When Lyra and I get to the cemetery, I sit down on the bench by my grandmother’s grave. My grandma died a few years ago. She was the person closest to me, besides my dad. Actually, I might have been even closer to her than I am to my dad. I say a quick hello to her in my head.
“So what do we do now?” Lyra asks. She sort of hovers on the bench. “Like, what’s the exact process for this transformation?”
I stare at her. “Okay,” I say, “if we’re going to be hanging out for a while, you really need to stop talking like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like a scientist.”
She beams at me. “You could tell?”
“Tell what?”
“That I want to be a scientist.” She frowns. “Or, wanted to be a scientist. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to use the past tense or not.” Her hands twist in her lap. “Are there scientists in the place that I’m going?”
“I dunno.” I decide this might not be the best time to tell her that she’s not dressed like a scientist. Although maybe she’s going to be one of those cool scientists who wear couture under their scientist coats.
I open my notebook. On the top of the page I’ve doodled “KENDALL + BRANDON” and drawn a big heart around it. Oops. I quickly flip it so Lyra can’t see. Not that she seems to be too interested in my notebook. She’s starting to obsess over herself.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” she demands.
“Just what I said.” I shrug. “I have no idea where you’re going. It’s not really any of my business.”
She gapes at me. “Not any of your business? Aren’t you supposed to be a ghost herder or something?”
“I don’t herd ghosts.” God, what’s with this girl? What does she think I am, some kind of shepherd or something?
“Well, whatever,” she says. “I’m sure it will be fine.” She takes a couple of deep breaths, like she’s trying to calm herself.
“So,” I say, “the reason you’re here and not, ah, wherever it is you’re going to is because you have some kind of unfinished business.”
“Unfinished business?”
“Yeah, you know, like a reason you can’t move on. You need to fix whatever’s holding you back.”
“Okay.” She shrugs, like this news is totally not a big deal to her.
“Any idea what that might be?” I ask.
She tilts her head and thinks about it. Then she shrugs. “Nope.”
“None at all?”
“Nope.”
“Any family or friends you can remember having a fight with?”
She shakes her head. “No.” She frowns. “I did used to fight a lot with my brother, Micah.”
I write that down in my notebook. “What did you guys fight about?”
“Nothing major. It was just normal brother-sister stuff.” She looks down at the ground and tries to kick a pebble. But her foot just goes floating through it. “He was actually a really good brother.” Her eyes fill with tears, and I stay quiet, letting her have her moment.
“Okay,” I say. “So is there anything else you can remember? Anything you think is important for me to know?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “I really can’t think of anything. Although, honestly, I can’t remember a lot about my life. But I have a feeling it was completely normal. At least, uh, you know, before I, uh, died.” She frowns. “Wow, that is so weird, to say that I died.”
“Do you know how you died?”
“I’m pretty sure it had something to do with my heart. I think I had a bad one.” She puts her hand over her chest now, like she’s trying to see if her heart is still beating.
“So it looks like we have our work cut out for us, then,” I say, sighing. “I’m going to have to do some detective work.”
“Okay.” She nods. “So what does that mean?”
I shut my notebook. “It means,” I say, “that I’m going to have to start spending a lot of time at your mom’s salon.”
Not that it’s that much of a sacrifice. I mean, of all the places to have to spend time, a salon is a pretty cool one. And besides, I’m sure Ellie will go with me. She loves salons.
“No way,” Ellie says the next morning, shaking her head as she puts her books in her locker. “I am not going back to that place.”
“But, Elllliee,” I whine, “I really need to get my nails done.” It’s not even a lie. I do need to get my nails done. Of course, I could just do them myself. Ellie and I like getting manicures and stuff, but we’re not the kind of girls who need to have their nails professionally done all the time. Like Madison Baker, this girl in my math class. She’s always getting her nails done and sighing about how badly she needs a pedicure. It’s, like, relax and do it yourself. It takes fifteen minutes.
“Then let’s go to that place in the mall,” Ellie says. “My mom can drive us.” She studies herself in the mirror that’s stuck to the back of her locker door. “Do you think this lipstick is too much?”
“No, I like it.”
“Are you sure? Because I don’t want to look like I’m trying too hard.”
“Trying too hard at what?”
“Looking good. I want to look effortlessly beautiful.”
“You are effortlessly beautiful,” I say, wondering how we went from making plans to go to the nail salon to talking about how effortlessly beautiful Ellie is. Not that I mind talking about it. Ellie is very pretty. “You could become even more effortlessly beautiful if you get a facial or something,” I try. “We could go after school. My treat.” It will cost me my whole allowance, but whatever. It’s either that or have Lyra following me around for the rest of my life. The sooner I get started on this the better.
“At the mall?” Ellie brightens.
“No. At Sharon’s Spa.” Or whatever it’s called. Serene Wellness or Sharon’s Haircuts or blah, blah, blah.
Ellie looks at me. “Okay,” she says suspiciously, slamming her locker door shut and crossing her arms over her chest. “What’s this about?”
“What’s what about?” I arrange my features into my most innocent look.
“This whole thing about going back to that place.” She lowers her voice. “Does this have anything to do with that boy who was there?”
“What boy who was there?”
“That crazy woman’s son. Micah or whatever.”
“You met him?” My eyes are about to bug out of my head. How did I not know this?
“Yeah,” she says. “He was in the back, helping his mom.”
“What was he like?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “He was a normal boy. He looked annoyed that he was spending his Sunday stuck in some nail salon.”
I can’t believe this! Ellie got to see Lyra’s brother. And I didn’t.
We’re walking down the hall now, and when we get to the door to the English office, we duck inside. Mrs. D’Amico, the head of the English department, lets me and Ellie hang out in here whenever we want. That’s because Mrs. D’Amico used to be best friends with my grandma, and she’s known me ever since I was a little girl.
“Wait a minute,” Ellie says, shutting the door behind us. “So this is about the boy at the salon. Don’t tell me you like him!” She gets a scandalized look on her face.
“No, I don’t like him,” I say, rolling my eyes at the absurdity of it. “I like Brandon.” I make my way over to the Keurig coffeemaker that’s sitting in the corner and start brewing myself a cup of French vanilla. I’m a total caffeine addict. But of course we’re not allowed to have coffee at school, so I have to sneak it.
“Okay,” Ellie says, sounding relieved. She flops down in one of the big comfy chairs that are against the wall.
I pick up my coffee and then stick another cup under the machine so that Ellie can have a tea. Ellie can’t handle too much caffeine. It makes her totally hyper.
“So then why do you want to go back to that salon so bad?” she asks.
“I just think it will be ni
ce to support a local business,” I say. “And besides, we don’t have to worry about getting a ride. We can just walk there.”
I hand Ellie her tea, and she takes a sip. “Does this have anything to do with your dad and Cindy?” she asks gently.
I look at her. “My dad and Cindy? Why would this have anything to do with them?” My stomach twists a little at the mention of them. When I got home last night from the cemetery, I ran right up to my room to finish my homework. At around nine thirty my dad knocked on my door, but I pretended I was sleeping. I just didn’t want to deal with him.
“I don’t know,” Ellie says. But she’s looking down at the ground, and her voice sounds all weird.
“Ellie,” I say, “what’s going on?”
“Okay, fine!” she says, throwing her hand into the air dramatically. “Brandon told Kyle about how your dad gave Cindy a promise ring at the apple farm, and then Kyle told me.”
My stomach twists even more. “Oh.” So they were all talking about me. I don’t like the way that makes me feel. And besides, why would Brandon tell Kyle about my dad and Cindy? He should have known that it was a secret thing that maybe I didn’t want everyone knowing about. Especially not Kyle. I don’t think Ellie’s boyfriend is the type who can keep a big secret. Or any kind of secret, for that matter.
“Is it true?” Ellie asks softly.
I nod.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “It happened so fast, and I guess I just kind of wanted to avoid the whole thing. I haven’t even really talked about it with my dad yet.”
Ellie nods. “That makes sense.”
That’s what I love about Ellie. She’s always able to see situations that are complicated and not be, like, Oh, well, you should have told me, because that’s what best friends do. She’s always able to see the reasons why things might have happened the way that they did.
Which is why it doesn’t make any sense that I haven’t told her about the whole seeing-ghosts thing. I mean, she’s my best friend. I don’t think she would judge me. But if there’s even a 5 percent chance that she might think it’s weird or stop talking to me or something, I don’t even want to go there. It’s just not worth it.
Plus who knows what kind of crazy schemes I would get Ellie involved in if she knew? She’d probably want to help the ghosts move on, and then who knows what would happen? Helping ghosts is not without peril. I mean, just a couple of weeks ago I got into a situation where a girl was this close to getting a restraining order against me. (It was this gymnast at a neighboring high school—don’t ask.)
“We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Ellie says.
“Thanks,” I say. “I really don’t want to.” And then I do something that I’m not proud of. I avert my eyes and look down at the ground. “I just really wanted to go to Sharon’s salon today,” I say, “because the one at the mall reminds me of Cindy.”
Ellie frowns. “It does?”
“Yes.” I consider adding in a sniff and a fake cry, but I’m actually not that great an actress. Plus that would really be going too far.
“Why?” Ellie asks. She takes another sip of her tea.
“Why what?”
“Why does the salon in the mall remind you of Cindy?”
Hmm. Good question. “Um, because I ran into her there once.”
“You did?”
“Yeah.”
“You never told me that.”
“It was, you know, too, ah, painful to talk about.”
“Oh.” Ellie’s lips scrunch up into a frown.
“Anyway,” I say, “I understand if you don’t want to go back to Sharon’s salon. I know you got a bad manicure there.” I hold my breath.
“No, it’s okay,” Ellie says, her face softening. “I’ll go with you. Maybe they’ll have gotten better overnight or something.”
She reaches out and squeezes my hand.
I give her a big smile.
But inside I feel like an awful person.
Math class.
I’m sitting in my seat, waiting for Brandon to get into the classroom.
My hair is perfectly smooth. I stopped in the bathroom right before class so that I could make sure it was perfectly soft and falling in a straight curtain down my back. I have a whole technique to achieve this look that involves sticking my head under the hand dryer. I wouldn’t have to do that if my dad would just buy me one of those pocket straighteners, but he says I’m not allowed to take hair appliances to school with me. He thinks they’re dangerous and a distraction. I bet sticking my head under a hand dryer is more dangerous and more of a distraction. But parents don’t understand things like that. They’re not logical thinkers.
Anyway, I smoothed my hair because I want to feel very calm. I think it’s working. I always feel tenser in math than anywhere else because math is my worst subject. I don’t know why, but I don’t like the idea that there’s only one right answer. Some people might find that comforting, but I just find it scary. How can there only be one right answer for something? It’s too much pressure.
I decide that when Brandon gets to class, I will very calmly ask him why he told Kyle about my dad and Cindy.
But Brandon doesn’t get there until right before the bell rings. He comes walking slowly into the room as the bell sounds, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. If I was cutting it that close, I’d be rushing, my books and bag flying everywhere.
But Brandon is calm and confident. Of course, that could have to do with the fact that he’s totally good at math and the teacher, Mr. Jacobi, loves him. Mr. Jacobi doesn’t like me. In fact, I think he kind of hates me. I don’t know why. I’ve never even done anything to him. But I think he takes my bad grades as some kind of personal attack or something.
“Hey,” Brandon says, giving me a smile as he slides into the seat ahead of me.
“Hi,” I say.
“Today we’re going to be trying something different,” Mr. Jacobi says from the front of the room. He sounds all excited, like this is supposed to be great news, when it actually sounds pretty horrible. Why would I want to try something new? I can hardly get the hang of the stuff we’ve already been doing. “Today we are going to be working in partners.”
I immediately perk up. Partners! Love it! Now Brandon and I can work together, and even have a chance to talk. Obviously, when teachers put you in partners, they don’t expect you to actually work. They know it’s impossible. They know you’re just going to talk. I suspect they do it on days when they’re kind of bored with their jobs. That’s what I would do if I were them. I mean, math is bad enough without having to teach the same thing over and over again every single year.
Brandon turns around. “Wanna be partners?” he whispers.
“Of course.” I blush.
But Mr. Jacobi has other plans. “I will be picking your partners,” he says.
This could be bad.
He begins matching us all up. When he gets to me, I hold my breath, hoping he’ll put me with Brandon. I think about piping up and telling him that Brandon’s been tutoring me in math, and so it would be a good idea for us to work together, but even I know that would be going too far. Plus Mr. Jacobi definitely doesn’t like it when I talk in class.
“Kendall,” he says, “you’ll be with Jason.” He turns to Brandon. “And Brandon, you can work with Madison.”
What? This isn’t bad. It’s a disaster.
First of all, Jason Fields is the worst partner ever. He is very good at math. Which you would think would be a good thing, but it really isn’t. Jason Fields is actually really mean. One time I had to do a group English project with him, and he went and complained to the teacher that the group was holding him back from fulfilling his true potential. Supposedly he was going to skip, like, two grades, but his parents decided it wouldn’t be good for him socially.
And to make matters worse, Brandon’s with Madison Baker! Madison Baker is this very pop
ular, very pretty, very spoiled girl. And to add to her list of “verys,” she’s very flirty.
Sure enough, as I’m gathering up my books to move over to the middle of the room, where Jason is sitting, Madison appears next to me. She ignores me as she waits for me to move so she can take my seat.
“I like your shirt, Brandon,” she says. Then she leans over the desk so that she’s so close to him that her arm is almost touching his. “That color looks good on you.”
Brandon looks down at his shirt. “Black?”
“I like men in black,” she says.
I roll my eyes as I stand up, and Madison slides into my seat without even saying anything to me, or even acknowledging that I’m there.
“Well, I guess I’ll go over and sit with Jason now,” I try.
“Okay,” Brandon says. He stands up and starts turning his desk around so that he’s facing Madison. “See you.”
Well. Talk about not giving me the good-bye I deserve. Hmmph.
“I already did the assignment,” Jason says as soon as I sit down next to him.
“What do you mean, you already did the assignment?”
“I mean that I already did the five problems while I was waiting for you to come over here.” He leans back in his chair and raises his eyebrows at me, like he’s challenging me to tell him that was wrong.
I want to yell at him, but what can I do? I don’t want to admit that I can’t do the assignment without his help. And besides, if I try to tell Mr. Jacobi, he’ll probably just find a way to make it seem like it was my fault.
So I sit down and try to get to work on the problems. While I do, Jason starts drawing pictures of navy ships in his notebook. His pencil makes loud scratching noises as he goes. It’s actually very distracting. When he’s done with his picture, he rips the page out of his notebook, shreds it up, and then starts using it to shoot spit wads at our classmates.
Ugh. How gross. You’d think you could expect a higher level of maturity from someone who’s so smart, but apparently not.
I try to concentrate on the quadratic formula, entering the different numbers for the variables into my equation. I wish we were allowed to use calculators. It’s not really fair to expect us to do our arithmetic with pencils. I mean, how old school.
The Harder the Fall Page 4
