The Ghost of Ernie P. (2 page)

Jeff had wanted to act the same way, but he couldn't. When Ernie whispered about his Top Secret Project, Jeff had listened, because that wide, cruel smile made him nervous. When Ernie made fun of Art and the other boys, Jeff had tried not to hear. It was easier than telling Ernie to keep still.

Now Ernie was dead, but he was still trying to come between Jeff and Art.
And I'm still letting him get away with it
, Jeff thought with a shudder.
He scared me then, and he scares me more now!

Downstairs in the kitchen, Mrs. Keppel had set the table. She put a bowl of alphabet soup in front of Jeff, then sat opposite him with a smaller bowl for herself. “Eat,” she ordered. “It's guaranteed to make you feel better.”

Jeff dipped his spoon into the soup and then froze. Floating among the noodles were three letters: T S P. He dropped the spoon into the bowl with a clatter.

Mrs. Keppel didn't notice. “Was that Art on the phone?”

“Yup.” Jeff dipped the spoon again and came up with the same three letters.

“Don't say Yup, darling,” Mrs. Keppel murmured. “Yes sounds much better.”

Jeff put the spoonful of soup into his mouth and forced himself to swallow. It had to be some weird coincidence, he told himself. This couldn't be happening. He couldn't be haunted here in his very own kitchen.

He dipped the spoon again and shivered. One chunk of carrot and three letters: T S P.

Now his mother noticed the look on his face. “You don't like the soup,” she said, sounding as if she'd failed in some way. “That used to be your favorite, you know. Your father always said, ‘He's going to be a writer—I never saw a kid eat so much alphabet soup.'”

Jeff smiled weakly, even though he'd heard the story many times before. His father had died when he was not quite five, but his mother still talked about him a lot. “I guess I'm not hungry,” he said. “Maybe I'll just have a peanut-butter sandwich later on.” He carried his bowl to the sink and stood there for a while, staring down at it. T S P bobbed to the surface in one place and then another.

“Something is definitely wrong with you,” Mrs. Keppel said. “Staring at soup is not normal. I think you'd better stay home from school this afternoon. After all, with just three days left and your tests all finished, you won't be missing much.”

Jeff backed away from the sink. “I don't have to be back till tomorrow.” He choked out the words. “Principal said so.”

“Well, good,” his mother said. “You take it easy this afternoon, then. Rest and think happy thoughts. Tomorrow will be better, dear.”

Jeff hoped she was right. But hanging around the house all through the long, dark afternoon didn't help at all. He dozed off twice, and each time he awoke with a start, convinced that someone had whispered the letters T S P in his ear. That night he lay awake for hours listening to creaks and groans in the old house. Had they always been there? He wasn't sure.

During the night the clouds blew away, and in the morning the sun was shining. Jeff dressed and went outside. The front lawn glittered with dew, and a squirrel scolded him from the maple tree at the curb. Everything looked freshly washed, wonderfully normal. The craziness was over, he told himself. Yesterday and last night had been part of a bad dream.

He bent down and picked up the
Treverton Journal
that lay rolled up at his feet. A headline leaped at him:

T S P IN SERIOUS TROUBLE

Jeff dropped the paper as if it had burned his fingers. Then he scooped it up again and dashed back into the house to read the front-page article. T S P referred to the Treverton Sanitation Plant.

Worse moments lay ahead. Art Patterson was standing at the side door of the school when Jeff finished locking his bicycle and headed up the walk. Jeff yelled to him, eager to make up after yesterday's testy telephone conversation. At first Art didn't answer, but then he turned around, and Jeff saw, to his relief, that there was a grin on his narrow, brown face.

“About time you got here,” Art teased.

Jeff stared at him. His friend was wearing a new purple sweatshirt. There was a picture of a meteor streaking across the front, and above that appeared three letters. They were
T S P
.

“Where'd you get the shirt?” The words came out in a kind of squawk.

Art's smile faded. “Birthday present,” he said. “Why?”

“What does—what does T S P stand for?” Jeff could hardly force himself to say the letters out loud.

“The Space Patrol,” Art said coolly. “Any more questions?”

Jeff gulped. “I just think it's dumb, that's all,” he said. “Why do you want to wear a thing like that?”

He knew he was being insulting, but he couldn't help it. Seeing Art with
T S P
on his shirtfront made Jeff feel as if the whole world were determined to frighten him to death.

Art shoved his fists into his pockets. “Man, you are
sick!
” he snapped, and he stalked away.

Jeff wanted to go after him, but he didn't. What could he say?

The last days of the semester usually went fast, but not this time. Jeff moved dazedly from one class to another. When his friends said Hi, he nodded, eyes down, and kept moving, afraid that he might see someone else with a
T S P
shirt. He opened his books cautiously, expecting
T S P
to pop up on every page.

By the time he reached the gym for his last class he was exhausted. But here, at least, there were no books, and everyone wore the same dark blue shorts and lighter blue top. He could relax.

“Hey, Keppel,” Coach Peretti shouted, “go get a basketball.”

Jeff nodded and headed for the storage closet at the far end of the gym. He opened the door and flicked the light switch. Nothing happened.

Uneasiness gripped him. “The light's burned out in here,” he shouted over his shoulder.

“So?” The coach sounded impatient. “You need a road map, Keppel? The balls are in back on the left, same as always. Step on it!”

Jeff opened the door as far as it would go. The closet extended to his right, a sort of long, narrow cave lined with shelves of sports equipment. He could see almost to the back.
Move
, he told himself, aware that the class was waiting, and probably watching.
Step on it, Keppel
.

He plunged into the shadows, stumbled over a hockey stick, caught himself on a shelf, grabbed a basketball, and bounded back to the door.
Made it
, he thought triumphantly and started dribbling across the floor.

He had almost reached the class when he saw the letters imprinted on the ball: T S P.

He skidded to a stop. T S P. Thomason Sports Products. He'd seen that a million times before. It didn't mean a thing. He knew it didn't. So why was he shaking? What was the roaring in his ears?

“Keppel!” The coach charged across the gym. “What's wrong—you sick or something?”

The ball slipped from Jeff's hands. “I guess I don't feel so good,” he admitted. His voice shook.

“You don't look so good either,” the coach told him. “Sort of greenish.” Then he nodded, as if he'd just figured something out. “You're upset about your buddy Barber,” he said. “It's tough to lose a pal, right?” He rested a hand on Jeff's shoulder and turned him toward the door to the locker room. “You go on home,” he said. “Take it easy for the rest of the day.”

Jeff almost ran out of the gym. He knew his classmates were watching curiously, and by tomorrow morning everybody in Lakeview School would have heard that Jeff Keppel went home sick because he was mourning his friend Ernie Barber. Well, it didn't matter what they thought. He just wanted to get away. There had to be someplace where the Top Secret Project couldn't follow him.

The house was quiet when he let himself in, and he remembered that today was his mother's golf day at the club. She wouldn't be home for another hour. Jeff stood in the front hall, listening. He hated to admit it, but he was afraid to be alone in the house. Ernie's ghost could be lurking around any corner. Just the thought of it made him want to start running and never stop.

Walking on tiptoe, looking over his shoulder at every other step, he went out to the kitchen. Maybe a nice, ordinary peanut-butter sandwich would help. He could take it out to the backyard and wait for his mother to come home. Later, he'd try to talk her into going to a nice, ordinary fast-food restaurant for supper.

He had made the sandwich and was just pouring a glass of milk when he saw the note at the end of the counter.

Jeff, dear
, it said,
t s p
.

It was in his mother's nice, ordinary handwriting.

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

“Well, of course I wrote it, Jeffrey.” Mrs. Keppel stood in the kitchen doorway, her hands on her hips. “And I don't like that accusing tone, young man. I hit four balls into the lagoon today, and I five-putted the ninth hole, and now I've come home to a son who acts as if I'm trying to poison him.”

Jeff blinked. He hadn't said anything about poison.

“You—you wrote t s p,” he said. “Why'd you write that?”

“I wrote that because I care about you.” His mother spoke slowly, as if she were talking to a small child. “I wrote that because I wanted you to take a teaspoonful—that's what tsp means, Jeff—a teaspoonful of vitamin concentrate. It's in that large bottle that's holding the note in place.” She shook her head. “You haven't been yourself, ever since Ernie's funeral. I thought maybe a dose of my concentrate might help.”

Jeff looked at the end of the counter. The bottle was there. He just hadn't noticed it. Seeing those three letters—again—had driven every sensible thought from his head.

“I'm sorry,” he said, “I didn't think.”

“You certainly didn't.” Mrs. Keppel smiled at him forgivingly. “And now that that's over, how about going out for hamburgers? I'm in no mood to cook.”

By the time they returned home, Jeff had begun to relax. The day had been full of frightening coincidences, but maybe that was all they were. Tomorrow was Saturday, and with only two days of school next week, it was almost as if summer vacation had already begun. He decided he'd put up his tent in the backyard tomorrow morning. He and Art, and sometimes two or three other friends, would sleep out there a couple of nights a week, all summer long.

But in the morning his plans changed. The ring of the telephone woke him, and a few minutes later his mother knocked on his door and peeked in.

“Mrs. Barber just called,” she said. “You know—Ernie's mother.”

Jeff pulled a pillow over his face. He knew who Mrs. Barber was.

“She wondered if you'd stop over there this morning. She has something she thinks belongs to you. She found it with poor Ernie's things.”

Jeff groaned. “Tell her I can't come,” he mumbled. “Tell her I'm busy, okay?”

“Not okay.” The faintly apologetic note disappeared from Mrs. Keppel's voice. “Not okay at all. If you think I'm going to tell that unhappy woman that her son's friend is too busy to come to see her … I'd be ashamed to say such a thing.”

“I'll go later,” Jeff pleaded. “Maybe next week.”

“Maybe today,” his mother said in her no-arguments voice. “You always put things off, Jeff. You drift! That's going to get you into trouble one of these days.”

It already had, Jeff thought mournfully. If he'd told Ernie Barber they couldn't be buddies, he would never have heard about Ernie's Top Secret Project.

The door closed, hard, and he was alone. Alone and trapped! He knew his mother was right. If he didn't go to see Mrs. Barber today, he'd keep putting it off forever.

An hour later he walked with dragging steps up the walk to the sprawling house that had been Ernie Barber's home. Before he could ring the bell the door opened, and a big woman with puffy eyes and a sad expression invited him in. Jeff remembered seeing her at the cemetery.

“I'm Jeff Keppel,” he said nervously. “I'm really sorry about …” He let his words trail off, because Ernie's mother looked as if she were going to cry.

Mrs. Barber patted his shoulder and pulled him into the house at the same time. “He was such a darling boy,” she said. “Always so kind to those less fortunate than himself. I hope you'll be able to find someone else to help you with your schoolwork, Jeffrey.”

Help me with my schoolwork!
Jeff stared at Ernie's mother in astonishment.

They were in a long narrow living room, facing a life-size portrait of Ernie and a dog. Ernie was grinning. The dog looked as if he wanted to get away.

Mrs. Barber smiled at the portrait and wiped her eyes with a flowered hanky. “Every morning that dear boy was up early so he'd have time to tutor you before school. He stayed after school to help people, too. I really think Ernest was perfect,” she added, and turned to Jeff expectantly.

“Yes, ma'am.” Jeff gritted his teeth. Ernie had had a lot of nerve, pretending Jeff was the one who needed help with his math.

“My boy was looking forward to this summer so much,” Mrs. Barber went on. “He said you and he had all kinds of plans.”

More lies!
Jeff tried to smile and couldn't. Ernie may have had plans, but Jeff didn't know what they were and didn't want to know.

“Maybe you'd like to see Ernest's bedroom,” Mrs. Barber said. “It's such a lovely room.”

She disappeared down a hall, and there was nothing to do but follow.

“We're going to keep the room just the way Ernest left it,” Mrs. Barber said, motioning Jeff through a doorway. “Except for the pictures, of course. Mr. Barber and I put up a few of our favorites last night. To help us remember.”

Except for at least fifty pictures on the wall, Ernie's room looked a lot like Jeff's. There weren't as many books, and there was a computer on his desk instead of a typewriter, and a VCR on the television set, but otherwise it seemed almost familiar.