by Paula Morris
“And that’s why he wants to punish you.” Rebecca understood now.
“He doesn’t want me to be saved. He doesn’t want the locket to be found. He wants it to be lost, or destroyed, so I’ll never be able to redeem myself for breaking the promise I made.” Frank looked stricken. “You have to help me!”
“I want to, really I do,” Rebecca told him, and she meant it: He sounded so anguished. But at the same time, she didn’t like this new ghost, and she was afraid of what he might try to do, especially if he considered himself damned for eternity anyway. “I’m just…. scared, that’s all,” she admitted.
“You have nothing to be afraid of!” Frank was almost shouting at her. “You have to believe me! He can’t hurt you! He’s only a ghost!”
“Easy for you to say!” Rebecca raised her voice, too. “He threatened me today, and it was really scary, OK? I want to find this locket. I really, really want to find this locket!”
But she was shouting into thin air, because Frank had disappeared.
This was too much. How dare he just disappear on her? First he only told her half-truths, and now he was running off — wherever ghosts ran off to — right in the middle of a conversation. She swung around on the spot, in case he’d just decided to materialize somewhere else.
“Rebecca? Rebecca Brown? Oh my god, is that you?”
This wasn’t Frank’s voice. It was a girl’s voice, coming from … where? Rebecca felt dazed. Not more ghosts, she pleaded silently. Please, no more ghosts. She couldn’t take any more attention from the spirit world.
“It’s us, Amy and Jessica. Remember? From Temple Mead.”
Rebecca shook her head, the way a dog might shake water from its coat, and tried to get her brain in gear. There was a car parked there at the curb, a silver SUV with tinted windows. But one of the windows was down, and there were two girls sitting in the car, staring at her as though she were naked. Amy and Jessica from Temple Mead. Her so-called friends. The last people — evil ghosts aside — that she expected or wanted to see here on Rampart Street.
Rebecca blinked, realizing that Amy was speaking. “Jessica didn’t believe me, but I thought it was you, so I pulled over. Are you OK? You seem kind of upset.”
“What? No. I’m fine,” Rebecca burbled. She had no idea how long they’d been sitting there, or how much they’d heard.
“Hey, Rebecca!” called Jessica, leaning forward to wave. She’d always been the friendlier of the two, though that was a relative thing. Really, looking back, she’d just been marginally less disapproving.
“Hey, Jessica.” Rebecca bent down to wave back. She wished they’d drive off and leave her alone, but she knew that was extremely unlikely. Amy and Jessica could smell gossip from the other side of Lake Pontchartrain.
She couldn’t believe how much they’d changed in a year. Jessica’s red hair was now in a chic pixie cut, and she wasn’t wearing glasses. Rebecca couldn’t even tell if Amy was still skinny, because she was completely shrouded by a thick blonde mane of hair. It had to be extensions, Rebecca thought. Amy’s hair a year ago was short, and as wispy as a baby’s.
“So, what are you doing here?” Amy was looking her up and down, and Rebecca wished she’d changed before running out of the house. Her jeans had grass stains on both knees from the gardening this afternoon, and the hoodie she’d slung on smelled like damp soil.
“I’m just in town for the week with my dad and my friend. We’re staying in the Quarter.”
“Oh, we know that! Like, everyone saw you on Prytania Street on Monday. What I mean is, what are you doing here standing around on Rampart Street? It’s totally dangerous, you know. There’s a really bad neighborhood just over there.” Amy nodded her head in the direction of Tremé.
“I was just …” Rebecca couldn’t think of a single thing she might be doing here. “Standing around alone like a loser” seemed the answer they expected. “Ah, I just got dropped off. I have to go … meet my dad now.”
“We’re meeting up with Amy’s parents,” Jessica told her, and Amy’s mouth slid into a pout. Rebecca remembered that face well. She used to make it at school when Jessica told Rebecca anything, no matter how dull.
“We’re going to Arnaud’s,” Amy said, in a tone that suggested Rebecca would never be admitted to such a venerable establishment.
“So, are you lost?” Rebecca couldn’t resist a bit of meanness herself. “The Quarter’s that way.”
She gestured over her shoulder.
“God, no! We come downtown all the time now — don’t we, Jess?”
“Oh. Yeah. We’re so over Uptown.”
“Over it! I was just saying, I wish Peristyle was still open. That was my total favorite.”
“If we were going there this would be the best parking spot ever,” Jessica observed.
“I know, right?”
Rebecca thought her head was about to drop off her shoulders. She’d forgotten how Jessica and Amy could spout inanities for what felt like hours on end.
“Well, good to see you guys,” she said, standing up straight again. “I don’t want to make you late for dinner, and I should be … getting back.”
“Hey, wait!” Amy said before Rebecca had the chance to turn away. “Won’t we be seeing you on Thursday night?”
“You know.” Jessica was leaning so far forward, her head was almost resting on the dashboard. “At the Spring Dance. The boys have organized it this year. Can you believe that? I bet you they’ll totally spike the punch.”
“It’s at the country club,” drawled Amy. She looked at Rebecca with wide eyes, feigning innocence. “So Anton hasn’t asked you, then?”
“I was sure he would.” Jessica looked disappointed. “Amy said I was totally deluded, but …”
“Guys move on,” said Amy, obviously unwilling to let Jessica’s lament continue uninterrupted. “It’s horrible, but once you leave town, they just don’t remember you. Not if you were just, you know, like a short-term thing.”
“Sort of like a summer romance,” suggested Jessica.
“You know,” said Amy. “A vacation hook-up.”
“Actually,” said Rebecca, her face burning with anger, “I will be seeing you on Thursday night. Anton asked me. To the dance.”
“Cool!” said Jessica, but her smile faded so quickly she must have spotted the look on Amy’s face.
“So — see you there!” Rebecca gave them a breezy wave, and walked away, suppressing a groan. What had she done? Not only did she not want to go to the dance, she was barely on speaking terms with Anton. She couldn’t believe she was going to have to call and beg him to take her. He could easily have asked someone else by now. Phil might have asked someone else, too, and if that was the case, what was she going to tell Ling? Boys were as slippery as ghosts when it came to getting them to do stuff you wanted them to do. They tended to have minds of their own.
There was only one thing to do, and that was lie.
It’s just, Ling is desperate to go,” Rebecca told Anton, pinning her phone to one ear with her shoulder while she unlocked the gate. “She was really upset when I said no. I think maybe she’s into Phil or something.”
“Really?” Anton sounded dubious. “She met him twice for about five minutes.”
“Not just that,” Rebecca said quickly. “She’s working really hard this week with all the volunteer projects, and this will be our only chance to have fun. She was all excited when Phil mentioned it, and I realize I’m just being really unfair.”
“So, do you want to go?” Anton asked her. “I don’t want you to be forced into it or something.”
Rebecca was in the courtyard now, brushing her free hand against the rubbery leaves of a banana plant.
“I do want to go, really,” she told Anton, and when she said it, Rebecca knew that she meant it. She wanted to see Anton again. Despite what had happened between them in the cemetery, she knew he would still make her heart skip in that particular way. She wanted to face up to all t
hose Temple Mead girls and show them that she wasn’t scared or intimidated. She wanted to dress up and go out with Ling and have some fun.
“If the — if the offer is still open, that is,” she stammered. “If you haven’t asked someone else. Have you?”
Anton exhaled, something between a sigh and a laugh.
“Who else would I ask?”
“I don’t know. Julie Casworth Young?”
“Please. She laughs like a mouse with asthma. And she probably had her date and her dress all organized last October.”
“You missed your chance,” Rebecca teased.
“Just as well. She’d probably make me wear a pink tie.”
“Maybe I’ll make you wear a pink tie.”
“Maybe I’ll make you wear a pink dress.”
“Yeah, right.” They both laughed, and then fell silent.
“So,” Anton said at last. “Friends again, OK? No more arguments between now and Thursday.”
That would be easy, Rebecca thought. They weren’t seeing each other between now and Thursday. And no way was she telling Anton anything about Frank, Gideon Mason, and their all-eternity death grudge.
“But just one thing,” Anton added. “Toby is definitely …”
“Anton! No Toby, OK? I don’t want to hear another word about him.” Rebecca had more important things to worry about than Toby Sutton, not that she could discuss them with Anton. “No arguments before Thursday, remember?”
“OK. No arguments.”
Back inside the house, Ling and her father were waiting for her, drinking iced tea at the kitchen table.
“How about Cochon for dinner?” her dad suggested. “Ling has never eaten fried alligator.”
“I’m not sure I want to,” Ling said, screwing up her face. “Don’t tell me it tastes just like chicken.”
“It kind of does,” Rebecca told her. “Hey, I just spoke to Anton. I said we’d go with him and Phil to the Spring Dance on Thursday. If you still want to go, of course.”
Ling’s face brightened.
“Why not?” she said, smiling up at Rebecca. She looked relieved, probably thinking that Rebecca’s bad mood was all about the spat with Anton, and that everything was fine now.
“You don’t mind, do you, Dad?” Rebecca turned to her father. “It’s the St. Simeon’s thing at the country club. It’s not a big deal.”
Her father, checking e-mail on his iPad, peered at her over his glasses.
“If that’s how you want to spend your Thursday night,” he said, looking at her as though she was crazy. “I never pictured you two as country club types, but there’s a first time for everything. Are you sure?”
“I guess,” said Rebecca, even though she wasn’t sure at all. “It’ll be … fun.”
“Oh!” Ling gasped and smacked her hand down on the table.
“What’s wrong?”
“We don’t have anything to wear. All I brought with me were jeans and shorts and T-shirts. I have one sundress, but it’s not really Spring Dance at the country club, if you know what I’m saying.”
“I don’t have anything, either,” Rebecca admitted. All the Temple Mead girls would be dressed up like Halloween candy, she was sure, shining and rustling and sickening. She looked over at her father, still studying his phone. “I guess we won’t be able to go then.”
“All right, all right,” he said without even looking up. “Tomorrow morning. Shopping for dresses. One hour only. Price limit to be agreed in advance.”
“Thanks so much, Mr. Brown!” Ling was all smiles.
“Thanks, Dad. Um — we might need shoes as well. But we can totally do our own hair and makeup!”
“We might need some makeup,” Ling whispered to Rebecca.
Rebecca’s father rolled his eyes.
“I’m glad it’s not a big deal,” he said. “Actually, if this isn’t a big deal, I’d hate to see what a big deal looks like.”
Ling and Rebecca bustled into Miss Viola’s small, overstuffed vintage store as soon as it opened at ten. Within five minutes Miss Viola had sent Rebecca’s dad out to buy himself a coffee at CC’s, because, in her opinion, men “cluttered up the shop.” She pulled a series of ’80s party dresses from the rack for the girls to try on.
“Now this one is very Madonna,” she announced, flapping something short and black at Ling. “But this one is more Falcon’s Crest,” she said, holding up a poufy purple dress with big sleeves. “Not that you girls will remember that.”
In one of the changing rooms, pulling off her jeans, Rebecca’s phone kept buzzing. Aurelia was sending her text after text. After much wheedling and negotiating, Aunt Claudia had said Aurelia could join the volunteers at Basin Street High for one afternoon only. Both St. Simeon’s and Temple Mead were ending classes early that day, and Aurelia was catching the streetcar into the Quarter.
“You’d think they’d let them out early on Thursday,” Ling shouted through the curtained divide after Rebecca told her the news. “So they could spend the time getting reading for the Spring Dance.”
“They probably booked the entire Belladonna Spa this afternoon for mani-pedis,” Rebecca said. “You won’t be able to drive down Magazine Street for all the illegally parked SUVs.”
“Tell me what you think,” said Ling. Rebecca peeked out behind her brocade curtain to see Ling step out in the Madonna number, which was short and black, with a peplum. Ling looked lovely in it, walking around on her tiptoes.
“Just the right length for a petite young lady,” said Miss Viola approvingly, twirling her finger in the air to get Ling to turn around. “A little big around the waist, but I don’t have a smaller size. That’s no problem. We can take that in for you.”
“Is there time?” Ling asked.
“Baby, my family are Indians. We’re the fastest sewers in New Orleans.”
Ling was looking puzzled — Miss Viola was Indian? — so Rebecca thought she should explain.
“She means Mardi Gras Indians,” she said, zipping up her dress. “It’s a big African-American tradition here. Some people mask as Indians, and wear amazing costumes and big headdresses made of feathers and beads. I read a book about it.”
“You never seen Mardi Gras Indians in person?” Miss Viola asked. Rebecca shook her head. “You had to read a book?”
“Last year during Carnival all I saw were the big parades. The ones down St. Charles.”
Miss Viola looked appalled. “Tell that nephew of mine to take you inside his daddy’s house. Now, how about your dress?”
Rebecca stepped out fully from her fitting room. Her dress was jade green, with narrow shoulder straps and a flouncy skirt. Rebecca twirled, admiring her reflection in the mirror. The green looked good with her dark hair, she decided. She wondered what Anton would think.
“That color looks beautiful on you,” Ling said. “Maybe silver shoes?”
Rebecca’s dad returned to admire their purchases, and to pay Miss Viola. Rebecca expected him to head straight downtown for one of his endless meetings, but outside in the street he surprised her.
“How would you girls like to take a walk around a cemetery with me?”
“When?” Ling said, with no enthusiasm in her voice.
“Which cemetery?” Rebecca asked, hoping that it wasn’t Lafayette. She really didn’t feel like going back there.
“Whoa — no need to thank me!” Rebecca’s dad teased. “I thought you guys were history buffs? I’ve got an hour free, and I thought we could go to St. Louis Number One. It’s the oldest cemetery in New Orleans.”
“Oh — now? Great!” Ling’s face relaxed. “That’s the place the Voodoo Queen is buried, right? Marie Laveau?”
Rebecca’s dad nodded.
“So let’s go,” Rebecca said. She didn’t know what else to do now, anyway, except avoid scary Gideon Mason, and obsess about how impossible it would be to get into that boarded-up derelict house. And Aurelia wouldn’t be descending until after two.
“I just though
t if you meant later on,” Ling was burbling, “it would be a problem, because I’m meeting someone for a coffee….”
“Who are you meeting?” Rebecca asked. Ling didn’t know anyone in New Orleans.
“Just … ah, Phil,” she said, suddenly engrossed by the poster display in a shop window. “At the Croissant d’or. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not,” Rebecca said.
Well, well, well. Those two weren’t wasting any time. Then she remembered her lie to Anton, about Ling being desperate to go to the Spring Dance. He’d probably told Phil. Did boys talk to each other like that? Who knew?
“I thought you could spend some quality time with Aurelia and then we’d walk over to the school together,” said Ling, still looking in the shop window. Her cheeks were pink. “If that’s OK.”
“So — cemetery, yes?” Rebecca’s dad asked, looking faintly amused. “Let’s drop your bags off and go. You never know — maybe there’s a surprise waiting for you there. And I’m not talking about the tomb of Marie Laveau.”
“What kind of surprise?” Rebecca asked. Probably a carriage ride, or some other hokey tourist thing.
“You’ll have to wait and see,” said her father, all mysterious and self-important. “But I’ll give you one clue. I was wrong about the spelling of the name you asked me about the other day. It’s M-U-S-S-O-N.”
“What is your dad talking about?” Ling murmured. Rebecca froze, but her father smiled.
“Rebecca was asking me the other day if I knew of a local artist by the name of Musson here in New Orleans. Well … let’s just go to the cemetery. All will be revealed!”
The St. Louis Number One Cemetery had the same high white walls as Lafayette Cemetery. But it was much older, smaller and mazelike, with less room for avenues of trees or vast, fancy tombs like the Bowmans’. The paths underfoot were damp and sandy, and the view over the walls was of redbrick projects and high-rise hotels. It was crammed in every direction with graves — some so neglected they were just crumbling piles of brick, others freshly whitewashed and etched on both ends with family names. The unmarked tomb said to be Marie Laveau’s was scarred with graffiti kisses, tributes of flowers, candles, and trinkets heaped at its base.
