by Micol Ostow
“Wait,” Julie tried to interject. “I have something to tell—”
“No, it’s my time to talk.” Flynn cut her off. “You can’t give up music. That would be a tragedy. Your music is a gift, so you’re basically canceling Christmas! And I love Christmas.”
Julie tried again. “Flynn, I—”
“Uh-uh. When we were six, we promised to be in a band together. Double Trouble.”
“I never agreed to that name.”
“That’s not the point!” Flynn’s voice rose. “Jules, if you leave the music program, we’ll be apart forever. That’s just what happens. We’ll have different lives and make new friends … the only contact we’ll have is liking each other’s posts on Instagram.”
What-stagram? Some parts of the future were seriously confusing.
“And every time I hit that little heart,” Flynn said, choking up slightly, “my heart will be breaking because my best friend left me.” She finished, finally, crossing her arms over her chest and looking at Julie, expectant.
“Now can I talk?” Julie asked.
Flynn rolled her eyes. “Fine.”
“I just played the piano and sang again.”
Flynn’s eyes flew open in shock. “What?! Why didn’t you say so?”
“I was trying, but then your seven sodas kicked in,” Julie said, laughing.
Flynn swept Julie up in a giant hug. “I’m so happy for you! And for me! Look at you all, I don’t know … alive again!”
It was the right word to use. When she was playing, Julie had truly come to life. I knew what that felt like.
“What made you play?” Flynn asked.
“Uh, well, yesterday I found a song my mom wrote for me,” Julie said.
“Whoa.”
“I know. I was afraid to play it, because everything about music reminds me of her. Then I woke up this morning realizing that’s why I should play it. To keep her memory alive.” Julie’s eyes were shining.
Flynn grabbed Julie and hugged her again. Then suddenly, she broke away. “We need to show Mrs. Harrison you can play again,” she said, determined. “So you can stay in the program and my life doesn’t become the very sad picture I just painted for you.”
Flynn grabbed Julie’s backpack and started escorting her toward the studio door. “My girl’s back,” she proclaimed, proud. “Double Trouble lives again!”
“Not our band name,” Julie said with a laugh as she left the garage.
After they were gone, Reggie was the first to speak. “Okay, but really. Why didn’t Julie tell us she could shred on the piano?”
“And sing,” Luke added, impressed. “That girl can sing.”
“Didn’t you hear what she said to her friend? It has to do with her mom. Must’ve been rough.”
“Yeah,” Luke said, “but now she’s got music back in her life. Just like us.”
“I’m not sure you can call what we have a ‘life,’” I said with a huff. I started to rummage around in the boxes in the loft. “Hey, a lot of the stuff we left behind is still here.” I grabbed one bag and passed it to Luke, who pulled a shirt out of it.
“Sweet. Clean shirt.”
Well, there was another upside to our situation. At this point, we had to take what we could get.
After we had finished exploring in the loft, we poofed over to Seaside Park. It was a bright, sunny day, with people out enjoying the beach and that salty ocean smell in the air. Under any other circumstances, it would’ve been awesome.
Instead, we were staring in disbelief at the sight of a dingy-looking bike rental shack right on the spot where Reggie’s house used to be. I shook my head, overwhelmed, while Luke kept a careful—and more caring than he’d probably ever admit—eye on Reggie.
“A bike shack …” Reggie mumbled, seeming numb. “Right where my house was. Right here.”
“I’m sorry, man,” Luke said.
“They turned our neighbors’ house into a noodle shop; why couldn’t they turn mine into a pizzeria?” Reggie lamented.
I couldn’t see where that would really make this situation any better, but I wasn’t going to say as much. “They tore down the whole neighborhood,” I said, at a loss.
“I guess my folks have moved on,” Reggie said, somber.
I sighed. “Everyone’s gone.” It was really starting to sink in, what it meant to have been … well, dead, all this time. “After twenty-five years. Our families, our friends … Bobby … everyone.”
“That’s right, Bobby. That ‘vegetarian’ lucked out,” Reggie said, realizing it suddenly. “What do you think happened to him?”
Luke shrugged. “He probably got older like everyone else and moved on.”
I stared at him. “How can you be so calm? Don’t you wanna know what happened to the people we knew?”
Luke gave me a hard look. “Let’s be real: It’s not like any of us were that close to our families.”
Ouch. He was talking more about himself than any of us, but that still hurt.
“My folks always regretted buying me a guitar,” he went on. “Reggie, your parents were always one fight away from a divorce. And your parents”—he jabbed an angry finger in my direction—“were never the same after you came out to them.”
I took a deep breath. “None of us had it great, fine, but at least we had something. What do we have now? And before you say ‘cool teleportation skills,’ just know that I’m not entirely comfortable with that, either. It tingles. In weird places.”
(Well, it did.)
“I’ll tell you what we have,” Luke said, his eyes flashing. “What we’ve always had since the day we met each other. We have us. We’re all the family we’ve ever needed.”
The boys and I looked at one another. Maybe what Luke was saying was a little cheesy—and they gave me grief for being the warm, fuzzy one—but he was right. We still had each other. And that was saying a lot.
“And you know what else we have?” Luke asked, on a roll now.
“I’m gonna guess death breath,” Reggie quipped, still not sold.
“Our music. We have our music. People can hear us play! They can’t see us, but they can feel us. If I had my guitar, I would jam for all these people right now. Just like we used to, down at the pier.”
“They can’t tip what they don’t see,” I pointed out. Though now that we didn’t have to pay for questionable street cart hot dogs anymore, maybe that was less of an issue?
“It’s not about the tips, Alex. It’s about playing. Connecting. Man, I wish I had my guitar.”
Poof!
I blinked, and suddenly, there it was—Luke’s acoustic, right in his arms out of thin air, like it had been there all along!
“That was rad!” Reggie said. “How’d you do that?”
“I don’t know,” Luke said, clearly as stunned as we were. “I just wished I had it, and it was here.”
Quickly, Reggie shut his eyes tight. “I wish I had a puppy.”
Nothing.
He peeled one eye open toward the sky, hopeful. “A hamster?”
Nope.
Luke laughed, clapping him on the back reassuringly. “Don’t worry, buddy. I’ve got something that will cheer you up.” He began to strum his guitar.
I wanted to ignore him—Reggie and I both did—but the thing about Luke is that his enthusiasm is infectious. He’s like the puppy that Reggie didn’t get when he wished for one. “C’mon, Reginald,” I coaxed, getting into it.
Luke counted us in, “One, two, three four!”
Cracking, Reggie began to move, riffing some lyrics to go with Luke’s tune while I drummed on every available surface: benches, garbage can covers, my own knees … All around us, people began to hear the music. They obviously had no idea where it was coming from, but when the sound hit them, they began to smile. To dance. To feel.
Can you, ’a can you hear me? /
Loud and clear /
We gotta get, we gotta get ready /
’Cause it’s
been years /
Ooh, ooh, this band is back /
Ooh, ooh, this band is back
It wasn’t what we expected. Or planned. And I didn’t have any idea what was next for us. But in that moment, the truth of the song was all I needed. The band—my family—was back. And for now, it was enough.
If I thought playing piano was going to solve all my problems, I was in for a rude awakening. No matter how much Flynn pleaded my case, Mrs. Harrison was not here for it (and Flynn is super persistent, so that was saying something). Even after basically getting down on my knees and begging, things were what they were—I had bailed on my last chance to perform, and I’d lost my music spot at school. I didn’t know if or when that would change.
So I wasn’t in the greatest mood when I got home that afternoon, though I was really, really doing my best to concentrate on the positive. Dad was upset enough that I’d been kicked out of the program. I at least needed to put on a happy face.
When he walked into the kitchen, Dad was on his laptop, frowning at something. Carlos was nearby, pecking away at a tablet.
“Whatcha working on?” I asked.
Dad gave a heavy sigh and pushed away from the table. “Now that the house is on the market, I need to add these photos to the website. Help me find the best ones.”
I glanced at his screen and pointed at a few that captured the sunny exterior of our house on a perfect summer day. “These are really nice.”
“Thanks,” Dad said, toggling to another set of images. “These didn’t turn out, though. The ones of your mom’s studio. There are these weird spots in ’em, see? They’re like orbs.”
I looked. He was right: In the middle of each picture was a glowing, blobby image. The hairs on the back of my neck pricked up. Are those what—who—I think they are?
I wasn’t the only one on alert at that. Carlos looked up from his tablet. “Orbs?” he repeated. “I’ve seen some freaky things about those on YouTube. People say they’re ghosts. Do you think it’s Mom? And she’s made some friends?”
Oh, Carlos. If only Mom were the ghost in our garage.
“That’s a nice thought,” Dad said. “But there’s no such thing as ghosts.”
There were exactly three orbs in each image. Just like the three members of Sunset Curve. I had to somehow create a distraction. “I think someone’s spending too much time on the internet,” I said, dismissive. To my dad I just said, “We could just trash these.”
I didn’t wait for his response, instead clicking and dragging the incriminating photos into the trash.
“All right,” Dad said, unconcerned. “I’ll upload the good ones.”
“Dad, I was thinking …” I started. “If we’re just moving for me—we don’t have to. I mean, if you and Carlos want to stay, I’m fine with that.”
Was I, though? Fine? Maybe not completely. I’d lost my spot in the music program, and the fact that I’d played piano just this morning didn’t change that. This house … it held so many … well, I didn’t want to say ghosts. Too on the nose. But memories, yes. Important, but still painful.
And I wasn’t totally ready to leave Sunset Curve behind. Not to mention all those painful, important memories? If I was playing music again, maybe I’d also taken a step toward embracing them again.
So, I was fine enough. For now.
Which meant that I belonged here. We all did. Together.
“I vote we stay,” Carlos put in. “I don’t want to have to clean out under my bed.”
“Noted,” Dad said, with a wry grin. Then he turned to me. “What made you have second thoughts?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know, I guess a combination of stuff. I know Tía said moving is moving on, but I don’t think that’s the answer.”
“I agree with you there. Moving on has to come from inside. And one of us took a big step this morning.” He gave me a meaningful look, and I realized he’d overheard me playing before school. I smiled back at him shyly. He understood—the painful memories were important. And they were the reason we needed to be in this house, keeping them close.
“All our memories of Mom are here, and we should be, too. Can we please stay?”
Dad shot Carlos a look, and Carlos clasped his hands together in his own begging gesture. “I guess the votes are in. We stay!”
I gave him a huge hug. “Te quiero, Papá.”
“I love you, too, sweetie.” He waved one hand toward Carlos. “You just gonna leave us hanging?”
Carlos rolled his eyes, but he joined us for a group hug. It felt nice—and I felt better than I had in a long time.
After a moment, Dad broke the silence. “Well, who’s going to help me find my phone? I’ve got a real estate agent to call.”
I ran back to my room to text Flynn the good news. But when I walked in, I was in for a major surprise.
Three surprises, to be exact. In the form of three musical ghosts who definitely had no business poking around in my bedroom when I was out.
“What are you guys doing in here?” I demanded. Reggie was sprawled on my bed like he was planning to take a nap, Alex was trying desperately (but unsuccessfully) to pick up a picture frame from my nightstand, and Luke was poking the clutter all around my laptop.
“Uh …” Alex and Reggie stammered in unison.
“We were looking for the kitchen?” Luke tried.
“This can’t happen. It’s creepy,” I said, definitive. I looked specifically at Reggie. “Get off my bed, please.”
Reggie sat up, running his fingers through his mop of hair. Meanwhile, Luke was trying to lift up—oh no—my dream box.
“What’s in this box?” he asked.
“That’s off-limits,” I said.
“Got it. So, girl stuff.”
“Like, butterflies and glitter?” Reggie asked.
“It’s none of your business,” I snapped. “And yes, there may be some glitter.”
“I did it!” Alex cried suddenly, triumphant. “I picked something up!”
I looked over to see him fumbling with my favorite picture of my mother—the one where she’s standing in a field of dahlias. It slipped through his fingers, making me gasp—but landed safely on my bed, thank god.
“. . . and I dropped it.”
“Is that your mom?” Luke asked, looking at the picture.
“Yeah,” I said, quickly picking up the frame and putting it back on my nightstand. “And this is my favorite picture of her. So if you break it, I’ll break you.”
“Sorry.” Alex shrugged. “But I’m kinda unbreakable at this point.”
I shook my head. “I don’t get it. You guys can pick up your instruments, but you can’t pick up other stuff?”
“It’s just hard,” Luke said. “For some reason our instruments are easy.”
“Super easy,” Reggie put in. “Look what we learned today.” He closed his eyes in concentration, and after a minute his bass guitar came poofing into the room, slamming into his chest, and knocking him over backward.
“Yeah, that looked super easy,” I noted.
“It’s like I always thought,” Luke said, his eyes lighting up. “Our instruments are attached to our souls.”
“And sometimes to our belts,” Reggie said, struggling to disentangle himself from the bass and mostly failing.
The door opened and Dad popped his head in. Even knowing he couldn’t see them, the boys and I all froze. “Everything okay? Thought I heard you talking to someone.”
“Nope,” I said, scanning the room for a good explanation. “Must’ve been my laptop.” Which is closed. “That I just closed.”
“Okay,” Dad said. He didn’t seem totally convinced. “Let me know if you need anything.”
After he was gone, the boys unfroze and started moving around normally again. (Well, as normal as was possible, given they were, you know, ghosts.)
“He looks like the kinda dad who likes to barbecue. He’s got a good ribs recipe, doesn’t he?”
I held a fing
er to my lips in a shh motion. “I don’t know,” I whispered. “But if you guys wanna talk to me, we should do it in the studio. He’s already worried enough about me as it is.”
Luke looked thoughtful. “He seems pretty cool. You should just tell him about us.”
“You’re kidding, right? This past year, everyone’s been watching over me. Being super nice, like they’re waiting for me to snap. If I tell my dad I met a ghost band, I’ll be back to talking to Dr. Turner three days a week.”
Nothing against Dr. Turner—therapy had definitely been helpful—but I was over being treated like everyone’s fragile flower.
“I thought I said to leave that alone!” Out of the corner of my eye I realized Luke was investigating the dream box again.
“You shoulda never told me not to touch it. Now it’s all I can think about.”
I sighed. “It’s just my dream box, okay? When I get an idea, I write it down to get it out of my head.”
“Like lyrics?” he asked.
“They would be if I wrote music like I used to with my mom. Now it’s just full of stuff that doesn’t make me sad.”
“But you do play. We heard you this morning,” Alex said. Then, realizing, he flushed. “Uh …”
“So you were there, too?” I exploded. “Okay we need to set some boundaries right now. For starters, stay out of my room!”
“Fine, okay,” Luke said, relenting.
“But before we do, I need to know,” Alex said. “Did you get back into your music program?”
“No,” I said, swallowing hard. “I didn’t.”
“That’s crazy,” Luke said. “Your voice, your piano playing. You’re a human wrecking ball.”
“Is that a compliment?” I asked.
Luke nodded, sincere. “You have the power to move people. To knock them off their feet. And there’s no way you wouldn’t get back into your music classes if your teacher heard you play.”
Is that right? “Well, I asked her,” I said. “And she said I have to wait until next semester.”
“That was your first mistake,” Luke said. “Asking. Sunset Curve booked gigs by doing. We went into ambush mode. We played in front of clubs. In back of clubs. We even played book clubs.”
