by Daren King
The girl tugged her braids. “I have to go now, or I’ll be in trouble.”
“All right,” I said. “My name is Humphrey, by the way. Humphrey Bump.”
“I can see why they call you Bump,” the girl said, glancing at the two bruised boys. “My name is Amelia. I have to run now, or I’ll be late for math.”
When I arrived home I found the girl ghosties baking cakes in the kitchen. Wither floated above the stove reading a spooky cookbook.
“You look happy,” Tabitha said.
“I had a good day at Still-Alive School,” I said, dumping my satchel on the kitchen table.
“Rather a short good day,” Wither said, checking the time on his pocket watch. “School begins at nine o’clock sharp. It is barely a minute after ten.”
“At least he went,” Agatha said. “Humphrey, tell us what happened.”
“I made friends with a still-alive girl,” I said, grabbing a handful of cherries.
Wither frowned. “But the still-alive children are meanies.”
“Not once you get to know them.”
“You should float to school again this afternoon,” Tabitha said, “before your new friend forgets who you are.”
“I’ll do that,” I said, and I did.
The trouble was, when I arrived at Still-Alive School there were so many children in the playground I thought I’d never find her.
“Amelia?” I yelled. “Is anyone friends with Amelia?”
Wherever I floated, children yelled mean things and ran away.
I’d almost given up when a familiar voice called out from a group of girl still-alives. I smiled a smile as big as a slice of raspberry pie. “Amelia!”
“Humphrey,” Amelia said, glancing round at her fleeing friends, “I can’t be friends with you. I’m sorry.”
“Oh,” I said, trying not to blub. “Well, I just thought you might like to share this chocolate bar. It’s ghost chocolate, so you won’t be able to eat it, but—”
“This is why we can’t be friends,” Amelia said. “You’re a ghost, and I’m still alive.”
“I wish I was still alive too,” I said, and I wisped off.
10
Eggs, Bacon, and Porridge
“I may be round,” I muttered as I rolled out of bed the next morning, “but I’m no quitter.”
Charlie passed his head through the bedroom door. “Talking to yourself, Humphrey Bump?”
“Knock before you pass through,” I said. “It’s the polite thing to do, and I might be getting dressed.”
“I tried knocking,” Charlie said, “but it’s rather a thin door and my knuckles passed through the wood.”
At breakfast, the grown-up ghosties asked me about my new friend.
“Is she pretty?” Charlie said, prying the lid from the marmalade jar.
Wither cracked the shell of a boiled egg. “Charlie, for one so polite, you possess frightfully poor manners.”
“Is she charming?” Pamela asked as she buttered the ghostly toast.
“Oh, and is she a nerd?” Agatha said. “I mean, is she clever?”
I didn’t say anything.
“At least tell us your new girlfriend’s name,” Agatha said, and she blew the steam from her porridge.
“Her name is Amelia,” I mumbled into my bacon and eggs, “but she isn’t my—”
“Just good friends,” Tabitha said with a wink.
“That wasn’t what I meant. When I talked to Amelia in the playground yesterday afternoon, she said she can’t be friends with a ghosty.”
“Oh, the meanness!” cried Wither, and he dunked toast into his egg yolk.
“Let’s face it,” Charlie said, “Still-Alive School just isn’t ready for a phantom pupil.”
The grown-up ghosties peered at me over their plates and bowls, and I felt like wisping away to my room and hiding under the bed.
Then Charlie lifted his hat from the table, flicked a crumb from the brim, and placed the hat on his head. “Except that Humphrey isn’t a quitter. Isn’t that right, Humphrey?”
I thought back to how brave I’d felt earlier that morning, when I rolled out of bed. “It’s time I packed my satchel,” I said, and I floated out to the hall.
“Good on you, Humphrey,” Tabitha said.
“What about your breakfast?” Charlie called.
“I want to arrive early,” I called back, “while there aren’t too many still-alives around.”
When I wisped down the ornate staircase, my school tie wafting behind me, I found Tabitha, Charlie, Wither, Agatha, and Pamela floating by the front door.
“We thought we’d come with you,” Agatha said. “If we put our haunted heads together—”
Tabitha clapped her hands, and the front door creaked open.
“I need to solve this problem for myself,” I said as the six of us floated out of the house.
“How mean,” said Wither, and he pursed his lips.
When I looked around, the grown-up ghosties had gone.
11
Bumping Lessons
As I floated across the empty playground, past the prickly bushes decorated with crisp packets and flowers, an idea struck.
My idea was that I’d wisp into one of the classrooms, find a seat at the back, and float above it doing addition. By the time the lesson started, the still-alives would be used to my ghostly presence, and they wouldn’t be mean to me.
That’s what it’s called when there’s a ghost in the room. A ghostly presence.
Wither told me that, and Wither is a poet.
I found a classroom with an open window and floated in.
When I opened my spooky satchel, five frightfully friendly ghosties wisped out.
“We’re here to help you make friends,” Agatha said.
“It was my idea,” Charlie said, and he held his hat to his chest.
“Charlie, don’t boast,” Agatha said. “It’s hardly the polite thing to do.”
“I did doff my trilby, Agatha.”
“Anyway,” Pamela said, hiding her eyes, “it was my idea, not Charlie Vapor’s.”
Wither folded his bony arms. “But I was the first ghosty to wisp into Humphrey’s satchel.”
“I’m sure we all thought of it together,” Tabitha said.
“Well,” I said, “I don’t care who thought of it. The idea stinks.”
The school bell buzzed, and Pamela screamed.
“What a frightful noise,” Agatha said, and she plugged her ears with her fingers.
“It’s time for lessons to start,” I said, “and you grown-up ghosties have ruined everything.”
“But we came to help,” Tabitha said.
“I don’t need your help. I just want the still-alive children to like me. If they see you, they’ll hate me more than ever.”
The classroom door opened, and a still-alive girl walked in. When she saw six frightfully friendly ghosties, she screamed and ran down the corridor.
“Told you,” I said, and I blew a raspberry. Wither held a bony finger to his lips. “Shh! Listen!”
We listened.
“Fatty-Fatty Pigtails! Fatty-Fatty Pigtails!” a voice called.
We turned to the window and could just make out three figures on the other side of the prickly hedge.
“That’s Amelia,” I said. “Those two boys are bullies.”
“You should bump them,” Charlie said with a wink.
“Amelia will certainly want to be friends if you rescue her from bullies,” Tabitha said.
“I’ve already tried that.”
“Then bump them again,” said Wither. “Some bullies need bumping twice.”
“Teach them a lesson!” Charlie yelled as I wisped out through the open window.
As I floated over the prickly hedge, another idea struck. I knew I couldn’t protect Amelia forever. Perhaps I could teach her to protect herself.
I wisped into Amelia’s left ear and whispered, “Bump them.”
“Humphrey,” Amelia said, “is
that you?”
“Yes,” I whispered. “Amelia, you have a round tummy, like me. Put it to good use and bump the bullies into the hedge.”
“I couldn’t, Humphrey. I’d get into trouble with the headmaster.”
Another idea struck, the third I’d had that day. I wisped out of Amelia’s left ear, took a deep breath, and bumped poor Amelia, sending her bouncing into the two boys, who landed upside down in the prickly hedge.
Inside the classroom, the five grown-up ghosties cheered.
“Humphrey,” Amelia said, brushing gravel from her knees, “we bumped the bullies.”
“Next time you’re bullied, you’ll know what to do,” I said, and I floated off, leaving Amelia smiling proudly.
12
The Still-Alive Headmaster
“I’m glad we decided to be friends,” Amelia said that afternoon. “School recess can be fun now.”
We sat together on a bench at the edge of the playground. Well, Amelia sat, and I floated.
“I can eat my ordinary chips,” Amelia said as she crunched, “and you can eat your ghost chips, and—”
“But, Amelia, you’re crying.”
“School is horrid,” Amelia said, and she blew her nose on her left braid.
“It needn’t be, now that we’re friends.”
Amelia shook her head. “There will always be bullying in this world, Humphrey, no matter who you’re friends with.”
“Bump them, like how I taught you.”
“There are some bullies who just can’t be bumped.”
“I’m not afraid of any bully,” I said, and I munched another creepy chip.
Amelia frowned, then looked at me and said, “You’d be afraid of this bully.”
“Why? Who is he?”
“The headmaster.”
I laughed, spilling chips down my blazer. “I bumped the Ghost Headmaster at Ghost School. No one bullies Humphrey Bump.”
“Didn’t you get into trouble?”
“He’d already expelled me,” I explained. “That’s why I’m here, at Still-Alive School.”
“Humphrey, I can’t get expelled. I’m top of the class in science. I plan to go to college.”
“Then you’d better stay out of his way,” I said, opening another bag of chips.
“I can’t,” Amelia said, and she began to cry again. “I have to see the headmaster today after school.”
“But why?”
Amelia sniffed into her chip bag, and said, “For bumping bullies.”
At last bell, I floated in through the window of the Still-Alive Headmaster’s office and wisped behind the potted plant.
As I peered out between the dusty green leaves, I heard a faint phantom blub.
“Wither,” I whispered, “is that you?”
“I’m hiding in the hem of the curtain,” Wither blubbed. “I wisped in, and now I can’t wisp out.”
“What do you mean, you can’t wisp out?”
“The Still-Alive Headmaster is mean,” Wither blubbed.
“You don’t get to be a headmaster without being mean, Wither.”
“This headmaster is so mean he makes other headmasters seem hardly mean at all.”
“But, Wither, why did you float into the Still-Alive Headmaster’s office in the first place?”
“I wanted to see how mean he was,” Wither said, and he blubbed.
The office door opened, and a girl walked in. “Humphrey,” Wither sniffed, “that girl looks familiar.”
“She’s my still-alive friend, Amelia,” I whispered. “Amelia has been sent to the headmaster for bumping bullies into the hedge.”
“That’s triple mean,” Wither blubbed. “The bullies were mean to Amelia, then Amelia was mean to the bullies, and now the Still-Alive Headmaster—”
“Keep quiet,” I whispered. “I want to hear what he says.”
From my hiding place behind the leaves of the potted plant, I could just make out the Still-Alive Headmaster sitting at his desk, and Amelia nervously biting her fingernails.
“Well?” the Still-Alive Headmaster yelled. “What do you have to say for yourself, child?”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Amelia said. “Um, it won’t happen again, and—”
“Not good enough, child!” the headmaster yelled, his face the color of a beet.
Amelia backed away as the Still-Alive Headmaster stood from his chair and leaned toward her across the desk, jabbing the air with a spiny finger.
“Lines!” the Still-Alive Headmaster yelled. “Ten thousand, in your neatest handwriting. Fifty hours litter duty. And two hours of detention each day for a month.”
“Oh, the meanness!” Wither blubbed, and he wisped up from the hem of the curtain and floated out through the office window.
For a moment the Still-Alive Headmaster looked almost afraid. “What in heaven’s name was that?”
“A friend of a friend,” Amelia said, and she walked out of the Headmaster’s office with a smile.
13
Who’s Afraid of Humphrey Bump?
“Haven’t you noticed,” Amelia whispered on Wednesday afternoon, “how unhappy everyone is?”
“I’m sure they’d rather be out riding their bicycles in the sun,” I said, peering out from Amelia’s satchel. “Anything other than opening their math books.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Amelia sat at her desk and lowered the satchel to the floor. “School days are supposed to be the best days of your life. Ever since this new headmaster arrived last semester, I’ve not seen one cheerful face.”
I broke a chunk from a ghostly chocolate bar and popped it into my mouth.
“And look at how tired everyone is, Humphrey.”
I peered out of the satchel and glanced around the classroom. Two of the boys had their heads in their arms. One girl was snoring loudly. “They stayed up late watching cartoons, I guess.”
“Cartoons? Humphrey, after a day of lessons, followed by five hours of homework, I doubt they can keep their eyes open.”
“Five hours of homework?”
“Headmaster’s rules,” Amelia whispered. The room fell silent as the Still-Alive Headmaster strode in on his long, mean legs. He glanced around the classroom, and then pointed at a boy in the front row. “You, child, where is the teacher?”
“You—you fired her, sir,” the boy stammered.
“Raise your hand when you speak, child,” the headmaster yelled, and the boy raised his hand. “You’re expelled. Gather your pencils, child, and get out.”
“You can’t expel a boy for forgetting to raise his hand,” I whispered.
“We’re lucky he’s in a good mood,” Amelia whispered back, “or he’d have expelled the entire class.”
“He can’t do that!”
“It’s happened before, Humphrey. I told you the headmaster was a bully.”
“Well, it’s got to stop,” I said.
“Humphrey,” Amelia gasped, “what are you going to do?”
“You’ve heard of things that go bump in the night? Well, I’m going to go bump in the daytime, right here in this math classroom.”
“You’ll get yourself into trouble.”
I loosened my school tie. “What can he do, expel me?”
“Just be careful, Humphrey.”
“He’s the one who should be careful,” I said, and I wisped out from Amelia’s satchel. The still-alive children screamed and ran out of the classroom, and the Still-Alive Headmaster backed into the corner. I took a deep breath and gave the Still-Alive Headmaster the bumpiest bump I’d ever bumped.
“Ghostly child,” the headmaster said, straightening his hairpiece, “surely you can bump me better than that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Must try harder,” the Still-Alive Headmaster said, and he walked out of the classroom.
“But that was my best-ever bump,” I said, tugging a jam doughnut from my blazer pocket. I’d intended to bump him again, but somehow I’d lost heart.
“Perhaps you don’t need to bump him,” Amelia said from the doorway. “You’re a ghost, Humphrey. Most people find ghosts terrifying.”
“I’d forgotten about that,” I said, and I wisped down the corridor, wriggling my transparent bits and making a mean face.
The Still-Alive Headmaster just stood there shaking his head—pitifully,
I think.
“I’m a ghost,” I said. “Aren’t you afraid?”
“Not in the least,” the Still-Alive Headmaster said, and he walked away.
14
Humphrey’s Speech
Thursday morning, as I floated across the field to Still-Alive School, I bumped into Wither.
“I thought you’d stopped all that bumping nonsense,” Wither said.
“Sorry.”
I told Wither about what had happened with the Still-Alive Headmaster in the math classroom.
“Some still-alives are afraid of ghosties,” I said, “but not this still-alive. I wriggled my transparent bits and he didn’t bat an eyelid.”
Wither rubbed his chin. “And you bumped him, you say?”
“Left, right, and center,” I said, picking an apple from a nearby apple tree.
“He must be afraid of something. Every still-alive is afraid of something.”
“Well,” I said, “he did look afraid when you wisped out from his curtains. Only for a moment, and then he sort of pulled himself together.”
“Hmm,” Wither said. “It seems to me that this mean-spirited still-alive is indeed afraid of ghosties, but only a bit.”
“What are you getting at?” I said, crunching the rosy apple.
“It’s like this. Let’s say I’ve just penned a quite-good poem. If I wish to lift the poem to greatness, I simply write a further two hundred verses.”
“But that makes the poem worse,” I said.
“Your poetry is drivel. The less of it there is, the better.”
Wither didn’t seem to hear. I think he was lost in a poetic reverie or something.
I tossed the half-eaten apple into a hedge. “Wither, I know you’re trying to help—”
