The Spirit House

by William Sleator

  “I know,” I said smugly.

  She turned away from me and coughed, her hand over her mouth. “Bia still goes out with Gloria. God, I hate her!” She could talk freely, since Gloria was sick at home today—the two of them were bitter enemies now. Lynette pushed a greasy tangle of hair out of her eyes. “You know Bia, Julie. What can I do to make him—”

  “Quick, here it comes!” I interrupted her.

  Lynette lurched toward the ball and tripped and fell in the mud. I trampled on her hair, reached the ball, and kicked it with a resounding smack. It sailed across the goal line. Everybody cheered me—including Lynette.

  The next day Lynette was home sick. “God, my hair looks like seaweed!” Gloria groaned, staring into the school bathroom mirror. She blew her nose juicily on a piece of toilet paper. “And these pimples! I’ve never had them so bad. Your skin looks great, Julie,” she said wistfully. “What’s the secret?”

  “There’s no secret. I’m not doing anything different.” It was the truth. “It just looks like this.”

  The bell rang. Out in the hallway Gloria sighed. “Did Bia call Lynette last night?” she asked me fervently, in her wispy little voice. “Come on Julie, you can tell me. Does he talk about her a lot?”

  “No, he doesn’t talk about her a lot. He doesn’t talk about you much, either,” I added.

  “Gloria.” Miss Becker stopped her in the hallway. “Why weren’t you in class today?”

  “I’m sorry. I was late—I couldn’t sleep last night.”

  Becker shook her head. “Not acceptable,” she said. “Your performance in general this year has been atrocious. I’m going to have to send a note to your mother.”

  “No, please don’t!” Gloria begged her. “She’s already crabbing at me all the time. If you—”

  Becker didn’t want to hear it. She turned to me, beaming. “Your last paper was excellent, Julie. Be prepared for me to read it to the class today.”

  When I got home from school that day, no one else was there. But, as always, the mail was neatly stacked on the hall table. I wondered about it. But I never could remember to ask Mom or Dad or Dominic which one of them was doing it.

  The following Saturday night Mark took me out for an expensive dinner. “That guy Bia,” he said, as he paid the bill with the credit card his parents had given him. “He’d better watch it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Everybody’s getting a little tired of the way he’s so stuck-up and superior.”

  “Gloria and Lynette don’t seem to be turned off,” I pointed out.

  Mark shrugged. “Those dogs? I wasn’t talking about them. It’s the cool kids who are sick of his attitude. And the teachers aren’t too thrilled with him either. I overheard Kimball telling him he wasn’t going to pass math.”

  I wasn’t helping Bia with math. But I knew he wasn’t doing well in English.

  “But why am I talking about him?” Mark cleared his throat. “There’s something I want to give you,” he said shyly. He took a small velvet box out of his jacket pocket and pushed it toward me across the table. “Here. Open it.”

  It was a gold bracelet with our initials engraved on it. Mark fastened it awkwardly around my wrist, blushing a little. “Thanks, Mark,” I said. “It’s beautiful.”

  But I was thinking about Bia giving me the pendant, the jade Buddha pendant that had disappeared inside the spirit house. Was that why things were going so well for me now—the spirit was rewarding me for giving it to her?

  And was the spirit also the reason things were going so badly for Bia?

  11

  Bia had been uncomfortable talking about spirits from the beginning. He had been extremely upset when Dominic had given him the spirit house.

  I was still thinking about it when I got home that night. Had Bia offended the spirit? Was it something he might have done in Thailand—something relating to the real Thamrongsak? Maybe the spirit he had offended in Thailand had somehow been drawn here by the spirit house. He did seem to be trying to placate the spirit now—without apparent results.

  And I remembered what Dominic had said about how you could get in trouble if you made a bargain with the spirit and then didn’t keep your part of it. I seemed to recall Dominic asking Bia about that. But I couldn’t remember what, if anything, Bia had answered.

  I wandered into the family room, too preoccupied to think of hiding Mark’s bracelet from Mom.

  Mom was reading and Dad was watching television. Mom smiled at me. “You look lovely, Julie,” she said. “Your hair, that dress—everything.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I sank listlessly into a chair and stretched my feet out in front of me, which always used to irritate Mom. “Is Bia home?”

  “Who knows?” Mom said, with a disdainful shrug. Then she closed her book and stared at my wrist. “Julie! That bracelet! Did Mark give it to you?”

  I groaned inwardly. Mom thought it was cheap and demeaning for women to accept expensive presents from men. She also didn’t believe in people my age getting too serious. Now she’d start lecturing me.

  “Well,” I said. “He … It’s nothing. No big deal.”

  “What do you mean, nothing? It’s beautiful,” Mom said. “Let me see.”

  I limply held out my arm. Mom studied the bracelet closely. “It’s really good-looking, Julie. And obviously expensive. Mark must think a lot of you.”

  Dad smiled fondly. “Shows he has good judgment.”

  “And you’re showing good judgment too, Julie,” Mom said. “I don’t just mean about Mark. I’m proud of the way you’re handling things in general. You’re bringing home good grades, even though you’re spending all that study time helping Bia. You’ve become so well-organized.”

  “I’m not sure I like the way he’s letting you help him so much, though,” Dad said.

  Mom sighed. “Yes. It seems to me Bia’s taking advantage of you, Julie. I was expecting more of him. I’m afraid he’s turning out to be a disappointment.”

  Should I tell them now that I was pretty sure he wasn’t the real Thamrongsak? That he had done something unscrupulous to get to this country? They’d probably believe me. I couldn’t seem to do anything wrong these days. And Bia couldn’t do anything right.

  But I didn’t mention it. In spite of everything he had done, I just couldn’t bring myself to destroy Bia’s chance for a better future. If I did expose him, he would have to leave, and I wasn’t ready for that yet. I wanted to find out the truth first. I needed solid evidence for my suspicions. Then I’d decide what to do.

  I was also a little afraid to mention what I suspected about him. What if Bia overheard me? I didn’t want him to get the idea I knew something that could upset his future. If he did, he’d try to stop me—maybe in the same way he’d stopped Thamrongsak. I needed to know what had happened to Thamrongsak before I said anything.

  I was still thinking about the spirit as I drifted off to sleep that night.

  I had asked the spirit to let Dominic discover the truth about Bia—assuming I would then learn it from him. But I didn’t see much of Dominic these days. I was busy, and so was Dom. He and Bia still spent some time at his computer. But now Dominic often stayed late after school, apparently working at the computer room there, leaving his computer at home free for Bia’s use. About the only time I saw Dominic was at meals, when only public things could be discussed. We were never alone together. I began to wonder if that in itself might be odd. Was Dominic avoiding me? And what was he doing at the school computers?

  The first Saturday in October, Bia, with Dominic’s help, cooked a Thai meal, and Mark came over for dinner. I was amazed at how deftly Bia had put together five different dishes in just a couple of hours, after he had rushed back from the store with an armload of weird packages. He made Thai fried chicken, curried pork, shrimp with vegetables and cashew nuts, cold beef salad, another salad of mostly unrecognizable vegetables, and rice to go with everything. The salads especially were works of
art, the vegetables cut into flower shapes, scallions curled like chrysanthemums, everything beautifully arranged on the serving plates.

  “Hope you like,” Bia said politely as he sat down. He looked gaunt in his oversize red and black shirt. “Try not make too pet for American taste.”

  “Pet?” Mark asked him.

  “It means spicy-hot,” Dominic said. “That’s why there’s two pitchers of ice water.”

  Dad choked and gulped down water after his first tentative bite. “You’re trying to tell me this isn’t hot?” he gasped, dabbing sweat from his brow with a paper napkin.

  “In Thailand, three times more hot,” Bia explained. “This very, very mild.”

  Soon, rivulets were meandering down Dad’s bald head, soaking his collar. Bia was the only one who didn’t sweat through piles of paper napkins and didn’t need many glasses of water. But hot as the food was, it was also extremely delicious. Then I noticed that Dominic and I were the only ones gobbling it down; no one else seemed to like it. Were their negative feelings about Bia affecting their taste buds too?

  Dominic kept telling Bia how good the food was, since nobody else was complimenting him about it. I liked the food, but I didn’t say anything. I was thinking, wondering why Dominic was so concerned with Bia’s feelings. Was it possible that Dominic was learning about Bia, and not telling me? And how could I find out without making Bia suspicious?

  I studied Dominic. Like me, Dom had always allowed his emotions to show; he had never been a liar. But now I remembered how well he kept the secret of the spirit house while he was building it. That was unusual for him. Had he changed somehow? Had he suddenly developed the ability to hide his feelings? Had he become more like Bia—cool, polite, nonconfrontational, keeping his real emotions to himself?

  Then I remembered another odd thing that had been happening that I had not asked anyone about. And now I was too curious to be careful; I just blurted it out. “Every day when I come home, even though nobody else is here, somebody’s already gone through the mail. It’s not on the floor, it’s piled on the table. It must be you, Dom. What are you looking for?”

  “Excuse, please.” Bia got up from the table and left the room.

  “The mail?” Dominic said, sounding honestly baffled. “Why would I do that? I haven’t ordered any equipment.”

  “Then who’s doing it?” I demanded, looking around the table.

  Dad shook his head, blinking sweat out of his eyes. “I’m sure there’s some simple explanation,” Mom said. “They’ve probably changed the delivery schedule. Maybe it’s coming early now, before Dad or I go to work, and one of us has been going through it.”

  Bia returned and handed Dad a bath towel. Dad barely looked at him. “Thanks. This is just what I need—eating this stuff,” Dad said.

  “But if one of you was going through the mail, wouldn’t you know you were doing it?”

  “Not necessarily.” Dad wiped his head with the towel. “I’m always preoccupied in the morning, thinking about work. Sorting the mail is one of those things I do automatically.”

  “More to eat?” Bia offered. “Plenty for everybody.”

  He had hardly touched the small amount of food he had served himself.

  Mark smiled at me. “Can I serve you something?” he asked.

  “No thanks,” I said absentmindedly. One of them had to be lying about the mail.

  Usually Mark and I drove around for a while after school before he took me home. But on the following Monday I wanted to be the first one in the house, to check on the mail. I told Mark I didn’t feel good and asked him to take me straight home. He didn’t question it, though I had never looked, or felt, healthier. He obeyed immediately, full of concern, hoping I wasn’t getting sick.

  Lynette was sitting in her car in front of our house, the motor turned off. I looked in through the driver’s seat window. Her face was an ugly pink from the sunlamp she’d been using to try to get rid of her pimples. “Hi. What’s happening?” I said.

  “Same as usual.” She paused to blow her nose. “Bia always drops off his books and changes clothes right after school.” She sneezed, grabbing for another tissue. “Oh, this cold!” she moaned. “Don’t get too close, Julie. I’d feel terrible if I gave it to you.” I hurried inside.

  And found Bia in the front hallway, going through the mail.

  12

  I moved toward him, really angry now. “What are you looking for in the mail, Bia? What are you afraid is coming? What don’t you want anybody else to see?”

  “Not making sense, Julie,” he said, calmly putting down the envelopes and moving past me toward the door.

  His casual dismissal of me was infuriating. “You’re lying!” I shouted at his back. I had caught him in the act, and he still refused to admit it. His lying to me now was an insult. Did he think I was a complete idiot? The words spilled out, beyond my control. “You’re lying, and you’re not going to get away with it! You’re looking for a letter from the real Thamrongsak, aren’t you!”

  His head jerked back around as though he had been slapped. He stared at me, his chin lifted, his lips pressed tightly together. I could see the veins on his neck. “Be careful, Julie,” he said slowly. “Do not want anything happen to you. Be very careful.” He held my eyes for a long moment. Then he stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind him with a gentle click.

  I stood without moving, the silence of the house swelling around me. I had just told Bia what I suspected about him. And nobody else was home. What if Bia didn’t drive away with Lynette? I couldn’t lock him out; he had his own key.

  I dropped my books and looked quickly through the envelopes, just in case he did come right back in. There was nothing unusual, of course. If there had been, Bia had already found and taken it.

  My anger returned. He’s not going to get away with it! I swore to myself, and rushed up the stairs to Mom’s study.

  I half expected the letter and the photo from Thamrongsak to be missing, but they were still where I had left them the day of Bia’s arrival. I was familiar with Bia’s handwriting now; I might be able to prove that this letter had been written by somebody else.

  I studied the photo. Bia was thinner than when he’d arrived, as thin as the boy in the picture. And now that I knew him better, it was clear to me that this was not a photo of Bia. I could see that Thamrongsak’s face was shorter and wider, with a different bone structure. His nose was flatter than Bia’s, his chin less prominent. And Thamrongsak was squinting—the way people who need glasses squint when they don’t have them.

  Thamrongsak was probably too poor to afford glasses. I stared at his scrawny, homely face. And I was ashamed. I hadn’t wanted Thamrongsak to come, out of pure selfishness, because he was funny-looking and not cool. I had been very relieved when this handsome and slippery impostor showed up—he wouldn’t jeopardize my precious status! I was almost as bad as Bia.

  But not quite. I hadn’t wanted Thamrongsak to come, but I hadn’t done anything to prevent it. And Bia must have. He had succeeded in taking Thamrongsak’s place, and he had fooled everybody except me.

  Maybe not everybody. There was also the spirit.

  The spirit seemed to be working against Bia. And he was afraid of her. For weeks he’d been making a big effort to appease her. Was it possible that there was some connection between the spirit and whatever it was Bia had done to Thamrongsak?

  I thought back. As soon as Dominic had presented Bia with the spirit house, the phone call from Thailand had come—and Bia’s personality had changed. Suddenly he was nervous, and hostile toward me.

  And the very next Monday he had started going through the mail.

  The phone call had to have some connection with the letter he was looking for. I puzzled over it. The person on the phone had asked for Thamrongsak. But Thamrongsak’s family must know he hadn’t come here; they wouldn’t call asking for him. So who would?

  Maybe somebody who was in on the scheme, who knew Bia was preten
ding to be Thamrongsak. The call must have been from a cohort of Bia’s. Telling him what? Telling him something that resulted in him going through the mail, looking for a letter that he didn’t want us to see—probably because it would expose him. And who would want to expose Bia? Thamrongsak’s family, of course. Maybe they had found out what he had done and had written to us about him. And Bia’s friend knew it, and called to warn him to be on the lookout for the letter. That made sense. The more I thought about it, the more sure I was.

  But what if he had already found and disposed of the incriminating letter? What if he succeeded in pacifying the spirit with gifts and prayer? It was intolerable that Bia might still get away with it. Not for one more minute would I be tricked into helping him! I couldn’t wait to tell him to do his homework himself tonight. What would he do then? His charming manner wouldn’t keep the teachers from flunking him. Whatever he had learned about computers wouldn’t help him when I told Mom and Dad and Mrs. Keating and everybody else the truth.

  What was I waiting for? It was clear to me that he was not the boy in the photo, and that his handwriting was different from Thamrongsak’s. And I had more evidence now—I’d caught him going through the mail. I accused him, and he threatened me. Why shouldn’t I start telling people about him right this minute? I rushed to my room and dialed Gloria’s number.

  She answered on the first ring. “Oh … hi, Julie,” she whispered, so faintly I could barely hear her.

  “What’s the matter with your voice?”

  “It’s this stupid laryngitis,” Gloria squeaked miserably. “It just won’t go away. And I’ve got this facial mask on. It makes it kind of hard to move my lips. I’m praying it might do something about these hideous pimples. It’s so unfair. As soon as I meet Bia, I break out worse than I ever did in my life. I feel like one big wound.” She sighed, and then cackled weakly. “Well, at least Lynette’s skin is just as bad as mine; I have that to be thankful for. Anyway, was there something you wanted to tell me?”

  I didn’t want to tell her now. “I have to go,” I said, as another piece of the pattern fell into place. I hung up slowly.