“Tabitha distracted her before Ms. Wilde could comment on your project.”
“She probably wouldn’t have liked it anyway. All this glitter and confetti aren’t nearly deathly enough for her taste.”
Nolan nods. Now Ms. Wilde is holding up Tabitha’s sketch—a vase—asking whether it’s meant to be a metaphor for the containers in which we live, how fleeting our bodies are, fragile as glass.
“No,” Tabitha shakes her head, “I just thought it was a pretty vase.”
Looking disappointed, Ms. Wilde drops the sketch back onto the table and moves on.
“Guess she’s not interested in pretty things,” I say. Some of the blue glitter from my collage must have stuck to her shawl as she leaned over me; she practically sparkles under the fluorescent lights as she moves from student to student.
“That woman looks for death in everything,” Nolan shrugs. “Give her time. She’ll find a way to argue that your glitter is a symbol of something maudlin.” He points to the left side of my collage and puts on a high-pitched voice. “We start out young and sparkly, but the passage of time ravages us, until we fade away.” He points to the other—so far, glitter-free—side of my project.
“Well, I can’t have that,” I say jokingly, upending a jar of glitter all over the other side of the collage. I lean down to blow away the excess.
And promptly unleash a storm of glitter all over Nolan.
“Ohmygosh, ohmygosh,” I stammer, standing up. “I’m such an idiot. I didn’t put glue down before I sprinkled the glitter.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Nolan says, standing up to brush the glitter from his jacket.
I run to the back of the classroom and grab a stack of paper towels. “I’m so so so so so sorry. Sunshine strikes again,” I moan, rushing to his side. The rest of the class seems utterly oblivious to the emergency going on down at our end of the table.
“Really, Sunshine, it’s okay. Believe me, this jacket has been through worse than a glitter bomb.”
“But it’s literally the nicest jacket in the entire world and I had to go and—”
“Really?” Nolan grins. “You like it?”
“Are you kidding?” I ask, reaching out to brush some of the glitter away. The leather is warm under my fingers, wrinkled and ridged from what looks like decades of use. I bet it has that amazing old smell, the kind you can usually only find along the spines of ancient books or inside antique furniture. I lean a bit closer, just to get a whiff, even though it must make me seem like the weirdest girl in the entire world, even stranger than Ms. Wilde.
But before I can inhale I draw back. I step away from him and head back to my side of the table. “Here,” I say, holding out the paper towels, far enough away from him that I have to straighten my arm for him to reach them.
Okay, seriously, what the heck just happened? One second I was the weirdest girl in the world because I wanted to smell an old jacket, and now I’m the weirdest girl in the world because as soon as I got close enough to sniff said jacket, I felt the irresistible urge to pull away.
Something is seriously wrong with me.
I’ve never been boy-crazy like Ashley. I’ve never even been boy-mildly-insane. Back in Austin, a few days after my birthday, Ashley dragged me to one last sweaty Texas party. She said I had to get my first kiss while I was still on southern soil. I ended up dancing with Evan Richards, a boy I kind of knew from history class. He was perfectly nice and cute and willing, and by the end of the evening his hands were on my hips and butterflies were in my stomach as his face drew close to mine. And I was ready. I mean, at the very least I thought I should get my first kiss over with already like Ashley suggested. But at the last second I pulled away. It didn’t feel right.
Ashley said later that my expectations were too high; she thinks I want to be swept off my feet like a Jane Austen heroine. “It’s just a kiss, Sunshine,” she’d moaned. “You’re probably the last sixteen-year-old in America with virgin lips.”
Maybe she was right. Maybe I expect too much. Don’t be ridiculous, Ashley would say if she were here. Stop wasting your time on ghosts and ghouls and wacky feelings, Sunshine, she’d add, concentrate on that boy instead.
Which is why I will never tell Ashley that being close to Nolan feels like I’m a magnet pressing up against the wrong side of another magnet.
“Sunshine? Earth to Sunshine?”
I look up. Nolan has taken all the paper towels from my outstretched arm. I drop my hand, folding my arms across myself.
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “Just spaced out there for a second.”
“No worries,” Nolan shrugs. “And seriously, don’t worry about the jacket. Like I’ve said, it’s been through a lot worse, believe me. You don’t get to be this old without a few bumps and bruises.” He slides the jacket off and holds it up, twisting the arms so I can see the dark brown spot on the left side. “See that? That’s a patch from when my grandfather literally burned off the left elbow by leaving this thing too close to a campfire.” He swings the jacket onto the table, splayed open so I can see the silky brown lining inside. “And see that?” he says, pointing to a seam along the collar, “That’s where my grandmother had to sew in a whole new lining when my grandfather’s dog chewed out the old one.”
“It belonged to your grandfather?” I say, reaching out to trace the lining with my finger. His grandmother’s stitches are perfect—tight and precise.
Nolan nods, his voice dropping so Ms. Wilde won’t hear. “It freaked me out when she asked about dead people’s clothes. Like maybe she’s a mind reader or something.”
“Don’t let Ms. Wilde freak you out,” I say. “She’s just our kooky art teacher, not a psychic.”
Nolan nods, but he looks unconvinced.
“Plenty of people wear used clothes,” I add quickly, unwrapping my scarf from my neck. “I got this at a vintage shop back in Austin.” I hold it out. “Who knows what happened to the person who owned it before I did, right?”
Nolan nods, pulling his jacket off the table and sliding back into it. He sits back on his stool, so I sit on mine too. “Actually, after my grandfather passed away, my grandmother sent half his clothes to a vintage store.”
“What happened to the other half?”
Nolan grins. “Somehow or another it all ended up in my closet. Though I never wear anything but the jacket.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not sure. Guess nothing else ever fit this well.”
I smile. “Then why keep it all?”
Nolan smiles. “My grandfather was my favorite person. I was pretty wrecked when he passed away. Guess I was just trying to hold on to him, you know?”
I nod, but the truth is, I don’t know. My mom’s parents were gone long before I came along, and I’ve literally never known anyone who has died, certainly not well enough to miss them. I never really gave much thought to what happens after we die. Well, not until we moved to Ridgemont and I started sharing a room with a ghostly presence who I’m pretty sure likes to play with my toys.
“What was he like?” I ask.
“He was kind of a weird old guy, but I loved him,” Nolan smiles a sad sort of smile, then shrugs. “I don’t know. He was just my grandfather. He’d lived in Washington State his whole life and could trace our family back for a half-dozen generations. His own great-grandfather had crossed the country on the Oregon Trail.”
“Wow.”
“I know. There’s actually a street named after him in Portland. My grandfather kept a framed photo of the street sign on his desk.” He pauses. “I haven’t really ever talked about this with anyone. He only passed away six months ago.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say softly.
“I asked my grandmother if I could have the photo, but she said no. In fact, pretty much the only thing she was willing to part with was his clothes.”
“So you took whatever part of him you could.”
Nolan shrugs. “I guess. I don’t know. Maybe. Or
maybe . . . I know, it sounds insane, but maybe part of me thought he might show up one day, looking for his stuff.”
I nod, smiling. Right now it doesn’t sound so insane to me.
CHAPTER SIX
Night Terrors
It’s already dark when I walk home from school (not that it was ever all that light to begin with), and the houses closest to school glow and twinkle beneath a layer of Halloween decorations. But the closer I get to our house, the fewer the decorations. I guess there’s no need for inflatable ghosts and iridescent skeletons when it’s already so creepy here.
Anyway, I don’t think there are any kids around to trick-or-treat. I considered hanging a black cat on our front door, but it seemed kind of pointless. Our driveway is so long and surrounded by hedges that no one but Mom and me would even see it, and I don’t exactly need a reminder that Halloween is less than a week away. Besides, Mom is so busy that she probably wouldn’t even notice it.
Lex and Oscar greet me when I open the door. I make sure there’s water in their bowls and tell them it’s nearly suppertime before trudging up the stairs to my room. I brace myself before opening the door, wondering what kind of disaster awaits me on the other side, but today, at least, my room is in the same condition it was in when I left it this morning.
Well, almost the same condition. As I step inside and slip off my backpack, I see that someone retrieved my checkerboard from the closet and set it up in the center of the bed, black checkers arranged neatly on one side, red on the other.
For some reason seeing just the one game set up neatly on the bed is even creepier than when I opened the door to find every single toy I owned strewn across the room. This is so much more specific. I take a deep breath, the cold air chilling my lungs.
This is someone asking me to play with her.
I’ve decided the ghost must be a ten-year-old girl. I mean, not in real years. For all I know, it’s been a hundred years since she died, so maybe technically she’s 110 years old. But I think she must have been around ten when she died. She seems to want to play board games most of all—they’re on top of the piles of scattered toys in my room—and I feel like that’s the kind of thing you get into around fifth grade, right?
All I have to do is take a few steps across the room, reach out my arm, and move a single checker, and the game will begin, right? But then what? Would an invisible hand move a piece on the other side?
Before I can do anything I hear the sound of the front door opening and closing, of Oscar barking with excitement. I turn and run from my room, the checkerboard almost forgotten on the bed. Because, honestly, Mom coming home at a reasonable hour might actually be even more miraculous than a ghost trying to play with me.
“Will wonders never cease!” I shout, running into the kitchen and throwing my arms around her.
“I’m taking the night off,” Mom says, grinning. “It’s been too long since we’ve had a proper girls’ night.” She heaves a bag of groceries onto the kitchen counter.
“Are you cooking?” Since we moved to Ridgemont, it’s been a lot of take-out and microwave dinners.
“Roast chicken,” she says with a smile.
“Ladies and gentleman, meet Katherine Griffith!” I shout in a game show host kind of voice. “She’s a mother, she’s a nurse, she’s a . . . five-star chef!”
Mom curtsies. “I’m a woman of many talents, Sunshine. What can I say?”
I rush through my homework, feeling grateful that the Ridgemont school system is about six months behind the Austin school system so I can breeze through at least half of my assignments and be done in time to set the table and mash the potatoes. After dinner we pile the dishes in the sink—“Let’s clean up in the morning,” Mom says—and curl up together on the couch, arguing over which of us is hogging the blanket.
We’re watching The Tonight Show when it happens. At first it doesn’t seem like much: the lights flicker, the TV turns off and on.
“That was weird,” Mom says, and I shrug, trying to ignore the fact that I’m suddenly freezing, despite the fact that I won our earlier blanket battle. I slide across the couch and rest my head against her chest like I’m ten years old myself and silently beg my little friend not to play any of her games tonight.
Please, I plead. Please just let me have this one nice night with Mom.
But then the lights flicker again, and this time they don’t turn back on.
Please, I plead again. I promise to play checkers or Monopoly or Go Fish or whatever you want with you tomorrow.
“A storm must have taken down the power lines,” Mom says, sitting up.
“What storm?” I say. It’s raining, but there’s no thunder or lightning. “There’s not even any wind tonight.”
“Not again, Sunshine!” she groans, the littlest bit of a smile playing at the edges of her lips.
I fold my arms across my chest with a huff. “Not again what?”
“I know you’re just dying to blame this on your ghosts. But you know as well as I do that blackouts happen all the time.”
“Not ghosts,” I mumble into the darkness. “Ghost. One ghost. I told you. I think it’s a little girl.”
“I know. A laughing little girl about ten years old.”
“It’s not just laughing, Mom, I swear. She wants to play with me.”
“Sweetie, I know you’re lonely. But believe me, you’re going to make friends at your new school soon, and the idea of this ghostly playmate will disappear.”
I look at her seriously. “She’s a ghost, not my imaginary friend.”
“I don’t want to argue with you, sweetheart. Let’s find some candles.”
Mom reaches for my hand in the dark, and together we walk toward the kitchen. The blanket slides to the floor, and I shiver.
“Ow!” I shout suddenly as I bang my shin.
“You okay?”
“Coffee table.”
“You sure it wasn’t your ghost?”
“Very funny.”
We take another step. Moonlight streams in through the kitchen windows so that the countertops and floor seem to glow. Oscar and Lex are curled up on the floor, fast asleep. “At least the blackout isn’t bothering them,” Mom says.
She pulls candles and a book of matches from the junk drawer in the kitchen and sets about lighting them. But no matter how many times she tries, the matches won’t light.
“What the heck?”
“Let me try,” I offer, reaching for the matches, but once they’re in my hands, I know it’s hopeless. Because they’re wet.
“Must be a leak or something,” Mom says, shrugging. She takes the matches from my hands and goes back to her futile attempts to light them. As if on cue, a drop of water splashes onto my nose.
“Where did that come from?” I ask, looking up. We’re on the first floor. Even if the roof is leaking, we shouldn’t be able to feel it down here. I pull my phone from my pocket and shine its flashlight on the ceiling.
“Mom?” I ask. “Did you leave the water on upstairs or something?”
Mom looks up and gasps. The ceiling above us is soaking wet, drops of water beading across the cream-colored paint and falling to the floor. “Did you take a shower when you got home from school?” We’re directly below the bathroom. “Maybe you left the water running.”
I shake my head. I haven’t even been on the second floor since she got home—didn’t want to see the checkerboard waiting for me.
Then I hear it, a sound coming from above.
“Mom,” I whisper urgently, but she’s frozen in place. “Mom,” I repeat, but she shakes her head, her hair brushing my face as her head moves back and forth.
“Do you hear that?” she whispers, and I nod.
It’s the most terrible sound I’ve ever heard. Not laughter. Not Night-night. Not the sound of my things being arranged in the room above us. Not even the sound of water running. Instead, it’s the sound of crying. But it’s like no crying I’ve ever heard before.
&n
bsp; She’s not crying, I realize with a start. She’s begging. And suddenly, she screams.
Mom turns from the kitchen and makes a dash for the stairs.
“There’s a little girl up there!” she shouts, and I follow. “We have to help her!”
Mom opens the door to my room first. Because of the tree blocking my window, only the smallest sliver of light streams in from the moon outside. Actually, wait, not the moon. I walk to the window and peer out through the branches: our neighbors’ lights are on.
“Mom,” I say softly, “I don’t think it’s a blackout—”
But she just turns around and runs into her own room.
“Where is she?” Mom shouts desperately. “She’s not in either of our rooms.”
The crying is louder, and louder still. Please. Please. Please!
As the cries get louder, it becomes clear: the sounds are coming from the bathroom.
Mom and I crouch down onto the floor and crawl to the bathroom door. Mom reaches for the knob and starts to turn it. I brace myself for what we’re going to see on the other side.
Maybe it won’t be that bad. Maybe it will be like Alice in Wonderland. Maybe the ghost is crying so hard that she’s drowning in her own tears, flooding the floor beneath her.
Can ghosts even cry?
“It’s locked.” Mom drops her hand.
“What?” I reach up and try the knob for myself. The metal is cold and slick with condensation. “How can it be locked?”
“Whoever’s inside must have locked it,” Mom says, pulling herself up to stand. She presses her body against the door like she thinks she can knock it down.
I shake my head. “That lock is broken, remember? You were going to call the landlord and ask him to fix it?”
I shine the light from my phone on her face. Her skin is about three shades paler than usual, practically blue.
A sound makes me drop the phone, plunging us into darkness.
Splashing. But not the sound of a little kid splashing around in the bathtub having fun.
On the other side of the bathroom door someone is trying to keep her head above water. Trying and failing.
Splash. Splash. Splash.
The Haunting of Sunshine Girl Page 5
