The Ghost in Me (6 page)

"Okay, so I've been thinking," she says with a tone of determination.

I poke my fork through my pickle, wave it expectantly.

"And this is the deal," she says. "We're going to make the best of a bad situation."

"Bad situation?" Roz raises her eyebrows, as Elise straddles the stool next to her and sits down. "Which situation would that be? The one where I'm still dumped by Duey. Or, the one where Myri's been dumped into drama club. Or...?" She points a finger across that table at Cass. "Do you have a bad situation you've not shared with us, yet?"

Cass opens her mouth, tips her head in thought. "My fish hasn't learned how to talk?"

Elise doesn't flinch, even though the three of us laugh. She's all serious, wagging her finger,
specifically
, I notice, at me and Cass. "No, none of that. The Brittley situation," she says. "We're going to fix it."

"Brittley situation?" Cass giggles some more. "I didn't know there was one."

"Yeah, there is. If you're me, there is. And you're going to help me. Either you, or Myri. Whoever comes first. One of you is going to knock her out of the play."

I half-laugh. "That's a joke, right? I mean, this is me, here. How would you expect me to do that?"

Elise gives a quick nod. "By beating her in auditions."

Cass lets out a short huff, taps a hand from her shoulder to mine. "Uh, good thinking,
but again
, look at who you're dealing with."

"I mean it!" Elise replies, her voice rising a notch. She leans forward on her elbows, splays her hands on the table. "If I have to put up with her the way she was last year when I was taking pictures for yearbook, I'm seriously going to hurt someone...."

Elise holds up a hand, telling us to wait while she takes a sip of juice. "You should have seen her," she says, when she finishes. "She kept saying, 'Did you get me? Did you get me?'" Elise struggles with another sip. "I spent most of my time looking for a reason
to miss her
, but somehow she managed to get in every shot. I guess it's hard to avoid getting photos of the lead."

"Maybe we'll get lucky and someone else will get the lead," Cass offers. "But don't count on it being me. When it comes to winning roles, my chances are slim. Last year, I was cast as a tree. You know that."

"But you were a good tree," Roz says, giving her a wink before biting into her sandwich.

"Yeah, I was," she answers wistfully. "The
best
Wolford has ever seen.
And
, I was in the yearbook, thanks to Elise, even if I did blend in too well with the scenery."

Elise nods, drums her fingers while she studies me, looks at Cass, then studies me some more.

I rub my neck, pretending to ignore her, then pull my tray back from the center of the table to spoon up vanilla pudding.

"Myr," she says, waiting for me to look up. Finally, after a long moment of silence, I do. "Myr, you're my only hope. As the newbie, you could be the dark horse in this undertaking."

I raise my eyebrows, fill my mouth with more pudding, and more pudding, as if I could stuff it all the way back to my ears to keep myself from hearing her.

Elise turns a hand, lets out a sigh. "Okay, so maybe beating Brittley to the lead is a stretch, I'll admit. But listen," she begs, "maybe we can do something else." Reaching forward, she grabs my hand to stop me from scraping the thin white lines left on my tray, turns to look at Cass. "If you guys get roles in the play this year, I'll make sure
you're
the ones that get put in the drama spread."

"Even if I'm a tree?"

"Even better if you're a tree, because this time I'll put you in the foreground, make sure you upstage whatever character Brittley gets to be."

I shake my head, as Cass giggles and knocks fists with Elise. Roz gives them each a high-five.

"Wait," Roz says, lacing her fingers with Elise's. "I've got a better idea." From across the table, she bores her eyes into mine. "We don't need someone
in
the play. We need someone who's not in the play. The one who wants to work on the set with a hammer."

I give her a weird look, suddenly confused as to how I could possibly fit in this so-not-gonna-work-plan.

She leans forward, plants her hand on my shoulder, looks back at Elise. "Actors get all the glory, don't you think?" She clucks out the side of her mouth, tips her head back at mine. "How about focusing your camera behind the scenes?"

Chapter 10

"Don't!" Reeta says, her arms outstretched to stop me from sitting.

I didn't stop; but I should have. I should have paid attention to her and not the new, comfy-looking chair I found in the living room. Because if I know anything, it's this: once you live with one ghost, you more or less come to live with them all. It takes all of two seconds for me to find we have a new one.

"Thanks for the warning," I say, jumping up from the chair, while rubbing the chill from my arms, my legs, my back.

"Warn you, I did," she says, slumping back into the white and blue flowered sofa. She straightens the black turban on her head. "But the wind was too strong for the trying. You might want to quell that storm you're carrying."

"Well, maybe we can use it to blow away Mom's latest visitor." I take another step away from the chair and edge into whatever warmth I can get from the afternoon sun working its way in through the windows.

Reeta Gertestky is Gram's best friend. Gram calls Reeta over whenever we have unwanted guests. Like now, apparently.

But I can see this one doesn't look like the usual floater that comes with Mom's corpses. He's not dressed in anything current. His suit is high-collared. His hat, tall and brimmed. His shoes, square, yet, so worn, the leather follows the shape of each toe. And his cane, which hooks down under his wrinkled hand, contrasts with a long, looping mustache, which curls up.

Reading my thoughts, Reeta shakes her head. "This one came with the chair.

"Internet order," she adds, as if that explains everything. Which, in a way, it does. Gram has a habit of shopping for antiques on eBay, and the new silver-striped chair must be what Gram calls an "Irresistible."

"So, this
visitor
is going to need what? Relocation? Reincarnation? Post-visitation?" I feel like I've been stomped on. I mean, when did ghosts start arriving with furniture?

"Ah, Myri, you're home." Gram walks through the doorway from the kitchen.

Placing a tray of yellow butter cookies on the coffee table, she comes over to cup my face. Even without having seen her pink jacket and white slip-ons by the door, I know from the cool touch of her hands that she's been out for a walk.

"So, about the ghost?" I ask, while returning the hug that follows.

"Well, we don't know too much about him," Gram says, releasing me, "at least as far as where he wants to go, who he wants to see--he's not the talkative type."

I follow the ghost's gaze through a single, round eyeglass, held in place with a squint, toward the painting of water lilies hanging on the opposite side of the room. Whether he's studying it intently, or not at all, I can't tell. He could almost be mistaken for a statue, if it weren't for his wavering, see-through form, which shouts, Ghost!

I give a little huff, take a few steps back to sink into the rocker. "Didn't you buy a chair to sit in?"

"Well, yes," Gram says, bending to take a cookie.

"And has anyone sat it in, yet?"

Reeta presses her lips into a frown, scoffs with a wave of her hand, as Gram sits next to her. "Briefly," she says. "That's how we discovered he was there."

"And he's still there."

"Yes, because we don't know what he needs."

"He
needs
to move, that's what he needs." I'm finding it hard not to feel irritated.

"That'll happen, as soon as he gets up," Gram says matter-of-factly.

"Okaaaaay," I say, trying not to pull a face. "Am I the only one who sees a problem with this?"

I push myself up and turn a circle on the rug. "I mean, coming home to dead people--and sometimes ghosts that are linked to them--is one thing, because that's Mom's job. I can accept that. But coming home to find one stuck in a random piece of furniture you've just purchased? And seeing he's allowed to stay stuck until we can figure out
his needs
? That's something completely different. Aren't there like codes, or rules, or limits, or something?"

"Limits?" Gram tips her chin near her chest. "Of course, there are limits, Myri. We all know that. Along with a few doors, that open and close, on our side of reality and theirs.
Ours
happened
to be open
to him at the time."

Reeta leans forward and touches Gram's arm. "Well, we did direct that delivery man to bring him inside."

"But that was before we knew he was there."

"And now that you do know, don't you see a problem with it?" I say.

"Of course," Gram retorts.

"A
pressing
problem?"

"Of course, it's a pressing problem. I just haven't figured out how to help
him
see the problem." She sets her fists on her hips. "Where is all this coming from? We've dealt with this before, Myri. You know some cases take longer than others--the longest involving the one who lives upstairs. What's troubling you?"

I take a deep breath, hold it.

A lot is troubling me. A lot.

I lean forward and grab a cookie. "Have you seen Wren?"

Chapter 11

Wren is sitting at the kitchen table, cupping her hands in a way that looks too familiar.

"What are you doing?"

I shake my head at the answer. She didn't have to tell me, and I didn't have to ask.

Energy balls.

She raises her brow in an innocent arch, as I stomp to the counter. "Mom," I say, keeping my tone curt, my voice flat. "Mom, tell her she's not going to school." I point at Wren, just to make sure she knows who I'm talking about.

She does, because her eyes wrinkle up like I'm nuts. But she doesn't glance my way until the last bit of leaf is peeled from the cob, which starts to worry me. "Wren," she finally says, drawing in a breath, "you're not to go to school."

Yes!

Wren's wail of protest drowns the room like one of the bells in Ardenport harbor.

"Now, why did I say that?" The sound of my mom's voice cuts through my short-lived triumph. She pivots to face me.

She wasn't being serious.

How could she not have been serious?

"Because she doesn't belong there. It's a school!"

Why is this concept hard to understand? It's not like we're talking about a younger sister, here. A real-live sibling, who, by law, should be in school, if she existed.

Mom picks up another ear of corn, peels back another faded green leaf, and another, before looking at me again, her face hard. "She could learn something at school. It
is
a public institution."

"Yea-ah. For people that are
living
!"

Are we really having this conversation? I had kind of hoped this request would be easy. No, not hoped. Expected. I had expected Wren would get in trouble.

"That depends on your definition of living, doesn't it?" She swoops a hand in Wren's direction. "Just because she doesn't have flesh and blood doesn't mean she doesn't exist." She shakes her head, caught in her own thoughts. "
Wren exists
. Simple as she's sitting there now." She presses a cob into my hands to peel. "If you exist, Myri, you live. Simple as that."

I chuck down the cob, grab a spoon off the counter. "Oh, yeah? Well, this spoon exists, Mom. That doesn't mean it lives."

Mom takes the spoon from my hand, waves it at Wren. "This spoon doesn't
think, feel
. Wren does. There's a difference."

I shake my head. "Well, would you be saying that, if you knew she helped Roz cheat? If you knew she did that by possessing Roz's body, so she could take a history test?"

Mom gasps, turns a horrified look on Wren. "Was Roz okay?"

At least she agrees
that's
wrong.

Wren pushes her mouth into a frown. "It wasn't that long a time."

"Well." Mom rubs her hand along the edge of the counter, takes in a deep breath, then takes her time blowing it out. "Wren," she finally says, "I don't want you doing that again. It's not right. It could be dangerous."

"Going to school is too, obviously."

"And you," she says, pointing her finger at me, "you really ought to have told me as soon as you knew what had happened."

"But I did!"

Mom shakes her head. "Not entirely. Not at first. You started out talking about this not going to school business."

I let out an exasperated huff. "Yuh, okay, whatever, but this means she can't go anymore, right? It should, shouldn't it?"

"No, I didn't say that--" Mom curses under her breath, checks her watch, looks at the water bubbling on the stove. "Girls, you're going to have to finish dinner yourselves."