THE GHOST IN ME
By Shaunda Kennedy Wenger
Acknowledgements
Sincere thanks and gratitude are expressed to my family and to early and final readers of this manuscript--Becca Barlow, Sara Olds, Judy Torres, Alane Ferguson, Lori Nawyn, and Rick Walton--your encouragement kept me moving forward.
Text Copyright 2010 by Shaunda Kennedy Wenger
Cover illustration 2010 by Shaunda Kennedy Wenger
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
First ebook edition, December 2010
Essemkay Company Productions
This is a work of fiction. All cockroaches, names, characters, places, organizations, and events portrayed in this book are products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to any organization, event, actual person, or bug, living or dead, is unintentional.
• • •
...Visit the author at www.shaundawenger.blogspot.com...
• • •
Life is an adventure.
--Helen Keller
For Nia and her ghostly chair,
and for Joanna, Nathan, and Eric,
because they believed.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
• • •
Excerpt from Disasters of a Tween-age Half-Vampire, Half-NOT!
• • •
About the author
Chapter 1
A cockroach can live for eight days without its head.
At least, that's what Duey Williams is saying--or rather, yelling--right into Cam Anree's ear. They're messing around at the front of the bus, acting like seventh-graders--which we no longer are--and blocking kids from getting on with this eight-days-business.
Well. At least if my mother asks what I learned at school today, I'll have something to tell her. That is, if I were interested in telling my mother anything, which I'm not. Especially anything related to him.
Him, being Duey Williams. For one thing, I don't like him.
This, I can honestly say is true, because I make every effort not to.
Yep, as far as I'm concerned, he can take a big dose of ugly. And it'd make my world a whole lot easier if he did. He's way too cute for my own good. I mean, everyone knows you can't crush on your best friend's boyfriend, right? Even if he is an EX? And even if they are back to being friends the way EXes try to be?
The whole situation could end up in nothing but a big bowl of awkward.
Generally, I like to avoid awkward. It makes a good rule.
Actually, it's a new rule, thanks to my mother, who needs to get a grip on acceptable dating behavior. Last I checked, dating your daughter's science teacher wasn't part of it.
I'm serious.
When Wolford Academy held parent-teacher conferences last week, half-way through mine, Mr. Diggs and my mother actually started flirting with each other.
That's right. Flirting. My mother with Mr. Black-rimmed Glasses, Blue Collared Shirts, and Two-inch Sideburns that are Brown Thick and Curly....
Yea-ah.
Basically, I wanted to die.
They wanted a date.
Which meant, I wanted to die again... and become something like Wren.
You see, Wren's already dead,... but in a good way.
That's because Wren is a ghost.
That's right, a ghost.
She lives with us. Or, maybe I should say, we live with her, because she came with the house. Basically, she and I have grown up together.
Or rather, I've grown up all of the fourteen years that I've known her, while Wren, on the other hand, has not. She has been and always will be two months past twelve, for whom the rules of life no longer apply--a down-right luxury in my opinion. Wren gets to come and go wherever, whenever, she pleases.
But me? I get to stay stuck with the worst situation on earth--with a mother dating Diggs, unless I can come up with a brilliant plan that will keep Mr. Diggs from ever wanting to see my mother again.... Not such an easy task when I'm constantly distracted by all-things--no-matter-how-disgusting--Duey.
Yes, Duey, an otherwise edible boy with toffee brown hair that gets flipped from his chocolate brown eyes whenever he laughs.
Who can resist toffee and chocolate? Not me. Not anyone. So maybe I shouldn't feel bad about liking the menu.
Roz, my best friend (his EX), is sitting two rows up on the other side of the aisle, getting algebra homework from Cass Barnes. Even though she can't see me, I pretend not to notice when Duey pushes past Cam and jumps into the empty seat behind mine.
"Hey, Myri!"
It's hard to ignore a hello like that, so I give him half a nod, half a smile, and turn my head to stare at the gray-speckled grime on the window, while trying to focus on the one, last-remaining, menu-burning reason I have for not paying attention to anything else Duey might want to say.
I, Myri Anna Monaco, don't like--can't stand--bugs.
Chapter 2
"Eight days!" Roz blurts, while rubbing a nine of clubs on her chin. "Can you believe that?"
We're sitting on the floor of my room playing rummy, and at first, having been completely successful in my Ignore-and-Forget-All-Things-Related-to-Duey plan, I have no idea what she's talking about.
"You remember," Roz prods. "The bus? Two days ago? Duey?"
Oh.
Ew.
"The bug thing?"
"Yes, the bug thing!" Roz says, rocking from her knees to her toes.
"Completely disgusting." I watch her pick up a red queen and throw down a seven. "Hide your cards, why don't you?"
For people like me, who try hard not to cheat, Roz always makes playing a simple game of rummy down-right frustrating. If she wasn't my best friend, I might be tempted to take better advantage of it.
Well, in a way, I guess I am. There's no way I'm throwing down either of the twos I'm holding. At least, not yet.
Roz smirks and rearranges the cards in her hand, flashing me a Jack of diamonds and two of clubs in the process. I sigh and give my head a shake. Outside of a soccer game, Roz never really plays by the rules. She's more of a take-it-as-it-goes-sort-of-girl, who's never put up a stink about anything.
Anything, that is, except losing Duey.
And her name. It's Rosetta Victoria Lavender Lynnwood. She's already tried to get it legally changed to the one I made up--Roz. But without her parents' approval, she can't. I don't know what they have against it, but they're making her stick with the twelve syllables they gave her until she's eight
een.
"Let's go," I say, giving Wren a snap.
Yes, I said that to Wren. The ghost.
She's playing cards with us, and it's her turn. I've already drawn her a card, and now she needs to get rid of one she doesn't want--something we've been waiting on for thirty seconds now....
Make that thirty-five, because she's taken time to shoot me a hollow, irritated gaze before tapping the third card from the left. Her cards are in a free-standing card tree that Mom usually uses for holiday photos and letters and stuff, but it also serves as Wren's hands for our game, since she can't hold anything.
"Eight days for what?" she asks, her voice clipped with a strong Irish accent.
I pluck the unwanted seven of spades from the tree and toss it on the pile.
"Nothing," I say, flipping a hand at Roz to keep quiet. Wren can be a pest when she wants to get involved where she doesn't belong, which for a ghost, and a younger ghost at that, goes for just about everything.
It's a known fact, at least among the few people that know her: Wren is a trouble-making pest.
That's why she's in my room with us--because Mom told me to keep her entertained. With her new clients coming, she couldn't risk Wren getting all weepy and feeling like they needed a hug.
We learned that early on. Don't let Wren hug the guests. After all, that's how Roz started being able to see her, hear her--from a hug over a scraped knee when she was three--which as Roz grew older, wiser, turned out to be no big deal. Roz likes Wren--at least as much as anyone can like someone who's dead.
But as for the rest of civilization, or in particular, Mom's clients?
Well, they're pretty much in the midst of experiencing death firsthand. And the last thing they want to see when they've come to see Mom about burying their beloved dead, is a ghost. Not even a harmless one like Wren.
"Ya, right. C'mon, now, Myri," Wren says, giving me a squinty look. She isn't a mind-reader, but she knows when I'm not telling the truth.
She also knows when I'm not going to budge. "All right, then, Roz. Y' tell me." Wren shifts closer in Roz's direction. "Y' look ripe enough to bounce out of your skin or something. Eight days for what?"
Roz pushes her dark brown hair back over her shoulder and tips her freckled nose in the air. "Even if Myri would let me tell you," she teases, "I don't think you could handle it. It's a bit more than G-rated material."
"G-rated material! How old would you be thinking I am?" Wren sinks her hands into her hips, where they disappear into the folds of a nightgown that is as gray and washed out as the mist that clings to Ardenport's shores. "I've got more than three hundred years on this blessed earth, and maybe a day or two more."
Roz's eyes flash wide, and are quick to dance with laughter.
"Now, don't y' dare set in on me for me wretched looks!" Wren says, flying to her feet and pointing a pale finger between us. "I can see it on both your faces, ye'll be wanting to try, but I'm in no mood for it today."
Roz stifles a laugh, as Wren brushes at her skirt. Wren's sensitive about her looks, and I guess she has every right. It's not like there's a ghost mall she can hit up--a sad reality of the spirit world that has left Wren perpetually fashion-challenged. She's been stuck with the same natty hair, the same boxy nightgown, the same laced boots, and the same wool stockings with a patch at the knee ever since the night she died. Which, like she says, was over three hundred years ago when she went out in search of her Molly cow that'd gone missing, only to end up lost, herself, in an early-winter storm.
Wren died of hypothermia, pretty much on the spot where I live now. The land has changed, but Wren's connection to it hasn't. Gram says that's because she has unfinished business.
Gram knows these things. She's a spiritual consultant--kind of like a psychologist, only her clients hover on the couch, instead of lie directly on it. She's never discovered what needs to be done for Wren, though. Although lately, I've been feeling more and more motivated to try, since Wren is becoming more and more like an irritating, younger sister. In real life, that'd be bad enough....
But I guess this is real life, and Wren is as close to a younger sister as I'm ever going to get, only worse, because I don't have any control over her.
The situation is a bit ironic, actually. I'd rather stay faded in the shadows, while Wren would prefer to blaze ahead like a blinding light.
"Okay, okay, I won't be teasing ye," Roz says, giving Wren a wave of her hand.
"And don't be teasing me 'bout how I talk, neither," she replies. "Or, I'll be finding a way to walk in yer walls tonight. Scare your socks off, I will."
Roz half-laughs, shoots me a wink before setting her eyes back on Wren. "Oh, right. Walk through my walls? Ye-ah. Not so scary. But walk through me? Hmm-mmmmaybe a little bit more."
I can't help but nod, while showing the slightest of grins, because she's right. I let Wren do that to me once.
Once.
And once was enough. Only she didn't walk through me, she sat--right in my lap, because I'd asked her to.
I thought it was a good idea at the time, but learned in matter of seconds that eating my peas was better than feeling crowded and squashed by a ghost. Plus, I could still taste the peas. And Wren, who had forgotten how much she disliked them, created an unfortunate conflict-of-interest when it came time to swallow.
Mom was startled, to say the least, when Wren popped out of me along with the peas; and she immediately dove into a lecture about the dangers of that kind of sharing, like getting lost, or getting stuck, or getting our brains all turned to mush.
That's what she said. Turned to mush.... Which just goes to show she doesn't know what she's talking about. Technically, Wren doesn't have a brain.
"C'mon, Roz!" Wren pleads. "Just tell me!"
"All right. Fine," Roz says, fighting off my attempt to cover her mouth. "Word on the bus is--Ow! That it--Ow! Takes eight days for a cockroach to die--Erg!--after its head is cut off. Would you stop?"
Roz stops me from swatting her a fourth time, as Wren jerks back in surprise. "Ew. That's a tizzy, now, ain't it?"
"Yeah, it's a tizzy, all right," Roz says, pulling her mouth up in a grin.
"Who came up with that?"
"Duey Williams." I can't help it, but saying his name makes my face flush. I squirm, pick up a card, hope Roz doesn't notice.
I don't think she does. She's still smiling, her eyes without focus.
"Is he a devil's child, or something?"
"No," Roz replies, with a hint of pride in her voice. "He's just one of the more well-informed eighth-graders at Wolford Academy."
This comment makes my eyes roll. Roz really needs to work harder at being an EX.
"But how does he know?" Wren asks, more interested in warped facts about the natural world, than the warped perceptions of Roz's mixed-up mind.
"He doesn't," I say, tossing an eight of diamonds on the pile.
Wren scrunches her mouth up tight. "Well, worms can live without their heads, or bods. They'll even grow new ones. And snakes, maybe. And chickens, for a minute or two."
Her eyes grow distant. "I always hated cutting and plucking them chickens. Their rumps always seemed to want to land on me boots--or me toes, if I wasn't wearing any. But roaches are horrible creatures. If anything can live longer, just to spite death--just to make themselves even more miserable, then I believe roaches could do it. I hate roaches. More than chickens."
Roz tips her head. "See, Myri. Wren believes it."
"Yeah, so?"
"So, what do you say?"
"What do I say to what?"
"What do you say to finding out whether it's true or not?"
"Why would I want to do that?"
"For the science fair."
I look at her like she's nuts, which she is, obviously. "Why are we talking about the science fair? I don't even want to do the science fair. For one thing, it's a complete health risk."
"Health risk?" It's Roz's turn to pull a face.
"Yeah. H
ealth risk. You know how I get. Hives. Dry mouth. Shortness of breath. Talking in front of people totally freaks me out."
Roz laughs. "Who said anything about talking in front of people? You can hide behind a poster that explains everything for you. Besides, you don't get that bad."
I scrunch my lips. I hadn't thought of posters.
"Plus, a lot of good could come out of it."
"Good? Good, as in what?"
"For starters, good as in grades. You can't deny yours needs a bit of help. An-nnnd Diggs said everyone has to do something for the fair, no matter what. So you might as well do something that will liven things up. You're always good for that, you know."
I shake my head as if this is the most ridiculous thing I've heard, which it is. "Yeah, right. I'm going to cut heads off bugs for the science fair. Because it will be fun." I laugh, feeling not at all serious. "That's a great project."
"But that's the thing! It is a great project!" Roz bounces up to the balls of her toes, squats in front of me, grabs my shoulders for balance. "Look, Myri, no one else will be doing it, which will make it unique. That'll be a bonus in the grade department. At the same time though, it might lower someone's opinion of you." She bores her eyes into mine. "Someone who's interested in dating your mother."
Roz knows about Diggs. "It might be enough to shake him off, don't you think?"
Maybe.
"It won't be that hard. All you have to do is set it up like a normal experiment, follow a few simple steps, record a bit of data--"
"--tend to headless, disgusting bugs," I cut in, trying not to slump under her weight. "No, Roz, I don't think so."
I shake her off and throw down a two of hearts, hoping to divert her attention toward winning a game for once. Sure, I'm skipping turns, but I'm getting desperate. This whole conversation is getting way off track.
Plus, I'm actually starting to think she might be right, but for another reason. While Diggs might be put off by it--which could be useful toward relationship sabotage--Duey might like it.
"C'mon," she urges, not giving my sacrificed card a glance. "What's the big deal?"
"About cutting up roaches? Everything. But if you don't think so, you try it. It sounds like it's right up your alley."
The Ghost in Me Page 1