The Secret Life of Sparrow Delaney (19 page)

Chapter 24

For
the space of one breath, no one moved. I had the sudden, giddy thought that perhaps I hadn't really stepped out from behind the screen. Perhaps I had just imagined it so vividly that I
thought
I was standing alone in front of two hundred people, but I was in fact still safely hidden. . . .

Then the cameraman moved so that his lens was pointing right at me, and there was a wave of movement as everybody in the audience turned either to stare at me or to whisper to a neighbor, and the spell was broken. Even the ghosts edged in a little closer, as if they wanted to make sure they didn't miss a thing.

I looked into the camera's round black lens—it felt remarkably like looking at the end of a gun—and had the sudden, clear realization that I hadn't considered the possibility that I would end up on television. And I was wearing my oldest jeans, a faded Lucky Charms T-shirt, and last winter's jacket, which was now at least one size too small. Oh, well. Once again I wouldn't be named to the year's best-dressed list. I stifled a slight giggle at the thought and wondered if I was about to have hysterics.

“Larry!” Fiona's mother whispered to the cameraman. “Closer!”

The cameraman moved up the aisle, his camera lunging at me. I gulped.

I only
thought
I felt sick before. Now my hands were icy, my head seemed to be floating a foot above my body, my breath was coming in gasps, and I couldn't feel my feet. Noises seemed to come from a long way away. My eyes flickered around the room so that I saw quick little snapshots of people in the audience, as if a camera shutter were going off rapidly,
click click click.

Click
. My mother looking radiant and disbelieving and tearful.

Click
. Wren looking confused and a little miffed by this decidedly disorderly turn of events.

Click
. Dove and Oriole beaming encouragingly.

Click
. Lark and Linnet jumping with glee at the sensation I had caused.

Click.
Raven frowning darkly.

Click
. Grandma Bee looking so smug that the words might as well have been written over her head in neon letters:
I told you so
.

“That's my girl,” Luke said, smiling.

I relaxed a tiny bit, just enough to smile back.

Then I looked at the Dawsons and forgot to breathe.

Mrs. Dawson was clutching her hands together so tightly the knuckles had turned white. Mr. Dawson gave her a worried glance, with a look of dawning anger. Jack stared at me, the shock on his face shifting in an instant to betrayal.
Clickclickclick
.

Prajeet must have seen the panic in my eyes. “You're doing fine, Sparrow,” he said.

“May I come to you?” I said again.

“Yes!” Mrs. Dawson said. Her husband made a move, as if to stop her, but she went on. “Please—”

“I see a young man—” My voice was barely a whisper. I cleared my throat and tried again. “I see a young man, about seventeen.” The words were louder, but I still sounded unsure of myself. Even though I could see Luke, clear as day, I felt like an impostor, saying the words that I had heard other mediums pronounce with such authority over the years.

“Keep going, sweetheart,” Floyd said. “You know what you're doing.”

I went on, trying to sound more authoritative. “He has blond hair and hazel eyes. His name is Luke.”

Mrs. Dawson gasped. Fiona's mother looked back and forth from the Dawsons to me, every line of her body at attention.

“You're saying that Luke is dead.” Mr. Dawson's voice rang harshly through the auditorium.

“Well, yes—”

“
My boy is not dead
.” Mr. Dawson's voice got louder.

“I'm s-sorry, but he is—I mean, he has C-crossed Over,” I said, and cursed myself for stuttering. “I can see him! He's standing right there, just behind you—”

There was an interested murmur as everyone in the audience looked where I was pointing. The cameraman automatically swung his lens in that direction as well, then pulled his eye away from the viewfinder, as if surprised to see nothing but decidedly human audience members.

“This is ridiculous!” Mr. Dawson stood up. “Sarah. Jack. Let's go.”

Fiona's mother moved forward as if to stop them from leaving, but before she could say anything, Luke's mother touched her husband's arm.

“No, wait,” she said. “She's Jack's friend. Let's at least hear what she has to say.”

I met Jack's eyes, blazing with contempt. “Yeah,” he said. “Let's hear what Sparrow has to say.”

I cast a helpless look at my ghosts. I can't do this. I really, really, really can't—

“Sparrow!” Professor Trimble snapped. “Plant your feet. Stand up straight.
Own your ground
.”

Without thinking, I did as she said and immediately felt more centered.

“It's not about what I have to say,” I said firmly. “Luke is all right, and he has a message for you. Do you want to hear it?”

Jack's father stared at me for a long moment. Finally he gave a slow nod.

“I need to hear your voice,” I prompted.

He nodded again and said, “Yes. I want to hear it.” His voice had a sarcastic edge, but it did the job.

“Thank you.” I turned to Luke, who was wearing an expression of long-suffering patience. “Go on.”

“So. Please tell them I'm fine,” Luke said. “And happy.”

I rolled my eyes. “That is
such
a cliché.”

“Unoriginal,” he said calmly, “but true. And . . . reassuring, perhaps. So if you wouldn't mind—”

“He says he's fine and he's happy,” I said to Mrs. Dawson. I avoided looking at Mr. Dawson. Or Jack.

“
Really
,” Mr. Dawson said sarcastically. “I never saw that one coming.”

Grandma Bee leaned forward and poked him in the shoulder, hard. “Show some respect!” she said fiercely. “That's my granddaughter you're talking to.” She added a couple of menacing clacks of her dentures, and Mr. Dawson, clearly unnerved, shrank back into his seat.

“Shh,” Mrs. Dawson murmured. “Just listen.”

“This girl goes to school with Jack!” Mr. Dawson sounded incredulous. “She's only fifteen years old, for God's sake!”

Of all the condescending, patronizing, dismissive comments . . .

I lifted my chin an inch and said frostily, “For your information, I've been talking to ghosts since I was five.”

I glanced at my family and shrugged. “Sorry.”

They all seemed stunned, of course, but there were other emotions on their faces as well: Outrage (Raven), Gratification (Mother), Relief (Dove, Oriole), Irritation (Wren), Amazement (Lark and Linnet), and Complete and Utter Vindication (Grandma Bee, who caught my eye and gave me a roguish wink).

“Since she was five,” Mr. Dawson said to no one in particular.

“Yes.” Then, in order to keep things moving along, I added, “I'm getting another message,” and looked inquiringly at Luke.

“Right. Well. Let's start with my dad.” Luke paused for so long that I thought perhaps he had forgotten that everyone was waiting to hear from him. Then he nodded to himself and said, “My dad and I had a fight the night I died. About washing the car, which was really just so . . .
stupid
. But I was mad and I wanted to be alone and there was still some light in the sky, so . . .”

I waited.

“So I decided to try a new trail. I slipped on some loose shale and—and—” He stopped again. “Maybe I shouldn't go into all the details.”

I sneaked a quick look at his parents. “Good idea.”

“But please tell him that wasn't his fault that I died. Once I got on the mountain, I had forgotten all about our argument. I was just . . . thinking about other stuff and not paying attention and—anyway, tell him not to blame himself.”

I carefully repeated all this, doing my best to use his exact words. Mr. Dawson didn't say anything, but the anger seemed to drain out of his face, leaving it waxy and still.

“Tell my mother that she doesn't need to worry about me anymore.” Luke smiled down at her. “Tell her everything's copacetic. She'll know what you mean.”

I repeated that. “Copacetic” was obviously a hit. When I said that, Mrs. Dawson made a little sound, half sigh, half sob. She glanced over at her husband, as if checking his response. Mr. Dawson pressed his lips together so hard they turned white. Jack was shaking his head, over and over. I don't think he was even aware that he was doing it.

“Now. Jack,” Luke went on. “Please tell him to stop calling every white-water outfitter in the West and get on with his life,” he said with some exasperation. He paused and then added more softly, “And tell him that I'll always watch out for him, okay? I really want him to know that.”

As I passed on the message for Jack, I found myself smiling. It was such a nice, big brother type of message, and Jack would be so happy to hear it—

“You're lying.” Jack's words felt like a slap. “Luke would never talk like that.”

“Like what?” I asked with an edge in my voice.

“Like a damn greeting card!” Jack put on a fake spiritual voice. “‘I will watch over you, my dear brother, from the Great Beyond!' This is
total bullshit
!”

“Please,” Miss Canterville murmured a mild reproof. “This is a religious service.”

His father shot him a warning look about the language, but it was halfhearted at best. If anything, he looked sorry that Jack hadn't said something more colorful.

“That's not what he said!” I said. “You're just trying to make me sound stupid!”

“I don't have to try! This is completely stupid because
Luke isn't dead
!”

“Ask him about the museum,” Luke interjected. “Ask him about the painting.”

I flung the question at Jack. “What about the spirit painting at the museum, then?”

Jack's eyes widened with shock, then narrowed again. “What about it?”

“Ask him whose face he saw,” Luke said helpfully.

“Whose face did you see—”

“Nobody's!”

“It looked like Luke, didn't it?” I listened to Luke. “That photo of him from last year, the one where he's standing by the creek.”

That stopped Jack, but only for a second. “I told you all about Luke last week,” he said accusingly. “About how he disappeared and how we've been looking for him. Why didn't you say anything then, if you were already talking to him?”

“Because—” I stopped. The truth—that I wouldn't help Luke because I didn't want people to think I was a freak—did not seem calculated to please anyone in this audience. I started again. “Well, you see—”

“You didn't tell me either.” A voice rang out from another part of the room. Fiona was standing, hands on hips, eyes blazing, red hair floating around her head as if electrified by her anger. “And I thought you were my friend!”

“I was,” I stammered, totally unprepared for this secondary attack. “I mean, I am.”

“Really? Because friends tell each other everything,” she said sharply. “And you didn't breathe a word about any ghosts or spirit messages or—or anything! Even after I told you my mother was doing this story!”

“Yes, but—” I started to protest.

But Fiona had more to say. Unfortunately, she had
much
more to say.

Like, “You never said anything when we Googled Jack—”

A sharp glance from Jack.

“—or when we read all those articles about Luke's disappearance—”

An accusatory glare from Mr. Dawson. “—or when you saw Luke's photo in the newspaper—”

A tearful look from Mrs. Dawson.

My face was red hot with embarrassment. “I only read about Luke on the Internet after he had already started appearing to me.” It sounded lame, even to me.

A sigh of disappointment rustled through the audience. I saw Professor Trimble, Prajeet, and Floyd exchange looks of distress. Grandma Bee was glaring at Fiona so fiercely that I was a little surprised that she was still standing.

“Right. That's very convincing.” Mr. Dawson stood up, then grabbed his wife's elbow. “This has gone on long enough. Come on. We're going home.”

I felt tears brimming in my eyes and quickly blinked them back. This must be the way those poor accused women felt during the Salem witch trials, I thought. Like, they just couldn't believe how everyone was getting everything
so wrong
.

“Please,” I said to Luke. “You've got to say something else, something they'll believe.”

Jack and his parents started walking up the aisle.

“Come on, Luke. Please.”

Surprisingly, Luke grinned. Then he said, “I want to say something to Jack.”

“Wait,” I called out. “Luke has a message for Jack.”

They stopped. They turned. They waited.

I listened.

Then I said to Luke, “I am
not
going to say that.”

“Believe me, this is the only thing that will convince him—”

“No. Absolutely not.” Serving Spirit was supposed to be a higher spiritual calling. Messages were supposed to be inspirational and uplifting. And I wanted my debut as a psychic—since apparently I had to have one—to be remembered for something other than third-grade humor.

He looked positively gleeful. “Don't be so prissy, Sparrow.”

I rolled my eyes, but I already knew that I would do what Luke wanted. “He says to tell you this: May the farts be with you.”

Lark and Linnet (and several of the ghosts) snickered, but the audience of living, breathing people seemed taken aback by this message, which was definitely less than spiritual.