The Secret Life of Sparrow Delaney (12 page)

“Yes. I mean, as well as can be expected.” I paused, then added, “Gym is horrible.”

“Isn't it always?” She finally lifted her eyes from the coverlet. “As for falling in love?”

“Oh, no, absolutely not,” I said quickly. “You know how Grandma Bee likes to exaggerate.”

“Of course. You have been making friends, though?”

“Oh, yes.” I didn't want to seem like a total loser. “Just friends, though. Nothing more.”

“Of course.” She stood up and, after one last, searching look, gave a satisfied nod. “I admit I'm somewhat relieved to hear that.” Her gaze flickered again past the postcards on my wall. As she drifted toward the door, she added, “But you know, Sparrow, if there's anything you ever want to talk about, anything at all . . .”

But now my attention was focused on the postcards as well. Before I could stop myself, I blurted, “Why doesn't he ever write ‘love'?”

“I'm sorry?” She sat down again and folded her hands in her lap, leaning forward with a careful, listening expression on her face.

I bit my lip. “On all the postcards he sends us . . . he always writes ‘more later.' He never writes ‘love.' I was just wondering—” My voice quivered, embarrassingly high. I stopped, cleared my throat, started again.

“I mean, why is that, do you think?”

“Ah. I don't have to think. I know.” She looked past me and smiled to herself as if reviewing a bittersweet memory. “When we were dating, he would write me letters, even though we only lived a few miles away from each other.” She smiled again, more happily, now totally lost in the past. “
Wonderful
letters. But he would never sign them ‘Love, Patrick.' He would always write ‘more later.' Frankly, I wondered why, too. I thought perhaps he was trying to tell me that he didn't love me, or he didn't love me enough to say that he loved me, or he had doubts about any love he might have been feeling, or . . . I don't remember all the theories I concocted, but there were quite a few, believe me. Finally I realized that I was doing nothing but upsetting myself and that the only sensible thing to do was just to ask him.”

“And what did he say?” I asked in a hushed tone. My mother never talked much about my father.

“He said he thought that
love
was the most over-used—and misused—word in the English language. That people said, ‘I love you,' when they really meant ‘I like going to the movies with you.' Or they said, ‘Remember, I'll always love you,' as they walked out the door to be with someone else. So he refused to sign his letters with ‘love.' ” She shook her head fondly. “That's your father. Very . . . scientific, I guess you'd say. Very logical and precise. He always wrote ‘more later' because he considered that . . . well, he would say that it was a promise to the future. That there would always be more, later.”

“Oh.”

She patted my hand. “Your father may be in South America, or Madagascar, or Tibet, but he's still connected to you. And your sisters.” She looked serenely and utterly certain of what she was saying. “And to me. So don't worry, all right?”

I couldn't speak. I nodded.

She stood up. “Good,” she said briskly. “Now, do you have a lot of homework?”

“Well, I probably should start reading this history chapter,” I said. “I have a test on Friday.”

“Good idea.” Her gaze flickered past the postcards again. “We should always prepare for the tests that we know about. After all, there are so many that surprise us.”

Chapter 15

“May
I remind you that this is exactly what you wanted?” Professor Trimble said, with some asperity, just behind my right ear. “A best friend, someone to study with after school and share secrets with and— what is the current phrase? Oh, yes—to
hang out with
?”

I was standing on the school's front steps, waiting for Fiona. We had made plans to go to her house after school. Professor Trimble was standing to my right, grandly ignoring the students who were pouring out of the doors and milling about on the sidewalk, talking, flirting, yelling, and pushing one another.

“I know, I know,” I said, trying not to move my lips.

“But—”

“Yes?” Professor Trimble sounded as if she were doing her best to sound patient and understanding. Her best, I reflected—and not for the first time—was not very good.

“Fiona asks a lot of questions.”

The professor nodded approvingly. “And then really listens to the answers. Very rare in this day and age.”

“Or any time, really.” I smelled nutmeg, and Floyd popped into view on my left, dusting off his floury hands. “No wonder everyone likes her. She's a real sweetheart.”

This was true. Just today I had watched Fiona walk up to Seth Roberts, one of those shy, genius boys who rarely speak and who, when spoken to, always look both startled and irritated, as if they were just about to solve the mystery of the universe until you so cruelly interrupted them.

“Hi!” she had said. “I've heard you're really good with computers, and I'm having this problem with my laptop. Would you mind taking a look?“

He had glanced at her warily but nodded agreeably enough. As he frowned at the screen and began pushing various keys, she chatted merrily about topics ranging from this week's football game to a recent horror movie marathon on TV. Within two minutes she had persuaded him to say something back. Within ten minutes he was cautiously debating the relative fright factor of zombies versus vampires. By the time the bell rang, they sounded like old friends. He handed her laptop back and wandered down the hall in a daze, a little smile on his lips.

Watching, I just shook my head. “I think your hobby is conversation,” I had said, not accusing at all. In fact I was beginning to admire Fiona's warm and openhearted interest in others (as long as it wasn't directed at me). “Endless, unlimited, infinite, never-ending conversation.”

“I know! My mom says I even talk in my sleep!” She looked a little smug. “My dad says I have ‘an uncanny ability to establish dialogue with a wide range of personality types.' He says it's a gift.”

“You must promise to use it only for good,” I had said, mock solemn, and she had laughed.

“I mean, she asks
a lot
of questions,” I said again.

“I would not worry if I were you.” Now Prajeet manifested, lounging on the stone steps. He smiled up at me. “It is not such a terrible thing to have your friends know who you really are.”

“Mmm,” I murmured skeptically. I would have liked to say more, but I didn't want everyone to see me talking to empty space. As it was, listening to three ghosts was proving to be quite distracting.

“Sparrow!” Fiona was hurrying across the courtyard.

“We shall leave you now,” Professor Trimble said.

“Have a good time, honey.” Floyd winked.

“Do not worry.” Prajeet raised a hand in benediction. “All will be well.”

They vanished just as Fiona ran up, breathless. “I'm so so sorry I'm late! I had to talk to Mr. Renfrow about my civics paper, and then I ran into Rachel, who wanted to ask about the biology assignment and tell me about the fight she had with Paul, and then I couldn't get my locker open, and anyway, you know how it goes, blah blah blah, here I am at last!” She grinned and brushed her bangs out of her eyes. “Hey, listen, I'd better warn you about my mother—”

Just at that moment a shiny silver Mercedes pulled up to the curb.

“Oh. That's her.” Fiona's face darkened a little—it wasn't a look that worked for her; she looked like a peevish elf—and she said quickly, “Listen, be sure to fasten your seat belt. And whatever you do, don't let her start asking questions!”

A carbon copy of Fiona—at least a Fiona thirty years in the future—sat behind the wheel. She waved a perky Fiona wave, smiled a bright Fiona smile, and called out, “Hi, girls! Sorry I'm a little late, my meeting ran over and then I had to stop and pick up some milk and lines at the grocery store were horrendous and the traffic is just
beyond belief
, but here I am at last! Are you Sparrow? So nice to meet you!”

Fiona rolled her eyes at me, whispered, “My mother is
such
a flake!” and trotted down the steps to the car.

We climbed into the backseat. Fiona's mother pulled out in front of a black SUV with a slapdash style that resulted in a series of angry honks. She waved her hand in carefree acknowledgment and called out, “Sorry! Nice job of braking!”

“Brace yourself,” Fiona muttered. “My mother learned to drive the summer she worked at a carnival. On the bumper car ride.”

Her mother just laughed as she merged onto the highway, inches in front of an eighteen-wheeler. “Don't listen to a word she says. I've never had an accident. Not once in my whole, entire life.” She slipped in between two cars in order to change lanes. Fiona made a small strangled noise in her throat. I gripped the armrest and tried to smile.

After a moment or two, however, I realized that Mrs. Jones was actually an excellent driver, and I started breathing again.

“So, tell me all about your day, girls,” she called back to us. “Every tidbit and detail! I want to hear all!”

And now Fiona, who could normally talk without pausing for hours at a time, stared out the window, as tight-lipped as a CIA operative.

Her mother glanced at her in the rearview mirror and sighed in frustration. “Okay. Let's see . . .” She paused to think. “What was the most startling thing you learned in school today?”

“Nothing, really.” Fiona seemed to be fascinated by the passing scenery.

An awkward silence filled the car. “I learned that the giant squid has the largest eyes in the animal world,” I volunteered finally. “They're the size of volleyballs. I thought that was interesting.”

Her mother spun the wheel, and the car slid over three lanes and onto an exit ramp. My knuckles turned white, and I reminded myself to inhale. “Always good to know,” she said. “At the very least it will come in handy at cocktail parties when everyone has run out of things to say.”

I tried to imagine myself at some point in the distant future, wearing a silk dress and holding a cocktail and telling a circle of glamorous people about giant squid and their eyeballs. “I guess so,” I replied doubtfully.

The car whipped around a corner with a squeal of tires. Fiona's mother tossed more questions over her shoulder. “Any juicy gossip from the girls' room? What was the most horrific thing you had to do in gym? Are you girls going to the game on Friday? Who are you going with? When's the first school dance? Is there a theme this year?”

The worst part was that after firing each question at us, she waited for an answer and then actually listened to it. Now I knew where Fiona had learned her unnerving technique. Finally even Fiona succumbed enough to utter a few sentences, although she still sounded like a prisoner talking under threat of torture.

At last we pulled into their driveway with one last jaunty swerve and came to an abrupt, screeching stop. As we went inside the house, Fiona's mother murmured something about calling the office and melted away.

“Thank God the third degree is over!” Fiona opened the refrigerator and grabbed a couple of sodas. “You see what I mean? My mom asks billions of questions! She always wants to know everything about my life! I mean,
everything
! Down to the smallest, most insignificant details!”

“Irritating,” I said, hiding my smile as I followed her, looking around me with interest.

Fiona's house was so . . . perfect. The kitchen counter gleamed. I could tell, because the only things actually on top of the counter were a polished toaster and a coffeemaker that looked as if it could run the space shuttle. No copies of
Life
magazine from 1982, pots of dried-up cold cream, ancient cat toys, pencil stubs, stray buttons, bird feathers, snakeskins, rusty nails, half-empty boxes of Christmas cards, bent clothes hangers, or mysterious jars filled with murky liquids. We walked through the living room, where the couch and chairs didn't look as if anyone had ever sat on them, let alone spilled a drink or dropped cookie crumbs or dripped candle wax on the cushions. The rug still showed faint track marks from the vacuum cleaner.

Fiona's bedroom was pink and white, with a canopy bed, ruffled bedspread, plush flowered rug, and collection of family photos on one wall. She took her snow white Mac laptop out of her backpack, put it on her immaculate desk, and turned it on. Its blue screen lit up, glowing with an unearthly light.

“Wow.” I just stood in the center of her room, trying to take it all in.

Fiona looked at me, a little puzzled. “What?” she asked.

“Your house, your room.” I gestured feebly, trying to find the words. “They're so . . . great.”

“Really?” She shrugged. “Just a regular house in the burbs. In fact, sometimes I think it's kind of, well, boring, really.”

I laughed in disbelief. “Everything's so clean and shiny and
new
.”

She glanced around, as if seeing her room for the first time. “I guess so. But it's just so . . . normal. And so
decorated
. I mean, look at this.” She picked up a mother-of-pearl tissue box holder from her desk and frowned at it. “Shouldn't life be more odd or mysterious or strange or . . . or something?”

I thought about crooked porches, peeling paint, and cracked windows. I thought about poltergeist pranks, a possibly demonic cat, and a house filled with nine females and one bathroom. I thought about gravestones in the backyard, spirit readings in the parlor, and ghosts wandering the halls.

I shook my head decidedly. “No,” I said. “Normal is good.”

Fiona shrugged again and flashed me her usual sunny smile. “Well, I guess I can always live in a garret and have an interesting life after I graduate from college, right?” She sat down at her desk and clicked on a few keys. “So, I had a fabulous idea today! We should Google Jack and see what we can find out about him!”

I looked at her with a new appreciation. Clearly she had learned a thing or two from her mother about investigative reporting. “
Awesome
idea,” I said, as I grabbed the extra chair and sat down next to her.

“This is so much fun! I'm so glad you could come over,” she said as she typed the words
Jack Dawson
. “Maybe I can come over to your house next time.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I said vaguely, praying that we would move off that topic, fast.

At that moment some higher power—and it seemed its name was Google—answered my prayer. A new screen appeared. The words
Jack Dawson
were listed a dozen times.

Fiona beamed. “Oh, look! There are ten thousand seven hundred fifty-one Web pages about Jack.”

I leaned forward to read over her shoulder. There was a Jack Dawson who had published a scientific paper and a Jack Dawson who ran a balloon company and a Jack Dawson who was an actor in summer stock theater—

“Let's narrow it down.” She looked over her shoulder at me. “Do you know where the Dawsons lived before they moved here?”

I tried to remember what Mrs. Dawson had said. “I think it was—Collins? Yes, that's it. Collins.”

“Great.” She added
Collins New York
to the search. She waved her hands over the computer and proclaimed in a spooky fortune-teller voice, “Now the great god Google, which knows all and sees all, must reveal all to us! Oh, great Google, we must know all there is to know about the mysterious Jack Dawson! Hear us and give us our answer! We command thee!”

Usually I wouldn't appreciate such a stereotypical portrayal of a psychic, but I was too interested in what Google might turn up to feel miffed. Fiona lifted her hand high above the keyboard and, with a flamboyant swooping motion, hit the return key.

A mere 0.71 seconds later a list of articles appeared on the screen. Fiona clicked on the first link. Just like that, we were staring at our answer.

The headline said, L
OCAL
T
EEN
M
ISSING
.

The subheadline said, H
IGH
S
CHOOL
S
PORTS
S
TAR
V
ANISHES
, C
OUNTY
-W
IDE
S
EARCH IN
P
ROGRESS
.

The photo caption said, “The Dawson family (l. to r., Jack, 15; Sarah, 42; Robert, 43; and Luke, 17).”

The photo showed a happy family, beaming at the camera.

“Wow,” Fiona said. “Jack looks
completely
different!

It's hard to believe this picture was just taken”—she paused to read the caption—“a little over a year ago. He looks so young! And so . . . I don't know . . .
innocent
.”

“Yeah,” I said slowly.

But my gaze wasn't focused on Jack. It was riveted on his brother, the lost Luke Dawson. Dark blond hair, hazel eyes, and a lopsided smile.

Luke Dawson was none other than the ghost of room 12B.

And he wasn't haunting me. He was haunting Jack.