The Haunted House Project

by Tricia Clasen

  I get to science early, and since I’ve got a few minutes before people start showing up, I pull out a book. No, not one of my textbooks, but the paperback I checked out of the library a couple days ago.

  I’m so immersed in the book that I don’t notice the other kids start to file in until someone yanks it out of my hand.

  “The Ghosts of Avalon Lake,” Isaiah reads, examining the cover, then flips through some pages. “Why do you read this junk?”

  Isaiah lacks some of the filters that other people have. The ones that tell you what you should and shouldn’t say.

  “I don’t know. I like it. Give it back,” I say, reaching for the book. It’s bow tie day, and today’s is bright yellow, and it stands out against the white button-down shirt and his dark skin. It’s a little crooked.

  Isaiah ignores me and continues flipping through the pages. He shakes his head while he skims, and I notice his Afro is also a bit uneven, kind of crooked, like his tie. “Have you always liked ghost stories?”

  “Pretty much.” I sit up and my fists clench. It’s true. I’ve always loved scary camp stories and Goosebumps, once I discovered them, and I even love cheesy horror movies. Sometimes on the weekend, Paige lets me stay up and watch them with her. It used to freak my mom out and she would turn the TV off if she thought a movie might give me nightmares. She didn’t stop me from reading any books, though.

  “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  The question slaps me across the face in a way I don’t expect. Maybe because I’ve been asking myself the same question for months now. I didn’t used to. I read books and watched movies, but it was all fun and games. Scary for the rush. But no, back then I didn’t think ghosts were real.

  “I’m not sure.”

  It’s not so much that my opinion has changed; it’s just that I really like the idea that she might be around somewhere, watching out for me.

  He nods slowly as he stares at me. Sometimes I think he gets me more than anyone else.

  “Well, your book choices are garbage,” he says, tossing the paperback in my direction.

  After class starts, Isaiah turns toward the front of the room and gives all his attention to the teacher. After about twenty minutes of being forced to pretend that chemical bonds are exciting, the teacher announces that we have the rest of the class to work on our projects. We’re supposed to be learning about the scientific method. So, we have to do background research on a science topic, plus do our own simple experiment where we create a hypothesis and figure out the variables. Isaiah and I have been brainstorming for a week, and we still haven’t decided what we’re going to research.

  “Are you into the environment?”

  “Huh?” I ask.

  “You know, like the ozone layer, or recycling.”

  “We used to compost,” I say too quickly. Please don’t ask me why we stopped. His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t say anything else about it.

  “Space?”

  I crinkle my nose and shake my head.

  “Oceans?”

  I shrug.

  “Ghosts?”

  My mouth drops, and I punch him in the arm. I’m so mad I wish I could I have hit his face instead.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Don’t make fun of me.”

  “I’m not. I mean it. We could study paranormal activity.”

  “For science?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  My heart rate picks up and I sit a little straighter.

  I open my notebook and start writing. We talk fast, and I can barely keep up with my notes. The ideas are flowing. “Hold on,” I say as I try to get them all on paper.

  It’s quiet for a second while I try to draft a potential thesis statement.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  Something about the tone of his voice makes me stop writing and look up. Usually Isaiah is loud and pushy, but his voice is quiet and slow, and this feels more personal.

  “Do you ever see her? Or hear her? Or anything?”

  He doesn’t have to say who for me to know he means my mom. I don’t respond at first. I just stare at him.

  “Like, do you think she’s a ghost?”

  With anyone else, I would probably grunt or run out of the room or something, but the curiosity in his eyes doesn’t scare me. It’s kind of nice actually. He really seems to want to know. “No. But I keep looking for her.”

  He sighs. “Yeah, I would, too.”

  It’s possible Isaiah just went from the geeky kid I have to sit next to in science class to my favorite person in the whole world.

  Chapter Three

  Science class opens a floodgate. I’ve been trying to pretend that my interest in ghosts hasn’t picked up since my mom died, but ever since the accident I’ve been looking for signs like crazy. At night I beg the stars for just one little moment. A flickering light, a lost pencil showing up unexpectedly, or even that tropical smell I love.

  But there’s been nothing.

  The more Isaiah and I talk, the more I wonder. What does that mean? Is she safely on the other side? Is there another side? If I keep trying, will they let her visit? Just for a second?

  The more I think about it, the heavier my head feels. I drag my feet on my way to group therapy. Okay, so they don’t call it that. The official name for my next hour of fun is Transitions, which basically means it’s whatever elective you signed up for: cooking, just-say-no-to-drugs class, or in my case, group psycho sessions. “Stress management.” I was transferred out of computer class a few weeks into the semester, just when we were getting to the fine art of adding animations to PowerPoint slides. Mrs. Carter, the school psychologist I’ve been visiting a couple of times a week since last spring, thought I needed another outlet for my emotions.

  My sister is usually the crabby one. She’s the one who can’t find the silver lining of a black cloud even if it’s glowing. But even I can’t stand group therapy.

  I pause outside the door. One thing’s for sure: it’s always an hour of surprises. You never know who’s going to be there or what state they’ll be in. People skip Transitions classes a lot. Four of us never miss this class, though. Me, obviously. Because even though I hate it here, even though I hate coming, if I don’t show up, Mrs. Carter might call my dad. I haven’t told him about any of this.

  Dylan Fry’s always here, too; he’s the biggest bully in the school. You’d never know how mean he is from his bright blue eyes, wide smile, and curly brown hair that sticks up all over, but you can hear the grudge in his voice. And no, even though I keep watching for it, I don’t think there’s a nice guy underneath all that give-me-your-lunch-money attitude. He’s pretty much the same in therapy as he is the rest of the time at school. Except he’s always there, which sort of makes me think maybe he likes talking about his problems. Or maybe he doesn’t want Mrs. Carter to call his home either. I think his grudge is for a good reason; he’s never said it out loud, but I get the impression his dad likes to use him for a punching bag.

  Next is Amanda Waxler. She’s a large girl who wears the same green headband in her straight blond hair every day. She has anger management issues. She breaks things, rarely people.

  And finally there’s Brian Reed. He’s the super-skinny geeky type. He’s in all of the smart-kid classes. Brian’s dad died about six months before my mom. You’d think that would bond us in some way. In fact, that’s exactly what I thought at first. When I first joined Transitions, I couldn’t wait to hear what he had to say. I thought we were kind of the same, and I had this idea of us becoming friends,

  But then, the second day, I told my story. Most of the kids had probably already heard it. I had been out of school for a while, and I know the teachers knew what had happened. I figured they’d probably warned most of the other kids, so everyone would be “understanding.” The early days back then were mostly a fog, but I remember it was the one time I cried in school. When I was finished, everyone got quiet; even Dylan didn’t make a single stupi
d comment. But Brian’s eyes pierced me. My eyebrows crinkled in confusion, and I stared back.

  Mrs. Carter noticed. “Brian? Do you have something to say?”

  “At least she didn’t suffer.”

  His tone smacked me. It wasn’t what he said. I’d heard that before. It’s one of five million and one things people say that they think will make you feel better. It was how he said it. No one had ever sounded jealous when they said it. At least she didn’t suffer. He was absolutely green with envy.

  It sucked that his dad died. I knew that. Brian’s dad was a gym teacher at our school, and he’d been Teacher of the Year for three years in a row. We all knew him and we all liked him, too. He got cancer. A bad one. He was gone in six months.

  But I was furious. “At least you got to say good-bye.”

  “It isn’t a contest, Andie.” Mrs. Carter looked back and forth between us. I wished I was the one with the anger problem.

  And I’ve learned that she’s flat-out wrong on that one. Group therapy is a contest. We work hard to outdo each other in the my-life-sucks game.

  Other than the regulars, lots of kids come and go. They have all kinds of problems. There’s a girl who thinks she’s too fat, a boy whose locker contents got him dragged out by the police, and another girl who doesn’t talk much but just seems sad all the time.

  I still hate Brian Reed. I hate him because we are never going to be friends even though we have something so important in common. But every time he starts talking, it’s so obvious he really believes he has it the worst.

  “You can’t understand what it’s like,” he said once. “My dad was my best friend. I don’t even have anyone to help with my homework anymore.” My fists clenched at my sides. I have to take a deep breath not to explode when he says stuff like that. We mostly ignore him. But every once in a while one of us can’t stand it anymore. A couple of weeks ago, Dylan rolled his eyes and cut in. “Give me a break, dork. Your problem is you had it too good before. And now you don’t know how to handle a little bad crap. You know what, you’ve still got more good every day than I’ve had my whole life.”

  Okay, so maybe sometimes I get a clue that there’s something more there with Dylan. But I still try not to make eye contact with him, because he can be scary. I don’t have any money for him to steal, but he’s not picky—he collects notebooks, pencils, iPods.

  That day when Dylan blew up, everyone went quiet, waiting to see what Brian would do.

  He cried. Hard.

  And Mrs. Carter yelled at Dylan. I’m not sure that was fair. I think Dylan has a point. Because I know about Before and After, too. My family wasn’t perfect Before, and life still had bumps, but they weren’t a big deal. A bad grade on a test. A girl who makes fun of your hair for being too curly or your nose for being too wide. Parents who argue over stupid stuff like bills or dishes left in the sink. I remember getting really upset about stuff like that. My dad used to laugh at me and pop me on the nose. “Yeah, you have such a stressful life, Andie. Maybe you should retire early.”

  I would roll my eyes at him, cross my arms, and grumble under my breath. He just didn’t understand. So I kind of get where Brian is coming from, too. He really believes no one understands. That things are that bad. But he’s the one who really doesn’t get it.

  When Mrs. Carter calls the group to order today, it’s clear from the beginning that Brian is in rare form. “I mean, how can she just go on a date? Doesn’t she love him anymore?”

  Mrs. Carter nods and scans the other group members expectantly. But Brian just keeps going.

  “I don’t think my dad would have wanted her to move on like that. She’s really selfish. And my grandma keeps telling her it’s a great idea to get out there again. Why? To prove my dad didn’t matter?”

  Inside, I’m like a simmering pot of water. Lots of bubbles hanging out at the bottom of the pot. Almost there.

  “Sometimes I wish it had been my mom instead of my dad who got sick.”

  And suddenly I’m at a full boil, popping and raging. “Shut up! Just shut up!”

  Everyone turns to stare at me. Mrs. Carter’s mouth is wide open. Before she can say anything, I let myself boil over.

  “Do you hear yourself? Do you hear the people in here? Would you just stop whining? Your dad died. It sucks. I get it. Believe me, I get it. But you’re not the only one with problems. Not by a long shot. And maybe you’re not ready for your mom to move on, but you should be happy she’s at least in the land of the living. I bet she still buys groceries and hasn’t wasted your family’s money. I bet she still tells you she loves you and hugs you and says everything is going to be okay!” With that I run out of breath.

  And then I sit back and wait for Mrs. Carter to send me out of the room. I fold my arms and stare at my lap. I glance up only once to see Amanda smiling, and then I hear Dylan clap.

  Of course, Brian bursts into tears.

  When I look up again, Mrs. Carter’s expression is pure panic. Paige tells me that I shouldn’t trust the school psychologist. She says they think they can change the world, but they aren’t prepared to handle real problems. I can practically see Mrs. Carter’s heart racing in her eyes. She glances toward the clock and smiles weakly.

  “Well, uh, it seems time is almost up.”

  We all turn our heads toward the clock to check. There’s still five minutes until the bell will actually ring, but maybe we’re all relieved to let this drop.

  Mrs. Carter spends a few minutes reminding us all of the rules of our support group and encouraging us to start planning for the summer. “Some of you may find that when you don’t have this regular discussion time, you’ll get overwhelmed.”

  Dylan rolls his eyes, and Amanda snorts. I think Mrs. Carter might cry, but she doesn’t.

  I don’t want to talk to her at all, so I have my bag ready to go so I can race out the door when the bell finally rings. I’m so sure she’s going to try to stop me that I go the long way around the room to avoid her. I wonder if she really is as freaked out by my outburst as I am, because I don’t hear her call my name.

  When I turn around on my way out the door—just because I’m curious—I find that she’s patting Brian on the shoulder.

  I glare in her direction and shake my head. I don’t want her to chase after me, but the fact that she’s more interested in whiny Brian than what I just admitted makes me mad. Or it hurts. Or maybe both. I’m even more surprised when I get halfway down the hall and I feel Dylan punch me lightly on the arm. “Hey, kid. Sorry.”

  I nod. “Thanks.” But he’s already pushing some sixth grader into a locker and laughing.

  Chapter Four

  The best thing I can say about the afternoon is that it ends. I walk home these days because Paige’s shift at the diner starts right after school. We live almost a mile from school, which is just perfect, because if it were a mile or more, I’d get to ride the bus. But no, we are like .99999 miles away. It’s drizzling when I leave today, so I pull the hood of my sweatshirt around my ears, point my face down, and take off.

  A block from school, a horn blasts, and I look up.

  “You need a ride?” Isaiah grins as he leans out a car window.

  The woman in the driver’s seat waves me toward the car, so I hop in the back.

  “This must be the infamous science partner you can’t stop talking about.”

  Isaiah looks at the woman with wide eyes and his mouth falls open. “Mooommm.”

  I’m sure I blush.

  “Where to?”

  I give her directions and I’m sure to thank her several times. Then we drive in silence.

  Isaiah turns around as far as his seat belt will let him. “Why are you so quiet?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. You were all excited during class. Now it’s like someone kicked you in the gut.”

  “Not the best afternoon, I guess.”

  “Isaiah, maybe she doesn’t want to discuss it with you.” His mom looks
at me through the rearview mirror and smiles.

  “I’m going to start researching tonight,” he says, practically bouncing. I’ve never known anyone so excited about a school project. I give him a halfhearted smile.

  “Cool.”

  He keeps talking, and his mom shakes her head. At one point she puts her hand on his knee and gives him one of those warning looks. Sometimes, it’s the little things. Like that look. I can’t swallow, and I close my eyes. This day needs to end. I have good days, too. This just hasn’t been one of them. Not by a long shot.

  When she pulls in front of my house, Isaiah’s mom scans the windows. “Is anyone home?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say.

  “Do you need to call anyone?” she asks.

  “No, it’s all good. Thanks so much.”

  As I shut the door, she rolls her window down. “Andie?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I take a deep breath and nod. “I’ll be fine. It was just a bad day. Really.”

  That seems to reassure her. “Feel free to call if you need anything.”

  Oh, I know this script. “Thanks, I will.” Hi, do you think you could pay my dad’s electric bill? Or maybe put gas in my sister’s car? That’s not what you meant? Oh, I’m sorry. Well, thanks for the offer.

  I punch in the code on the garage door keypad. When the door starts to rise, I see the wheels of my dad’s truck. My heart rate picks up, and I pull my backpack tighter. I’m not used to seeing much of him at all anymore, but definitely not after school and not when Paige isn’t here. She does most of the talking/accusing/yelling. I walk slowly through the garage, and a thought hits me. What if something’s wrong?

  Right after the accident, I woke up every night and snuck into his room. I stood next to him until he rolled over or snored. Anything to let me know he was alive. I couldn’t lose both of them. For weeks, I followed him around like a new puppy. If he went to the grocery store, I tagged along. I even joined him at the gym. I would hop on a bike even though I was bored to tears, just so I didn’t let him out of my sight. After a while though, the excuses came. “Sorry, Andie, but I’m just going to hit the gym on the way home from work to save time,” or “I’ve got to work late, so I’m skipping my workout tonight.”