“Are you going?” I asked. I wanted to go, but also wanted someone to go with.
“Nah. I’m on the math team. On top of all my accelerated courses, that’s enough for me.” She didn’t say it in a bragging way. I didn’t think Alexa even knew how to brag. She just stated facts.
“That’s cool,” I said as we rounded the corner to the back hall. “I didn’t know there was a math team.”
“Why would you?” Alexa’s eyes flared and she abruptly stopped walking. “It’s not a priority to the school. The football team wins one game on Thanksgiving and it’s all, ‘Woo! We rule! Banners everywhere! Let’s celebrate! Congratulate all the players!’ But when the math team finished in first place in the state competition, did we get congratulations? No! Did we get banners all over the school? No. Did Principal Bremer even mention it on the morning announcements? Not until three days later when we protested. Ugh!”
Alexa was flailing her arms in the air. I’d obviously hit on a hot-button issue for her. “I’m sorry,” I said. “That really sucks.”
“The priorities are all wrong,” she continued. “And then there’s the Bodiford Scholarship, don’t even get me started on that.”
“What is it?” I didn’t want to egg her on, but was genuinely curious.
“It’s a scholarship trust run by some rich old guy in town who owns four corporations. It can be given out to one graduating senior each year if someone meets the requirements. It provides free tuition to any college for four years.”
That sounded amazing. “What are the requirements?”
“You have to have a class rank in the top ten and make all-state in a team sport. And, of course, the math team doesn’t count. Athletics only.”
I frowned. “That doesn’t seem fair.”
Alexa nodded firmly. “I considered petitioning the foundation, but my parents told me that since it’s a private organization, they can put any conditions they want on their scholarship.”
“Who’s going to get it from our graduating class?”
“Actually, Kane Woodward, so I don’t really mind. He kind of deserves it. Plus,” she added, “the scholarship wouldn’t matter for me, anyway.”
I was about to ask why, but the bell rang and I realized we were the only two left in the hallway. Thankfully I was right outside my classroom door, so I bolted in and kept my eyes down as I slunk into my seat.
Mrs. Bourque started speaking in French. It was one of my favorite classes, but I wasn’t into it today. All my feelings about Donovan, Kane, Kayla, the house, the awful dream, and my fall swirled around in me.
When the school day ended, I walked through the parking lot with Alexa. For someone who seemed to have problems reading people, she knew something was up with me. After a bit of prodding, I opened up.
“My parents want me to get over it, but I can’t just get over it like that.” I snapped my fingers. “How can I walk up and down that staircase, day after day, and not think about it?”
My voice had a high, almost-hysterical tone to it all of a sudden, from my bottled-up feelings finally breaking free. Alexa shuffled her feet and looked off to the side, obviously uncomfortable with my show of emotion, but she listened, and that was really all I needed.
So I continued. “My stepmother said, ‘It’s too late now. You were the one who begged for a house like this.’ Yeah, I’d wanted a big house in a nice town. But one without a ghost, thanks.”
Alexa shot a hand out to stop me. “Wait, what? A ghost?”
Oh. I hadn’t meant to let that slip. “Not really. My little brother says he can see a girl sometimes in the house. A girl who glimmers. I know ghosts aren’t real, but it’s freaking me out a little.”
Alexa whistled. “Man. That’s crazy.”
“Seriously.” A film of wetness came over my eyes and I rubbed them with the palm of my hand.
Alexa took a giant step backward. “Are you going to … cry?”
“No, I’m not,” I said, suddenly embarrassed.
“Good.”
I figured she was about to say that she was uncomfortable with outward displays of emotion, but instead she said, “It’s a waste of time.”
I shouldn’t cry because it was … inefficient? I shook my head. “You’re a weird one.”
“Or,” she said, holding up a finger, “I’m normal and you’re the weird one. It’s all about perspective.”
I laughed then and Alexa smiled. She gave me a light, quick pat on the shoulder and jingled her keys on the way to her car. She’d done her job. I was now laughing instead of crying.
And I knew exactly what I had to do when I got home.
I paused outside of Colby’s room. I had to talk to my brother and get him to tell me the truth, once and for all. I heard his muffled voice coming from behind his closed door. He was probably playing with his Star Wars figurines, reenacting scenes from the movies. I inched up to the door and pressed my ear against it. Now it was silent.
A rush of cold suddenly pushed through the cracks in the door and traveled up the length of my body. The temperature was so shocking, I staggered back a bit.
And, just as quickly as the cold had formed, it was gone.
Icy fingers tiptoed up my spine.
I opened Colby’s door and poked my head in. “You got a window open, bud?”
“No.” He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, plucking at a lint ball on his comforter. There were no toys out. I shut the door behind me and glanced around the room. His window was closed, but I really didn’t care about the draft anymore. He looked so sad, sitting there, his face slack. Like he was disappointed in something.
“Everything okay, Colby?”
He nodded.
I eased myself down on the bed and sat cross-legged, mirroring him. “Did you have a bad day at school?”
“I had a great day,” he said. “We had two outdoor recesses.”
“What did you do after school?”
“Music class with Mom.”
“Did something happen there?”
“No, it was good. I like playing the keyboard. I can do three songs now.”
Sounded like a whole lot of kindergartner good times, but his voice held no enthusiasm. His energy was sapped. This time of day, he was usually jumping on his bed, not pouting on it. I prodded, “Moving is tough, huh?”
He lifted one shoulder up in a half shrug. “S’okay.”
Time to get direct. I cleared my throat. “Colby.” I put on my super-serious, big-sister face. “I need to know. For real. Are you making up the ghost girl thing?”
He peered up into my eyes and said softly, “No, she’s real.”
“Pinky swear?”
He held up his tiny finger in the most solemn of our oaths and wrapped it around mine. “I pinky swear she’s real,” he said. “But I don’t want to play with her anymore.”
I let go of his little finger. “Why?”
He crossed his arms tightly. “She’s not nice.”
A shiver coursed through my body. “I thought you said she couldn’t talk.”
“She tries, but I can’t hear her. I can just sort of … feel it. I think that makes her even angrier, when her mouth moves but I don’t know what she’s saying. She’s gotten to be too mad all the time. I’m a little bit scared of her. So I told her to go away.” He dropped his hands to the blanket again, rubbing his fingers back and forth over a seam.
“Has she?” I asked.
He shrugged his narrow shoulders, keeping his eyes down. “I don’t know. It hasn’t been long enough.”
“When did you tell her to go away?”
He looked back up at me. “Right before you came into the room.”
Last year, Dad and Marie took us to an amusement park. There was this ride there called the Twister. It’s a giant cylinder and everyone stands with their backs to the wall. It starts to spin in a circle, faster and faster. And then the floor drops. There’s this moment of panic. You’re spinning a gazillion miles an hour, y
ou can barely see, and your feet aren’t touching ground. You think you’re about to launch into the air, you wonder why you haven’t fallen to your death yet. And then you realize … gravity has stuck your body to the wall. But before you have a chance to really enjoy the fact that you’re not going to die, the floor comes back up, the ride slows down, and then it’s over.
In Colby’s room, I felt like I’d just taken a ride on the Twister. I realized with absolute, panicked fear, that my little brother was telling the truth. The cold air I’d felt over my skin, blasting out of his room … had been her. The glimmering girl. Kayla.
I couldn’t deny it anymore. My house was haunted.
The room started spinning, my eyesight wavered, and I thought I felt the ground slipping from beneath me again. But Colby’s worried voice brought me back.
“Do you think she’s gone now?” he asked.
“I don’t know, buddy.” I tried my best not to let terror leak into my voice. “I hope so.”
“Can you make her go away?”
My chest tightened. “I can try.”
I left his room on legs made of rubber and sank into my desk chair. I remembered that Dad had left for another trip this morning.
I’d have to talk to Marie alone.
Things weren’t always so strained between Marie and me. They’d started out great, actually. After a year of having no female influence in my life, Dad slowly introduced Marie into our day-to-day routines. Eventually Marie and I started doing stuff on our own, like movies and shopping. She took me for my first manicure. I liked her, even though she seemed to be trying almost too hard to win me over.
But then Dad announced that they were going to get married. That’s when uncertainty crept into my belly and grew larger, day after day. Marie took over the house, became the person in charge, gave me chores, told me what to do. Instead of trying to be my friend, she was trying to replace my mother. I was hurt, confused, bitter, and angry.
I let her know it.
Not directly, but in small passive-aggressive ways. Culminating in the day, a month after their wedding, when she sat me down and told me it was all right for me to call her Mom.
And I responded coldly, “I only have one Mom. She’s dead.”
Our relationship changed then. In that one moment. We both built our walls up, almost instantaneously. And the distance had remained ever since.
I only called her Mom in front of Colby, mainly to keep things simple for him. He knew my mother had been someone else and had died, but it wasn’t something we talked about. Though Dad mentioned her in private now and then, I honestly couldn’t remember the last time my mother ever came up in conversation in front of Colby or Marie. She was always there, though, hovering, in the cracks of conversations, in the corners of my thoughts. Never too far away.
Especially now. Finally accepting the idea that Kayla Sloane was haunting the house made me wonder … why not Mom? Why hadn’t I felt her presence in our old house? Smelled her jasmine perfume? Heard her voice in a whisper down the hall? Why Kayla and not her?
After dinner, I watched Marie as we collaborated on the dishes. When she’d first started dating Dad, she had long, black curly hair. I always wanted to touch it, to try to separate the curls with my fingers. Now it was shorter. She’d done the mom-cut thing after Colby was born. But she was still pretty.
Nowhere near as pretty as my mom had been, though. Or as smart. Or as nice. Or as anything.
In fact, the only thing she did better than my mom was cook, but I didn’t even want to admit that. As if saying so, even only to myself, was cheating on my mother in a way.
“Done with that one?” Marie asked.
I refocused and nodded, handing her the rinsed-off plate to place in the dishwasher. We’d had baked ziti and garlic bread, one of my favorite meals. Colby was happily watching SpongeBob in the living room. Now was the time.
“Can I talk to you about something?” I asked, rinsing the last plate.
Marie took it from me, bent down to put it in the dishwasher, then straightened up again, wincing as she placed her hand on her lower back. She looked tired. I wondered if the new nursing job was harder on her than her old one had been.
“Sure, what is it?”
Now that the time was here, my throat felt like it’d been filled with sand. I fiddled with my hair, tucking it behind my ears. But stalling wouldn’t make the words any easier to say.
“Colby told me that he sees a girl in the house. A girl who glimmers …”
I told her every detail. About the cold rushes of air I’d felt. The pendant that had been placed on my clothing. How Colby talked to her and felt her emotions. How she was scaring him. How sure I was that this was the ghost of Kayla Sloane.
Marie was serious and somber throughout my entire monologue. Absorbing each word. Not interrupting me. I was glad. I’d expected hysterics since Colby was involved, but she seemed to be handling it seriously.
When I finished, I rubbed my sweaty hands on my jeans and waited for her to speak.
She stood staring at me for what seemed like an eternity, then said, “So this is your next tactic?”
My eyebrows lifted. “Excuse me?”
Marie tossed a dishrag on the counter. “I’m impressed, really. It’s smart. We won’t listen to you, so maybe we’ll listen if Colby’s in danger.”
“Wait, what?”
“You don’t want to live here. I get that. But trying to manipulate me by coming up with this story about my son is just low.”
“That’s not what I’m doing. It’s not a story,” I pleaded. “It’s the truth. Talk to him.”
Her face went rigid. “Oh, I’ll talk to him all right.”
I had an English paper due in a week on Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier. I sat at the desk in my bedroom and glanced over the assignment in my hands.
Analyze both the alienation of the main character and the perceptions of Rebecca.
I hadn’t even cracked the spine of the book yet. I picked it up and tried to read it while waiting for Marie to put Colby to bed. Despite its wonderful opening line, I couldn’t get past the first paragraph. I found my mind drifting and I have to start from the beginning again and again. I needed closure with Marie before I could concentrate on anything else.
Finally, I heard the soft click of Colby’s door shutting and Marie’s footsteps walking down the hallway toward my room. Then she came in and faced me.
I straightened in my chair, trying to read the emotion on her face and having trouble deciphering it.
“Did you talk to Colby?” I asked.
“Yes, I did.” She paused. “My worst fear was confirmed.”
I let out long breath. “So you believe me?”
Marie rushed forward, until she was only a foot away, towering over me in my desk chair. “You’ve been feeding this ghost talk to him, using him in your ploy to get us to move.” She was whispering, though it seemed like she was yelling.
“What? No!” I shook my head vehemently. “He started talking about the ghost before you even told me about the girl who died here.”
“Before we had our talk, yes, but perhaps after you already learned about it yourself at school.”
“No, that’s not it at all.” I got up, hoping that standing face-to-face would help her see my sincerity. “Listen, Marie, this has nothing to do with how I’m uncomfortable living here. I’m truly concerned about Colby.”
“Save it, Jade.” She pointed a finger in my face. “Stop scaring my son with this ghost talk or you’ll regret it.”
I opened my mouth, but she interrupted. “I’m not going to tell your father. But if you speak one more word about this nonsense, I will have no choice but to let him know.”
She stormed out of the room, and I flinched as the door slammed behind her. Marie already had her mind made up that I was a liar. So she’d gone in there, armed with questions, ready to manipulate Colby into answering the way she wanted. The truth never stood a chance.
/> I dropped my face into my hands. What could I do now? Tell Dad? Marie would manipulate him, too. Tell him I was making it all up and forcing it on Colby as part of my evil scheme.
No, I was on my own.
I booted up my old desktop, which ran about as well as my car. After seven minutes, it was finally up and running and connected to the Internet. Rebecca would have to wait another day. I had research to do.
Searching for “ghosts” and “hauntings” brought up too much information, most of it broad and useless. But I lost myself in it, continuing to read more and more, not even realizing how much time had passed until a creak behind me pulled me out of my trance.
I looked behind me. Nothing was there. It was probably just one of those normal house noises, but it still made my heart race.
I turned back to the computer. The clock showed midnight. My eyes felt dry and scratchy from staring at the monitor for so long. I needed to go to bed, but I hadn’t learned anything practical yet. I typed in the most specific query I could come up with:
“Cause of haunting, why spirits stay, getting rid of ghosts”
The first link was a website for some ghost society in England. I clicked on it and was brought to their FAQ page.
Q. Why do some spirits linger in our world?
A. A spirit sticks around if he or she has unfinished business. Especially if the person has died a violent death.
The phrase “violent death” made me grimace, but it gave me another thought. That might have explained why my mother never came around. Her death was too early, but it was a natural one and she died with the peace of mind that Dad would take good care of me.
Kayla, however, may not have been so lucky. I continued to skim the questions until I came to:
Q. Is it possible to get rid of a ghost?
A. Once spirits become attached to a place, it is nearly impossible to get rid of them. You can ask the spirit to stop bothering you. If she’s an enlightened, positive spirit she might. But if you have a negative spirit in your home and the strange phenomena seem to be escalating, you’re in trouble.
The Dead and Buried Page 5