The Haunting of Sunshine Girl

by Paige McKenzie

  But of course, it isn’t hot. It’s freezing.

  I don’t know when I fall asleep. To be honest, I don’t know how I fall asleep, after everything that happened. But the next thing I know, it’s morning, and my neck aches from sleeping sitting up with my back against the bed frame. Oscar isn’t in my lap anymore, and despite the tree outside my window, enough light is streaming in that I can see that Dr. Hoo is back on his shelf, and my phone is beside me on the ground as though I placed it there for easy access.

  “Jeezus Loueezus,” I sigh, wrapping my fingers around my phone and standing. I turn my neck from side to side. The air between my bones crackles and pops when I move. “I feel like an old lady,” I say out loud.

  “What’s that?” Mom asks, sticking her head through the door.

  “When did you get home?”

  “Just now. I have exactly three hours to nap before I have to go back in for my next shift.”

  “But it’s Saturday.”

  “You don’t think babies are born on Saturdays?” Mom says, but she’s smiling. My whole life Mom has had to work on weekends and holidays, though she tries never to be on duty during Christmas break or my birthday.

  “Sorry,” I mumble.

  “Hey, I wish I had Saturdays off too.” She gestures at my phone. “What do you have there?”

  I look down. When I picked the phone up, I must have pressed the button to replay the video I shot last night. The sound of thunder and lightning emanates from the phone’s tiny speaker. I pause. Let’s give this one more try. Maybe the only way Mom will look at this with an open mind is if I don’t mention the ghost.

  “Ummm,” I say slowly. “I shot a video of the storm last night. It must have been right above us. The lightning made everything so bright.” I cross the room and hold my phone out in front of me. Mom leans down to look at it.

  “Wow,” she murmurs.

  “Wow?” I echo hopefully. Maybe she sees Dr. Hoo flapping around. Maybe she hears someone crying.

  “Looks like it was quite a storm. The thunder must have been deafening.”

  “Oscar hid under the bed. I thought it was weird because thunder and lightning never used to scare him.”

  Mom shakes her head, dropping her gaze from the phone. “Oscar’s just a big old baby,” she says, then pats my shoulder. I practically jump.

  “What’s the matter?” Mom asks.

  “Your hand is freezing,” I answer. The back of my T-shirt is moist where she touched me. “Did you just get out of the shower or something?”

  “What are you talking about?” she sighs, and I shake my head. I don’t want to start this day off with a fight.

  “Nothing.”

  “Why don’t we have some breakfast before I hit the hay?”

  “Be down in a minute,” I say softly as she leaves my room and makes her way downstairs. I sit on the edge of my bed and lift my T-shirt over my head and lay it out flat in front of me.

  There’s a rusty, wet handprint on the back, the cold water spreading across the shirt’s fibers like a stain. Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve crushed the shirt into a ball and thrown it beneath my bed like I never want to see it again.

  I reach for my phone and watch the video once more, straight through from the start. In addition to thunder and lightning, I hear crying and the sound of Dr. Hoo’s wings. The owl takes up practically the whole screen, flying circles around my room until he finally plunges straight toward me.

  I curl my hands into fists as I head downstairs so Mom won’t see the way they’re shaking. Something has happened to her, something that’s keeping her from seeing what I see and feeling what I feel. She can’t even feel that her hand is cold and wet.

  Wet with rust-colored water. Just like the water in the bathroom that night.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Extra Credit

  “I don’t think you should stop recording,” Nolan says on Monday.

  “Why not?” I say, kicking the ground. It’s lunchtime, and Nolan suggested we take a walk rather than talk in the cafeteria. Maybe he was embarrassed to talk about this in front of the rest of the school, the cliques already so firmly established, but Nolan doesn’t seem like he cares about that kind of thing. In fact, he’s been living in Ridgemont his whole life and doesn’t seem to have a crowd the way everyone else does, from the jocks to the misfits. Maybe he preferred his grandfather’s company the way I always preferred my mother’s.

  We’re walking in circles on the track behind the school. I take it that Ridgemont High’s track team isn’t exactly the cream of the crop, because the ground beneath us is muddy and cracked, as though the school doesn’t think it’s worth keeping it in good shape. It’s not raining, but it’s misty and there’s a chill in the air, making me want to walk ever closer to Nolan, like he’s a heat lamp and I’m a fly drawn to his flame. But I don’t want to look like the weirdest girl on planet Earth (even if maybe I am), so I settle for just staying in step with him. “My mother can’t see anything, no matter what medium I try—photography, video . . . to say nothing of real life.”

  Nolan shakes his head, his damp, long hair falling across his face. He pushes the sleeves of his leather jacket so they bunch up around his elbows perfectly, like something out of a James Dean movie, even though beneath his jacket he’s wearing a flannel button-down and jeans that look like they’re at least one size too big, plus a pair of beat-up sneakers that were probably partly white once, which kind of clashes with the James Dean effect of the jacket. “She can’t perceive the ghost now. Maybe that will change.”

  “Doubtful,” I mutter, looking at my feet. My Chuck Taylors have been covered in mud and grime since the day we moved here.

  “I can tell you’re discouraged,” Nolan begins, and I laugh.

  “Oh really? What gave you that idea?”

  “But come on, you should feel good.” I raise my eyebrows, and he shrugs. “Okay, maybe not good, but better, at least. I mean, you have evidence now. Proof. My grandpa spent his whole life talking about ghosts, and he never found proof, not even after ninety years. That’s got to count for something, right?”

  Nolan isn’t entirely wrong: I thought I’d feel better if I had proof, but proof seems worthless when my mom can’t see it. Or perceive it, like Nolan said.

  “Why keep recording then? I already have proof, like you said.”

  “A little more can’t hurt. And maybe we’ll see something in your videos that you missed in real life.”

  “Because in real life I’m too busy being terrified to look closely?” I shudder when I remember the way Dr. Hoo flew above me. Part of me did want to hide under the covers until it was over.

  Nolan grins. “Exactly.”

  “Speaking of looking closely . . .” I gesture with my chin to a figure crouched on the decrepit-looking bleachers across the track.

  “Is that who I think it is?” Nolan asks. He squints, taking in the long dark hair, the witchy cloak, the pale, pale skin—Ms. Wilde.

  “Gosh, that is one creepy lady,” I sigh. “What’s she doing here?” I fold my arms across my chest and rub them up and down.

  Nolan shrugs. “What are we doing here?”

  “You’re saying she doesn’t give you the creeps?”

  “Shhh. She might be able to hear us.”

  I want to roll my eyes, but the truth is, it does kind of look like our art teacher is listening to us. I mean, she doesn’t have any of the usual distractions people bring with them to sit all alone: no sandwich to eat, no cell phone to check, no papers to grade, no book to read. She must see us staring at her, because she drops her gaze, her hair falling across her face like a curtain. Nolan and I start walking in the opposite direction, farther away from her—and hopefully out of her earshot.

  “What if my mom asks why I’m taking videos around the house?”

  “Just tell her it’s for a school project or something.”

  I cock my head to the side, considering. I really don’t want
to have to keep lying to her. It doesn’t feel good—it doesn’t feel natural, like walking backward or trying to write with the wrong hand. “I guess that’s not a total lie,” I say slowly. “I mean, you are doing an extra-credit project on ghosts of the Northwest. Maybe you could use all this for it?”

  “Sure,” Nolan says, but he makes a strange sort of face that I can’t read. Walking around in circles on a track like this makes me feel like a hamster in a cage, but I pick up my pace a little bit until I’m a few steps ahead of him. “Besides, you said your mom is so busy, she might not even notice, right?”

  I nod slowly. “Of course. Good point. Right.”

  When I showed him the video of Dr. Hoo earlier, Nolan practically threw his arms up over his head. He was actually excited, not horrified, to have more proof of my ghost. Or maybe just of ghosts in general. No wonder he wants me to keep taking videos. They’re proof that his grandfather’s stories were true—or could have been true, at least. Proof that his grandfather wasn’t the crazy old man everyone else thought he was.

  “Hey,” I slow down so that we’re walking in step again. “What if . . . I mean, do you know any experts?”

  “Experts?”

  “You know, people with experience with this kind of thing. Maybe they could help me or something.”

  “You mean like the Ghostbusters?” Nolan says, laughing.

  “No, I don’t mean like the Ghostbusters,” I answer, wrinkling my nose just like Mom. “I mean . . . did your grandfather have any friends, people he’d mentioned in some of his stories?”

  This time it’s Nolan’s turn to walk out of step, but instead of speeding up, he slows down. Actually he stops altogether. Now I’m able to read the look on his face, and it’s not good. Oops. I shouldn’t have brought up his grandfather. I mean, I don’t think he’s about to cry or anything, but he looks so sad I’m tempted to reach out and hug him. But of course, I don’t. Instead, I say, “I’m so sorry, Nolan. I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”

  Nolan shakes his head. “It’s not that. I just wish my grandfather were still alive. He probably would be able to help us.”

  “I’m sorry,” I repeat.

  “Most of his friends are gone. It’s really just my grandmother who’s left, and she never paid any attention to his ghost stories.”

  “It was a silly thing to suggest.”

  “No, it’s a good idea. I mean, if you have bugs in your house, you call the exterminator, right?” I nod. “If your sink breaks, you call a plumber,” he continues.

  “So you’re saying it’s time to bring in an expert?”

  Nolan nods. “We just need to find one first.”

  I don’t think it’ll be nearly as easy to find a ghost expert as it is to find an exterminator or a plumber.

  “I’ll drive to my grandmother’s place this weekend. I don’t think she touched any of the papers in his desk.”

  “Papers?” I echo. It’s strange to think of Nolan going through his grandfather’s desk, like maybe the answers we need will be marked neatly in a file.

  Nolan nods. “I know he wrote down some of his stories. You never know what else might be in there.”

  I’m tempted to ask whether I can come with him, but I can tell from the look on Nolan’s face that this is something he’d rather do alone. Besides, how would he explain my presence to his grandmother? Oh hi, Granny, this is my classmate, Sunshine. I know she never met Gramps, but would you mind if she helped me go through his desk looking for ghost-hints?

  After school I walk into the house holding my phone out in front of me the way cops hold their guns in the movies. But I’m not trying to kill anyone (obviously). I just want to catch them. Mom isn’t home (of course); she’s at work. There’s a note taped to the refrigerator that says, Don’t wait up. I don’t bother taking the note down. I’m pretty sure it’ll apply to tomorrow night, and the night after that.

  I grab an apple and head upstairs, prepared to capture whatever’s on the other side of my bedroom door before I step inside. But with the apple in one hand and my phone in the other, I don’t have a hand free to turn the knob, so I pop the apple in my mouth, gripping its flesh with my teeth. Next I reach out, turn the knob, and brace myself.

  The checkerboard is right where I left it beside my bed, and I can see that someone has made her countermove: it’s my turn. But I guess just checkers isn’t enough for her anymore. My Monopoly board is set on the floor with all the pieces in place, the pastel-colored cash neatly distributed for two players.

  In my bare feet I step on the little dog from the Monopoly game and let out a shout. I reach down and pick it up, squeezing it in my hand.

  “Checkers not enough, huh?” I ask with a smile. I cross the room and roll the dice.

  “Double sixes,” I shout triumphantly. “Beat that!” I’ll play with her if that’s what she wants. If it will keep her out of the bathroom, I’ll play every game I have. But only until I’m able to figure out who she is and why she’s here.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Slip of a Knife

  Nolan was right: Mom doesn’t question it when I tell her I’m using my phone to record things around the house for a school project.

  “A video collage about my life for visual arts class,” I say, wishing that Ms. Wilde actually gave out those kinds of assignments instead of lurking all over the school. Mom looks up from her paperwork long enough to smile at me. Maybe she’s relieved I’m talking about something other than ghosts for a change. Or maybe she’s too busy to care.

  I start in my room, recording the movements of the glass unicorns, the board games strewn across my floor, the way Dr. Hoo is facing a different direction every time I open the door. I carry my phone with me everywhere, ready to record at a moment’s notice. I skip the bathroom entirely—nothing to see there, not anymore—and head down to the living room, recording the sound of skipping footsteps on the floor above. I race upstairs, trying to capture sight of an actual specter skipping around the hall, but of course, the minute I step foot on the stairs, the footsteps cease. I catch flickering lights and slamming doors. And of course I record our games. We’re on our second round of checkers—I won the first game—and we’re both busy building real estate empires in Monopoly.

  But I think she’s cheating. I mean, not cheating exactly, but not quite following the rules either. I came back into the room once and saw that her piece—she picked the shoe—was on Marvin Gardens. But when I looked at her last roll of the dice—five—and counted back from her last spot on the board, it was clear that she should have been on Water Works. So I crouched down beside the board and slid the shoe back one.

  But as soon as I lifted my fingers from the shoe, it slid right back to Marvin Gardens.

  “Hey!” I shouted. “No cheating.” I tried again, and it slid back again. This time the shoe was wet to the touch. “You’d think you’d feel right at home on Water Works,” I muttered, sliding it into place once more. I held it there for good measure.

  And then, I swear, something—someone—smacked my hand out of the way with such force that I fell backward.

  “Geez, have it your way,” I said, sitting back up cross-legged in front of the board. I leaned over and studied it. And then it hit me so hard that I felt stupid for not seeing it earlier. She didn’t want to be on Water Works, not even for an instant. The symbol for Water Works is a running faucet.

  “What are you trying to tell me?” I closed my eyes, remembering the splashing sounds in the bathroom that night.

  She didn’t answer. I got up and went to my desk and grabbed the fattest black marker I could find. I leaned down over the board and drew all over the Water Works box until it was all but invisible. “There,” I said. “We’ll play the rest of this game like Water Works doesn’t even exist.”

  Then I did get an answer: the soft sound of a child laughing. And soon I was laughing too, right along with her.

  Maybe this was her plan all along. To get me to like her. T
o get me to care.

  On Saturday Mom actually has the day off—hallelujah!—and we go to the supermarket to gather groceries to cook dinner together, just the way we used to in Austin. (I try not to think about what happened after the last time Mom cooked me dinner.)

  “What are we digging into tonight?” I ask eagerly. She printed a new recipe off the Internet and is scanning the list of ingredients.

  “Chicken marsala.” Mom smiles as she pushes the cart through the produce section, stopping to pick up a carton of mushrooms. She’s wearing jeans and a gray sweatshirt; I can’t remember the last time I saw her wearing anything but her pastel-colored nurse’s scrubs.

  “You expect me to eat fungus?” I ask, mock incredulously. Mom knows I love mushrooms.

  “And like it,” she answers. “We just have to find the wine . . .” She looks up at the signs above each aisle, moving slowly until she finds the right one. She’s leaning on the cart in front of her like an elderly person does with a walker. All those long hours and late nights are wearing her out. There are circles under her eyes, and she yawns heavily.

  “Why don’t I do the cooking tonight?” I volunteer. “You could just put your feet up and rest.”

  Mom shakes her head. “You know it’s more fun when we do it together,” she says, and I grin. I wanted to help her and everything, but I was also kind of hoping she’d say that.

  At home we unload the groceries and get to work. I feed Oscar and Lex while Mom slips her sweatshirt off, revealing her high school T-shirt underneath.

  “Hey!” I shout. “You stole my mustang shirt.”

  “I most certainly did not. Don’t forget it was mine first.”

  “Prior ownership does not obviate the felony of your theft.”

  Mom grins. “Sunshine, do you have any idea what you just said?”

  I shake my head. “No, but it sounded good,” I answer. “I heard something like it on a cop show or something,” I add, grinning back. It’s all so blissfully ordinary that I’m tempted to lean over and kiss her. But that wouldn’t be ordinary, so I don’t. Mom begins slicing the mushrooms. She doesn’t even bother turning on the kitchen lights before she starts.