The Secret Life of Sparrow Delaney (4 page)

He began to take roll, snapping out each name as if we were on a parade ground.

“Mr. Andrews? Justin Andrews?”

“Here!” The redheaded boy waved his arm as dramatically as if he were guiding a plane onto an aircraft carrier. (Just as I suspected: goofy.)

“Respond by saying ‘present,'” Sergeant Grimes said. “Cut out the semaphore. And use my name when you answer.”

Justin looked a little puzzled—I had the feeling that “semaphore” threw him for a loop—but he lowered his arm and said, “Present, Mr. Grimes,” in a subdued tone.

“Negative.” Sergeant Grimes seemed to be getting more annoyed by the minute. “Mr. Grimes is my father. You can call me Sergeant Grimes. Or you can call me Sergeant. Or you can call me sir.” He paused, then snapped, “Do we understand each other?”

A murmur of yeses answered him.

I expected him to bark out, “I can't
hear
you!” just like in the movies. But he just nodded, still not smiling, and went on with the roll. I learned that the elegant girl near the windows was named Jeannie Bartlett and that she sounded bored and superior. The girl with glasses and braces also had a most unfortunate adenoid problem and answered almost inaudibly to the name Sarah Carlton. And Army Jacket Boy turned out to be Jack Dawson.

He was called on three times before he heard his name, leading to his iPod being confiscated and the rest of us being subjected to a rather tedious lecture titled “Sergeant Grimes's Rules Regarding the Use of Electronics in Class” (short version: “Don't Even Think About It”). When Jack finally answered, his face was blank, his voice flat. He should have appeared difficult and surly; instead he came off as extremely cool, further evidence (as if it were needed) that the universe is fundamentally unfair.

“Ms. Delaney? Sparrow Delaney?”

I was so lost in thought that it took me a second to realize that Sergeant Grimes was calling my name. “Yes. Here,” I answered. “I mean, present. Sir. Er, Sergeant.”

“Very good. Now try to stay present, if you don't mind,” Sergeant Grimes said dryly as he checked off my name.

Finally we got to the end of roll call, and Sergeant Grimes took us through what the year had in store. A lot, it seemed. Reading six chapters in the massive textbook every month, writing a short essay on a historical topic every week, and—wait for it—working in teams on a semester-long research project that would teach us “how to effectively find, analyze, and summarize primary and secondary source materials.”

No one dared groan, although a certain feeling of anguish reverberated throughout the room.

“Any questions? No? Outstanding.” The sergeant picked up his roll book and began assigning us to teams of two. He did this by simply running down his list and pairing us off according to the alphabetical listing of our last names.

All around me people were turning pale with dismay at not being able to choose their own partners, but I would have gladly traded my fate with any one of theirs, because my research partner was none other than Jack Dawson.

I glanced over my shoulder. He was staring at the floor, a slight frown on his face.

“Your research project should focus on some aspect of local history,” Sergeant Grimes continued. “All topics must be chosen and approved by me by the end of next week, so that you have sufficient time to complete your project. I strongly suggest that you meet with your partner outside class in the next few days to decide on your chosen area of research.”

He would have gone on, but at that moment the bell rang. We all grabbed our books, ready to escape to the next class, but Sergeant Grimes held up his hand.

“Class!” he barked. The single word sounded like a thunderclap. Everyone froze.

“One final rule: Even if the bell rings, you don't leave until
I
say so.”

He paused for a long, dramatic moment as we held our breaths.

Finally he snapped, “Dismissed!” and we all bolted into the hall.

The rest of the morning passed in the usual first-day blur of trying frantically to find the next classroom, being issued stacks of textbooks, fumbling with a new locker combination, and signing up for extracurricular activities. All in all, I barely had time to breathe, let alone think about the strange start to my new school year.

By the time I found the cafeteria, I had only fifteen minutes to eat the soggy tuna fish sandwich and bruised apple I had brought for lunch. I spotted Fiona waving to me from across the room, threaded my way through a dozen tables, and plopped down gratefully in the chair next to her.

“What did you think of Sergeant Grimes? History is going to be a complete horror!” Fiona exclaimed with delight. She had spread out a clean napkin—real cloth, I noticed, and snowy white—and arranged her lunch on it like a work of art: PB&J sandwich with the crusts cut off, a red apple so shiny that it must have been polished, and what looked like homemade chocolate chip cookies.

Her eyes sparkled even as she moaned about the rest of her classes. “I'm going to be
completely
in over my head in algebra, I can already tell, and Mr. Crane in English said we have to read twenty novels in thirty-six weeks and if we don't make it, we'll have to keep going in summer school! I think he was joking, but
still
! Are you taking Spanish? Well, then you're just incredibly lucky because you should see the homework assignments we already have, and this is only the
first day
!” Fiona took a neat little bite from her apple and sighed happily. “High school is going to be so much harder than junior high! I just don't know if I'll make it!”

“Mmm,” I said. Totally inadequate, I know, but I couldn't talk about what was foremost on my mind— namely, cute ghosts that disappeared into thin air.

“Where's your schedule? I hope we have at least one more class together this afternoon. That would be such fun! Hi, Clare! Hey, Jill!” Fiona managed to keep chattering even as she ate her lunch and waved at various people as they walked by.

“You seem to know a lot of people already,” I commented.

“Well, I'm a natural-born extrovert; at least that's what my dad always says,” she said cheerfully. “He's a psychologist, so he's always diagnosing people. I think I get it from my mom, being an extrovert, I mean. She's a TV reporter. People always end up telling her things they wouldn't admit to another living soul!”

I nodded throughout this flow of words, making a mental note to avoid being around Fiona's mom whenever possible.

“Of course one of the bad things about being an extrovert is that you tend to talk too much.” She frowned suddenly. “Am I talking too much right now? Am I boring you? You have to tell me if I'm boring you. It's vital to my personal development.”

“No, not at all.” I hastened to reassure her.

“Good. Because I
am
a little hyper today, I admit it!” Fiona rattled on. “I'm just so so
so
excited! What clubs are you going to join? I was secretary of the drama department at my last school. My mom and I just moved here a month ago—did I already say that? Anyway, she got a job at the local station. She's still a reporter, but the station is a network affiliate, so her chances for advancement are much better. My parents are divorced, and my dad lives in Rochester. Once a month I go there, and once a month he visits me, and of course we e-mail all the time, because my dad wants our relationship to remain strong and connected.” She paused to take a breath. “What about you?”

“Um, what?” I had relaxed a little bit as Fiona chattered, figuring that I wouldn't have to say much. “What about me?”

“How many sisters and brothers do you have? What do your parents do? What are your hobbies? You know.”

“Oh. Well. I have six older sisters . . .” I said cautiously.

“Six! That sounds like so much fun!” She looked wistful. “I'm an only. I always wanted—”

“No, you don't. Believe me.” I didn't want to hear her big, happy family fantasy, which I was already pretty sure would feature madcap adventures that ended in a group hug. “They drive me crazy. Anyway, my mom's a, er, counselor.” Which was almost true. “And my grandmother lives with us, too.”

“That sounds amazing.” Fiona was wide-eyed. “And your dad?” The way she asked the question, I knew she guessed the answer. Her voice had a careful quality that she had probably learned from her father.

I replied briefly, “He's not around right now.”

Fiona nodded and dropped the subject as I looked around the crowded cafeteria. I was beginning to feel a little nostalgic for the claustrophobic cafeteria of my old school, with a few dozen drearily familiar faces, when I spotted Jack Dawson. He was sitting by himself three tables away from us. Well, almost by himself. The ghost was sitting next to him, looking at me expectantly.

“What are you looking at?” Fiona, curious, turned to follow my gaze. “Ooooh, I see! Your new research partner.”

“No, no!”

“He's just so so cute, isn't he?”

I sneaked a quick look. Jack was now sitting quite alone.

“He looks a little bit like a movie star, don't you think?” Fiona whispered. “I mean, the kind who would act in independent films and really
care
about his art.”

“Oh, sure.” I sniffed. “The kind who plays a heroin addict and ends up dying in the end.”

“The kind who then wins an Oscar and goes on to have a fabulous career playing tortured souls and making millions,” Fiona finished cheerfully. “Anyway, I don't care what you say. I think you are just so
so
lucky to be his research partner.” She caught her breath. “Oh, no, he saw us checking him out!”

“Us?” I asked, stung by the injustice of this. “I was just trying to eat my lunch—”

But Fiona wasn't listening. “I am so
so
embarrassed!” She giggled (sounding anything but) as Jack stared at us, his scowl practically igniting the air.

I grabbed the remains of my lunch and stood up, knocking my chair over in my hurry.

“Come on, let's get out of here.”

“But you haven't finished your lunch,” Fiona said.

“I'm not hungry,” I muttered as I picked up the chair and tossed my lunch bag into the nearest trash can.

“Oh, I understand completely. I've been a nervous wreck all day long—”

Mercifully Fiona kept chattering as we careened down the hall, keeping me from thinking about the fact that I had now made a fool of myself in front of the entire cafeteria.

Or at the very least, in front of Jack Dawson. Which was even worse.

Chapter 5

When
the final bell rang, I raced out of the school, ran up the street to the bus stop, and paced impatiently at the curb until the bus finally lumbered into view. I climbed on board, grabbed a seat, and settled back to calculate the day's rating in my head.

Plus two points for finding my locker and making it to every class on time.

Plus seven points for meeting Fiona, possible new best friend.

Minus seven points for seeing yet another ghost. Plus six points because the ghost was friendly and cute.

Jack Dawson, however, posed a bit of a conundrum: plus five points for being relatively good-looking, minus five points for being sarcastic and surly, resulting in having no effect on the day's rating in any way.

Total score: a solid eight.

Not bad. The best day of my life so far had rated a sixteen (Christmas Day, seven years old, when I found my first bike—used and repainted, but it was
mine
— under the tree). When the bus pulled up to my stop, I grabbed my backpack and started walking home. The afternoon was sunny and warm. By the time I'd gone a few blocks, I was feeling quite happy.

As I passed our mailbox, I knocked on it—three taps, then one, then two—before opening it. I pulled out the mail and rifled through it, hoping, as always, for something other than bills and free circulars. No luck, as usual. In fact there were five bills, and three of them were stamped “Overdue.” We also received offers to have our carpets cleaned (we didn't have any), our house painted (could advertising flyers be accused of sarcasm?), and our lives changed through the miracle of energy realignment (only if it was guaranteed to bring a flow of money energy our way).

As I opened the gate, Grandma Bee yelled from the backyard, “Is that Sparrow Delaney I hear?” I could see her head, clad in the white pith helmet and veil of a professional beekeeper, bobbing about behind the towering trees and overgrown bushes at the far end of the lawn. (She tried keeping bees last year, but faced with her irritable monologues about the lack of honey production, they all had decamped months ago for a presumably less stressful environment.)

“Hi, Grandma,” I yelled back as I headed purposefully for the house.

“Don't go hide in your room!” she called. “Come over here and talk to me!”

I sighed and cast a wistful look at my bedroom windows, golden with reflected sunlight, high up in the trees.

“Sparrow!”

“All right! I'm coming!”

I headed in her direction, cursing a bit as thorns from vicious raspberry bushes scratched my arms. Finally I stepped out into a small clearing. Grandma Bee was sitting on a boulder, looking mournful and (incidentally) presenting her best profile to her audience (me).

There were four small granite headstones arrayed in front of her. Each one bore the name of a former husband. My sisters and I had given each a name based on the epitaph he had been assigned. The Dearly Departed was Grandma Bee's first husband, whom she married at a very young age (“I was a mere child!” she always said. “A babe in arms, practically!”) after a dramatic elopement that involved climbing down a drainpipe from her bedroom window. The Beloved Husband was William Charles Emerson, my grandfather. The Sadly Missed was her third husband, an irascible oil baron whose fortune turned out to exist largely in his own mind. The Late Lamented was her fourth and (so far) last husband, a sickly man who could take Grandma Bee's forceful personality for only eighteen months before turning up his toes and joining his predecessors in the backyard.

My grandmother sighed deeply, wiped a nonexistent tear from her eye, and said, “I do so hate coming out here to tend their graves, my poor dead darlings. It's such a mournful thing to do. But after all”—she leaned down and delicately plucked a strand of crabgrass from the Late Lamented's grave site—“it is my duty.”

She turned her magnified gaze on me. “Unless,” she added thoughtfully, “I could find a loyal and loving granddaughter who was willing to shoulder this burden for me.”

“Oh, for heaven's sake!” I admit this heart-tugging performance used to work on me, but by now I had now spent far too many afternoons on my hands and knees, pulling up weeds and scrubbing headstones with extra-strength kitchen cleaner. “No one wanted them buried in the backyard in the first place! They should be in the cemetery where they belong!”

“But I wanted my darlings close to me,” she said mournfully. “It's such a comfort to know that they're nearby.”

I sighed and dropped resignedly to my knees. I began pulling up weeds in a desultory fashion as Grandma Bee sat back, content now that she could direct operations from her rocky throne.

“You missed a dandelion, Sparrow,” she said. “Over there, by your hand. No, your left hand. That's it, dig those rascals out by their roots! Oh, and as long as you're down there, here are the garden shears. Trim that grass in front of Everett's stone, dear. I can barely make out his name.”

I started clipping as quickly as I could, totally focused on getting to the privacy of my bedroom as soon as possible. Unfortunately I was going so fast that my hand slipped, and the shears accidentally scraped the Dearly Departed's headstone.

“Sparrow! Watch what you're doing!”

“Sorry.”

“I don't know what's wrong with you these days,” Grandma Bee commented. “You've had your head in the clouds for a week now.”

I muttered something about having a lot on my mind.

She leaned closer, her eyes fixed intensely on me. “Mmm. And what kinds of things do you have on your mind, I wonder?”

I moved on to the Beloved Husband, conveniently allowing me to edge away from her stare. “Just the usual. Nothing much. You know.”

“Mmm.” I could tell she wasn't buying this. “How old are you now, Sparrow?” she asked ever so casually.

I sat back on my heels. “You
know
I just turned fifteen!”

“Well, I
am
getting older, you know.” She tried adding a pathetic quaver to her voice, but her glance at me was sharp and glinting.

“Don't try to sound like you're about to go to Summerland. We had my birthday party
two days ago
!”

She dropped the act and flapped a hand dismissively. “Well, there are so many of you girls. And when you get to be my age, you've been to so many birthday parties. It's hard to keep track.” She took my chin in her hand so that she could peer into my eyes. “Hmm.”

I didn't like the sound of that
hmm
. I pulled back and scooted to the next headstone.

“Fifteen,” she said. “A tricky age.”

I bit my tongue. I would not ask.

“Very, very tricky.”

I refused to ask.

“Quite dangerous, in fact. Full of perils big and small.”

I Absolutely Positively Would Not—

“Especially for someone like you.”

She lifted her veil and fanned herself with it as she gazed over the fence at Mrs. Winkle, who was pouring milk into the saucers she had set out in her backyard. “I see Mary Ann Winkle is still suffering from delusions. Quite sad, really,” Grandma Bee said conversationally. Unfortunately her conversational voice is extremely loud. One might even call it booming.

“Shh!” I hissed. “She'll hear you!”

“Oh, who cares? The woman's certifiable. Always has been, from the time we were children.”

Grandma Bee and Mrs. Winkle have been archrivals since third grade, when Mrs. Winkle first piped up with tales of fairies in her garden and Grandma Bee countered with stories about ghosts in her living room. They've been waging a pitched battle ever since over who is the most sensitive, the most spiritual, and the most sought-after medium in both this world and the next.

“Only sentimental fools who have never grown up believe in fairies,” Grandma Bee went on. Her voice, I noticed, was not just loud; it was penetrating.

“Grandma Bee, please!” I whispered urgently. “Keep your voice down!”

“Why, hello, Sparrow!” I looked up to see Mrs. Winkle standing a few feet away, next to the fence. She glanced at my grandmother and said, rather distantly, “Bee.”

Grandma Bee nodded regally but didn't speak. “How was your first day of school?” Mrs. Winkle asked me.

“Um . . . fine.”

“Oh, I wish I were your age again! I loved my school days!” Mrs. Winkle's round face flushed rosy as she stared into the distance, a remembering look in her eye. “My favorite subject was science.”

This inspired a disbelieving snort from Grandma Bee.

Hastily I indicated the still-empty saucers near the fence. “The fairies must have been hungry last night.”

“Even more so than usual.” She beamed. “Do you know, I put out a dozen saucers? And this morning they were all empty!” She lowered her voice. “I think my fairies are starting to bring friends!”

She smiled down at me, her blue eyes round with delight.

“Mary Ann, have you ever noticed the dozens of cats that roam wild through Lily Dale?” Grandma asked tartly. “I'm just curious what conclusion you might draw from that. Given your scientific mind-set and all.”

“Um, I'm sure the fairies really appreciate everything you do for them,” I interjected quickly. I put an extra ounce of sincerity in my voice to make up for Grandma Bee.

“Oh, yes, they do,” she said. Mrs. Winkle turned to go back into her house, then stopped, a little frown creasing her forehead. “Well, that's odd. I just had a little vision. I don't usually have those, you know, dear.”

“Oh, really?” I wasn't sure where this was going.

“Oh, please,” my grandmother muttered.

“You're not the only one around here with talent, Bee!” she snapped. Then she turned back to me. “I saw you standing at a crossroads. You have to make a choice about which way to go.”

“Not a very
specific
vision,” Grandma murmured, adding sweetly, “After all, wouldn't that apply to most teenagers?”

Privately I agreed with Grandma Bee, but Mrs. Winkle had a strange look in her eye that made me uneasy. This was not the cheerful, ditzy Mrs. Winkle I had always known. This was a seer, a prophet, a woman who could see into the future and predict all kinds of strange and wonderful and dire outcomes. The fact that her frizzy gray hair was held back by tarnished bobby pins or that I could see a dab of toothpaste at the corner of her mouth did not lessen her authority as she stared intensely into my eyes.

“I see a young man,” she intoned. “He is pointing down a road.”

Mrs. Winkle looked past me, narrowing her eyes as if to bring the vision into greater focus.

“He is watching out for you.”

I blinked.

“Hmm. You don't want to take the path he is showing you, but he wants you to know that you should not be afraid.”

A little thrill of dread ran down my spine.

Then Mrs. Winkle blinked distractedly several times, as if she had just come out of a trance and needed a moment to readjust to the ordinary world. She smiled sunnily at me, as if nothing had happened.

“You see, dear, there's no need to worry. You'll have help with whatever the future holds. Well, we all do, don't we?” she said. “Now, I'd better get back to work! Have a nice day, dear.” She nodded coolly to my grandmother. “Bee.”

She waved merrily and floated back to her own backyard.

“That was so strange. What do you think it meant?” I asked my grandmother. My mind went back to what she had been saying before Mrs. Winkle came over. “And why is fifteen a tricky age? And what do you mean, for someone like me?”

Grandma Bee cast a disdainful look at Mrs. Winkle's garden and muttered, “Fairies!” in a tone of utter scorn. “That woman is a complete noodle.”

“Grandma Bee!”

She turned her attention back to me. “Yes?” she asked, the picture of innocence.

“Why is fifteen such a tricky age?”

“I'm so glad you asked,” she said smugly. “Most mediums have realized their talent by the time they're sixteen. So, someone like you, who hasn't shown any signs of psychic talent whatsoever—” She pursed her lips, as if daring me to contradict this statement.

“Right,” I said tensely. “Not one iota.”

“Mmm. Well, either you are supremely untalented, in which case this year will be one of waiting with less and less hope as the months go by, or you are simply repressing your gifts, in which case this year will be one of upheaval and tumult and disorder and confusion, as all that spiritual energy comes to a boil and then”—she flung her arms wide—“bursts out into the waiting universe!”

This dramatic gesture was ruined only slightly by the fact that one arm had become tangled in the netting that hung over her shoulders, which then pulled the beekeeper's helmet off her head. She picked it up, dusted it off, and settled it back on her head with aplomb, despite the twigs and leaves caught in the veil.

“You make me sound like a volcano,” I said, feeling even more uneasy.

“Well, according to you, you have nothing to worry about.” Grandma Bee pointed to the Sadly Missed. “Now would you mind brushing those maple leaves away? Poor dear Johnny always had such terrible allergies in the fall.”