Ghosters

by Corbitt, Diana;

  “What were you guys talking about?”

  Since Joey accepts everything as is, I doubt if he would blink twice if he found Grandma Carmen’s ghost dragging the sprinkler around the front yard. But Dad’s right there, so, instead of ghosts, I say, “We were talking about the new friend I made in school today. She’s Br—” Before the words finish coming out of my mouth, I want to suck them back in. And not because of Dad.

  Joey’s knuckles turn white as he squeezes the rake handle. “I didn’t make any friends today.”

  I’m such a dope. As tough as all the new changes have been for me, they’re twice as hard for Joey. It wasn’t until last year that he finally made a friend, and now Trent is all the way back in Crescent City.

  Dad gives me a “fix it” look, as he’s done so many times in the last six months.

  “Come on, Jojo.” I take the rake and pass it to Dad. “Let’s go inside.”

  At first Joey hangs back, but I reach for his hand, and he runs up the sagging wooden stairs leading to the front porch. If you want Joey to move, try touching him.

  The door is unlocked, and we step into the large entryway. Dust particles bob and sway in the light like tiny dancers in a spotlight.

  “This room,” he waves his arms in the same ta-da flourish Dad used the day we moved in, “is called the foyer.” Funny. Outside, Joey was ready to cry, but as I’d hoped, the change of scenery seems to have cleared all that from his mind. At least for now.

  “Are you making a joke?” I ask. With him it’s hard to tell.

  “I think so. Was I funny?”

  “Hilarious. You have Dad down perfectly.”

  He looks at the floor. “Down?”

  I smile. “Sorry, it means that you acted just like him.”

  “Good.” He starts for the living room, then stops. “If Mom was alive, Dad would have finished his book by now.” He pounds his clenched fists against his thighs, emphasizing our parents’ names. “Then we would all still be living in our old house, and I’d still be back at my old school with my old teachers and my best buddy, Trent.”

  If, if, if. God, I hate when he gets like this. Still, it’s hard to get mad when I have the same thoughts.

  Even though Joey would be fine with me talking to the back of his head, I’m not, so I circle around. He’s crying, but since he doesn’t like touching unless it’s his idea, I can’t hug him, and the space between us stays empty.

  It’s times like these that I miss Mom the most. She died on her way to pick up my birthday present. Sometimes I worry Dad blames me for it. Heck, I blame myself. If I wasn’t so particular about which saucepans I wanted she wouldn’t have been anywhere near Chef World, and that stupid teenager would have crashed into somebody else.

  A lousy substitute, tears fill my eyes as I struggle to find the words Mom might have used. “You’ll make another friend, Jojo. And you’ll get used to everything else, too . . . the house . . . the teachers. After a few days it’ll all be part of your routine.”

  I guess that’s what he needs to hear, because his hands slowly relax, and his expression changes from “I hate it” to looking totally confused. I consider it progress.

  Like every other day since we’ve lived here, he cuts through the living room and over to the huge marble fireplace. On the mantel is a treasure-trove of old family photos placed there years ago. Joey always focuses on the one of Grandma and Grandpa Ramos, my parents’ wedding picture, and the two from when I was a baby. But his favorite is a five by seven of Mom back in high school, dressed up as a Spanish flamenco dancer.

  “She looks nice in that dress,” he tells me. “Muy guapa.”

  “She sure does.”

  “You look like her.”

  He’s told me that at least five times in the last few days, but I let it pass.

  “You have the same curly hair. Same green eyes.”

  At his last school they were teaching Joey to read facial expressions, so I slap on a big smile and turn so he can see it. “Guess that means you think I’m pretty too, huh?”

  For a second an embarrassed smile crosses his lips. I’ll take it.

  Joey’s new routine is to look at each picture and comment. Usually it’s one word, like handsome, or pretty. This time he surprises me by picking up the two baby pictures of me, one in each hand. “How come there are two of you, but none of me?”

  “Guess Mom didn’t send them one.”

  “But why didn’t she?”

  “You know why.”

  “No, not really.” Joey studies the two photos as if they’re Highlights picture puzzles, and the explanation is hidden somewhere in plain sight.

  You’re not going to find the answer there, hermanito.“Look,” I tell him. “Dad stuck all our old pictures up in the hall closet. If you want, we could switch one of my baby pictures for one of yours. Want to?”

  “Maybe later.” He sets the photos down and turns toward the stairs. “I’m going to my room to play some games.” But instead of dashing off, he stands there. “My old room had blue carpeting.” His bottom lip quivers, making him look closer to five than ten. “I miss that blue carpeting.”

  A knot forms in my throat. “Me too, Jojo, but this is our home now.”

  Hard to think of a place as home when everything in it belonged to people you don’t remember meeting. Not expecting much, I reach out my hand. To my surprise, he takes it, and we walk all the way up the stairs before he shakes me off.

  There are nine doors in the upstairs hallway, four on each side and one on the end, to the right of the servants’ stairs. The same wood paneling on the walls downstairs covers the bottom half of these.

  When we moved in, Dad showed us Mom’s old room, second from the end on the right. Joey hated the pink flowered wallpaper, but for me, there was no other choice. The chance to sleep in Mom’s old bed made selling all our old furniture tolerable. Plus, it was as close as I would ever get to hanging out with her again. Without opening the door, Joey picked the room across from me. I think he was a little scared about living in such a big house. I was too. Sometimes I still am.

  That’s not to say we never peeked into any other rooms. We did, but how many old chenille bedspreads can a kid stand to look at?

  “Want to check out some more rooms?” I ask, hoping to keep Joey off his video games for a little while.

  He opens his door. “Not really. Dad just bought me a new game. Want to play it?”

  What? I get my cell phone taken away to save money, and Joey gets a new game? God, that’s so like Dad. “No thanks.” With my lips pressed into a tight smile, I step past Joey and pull open the next door. Cold air leaks out, along with a hint of perfume.

  Joey holds his nose. “Yuck. Now I really don’t want to go in there.”

  “That’s weird.” I rub at the newly sprouted goose bumps on my arms. Nobody’s lived here since Grandma Carmen died. Has that smell been trapped in there all that time?

  He steps over and stares into the darkness. “Do smells just hang around forever?”

  “How would I know?” Wait . . . didn’t Joey air out all the rooms?

  Joey shuts the door. “No more smelling rooms. Come play with me.”

  Since it’s not Joey’s fault Dad favors him, I say, “Only if you check out that room at the end of the hall with me first.” I traipse over and jiggle the knob a few times, then give the door a kick when it doesn’t open.

  Joey tugs on my sleeve. “Are you mad at the door?”

  “Huh?” The door, no. Dad, on the other hand . . . I blow out a frustrated breath. “No, I . . . don’t worry about it.”

  Theresa.

  Less than a whisper.

  I whirl around. Besides us, the hallway is empty. “Did you hear that, Jojo?”

  “What?”

  All of a sudden my chest aches and I feel like crying. What’s wrong with me? I was thinking about the door, not Mom.

  “Theresa! Joey!” our dad shouts up to us. “Are you hungry? Let’s go get
some burgers.”

  With that, all the sad feelings vanish, gone so fast I wonder if I really had them. I glance back at the door. I turn around, and Joey is already halfway down the stairs.

  CHAPTER 4

  KERRY COMES OVER the next evening just as I’m getting ready to roll out the dough I’ve been kneading.

  “Hiya, what are you making?” she asks. “Tortillas?”

  “Pizza dough. Once I put on the sauce and cheese I’m going to top it with pepperoni, black olives, and arugula.”

  “What’s arugula?”

  “This.” I pass her a plastic bag full of the stuff. “All the big chefs use it.”

  “Ah, we call it rocket back in England. I’ve never seen it on pizza.” Her eyes narrow. “You sure these aren’t dandelion leaves?”

  “Pretty sure.” I lead her over to the big wooden cutting board and hand her a chef’s knife. “Since I’m assembling the pizza, you get to chop up some stuff for the salad.”

  “Isn’t this a punishment in the army?” she asks, knife dangling between her thumb and index finger.

  “I believe that’s peeling potatoes. What’s wrong? Not into cooking?”

  She peers around the kitchen. “Not as much as you, obviously, but don’t fret. I’m totally willing to help out.”

  For the next few minutes the kitchen goes quiet as we focus on our work. Kerry slices the cucumber while I roll out the pizza dough and pour on a jar of sauce. Mom would have cringed at the sight of me using store-bought, but with school and homework, I have to be realistic.

  “You seem to know what you’re doing,” Kerry says. “Did your mum teach you?”

  “Yeah, ever since I could hold a spoon. She had me frosting cupcakes when I was three.” A walnut-sized lump rises in the back of my throat, as it’s done a million times in the last few months. I turn away from Kerry and spend some time staring into the refrigerator. Think of something else. Drink something. There’s half a can of Pepsi sitting on a shelf. I take a few swigs and the lump shrinks down. Relieved, I slide open a wobbly vegetable drawer and pull out some celery for the salad.

  “I don’t know what I would do if my mum died,” Kerry says. She cuts off a couple of stalks and steps to the sink to wash them. “You miss her a lot, don’t you?”

  “Heck yeah. I just wish I had a chance to tell her I loved her before she . . .” My voice cracks. “You know?”God, I hate when this happens.

  Looking a little embarrassed, she nods and focuses on the celery.

  I thought I had it under control back at the fridge, but the lump is back, and now it’s the size of a kiwi. If I talk I’ll cry, so there’s an uncomfortable minute as I get myself together.

  Finally, Kerry clears her throat and says, “I’ve been thinking about the ghost.”

  “Yeah?” I croak. I peer over at her celery slices. They’re uneven, but I keep my mouth shut, thankful for the topic change.

  “Yes, if we get a good recording we can enter it in that contest they’re always talking about on Ghosters. Two hundred thousand is a lot of money, even if we split it.”

  Our recording? Of what? A box of sugar falling off the kitchen counter? I’m not nearly as closed-minded as Dad, but for all I know there really was an earthquake.Like he says, everything has a logical explanation when it comes down to it. I watch Kerry as she moves on to the mushrooms. She really believes all this ghost stuff. It must be nice.

  “Yeah,” I say, playing along. “If we win, we’ll have more than enough money to fix up the house. That stove works okay, but Mom had a real professional model back at our old place.” Forget the renovations, what about paying bills? I can’t remember the last time Dad actually wrote something. All he uses his computer for now is checking e-mails.

  “Your mum must have prepared all sorts of lovely Mexican dishes with a stove like that. Tacos . . . burritos . . .”

  I sprinkle two fat handfuls of shredded mozzarella onto the pizza and smile. “Oh, I get it. We have dark hair and our last name is Martinez, so you assume we’re Mexican.”

  “You’re not?”

  “No, my grandparents came from Spain—both sides. I’ll make tacos for you next time, if you want.”

  “Are you saying tacos aren’t Spanish?” she asks, looking confused.

  “Nope. Burritos either.” I waggle my hand at her. “Hey, it’s no big deal. Lots of people think that. It used to drive my mom nuts.” Again I tear up, but since I can’t spend my life staring into the refrigerator, I grab a couple of tissues.

  “Did you ask your dad if we could explore the house for ghosts?” Kerry asks, ignoring my drama.

  I was wondering when she’d get back to that. “No way,” I tell her. “He’d think it was stupid.”

  Her lower lip juts out in a pout.

  “Don’t worry, we’re still doing it. We’re just going to be—”

  “Sneaky?”

  “I was going to say stealthy.”

  WE EAT IN the kitchen. As usual, Dad and Joey sit across from me. I hoped Dad would wear something nice, but he keeps on his usual sloppy t-shirt and running pants, even though he never walks farther than the mailbox.

  Kerry takes the empty chair to my right and watches, eyebrows arched, as Joey dissects his pizza slice. Every ingredient is carefully separated from the rest, organized according to how soon he plans to eat it. His favorite, pepperoni, gets a front row seat, followed by crust wiped clean of sauce, cheese, and his least favorite, the olive slices. Since Joey won’t eat anything green, he mounds the arugula on his napkin. I can’t tell what Kerry’s thinking, but maybe that’s a good thing.

  “So, Kerry,” Dad says once we’ve all loaded our plates, “I hear you’re from England.”

  Kerry blushes. “Is the accent that obvious? I wish I could lose it.”

  “Don’t,” Joey says. “It’s different. Pretty.”

  Worried he’d say something embarrassing, I tried to prepare Joey for Kerry’s visit by telling him about the accent, as well as how super tall she is. Who’d have guessed he’d turn out to be Mister Suave?

  The one I didn’t think to prepare is Kerry. She focuses on her plate for a few moments, then smiles up at Joey. “Want to hear something funny? When Theresa told me your dad was a writer I didn’t recognize the name, so last night I looked him up on Amazon.” She gives Dad a lopsided grin. “You’ve written quite a few books.”

  Since the last one was published eight months ago, I stare at Dad to see how he’ll react.

  He sits back and sighs. “That’s true, but I’m no Ken Follett.”

  Who in the heck is Ken Follett?

  Kerry’s chin dips down. “I don’t know who that is, but anyone who’s managed to get five books published must be good at it.”

  “I wasn’t referring to my writing skills.” Dad fans his hand at the old stove, the dented fridge. “It’s success I’m talking about . . . the sales.”

  Uh oh. Money talk. Well, at least he’s speaking about it now. Two months ago, he wouldn’t even answer the phone when his agent called. Hopefully Kerry won’t ask if he’s—

  “Working on anything new?”

  “Uh . . . maybe.” He peers across at me, chin raised. “Theresa . . . ?”

  Great. He probably thinks I put her up to it.

  “ . . . why don’t you give your guest a tour of the house after dinner? Kerry, you’re anxious to see a ghost, right?”

  Whaaaaaat?I gasp, a bad thing to do with a mouthful of pizza. With pepperoni lodged in my windpipe, I form a T with my hands, calling for time. After a string of coughs and gasps, I finally suck in enough air to speak. “Come on, Dad. You believe in ghosts like I believe in the tooth fairy. What are you up to?”

  “Nothing. Kerry thinks the house is haunted, and it seems that everyone else in town does too. What better way to prove it isn’t? You can look anywhere but the third floor.”

  “Ha!” I elbow Kerry. “That won’t be a problem. I don’t even know how to get up there.”

 
; “It’s the big door at the end of the hall,” Joey tells me. “The one you got mad at yesterday. Remember? You started kicking it.”

  Thanks a lot, Jojo. As heat fills my cheeks, I look from Dad to Kerry, face scrunched with embarrassment. “I wasn’t really kicking it, I was just trying to—”

  “Get it open?” Dad narrows his eyes on me. “The door is locked, and it’s going to stay that way.”

  “Why? Was Grandma Carmen a serial killer and that’s where she stashed all the bodies?”

  I’m joking, but from the surprised look on his face, you’d think I just guessed the truth.

  “No,” he tells me, once he’s recovered. “Your grandparents always kept that part of the house closed off. It cost too much to heat, and since they weren’t using the space, they never bothered to fix it up.”

  “I wanna see it,” Joey says, folding the arugula into his napkin.

  I gulp down some soda. “Yeah, it sounds cool.”

  “It’s not cool.” Dad leans toward me, his eyes narrowed. “I don’t want you kids going in there. The floor was already dangerous when your grandparents bought the house. If you went up there now you’d fall right through and get badly hurt . . . or worse.”

  “What do you mean by worse?” Joey asks.

  “Dead.”

  Joey pops his last slice of pepperoni into his mouth. “That is bad.”

  As if somebody flicked a switch, Dad sits back. His serious face is gone, replaced by a halfhearted grin. “Heck, even if I wanted to take you up there, I can’t. I haven’t found the key.”

  “I don’t mind,” Kerry says, “I’m happy to see any part of your home. How about you, Joey? Care to come along?”

  Joey picks up his crust and says, “No, thank you.”

  I clear my throat. “Joey always watches his bug DVDs after dinner.”

  “Well,” Dad says, “maybe, just this once, he could skip the DVDs. What do you say, Jojo? Think you can leave the TV alone for an hour?” He waits until Joey meets his eyes.

  “They’re not about bugs,” Joey says. “They’re on insects and arachnids. And yes, I can go one hour without them.” Although he remembers to make the corners of his mouth go up, his jaw is clenched—a sure sign he’d rather not.