Ghost of a Chance (15 page)

Vivienne thinks about it. Her instinct is to be a brat and tell Madison no way. But she wants that magazine so bad. I can almost see the struggle going on inside her.

“I don't think we should do that,” Brandon says. “If her parents don't want her reading the magazine, then we shouldn't give it to her.”

He's not trying to use reverse psychology or anything. Brandon's a good person—he really is saying that he doesn't think it's a good idea to bribe Vivienne.

But his remark is enough to push Vivienne over the
edge. The thought of her parents not wanting her to have that magazine is enough to make her want it even more.

“Deal,” she says. She picks up her pencil and starts to scribble away at the problems. I glance over her shoulder. Wow. She's actually very good at fractions. She's not even asking for help. I wonder why she's enrolled in tutoring, but then I realize it's probably because she just refuses to do her work, not because she's not capable. She's done with most of the problems in, like, a minute. And from what I can see, they're all correct.

And it's a good thing, too, because Mr. Jacobi is arriving at our table.

“Wonderful,” he says, beaming down at us. “Just wonderful.” That's the nicest thing Mr. Jacobi's ever said to me. He even pats me on my shoulder as he walks by.

“Done,” Vivienne says a few moments later. She sets her pencil down and then holds her hand out. “Give me the magazine.”

Madison rolls her eyes, like she can't believe Vivienne is being so demanding. Which is funny, since Madison is the most demanding person I know. “We have to check your homework first,” she says. “To make sure it's right.”

Micah is back at the table now.

“Micah,” Madison commands, “check her work.”

“I'll check it,” Brandon says quickly, pulling the sheet across the table toward him. Even though Micah is an
eighth grader, Brandon obviously doesn't trust him to know what he's doing. And he's probably right not to. Even if Micah is good at math (which I don't know if I believe or not), he definitely wouldn't do a thorough job. The kid spent the last half hour playing soccer with a wadded-up piece of paper.

“Looks good to me,” Brandon says after a minute. He passes me the paper. “What do you think, Kendall?”

My face flushes in pleasure, not only that Brandon's actually talking to me but that he has enough faith in my math abilities to ask me for my opinion.

I look the paper over.

“Come on,” Vivienne whines. “We don't have all day.”

Madison snorts, like this is the funniest joke ever.

“Looks right,” I say, giving Vivienne her paper back.

“Gimme,” Vivienne says.

Madison takes her time handing Vivienne the magazine. Vivienne runs her fingers over the cover, like she's got some sort of precious jewel or something.

“So, what are we supposed to do now?” Micah asks. He flicks his makeshift ball off the table and onto the ground. “I'm bored of playing ball.”

Madison gets a wicked grin on her face. “Let's play truth or dare,” she says.

“I don't think that's a good idea,” I say, glancing pointedly at Vivienne. Not to mention we're at school. Who
plays truth or dare at school? That's ridiculous.

“What's wrong?” Madison asks. “You scared?” And then I realize why she's so enthusiastic about playing. She probably wants to ask me all kinds of embarrassing questions, like if I want to kiss Micah or if Brandon was my first boyfriend. (No and yes.)

“I'm not scared,” I say. “I just—”

“Good,” she says. “Then truth or dare?”

“Madison,” Brandon says, looking uncomfortable. “Come on.”

“I'll play,” Micah says. “I love dares.”

“I'm not asking you,” Madison says, all irritated. “I'm asking Kendall.”

“When my friends and I play truth or dare, we do ding-dong dash in my neighborhood,” Vivienne reports. She sounds proud, like this is some kind of huge accomplishment we should all be impressed with.

Everyone ignores her.

“Kendall,” Madison repeats. “Truth or dare.”

I swallow, not exactly sure what to do. If I refuse to play, everyone will think it's because I'm afraid of being humiliated. If I pick truth, Madison's going to ask me some totally personal and humiliating question, probably about Brandon. If I pick dare, she's going to dare me to do something equally ridiculous, like kiss Micah in the library in front of everyone.

Micah's drumming his fingers on the table, bored, and Brandon's looking down at his notebook, like he's embarrassed for me. I don't know what to do.

But I'm sick of not doing anything, and I'm sick of being afraid of Madison. So before I even know what's happening, I say, “Dare.”

Madison looks surprised, but then her face curls into an evil smile. “I dare you to tell us what really happened between you and Brandon.”

“Madison,” Brandon says sharply. “Knock it off.”

“Why?” Madison opens her eyes all wide and innocent. “What's so bad about it? I mean, she broke up with you, right? Because she likes Micah.”

Brandon looks away again, down at the floor.

“Right,” Micah says proudly, puffing out his chest.

“You guys used to be boyfriend-girlfriend?” Vivienne asks, looking interested for the first time since she got here.

“So answer it,” Madison says.

I swallow hard. Obviously, Brandon isn't going to correct her. He's too nice to tell her what really happened. And if I wanted to, I could call Madison out and say that her dare doesn't count, because really, it's more of a truth. If I wanted to, I could come up with lots of excuses and lies.

But I don't.

Because something happens in that moment. I get sick of lying. I get sick of hiding things. I get sick of pretending to be something that I'm not.

I mean, look where all the lying and pretending has gotten me. Nowhere.

So before I know it, I'm saying, “Brandon and I broke up for a personal reason,” I say.

“Duh,” Madison says. “That's why it's called a dare. If it's not at least a little personal, then who would care?”

“I'm not going to say what the reason was,” I say, “because that's between me and Brandon. But I will say that I never meant for things to end the way they did, and that I still care about him a lot.”

My voice catches on that last part, and I'm looking down at my folder, not trusting myself to look up. I don't want to have to see what Brandon's reaction is, and I don't want to have to see Madison's face either.

And then, just when I feel like maybe I can't take it anymore, that I'm going to
have
to look up to see if I can tell what Brandon thinks about what I just said, Mr. Jacobi calls our attention to the front of the library.

I turn around in my chair and look at Mr. Jacobi, and blink back my tears, hoping I'm not going to start crying right here in front of everyone.

“Today was a grand success,” Mr. Jacobi says. “Please say good-bye to your students and then follow me outside
to begin our walk back to the middle school.”

The library explodes into a cacophony of voices and chairs scraping across the floor. But I don't bother to say good-bye to Vivienne, or anyone else. Instead, I just push my chair back and head for the exit.

I'm the first person
on my late bus, and so I choose a seat all the way toward the back. It's starting to get dark, and the light from the streetlights bounces off the dusting of snow that's coating the streets.

I thought maybe Micah would try to sit with me, but he doesn't. Maybe he's mad at me for denying he's the reason I broke up with Brandon. Or he could be sitting up front for some other reason. You never really know with that kid.

As the bus pulls out of the parking lot, Lily appears beside me. She doesn't say anything, maybe because she senses that I need quiet. I find her presence comforting. Even though no one else can see her, it makes me feel like I'm not completely alone.

When I step off the bus at the corner of my street, my boots make footprints in the snow. I breathe the cold air, and my nose tingles. Fall is turning to winter, and in a couple of weeks I probably won't be able to go outside without wearing my hat and gloves.

When I get to my house, my dad's truck is parked on the right side of the driveway, and there's a car I don't recognize sitting next to it. It's not Cindy's old green Camry but a dark gray sedan.

Probably one of my dad's clients, or maybe an architect coming over to go over some plans. Usually my dad meets with clients at job sites, but every so often one of them will come over to meet with him at the house.

I breathe a sigh of relief as I step inside and hang my coat up in the closet. Usually I'd just throw it on the bench in the entranceway, but if my dad has company, I don't want them thinking his daughter is a complete slob. Besides, now that my dad's busy with work, I can sneak upstairs and not have to deal with the fact that he's upset with me.

“That must be Kendall,” I hear my dad say from the kitchen. Usually he meets with people in the living room, but whatever.

I move from our entranceway toward the kitchen, figuring I should probably at least say hello to whoever it is who's here.

But when I get to the kitchen, it takes me a second to process what's going on. There are two people sitting at
the table, a plate of scones and two mugs sitting in front of them. One of them is my dad, and the other one is a woman with her back to me.

“Hi,” I say politely as I move closer. “I'm—”

And then the woman turns around.

And I realize there's no need to introduce myself.

Because the person sitting in the kitchen isn't a client.

It's my mom.

*  *  *

“Oh,” I say. “It's you.” Which is obviously not my wittiest comment, but I'm so surprised that it's the first thing that comes out.

“Kendall,” my dad says. “Do you want to sit down?”

“Not really,” I say, finding my voice.

“Are you sure?” he asks. “Because I think there's a lot to talk about.”

I don't look at my mom. “What is she doing here?” I ask my dad. First he was talking to her behind my back, and now he has just let her into our house. You'd think he'd have some loyalty. My mom left us. He can't just be letting her into our
home
.

“It's not his fault,” my mom says. She wraps her hands around her mug, the same way she did the other day at her house. It must be something she does when she's nervous. It makes me wonder what other things I don't know about her. “I came without telling him.”

“So now you can leave without telling him,” I say.

“Kendall,” my dad says warningly. “Be careful what you—”

“No, it's okay,” my mom says. She takes a deep breath. “I understand you're angry at me, Kendall. And I'd like . . . I mean, I'd like a chance to explain.”

“I don't want to listen,” I say. But even as I'm saying the words, I'm not sure they're true. The thing is, my mom is the only other person, at least that I know of, who can see ghosts. She's the only other person who could possibly understand what it is I'm going through. Maybe she could explain some of it to me, or at the very least give me some insight on how to deal with it.

“Kendall,” my dad starts again. “If you don't want to talk to your mother, that's fine. But at least be respectful.”

I want to yell that I shouldn't have to be respectful to someone who just abandoned our family, but instead I just sigh. “Fine,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “I'll give her ten minutes.”

“I'll give you two some privacy,” my dad says, standing up.

“No, that's okay,” my mom says. “We'll go for a walk.”

My dad looks at me, asking me silently if that's okay. It makes me happy to know that no matter what has gone on, my dad still has my back. If I don't want to go for a walk with my mom, he'll support me in that decision.

“It's fine,” I say. “Let's go for a walk.”

I'll take her to the cemetery.

Maybe that will get her in the mood to talk about ghosts.

*  *  *

“It's snowing again,” my mom says as we walk across the street.

“Mmm-hmm.” I really want to see the flakes falling, but I don't want to give her the satisfaction, so I keep my eyes on the ground. Our steps fall into a rhythm, matching each other's cadence, and I wonder if it's because she's my mom or if it's just one of those random things that would happen with anyone.

When we get to my favorite spot in the cemetery, I stop for a moment, mostly out of habit, but she keeps walking.

She turns around. “You okay?”

I open my mouth to tell her that I usually stop at this bench, that I usually sit here and do my thinking, that this is one of my favorite places to be in the whole world. But something inside me isn't ready for her to be at this place with me. Definitely not now, maybe not ever.

“Yeah, I'm okay,” I say. I quicken my step to catch up with her.

“I used to come here all the time before you were born,” she says. She pulls the scarf she's wearing a little tighter around her neck. “I used to walk around the paths for hours.”

“That's nice,” I say, not even trying to keep the edge out of my voice.

She glances over at me. “I know you're angry with me, Kendall.”

“Really?” I ask sarcastically. “What would have ever given you that idea?”

She has the sense not to answer. “Your father doesn't know about the ghosts.” It's a statement, not a question.

“No.”

“You never told him?”

“No.”

“So you've been carrying this all by yourself ?”