by Lee Nichols
“I hate quizzes,” I mouthed.
“Emma,” Mr. Sakolsky said. “No whispering.”
I put my head down and began working on the problems, but ghost-man distracted me. Don’t you have better things to do? I asked.
I could haunt the staff lounge.
Please do.
But he didn’t. He loomed beside me, making concentration impossible. So I finally asked, You taught here?
Best years of my life.
How did you die, anyway? Is that rude to ask?
He shook his head. I loved everything about Thatcher: the teaching, the students, the campus. I poured my soul into my work. And when I felt a heart attack coming on, in that corner right there—he pointed to where Mr. Sakolsky was sitting at his desk—I didn’t want to go. I wasn’t ready. I fought death every step of the way.
And you won.
With a wry smile, he said, This isn’t life. I lost, but I remained in this form. I’ve regretted it ever since.
I heard his voice in my head, the deep timbre, the old-fashioned posh accent. I sympathized with him, but was I supposed to be helping ghosts? I had no idea. So I finished one of the trig problems instead and circled my answer.
You could send me back, couldn’t you? he said.
Back where?
To my body. I’m buried across town. Dispel me.
That’d be like killing you. I could never! Plus, I don’t know how.
I was totally freaked out by the idea. Dispelling was the only thing about Bennett I wasn’t sure I liked.
I’m already dead. I’m bored. It wasn’t bad when they were still teaching history in this room, but I despise trigonometry. You could help me. I’m ready now.
I finished my quiz. The answer is no. Now go away. I shooed at him with my hands. He looked completely miffed and dematerialized.
Coby looked at me, wondering why I was waving at him.
“Fly,” I mouthed.
At lunchtime, I walked with Coby and Sara toward the cafeteria. Coby teased me about acing the Trig quiz as Sara deflected the attention of two sophomore boys who’d clearly dared each other to talk to her.
As we turned the corner, a janitor loomed in front of me, mopping the floor. I yelped and sidestepped, and Coby laughed. “Emma! Drunk again?”
“What? I didn’t want to”—to stumble into the ghostly janitor nobody else saw?—“to start drinking so early, but I needed to numb myself from the pain of fencing.” I laughed nervously.
The janitor tipped his cap to me as we continued past, and I noticed a few more ghosts in the crowded hallways. It was like now that I knew I was a ghostkeeper, so did all the ghosts. I’d already been heckled by two idiot ghost boys during Fencing, who appeared shortly after I started sparring with Kylee, the twig-armed girl.
Watch out, one of them told me, you’re getting beaten by a girl.
A weak girl, the other one said.
“Fleche!” the coach called. “No, no—the hit lands before the rear foot touches the floor.”
Kylee slipped past my guard.
Oh! Clumsy, clumsy.
Go away! I dropped into en garde position and shooed them, just like I had the man in the brown suit. The look on their faces was similar to that of Anatole’s when Martha had compelled him to make eggs. Was it possible I’d compelled them away?
“Emma Vaile,” the coach said. “What on earth are you doing? We’re fencing, not fanning ourselves. I know you’re new, but please concentrate.”
Easier said than done. Carrying on a conversation in the dining room proved a challenge, with all the ghosts vying for my attention. I needed to ask Martha how I could tune them out. In the meantime, a combination of asking nicely and, when that didn’t work, pushing them away with my mind seemed to do the trick. And somehow I got through World Literature and Western Civ without making a fool of myself.
Still, I was completely fed up with the entire ghostly world by the time I got home. Unfortunately, Martha had other ideas. I’d hardly changed out of my uniform before she set me to work on my ghostkeeping skills.
She shepherded me into the ballroom, where the three resident ghosts stood against the wall, looking peeved.
What’s going on? I asked Celeste.
She’s on a—how do you say it? A rampage, mademoiselle! With ze cleaning and ze sorting and ze rummaging through old boxes …
Martha consulted one of her lists from this morning. “We’ve a great deal to cover today, Emma.”
And me, she had scouring pots and pans, Anatole said. Moi!
“First introduce yourself,” Martha told me. “By the end of the evening, they should know your name.”
You are Miss Emma, of course we know, Celeste said. She must think we are ze idiots.
And tell her I am a cook, not a scullery maid! This ridiculous woman!
“Is Anatole saying something?”
“Um, yes—he says they know my name.”
“Why is Celeste rolling her eyes?” Martha asked.
“She, erm—she says I’m Miss Emma.”
How about you? I asked Nicholas. How are you doing?
Spent all day rootin’ around in the chimneys, mum. Do you know how many chimneys there are in this house?
“Their accents are funny,” I told Martha. “Sort of off, like their clothing.”
No offense, I told the ghosts.
Fah, do we care? Anatole said. I am only relieved to have someone who understands us again.
Oui, said Celeste. It has been too long.
“Communicators often say that,” Martha said. “I think our preconceptions affect how we see them—and hear them. We project our expectations on them.”
Tell her I need a new chimney brush, said Nicholas. And more toys. I’ve seen what the children bring when they come …
Celeste tsked. You need less time playing and more time on ze chores.
Aw, Celeste!
Ze boots do not shine themselves!
Oh, is that why my boots look so good? I asked. Thanks!
“What are they saying?” Martha said. “Do you understand anything?”
I started translating, and Martha nodded slowly. “So I guess they know your name.” She told me to quiz them about their lives, and I related what I learned.
Nicholas had died of consumption (Martha had to explain that was tuberculosis, he hadn’t actually been consumed by anyone). He’d vowed to take care of his little sister, whom he’d promised he’d never leave. He lingered for her.
Celeste had fallen in love with the son in a neighboring house, who got her pregnant, then put her out on the street, where she had died of exposure. Her child had not survived.
Jerk, I said.
Oui!
Anatole had succumbed to bad eggs. Literally, food poisoning.
After an hour, my mind blurred with exhaustion. I began to have trouble communicating with the ghosts and they with me. It was as though I’d been conversing in a foreign language and started forgetting the translation. I was ready for a break.
Martha ended the lessons and we went to the kitchen for tea. I noticed her getting that intense look on her face that meant she was about to compel Anatole to start the kettle. His mustache bristled with offense.
“I’ll make the tea,” I said, and told Anatole he could start on dinner. I took a teapot and two cups with saucers from the cabinet and turned to ask Martha what kind of tea she’d like.
She was staring thoughtfully at me. “You’re not like other ghostkeepers, Emma. I don’t know if it’s because you weren’t raised knowing your talent, or it’s just who you are.”
I thought about that. My powers grew stronger every day. Martha wanted to help me, but I wasn’t sure where I was headed. Maybe that’s what made me different. I didn’t take the ghosts for granted. And I didn’t know what my purpose in all this was. Martha and Bennett seemed sure of their roles; I didn’t know if I’d ever be.
“Emma,” she said softly, taking my hand. “Sometimes this
path is so difficult and I know you’ve been hurt—badly hurt—by your family. I’m sure they had their reasons … but you have reasons, too. To be angry, wary of all that’s going on. It must be hard for you to trust me, or even yourself.”
I nodded through a thin veil of tears. Why does it hurt more sometimes to have someone understand you, to sympathize, than to soldier on as though nothing’s wrong?
“I promise, Emma, I will never leave you without telling you why. And as long as I’m here, I’m going to help you be the best Emma Vaile you can be.”
“You mean the best ghostkeeper?”
“No. I mean the best Emma.”
I guess that was really my problem: I didn’t know who I wanted to be or how ghostkeeping was going to fit into my life. Was I suddenly supposed to make a career out of this? Or was it just a really awkward hobby?
Martha seemed set on forcing me to confront issues I wasn’t ready to deal with. So I murmured something noncommittal and slipped away.
I’d let her compel Anatole to make her tea when the kettle whistled.
I wasn’t ready to start my homework, but I wanted to stay in the sanctuary of the house. I was afraid if I ventured into town I’d see those scary shadows again. So I wandered around aimlessly. First, I paced the library. Then I knocked the pool balls around in the billiard room until I felt a familiar tingle. It was probably Nicholas, looking for a game to play, but I didn’t want to face even him, not right now.
I went into what I decided must be Mr. Stern’s office. I’d already discovered Mrs. Stern’s upstairs. It was elegant and feminine, with beige walls and white woodwork, botanical prints and a spotless white desk. This one looked more lived-in, decorated in shades of blue and brown. Bookcases lined the walls, and I recognized many of the titles from my father’s shelves. I wondered if Bennett had read them all, just like Max.
Maybe it was time that I did, as well. So I took one from the shelf and flipped to the first page and read a sentence and put the book back. Too boring for words.
I sat at the desk and considered turning on the iMac, but that felt like an invasion of privacy. Instead, I spun in the chair. Feeling … I don’t know. At home. I’d never met Bennett’s father, but I liked his office. Comfortable and uncluttered—with a botanical print that matched one in his wife’s office, which I found sweet.
I liked the big globe on a wooden stand and the pictures of Bennett and his sister on the bookshelf. I even liked the pair of swords displayed crosswise on the opposite wall: thicker than our fencing foils, with slight curves and vicious-looking edges.
I stood and crossed to the swords, feeling the telltale pinpricks in my limbs that meant something ghostly was about to happen. But this time, I didn’t just let it happen. I pushed forward and embraced it. I lifted one of the swords from the wall and fell into that tremendous whoosh that transported me back in time.
The world spun into a blur, then slowed—slower and slower until the rose garden outside formed around me. It was suddenly summer, the roses alive with color and scent, and my heart beat quickly in my chest.
No. In Emma’s chest—the original Emma. No corset this time, the dress was loose and light, designed for motion. The sword hilt fit perfectly in my palm, exquisitely well-balanced. The man facing me was quick and dark. Despite his coloring, he reminded me for a moment of Bennett. Then his features resolved into those of the Rake.
He held the matching sword aloft, mocking me with his smile. And I felt—she felt—a jumble of emotions—passion and longing and sorrow—as I lunged forward.
We engaged blades and the Rake fell back. Triumph rose within me. Until with a twist of his wrist he knocked the sword from my hand. Yet for some reason, his expression looked like surrender as the tingling started again and—
Whoosh.
I was back to myself, standing in the center of the office, the sword lying on the floor at my feet. I grabbed the hilt and crossed the hall to the ballroom. The Rake—the ghost of the Rake—watched me from the piano, and I moved toward him. He looked different than in Emma’s memory, the lines in his face etched deeper, his eyes more guarded. I couldn’t figure out what he was doing here. Neither Bennett nor Martha had ever mentioned him. Was he purposely hiding from them?
His eyes flicked to the sword in my hand, then to my face. He raised a finger, telling me to stay still, then he circled behind me, his gaze intent, measuring me with his eyes.
I’m Emma. I watched myself in the reflection of one of the windows. I stood alone. Now you’re supposed to tell me your name.
There was a chill in my right hand, which held the sword. I looked down and saw his hand superimposed on mine. I looked at his face, and he shook his head, nodding to our intertwined hands, moving his thumb and forefinger.
Showing me how to grip the sword?
That’s starting to hurt, I told him.
He withdrew his hand. I flexed mine until the blood returned, then changed my grip on the hilt. It was completely different from how I’d been taught at school, and for the first time the sword felt comfortable in my hand.
Oh, I said.
He gestured for me to continue.
I dropped into en garde position, feet shoulder-width apart, front foot straight and back foot sideways, my right arm loose and my left sticking out at shoulder height like a chicken wing. Then I bent my knees and tried to relax, like Coach told us.
The Rake narrowed his eyes, then flicked his wrist at me. His hand caught the flat of the blade and sent it twisting from my grip, clattering across the room.
You hold the blade, he said, like a girl—
So you do talk!
When I have something to say. His voice sounded low and hoarse in my mind, like he hadn’t used it in ages.
You ghosts are so sexist. I’ll have you know that women fight in armies now and—and that Resident Evil chick kicks ass.
En garde, he said.
I dropped back into position.
Caress the hilt with your thumb. Feel the warmth of the metal. The smith who forged that sword knew something of love.
I wriggled my thumb around, feeling ridiculous. Where exactly was the love supposed to be?
He sighed again. Come.
I lunged at him, and he swatted the sword with the back of his hand.
Would you at least use your sword?! I said.
I will teach you how to … kick ass, Emma Vaile. He curled his fingers at me, waving me toward him. Again.
I lunged and lunged until my quadriceps and calves burned. The entire right side of my body throbbed with a deep ache. Then he made me start over, holding the sword in my left hand.
Curt and demanding, the nameless rake gave me a total workout. If only I could videotape a ghost, we’d make millions selling the exercise routine.
Finally, he said, That’s enough. You learn quickly.
I collapsed on a bench, sweaty and aching. Why am I doing this?
To stay alive.
God save me from overdramatic ghosts. You taught her, too. The first Emma?
His dark eyes turned darker. Yes.
To help her stay alive? I asked, setting the sword beside me.
No, he said. To betray her.
When I raised my head, he was gone.
17
I was quiet through dinner, letting Martha carry most of the conversation about cataloging items Celeste had found in the attic. Then she pushed a Game Boy across the table toward me.
“Don’t think I’ll be adding this to my list,” she said.
It must have belonged to Bennett. I hadn’t seen one in ages and couldn’t resist flipping it on. It came to life with a distinctly digital noise that clashed with the elegance of the dining room.
“Emma, not at the table.”
“Sorry.” I slipped it under my napkin, after confirming Tetris had loaded.
Martha kept the evening light, telling funny stories of the crazy kids she’d known—and their crazier parents. I wondered how life would’ve
been different if I’d grown up with her.
I didn’t say much, but headed upstairs refreshed. I finished my homework, checked my messages, then fell into bed, exhausted despite the early hour.
Just as I was dozing off, I heard a tack, tack, tack.
I mumbled, “Celeste?”
Tack. Tack.
“G’way, I’m sleeping.”
Pock!
What the hell? I sat up and looked for the ghost responsible. Nobody around. Then a shower of pebbles—or marbles—bounced off my window.
Nicholas! I summoned him.
Evenin’, mum, he said, hovering just inside the doorway.
Would you not call me “mum”?
Sorry, mum, he said. Need them boots of yours polished?
No, I need sleep. Stop knocking your marbles against the window or—
And another shower of gravel hit the windowpane.
Not me, mum.
Nicholas, I’m not old enough to be a mum or ma’am or whatever it is you’re saying. Call me Emma. I crossed to the window. And sorry for blaming you.
I pushed aside the curtains, and saw the old maple trees stretching toward the sky. The manicured lawn rolled gently toward the stone fence and streaks of silver clouds glowed in the moonlight.
Then I saw him, and my heart almost stopped: Coby standing under my window, glowing faintly.
Dead. The ghost of Coby. I heard an anguished sound, and realized it came from my own throat. I threw open the window as Coby stepped from the moonlight and stopped glowing.
“You’re alive!” I called to him.
He laughed two stories below me, in the gravel of the drive. “You’re not like other girls, are you?” he called up. “I never know what you’re gonna say.”
“Me either,” I told him. “What are you doing down there?”
“Trouble with my Trig homework. What’s the answer to five?”
“You lost your phone?”
“Your cell’s never on.”
“One second.”
I ducked back inside, and found Nicholas offering me my backpack. You’ve got a suitor, mum.
He’s not a suitor! I said, grabbing my pack.
I poked my head outside and called out the answer.
