by Lin Oliver
The knob was turning all by itself! Billy closed his eyes, counted to three, then opened them and focused back on the knob. The knob turned again, as if someone inside the closet was trying to get out.
He tried to call out, “Who’s there?” but his vocal cords snapped shut. Nothing came out but a sorry-sounding rasp.
The knob continued to turn. Billy thought he heard the click of the closet door opening.
The next thing Billy heard was the scraping of wood against wood, followed by a long, low creak. Then, with a sudden jerk, the door flew open. Billy pulled the covers over his head, hoping that whoever was in the closet wouldn’t see him. Even hidden under the covers, his whole body shook uncontrollably. There was nothing he could do to stop every muscle from twitching.
After a minute, Billy’s curiosity got the better of his fear and he peeked out from underneath the covers, exposing only a tiny bit of his left eye. That little piece of eye was enough for him to see the scariest sight he’d ever beheld. The arm of his red and white baseball jersey was reaching out of the closet door, but there was no hand at the end of the sleeve.
Billy finally found his voice and shrieked like a five-year-old.
From inside the closet, he heard an urgent teenage voice say, “Shhhh … Do you want to wake the whole house?”
“Yes, I do,” Billy rasped. “I absolutely do.”
“Trust me, that is something you don’t want to do,” said the voice.
“I’m going to scream. I can feel it coming up from my toes.”
“Calm down, Georgie Boy. You sound like my cousin Annabel when she got bit by the horse that was pulling the ice wagon.”
Billy’s head was swimming. Was this a dream or was he actually having a conversation with a sleeve?
“First of all,” he ventured, “I don’t understand anything you’re saying about your cousin what’s-her-name and that horse. And second of all, my name is Billy. And third of all, where is your hand?”
Suddenly, without warning, Billy’s entire baseball jersey flew out of the closet and floated across the room, the red and white sleeves fluttering in the darkness. The jersey came to a stop in front of the mirror on the back of his door. Billy became aware of a strange whirring next to his bed. He whipped around and saw that the numbers on his digital alarm clock were going haywire, spinning like crazy, racing forward and backward like some unknown force was controlling them.
Impulsively, Billy grabbed the clock and threw it at the jersey, which was still twisting itself this way and that, looking at its reflection in the mirror. Unfortunately, Billy had forgotten to unplug the clock before he flung it, and it boomeranged back at him, heading right for his face. He ducked just in time to see it land on the floor next to his bed.
“Hey, you better pull up on your hand brake, Georgie Boy,” the teenage voice said. “Violence is never the answer.”
All Billy could think about was that this voice, so confident and so invisible, was coming from an empty, floating shirt.
“Who are you?” he screamed. “Where are you? What are you? Why are you?”
The shirt didn’t answer. It spun around and headed toward Billy, who had pushed his body flat against the headboard, hoping it would open up and let him escape.
“Do you think these sleeves are too long on me?” the shirt said. “I can’t have them interfering with my fastball when I’m on the mound.”
“Too long for what?” Billy asked. “You don’t have any arms. Or any body, for that matter.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, Georgie Boy.”
“Billy.”
“Fine, Billy Boy. I have a body. Or at least, I had one before I died. And it was a magnificent sight to behold, if I say so myself. Which I have no trouble doing.”
“Are you telling me you’re a ghost?” Billy asked. His voice quivered even though he was trying to be composed.
“Ding, ding, ding, ding. Correct answer. You win the prize, a stuffed cow with a full udder.”
“Can I just say, in this situation, I’d rather be wrong. Not that I couldn’t use a stuffed cow with a full udder.”
The jersey let out a laugh that echoed around the room, bouncing from one wall to the other.
“You’re funny, Georgie Boy.”
“It’s Billy. How many times do I have to tell you?”
“I know, I know. It’s just that you remind me of a very good buddy I had back in grade school. Georgie Cooperston. He was a fun kid. We used to sneak out and drive his dad’s Model T around the orange groves until we crashed it. Back then, you could drive when you were fourteen. He became a broom salesman and I became a ghost.”
“Let me get this straight,” Billy said to the shirt. “You’re dead? And you’ve been hovering in my closet for, like, a hundred years?”
“Actually, ninety-nine years. That was when the crash happened. Before that, I lived here.”
“In my room?”
“Correction, Billy Boy. Did you notice I got your name right this time? You’re living in my room.”
Billy could not even begin to process what he had heard. He had seen movies about ghosts. Watched cartoons about ghosts. Read comic books about ghosts. But never, in all of his wildest imagination, did he ever think he’d be having a conversation with one.
“I can’t believe I’m talking to a ghost,” he said.
“That’s what most people call me, although I prefer phantom. Ghoul works in late October, gives it kind of a Halloween-y flair. What really chaps my britches is when people call me a banshee. I mean, that’s just rude.”
“If you’ll excuse me,” Billy said to the shirt, trying to be as polite as possible so the ghost wouldn’t attack him, “this is way more than I can handle. So hang yourself back in the closet while I take this opportunity to run shrieking out of here.”
Rising to his feet, Billy bolted for the door. He was stopped by a chilly pressure pulling on his upper arm.
“Let me make this a little easier for you,” the shirt said.
Then it started to whistle “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad.”
“Can’t you hear the whistling blowing?
Rise up so early in the morn …”
Suddenly, Billy smelled orange juice again, even stronger than when his mother had first detected the aroma in the closet. It was the most tangy, wonderful orange smell you could ever imagine. Then the jersey fluttered and seemed to fill with a human shape. Was that an arm Billy saw, coming out of the sleeve?
The whistling grew louder, the orange smell more powerful. And then … out of nowhere … he appeared!
CHAPTER 3
The ghost was a boy about fourteen years old, wearing blousy brown pants that stopped at the knee. As he pulled off the jersey, Billy could see that his pants were held up by faded red suspenders, and on his head was a plaid wool newsboy cap with a button on top and a brim that he wore jauntily off to the side. His socks were covered with a pattern of alternating beige and white diamond shapes. On his feet, he wore lace-up work boots of dark brown leather that came up to the middle of his shin. They were laced up only halfway, which instead of looking sloppy gave him a casual, self-assured look.
“I … I can see you!” Billy whispered in amazement.
“Consider yourself lucky. This is a rare occurrence. Very few people have had the opportunity.”
Billy tried to answer, but once again, no words came out. He was looking at a ghost, a real live ghost. Or more accurately, a real dead ghost.
“Because you seem like a nice kid — short but nice — I’m going to introduce myself,” the ghost said. “You are in the presence of Hoover Porterhouse the Third. How exciting is that?”
“I’m Billy Everett Broccoli the First. Nice to meet you.”
Billy and Hoover went to shake hands, but although Billy’s hand was pumping up and down, he could feel only cold air surrounding his fingers.
“This is so weird,” he said. “I’m shaking your hand, but I can’t feel any
thing. Just cold air.”
“That’s the way we ghosts roll. Let me tell you, Billy Boy, it can be pretty frustrating when you dance with a pretty girl and she has no idea you’re there. All she does is put on a sweater.”
“Wait a minute,” Billy asked. “You dance?”
“Not so much anymore. But before I died, I could turkey trot with such flair that girls thought there was an actual bird in the room.”
With that, Hoover Porterhouse III put his hands under his armpits, folded his arms like turkey wings, and started high-stepping around the room. He didn’t stop at Billy’s desk or his bed, but danced right through the middle of them.
Before Billy could absorb what he was witnessing, he was tossed up in the air by a massive tremble that felt like an earthquake knocking the house right off its foundation. The tremble was accompanied by what sounded like a freight train charging out of the center of the earth. If seeing a ghost hadn’t been frightening enough, Billy was now officially out of his mind with fear.
From down the hall, he heard Breeze scream, “What is happening here, people? Inform me!” Farther down the hall, he heard his parents’ footsteps and then their voices calling, “Billy! Breeze! Outside! Immediately!”
“Earthquake!” Billy yelled.
“Trust me. It’s not an earthquake,” Hoover Porterhouse said to him.
“Oh yeah? What would you call it?”
“Report card day.”
Hoover pointed to the wall next to Billy’s bed. There, lit up in glowing blue type that seemed to pulsate with the shaking of the house, Billy saw a series of five letters … C, C, A, F, F. What could those letters mean? And how did they get on the wall of his room?
“This is not fair!” Hoover complained, shaking his fist at the wall. “What do you guys want from me? Well, forget it. I give up. Go ahead and give me two F’s. See if I care.”
With that, there was another rumble from underground and a huge jolt shook the entire house. It felt like the roof was about to cave in.
“I’m out of here!” Billy shouted to the ghost, who was pacing back and forth and letting out a stream of words that any regular kid would have gotten ten years’ detention for saying. Billy flung the door open and bolted out into the hall. His feet barely touched the floor as he barreled past Breeze’s room and met up with his parents, who were waiting to escort them both out to the front yard.
“This feels like a seven point five on the Richter earthquake scale,” Bennett said.
“Whatever the number is, it’s totally scary!” Billy answered.
“Children, form a single line and proceed calmly,” his mother instructed. “And hold hands.”
Years of being a middle school principal had prepared Mrs. Broccoli-Fielding for any emergency. As the family proceeded in an orderly fashion to the front yard, Billy realized that the house was no longer shaking. The earthquake had hit with a sudden force and disappeared just as suddenly. None of the neighbors were out on the street, and no one but the Broccoli-Fieldings seemed to have experienced this terrifying event.
“Am I the only one noticing that we are alone out here in the middle of the night, in our pajamas, holding hands?” Breeze asked. Then, turning to Billy, she let go of his hand and said, “I mean this in the nicest way, but your palms are majorly sweaty.”
“My hands do that when they’re scared,” Billy explained. “So do my armpits.”
“Nauseous,” Breeze said. “If we’re going to live in the same house, you’ve got to filter all armpit talk.”
Dr. Fielding was poking around the front yard, trying to discover what could have caused the house to shake so violently.
“I don’t smell any gas,” he yelled over his shoulder.
“Tell the gentleman in the boxer shorts that he can give his nose a rest,” a ghostly voice whispered. Billy wheeled around to see Hoover Porterhouse sitting on a branch in one of the orange trees.
“What are you doing here, Hoover?” Billy whispered.
“I followed you out of the house. Hey, that scared me, too. Usually my report card doesn’t arrive in such an earthshaking way. The Higher-Ups must have felt they needed to get my attention. I’m assuming they were not overly enthusiastic about my grades.”
“Higher-Ups?” Billy whispered. “What are you talking about?”
“You might call them teachers,” Hoover explained. “They’ve been grading my progress for the last ninety-nine years. Apparently, I’m not passing with flying colors. Two C’s, two F’s, and an A in Personal Grooming, which stands to reason.”
Hoover floated down off the orange tree branch and struck a pose, adjusting his newsboy cap to the side, puffing out his chest, and snapping his red suspenders with his thumbs. “I might be a phantom, but I always look snazzy. It’s on my business card. I’m the Ghost with the Most.”
Billy was totally perplexed.
“Why do you look so confused?” Hoover said. “Don’t you get a report card? I got a C in Haunting Skills, which is unfair. I’m an excellent haunter. I got a C in Invisibility. I’m working on it, but it’s not as easy as it looks. It’s the F’s that really fry my boots, though. One is in Helping Others and the other is in Responsibility. It’s too much fun turning people’s lives upside down. You can’t take that away from a guy.”
“Okay, it’s official,” Billy said as Hoover explained the ghostly grading system. “I truly don’t understand anything you’re saying. My brain is on overload.”
“Honey, who are you talking to?” Billy’s mom asked. “You’ve been muttering to yourself for the last thirty seconds.”
“Listen, Mom. This is going to sound weird, but I’m just going to say it flat out. I saw a ghost and he didn’t do well on his report card.”
“You know what?” Breeze said. “This whole blended family thing isn’t working out for me. I can’t live in the same house with someone who thinks he’s talking to academically challenged ghosts.”
Breeze turned and started back toward the house. Hoover caught up to her and flicked his hand lightly against her hair, which made it seem as if a gust of wind had lifted only one side of her hair.
“Oh, and another thing, Billy,” she said, frowning at him. “No one touches my hair.”
“I didn’t do it. I’m standing over here and you’re way over there. What am I, Elastic Man?”
“Then who did it? Your imaginary ghost?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Bill,” said Dr. Fielding, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “When I was a boy, I had a great imagination, too. In fact, I had an imaginary friend named Tommy Tooth. He was a big beaver with a huge flat tail and two huge pearly whites protruding from his upper gums. I used to fantasize that, one day, I’d fix his overbite, and he’d teach me how to chop wood with my mouth. Sure it was fun, but one day, I realized it was time to give up my imaginary friend and let him paddle his way back into my imagination.”
Billy just stared at his new stepfather, speechless. All he could do was nod like a bobble-head doll.
“Thank you for sharing that, Bennett,” Mrs. Broccoli-Fielding said, taking her husband’s hand sweetly. “I’m sure Billy really appreciates your support. But I think what we all need now is a good night’s sleep. In the morning, Billy will be able to see that this ghost of his was just a reaction to the stress of moving, combined with tonight’s unfortunate furnace rumble.”
The family headed through the orange trees up to the front door. Billy lagged behind. He looked around the front yard for Hoover Porterhouse III, but the only trace of him was the distinctive orange aroma that seemed to accompany him wherever he went.
And even that was getting fainter and fainter.
CHAPTER 4
That night, Billy tried to go back to sleep, but it wasn’t easy. He kept expecting Hoover Porterhouse to float through the window or under the door. But Hoover did not appear. Morning came and sunlight streamed in through Billy’s pink ruffled curtains, but there were still no signs of Hoover.
When Billy walked into the kitchen for Sunday breakfast, there was no Sunday breakfast, either. His mother was sitting at the table, making a list.
“Hi, honey,” she said. “Feeling better this morning?”
“If we can make waffles with peanut butter and maple syrup for breakfast, I’ll feel better.”
“Of course we can. We just need to go to the market and get all the ingredients. I’ll stock up on a few other things while we’re there.”
As Billy and his mom climbed into their van, Billy noticed Rod Brownstone hiding behind the hedges, peering out at them through his industrial-size binoculars.
“That’s one strange guy,” he said to his mom. “He’s always spying on us.”
“Maybe he’s scientific and likes to see things up close. You used to spend all day staring at your ant colony, watching them carry their leaves and twigs through their tunnels.”
“Mom, I didn’t use binoculars. And besides, we’re not ants.”
Mrs. Broccoli-Fielding started the van, and over the sound of the engine, Billy heard a knock on the passenger-side window. He rolled it down to see a girl of about seven or eight, with pigtails and bright rosy cheeks. She had the same stocky body as Rod, only shorter, so Billy’s guess was that she was his sister.
“Hi. I’m Amber Brownstone,” she said in a surprisingly raspy voice. “I live next door, and my dad says the sprinklers in the front of your house are broken. My dolls and I are having a fashion show at four o’clock and we’re serving hot chocolate with little marshmallows on top, but it’s not burning hot, so the marshmallows won’t melt.”
“Nothing beats a non-melted marshmallow,” Billy said, “except maybe a frozen banana.”
“I like those, too,” Amber giggled. “Covered with chocolate. Do you want to be a judge at our fashion show?”
“Mom,” Billy said, shooting his mom a step-on-it look. “We have to get to the market. Like now.”
“We’ll see you later, Amber,” Billy’s mom said, putting the van in gear. “And we’d love to come to your dolls’ fashion show.”
