Roz frumps her face at the title. "Beauty and the Yeast?"
I nod, then keeping nodding, knowing she'll connect the dots.
"Is this a typo?"
No. Not those dots.
I shake my head. "No, that's the real name of the play. It's a spin-off, set in a bakery."
Roz gives me a look, as she fans through the script.
Okay, so she's not picking up on the fear streaming through me.
"Everyone has to try out," I blurt to give her a clue. "Everyone. Starting tonight. At the town theater, because that's where the play will be done."
"Ardenport Theater? Like Duey said?"
I nod. Duey, apparently, is well-connected.
Roz lets out a breath. "That's fast."
I half-shrug. "Not if you're everyone else. Everyone else has known about it for a couple weeks, but not me, thanks to this morning, thanks to this wonderful thing I call my life."
"Can't you skip out?"
"No. Auditions are mandatory. If I don't go, I fail. Drama is actually a pass/fail course. Just a minor detail Slayer forgot to mention."
"Well, they all are. That's the way ECSAs work. You know that. That's why they're mandatory."
"Study hall is pass/fail?"
It's Roz's turn to nod.
Okay, so maybe I shouldn't be surprised I didn't know this. Study hall doesn't become a choice for Wolford students until they're in eighth grade. And I'm only in eighth grade.
"But it's no big deal," Roz says, finally reading my dread of the situation. "It's not like Diggs expects everyone will give an amazing audition. You'll pass, even if it stinks. Just mumble through it like you would anything else you're not ready for."
I ignore the twinge I feel at the comment, let out a short huff. "But I don't think I'll be able to mumble. I'm totally freaked out. I'm going to be shaking, and stuttering, and looking like an idiot."
"Well, you look like an idiot in English, too," Roz says, bopping me on the arm. "But that doesn't keep you from getting up there and reading your essays, does it?"
I step back, give her an I-don't-believe-you-just-said-that look. Because even though I know I have a problem talking in front of a class, I still have limits on how many ways I can stand to look bad.
"I'm just joking," she says, waving me off. "You do fine in English. I don't know why you don't think so. It's going to be okay. Just take a deep breath and chill. Do what you need to do to relax."
"Relax? This isn't English class, Roz. There won't be a podium for me to hide behind, or lean on when I think I'm going to pass out. I have to be up high. By myself. On a stage. In front of people who were actually born to do this sort of thing."
I wrap my arms around the top of my head, then let them fall to my sides. "What am I going to do?"
Roz shrugs, hands back the script, as she makes a move to get to her next class. "Well, if you think it's going to be that big a deal, then get Wren to do it."
I do a double-take.
That statement was rather matter-of-fact. I'm not sure I've heard her right.
"Wren?" For a moment I feel dizzy.
"Yeah. Kind of like the way I let her take my history test."
"Sh-- She took your test?" Now my head is shaking back and forth uncontrollably. I can't believe it. "How? When?"
Roz nods, gives another shrug, as if what she just said is the most normal thing to say on the planet. "Last week. I just kind of let her fill in for me for a day--or, step into me. For an hour. It's amazing how much she remembered. And the details she put in my essay quest--"
"She took your test? As in, possession? Bodily possession?" I try keeping my voice down, but it's hard to do, when my insides are erupting like a geyser.
I pull her over to the lockers--not that it gives us any privacy. Although, actually, after a quick look around I see it's not something I need to worry about. We're the only students left in the hall. "People call in priests to stop that sort of thing," I hiss. "Haven't you seen the The Exorcist? Just the clips are enough to freak anyone out!"
"That's if you have a mean ghost, not one that's nice. Wren is nice. She was helping me."
"Where--" I shake my hands by my ears. "Where were you while this was happening?"
"I told you. I was in history class."
"No, I mean, where were you, Roz, the person inside you that makes you, you. It's not like you could step out for a cup of tea."
"Oh." Roz frowns. "I wasn't anywhere, I guess. I mean, I was still there--still inside me. I just kind of felt pushed off to the side a bit. But not really. I mean, I could feel myself holding the pencil, and I could still read the questions, but I could hear Wren reading and answering the questions, too. It was sort of weird, but after a few minutes, I got used to it, and then I sort of let go. Soon, she was doing all the work for me."
"And when you were done?"
"When she was done, it was easy. We snapped back to normal."
"Snapped back to normal." I repeat the words, my voice full of disbelief.
The bell rings.
We stay where we are, staring at each other, me in shock, her trying to look like what she just said is all perfectly fine.
"Look," Roz says, letting out a breath. "We'll talk later, okay?" She backs down the hall. "You're getting stressed over nothing, Myr. You can either do the auditions, and not get a part. Or, do the auditions with Wren, and still not get the part. Either way, you still pass. You'll be fine, okay?
"Myr?"
When I don't answer, she shrugs, and takes off down the hall.
Yeah. Okay. Sure. I'll just go to class. Act like everything's fine. Like my best friend didn't just tell me that the ghost I've been living with my entire life has found a way to live a double-life, literally, inside my best friend, whenever she feels like it.
Okay, so maybe it was just for a one hour class.
And maybe it wasn't really living, because she was only taking a test. On history. About a subject through which she already lived.
But still. Please. Somebody pinch me. Because I swear, I just woke up to a total nightmare.
Or, maybe I've always been living one.
Chapter 9
Elise drops her sack lunch on the table, stands back a moment to eye up the three of us--me, Cass and Roz--in a way that makes me nervous. I've seen that look before, like when she suggested we turn the school parking lot into a skating rink last year in an effort to create a no-school-day, on account of the fact that teachers would find themselves trapped in their cars upon arriving, unable to get to the doors without a pair of ice skates. Fortunately, or unfortunately--whatever the case may be--we never made it past the planning stage.
"Okay, so I've been thinking," she says with a tone of determination.
I poke my fork through my pickle, wave it expectantly.
"And this is the deal," she says. "We're going to make the best of a bad situation."
"Bad situation?" Roz raises her eyebrows, as Elise straddles the stool next to her and sits down. "Which situation would that be? The one where I'm still dumped by Duey. Or, the one where Myri's been dumped into drama club. Or...?" She points a finger across that table at Cass. "Do you have a bad situation you've not shared with us, yet?"
Cass opens her mouth, tips her head in thought. "My fish hasn't learned how to talk?"
Elise doesn't flinch, even though the three of us laugh. She's all serious, wagging her finger, specifically, I notice, at me and Cass. "No, none of that. The Brittley situation," she says. "We're going to fix it."
"Brittley situation?" Cass giggles some more. "I didn't know there was one."
"Yeah, there is. If you're me, there is. And you're going to help me. Either you, or Myri. Whoever comes first. One of you is going to knock her out of the play."
I half-laugh. "That's a joke, right? I mean, this is me, here. How would you expect me to do that?"
Elise gives a quick nod. "By beating her in auditions."
Cass lets out a short huff, tap
s a hand from her shoulder to mine. "Uh, good thinking, but again, look at who you're dealing with."
"I mean it!" Elise replies, her voice rising a notch. She leans forward on her elbows, splays her hands on the table. "If I have to put up with her the way she was last year when I was taking pictures for yearbook, I'm seriously going to hurt someone...."
Elise holds up a hand, telling us to wait while she takes a sip of juice. "You should have seen her," she says, when she finishes. "She kept saying, 'Did you get me? Did you get me?'" Elise struggles with another sip. "I spent most of my time looking for a reason to miss her, but somehow she managed to get in every shot. I guess it's hard to avoid getting photos of the lead."
"Maybe we'll get lucky and someone else will get the lead," Cass offers. "But don't count on it being me. When it comes to winning roles, my chances are slim. Last year, I was cast as a tree. You know that."
"But you were a good tree," Roz says, giving her a wink before biting into her sandwich.
"Yeah, I was," she answers wistfully. "The best Wolford has ever seen. And, I was in the yearbook, thanks to Elise, even if I did blend in too well with the scenery."
Elise nods, drums her fingers while she studies me, looks at Cass, then studies me some more.
I rub my neck, pretending to ignore her, then pull my tray back from the center of the table to spoon up vanilla pudding.
"Myr," she says, waiting for me to look up. Finally, after a long moment of silence, I do. "Myr, you're my only hope. As the newbie, you could be the dark horse in this undertaking."
I raise my eyebrows, fill my mouth with more pudding, and more pudding, as if I could stuff it all the way back to my ears to keep myself from hearing her.
Elise turns a hand, lets out a sigh. "Okay, so maybe beating Brittley to the lead is a stretch, I'll admit. But listen," she begs, "maybe we can do something else." Reaching forward, she grabs my hand to stop me from scraping the thin white lines left on my tray, turns to look at Cass. "If you guys get roles in the play this year, I'll make sure you're the ones that get put in the drama spread."
"Even if I'm a tree?"
"Even better if you're a tree, because this time I'll put you in the foreground, make sure you upstage whatever character Brittley gets to be."
I shake my head, as Cass giggles and knocks fists with Elise. Roz gives them each a high-five.
"Wait," Roz says, lacing her fingers with Elise's. "I've got a better idea." From across the table, she bores her eyes into mine. "We don't need someone in the play. We need someone who's not in the play. The one who wants to work on the set with a hammer."
I give her a weird look, suddenly confused as to how I could possibly fit in this so-not-gonna-work-plan.
She leans forward, plants her hand on my shoulder, looks back at Elise. "Actors get all the glory, don't you think?" She clucks out the side of her mouth, tips her head back at mine. "How about focusing your camera behind the scenes?"
Chapter 10
"Don't!" Reeta says, her arms outstretched to stop me from sitting.
I didn't stop; but I should have. I should have paid attention to her and not the new, comfy-looking chair I found in the living room. Because if I know anything, it's this: once you live with one ghost, you more or less come to live with them all. It takes all of two seconds for me to find we have a new one.
"Thanks for the warning," I say, jumping up from the chair, while rubbing the chill from my arms, my legs, my back.
"Warn you, I did," she says, slumping back into the white and blue flowered sofa. She straightens the black turban on her head. "But the wind was too strong for the trying. You might want to quell that storm you're carrying."
"Well, maybe we can use it to blow away Mom's latest visitor." I take another step away from the chair and edge into whatever warmth I can get from the afternoon sun working its way in through the windows.
Reeta Gertestky is Gram's best friend. Gram calls Reeta over whenever we have unwanted guests. Like now, apparently.
But I can see this one doesn't look like the usual floater that comes with Mom's corpses. He's not dressed in anything current. His suit is high-collared. His hat, tall and brimmed. His shoes, square, yet, so worn, the leather follows the shape of each toe. And his cane, which hooks down under his wrinkled hand, contrasts with a long, looping mustache, which curls up.
Reading my thoughts, Reeta shakes her head. "This one came with the chair.
"Internet order," she adds, as if that explains everything. Which, in a way, it does. Gram has a habit of shopping for antiques on eBay, and the new silver-striped chair must be what Gram calls an "Irresistible."
"So, this visitor is going to need what? Relocation? Reincarnation? Post-visitation?" I feel like I've been stomped on. I mean, when did ghosts start arriving with furniture?
"Ah, Myri, you're home." Gram walks through the doorway from the kitchen.
Placing a tray of yellow butter cookies on the coffee table, she comes over to cup my face. Even without having seen her pink jacket and white slip-ons by the door, I know from the cool touch of her hands that she's been out for a walk.
"So, about the ghost?" I ask, while returning the hug that follows.
"Well, we don't know too much about him," Gram says, releasing me, "at least as far as where he wants to go, who he wants to see--he's not the talkative type."
I follow the ghost's gaze through a single, round eyeglass, held in place with a squint, toward the painting of water lilies hanging on the opposite side of the room. Whether he's studying it intently, or not at all, I can't tell. He could almost be mistaken for a statue, if it weren't for his wavering, see-through form, which shouts, Ghost!
I give a little huff, take a few steps back to sink into the rocker. "Didn't you buy a chair to sit in?"
"Well, yes," Gram says, bending to take a cookie.
"And has anyone sat it in, yet?"
Reeta presses her lips into a frown, scoffs with a wave of her hand, as Gram sits next to her. "Briefly," she says. "That's how we discovered he was there."
"And he's still there."
"Yes, because we don't know what he needs."
"He needs to move, that's what he needs." I'm finding it hard not to feel irritated.
"That'll happen, as soon as he gets up," Gram says matter-of-factly.
"Okaaaaay," I say, trying not to pull a face. "Am I the only one who sees a problem with this?"
I push myself up and turn a circle on the rug. "I mean, coming home to dead people--and sometimes ghosts that are linked to them--is one thing, because that's Mom's job. I can accept that. But coming home to find one stuck in a random piece of furniture you've just purchased? And seeing he's allowed to stay stuck until we can figure out his needs? That's something completely different. Aren't there like codes, or rules, or limits, or something?"
"Limits?" Gram tips her chin near her chest. "Of course, there are limits, Myri. We all know that. Along with a few doors, that open and close, on our side of reality and theirs. Ours happened to be open to him at the time."
Reeta leans forward and touches Gram's arm. "Well, we did direct that delivery man to bring him inside."
"But that was before we knew he was there."
"And now that you do know, don't you see a problem with it?" I say.
"Of course," Gram retorts.
"A pressing problem?"
"Of course, it's a pressing problem. I just haven't figured out how to help him see the problem." She sets her fists on her hips. "Where is all this coming from? We've dealt with this before, Myri. You know some cases take longer than others--the longest involving the one who lives upstairs. What's troubling you?"
I take a deep breath, hold it.
A lot is troubling me. A lot.
I lean forward and grab a cookie. "Have you seen Wren?"
Chapter 11
Wren is sitting at the kitchen table, cupping her hands in a way that looks too familiar.
"What are you doing?"
/> I shake my head at the answer. She didn't have to tell me, and I didn't have to ask.
Energy balls.
She raises her brow in an innocent arch, as I stomp to the counter. "Mom," I say, keeping my tone curt, my voice flat. "Mom, tell her she's not going to school." I point at Wren, just to make sure she knows who I'm talking about.
She does, because her eyes wrinkle up like I'm nuts. But she doesn't glance my way until the last bit of leaf is peeled from the cob, which starts to worry me. "Wren," she finally says, drawing in a breath, "you're not to go to school."
Yes!
Wren's wail of protest drowns the room like one of the bells in Ardenport harbor.
"Now, why did I say that?" The sound of my mom's voice cuts through my short-lived triumph. She pivots to face me.
She wasn't being serious.
How could she not have been serious?
"Because she doesn't belong there. It's a school!"
Why is this concept hard to understand? It's not like we're talking about a younger sister, here. A real-live sibling, who, by law, should be in school, if she existed.
Mom picks up another ear of corn, peels back another faded green leaf, and another, before looking at me again, her face hard. "She could learn something at school. It is a public institution."
"Yea-ah. For people that are living!"
Are we really having this conversation? I had kind of hoped this request would be easy. No, not hoped. Expected. I had expected Wren would get in trouble.
"That depends on your definition of living, doesn't it?" She swoops a hand in Wren's direction. "Just because she doesn't have flesh and blood doesn't mean she doesn't exist." She shakes her head, caught in her own thoughts. "Wren exists. Simple as she's sitting there now." She presses a cob into my hands to peel. "If you exist, Myri, you live. Simple as that."
I chuck down the cob, grab a spoon off the counter. "Oh, yeah? Well, this spoon exists, Mom. That doesn't mean it lives."
Mom takes the spoon from my hand, waves it at Wren. "This spoon doesn't think, feel. Wren does. There's a difference."
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