The Secret Life of Sparrow Delaney (7 page)

Miss Robertson walked back to her seat, and Mrs. Winthrop stepped forward to take her place. She usually wears a long purple caftan in the hope of looking more spiritual, a hope that is dashed by the inevitable egg stain on the front and the torn hem dragging on the ground. She breathed deeply to prepare herself, then looked expectantly around the room.

A ghost standing in the middle of the aisle waved her hand to get Mrs. Winthrop's attention. The spirit was a small woman carrying a thick book, her finger holding her place. She had the distracted, impatient look of someone who had been interrupted just as she got to the good part of a new novel. Her impatience only grew over the next ten minutes, as the medium laboriously figured out that the spirit was a librarian who wanted to contact her sister Jane.

At one point the librarian glanced desperately in my direction. “This is so irritating,” she said to me. “I left five books under my bed, and now they're more than three months overdue.”

I stepped back a little farther behind the screen. The librarian drifted back into my eyesight and waved a hand in the air, as if maybe I was such a completely oblivious idiot that I hadn't noticed her before.

“Hello?” she called. “A little help here? I know you can hear me.”

I pointedly looked away.

As I watched the ceiling fans whir gently under the high ceiling, I heard her plead. “I want to get back to my book. If you could just pass on one little message for me—” I began to run through a list of U.S. presidents in my mind, concentrating fiercely on getting the chronology exactly right.

“Oh, all right,
fine
.” She sounded exasperated, but she turned back to Mrs. Winthrop, whose forehead was now beaded with sweat as she tried to tune in to the spirit's voice.

“I'm getting an anxious energy?” the medium said uncertainly.

Grandma Bee shifted in her seat and gave a fierce clack of her dentures. Mrs. Winthrop glanced nervously at my grandmother and added, “I think there's something worrying her?” It was definitely a less than commanding performance. I think I actually heard Grandma Bee growl.

Many, many agonizing minutes later the mission was finally accomplished. Sister Jane, weeping, agreed to return the library books and pay all overdue fines. Mutual expressions of love and caring were exchanged.

However, the damage had been done. The librarian had picked up on my presence, and other spirits had taken note. A small, nervous man with thinning brown hair and buckteeth glided around the screen and looked beseechingly at me. “Please, I don't mean to bother you,” he said in a high, nasal voice. “My message is very short. I wouldn't want to take up much of your time.”

I stared fixedly at the windows as an extremely large woman wearing an extremely bright flowered dress elbowed him aside. “He only Crossed Over last week!” she bellowed. “I've been waiting for almost a decade! And my message is of the utmost importance! It's a matter of life and death!”

Even the other spirits, who were now edging closer to me, rolled their eyes at this. “There's always one drama queen in every crowd,” a small elderly woman murmured. She looked like the Hollywood version of a sweet grandmother, complete with fluffy white hair and rosy cheeks, but her tone was acid.

I pressed my lips together to keep from smiling, and her gaze sharpened. She took two tiny, tottering steps forward and gazed up at me with a winning, hopeful expression.

“You seem like such a nice girl,” she said sweetly. “Surely you'll help a poor old woman contact her great-grandchildren, especially little Joey? He misses me so much, poor dear.”

I moved farther back in the shadows and started to do algebra equations in my head. She scowled and stamped her little foot. “You're just like all the other young people these days!” she scolded me before moving on. “No consideration for others! No consideration at all!”

For the next ten minutes I meditated on double-entry bookkeeping, cinder-block motels, highway exit ramps, Latin grammar, shag carpeting, and mall parking lots. If thinking boring thoughts were an Olympic event, I would have won the gold. Finally all the ghosts drifted away, muttering darkly to themselves.

The service went on for another half hour, but I stopped paying attention. I sat behind the lattice screen and watched the light fade from the sky and listened to the faint chirp of crickets. Once in a while I glanced at my family, who also seemed ready for the service, and the season, to end. I could see Raven yawning and Lark and Linnet drawing elaborate designs on each other's arms with ballpoint pens. Even Oriole was now absorbed in a minute examination of her fingernails, and my mother's usual warm smile was beginning to slip.

Then a draft of cold air swept across the back of my neck, bringing with it the faint smell of autumn. I turned to see the ghost from history class standing right behind me.

I whipped my head back around and stared steadfastly at the maroon velvet curtains that framed the stage.

Rule 1: Refuse to acknowledge the ghost's presence.

Within the blink of an eye, the ghost had manifested in front of the curtains, gazing at me as if I were his last hope of heaven.

My eyes locked with his, and I forgot to breathe.

Luckily my body remembered. After a few airless seconds my lungs drew in a deep, shuddering breath. My eyes darted to the clock on the back wall.

Before I could blink twice, the ghost was standing under that clock. He was farther away than before, yet somehow his presence was even more . . . present. He grinned at me.

I frowned back. Rule 2: Think boring thoughts.

“Our legal system is based on the principle that an independent, fair, and competent judiciary will interpret and apply the laws that govern us,” I mentally recited. The State Bar Association's code of judicial conduct usually puts me into a semiconscious trance within one or two sentences. I relaxed into the familiar cadences, much as I would have relaxed into a hot bath, feeling happy and victorious.

Then I heard a deep, warm voice say, “Nice try, Sparrow.”

Startled, I opened my mouth for an indignant reply—and just in time remembered Rule 3.

Never, ever talk to a ghost.

I snapped my mouth shut and ran out the back door, congratulating myself on my escape and wondering why it had been such a close one.

Chapter 9

I
didn't wait for my family. I knew they would linger after the service to gossip with neighbors and enjoy the relaxed, relieved feeling that comes with the end of yet another season. I ran home, avoiding the worst potholes and enjoying the feel of cool air on my face and the sweet, sad scent of the last summer flowers, still bravely blooming around every house.

I was used to vanquishing unwanted ghosts in minutes. But this one . . . he was proving to be troublesome. And I couldn't figure out why.

I walked into a bizarrely silent house and trudged up the stairs. At least I don't have to worry about going to another message service for a while, I muttered to myself as I pushed open my bedroom door. The only thing on my mind was my comfortable bed and warm quilts and soft pillows. So when I stepped inside and found the ghost of room 12B lounging comfortably in my rocker, my reaction was not a happy one.

In fact I actually closed my eyes for a moment, hoping against hope that I was seeing things.

I opened my eyes. He was still there.

“Hello, Sparrow.”

I turned my back on him and began organizing my desk.

“I enjoyed the service tonight.”

I neatly stacked my textbooks into a serious, scholarly tower. I straightened the No. 2 pencils, freshly sharpened, that already stood at perfect attention in a chipped mug.

I sat down, flipped to a fresh page in my notebook, and stared down at it, my thoughts racing as I tried to figure out how to get rid of him. After a few seconds I couldn't resist sneaking a quick peek over my shoulder.

“Perhaps you couldn't see much from your hiding place,” he commented, “but people are always so happy when they receive a message from one of their loved ones.” He looked wistfully into the distance. “I wish—”

Wish what? I almost said it out loud. I caught myself just in time and quickly opened my trigonometry textbook, searching for the dullest section I could find.

The Pythagorean theorem. Excellent. Boring enough to keep any ghost at bay. I started reading: “Label the right angle C and the hypotenuse c. Let A and B denote the other two angles, and a and b the sides opposite them. . . .”

Instantly a gray fog of boredom began creeping into my brain
.
La, la, la, I hummed to myself, feeling pleased as punch. You, Sparrow Delaney, are a force to be reckoned with. You can hold off the spirit world with one hand tied behind your back. You can take on all comers and dismiss them in the first round. You are a champion!

Well, as Professor Trimble always says, pride goeth before a fall.

Two minutes later, in the midst of an enormous yawn, I looked up to see that the ghost was standing beside my desk, looking down at me inquiringly.

“Must be tedious work, keeping ghosts away,” he said. He would have sounded sympathetic if it hadn't been for the hint of laughter in his voice.

Scowling, I slammed the book shut and started to stomp out of the room. Halfway to the door I stopped. What was I doing? This was
my
room! If anyone was going to leave, it was going to be the dead guy.

I whirled around, only to find that he had moved again to stand right behind me. Now we were facing each other, only inches apart, close enough so that I caught my breath at the sudden freezing cold.

I took a quick step to the right. He moved just as fast to block my way.

I moved left, he moved with me.

Well, I wasn't a third-grade dodgeball survivor for nothing. I'd mastered a few tricky moves in my day.

I feinted right, then moved left,
fast
, and—

“
Get out of my way!
” I yelled at the ghost, who was standing mockingly in front of me.

There was an awful silence as I realized what I'd done.

“I was wondering how long it would take to get you to talk to me,” he said. “Five days might be some kind of record, if anyone bothered to track that kind of thing.” He sat down in the rocker and leaned back comfortably. “So, now that you have, why don't we get to know each other?”

I looked at him for a long moment.

“Damn,” I said.

“Mmm,” the ghost murmured sympathetically. “You were doing such a good job blocking me out, too. Just goes to show what having a bad temper will do.” He shook his head sadly.

“I don't have a bad temper!” I snapped, sounding (I realized too late) extremely bad-tempered.

“Of course you don't,” he said solemnly. “My mistake.”

I bit back a sharp—well, all right, bad-tempered— remark and took a deep, calming breath instead. “Look,” I said evenly, “I know you're only here because you want something from me.”

“You make me sound so selfish.”

I raised an eyebrow in polite disbelief. “If you didn't want something, you'd be drifting around in the afterlife somewhere, thinking ghostly thoughts,” I pointed out with devastating logic. “You wouldn't be hanging out in my history class. Or the cafeteria. Or my
bedroom
.”

“Point taken. But—”

“Ghosts never come back to answer questions,” I continued, warming to my theme. “It's always a oneway conversation with them. Tell my wife I love her, I buried the silver in the backyard, don't let the fire insurance lapse, blah, blah, blah. It's always about what
they
want.”

“Yes, but I think that if you heard about my particular case—”

“And I might as well tell you right now. Whatever you want, I can't help you.”

He raised his eyebrows slightly at that. “Can't?” He stood up and wandered over to my dresser. He bent down to look in the mirror, which reflected nothing but the room. He shook his head. “I never know how my hair looks anymore,” he remarked absently.

Then he turned back to me. “Can't, as in it's physically impossible for you to help me because you don't have the skills or the talent or the intelligence?”

He paused, as if he were really waiting for an answer.

When I didn't respond, he went on, “Or can't as in I could if I wanted to, but I won't?”

“Well, since you ask. Won't. It's a matter of policy,” I explained.

“That sounds very official. But aren't you being a little unreasonable? Considering that we just met?” He smiled in a way that I think was supposed to be winning. I scowled back. “You don't even know my name.”

I sat up a little straighter, folded my hands in my lap, and gave him a demure look.

“You're absolutely right,” I said. “So. What's your name?”

“Luke.”

“Luke. Very nice to meet you,” I said formally.

He matched my tone. “Likewise, I'm sure.”

“And how long have you been dead?” I continued, still using that ultrapolite voice that adults bring out when they talk to people they barely know.

“Almost a year now. See, we're getting to know each other better all the time.”

“Not to be rude or anything,” I said, “but I don't want to know anything more about you. And I don't want you to know anything at all about me.”

He leaned back and squinted at me. “Oh, I already know a great deal about you.”

“You do?” That made me feel uneasy. “Like what?”

“Well, your name, for one thing. And that you're a sophomore in high school. It's a new school, so you're nervous. You want to make friends without revealing too much of yourself, a terrible plan, by the way. Doomed to failure. You worry too much about all the wrong things. Your best subject is English, your French is
très misérable
, you need to pay more attention in biology, and—let's see, what else? Oh, yes, you've got a tremendous psychic gift, which you're determined not to use. How am I doing so far?”

After a long moment I said, “I'm doing just fine in biology.”

“Mmm. Well, you're going to have a pop quiz next Friday,” he said. “So we'll see.”

My pulse jumped a little at this news.

“But enough about you. Let's talk about me.”

“Oh, yes. Let's,” I muttered sarcastically.

“You see,” he announced, “I have a mission.” He hummed a few bars of the
Mission: Impossible
theme song.

“Of course you do,” I said, rather pleased with the way I had colored my voice with a bitter, knowing edge.

Then I had a sudden, brilliant thought. “Why don't you contact my mother? Or my sister Oriole? They would
love
to help you!”

He tilted his head, considering this. “I
could
do that,” he said thoughtfully.

I relaxed a tiny bit.

“I'm sure they'd understand why you had to give me a referral, instead of using your gifts to help a poor lost wandering soul.” He smiled innocently at me. “Is that really what you want me to do?”

I glared back. Somehow he knew that this was the last thing I wanted and that he had just got the upper hand. “Oh, forget it,” I snarled.

“Then I guess we're back to Plan A.” He added woodenly, “Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You're my only hope.”

I gave him a cool look. “That's a terrible Princess Leia impression.”

“The worst in the tristate area, if not the entire eastern seaboard,” he said cheerfully. “Unfortunately doing bad impressions of pop culture icons is pretty much my only party trick. Although,” he added, “people did seem to like it when I flipped my eyelids inside out.” He demonstrated.

I winced. “Yuck.”

He shrugged and flipped his eyelids back to the position that most people consider both normal and desirable. Then he gave me a melting look (one that I'm sure worked on all the girls when he was alive, one that I'm sure he used to practice in the mirror every night). “I'm serious, Sparrow. I need your help.”

I propped my book on my lap and put my hands over my years. “Doing homework,” I said in a singsong voice. “Ignoring you.”

“Hanging around,” he said, mimicking my singsong exactly. “Still haunting you.”

I stared furiously down at the page, trying not to smile. “I'm only going to say this one more time,” I said as clearly and distinctly as I could. “I . . . will . . . not . . . help . . . you. Now,
go away
.”

“Oh, right.” He snapped his fingers, as if suddenly remembering something. “That reminds me of another thing I know about you. You're incredibly stubborn.”

“Yes, I am,” I said proudly.

He nodded, as if pleased. “Good. So am I.”

As he shimmered out of sight, I heard him say, “This should be fun.”