“Am I in trouble?” I asked, carefully scratching around the supposedly hypoallergenic post.
“No,” he said, eyes on the road.
“Is Grandma sick?”
“No.” He smiled. “Can’t I come pick you up and save you from a walk home just because I’m a nice guy?”
“No,” I said, grinning back, glad that we could tease each other again.
“All right, you got me. I do have a reason for driving you home.” He turned out of the parking lot and onto Five Points Road. “Consider it a reward for writing an excellent paper on underage drinking.”
“Really? You thought it was good?”
He nodded. “I did. How’s the other paper coming? Are you going to make the deadline tomorrow?”
“I think so. I mean, I have all my notes at home and a detailed outline. I just have to keyboard it.” We turned onto Red Tip Road, then made a quick right into the neighborhood, passing the pool, then Xavier’s house. “How’d you know I was at the library?”
“Xavier’s mom saw you walking with him. Did they let you off your suspension a few days early?” He asked.
“Something like that.”
“The manager of Sub-a-Dub called,” Dad said. “He wanted to commend you for thinking to unplug the machine. He said when you’re old enough and want a job to give him a ring. In the mean time, he’s sending you a gift card to say thanks.”
“Really? Sweet.” Not the iPod downloads, but I could live with it. “How’s Audrey?”
“Holed up in her room. You and Xavier friends again?”
“Sort of. I mean, he’s talking to me.” And I gave him a peck on the cheek. Probably shouldn’t have done that. It might rekindle his hope. “Um . . . Dad? If I do just as well on the sneaking-out-at-night paper, what do I get?”
“A job well done is its own reward,” Dad said, breaking into the geekiest of grins. “That and vacation, and all your junk back, and, I guess, permission to go to your first boy-girl party.”
He reached back to the seat behind me, easily since this was a compact car, and tossed me a fancy postcard invitation I’d received via snail mail. Suzanne didn’t hate me, or should I say hate me enough to exclude me?
For some reason, though, I wasn’t excited. At all. You think you want something and then when you get it, you see that it’s no big deal. I wanted to be elated, but I wasn’t.
“Shouldn’t you be squealing? When Claire saw the invitation in the mail, she jumped up and down in the kitchen and it wasn’t even for her.”
I shrugged. “I think I’ll send my regrets.”
“Are you feeling okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I guess deep down I know Suzanne only invited me because Tina told her to. I want to be liked for who I am.” Weirdness and all. And it only took a ghost for me to figure out that I deserved it.
“You know what, Heather?” Dad said, pulling into the driveway. “I’m proud of you.”
I hugged him. Amy was right. My dad was nicer than most.
Wednesday, Jekyll Island, Georgia
From my spot on the widening beach, I straightened Roquefort’s sunglasses, courtesy of a certain older sister. It’s sad what can happen to people who hog all the Fritos.
The salty wind lowered slightly, and I toasted red Powerade with Claire, who was sitting next to me, enlightening me about the latest fashion trends. Life couldn’t get much better than watching the tide go out in the setting sun.
Even better, no one on Jekyll Island knew my nickname or my reputation for being weird. Walking Roquefort didn’t even feel like a chore, especially since I got to see more of the beautiful wind-bent oak trees and cute boys who also had dog-walking duty.
I assessed my summer so far. Yes, I’d made Drew notice me but not in an altogether positive way. Time away from the pool might make his heart grow fonder. At least he liked me as a friend. And it wasn’t like he actually said I was too much of a weirdo. Drew’s like could grow into something more, right? If I could help a ghost move on, I could do anything.
And Xavier would get over me eventually, I thought, adjusting my four towels to ensure that sand didn’t get inside my bathing suit and exfoliate parts of me I didn’t want exfoliated.
Maybe some other future member of the Pecan Hills High debate team would walk into the Five Points Branch while I was gone and rock his world. I smiled to myself. Stranger things had happened—literally.
I missed Amy, but it was great to be ghost-free. I could really enjoy the rest of my vacation. Well, other than having to deal with Audrey.
“Has anyone seen my sunglasses?” Audrey’s whine rose from the hacienda’s porch and drifted down the weathered steps to where Claire and I sat.
Knowing exactly where those sunglasses were and not ready to share that information with my sister, I glanced toward the curling waves and noticed a buxom elderly lady in an old-fashioned, red one-piece bathing suit and plastic flowered cap. She’d walked by at about the same time in the same suit and cap for the past two nights. Old folks are such creatures of habit.
She waved at me. I waved back. People were so friendly at the beach.
Roquefort sat up and barked repeatedly at the old woman.
“Quit,” Claire said, lowering her Teen Vogue. “Why is she barking?”
I removed my sunglasses and studied the pudgy woman strolling through the surf, oblivious of her wedgie to end all wedgies. She couldn’t be more than thirty feet from us. Surely my sister could see her as clearly as the woman’s footprints in the sand—um, oddly enough, the woman wasn’t leaving any impressions in the sand.
Roquefort switched to a low growl, and the sunglasses skewed sideways on her snout.
My top-most towel’s terry cloth knubs prickled against the sticky layer of SPF fifty on my back. If I could see this old lady, and the dog could see her, and Claire couldn’t, it meant one thing, and one thing only.
Pulse racing, I stood up. “Come on, Roquefort.”
Claire set her magazine down on the stack piled next to her. “What’s wrong? Where are you going?”
“It’s time for a walk,” I said.
No way should anyone have to spend eternity with a wedgie.
The End
Heather’s Ghost Handling Rules
(Full Official Rule Book Version)
• People who had imaginary friends as young children have the ability to see ghosts later in life, and it tends to run in families, like me and Aunt Geneva.
• Imaginary friends ARE ghosts. Don’t let anyone ever tell you different.
• Ghosts wear their favorite outfit.
• Ghosts don’t always want to move on.
• Some physical or emotional event reawakens a ghost handler’s sensitivity to detecting ghosts.
• Some ghosts show themselves to only one person. Other ghosts reveal themselves to anyone with the ability to see. It’s the ghost’s choice, which can really suck.
• Ghost handlers can sense a spirit’s presence even if the ghost doesn’t reveal him or herself to the handler, which also sucks.
• The longer dead a ghost is, the longer it takes the ghost to recover from levitating objects.
• If the ghost wants to move something really heavy, he or she will have to enter the handler’s body.
• A ghost handler’s job is to help the ghost resolve something that is keeping him/her in this limbo between worlds.
• Ghosts sometimes are there to help the handlers learn something, but they don’t just, like, tell you. They make you figure it out.
• Ghosts can also make themselves more corporeal than spirit so that people can feel their touch. But the longer dead they are, the weaker this ability becomes.
• Once a handler acknowledges a ghost, the ghost can enter the handler and move about within the haunting parameters, space allotted for haunting. Yeah, that sucks, too.
• If the ghost does something nice for the handler, (warning: the good deed might not seem all that nice)
, and the handler gives permission, the ghost can accompany the handler outside the haunting parameters, which super sucks.
• If the ghost does two nice things for the handler, the ghost can accompany the handler outside the haunting parameters without permission. Can you say super-duper sucks?
• If the ghost does three nice things for the handler and the handler has helped the ghost solve his or her problem, the ghost can move about freely and move on to the next realm, which is really nice IF they do it.
Coming Next!
HAINTED LOVE
Maureen Hardegree
Book Two of The Ghost Handler Series
What’s a girl to do when her first ever summer romance turns
out to be . . . a little ghostly?
Yes, life didn’t get much better than watching cute boys ride skimboards during an almost ghost-free vacation at the beach. I, Heather Tildy, hypersensitive ghost handler, soon to be ninth grader and number one fan of gorgeous lifeguard Drew Blanton, had quite handily disposed of the one ghost I’d encountered since arriving in coastal Georgia.
I had the rest of this week and the next to relax. “Relax” being a relative term because Aunt Geneva, the only other person in our family who has the ghost-seeing gene, was spending next week with us. Aunt Geneva was all open about her ability; I was deep in the closet. I’d told this geeky boy in my neighborhood to convince him to help me into the special collections room at the library—the means of liberating me from my first ghost. I had enough attention-getting quirks to achieve weirdo status in my high school; I had no intention to add seer-of-ghosts to the mix, nor was I jonesing to take the family queen of weird crown from Aunt Geneva.
Of course, I was a tad worried that Geneva would bring her personal ghost with her. I guess she keeps him like a pet, not that I’d ever seen him. My policy is to move those ghosts along. Apparently, ghosts get to choose if we see them.
We were staying in the dorkily named Hacienda House. With its barrel-tiled roof and Spanish arches, the place looked like it belonged in some south Florida resort. Most of the houses on Jekyll Island were 1960’s ranches, which looked like they belonged in an Atlanta suburb and weren’t beachy at all. Thanks to all the dunes and wind-twisted oaks, you really couldn’t see all that much of the ocean, even though we were beachfront. My sister Audrey complained about the extreme tides, which I thought were pretty cool. Whenever high tide was in, we had no beach and therefore had to find other activities to entertain ourselves. Audrey also whined about the crow’s nest bedroom she, as oldest, picked. The sun woke her up too early for sufficient beauty sleep. That’s how I got my own room at the beach, and how Audrey and Claire ended up sharing one.
Dad golfed a lot and called the neighbors back home to check on his grapevines. Yes, he’s still obsessed with fermenting the perfect muscatel. Mom, who continued wearing her message t-shirts, even on vacation, set up her easel and painted watercolor landscapes. Grandma MacCormack read paperbacks and did all the cooking. Of course my sisters Audrey, Claire and I had our dish duty rotation, even on vacation. And I was still serving my dog walking punishment for sneaking out of the house in order to help Ghost Amy. It’s a long story, and she’s gone to be with her family to my great relief. A girl can only take so much punking.
Anyway, during one of these high tides, my sisters and I decided to head over to the old bookstore and fudge shop on the Jekyll Island Club property. While in the bookstore, the two clerks found out where we were staying and mentioned that the boy who’d stayed at our rental house drowned a few weeks before. Talk about spoiling my mood. My spirits, so to speak, dampened further when I noticed the sign on the bookstore’s stairwell “Don’t mind our ghost.” I didn’t want to see any more ghosts. I wasn’t going upstairs, and I wasn’t doing the cottage tour, either, for the same reason. People who find hauntings fun have never had a ghost inhabit their bodies and make them do crazy stuff, which they then get punished for. I’d just hang at the pseudo-hacienda. After dealing with Ghost Amy, I should have a get-out-of-helping-any-other-entities card. I was on vacation! Audrey was in a real funk because she only had five hours to get ready for her date with some boy she’d met on the beach.
Later that night, after Mom and Dad went to bed, I caught her and the boy in the middle of a smooch fest on the screened porch. Yup, I had dirt on Audrey. I decided to bide my time before blackmailing her with it.
The next day, my sisters and I moved down the beach during high tide to watch the cute boys skimming by. They were actually checking us out. I was fully prepared to get my flirt on, especially when one boy, a daredevil with shaggy brown hair and a mischievous smile, directed at me, I swear, skimmed past the other boys—the perfect antidote for my broken Drewdreams. I tried to point out my cute boy when the rest broke for lunch, but I couldn’t find him. I figured he must have gone home. In hindsight, that should have been clue number one.
Acknowledgements
I’d like to thank. . .
My patron, muse, or, as others call him, my husband;
My daughter who challenged me to try my hand at writing for young adults,
My mom and dad who were disappointed when they weren’t acknowledged in my master’s thesis,
My sisters who taught me the ins and outs of sibling rivalry,
My brother who had nothing to do with this book but will be ticked off if he isn’t mentioned here,
My critique partners and writing friends who read several versions of this book and never complained when asked to take another look (Berta, Michelle, Nancy, Carla, Diana, Missy, Lindi, and Margaret),
My friends Heidi, Sherri, Alice, and Anna who are my biggest cheerleaders,
My friend and photographer Penny for her considerable skills and unflagging support,
My daughter’s friend Chelsea for providing a teen reader’s perspective and for allowing me to use her completely spontaneous quote, “My stomach just about fell out of my butt,”
And Deb Smith for being a wonderful editor (i.e. she let me keep the above acknowledgements).
A special thanks also to Wet Noodle Posse friends and to Georgia Romance Writers, the organization that taught me the business side of writing and introduced me to some fantastic critique partners as well as the founders of BelleBooks and Bell Bridge Books.
About Maureen
Hardegree
Although author Maureen Hardegree concedes to having all the usual baggage of a middle child, she is NOT a ghost handler. She does, however, believe in connecting with her inner teenager and in feeding her active imagination—it likes Italian food and chocolate. When she’s not writing, she’s working on costumes for the Northeast Atlanta Ballet . . . or doing the bidding of her husband, daughter, and cats Pixie and Turnip Ann. Visit Maureen at www.maureenhardegree.com.
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