Goldenrod Moram had a first name that sounded like it belonged in the middle of a fairy tale, where she would be the dazzling princess in need of rescuing. But this couldn't be further from the truth. For one thing, fairy-tale princesses probably didn't get in trouble practically every day of the fifth grade. (Then again, they probably didn't talk back much either.) For another, fairy-tale princesses probably had more than one friend in the whole entire world. (And if they didn't, they at least had servants or courtiers or some such other fan base that could pass for friends.)

But Goldenrod had only been named Goldenrod because her mother was an avid gardener and her father had lost the coin toss on the day of her birth. Had her father won, she might have been named after one of
his
hobbies, which included cooking and amateur house repair. When
daydreaming, Goldenrod often thought about all the other things she could have been called and how they all would have been preferable: Oregano Moram, Staple Gun Moram, Brisket Moram, Spark Plug â¦

“Goldenrod!”

Nope, she couldn't escape her name. And here it was being hissed at her by a tall woman with dark hair and pursed lips.

“Yes?”

“Are you going to answer the question or not?” Ms. Barbroff pointed at the blackboard with a stiff finger, the purple bags under her eyes moving in time with her words. She was just the sort of teacher who insisted on teaching right up to the last bell of the last day of school.

Goldenrod didn't know the answer, and it seemed like Ms. Barf wasn't about to let her off the hook, even though elementary school was almost overâfor goodâand even though her very best friend had just moved away to a whole other state and left her to deal with the upcoming ordeal of middle school all alone.

“Goldenrod, have you stopped and considered that this is information you'll actually
need
next year?”

“Not really.” Under normal circumstances, she would have relished this opportunity to say something funny. But her heart wasn't in it, not without Charla to come visit her at the principal's office when she inevitably got sent there.

“Well, I suggest you start thinking about it. Sixth-grade math is no joke.”

For a second, it looked as if Ms. Barf was going to turn away without further comment. Goldenrod should have known better. “I'm not going to have much more of an opportunity to say this to you, Ms. Moram, but mark my words. If you don't shape up and start paying attention, you're going to spend most of your middle-school career in the principal's office. And that'll lead you straight into the life of a hoodlum. And
then
what will your mother think?”

Goldenrod thought,
She will say, “Oh, if only my daughter had answered that question on negative numbers in the fifth grade. What a world, what a world!”
But Goldenrod didn't say a word, concentrating instead on doodling a rather striking portrait of the Wicked Witch of the West in her notebook. Ms. Barf turned away with a
humph
and continued on with the lesson.

The only highlight of the day was that it ended with Ms. Barf going over Goldenrod's favorite lesson: the five parts of a map. Even though she knew them by heart, and had for at least two years, she perked up as Ms. Barf's booming voice talked about the legend, the scale, the compass rose, the title, and the grid. Just the mere mention of these things made her smile dreamily at the memory of how she and Charla had spent their previous map-filled summer.

All too soon, the lesson was over, and Goldenrod was only one bus ride away from a long, vast stretch of summer
vacation. True that she didn't know whom she was going to spend this summer vacation with, but at least she knew it wouldn't be Ms. Barf.

And it wouldn't be Charlie Cookman either, she thought angrily, as she saw the large, muscular oaf in the hallway tormenting some smaller kid eclipsed by Charlie's enormous behind and his equally enormous backpack. Charlie was well known for carrying at least two to three large bottles of energy soda with him in that backpack at all times. His father was an amateur wrestler, and it was rumored that Charlie himself had been lifting dumbbells since the age of six and drinking protein shakes since he could hold a bottle.

“Listen.” Charlie's whiny voice drifted over to Goldenrod as she walked past him to catch her school bus. “You're telling me these are all the video games you have on you? Do you expect me to believe that?”

Sometimes it's no fun being a kid
, Goldenrod thought, just as she caught a glimpse of a purple backpack and dark brown moppy hair. She felt a bolt in her chest. The smaller, trembling kid Charlie was threatening just happened to be her little brother, Birch. Sometimes it was no fun being a big sister either.

Especially when she'd never been all that big. The only thing both Goldenrod and Birch had inherited from their motherâbesides their garden-themed names (their dad was notoriously unlucky at coin tosses)âwas her tiny frame, and
it looked like this detail was going to make getting out of school on this day extra difficult.
Difficult
, Goldenrod thought,
but not impossible. At least I can put some of my deception training to good use.

She stood up to her full height of four feet three and a half inches, hoisted her backpack higher, took a deep breath, and marched over to Charlie, her dark brown ponytail swinging with determination.

“Hey,” she said once she was right beside him.

Charlie looked confused, as if it was taking his brain some time to understand the one word she had spoken. His mouth gaped open a little, showing his soda-stained teeth and tongue.

Goldenrod took this opportunity to address her brother. “Hey, little bro. Got yourself in trouble, huh?” She smirked. “Serves you right, twerp.”

Birch looked mortified, like he couldn't believe his own sister was turning on him at this very humiliating, likely to be physically painful, moment. Even the freckles on his face seemed to redden.

“This is your brother then, huh, Mold-and-rot?” Charlie asked.

Goldenrod knew Charlie must have heard that lovely nickname from one of the other kidsâhe was definitely too stupid to have come up with it himself.

“Yeah. Take him for whatever he's got. He deserves it.
See you, dunderhead,” she said to Birch and turned around to leave.

“Hey, wait a minute,” Charlie said, finally starting to catch on. “You mean you actually
want
me to mess with your little brother?”

Goldenrod shrugged. “He's a brat. Always getting me in trouble at home.”

“Hey, Charlie.” Goldenrod turned to see Jonas Levins, Charlie's trusty sidekick andâmost obviouslyâthe brains of their operation. “Hey, man. If Mold-and-rot wants you to mess with him, you better leave him alone.”

“How come?” Charlie asked.

“Because,” Jonas said a little impatiently, “why would you want to do anything that would make that weirdo happy?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

Jonas took Birch's limp hand in his own and shook it. “Keep up the good work, kid. It must be hard, having
that
loser for a sister.” He started to laugh and Charlie joined in with his big, wheezy chuckles.

Goldenrod almost walked away. Really, she did. Later on she would tell the school principal this. And her parents. She wouldn't bother telling Ms. Barf, though, because let's face it, it wouldn't have made a bit of difference.

But just then the sight of those two horrid kids standing there, filling her little brother's head with nonsense about herâstuff he didn't ever have to know, reallyâgot the best
of her. Yes, she had expected that pretending she wanted them to bully Birch would make the kids leave him alone. But now they had taken it too far. She knew the kids thought she was a weirdo; the last time Jonas had thought she was cool was probably in kindergarten, when they actually still played together at her house. Up until a few months ago, though, at least she was a weirdo with a friend and it didn't matter so much what anyone else thought. Now that she was on her ownâwell, she just couldn't have her little brother turning on her too.

With one hand, Goldenrod grabbed a sharpened pencil from her case; with the other, she grabbed onto Charlie's backpack and started to shake it, hard.

“What are you doing, you dork?” Charlie shrieked as he tried to pull away.

BOOK: The Mapmaker and the Ghost

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