the statute of limitations on being nice was up. In a few minutes, she’d realize what she’d done and how I’d ruined her life.

Drew bit back a smile. “Yup. Had to get some sustenance first, though. I didn’t realize you two—” He looked from me to Xavier, then back to me again.

“My dad is thanking Xavier for helping us clean the cemetery,” I said, my words tumbling out in a quick jumble.

Was he asking because he liked me? Or did he think I was a loser? “He’s in the bathroom,” I added for clarification. “My dad.”

Xavier poked me with his elbow. “You said that earlier.”

I cringed; Drew checked his watch. “Well, I gotta jump. Maybe I’ll see you at the pool soon and you can tell me why you’re first girl I’ve met who cleans cemeteries on summer vacation.”

“I’d like that,” I said, stifling my sigh. He was so cute and cool.

Drew gave Xavier a nod of acknowledgement, then headed out the door.

Once I realized I’d been in a trance, I turned to Xavier, who was staring at me like I’d plunged one of the Sub-a-Dub serrated bread knives in his back. Oh, my, God. What if Xavier had been looking at me like that while I was talking to Drew?

What if Drew still thought I was more than friends with Xavier? Drew wasn’t the kind of guy who’d go after another guy’s girl. At least I didn’t think so. He probably had the same feelings I had, but he was trying to hide them. Otherwise, why would he stick up for me and talk to me?

“So are we going to finish eating?” Xavier asked in an extremely annoyed tone.

I handed him my cream and the empty blister pack. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“You stay,” I told Amy, but Xavier probably thought I was talking to him.

“I remembered something I need to tell Drew,” I said and ran out the door after the lifeguard of my dreams.

Chapter Nineteen

“Drew!” I called as I crossed the hot asphalt lot, gleaming in the mid-day sun. “Wait!”

He turned and leaned against the open car door with his sunglasses in hand.

“I just wanted to make sure you know I’m not going out with Xavier,” I said in a rush of words that all blended together. I tried to catch my breath.

“Yeah, I got that from the whole dad taking us out to eat explanation.” With a twinkle in his pale eyes, Drew asked, “Why do you care so much about what I think anyway?”

My skin flushed. Please no hives, please no hives. “I don’t know. I just do.”

“Well, you shouldn’t. You’ve gotta be more confident, Heather. Who cares what anyone else thinks? And, even though you aren’t seeing Xavier, you should know you could do a lot worse. He’s probably going to get into some Ivy League school. And the way he looks at you . . . ”

“Well, maybe I’d prefer someone else,” I said, summoning every ounce of courage left in me to look directly into those glacial blue eyes. What I saw was that me liking him made him uncomfortable.

“Yeah, about that . . .” He glanced off into the parking lot, then covered his eyes with the mirrored lenses so that all I could see was the reflection of my own devastated, blotchy face. “Don’t you think I’m a little old for you?”

I wanted to say, “I understand, really. It’s okay. No big deal.” I wanted to slink off and forget this day ever happened. But I was stuck to the pavement, stunned and stung like the first day of sixth grade when I was eating lunch with a popular girl who’d gone to a different elementary school. She didn’t know I was considered a weirdo until this other girl from my elementary school came over and whispered in her ear. I couldn’t move then either.

But this rejection hit a million times worse. I loved somebody who didn’t love me back. It wasn’t because I was too young. Juniors dating freshmen wasn’t unheard of. It was the same old thing. I was weird; I couldn’t change my skin anymore than I could change my age or my sensitivity to ghosts. He didn’t want me.

He reached out and squeezed my shoulder. “Look, I like you, Heather, just not the way you want me to. You make me laugh, and that’s a good thing.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from crying in front of him. “Yeah,” I managed to croak without sobbing.

I mumbled something about having to go back inside before my dad worried about me. I stumbled away from him, tripping over a patch of broken asphalt to cement his impression of me as a funny girl, too young and weird to be girlfriend material.

Mortified that I was so soundly rejected, I re-entered the sub shop and found a sullen Amy playing with the neon “open” sign, making it flash off and on. Audrey, who now had to wait for us to drive her home, was pissed. Xavier was even more pissed. The only one in what I’d label a good mood was Dad. From the time I returned to the booth to find Dad scarfing down his sandwich and chatting away about his grapes to when we dropped Xavier off at his house, Xavier hadn’t said another word to me. It was almost like I was the ghost.

I tried to convince myself it was okay. He was Dad’s guest, not mine. It wasn’t like I invited Xavier to lunch. I still felt guilty. As Grandma says, that’s the problem with trying—it’s not doing.

When Dad, Audrey, Amy, and I arrived back at the house, Dad zipped out of the van in full throttle, leaving me to unload the cemetery junk, while he headed around back to check his scuppernong vines. I tell you the man is obsessed with a capital “O.”

I got out of the van.

Audrey groaned as she opened the front passenger door, hopped out, then slammed it behind her. “I hope you’re satisfied. You’ve ruined my life.”

“Ironic, isn’t it?” Yeah, I wasn’t exactly in the mood. “Here you’ve spent most of your life ruining mine, and it only takes one hour for me to ruin yours in return.”

“I should’ve left with Karen.”

“So why didn’t you?” I grabbed the backpack full of epitaphs and pulled the lever so the automatic side passenger door closed at its usual measured pace. How I would have liked to have been able to slam it. “Why for once did you do the right thing, Audrey?”

“I don’t know. I guess you made me feel guilty.” She looked down at the smooth floor of the garage. “You don’t understand, Heather. It’s like you think everyone is only making fun of you, but they’re always making fun of me, too, for being related to you. And yeah, the noble thing would be for me to tell them all to go ‘f’ off, but I’m not noble. I just want to be liked.”

I wished I could hate her for it, but how could I? “Me, too. God, you don’t know how much I want to be liked. Only the person I most wanted to like me . . . was . . . is . . . you.”

“Me?” She snorted. “Are you serious?”

“Forget I said it.”

“You are so twisted.” She came toward me slowly, then, arms outstretched like she was going to hug me. Audrey was going to hug me. “If you dare tell anyone I did this, you’re dead meat.”

“Thanks. Thanks a lot,” I said as she pulled me to her loosely. This embrace, if you can call it that, was nothing like a bear hug.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t hate you,” she added.

“Wait a minute. Isn’t this the part where you’re supposed to tell me deep down you’ve always liked me?”

She let go, laughing. “Drew’s right. You are funny.”

“Is this your way of saying you forgive me for making you choose between me and Karen?”

Audrey tossed her overgrown bangs out of her eyes. “You didn’t make me choose. Karen did.”

She headed into the house, and I think I was forgiven. I’m still not completely certain.

“Let’s play, Heather,” Amy’s voice drifted down to me from the vicinity of the garage ceiling.

I looked up and found her sitting on one of the door opener contraptions, in almost the exact same spot as that fat raccoon that snuck in last year when Dad left the door open all night.

I unzipped my pack, rummaged through the sheets until I found hers, then lifted the newsprint to show her. I read the words again. “With heavy hearts, we commend to heaven sister and much beloved daughter Amy Malcolm. See? They didn’t hate you.”

Third time wasn’t a charm. Amy still wasn’t convinced even though the truth was written in freakin’ stone. She stayed sitting up there pulling at the wires connecting the door opener to the electricity.

“Please don’t short out the opener, okay?”

She sighed. “’kay.”

I didn’t get it. “So if you know now that they love you—”

“You’re wrong.” She swept down and poked her finger through the paper. “That ain’t proof. That’s what people ‘spect when someone dies. You think my daddy would ask the stonecutter to carve something like Amy was a pain-in-the-patoot and never gave her mama a moment’s peace? You think he’d say, carve in there how she killed her brothers and her mother?”

Okay, she had a point. “So how did you kill them? Did you catch the house on fire? Did you give them food poisoning? What was it?”

She turned away from me.

“I’m trying to help you, Amy.”

“Am I really so hateful that you don’t want to have me around?” she asked, voice all young and trembly.

“To be honest, your pranks haven’t exactly made me seem more normal so I have good reason to want you to move on. But really and truly, I know that you’d be happier if you made peace with your parents.”

She scoffed. “You haven’t made peace with yours. You down right lied to your daddy. You told him you don’t have a haint.”

“Yeah, but I made peace by writing those papers. Telling him about you—that’s complicated. The point I’m trying to make here is that I know he loves me even if he thinks I’m a little bonkers when I do stuff like sneak out of the house late at night. Parents are that way. You know, they yell and scream when you make mistakes, but they love you no matter what.”

Amy hovered closer. “Maybe your mama and daddy, not mine.”

“And what about Audrey? If she can choose me over her friends despite the embarrassment I created for her, then can’t your family want you despite what you did?”

And then I felt it, a tiny flicker of hope in her little ghostly heart. She was trying hard not to believe the words written on her gravestone, too hard. She wanted me to prove her wrong. She wanted me to prove their love. But how could I?

If the answer wasn’t in the gravestone, it had to be somewhere else, like in the library’s special collection, specifically in that stupid journal she’d tried to steal. Problem was that I’d basically been banned from that particular room for the rest of my life. My only hope was Xavier, and I’d ticked him off more than usual today. He might just stay mad at me forever. But I could at least try to persuade him to help me.

I took a deep breath and rang the bell at Xavier’s house, noticing for the first time how the white glossy paint was peeling on the wood trim and how trash trees like pine saplings and Mimosas were taking hold in the pretty island in the front yard that featured dogwoods and azaleas. A few mud wasps were building a huge clay-colored nest in the corner of the side light window. A couple of others were hovering over the wilting lipstick pink impatiens nestled in a weedy crescent that followed the sidewalk’s curve. I hoped they wouldn’t suddenly get interested in my soda-soaked shorts.

An aura of sadness draped the house, and I felt even worse about how I dealt with Xavier. I mean, it was obvious that his parents were in a deep depression about his little brother’s death. Especially his mom. It was late afternoon and all the blinds were still closed.

“Doesn’t look like anybody’s home,” Amy said.

No one with a physical body. I sensed someone.

“Why are we here anyway?” she asked, seeming pretty happy. Probably because she had no idea where we’d be going and what I’d be doing if I could get Xavier to help me.

“I need to ask Xavier something.” I rang the bell a second time, holding my finger on the button longer, just to be sure.

That’s when I knew who I sensed was another kid, most likely Xavier’s brother. It was almost like smelling something cooking but not being able to taste it. The kid must not want me to see him.

Someone mortal, probably Mrs. Monroe, called Xavier’s name inside the house.

“Mom,” Xavier’s deep voice yelled back, “I’m getting ready for work!”

Her answer was too faint for me to hear, but whatever she said must have ticked him off because he cursed, and the four-letter word he used didn’t begin with “sh.” I was shocked, as Father Flaherty would also be.

Xavier pulled open the door part way. I got a glimpse of skinny, naked torso and towel. “What do you want?”

“To say I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” He started to shut the door.

I stuck my foot in the door’s path to keep him from completely closing it on me. “Wait.”

“I’m kind of dripping here, Heather, and I have to be at the library in twenty-five minutes. We’re expecting a big crowd.”

On a Saturday night, in the middle of summer? Yeah, right.

“The GASP meeting,” he said, like I should know what it meant. It was probably some meeting about extending school to year ‘round because we weren’t miserable enough with our reading lists and bridging workbooks.

He opened the door a bit wider, so I could see his face. I focused in on his wispy mustache. “Well go ahead and shave. Get dressed. I’ll wait out here for you. I’ll walk you to work.”

“I already shaved.”

“But . . .oh.” I removed my foot from the door’s path. Too bad I couldn’t remove the proverbial one from my mouth. I really hadn’t meant to insult him. It sort of slipped out.

The door slammed, so I sat on the steps waiting, debating how best to convince him to do something nice for me, especially now that I’d further insulted him by suggesting he shave that fuzz from his upper lip. He probably thought it was a mustache.

Amy started yelling, “Oh yeah? Well, I was here first.”

I looked down at her standing by herself on the sidewalk, glaring at the lawn. “What is your problem?” I asked.

She pointed. “Him.”

I couldn’t see him.

“Not uh,” she said, stamping her ghostly boot on the pavement without making a sound. “I lived here before this even was some fancy neighborhood. The whole thing belongs to me, including this yard.”

I wondered how many ghosts were in this part of Georgia, and if this one was Xavier’s brother. Whoa. If it was, why had he stayed?

“Hey,” Amy shouted in glee, “we can play hopscotch for it . . . . So what if that’s a girl game.”

Right about that time, the wasps became intrigued with the dried soft drinks on my shorts. I jumped up and ran down the steps trying to dodge them. “I need a little help here,” I called out to Amy, who thought it was funny and couldn’t bring herself to stop the wasps.

After what seemed to me like forever, Xavier came outside, dressed in khakis and a striped polo, the weak, little mustache still very much in evidence below his nose. Xavier smiled, revealing that dimple in his left cheek that I hadn’t ever noticed before today at Sub-a-Dub. “Dancing and talking to yourself?”

“Yeah, well, the wasps were going after me, and I was . . . practicing my apology.”

He locked the front door and started walking past the spot where I think his brother must have been standing because Amy waved goodbye to someone I couldn’t see.

I had to practically run to keep up with his business-like pace. “Like I said earlier, I’m sorry.”

“About what?”

“About hurting your feelings.”

He pressed his lips together and nodded. “And how do you think you did that?”

“By being so obvious about liking Drew in front of you.”

“Well, gee, thanks. What a swell apology. See you around.”

I had no choice. I had to blurt out what I wanted. It was now or never. My family was leaving on vacation Monday morning, and the library was closed tomorrow. Amy hadn’t said it, but I knew in my heart she wanted to be with her family. “Xavier, I need your help.”

He kept walking. “Right. I’m not good enough for you, but you need me. Why don’t you ask Drew to help you?”

“He can’t.”

“And why is that?”

“Because he’s not you. He can’t let me into the special collections room.”

“And you think I will?” He laughed bitterly, then he stopped mid-sidewalk. His dark gaze bore into me. “Do you actually think I’m such a doormat that I’d risk my volunteer job to help you?”

“Please, I just want to look something up about the family whose graves we cleaned this morning. It’s not like I’m going to take anything. I don’t even have my backpack with me. I just want to finish reading the journal I found.”

“I didn’t say you could read it,” Amy screeched.

Oblivious to the angry ghost floating in front of him and how his next words could escalate her anger, Xavier resumed walking. “This is the same journal Mrs. Turnbull accused you of trying to steal. Why’s it so important to you?”

I groaned. “I can’t tell you why I need to read it.”

“Then forget it.” He stride increased.

I jogged to keep up with him. “Xavier, please.”

“No.”

“Look, this is going to sound crazy to you, but I’m just going to say it. I feel badly that this kid who lived where I do died so young. I need to see that she had a happy life even though it was a short one. That’s all this is about. Okay?”

He paused, so I did, too, and gazed in his troubled dark eyes.

“What are you trying to say?” he asked.

“The girl who lived here, whose grave we cleaned, Amy Malcolm. All this—” I waved my arms to encompass the neighborhood we were leaving. “—belonged to her family. She died at a really young age. Ten.”

“Ten,” he repeated, his deep voice lower than usual. “Like my brother.” He looked away from me, but I could tell he was listening—really listening.

“I need to read her journal. I have to know that she was loved no matter what she did that was wrong.”

He didn’t say no. Was it because he wondered the same thing about—

“Stevie,” Amy said. Great. Now she was reading my mind without even being inside my body.

“Please, Xavier. If I could explain why this is so important to me, I would.”

“Try,” he said, glancing down at his watch.

Okay, I could do this, but I’d have to fudge the truth a bit. “This may be weird but I feel like I really know this little girl from what I read so far. She was a regular kid if a bit mischievous.”

“Hey!” Amy glared at me.

“If we’d lived at the same time, we’d probably have been best friends.”

“Really?” Smiling, Amy twirled, her calico dress and her pinafore spinning in a blue and white circle.

“Really,” I said, meaning it. “Amy thought her family hated her for something she did. I don’t know what that is yet. I haven’t gotten to the part in the journal where she explains.”

“Don’t read it, Heather. If you do, you won’t like me no more,” Amy whined. Obviously spending too much time around Audrey was taking its toll on her.

Xavier started walking again but slowly, so he hadn’t totally tuned me out.

“It’s like a puzzle. I have the edge put together, but I have to fill in the rest of the pieces.”

“No you don’t,” Amy said. “I’m perfectly happy here.”

Liar, I thought, hoping she’d read my mind again.

“You’re gonna find out you’re wrong,” Amy said, “I told you they hate me. My writing’s gonna prove it.”

Xavier rubbed his temples like I was giving him a headache. Who could blame him? I was verging on a headache myself. Getting kicked out of the library permanently lay on the line, as well as my trip to Jekyll Island, and possibly the rest of my summer, including Suzanne’s boy-girl party, if she would ever send me an invitation.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“Okay, then, I’m going to tell you a secret, Xavier.” What other choice did I have? I tried not to hyperventilate. “You are the only person I trust with this information and that’s because you know what it’s like to be treated like a weirdo, so I know if I tell you, you won’t share this secret.”

Xavier sighed. “Get to the point.”

“I will, but if you tell a soul—”

“I won’t. I swear. Anything to move this along.”

“Okay. You know the weird stuff that happened today? It was a lot like the weird stuff that happened that day all the books fell out of the stacks and the computers went haywire at the library, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Xavier shuddered as Amy settled on his shoulders for a ride. He looked from the tall pines bordering the no man’s land between the strip mall and the subdivision to the cloudless, breezeless sky for an explanation of the sudden chill.

“My point is that I’m being haunted, and that cold feeling against your neck and shoulders is the ghost of the girl I was telling you about. Amy’s riding your neck.”

“Right.” He felt around, and Amy giggled like he was tickling her.

“You can’t deny you overheard me talking to her at the movie theater,” I added.

He had the decency to blush. “So why are you the one being haunted?”

Don’t worry. I wasn’t about to get into the ghost-seeing being triggered by my period. Teenage boys don’t need to know this; they already think the female reproductive tract has magical properties. “I don’t know why I’m the one being haunted. This ability to see a ghost isn’t something I want. I’m just trying to help Amy. But to help her, I need you.”

He shook his head and resumed walking. “Just ask her what you want to know.”

“She won’t tell me. Please, I’m begging you.”

“I don’t know.” He jammed his hands in the pockets of his khakis. “So if you can see this Amy ghost, can you see other ones, too?”

“If you’re trying to ask about Stevie, no I can’t see him. But I can feel him. I know he was in your yard when I was waiting for you.”

“Why is he there?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t told me. I only recently figured out why Amy is here, and, to be perfectly blunt, I can only handle one ghost at a time, thank you, very much.” I blocked him from any more forward progress and gave him my best sad puppy dog eyes. “I have to show Amy her family loves her. If I can read the journal, I might find something that proves it to her.”

“What if you don’t convince her?”

“Then I guess I’ll start high school weirder than usual. Amy’s easily bored.”

He pondered my request for a couple more seconds, which passed like hours. Then he met my gaze. His dark eyes glittered with that mixture of hurt and love I’d seen before. I was sure the answer was no.

“Where’s the ghost now?” he asked.

Amy was off his shoulders, lollygagging behind us. She stuck her tongue out at me.

I pointed at her. “She’s coming up on your right. No, she’s darting to your left.”

He rubbed his arm and shivered. “You got any ideas on how I can sneak you in?”

Wait a minute. “This means you believe me?”

He nodded.

“This means you’ll do it? You’ll help me?”

He nodded a second time. “But we’ll have to keep an eye out for Mrs. Turnbull.” AKA the Library Dragon.

“I could kiss you!” I shouted, meant entirely figuratively.

Xavier grinned, revealing that dimple in his cheek. “No one’s stopping you.”

For appeasement purposes only, I gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “That’ll have to do.”

“For now,” he said.

Chapter Twenty

By the time we arrived at the Five Points Branch, Xavier and I had a plan. Amy still wasn’t crazy about me reading her journal, but she didn’t want to go back to my house either. Xavier would start working as usual. At twenty after, when the Library Dragon took her cigarette break, he’d unlock the special collections room. I’d wait in the ladies room for his signal.

I know what you’re thinking. With Amy’s track record, a place full of faucets and toilets wouldn’t be your first choice. It wasn’t mine either. Fortunately, Amy quickly tired of flushing the automatic toilets. While I waited for Xavier’s knock, she played with the water in one of the sinks.

My heart lurched at the three-two knock sequence. All I needed was the music from Mission Impossible and some black clothes.

I poked my head out the bathroom door. The Library Dragon was standing outside on the brick-stamped concrete by the entrance pacing and puffing on her cigarette. People were filing in the meeting room, looked like this GASP meeting would be standing room only.

I darted across the corridor and infiltrated the stream of traffic flowing into the main building. Amy followed on tiptoe as if we were playing Follow the Leader

That was when the lure of an empty computer carrel and the possibility of seeing whether Suzanne had e-vited me called like a siren song. Yes, I went to check my e-mail. Probably not my smartest move.

I’d gotten to my e-mail account and all was well. But before I could even check my inbox, Amy said, “Who You Gonna Call?”

Ghostbusters! My brain filled in. Wait, how could she know the lyrics from that old song?

Braids swaying, she glided down the hall toward the meeting room. I needed her with me in special collections. Now it was my turn to follow her.

Outside the room, an easel and placard stood with those exact words from the Ghostbusters song. Under the big question in all caps, a mention of the speaker of the day, Dr. Herman Sherman, president of the Georgia Association of Spectral Phenomenon, GASP for short. No telling what havoc Amy’d cause, but Xavier, who was guarding the special collections room, motioned for me to hurry toward him.

The sooner I got to the journal, the sooner I’d find what I needed to help Amy move along, but what good would any evidence do if she wasn’t in the room to hear it? I had to get her first. Plus, I was a little, shall we say, nervous about the havoc she’d wreak at this meeting.

Xavier stared at me. He lifted his hands. “What?” he mouthed. Apparently, he didn’t understand that I was actually saving his butt.

I waved him off, then slipped into an empty seat in the middle of the last row as a man, presumably Dr. Herman Sherman, took the podium and tapped the microphone to make sure it was working. I would have preferred a seat closer to the aisle, but such is my luck.

Amy floated around the man, looking at him from every possible angle. He was totally oblivious to her presence. Yup, I’d learn absolutely nothing of any help as I attempted to draw her out of here. That was, once I could figure out how.

The large woman seated next to me who was dressed all in pink down to the faceted ring she was wearing leaned toward me. Her ring winked as she tapped her pen against her legal pad. “Nice to see a young person here.” Her accent was nasal and flat, upper mid-west.

“Thanks.”

The parapsychology professor grabbed the edges of the podium with both hands and placed his mouth way to close too the microphone so that you could hear him breathing as he spoke. “I’m Dr. Herman Sherman, and I’d like to welcome you to our first meeting of the summer.” Big intake of breath, big outtake.

I wanted to suggest he step back from the mike.

“Many of you may suspect you’re experiencing paranormal phenomenon, and you might just be.” Spit, spit, breathe. “Most things you’ve read, or heard, however, are wrong.”

Whispering rose in the audience. I hoped they were recognizing Herman Sherman for the charlatan that he was. Amy was standing right next to him, and he didn’t notice the temperature cooling.

He held up a digital recorder. “This device, my friends, is one of your best ghost hunting tools. I want you to listen to what I recorded at a bed and breakfast in Savannah.” He depressed the button and kept twitching his lips like he was so proud of the static that sounded to me like “sp, sp, sp” he recorded. Not at all what real ghosts sound like. I rolled my eyes.

Delighted with the buzzing in the room, he clicked off his recorder and set it back on the table. “That communication is called electronic voice phenomena or EVP for short.”

I felt I needed to move the meeting along. The sooner Amy and I got out of here the better. “Do you think there could be a ghost in here today?” I asked.

Dr. Sherman smoothed his long-handled mustache. “Young lady, if there were a ghost in here, I’d sense it.”

Yah, right. “So you’ve seen ghosts before?”

“Not seen per se, sensed.”

Amy poked him.

“Sensed as in you felt the temperature drop?” I asked.

“No, it’s more of a hair-raising, if you will. The whole temperature drop is a fallacy.”

Amy rose high enough to lift the flap of his comb-over. He didn’t even notice!

Several members of the audience, however, buzzed over the hair. One, who must be as skeptical about this man’s abilities as I was getting, even shouted, “Well, I’ve felt cold spots in haunted rooms.”

“I can see I need to bust a few myths.” Dr. Sherman said, then made a big deal of opening his seersucker sport coat and draping it over the chair next to the podium. He straightened his bow tie. “Let’s conduct an experiment. Note that I’m taking a fresh scan card.” He wrote on the label. “I’ve recorded the date, the time, and Five Points Library. I will now place the fresh card in the recorder and turn it on. We’ll test the young lady’s hypothesis that there’s a ghost in the room.”

“I didn’t say there was one,” I clarified. “I just asked.”

He smiled at me in that condescending way people over thirty do. “Let’s move on to debunking some of the other things we’ve been told about ghosts over the years. For example, that whole tapping theory—recently discarded as malarkey in the Journal of Parapsychology.”

Amy giggled and tapped on the podium, then flew to the wall and tapped with her fist.

Everyone laughed. The professor laughed with them, like he’d rigged the room somehow.

“What about ghosts being tied to one place or room?” the pink lady sitting next to me asked.

“Now that, my friend, is true.”

What a joke.

I raised my hand. “So, like, if there were a ghost in this room—”

“Young lady, there isn’t a ghost in this room, but if there were, the ghost would be tied to this spot. All ghosts are tied to a specific haunting parameter, usually where they died. I carefully researched this library and can assure each and every one of you that nothing unseemly has ever happened here. There are no ghosts.”

Other than the one hovering next to you and humming something into your recorder, or the others hanging out in the children’s section with the kids they belong to. I channeled my inner Audrey and rolled my eyes a second time. I hoped Dr. Herman Sherman noticed.

“Besides it isn’t dark,” he added, his contempt for my stupidity evident in his careful voice. “It’s a documented fact that all hauntings occur between the hours of nine p.m. and six a.m.”

Amy hovered in front of the clock , winding the hands until the face read one minute after nine. She snickered when this man in the audience noticed and inhaled sharply.

“What about poltergeists? Maybe there’s a poltergeist in here.” The man said, pointing at the clock. “The hands on that clock moved. I think that girl is right.”

The man who saw the clock hands move leapt out of his chair took this electromagnetic device out of his backpack. It beeped more frequently the closer he came to me. “I read somewhere that poltergeist activity is somehow connected to females just entering puberty.”

“No. no. no!” Dr. Sherman shouted. “More fallacies. Let me repeat there is nothing otherwordly in this room. Allow me to prove it to you.”

Professor Sherman lifted his handy dandy recorder. “If there is a ghost in the room, we’ll be able to hear it. Please quiet down, so we can all listen.”

He depressed the button. His voice sounded out, recording the time, date and place. A space of nothing but him jabbering on, then “Aba daba daba daba daba daba daba, said the chimpie to the monk, Aba daba daba daba daba daba daba, said the monkey to the chimp.”

A woman one row up with highlighted flippy hair slumped to the floor in a faint.

“I have no idea. . . what?” Dr. Sherman’s face beaded with sweat.

Amy’s singing came through loud and clear on the tape, and even louder in the room, for me at least, because she sang along with it, eyes bright, cheeks flushed. “All night long they’d chatter away, All day long they were happy and gay, Swinging and singing in a Honky Tonky way . . . ”

I couldn’t hear the rest of the tape because people started exiting the room, and Amy followed them, springing briefcases open, unzipping purses. Dr. Sherman clicked the recorder off and glanced out at his dwindling audience, which at this point was—I glanced around—me.

Amy must have decided she couldn’t do much more damage to the man and made her way out while he packed up, muttering under his breath about the lack of intelligence in this county. Xavier was in the hall standing next to a cart of books as I followed.

He looked angry enough to spit. “What are you doing?”

“I had to. . . I mean, just don’t worry about it.” I glanced back and noted the speed at which the professor seemed to be heading toward me. “I’m going.”

I entered the special collections room across the hall, shut the door behind me, then plastered my ear to it and listened.

“Where is your superior? Where is Mrs. Turnbull?” Dr. Sherman asked.

Xavier remained calm, thank goodness. “She’s on her break, smoking outside. Is there something I can do to help you?”

“I should think not!” he harrumphed, then wheezed and stomped away.

I stepped away from the door just before Xavier poked his head in. “Stop wasting time, and don’t sit where anyone can see you.”

I searched the room and found Amy’s journal in a glass display case with a china cup and some quilt pieces. I tried to lift the lid, but the glass top didn’t budge. Locked.

Okay, now I needed her. Where was she?

I saw the miniblinds move slightly, and the room cooled.

“I know you’re here, Amy. You might as well show yourself. You’ve had your fun with the ghost hunting expert. Now, help me unlock the case.”

She didn’t materialize.

“Come on. I’m doing this for you,” I said.

“No, you’re doing it for you,” her disembodied voice answered. “You want to get rid of me.”

“Yes, but not for the reason you think. Amy, we’ve been through this so many times. Your mom and dad miss you like you miss them. Deep down you’re hoping I find proof of their love. Admit it. You wouldn’t be here with me otherwise. You’d be watching TVLand reruns with Claire.”

When she didn’t respond, I added, “This is it, your last chance to reunite. Because I’m all out of ideas after this.”

The cylinder inside the lock on the case clicked. I lifted the heavy lid, hinged like a piano, and pulled out the musty-smelling journal. Picking the carrel furthest from the door, I sat down and started reading.

Periodically, I’d stop and offer some tidbit that I thought would prove to Amy that her parents loved her. The homemade paper dolls her mother made her for her birthday, a chocolate cake at Christmas when eggs were scarce. Some of the things she’d written made me smile. Like the day she found her twin brothers tossing the hens in front of the chicken coop to see them fly.

All too soon, the door whooshed open, nearly giving me a heart attack. I slumped down over the desk, hiding as best I could and not breathing.

The footsteps closed in on me. And then, the faint cologne.

I knew that scent, and it didn’t belong to the Library Dragon. I popped my head up.

“She’s been back for half an hour,” he said, glancing at the door, checking the closed blinds. “Aren’t you done yet?”

“Uh, no.” I flipped through the pages filled with Amy’s childish scrawl. “So I’m not a speed reader. It’s like a couple hundred pages.”

“Well the longer you stay, the more likely it is that Mrs. Turnbull will catch you. And we do close.”

“Thanks for the added pressure.”

“Any time.”

He exited the room, and I had no choice but to skip some of what Amy wrote. I prayed I wasn’t skipping over something that would prove her family’s love and flipped toward the end.

That’s when how much Xavier had on the line struck me. He must like me an awful lot to do this. Maybe more than I liked Drew. My hands sweated like they had when I was standing near a railing at a scenic overlook in the mountains.

For a second or two, I wished I could like Xavier back the same way, but then I heard someone walking by the room and I knew the best thing I could do for all concerned was not think about him at all.

February 3, 1920

Martha Carrie didn’t meet me at the tree today after school and chores, which shouldn’t be much considering it’s still winter. She said she was feeling poorly and didn’t eat much of the dinner in her pail at school. At supper, I asked Mama if she thought Martha Carrie’d gotten the bad sickness that was going around last year. And the year before when it killed Daddy’s brother. Had it come back? She said she didn’t think so and smiled, but her forehead made deep furrows. I wanted to ask her more, but Daddy told me to quit talking and start eating, so I didn’t get sick, too.

Queasiness roiled my stomach. I should’ve read that influenza book from cover to cover. Then I would have known. It would have all made sense, the stuff about her killing her family, why she didn’t want her journal to be read, why she’d taken the book.

“The flu,” I said. “You gave it to your family?”

She nodded and faded in and out as she tried to choke back the sobs.

I knew I’d feel badly if I’d brought some illness home and it killed Claire, and Mom and Dad, Grandma. I wasn’t sure, but I might even feel bad if Audrey got it.

“Look, Amy, there’s no way they blame you. It was an epidemic. I mean, it’s not like you got sick on purpose.”

Her shoulders slumped. “But I didn’t listen. I gave it to them. They hate me.”

Dreading what I sensed was coming, I read on. The next day’s entry showed more worry for her best friend. Amy’s mother told her that what she’d feared was true. Martha Carrie’s whole family was lying in bed with this illness. Other people in town had it, too. The influenza had come back. Her mother and father decided they’d stay away from town for a while, and that Amy wouldn’t go back to school until the influenza had passed. Amy kept worrying about her friend. Who would take care of Martha Carrie if her mother was sick? Her parents made Amy promise not to try to see her friend. It was the hardest promise she ever made.

February 6, 1920

Mr. Cartwright came by in his wagon before the sun went down. He looked more like a bandit with a kerchief over his mouth than a store owner. I wanted to go out on the porch where Daddy was sharpening the knives and Mama’s good scissors, but she made me stay with her, drying the dishes. I watched from the window as Daddy left his sharpening stone on the porch and walked out to greet the man. They didn’t shake hands. They talked for a while, and he left. When Daddy came back inside the house, he grabbed me by the shoulders. “Little girl, you’d best be listening to me,” he said. “You defy me, and I’m gonna tan your hide good, now.” Mama looked at him like he was out of his mind, but he kept on scolding. “Don’t you leave this farm. You hear me?” “Yes, sir,” I said. He went into the bedroom he and Mama shared. She followed him and shut the door behind her. I listened at the door. “There’s three dead at the Camps,” Daddy told her. “All blue as indigo. The Smiths aren’t doing much better. Martha Carrie’s bad off. According to her granny, she ain’t gonna make it.” I didn’t stay to hear the rest. I just started running, out of the house, into the cold winter air, to the bare oak tree where we’d take turns swinging. Daddy was wrong. Martha Carrie wasn’t going to die.

February 7, 1920

I guess I shouldn’t have done what I did, but I had to see her. Soon as I heard Daddy snoring, I climbed out my window. All the way to the Smith’s place, I imagined myself being like that Clara Barton woman we learned about in school who helped all them soldiers during the War Between the States. I’d nurse Martha Carrie back to health. I’d be a genuine heroine.

When I got to Martha Carrie’s, their old hound dog Blue didn’t even bark. He ran to me and licked my hand. Now, Blue ain’t a friendly type dog, so it made me nervous. His taking a liking to me also told me he was hungry. If’n he was hungry, no one had been feeding him. The dog stayed on the porch as I pushed the door open to a house as cold inside as out. I heard fits of coughing coming from the one bedroom Martha Carrie’s family shared. I lit the oil lamp on the kitchen table and walked toward the coughing and the stench of soiled bodies. I’ll never forget the sight I saw. Martha Carrie was in her bed, piled with quilts, shaking with the chills. Mr. and Mrs. Smith were in the big bed. Martha’s mama was hacking so hard her skin was a pale blue, an even deeper blue were her lips, and there was blood on the coverlet and the pillow by her head. I went to the chest where they keep their linens and just started tearing. I brought the torn sheets to her and wiped the bloody froth.

I don’t know how long I stood beside the bed helping her, but finally, she stopped and slumped down onto her pillow, wheezing rather than coughing. Mr. Smith wasn’t moving much at all. I wasn’t sure he was even breathing. He was that same color blue and blood was seeping from his ears and the corners of his closed eyes. I watched his chest for some sign of movement and thought he might be dead, but I didn’t want to go any closer to find out. I wanted to run and scrub the sight of them from my mind.

I didn’t, though. I stayed and washed Mrs. Smith’s face and hands with water I pumped and carried. I opened a can of peas I found in the cupboard and fed it to Blue. I wiped down Martha Carrie’s hot face and hands. She’d twitch and mumble things that made not a lick of sense, but she didn’t have the look of her parents. That gave me hope. And where was her granny, I wondered. Why wasn’t she here helping? I didn’t want to look for her.

Long about daybreak, I heard wagon wheels turning, then halting in front of the house. “Amy!” Daddy called. “So help me, if I gotta walk in there and drag you out I will.” I glanced down at Martha Carrie. She was still burning up with fever. I dipped my rag in the bowl of cool water one last time and placed it on her hot brow. “Amy Malcolm, I’m laying down the reins!” Daddy yelled. I didn’t know that she could hear me, but I told her she’d always be my best friend. Not wanting a worse tanning, I walked out onto the porch and met Daddy on the steps. He sat down right there, took me over his knee, and spanked me until tears ran down both our faces. I told him he was hateful. He told me I was damned foolish and he brought me home.

February 9, 1920

Mama’s been watching me like a hawk, and I’m not sick. I even taught the boys how to play Jacks today. They can’t do more than twosies. I wonder about Martha Carrie and whether her granny ever came back. Every time I ask Mama, she tells me no news is good news.

February 10, 1920

I was a little slow getting out of the bed this morning and I have a sore throat. I didn’t tell Mama. I did all my chores, too.

February 11, 1920

I woke to Mama screaming. She came in to wake us and the twins were hot with fever. She kept saying over and over that it didn’t make no sense. How could they be sick if I wasn’t? Daddy yelled at me, “You brought it here!” Mama yelled back at him, “Amy couldn’t have brought it. She ain’t sick!” I wanted to believe the boys took sick some other way, but I knew in my heart Daddy was right. I went to make breakfast while she cared for Robert and Andrew. I was feeling very poorly myself, but I wasn’t going to admit it. It was bad enough that Daddy hated me. I didn’t want to lose Mama’s love, too.

The girlish scrawl grew wobbly.

February 12 or 13, 1920

I ain’t exactly sure what day it is. I’m feeling bad, but better than last night. I wanted to write what happened the rest of the day the boys got sick. Mama and Daddy kept arguing about it. I helped with the boys. During one of the fusses, Mama pulled me to her and felt my brow. Her hand felt so cool against my hot skin. She sobbed that I was burning up and something about all her babies being sick, and I couldn’t stand up any longer. It was like my bones were melting. I told them both I was sorry. And I don’t know that Daddy said it, but I could feel him thinking it—Sorry don’t cut it.

The next passage was much shorter. Ink blotches marred the even weaker handwriting. No date.

The twins died today. Mama’s sick now, too, worse than me. It’s all my fault. I wish I could die.

Then blank pages. The journal was another dead end. “Amy?”

How I wished I could make it all better for her. “Amy?”

I felt her coolness near me before she made herself visible. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I really thought I’d find something to help you.”

She whipped around the room, keening. “I told you. I told you the journal wouldn’t make a difference. I told you I killed them.”

She levitated the book off the desk and slammed it against the wall. It landed with a thud, backside up. “Do you see now why I don’t want people to read it?”

“Yes.” I walked over to the spot where the journal landed and leaned over to grab it by the back cover that tore off in my hand. Great. Now I’d destroyed library property. I flipped it over to see if I could somehow tape it back together and noticed handwriting far different from Amy’s advancing across the expanse of paper-covered cardboard in neat, bold block letters.

Oh, my, God. The entry was dated February 15, the day before she died.

Chapter Twenty-One

My voice shook as I read the words aloud.

“Dearest Amy, I hope one day you’ll forgive me for reading your intimate thoughts, but I needed to feel close to you, what with losing your Mama and the twins. You’re ailing so bad now I can scarce hope you’ll make it. I can’t believe you’re truly leaving me, but I know good and well your brothers and your Mama looked about as bad off as you right before they passed. I’m gonna miss you, my stubborn girl. I guess you get it from me. If only I’d been able to say I was sorry when you could hear me. This influenza ain’t your fault. You had a big heart, that’s what made you go to Martha Carrie. She’s still hanging on and getting better every day. Her granny says that’s because of you coming that night and helping. I don’t know no way other than through this book you was always writing in to tell you. Now you listen to me, baby. No one blames you, least of all me.

I love you, Daddy.”

My cheeks were wet with tears. I didn’t care if the Library Dragon herself saw me in here and heard me talking.

“Amy, see? He might not have let you see it, but he loved you, and your mom and Robert and Andrew love you, too. How are they going to get past twosies without you?”

My little haint started to shine.

“But listen, if you still don’t want to go to them, I don’t mind you sticking around. After all, you’ve never seen the ocean.”

Smiling now, Amy shimmered as if she’d been coated in the fine glitter dust Mom uses for her crafts. “No ocean for me. I have a family reunion to get to.”

“So you’re leaving? Just like that?” I asked. A little hole tore in my heart. Why wasn’t I elated? Her business in this world was finished. I would soon be free of her mischievous ways.

“Yup, I’m moving on.”

“This is it,” I said, still trying to convince myself it was really happening, still trying to swallow the lump in my throat. “I get to be normal now.” Well, as normal as a hypersensitive girl can be.

Amy giggled. “You’re silly, Heather.”

She faded to a spot of light that danced around the special collections room like a firefly. I placed the torn cover and the book on the desk of the carrel I’d been sitting in and followed my spot of light out of the special collections room and into the lobby where Mrs. Turnbull was helping another patron at the information island.

She asked the man with the beer gut to excuse her for a moment and headed straight for me. “You. What were you doing in that room?”

Amy illuminated to full figure again, so bright the glare hurt my eyes. “They’re waiting for me. Much obliged, Heather. You’re a good friend. Better even than Martha Carrie.”

I’d done something that weird Aunt Geneva couldn’t or hadn’t been able to do for her friend; I’d helped my ghost find her way out of this world. Maybe being me wasn’t so bad.

“How did you get in there?” the librarian asked, tugging on my arm.

Xavier walked over to us from the bank of computer terminals, but I wasn’t going to let him take the fall for me.

“It was open, and it looked like a good place to take a nap, so I did. Napping isn’t against the rules is it?” I spun around for her. “No backpack. No place to carry anything.” I pulled my pockets out of my soda-splotched shorts for good measure.

Amy laughed, then minimized herself into a spot that looked like sunlight reflecting. As she flitted around the ceiling, Xavier’s gaze followed her. A slow smile broke on his face as the reflection sped out through the doors which opened for Amy as if she were a physical presence the sensor could register.

The librarian turned to Xavier. “Has the door been malfunctioning all day?”

“No, ma’am,” he said, faking a wide-eyed look of innocence.

Mrs. Turnbull walked off to test the doors.

“You did it, didn’t you?” Xavier asked.

“Yeah, I did.” A flush rose on my skin, warming and tingling me. I didn’t itch. “Thanks for letting me in.”

“No, thank you,” Xavier said, bowing slightly. “The way I see it, you owe me at least two dates now.”

I wasn’t going to argue, not that I had any intention of going out with him. My guilt would find another outlet, maybe of the souvenir variety. I wanted to check my e-mail and started walking toward the computer terminals.

Xavier stopped me. “Um, there’s no point in looking.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You left your e-mail open. Nothing from Suzanne. But you shouldn’t let it bother you. She has no idea how cool you are, Princess.”

“You did not call me that.”

He just smiled at me like we were some couple, which we weren’t.

“I gotta go,” I said. “Oh, and you’d better get the journal back in the case. I think I left it sitting out.”

Xavier started walking at a fast clip toward the special collections room, but halted. “I didn’t open the case. How did you—”

“I didn’t,” I said, then slowly pivoted on my heel and headed out of the library, past the sensors, which for once didn’t beep. Yay, me!

When I got outside into the early evening air filled with the sound of wasps buzzing around the shrubbery, wasps that would soon be attracted to my shorts, I called out, “I’ll miss you, Amy.”

I didn’t care if anyone thought I was weird, and I don’t know if she heard me, but I’d like to think she did.

As I strolled along the brick-stamped concrete toward the sidewalk, a Prius the same silver gray as my dad’s pulled into the parking lot. The driver slowed to a stop; the engine stilled as hybrids do, and the compact tinted window lowered. It was Dad.

“Hey, you want a ride?” he asked, then adjusted his brown polarized sunglasses.

Like I was going to say no. I walked around to the passenger side, settled into the leather seat, and buckled the belt. Then I realized something must be wrong.

I became aware of the skin surrounding my earrings in a way I’d never been aware of it before. My earlobes were on fire, and I knew these babies were nickel free.

“Am I in trouble?” I asked, carefully scratching around the supposedly hypoallergenic post.

“No,” he said, eyes on the road.

“Is Grandma sick?”

“No.” He smiled. “Can’t I come pick you up and save you from a walk home just because I’m a nice guy?”

“No,” I said, grinning back, glad that we could tease each other again.

“All right, you got me. I do have a reason for driving you home.” He turned out of the parking lot and onto Five Points Road. “Consider it a reward for writing an excellent paper on underage drinking.”

“Really? You thought it was good?”

He nodded. “I did. How’s the other paper coming? Are you going to make the deadline tomorrow?”

“I think so. I mean, I have all my notes at home and a detailed outline. I just have to keyboard it.” We turned onto Red Tip Road, then made a quick right into the neighborhood, passing the pool, then Xavier’s house. “How’d you know I was at the library?”

“Xavier’s mom saw you walking with him. Did they let you off your suspension a few days early?” He asked.

“Something like that.”

“The manager of Sub-a-Dub called,” Dad said. “He wanted to commend you for thinking to unplug the machine. He said when you’re old enough and want a job to give him a ring. In the mean time, he’s sending you a gift card to say thanks.”

“Really? Sweet.” Not the iPod downloads, but I could live with it. “How’s Audrey?”

“Holed up in her room. You and Xavier friends again?”

“Sort of. I mean, he’s talking to me.” And I gave him a peck on the cheek. Probably shouldn’t have done that. It might rekindle his hope. “Um . . . Dad? If I do just as well on the sneaking-out-at-night paper, what do I get?”

“A job well done is its own reward,” Dad said, breaking into the geekiest of grins. “That and vacation, and all your junk back, and, I guess, permission to go to your first boy-girl party.”

He reached back to the seat behind me, easily since this was a compact car, and tossed me a fancy postcard invitation I’d received via snail mail. Suzanne didn’t hate me, or should I say hate me enough to exclude me?

For some reason, though, I wasn’t excited. At all. You think you want something and then when you get it, you see that it’s no big deal. I wanted to be elated, but I wasn’t.

“Shouldn’t you be squealing? When Claire saw the invitation in the mail, she jumped up and down in the kitchen and it wasn’t even for her.”

I shrugged. “I think I’ll send my regrets.”

“Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I guess deep down I know Suzanne only invited me because Tina told her to. I want to be liked for who I am.” Weirdness and all. And it only took a ghost for me to figure out that I deserved it.

“You know what, Heather?” Dad said, pulling into the driveway. “I’m proud of you.”

I hugged him. Amy was right. My dad was nicer than most.

Wednesday, Jekyll Island, Georgia

From my spot on the widening beach, I straightened Roquefort’s sunglasses, courtesy of a certain older sister. It’s sad what can happen to people who hog all the Fritos.

The salty wind lowered slightly, and I toasted red Powerade with Claire, who was sitting next to me, enlightening me about the latest fashion trends. Life couldn’t get much better than watching the tide go out in the setting sun.

Even better, no one on Jekyll Island knew my nickname or my reputation for being weird. Walking Roquefort didn’t even feel like a chore, especially since I got to see more of the beautiful wind-bent oak trees and cute boys who also had dog-walking duty.

I assessed my summer so far. Yes, I’d made Drew notice me but not in an altogether positive way. Time away from the pool might make his heart grow fonder. At least he liked me as a friend. And it wasn’t like he actually said I was too much of a weirdo. Drew’s like could grow into something more, right? If I could help a ghost move on, I could do anything.

And Xavier would get over me eventually, I thought, adjusting my four towels to ensure that sand didn’t get inside my bathing suit and exfoliate parts of me I didn’t want exfoliated.

Maybe some other future member of the Pecan Hills High debate team would walk into the Five Points Branch while I was gone and rock his world. I smiled to myself. Stranger things had happened—literally.

I missed Amy, but it was great to be ghost-free. I could really enjoy the rest of my vacation. Well, other than having to deal with Audrey.

“Has anyone seen my sunglasses?” Audrey’s whine rose from the hacienda’s porch and drifted down the weathered steps to where Claire and I sat.

Knowing exactly where those sunglasses were and not ready to share that information with my sister, I glanced toward the curling waves and noticed a buxom elderly lady in an old-fashioned, red one-piece bathing suit and plastic flowered cap. She’d walked by at about the same time in the same suit and cap for the past two nights. Old folks are such creatures of habit.

She waved at me. I waved back. People were so friendly at the beach.

Roquefort sat up and barked repeatedly at the old woman.

“Quit,” Claire said, lowering her Teen Vogue. “Why is she barking?”

I removed my sunglasses and studied the pudgy woman strolling through the surf, oblivious of her wedgie to end all wedgies. She couldn’t be more than thirty feet from us. Surely my sister could see her as clearly as the woman’s footprints in the sand—um, oddly enough, the woman wasn’t leaving any impressions in the sand.

Roquefort switched to a low growl, and the sunglasses skewed sideways on her snout.

My top-most towel’s terry cloth knubs prickled against the sticky layer of SPF fifty on my back. If I could see this old lady, and the dog could see her, and Claire couldn’t, it meant one thing, and one thing only.

Pulse racing, I stood up. “Come on, Roquefort.”

Claire set her magazine down on the stack piled next to her. “What’s wrong? Where are you going?”

“It’s time for a walk,” I said.

No way should anyone have to spend eternity with a wedgie.

The End

Heather’s Ghost Handling Rules
(Full Official Rule Book Version)

•      People who had imaginary friends as young children have the ability to see ghosts later in life, and it tends to run in families, like me and Aunt Geneva.

•      Imaginary friends ARE ghosts. Don’t let anyone ever tell you different.

•      Ghosts wear their favorite outfit.

•      Ghosts don’t always want to move on.

•      Some physical or emotional event reawakens a ghost handler’s sensitivity to detecting ghosts.

•      Some ghosts show themselves to only one person. Other ghosts reveal themselves to anyone with the ability to see. It’s the ghost’s choice, which can really suck.

•      Ghost handlers can sense a spirit’s presence even if the ghost doesn’t reveal him or herself to the handler, which also sucks.

•      The longer dead a ghost is, the longer it takes the ghost to recover from levitating objects.

•      If the ghost wants to move something really heavy, he or she will have to enter the handler’s body.

•      A ghost handler’s job is to help the ghost resolve something that is keeping him/her in this limbo between worlds.

•      Ghosts sometimes are there to help the handlers learn something, but they don’t just, like, tell you. They make you figure it out.

•      Ghosts can also make themselves more corporeal than spirit so that people can feel their touch. But the longer dead they are, the weaker this ability becomes.

•      Once a handler acknowledges a ghost, the ghost can enter the handler and move about within the haunting parameters, space allotted for haunting. Yeah, that sucks, too.

•      If the ghost does something nice for the handler, (warning: the good deed might not seem all that nice), and the handler gives permission, the ghost can accompany the handler outside the haunting parameters, which super sucks.

•      If the ghost does two nice things for the handler, the ghost can accompany the handler outside the haunting parameters without permission. Can you say super-duper sucks?

•      If the ghost does three nice things for the handler and the handler has helped the ghost solve his or her problem, the ghost can move about freely and move on to the next realm, which is really nice IF they do it.

Coming Next!

HAINTED LOVE

Maureen Hardegree

Book Two of The Ghost Handler Series

What’s a girl to do when her first ever summer romance turns

out to be . . . a little ghostly?

Yes, life didn’t get much better than watching cute boys ride skimboards during an almost ghost-free vacation at the beach. I, Heather Tildy, hypersensitive ghost handler, soon to be ninth grader and number one fan of gorgeous lifeguard Drew Blanton, had quite handily disposed of the one ghost I’d encountered since arriving in coastal Georgia.

I had the rest of this week and the next to relax. “Relax” being a relative term because Aunt Geneva, the only other person in our family who has the ghost-seeing gene, was spending next week with us. Aunt Geneva was all open about her ability; I was deep in the closet. I’d told this geeky boy in my neighborhood to convince him to help me into the special collections room at the library—the means of liberating me from my first ghost.  I had enough attention-getting quirks to achieve weirdo status in my high school; I had no intention to add seer-of-ghosts to the mix, nor was I jonesing to take the family queen of weird crown from Aunt Geneva.

Of course, I was a tad worried that Geneva would bring her personal ghost with her. I guess she keeps him like a pet, not that I’d ever seen him. My policy is to move those ghosts along. Apparently, ghosts get to choose if we see them.

We were staying in the dorkily named Hacienda House. With its barrel-tiled roof and Spanish arches, the place looked like it belonged in some south Florida resort. Most of the houses on Jekyll Island were 1960’s ranches, which looked like they belonged in an Atlanta suburb and weren’t beachy at all. Thanks to all the dunes and wind-twisted oaks, you really couldn’t see all that much of the ocean, even though we were beachfront. My sister Audrey complained about the extreme tides, which I thought were pretty cool. Whenever high tide was in, we had no beach and therefore had to find other activities to entertain ourselves. Audrey also whined about the crow’s nest bedroom she, as oldest, picked. The sun woke her up too early for sufficient beauty sleep. That’s how I got my own room at the beach, and how Audrey and Claire ended up sharing one.

Dad golfed a lot and called the neighbors back home to check on his grapevines. Yes, he’s still obsessed with fermenting the perfect muscatel. Mom, who continued wearing her message t-shirts, even on vacation, set up her easel and painted watercolor landscapes. Grandma MacCormack read paperbacks and did all the cooking. Of course my sisters Audrey, Claire and I had our dish duty rotation, even on vacation. And I was still serving my dog walking punishment for sneaking out of the house in order to help Ghost Amy. It’s a long story, and she’s gone to be with her family to my great relief. A girl can only take so much punking.

Anyway, during one of these high tides, my sisters and I decided to head over to the old bookstore and fudge shop on the Jekyll Island Club property. While in the bookstore, the two clerks found out where we were staying and mentioned that the boy who’d stayed at our rental house drowned a few weeks before. Talk about spoiling my mood. My spirits, so to speak, dampened further when I noticed the sign on the bookstore’s stairwell “Don’t mind our ghost.”  I didn’t want to see any more ghosts. I wasn’t going upstairs, and I wasn’t doing the cottage tour, either, for the same reason. People who find hauntings fun have never had a ghost inhabit their bodies and make them do crazy stuff, which they then get punished for. I’d just hang at the pseudo-hacienda. After dealing with Ghost Amy, I should have a get-out-of-helping-any-other-entities card. I was on vacation!  Audrey was in a real funk because she only had five hours to get ready for her date with some boy she’d met on the beach.

Later that night, after Mom and Dad went to bed, I caught her and the boy in the middle of a smooch fest on the screened porch. Yup, I had dirt on Audrey. I decided to bide my time before blackmailing her with it.

The next day, my sisters and I moved down the beach during high tide to watch the cute boys skimming by. They were actually checking us out. I was fully prepared to get my flirt on, especially when one boy, a daredevil with shaggy brown hair and a mischievous smile, directed at me, I swear, skimmed past the other boys—the perfect antidote for my broken Drewdreams.  I tried to point out my cute boy when the rest broke for lunch, but I couldn’t find him. I figured he must have gone home.  In hindsight, that should have been clue number one.

Acknowledgements

I’d like to thank. . .

My patron, muse, or, as others call him, my husband;

My daughter who challenged me to try my hand at writing for young adults,

My mom and dad who were disappointed when they weren’t acknowledged in my master’s thesis,

My sisters who taught me the ins and outs of sibling rivalry,

My brother who had nothing to do with this book but will be ticked off if he isn’t mentioned here,

My critique partners and writing friends who read several versions of this book and never complained when asked to take another look (Berta, Michelle, Nancy, Carla, Diana, Missy, Lindi, and Margaret),

My friends Heidi, Sherri, Alice, and Anna who are my biggest cheerleaders,

My friend and photographer Penny for her considerable skills and unflagging support,

My daughter’s friend Chelsea for providing a teen reader’s perspective and for allowing me to use her completely spontaneous quote, “My stomach just about fell out of my butt,”

And Deb Smith for being a wonderful editor (i.e. she let me keep the above acknowledgements).

A special thanks also to Wet Noodle Posse friends and to Georgia Romance Writers, the organization that taught me the business side of writing and introduced me to some fantastic critique partners as well as the founders of BelleBooks and Bell Bridge Books.

About Maureen
Hardegree

Although author Maureen Hardegree concedes to having all the usual baggage of a middle child, she is NOT a ghost handler. She does, however, believe in connecting with her inner teenager and in feeding her active imagination—it likes Italian food and chocolate. When she’s not writing, she’s working on costumes for the Northeast Atlanta Ballet . . . or doing the bidding of her husband, daughter, and cats Pixie and Turnip Ann. Visit Maureen at www.maureenhardegree.com.