Haint Misbehavin'

by Maureen Hardegree

  “I’m not kidding around, and I don’t know how else to put this, so here it is. There’s a presence in Heather’s room.”

  “A presence, huh? How do you know?” Even I, a floor above, could feel Dad bristling with disbelief.

  “I can sense it. It’s sort of like my friend, but different. It’s a cold vibration.”

  Dad sighed. “That’s called air-conditioning. You were probably standing under the vent.”

  “Amy!” I whispered loudly. “Amy!”

  She didn’t materialize, but my jewelry box opened and something started rummaging through the necklaces. “What?” Amy asked.

  “Why didn’t you leave this morning when Aunt Geneva came in?”

  She must have put on three necklaces because it looked like the beads were hanging in mid-air. I glanced into the mirror and saw Amy’s gap-toothed reflection clearly as she grinned, then slid several rings on her ghostly little fingers.

  “Amy!”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, she’s downstairs telling my parents she sensed you. You’ve got to steer clear of her. Okay?”

  She added multi-colored metallic bangles to both of her calico-covered arms.

  “Amy!” I hissed, feeling the oatmeal crust crack on my face. A large patch fell to the floor and broke into smaller crumbles.

  Footsteps jogged up the stairs. My heart beat so fast I wondered if I was having a heart attack. “Amy!”

  Rapid footfalls headed down the hall toward my room. The squeaky spot squeaked. “Get out!” I whispered as loudly as I could without having Dad hear me.

  “Don’t have a conniption. I heard you,” Amy said, then left, I think.

  All the jewelry fell to the floor with a jangle and brief staccato tap of beads.

  Dad knocked on the half-open door, then pushed through it to frown and glance around my room, his eyes behind the oval lenses of his glasses taking in the piles of dirty clothes, the collection of used mostly empty glassware, and the jewelry and dried oatmeal paste crumbs sitting on the hardwood floor. He said nothing. Just chewed his spearmint gum and looked. I knew it was spearmint because that’s what he always chewed on his ride home from work at the state EPD.

  “I’ll clean it up tomorrow,” I promised in as weak and sickly a voice as I could muster. Gaining his sympathy could only improve the situation, right?

  He peered into my closet. “Were you talking to someone?”

  “No, just to myself.” I shrugged. “That’s what happens when you’re bored and you’ve had a near death experience from poison ivy.”

  “Poison ivy you acquired by sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night,” he reminded me.

  I padded over to my bed and lay back down. I knew what was coming and wasn’t going to take my next lecture standing.

  “So how are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Well enough considering I’m banned from listening to music or watching TV.” I gave him the sad, puppy dog eyes. “And I can’t even turn the pages of a magazine.”

  With not an ounce of sympathy, he loosened his tie and sat on the end of my bed. “I want to hear why you’d risk traipsing through the woods at night.”

  “I was looking for that cemetery I . . . ” Oops. A chill ran down my spine. I hadn’t admitted the part about going into the woods. “How’d you know?”

  “Scratches and poison ivy like you’d rolled in it? Few people in this neighborhood have crabgrass in their lawns, and you want me to believe you stumbled into briars and poison ivy.”

  Oddly enough, I felt a certain amount of relief that Dad figured out I’d been in the woods.

  “A cemetery, huh? You sure you weren’t meeting some boy. Perhaps the one who drove you home from the library the other day?”

  I wish.

  I met his bespectacled gaze without flinching. “Look, if you don’t believe me, check out the maps in my backpack. I’d get them for you, but. . .” I lifted my crusty arms.

  Dad scratched the side of his head. “I still don’t understand why this trip of yours couldn’t wait.”

  “Because . . . ” What could I tell him? Getting a ghost to move on took precedence over everything else in my life? “I guess I’m just impatient.”

  “And why are these graves so important to you?”

  “I don’t know. Why is wine so important to you?”

  Dad adjusted the nosepiece on his glasses and sighed. “Okay, I see the point about obsessions. But making wine isn’t dangerous and it doesn’t require me leaving the house in the middle of the night.”

  “I had to see if I was right.”

  “About what?”

  I groaned. I was going to have to tell him to some degree. “I had to see if I was right about Amy’s family.”

  “Who’s Amy?” he asked.

  “The girl who lived here way back when. Remember? I told you I wanted to find her family’s cemetery.”

  “And how could a grave tell you if you were right about something dealing with her family?”

  “Well . . . ” Picture me wincing. “She thinks her family hates her, but I know they probably don’t. I mean you don’t hate me, right? No matter that I do things that you’d prefer I didn’t. But then I haven’t killed anybody, though sometimes I like thinking about the wonderful day Audrey goes off to college and how my greatest hope is that she doesn’t come back until Thanksgiving when she does. Did you know—”

  Dad raised both hands. “Whoa. Go back. How do you know what someone in the past thinks? Were you reading her diary in the library?”

  “Um …” My heart beat triple time in my chest. I looked down at the pink skin and cracking oatmeal patchwork that was my hands. Avoiding the complete truth in this instance was right choice. Yeah, I wanted to be treated more like an adult, but wouldn’t an adult whose father already had borderline high blood pressure skirt the truth for his sake? “Yeah, the library has her journal.”

  “I’m confused.”

  He wasn’t the only one.

  The blinds on my double window fell, first the one, then the other. Yes, Amy.

  Dad got up off the bed and walked over to the blinds to examine them. “Your Aunt Geneva seems to think there’s more going on here than rebellion.”

  “Don’t you tell him nothing,” Amy said, appearing in the warm spot at the end of the bed where Dad had been sitting. She smoothed her filmy calico skirt and pinafore.

  “No duh. But it would help me if you wouldn’t call so much attention to yourself,” I said under my breath. In a much louder voice, I said, “So what does Aunt Gen think is going on?”

  Dad fiddled with the pull, making sure that metal thingee caught and held the blinds halfway up the window. He shook his close-cropped, balding head and turned around to face me. “A ghost.”

  I forced a laugh so fake that he couldn’t possibly think it was real.

  He stopped chewing his gum.

  “Just listen. Okay? This isn’t easy for me.” I wet my lips. Real tears filled my eyes. “Everyone, including you, always says I’m getting more like Aunt Geneva every day. And I hate it.”

  His forehead folded into even lines like the blinds on my window. “Go on.”

  I took a shaky breath. “Everybody thinks I’m weird anyway, and if you all start believing I have a ghost, just because Aunt Geneva thinks so, I might not ever be considered normal. So the answer to your underlying question is no. The stupid things I’ve done are no one’s fault but my own. As much as I’d like to have a ghost that no one but Aunt Geneva can see—”

  “She didn’t say she could see one. She said she sensed it.”

  Relief filled me. I had to milk his doubt for all it was worth. “And you believe her? Over me, your child, the fruit of your loins, who could have taken the easy way out and latched on to this ghost alibi?”

  “Why are you lying?” Amy asked, sounding hurt that I’d denied her. “I know you see me. And you saw me yesterday and the day before.”

  I whi
spered under my breath, “It’s called self-preservation.”

  He squinted at me. “If you aren’t telling me the God’s honest truth right now . . . ”

  “Do you think I want to be any more of a freak than I already am?” I cried, eyes and nose running over the oatmeal paste that was rapidly turning gooey and gloppy.

  Not a man who was comfortable with waterworks, even with three daughters, a wife, a mother-in-law, and a female dog in the house, Dad started jingling the change in his pocket. He cleared his throat twice. “No, I don’t think you want to be more of a freak. Ah, geez . . . I didn’t mean that I think you’re a freak. It’s just that I didn’t get much sleep, then your Aunt Geneva suggested there was something—” he made quote marks in the air— “‘paranormal’ going on, and the blinds fell like someone released them. . .”

  I sniffed really loud.

  “I guess it wouldn’t hurt for me to take you to see the grave,” he said.

  “Does this mean I get to go on vacation, too?”

  Dad took a deep breath. “Get those papers done, and we’ll talk.”

  I had about a week and a half until vacation. Ten days to prove that Amy was loved by her family, and write two ten-page papers, and recover from a monster case of poison ivy, and make sure my Dad didn’t see or hear anything that might make him believe Aunt Geneva and realize I was the one who was lying. Piece of cake.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I didn’t know for sure if Dad was suspicious that I was being haunted, but he was being nice to me, too nice. And in answer to what I suspect you must be thinking, no, I’m not paranoid!

  It had been a week since my chat with Dad. The poison ivy had healed for the most part, and I had turned in a snore-inducing paper on underage drinking as well as some proof that I was working on the ten-pager about sneaking out of the house late at night. Out of the blue, Dad offered to take me to the cemetery in the morning. Seeing as it was already Friday night, the family was leaving for vacation on Monday, and I hadn’t finished paper number two, I almost said no. But then I’d miss a prime opportunity to help Amy, and therefore myself, so I agreed.

  When Dad kindly asked if anyone else wanted to come, Audrey informed us that she thought cemetery hunting was stupid and that she couldn’t possibly help. She was lunching with her snotty friends at Sub-a-Dub, the sandwich shop where the popular high school crowd gathered. Claire, nice sister that she was and always would be, offered to come with us but had already promised to help Mom at her decorative flip-flop craft class. Grandma reminded us all for the fifty-millionth time that she doesn’t sweat and didn’t need to be tramping around the hot, humid woods. I was relieved. The more is not the merrier when you’re dealing with a high probability of ghost shenanigans.

  Oh, I almost forgot. Earlier in the week, I’d gotten a Get Well card via snail mail from Tina, who’d heard about the poison ivy. So I guess we were on the mend even with the desperate e-mails I’d sent from the library. My calling, texting, and IMing privileges hadn’t yet been restored, so I couldn’t talk to her. But I at least had hope that we’d be bff’s again soon. Of course, I also feared that my hope would be dashed unless I could move Amy on her way and thereby decrease my potential for future weirdness.

  After a rousing chorus of some morning song mutilated by my Dad, I dragged out of bed Saturday morning, dressed and stumbled downstairs to find him packing Mom’s van with enough equipment for an expedition to Mount Everest.

  A giant, hand-crank flashlight? Okay, maybe we’d be there long enough for it to get dark, and maybe is stretching it. But the rope and bungee cord? I was desperate to know if this was actually a fact-finding mission or step one to a psychiatric intervention like I’d seen on the Learning Channel. Best to reassure him I was sane.

  “Hey, Dad, you know that talk we had?”

  “Can you hand me the mini-cooler?” he asked, which really wasn’t an answer.

  I gave the cooler to him, and he placed the square Igloo between the first aid kit and the sprayer thing he uses for killing fungus. “So?” I prompted.

  “So what?” he asked.

  I groaned. “So do you remember the talk we had last week?”

  “Sure. Did you put your bug repellent on?”

  “Dad, you’re not listening to me.”

  “John,” Mom called from the breezeway. “Could you please take Roquefort?”

  Roquefort added her whine to Mom’s plea.

  “No!” I said, perhaps a bit too forcefully. Roquefort had been, shall we say, a little gassy since last night’s pilfering of half a plate of stuffed mushrooms from Grandma’s book club. The dog had taken advantage of the lights going out during a thunderstorm. When they came back on, most of the hors d’oevres Grandma had set out for her friends had vanished and Roquefort was licking her guilty chops.

  Mom walked over to the van. Her t-shirt read If I’m Talking, You Should Be Taking Notes in bold red letters. “Let’s put it this way, the gas can be expelled in the woods with you, or it can fill up the house and be waiting for you upon your return.”

  “Just put her in the backyard,” I suggested. “Unless you’re afraid Roquefort’s emissions will hurt the grapes.”

  Dad looked up from securing some long handled hedge trimmers. “Get the leash.”

  Me and my big mouth. So I located the supposed means of controlling the stupid dog, put her in Mom’s van, and we headed out.

  I’d been cooped up in the house for so long it felt good to be out and about, even if my companion for the day was Dad and, of course, Amy. Amy decided she’d ride on the top of the van rather than inside it next to or behind Roquefort. I didn’t blame her. Her transparent stockinged and booted feet dangled through the van roof.

  I was about to bring up Aunt Gen’s suspicions again—to assure Dad that they were unfounded—when Roquefort let one fly right as we turned the corner and were fast approaching the Monroe’s house.

  “No more mushrooms for you, dog,” Dad said, waving the air in front of him.

  I had to get oxygen in my lungs, so I pressed the window button.

  Xavier, who was standing outside his house watering his mom’s wilting flowers and who must have super sonic hearing, looked up and waved.

  As Dad slowed for the four-way stop, I tried to slink down in the captain’s chair, but the seatbelt and my clothes sticking to the cloth seat prevented much movement. Yet another reason why Mom and Dad should’ve bought the more expensive leather option.

  “What are you doing?” Dad asked.

  “Hiding,” I said, squirming yet making no downward progress.

  Dad stopped the van completely. “From him? You’re hiding from the altar boy?”

  I glanced back over at Xavier, who’d adjusted his hose nozzle to off and dropped it to the ground while I’d been squirming. He was heading toward me like he thought I wanted to talk to him.

  Dad laughed.

  “I’m glad you think this is so funny.”

  He put the van in park. His mouth twitched as he fought to control his laughter.

  “I don’t like Xavier,” I said. “And he won’t stop liking me. It’s embarrassing.”

  Amy floated down through the roof of the van, veered to the way back and started fiddling with something in the trunk. When she settled on the back bench seat, she had a self-satisfied look on her pert little face. Not good. Not good at all.

  I pressed the button to roll down the window all the way and pasted as much of a smile as I could muster on my face. Roquefort promptly leaned forward to stick her snout out, snorting and sniffing the window ledge, leaving a wet trail.

  Xavier’s wispy mustache, the one I wished he’d shave off, drew my attention as he leaned in. If he could shave the rest of his face, why not the hairs above his lip? He looked for a spot free of dog slobber where he could place his hand, then seemed to think the better of it. “Hey, Mr. Tildy, Heather. So where are you off to so early?”

  Early? I checked the digital clock. Eight-thi
rty? Dad said that the day was half over when he sang me out of bed. No wonder Claire wasn’t out in the grapevines getting her quota of beetles.

  “We’re doing a little cemetery clean up,” Dad said, then wiggled his eyebrows at me like the knowledge that I was into cleaning cemeteries would somehow make Xavier dislike me and solve my problem.

  Unbelievable. He’d used the “c” word in front of Xavier, which probably brought back all the sadness of his brother dying.

  “Cool,” Xavier said, shocking me. “If you could use an extra hand, I’d be happy to help. But only if it’s okay with you, Heather.”

  Unable to dash the glee in his voice, I heard myself say, “Sure, why not?”

  Maybe his brother had been cremated. Maybe that’s why he wasn’t leery of cemeteries.

  Roquefort whined, so he patted her head and rubbed behind her long ears.

  Having Xavier along wouldn’t be so bad. Sure, I wouldn’t get to spend the time convincing my father that I’d grown up and deserved to go to the beach with the rest of the family, even if I hadn’t finished my paper about late night escapades, but I’d find another time and place to prove myself to him. And it wasn’t like I couldn’t throw Xavier this bone. I mean, it wasn’t like anybody would see me with him in the woods.

  Dad turned off the car engine. “We’ll wait for you to change.”

  Xavier looked down at his oversized shorts, leather fisherman’s sandals with white socks. Yah, socks with sandals.

  “The cemetery’s in the woods,” Dad explained. “There’s ticks, poison ivy. You might want to wear some pants, long sleeves.”

  Amy pointed at Xavier’s feet. “I ain’t never seen shoes wear plumb away like that other than those slapping things you and your sisters wear to the swimming pool. Why can’t he buy new ones with no pieces missing?”

  I had no clue how to explain sandals, much less socks with sandals, and shrugged.

  “When we stop for lunch, my treat,” Dad added, “Heather will tell you all about her new hobby researching the family who had a farm around here.”

  Stop for lunch? Stop for lunch meant eating in some public place. People would see me with Xavier. My belly button started to itch, and I fought the urge to scream ‘no way’ at my dad while Xavier practically skipped into his house.