by Paula Morris
In the morning, Rebecca was awakened by rain drumming against the window, and then by what sounded like rain inside the house: It was her aunt, tapping on her bedroom door.
"Rebecca," she whispered, cracking open the door, her frizzy gray hair escaping from the head scarf she always wore to work in the Quarter. "Your father called."
"He's on the phone?" Rebecca sat up, rubbing sleep from her eyes and pushing back the covers. She wondered why her
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father hadn't called her cell phone or sent her a text the way he usually did when he wanted to get in touch.
"Oh, he's not on the phone now, baby," Aunt Claudia told her. She leaned over to fiddle with the straw doll hanging on the wall, straightening it: Rebecca hadn't even noticed it was back there. "But hurry -- you have to get up and get ready. He's just arrived back in New York. He wants you to go home for Christmas."
"Home? New York? Really?" The rain outside was loud, slapping against the gutters. Had she misheard her aunt?
"Yes -- now! He's booked you onto the late-morning flight. So hurry and get up. You'll just have to throw some things together. We should leave in ... oh, half an hour?"
Rebecca was out of bed in a flash, wide awake and practically ricocheting around the room. She pulled the duffel out from under her bed, and started stuffing whatever she could grab into it: sweaters, jeans, underwear, socks.
"I'll fix you some eggs and grits," Aunt Claudia said, closing the door, and Rebecca didn't even bother to tell her -- for the hundredth time -- that she didn't eat grits. There was no time for talking. There'd be no time to go looking for Lisette in the cemetery, or to talk to Anton again. There was no time for any more confessions or any more questions or any more stories. Rebecca was going home.
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***
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
***
Although she'd only been in new york city for three weeks, Rebecca felt as though she'd journeyed to another world. Sleeping in her small bedroom in the tenth floor apartment, greeting the doorman, riding the elevator, hearing car horns along Central Park West: This was her real life. New Orleans was a strange dream of a place, extreme and claustrophobic, where her universe was confined to a few blocks -- school, the coffee shop, the cemetery. In New Orleans, she wasn't just in exile.- She was practically incarcerated.
This wasn't something she could discuss with anyone. Her father was so delighted to see her, and so miserable when she was about to leave again, that moaning about her life in New Orleans seemed both selfish and pointless. He didn't want her to be there any more than she did -- that was clear. As for her friends, they were more interested in filling Rebecca in on school scandals, romances, and dramas than hearing much about her temporary home in the Deep South. To them, New Orleans was just a place that used to be in the
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news and the only New Orleanians they were interested in hearing about were Juvenile and Lil Wayne.
So telling them how she'd seen -- and made friends with -- a ghost was out of the question. Nobody would believe her. Rebecca couldn't really believe it herself. Back in New York, much of the past month seemed incredibly surreal.
One thing her friend Ling said made Rebecca feel a little guilty -- not about what she was doing, but about what she wasn't doing in New Orleans.
"So," Ling said, stopping on the sidewalk outside the big H&M on Fifth Avenue to count her shopping bags: The post-holiday sales had just begun. "Are you doing one of those Habitat for Humanity things? You know, rebuilding houses or whatever it is they do? I saw something on TV about all these school groups from other states flying down to help, and how all the schools and colleges in New Orleans have to do community service now."
"Urn -- I don't know about our school," Rebecca said. Maybe after the storm Temple Mead girls had volunteered to help gut flooded houses and clean up the debris-strewn parks, but Rebecca was ashamed to admit she'd made no effort to find out if these projects were still going on.
"It could be fun, right?" Ling pulled on her fluorescent orange angora gloves. "You might even get to meet Brad Pitt. He's down there all the time, building eco-houses or something -- I saw it on the Today show."
Rebecca nodded, promising herself she'd investigate possibilities as soon as she got back to New Orleans. This didn't mean she was looking forward to going back. If it were up to her, she'd stay right here in New York, hanging out with Ling
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and other people who actually liked her. In New Orleans, Rebecca knew what to expect now -- and the prospect of an entire semester as social outcast at Temple Mead wasn't very appealing.
"It's not that much longer now, honey," her father said at the airport. He was trying to smile, but his eyes looked anxious, and he seemed older, somehow, and more stressed. "Before you know it, it'll be summer, and you'll be back home."
"Next you'll be telling me the worst is over," sighed Rebecca, watching her bag sail away and thinking how much she was dreading that first day back at school.
"No." Her father's voice was quiet. The look on his face was grim. "No, I wouldn't say that."
Rebecca stopped shuffling her boarding pass and ID, and looked at him. There was something ominous about his tone of voice.
"I wish I could come down with you," he said, almost to himself.
"But ... you're going back to China, right?" she asked him. She didn't know what he was talking about. If her father was in the States, Rebecca could just move home to New York. There was no need for the two of them to be exiled in New Orleans.
"Yes, yes," he said. "Of course."
Then he pulled her into a hug so tight it took her breath away.
The New Orleans Rebecca returned to was gray and damp, with a chill in the air to remind its inhabitants that
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the season was, officially, winter. But her first morning back, walking to school, Rebecca saw the colors of the city were defiantly bright. Front gardens were already dotted with blowsy red or white camellias, and a dense bush of pink azaleas bloomed outside the Vernier house; their scent hung in the still air, pungent and overwhelming. And on the houses themselves, holiday decorations were gone: Now front doors and hedges and fences were decorated in the garish Mardi Gras colors -- purple, green, and gold. Mysterious flags hung outside various houses, some sporting a letter, some a symbol, some a crown.
"What does it mean?" she asked Aurelia, pointing to one of these enigmatic banners.
"I guess those people belong to a krewe," Aurelia told her. "That one is Comus, I think. They're one of the ... you know ..."
"Old-line krewes," Rebecca said, able to finish the sentence without any problem. Of course the families around her belonged to old-line krewes. They wouldn't dream of joining one of the brash new super-krewes that let in "just anyone," as Amy had explained. "And that one over there?"
She nodded at a flag striped with purple, green, and gold, with a golden crown at its center.
"That's Rex," Aurelia said. "Major-league Patrician. Like, Julius Caesar. But you have to have been a king or a queen to have that flag outside your house. That's the Chesneys' house -- Mrs. Chesney was queen."
"Aren't the Chesneys really old?" Rebecca thought she'd seen them sitting on their front porch back in what passed
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for the fall, on rocking chairs that were chained to the railings so nobody could steal them.
"Oh, yeah." Aurelia nodded, tripping over a lumpy tree root. "She was queen about fifty years ago. That sea horse flag across the street is Proteus, I think."
"And what is that?" Rebecca had to twist her head to make out the silver symbol on a white flag drooping from one pole. It looked like an upside-down ice cream cone.
"That's the Septimus flag," said Aurelia, and they both paused to gaze up at it. That was a strange sort of symbol, Rebecca thought, because it didn't seem to make any sense.
"It looks like it's fallen over," she said.
"Or all burned down," sug
gested Aurelia, hopping from foot to foot. She shot Rebecca a conspiratorial glance. "I know what the theme is for the Septimus parade this year."
"Do you?" Rebecca was still looking at the flag.
"Don't you want to know?" Aurelia was puzzled. "It's the most top-secret thing ever, but Claire's godfather, this is his first year riding, and he was so excited and all that he blabbed it to her father. If I tell you, you have to promise not to say a word. Except to Mama, because I told her already."
"OK," Rebecca agreed, laughing as Aurelia stood on tiptoes to whisper in her ear. This was clearly a big deal.
"It's the phoenix rising from the ashes," Aurelia murmured.
"More mythology!" Rebecca said. "But not Roman, right?"
"Egyptian, then Greek," said Aurelia. "But the Romans knew about it as well. They took all sorts of things from other cultures and made them their own."
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Walking the rest of the way to school, Rebecca spotted the Septimus flag several times -- including outside the Bowman house and, waving on a flagpole she'd never noticed before, high above the cobbled parking area in front of Anton Grey's house.
Anton. He hadn't replied to a single text or voice message the whole time she was away. Maybe everything between them was over. Maybe he wished that kiss outside the Bowmans' house had never happened.
It wasn't really a surprise. His friends had frozen him out at the Christmas party; his parents probably looked down at Aunt Claudia and her family just like the woman at the party had. There wasn't any old-line krewe flag hanging outside the Vernier house; there was just a tired-looking Mardi Gras wreath on the door, its thin purple ribbon wilting in the humidity.
The first class of the new semester was math, and everyone seemed way too excited considering the time of day, the day of the week, and the subject matter. Before the second bell rang, the Debs were clustered in a corner, talking about the ball they'd attended that weekend: It was January, the height of party season. Someone's older sister was making her debut this year, which meant a whirlwind of party invitations, lunches at Galatoire's, dinners at country clubs, Saturday afternoons at the racetrack, and Sunday afternoon teas at large private homes on Audubon Place or State Street. At this weekend's ball the Debs claimed to have all danced with guys who went to universities like Ole Miss or the University of Virginia or Duke, which was even more
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exciting, apparently, than dancing with boys who went to St. Simeon's.
"Does anyone here ever do anything useful on the weekend?" Rebecca asked Jessica, who was sitting behind her, admiring Amy's new school supplies. "You know, like helping clear out flooded houses?"
Amy wrinkled her nose like a rabbit, tapping her desk with a purple, green, and gold pen.
"I think so," said Jessica, giggling nervously. She wasn't wearing glasses anymore, and her eyes were an unnaturally bright shade of blue. She lowered her voice, leaning forward across her desk. "I saw Miss Hagar once, picking up trash in City Park. We thought maybe she'd committed some crime and was being forced to do community service. But maybe she was just, like, helping."
"Jessica, are you interested in this notebook or not?" demanded Amy. Jessica sat back at once, without another word to Rebecca. And then Miss Hagar herself-- dark-haired, stocky, and wearing her usual stained houndstooth blazer -- swept into the room, scattering loose papers from the stack of manila folders in her hands. She was one of the toughest teachers at Temple Mead, and Rebecca thought it was extremely unlikely she was a criminal in her spare time.
"Miss Hagar!" Rebecca's hand shot up. "Do you know about any volunteering opportunities -- to help rebuild houses and stuff like that?"
Behind her, she heard Amy's low groan.
"Suddenly she's all Miss Community Spirit," Amy said in a stage whisper, clearly intending Rebecca to hear.
"Volunteering in the community, absolutely!" Miss Hagar
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gave them a brisk smile. She slapped the stack of folders onto her desk. "I'm glad to hear there's some interest at last. There are a number of organizations in the city who need our help. There are still neighborhoods where many houses need gutting or repairs."
"Like, which ones?" Jessica asked; this question was followed by a pained "ow!" Amy must have kicked her under the desk.
"Well -- there are so many ... Central City, Hollygrove, Gert Town, Lakeview, parts of Broadmoor, Gentilly, the Upper and Lower Ninth, Holy Cross, Mid City, Tremé ..."
Rebecca felt a flash of recognition. "We could help in Tremé?" she interrupted.
"You can help wherever you want to help," Miss Hagar told her. "Every weekend, organizations like ACORN need volunteers. In fact, we could make it a class project if there's so much interest...."
"Miss Hagar?" Rebecca turned to see one of the Debs waving her hand in the air: Her name was Madison Sherwood, and she was a major Julie Casworth Young wannabe. "My father says that ACORN is a dangerous socialist organization."
"And we're way too busy on the weekends until after Mardi Gras," said another Deb -- Rebecca still couldn't remember her name exactly; it was either Katy Lee or Kathy Lee. The initials KL were inscribed in gold on her notebooks, schoolbag, and fountain pen, and this reminded Rebecca of a postcard her father had sent her once from the capital of Malaysia: She always thought of Katy Lee as Kuala Lumpur.
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Miss Hagar gave a long sigh, drumming her fingertips against the folders on her desk.
"Maybe we can revisit this topic after Mardi Gras," she said, her voice straining with impatience. Clearly, Miss Hagar wasn't spending her weekends at teas and balls and intimate theme luncheons for forty. "And now, ladies -- algebra!"
On her way to the lunchroom that day, Rebecca stopped in the second-floor restroom, in no hurry to do the usual find-a-seat lunchtime shuffle. She could sneak a sandwich into the library, she decided, and spend the break researching ACORN on the Internet.
But before Rebecca could do anything but fix her regulation ponytail, Jessica slid through the door and hurried over.
"Have you heard?" she asked in a half whisper. "About Helena Bowman?"
Rebecca shook her head, combing her long hair with her fingers.
"She's not. Coming. To school. Anymore."
"She's dropped out?" Rebecca found that hard to believe.
"As if!" Jessica's fake-blue eyes widened. The door banged, other girls coming and going. Jessica wriggled closer, lowering her voice to an emphatic hiss. "She's way too sick to come to school. They've stopped all the renovations on her house, because she can't stand any noise. She has to have complete quiet."
"What ... what's wrong with her?" Rebecca tried to sound nonchalant, but her head was buzzing with the story
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Anton had told her before Christmas: Helena only has a few months to live.
"Nobody knows. Or nobody's saying. But it must be something really, really bad. Marianne looks like she's about to burst into tears any second. Look, I have to go."
"Thanks for ... telling me," Rebecca said to Jessica's disappearing back, because she felt as though she had to say something. She pulled the tie from her ponytail and started playing with her hair again, just for something to do. What Jessica was saying ... could it be true? Was Anton right about Lisette being some kind of evil spirit who brought bad things to girls in the Bowman family? Even if Helena wasn't actually sick, she had to be too terrified to leave her own house anymore, even to come to school. Rebecca didn't want Lisette to be evil: She couldn't believe that was true. The Bowman family were the ones who'd done bad things, not Lisette.
On the way, at last, to the lunchroom, Rebecca passed Marianne, though the older girl didn't seem to register her presence at all. Jessica was right: Marianne looked wan and preoccupied, trudging along the hallway alone, her eyes red as though she'd been crying. Part of Rebecca felt vindictively glad that Helena and Marianne were no longer sashaying along the halls of Temple Mead, looking down their noses at everyone else,
the self-appointed rulers of the school.
But however rude and stuck-up Helena had acted toward her, she didn't deserve so extreme a fate -- either an illness too serious for her to attend school for an entire semester, or a fear so overpowering that her family wouldn't let her
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leave the house. Rebecca wouldn't be able to stand being locked inside all day, and she certainly wouldn't want to wake up each morning fearing for her life.
The thought of Lisette as a harbinger of death kept nagging at Rebecca all week. The Debs and Plebs might be too busy on Saturdays getting updos and manicures to volunteer with a community organization, but they weren't the only ones with urgent weekend plans. Unless sometime this week she was lucky enough to bump into Lisette, wandering the streets encircling the cemetery, Rebecca had plans of her own for the very next Saturday morning. She needed to track down her friendly neighborhood ghost and ask her some questions.