The Haunting of Sunshine Girl

by Paige McKenzie

  “Yeah,” I answer, smiling. “It was my birthday present.”

  “Awesome.” He grins, revealing teeth that are just slightly crooked. He pulls a pair of round, wire-rimmed glasses from his pocket and puts them on, though they quickly slide down his nose so it looks like he’s wearing bifocals. “I’m Nolan, by the way,” he adds as he bends over his construction paper, running his glue stick up and down the length of the pipe cleaners, bending them into strange, squiggly shapes until it looks kind of like they’re laughing. “Nolan Foster.”

  Feeling ever warmer, I lift my hair off my shoulders and coil it into a messy knot. “I’m Sunshine.”

  I unwrap my blue scarf and head for the supply closet, trying to ignore the way Ms. Wilde stares at me when I come back with an armful of pipe cleaners.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Playtime

  “Is he cute?”

  I can hear Ashley’s smile through the phone. I roll my eyes.

  “Whether or not he’s cute isn’t the point.”

  Ashley sighs. “I know, I know. The point is that being near him made you warm, just like being in that creepy house makes you cold, blah blah blah.” Ashley sounds even more tired of hearing me talk about creepiness than Mom does. I imagine her twirling her blond hair dismissively. I had sent her four text messages before she wrote back today. And she didn’t call me until it was nearly midnight in Austin. While we’re on the phone I change into my pajamas—puppy-printed, but no feet—and climb into bed. “Does it at least smell any better?” she asks.

  I wrinkle my nose. “Nope. Still reeks of mildew.”

  “Gross.”

  “I know.”

  “You’d think it would smell like you and Kat by now.”

  “You’d think,” I agree.

  “But back to the boy. Maybe you were warm being near him because he was, you know, hot.”

  “What?”

  “There’s a reason they call it hot, Sunshine! Wait till I tell you how hot I felt sitting next to Cory Cooper in his car yesterday.”

  Cory Cooper is the boy Ashley spent most of sophomore year crushing on, and I know she’s waiting for me to squeal with delight—Cory Cooper took you for a ride in his car yesterday?! But I can’t squeal because I just noticed that Dr. Hoo isn’t on the shelf he was on when I left for school this morning. Instead, he’s on the window sill, his face turned outward, as though he’s surveying the yard below.

  “Ashley . . .” I say softly, whispering as though I’m worried that whatever it was that moved Dr. Hoo might hear me.

  “Sunshine . . .” she replies, trying to whisper back, but giggling instead.

  I want to giggle with her. Really, I do. But I can’t stop staring at my stuffed owl.

  No one has been home today. Mom left for work before I left for school, and she hasn’t come home yet. She texted me about an hour ago to tell me not to wait up.

  Mom loves her new job. And anyway, these long hours are temporary. Just until she gets things up and running, just until her bosses see how valuable and amazing she is.

  “Seriously,” Ashley says now, “Sunshine, what’s going on?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say, getting out of bed. I reach for Dr. Hoo and put him back on his shelf, and that’s when I notice that beneath him, my unicorns have been moved; someone didn’t like the way I arranged them by color and instead rearranged them by size, the way they used to be in Austin.

  I pull my hand away as though I’ve touched something hot.

  Okay: worst-case scenario, a ghost snuck into my room and moved my stuff around when I was at school. Best-case scenario . . . a robber came into the house, didn’t steal anything, but just moved stuff around? Or the dog developed opposable thumbs and stood on his hind legs to move things around? Or I moved Dr. Hoo and the unicorns myself and don’t remember doing it because I’m losing my mind?

  Wait, which is the best-case scenario here?

  I reach into my backpack and remove the two film canisters, place them side by side on my desk. “Hey Ash,” I say hopefully, “if I send you some film, can you take it to Max’s to get developed?”

  Max’s is a camera store in downtown Austin. In the summertime, when I couldn’t access the school’s darkroom, the employees there let me use theirs.

  “Why? There must be a studio in Ridgemont you can use.”

  I shake my head. “No,” I say firmly, “it has to be Max’s.” They’re the only people I’d trust to develop the film. “It’s important.”

  “Why, are there ghosts on the film?”

  When I don’t answer, Ashley bursts out laughing. “Wait a minute, Sunshine. Do you actually think you have photographic evidence of the paranormal? Dude, we’ll sell it to the highest bidder. We’ll make a fortune!”

  “This isn’t a joke, Ashley,” I say.

  “Listen, I know you must be homesick—”

  “What?” I ask, spinning around defensively like maybe I think Ashley is behind me and I need to face her head on. Of course, because it’s me and I’m a klutz, I lose my balance in the process, but I manage to stay more or less upright. “Why do you think that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you’re convinced your house is haunted and you can’t even be bothered to notice whether the boy sitting next to you in art class is cute? If you’re trying to convince Kat to move back to Austin, you’ll probably have better luck with something a little more practical.” Ashley knows as well as I do that my mom prefers science to fairy tales.

  “I’m not trying to get Mom to move back to Austin,” I say.

  “Then what exactly are you trying to do, Sunshine?” Ashley has never sounded so impatient with me, not even when she tried to get me to buy a normal white T-shirt at the Gap and I bought a vintage blouse from a thrift shop instead, not when I dragged her to an antique store in search of a first edition of Pride and Prejudice, not even when I tricked her into coming with me to a screening of Roman Holiday by telling her I actually wanted to see the latest new release at the theater.

  The temperature in my pink room drops about twenty degrees. I’m literally shivering, and when I exhale, I can see my breath. I turn around to face my desk again; the film canisters I’d set side by side are now stacked one on top of the other. My heart starts pounding so hard I can hear its beat in my ears.

  Okay, that definitely isn’t a robber, and it’s not the pets, and I guess technically it could be me losing my mind, but I really, really, really don’t think so.

  “Just promise me you’ll bring the film to Max’s,” I beg Ashley finally.

  “Fine,” she says, but I can tell she’s pouting.

  “And tell me all about Cory Cooper,” I say, exhaling. Living in Creep Central is no excuse to be a bad friend. Though maybe it is an excuse to at least get out of this room. I hop down the stairs and greet Oscar and Lex in the kitchen, get some ice cream out of the freezer, set it on the kitchen counter, and concentrate on the sound of Ashley’s voice telling me that Cory put his hand on her thigh when he drove her home from school today.

  “He hasn’t kissed me yet,” Ashley says. “But I know it’s coming. You know how you can just tell sometimes?”

  I lick ice cream off my spoon like a little kid with a lollipop. “No,” I say, sighing dramatically, “I really don’t.”

  “Aw, poor Sunshine,” Ashley giggles. “Wait, what are you eating?”

  “Ice cream.”

  “What flavor?”

  “Vanilla.”

  “Boring.”

  “Classic,” I counter, grinning.

  “Did you at least dress it up with some syrup and whipped cream?”

  I shake my head, smiling. Ashley knows the answer will be no, but she likes teasing me almost as much as Mom does. “Why mess with perfection?” I say, and Ashley laughs. I hear the sound of Mom’s key in the lock. “I gotta go, Ash. Keep me posted about Cory and the Kiss with a capital K.”

  “I will.”

  “And you’ll bring th
e film to Max’s for me?”

  Ashley groans. “Jeez, yes, I said I would.”

  “Good night,” I say, “and thanks.”

  “Night,” Ashley replies, “say Hi to the ghost for me.”

  I’m putting the ice cream away when Mom wanders into the kitchen. She looks surprised to see me here. “Sunshine, what are you doing up?”

  “Ashley and I were just catching up. First day of school, that kind of thing.”

  I wait for her to ask me how school was, to ask me for minute details about the kids at Ridgemont High—what do they wear, who did I sit with at lunch, how were my classes, that kind of thing she used to ask me. Back in Austin she asked how even the most uneventful of days were.

  But instead, she pulls a sheaf of papers from her bag and says, “You really shouldn’t be up so late on a school night.”

  “You’re up late, and you have to get up earlier in the morning than I do,” I say. I pause, sure that she’s going to tease me in response, make a smarmy remark about how I’m still a growing child, not a grown-up like her. But instead she sits at the kitchen counter and stares at her papers.

  “Mom?” I prompt.

  “Hmm?” she says, looking up at me like she’d already forgotten I was here in the room with her. She hasn’t even said hello to Oscar and Lex, who are circling her stool anxiously. “It’s late. You really should go to bed.”

  I don’t say it out loud because I would sound like a whiny little kid, but I don’t want to go to bed. I want to stay down here and tell her about Dr. Hoo and the unicorns. I don’t want to go back into the room with them.

  “New patient?” I ask, gesturing to the papers that Mom’s studying.

  Mom shakes her head. “Budgets,” she says dismissively, like I couldn’t possibly understand. I think about her face our first night here in Ridgemont, how nervous she looked when we sat in the hospital parking lot.

  “Okay, then,” I say, turning on my heel. “Good night.”

  Mom looks up, just for a second, and smiles. “I’m sorry, sweetie. Believe me, I’d much rather be hanging out with you than working on budgets.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’ll come home earlier tomorrow. I want to hear all about how you wowed them at your new school.”

  “Not so much wowed them as bumped into every table and corner, resulting in some fabulous new bruises.”

  “I’m sure you’ll accessorize the heck out of them,” Mom says, then drops her gaze back to the papers spread out in front of her. I’m pretty sure she’s not actually going to come home early tomorrow.

  Things will be better once she’s had time to settle in to her new job. And, they’ll be better once I get the film developed and can show her that something creepy is happening in this house. I’ll take some more pictures tonight before I send the film to Ashley; I’ll photograph the unicorns and Dr. Hoo and the canisters on my desk. Something will show up, something that can’t be seen by the naked eye. Mom will apologize for dismissing me, but I won’t be mad. After all, I can’t blame her for not believing in ghosts. Most people don’t.

  By the time I open the door to my room I feel much better. Excited even. Maybe Ashley’s right—maybe we’ll sell these photos to the highest bidder and I’ll become famous: The Girl Who Discovered Ghosts. My face will be plastered on the cover of magazines. Kids will start dressing like me; vintage shops will be sold out of flowing blouses and printed scarves.

  But on the other side of the door my room is a mess. The stuffed animals who’d been neatly lined up on a shelf above my bed, my teddy bears and my favorite stuffed dog, are now lying across my bed; the stuffed giraffe that Mom got me for my sixth birthday is perched on top of my pillows. The board games I’d left in a box in my closet, Connect Four and Jenga, checkers and Monopoly—hadn’t gotten around to unpacking them yet—are scattered on the floor.

  I open my mouth to scream for Mom. She can’t explain this away with branches on the windows or the sounds a house makes when it settles. But then I close my mouth before any sound escapes. She won’t need to explain it away. She just won’t believe me.

  I step inside my room, the pink carpet plush but cool beneath my feet. What does all this mean? I reach for my camera and take pictures. Looking at the world through the viewfinder is usually comforting, but tonight I can’t make heads or tails of what I’m seeing.

  Slowly I begin putting all the toys away, first the board games and then the stuffed animals. I brush my teeth and pile extra covers on my bed to keep out the cold. Just as I’m about to turn off the light I notice that Dr. Hoo is back on the windowsill, looking outside again. I throw off the covers and march across the room to turn him back around; I like the idea of his plastic eyes focused on me while I sleep, like he’s standing guard or something.

  I reach for him, my fingers itching to touch his soft feathers. And that’s when I feel it. He’s wet. Not completely, not all over, but there are a few stripes of moisture down his front, as though someone reached out with wet fingers to pet the soft tuft of his feathers.

  I leave my owl by the window. Evidently someone wants him that way.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Leather Jackets

  Despite the lack of photography, visual arts class is quickly becoming my favorite part about life at Ridgemont High. Not because of my increasingly silly collage—I’m adding a layer of glitter and confetti to the left of the pipe cleaners—and certainly not because of Ms. Wilde’s tutelage. She might just be the oddest duck in the pond that is my new school.

  No, I like visual arts class because Nolan Foster always sits directly across from me. And for whatever reason—whether it’s because he’s hot like Ashley says or because of something else entirely—I continue to feel warm when I’m near him. Or at the very least, not freezing.

  Actually I’m pretty sure Ashley wouldn’t think Nolan is hot. He’s nothing like Cory Cooper, who has a bright red car and a letterman’s jacket. Every day Nolan wears the same leather jacket that he wore on the first day of school. Maybe if I were his girlfriend, he’d let me borrow it. Just the thought makes me roll my eyes at myself. You’re not supposed to want to date a boy just for jacket access. Not that the jacket is the only reason I might want to date Nolan. Not that I want to date Nolan. I mean, I don’t not want to date him . . . oh my goodness, Sunshine, get a grip.

  Nolan has stuck with pipe cleaners for his collage, raiding the supply closet for all the black, white, gray, and cream-colored ones. They’re twisted into a million different shapes on the table in front of him. When Ms. Wilde leans over me to study Nolan’s creation across the desk, the fringe from her lacy black shawl falls into my eyes.

  I know I’m in no position to judge—it’s not like anyone else in town dresses the way I do—but seriously, I’m pretty sure our art teacher is the only person in Ridgemont who outfits herself like a witch in mourning.

  I brush the fringe from my eyes as Ms. Wilde says, “Such intense work, Nolan. Where do you get your inspiration?” Without waiting for an answer, she keeps talking. “It’s so clear what you’re communicating about our mortality—all that black, all that death, but the dusting of white pieces in between—symbolizing hope, I assume?”

  Nolan nods. “Of course,” he says, his voice low and serious. “What could be more hopeful than white pipe cleaners?” Ms. Wilde keeps her eyes on his collage, so Nolan can wink at me without her seeing.

  “All that death,” she repeats softly, spinning Nolan’s collage in circles on the table. “Have you always found yourself drawn to death?”

  “What?” Nolan sputters, caught off guard by such an odd inquiry. Man, this teacher is weird. I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to ask your sixteen-year-old student a question like that.

  “I mean, do you find yourself drawn to relics from an earlier time? Tools that were used by extinct peoples, technology from past decades, clothes that were worn by people now dead?”

  Nolan doesn’t answer her. Instea
d, he turns pale. I eye his obviously vintage leather jacket. As soon as Ms. Wilde walks away I’m going to tell him that I like vintage clothes too.

  But Ms. Wilde doesn’t walk away. Instead, she hovers at our table, waiting for an answer.

  From across the room a student shouts, “Ms. Wilde, are we out of charcoal?” But our teacher doesn’t even look away from Nolan’s collage. “Ms. Wilde?” our classmate repeats, louder this time. Instead of answering, she leans closer to Nolan’s collage.

  “Ms. Wilde?” I prompt. She turns sharply from Nolan’s collage to me, as though noticing my presence here for the first time. “I think, ummm—” I don’t know the name of the student across the room. “I think she needs you over there.”

  “Tabitha Chin,” Nolan supplies. “Tabitha was asking for more charcoal.”

  Ms. Wilde shakes her head. I get the idea that she’s not particularly interested in what her students are asking for. But Tabitha stands up and walks over to our table. She taps Ms. Wilde on the shoulder, finally forcing her to take her eyes off of me.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I really wanted to finish this sketch before next period. I couldn’t find any fresh charcoal in the supply closet.” Tabitha pushes a few strands of her dark hair behind her ear.

  Across the room the other students at her table giggle. I may not have spoken to anyone in this class besides Nolan, but I’m pretty sure we all agree on one thing: Ms. Wilde is the weirdest teacher we’ve ever had. She might be the weirdest teacher anyone’s ever had. She lets out a sigh as she walks across the room with Tabitha, off in search of sketching charcoal.

  “Lucky,” Nolan mutters once she’s out of earshot.

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  “Why’s that?”