Ghostsitter

by Shelly Brown

  “Bummer, chica,” she said, reaching into her backpack and pulling out a milk carton. “Here. Chocolate milk makes everything better.”

  I nodded and took it. She really was the best.

  Kevin and his friend Matt came down the corridor with a stack of posters each. Kevin was a tall Asian kid—like walking-tree tall. He actually was pretty nice, but “nice” didn’t win elections in junior high. Plus, did I mention that he was nerdy? Star-Trek-quoting nerdy. Doctor-Who-shirt-wearing nerdy. Comic-Con-booth-running nerdy. The poor thing was hopeless.

  “Hey, Jessica. Hi, Tiffany,” he said as he passed us. Jessica responded, and I wanted to but I was afraid of how it might look. It was all just so awkward.

  It was tough for me to stay awake through the first few classes of the day and not flinch every time I felt something brush my skin—it was usually just my long hair. I thought about telling the office that I was sick and making my mom come and get me, but I bagged that idea when I realized that if my mom picked me up she would probably take me to the doctor. I swear, couldn’t I just peacefully have a common cold in my bed like normal people?

  In English class, I put into effect the plan Jessica and I had named “Operation Band Vote.” It wasn’t the most witty name considering it simply involved trying to get votes from the band kids. I started chatting with this kid who I thought played percussion but as I talked to him, it turned out he was in a band, not in the band. Whatever. A vote is a vote.

  Twice during the lecture I found myself nodding off. I propped my chin up with both my hands and tried to look right at the teacher.

  Screaming.

  It was faint at first, but the sound was so unique I couldn’t mistake it.

  In the hall.

  Getting closer.

  I turned around and looked at Justin, but he seemed unaffected. I brought my hand to my ear.

  He dropped his thick dark eyebrows and shifted his brown eyes, thinking. Then shook his head.

  “Miss Hart, please turn around,” Mrs. Freeman said before going back into why The Witch of Blackbird Pond was a lesson in people’s ignorance against the unexplainable.

  I obeyed but my heart was racing. The sound was moving closer.

  What if they reached the classroom? Would I start shouting again? Swatting at nothing like Justin? Would I be able to handle sitting there with the ghosts that close to me? What if they really did want something evil? Like what if they took over my body . . . in class . . . and made me do weird stuff?

  Like the chicken dance?

  That was the tipping point. I leapt from my seat and rushed out of the room. I didn’t even say anything, I just ran.

  When I got in the hall I saw them.

  Like with my eyes.

  Pale faces. Shaggy hair. Ribbon and curls. Glossy eyes. Apparently they don’t just appear at night.

  I turned and sprinted away, hoping beyond hope that I was faster than them.

  Chapter 10

  Food Poisoning

  Justin

  Sometimes I hated being the friend of someone who didn’t always want to be my friend. But it’s not like you can turn friendship on and off. At least I couldn’t.

  At lunchtime Tiffany was sitting at a table with a huge group of friends, talking with her hands and laughing really loud. I second-guessed myself, but I knew better than to ignore my gut feelings. I couldn’t let myself over-think, I just had to do it.

  I walked over to her.

  When I got to the table I could hear Tiffany saying, “. . . Chinese food from that strip mall down on Hillcrest. Yeah, don’t ever go there. They poisoned me so bad that during English I totally had to throw up, so I bolted.” Amid the sympathy sounds I reached forward and tapped her on the shoulder.

  Tiffany turned around. “Hey.” The word was flat.

  In class she had given me a look like she wanted my help, but now apparently I was unwelcome again. Well, we were at school.

  “Umm.” I was so bad at talking sometimes. Seriously, it was something that seemed so easy when explaining Newton’s Third Law of Physics, but simple greetings felt like I was trying to form the words from letters in alphabet soup. Slow and messy. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” I made it a point not to look at the other kids at the table but I could feel all of their eyes on me.

  A chorus of “oooo” went around, and Tiffany sighed and stood up. “I guess.” She turned back to her friends, and threw up her hands in some gesture that made them laugh.

  When I thought we were far enough away that nobody could hear me I asked, “What really happened in class?”

  She looked back at the table and smiled shamelessly at Brett Lovell while saying to me, “Yep.”

  She didn’t even answer my question. Was Tiffany afraid her friends could read lips?

  “They’re here at school?” I guessed and she nodded. That wasn’t good. “That means they’re not tied to your house. They’re tied to you.”

  She flipped her hair to the side and laughed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Are they here right now?”

  Tiffany shook her head and rolled her eyes. She wasn’t short on the dramatics. It was entertaining to watch but I really needed clear answers.

  I looked around. I had some ideas that might help but I wasn’t going to talk about it in the middle of the crowded cafeteria. “Take a walk with me.”

  Her grin got huge. “Not in a million years. That would look totally weird.”

  I should have seen that coming but it still hurt. “Okay, come to my house after school . . .”

  “Can’t. I’m starting cross country.”

  “What? Like running? Are you crazy? You’re a terrible runner.”

  Tiffany punched me in the arm. “I’m going to learn how, okay? Plus it was the one sport with the most seventh grade athletes.”

  “You’re going to start running so you can be class president?” I said. Tiffany had a deeply determined personality. Stubborn might be a better word. “Then just come over after.”

  “Can’t, I have football after that.”

  “What? I know you don’t play football. You don’t even know how to watch football.”

  “Don’t be stupid. Watching is just looking.” She sang the words, barely moving her mouth. “Plus, I bought all of the football players Cheetos for after their practice and I’m going to ask them what things they think would make the school better.”

  Was Tiffany that power hungry? Of all of the things to spend her time on. “But you don’t really do anything as class president.”

  She scrunched up her face real tight and then wailed on me. Just let loose a tornado of weakly executed punches into my arm. There was some noise at her table and she seemed to come to her senses and stop. “Oh my gosh, Justin Henderson, are we done now?”

  “Just text me then. The minute you get home.”

  “Fine.” She let out an exaggerated sigh and went back to the table.

  Man, oh man.

  I took a few deep breaths and really, really wished I didn’t like her.

  Red string. Red string. Red string!

  Chapter 11

  The Good, the Bad, and the Freaky

  Tiffany

  Cross-country was total stinksauce. Justin was right.

  I was pretty good at stretches though.

  Actually really good.

  If you were to rate my stretching on a scale from “too-fat-to-sit-up” all the way to “boneless-yoga-contortionist,” I would get a shiny gold pro-master of awesomeness sticker placed right in the middle of my chest. Yeah, I was that good.

  But then they started running and it was horrible. No, that’s not the right word. Terrible? Dreadful? Painful? Vile? Dis-gross-ting? Inhumane?

  Yes, it was inhumane.

  People should n
ot be made to run like that.

  I felt like a prisoner of war on a death march, or a gerbil in a wheel trying to power a Best Buy.

  At first there were a lot of people by me, but slowly they all left me on the street by myself. I wanted to die. To just lay on the ground with a lily in my folded hands while angel Tiffany floated slowly from my dead corpse.

  I couldn’t breathe and my legs were wobbling.

  It had only been three blocks.

  I’d considered turning around at that point but everyone would have noticed so I took a few puffs of my inhaler and walked. I could still see the last of them up ahead when I heard it.

  The screaming.

  Like no joke. They were back and coming to get me. I looked around to figure out if I could hide from them, but hiding from ghosts felt kind of stupid.

  So I ran.

  I found something in me, a fear-driven strength that I didn’t know was there. I ran through all of the pain in my legs and my chest. I ended up passing the slower people on the team and finished somewhere in the middle of the pack.

  When I turned around the ghosts were nowhere to be seen. I did it. I lost them. I wanted to cry with relief. They were no match for my power running but unfortunately neither were my lungs so I sat with my head down, choking out breaths between inhaler tokes for twenty minutes.

  Afterward I met Jessica at our locker and got the Cheetos. The football players loved them. I was a huge success.

  At home I almost forgot to text Justin until I saw fresh fingerprints on my mirror.

  Chapter 12

  You Smell Like Strawberry Shortcake

  Justin

  Mr. Hart answered the door and didn’t even say hello. “I blame Tiffany mostly, but Justin, you’re a good boy. I expected better of you.”

  After all of the events of the day I had completely forgotten about getting busted for being in her bedroom. “Sorry, Mr. Hart.”

  Mrs. Hart came from behind, drying a big bowl with a towel. “Uh-oh, what happened?”

  “I didn’t tell you but when we came home last night, I caught Justin in Tiffany’s room.” My face got warm. “Alone in the house. In her bedroom.” The way he stretched out these phrases gave me a good idea of where Tiffany got her dramatics from. “Kissing.”

  What? I clenched my teeth and my face turned hot. Very hot.

  “Nasty,” Tiffany said as she walked past both of her parents. “That is so not what happened.” She threw up the hood on her sweatshirt and thrust her hands into her front pockets.

  Mrs. Hart squealed and pushed her way in front of Mr. Hart. “I think it’s sweet. Like when you were little and told everybody that you were getting married. You kissed then.”

  Tiffany’s head had developed a slow and steady back and forth shake. “We were two years old.”

  That was probably when my red string became too tight to remove. Truthfully I didn’t remember any of it but I had heard the stories.

  “But you shouldn’t be in her bedroom, Justin,” Mrs. Hart said, waving both a towel and a finger in my direction.

  “I . . . I’m sorry . . .”

  I stuttered but Tiffany answered. “Not kissing. We were sooooo not kissing.”

  We all stood there, faced off at the doorstep, the parents inside the cozy house with the orange glow and Tiffy and I standing with our hands in our pockets in the cold grey night. Crickets chirped in the shrubs that dotted the border of her house.

  “So, umm, we’re going to the park,” Tiffany said, gesturing with her shoulder down the street.

  “Alright, but no kissing,” her dad said.

  “Fine by me.” Tiffy grabbed my arm and dragged my stuttering, dumbstruck-self off the porch.

  “A little kissing wouldn’t be bad,” Mrs. Hart shouted after us as we walked away. Pure heat radiated off of my cheeks, ears, and neck. Like a burning fever that subsided with the crisp fall air.

  Tiffany let go of my arm. “Worst conversation of my whole life. You’re lucky your parents are dead.”

  My feet slowed down as I tried to understand what she had just said.

  “I’m sorry. So sorry. That was stupid of me. I’m just stressed. I’m not used to seeing…” Her voice trailed off. “And I’m trying to get elected, and …” She glanced over her shoulder. “You really don’t see them?” She pointed behind us and I turned around, but the road was empty. “They’re right there.”

  I shook my head. I tried to clarify once we got to the park.

  “I do see ghosts but not your ghosts. I ignore most of them.” We both sat on the swings. “Do you see other ghosts?”

  The swing next to Tiffany started swinging even though nobody was in it. She looked at it for a second then shuffled her swing closer to mine and grabbed hold of my chain. When we were little we used to link our arms around each other’s chains to swing in perfect sync, so out of habit I wrapped my elbow around her chain and she did the same.

  “At school there’s this guy.” She started pumping her legs knocking my swing around. “He’s grayish and hangs out at the backstop of girl’s baseball field. Just sitting in the grass, running his hand along the chain link. Have you seen him before?”

  I shook my head. I pass the girl’s baseball field every day to get to the portable classrooms and I’ve never seen anyone out there. How many more ghosts were out there that I wasn’t seeing? I opened the bag and pulled out two dried sage bundles, roughly the length and width of hotdog buns.

  “What are those?” She took one from my hand.

  I traced my finger around the string that held the dried leaves together. “They’re called smudge sticks and they drive away spirits. I use them to sleep. You just have to seal up your room nice and tight, light one end on fire—” I pulled out the lighter from the bag, “snuff it out, and then you walk the smoke around the room.”

  She smelled it and then wretched it from her face. “Dude, I am not putting that stinky thing in my room. My room smells like strawberry shortcake, and I’d like to keep it that way. Actually . . .” She took another whiff. “These smell like you. It’s not your detergent after all.” She threw the bundle back at me and I barely caught it.

  “But Tuesday is a new moon and I don’t know about you but—” I knew the words I was thinking but they got stuck in my head. What if nothing happened to her on the new moon? I had been wrong about this stuff before. Maybe I was the only one with new moon problems. Slowly I came up with something else to say. “Sometimes . . . things happen to . . . people . . . on new moon nights . . .”

  She lifted one eyebrow and pulled a face. “Umm, cryptic. Yeah, I still don’t want to smell like you.”

  She was right. I smelled like sage. I showered everyday but it was hard to get the smoke out of my clothes. My sixth grade teacher even talked to Hannah because she thought I was doing drugs.

  “Come on. You’ve gotta have something less stinky.”

  I racked my brain. “Man of Words.” Once I said it, I wanted to take it back. Rewind time and say something different.

  “The poem from fifth grade?”

  I nodded and kicked the sand under us. Without having the ability to control time and erase what I said, I just kept going. “Anything with meter would probably work. A rhyme. A song. It just gives you some place else to focus.” I pulled the sage back out of the bag. “But this is really the best.”

  She jumped off the swing and put her hands in her pockets. “I’d better get back for dinner.”

  Right. Well, there was no hiding it. My peculiarity had exploded in all its bright colors. And I, silly me, thought it couldn’t have gotten worse than fourth grade. Not only was I a weirdo who saw ghosts, but I couldn’t even see all ghosts. I smelled like burning herbs and recited poetry when I got scared.

  Awesome.

  Chapter 13

  Even the Dead Need To S
leep

  Tiffany

  All through dinner dad kept asking what Justin and I did at the park, and Mom kept planning our wedding.

  I wanted to put myself up for adoption.

  I got in my pajamas and crawled into bed with the Hello Kitty flashlight my mom had bought me for sixth grade camp. I had never noticed how creepy the mouth-less cat looked. I put it face down under my pillow so I couldn’t see it.

  I couldn’t sleep so I tried singing.

  I belted the entire soundtrack to Annie. Unabashedly. My parents had heard me singing in my room plenty of times. Somewhere in the middle of Anything But You, I thought I saw something move by my door.

  What if the kids weren’t the only ghosts in my house?

  Oh my gosh! Why hadn’t I thought about that before?

  What if it’s the White Witch or that dude from the baseball field?

  I pulled the covers over my head and started chanting A Man of Words. I was surprised I still knew it.

  A man of words and not of deeds

  Is like a garden full of weeds . . .

  When I finished I started again. Slower this time and dotted with yawns.

  I didn’t even realize I had drifted before my sleep was interrupted by screaming.

  Icky-creepy wailing.

  I opened my eyes to the grey gummy mouth of the baby. The girl held her out, right in front of my face, like she wanted me to take the baby from her.

  No way. I don’t touch dead things. That’s how people get diseases.

  Recoiling back I switched on the flashlight. Shining it at them was useless though. The rays just shot right through their bodies and reflected on the wall behind them.

  The girl with the dark curls opened her mouth and joined the screaming. She looked like she was just trying to talk but the chaos of sounds was deafening. It had been awful with only one ghost screaming. Two at the same time was a sound I would never be able to adequately describe. Something like a squeaky garbage truck and microphone feedback multiplied by 673 . . . million. I sat up. Covering my ears didn’t do jack. The girl was getting insistent. Pushing the baby forward and shaking the baby trying to get me to take it.