The Girl and the Ghost

by Ebony McKenna

  Blood froze in Morgan’s veins. No way would George want his family secrets to go national. It was bad enough revealing to the whole class that he’d ended up in an unmarked grave. If George’s family shame went public it would kill him.

  ‘I can’t do that,’ Morgan said, ‘I promised George I’d protect his privacy. He said only you were allowed to see what I’d written because you’d respect the historical detail, but he didn’t want it going any further.’

  Mrs Edgars gave a shake of her head at the mention of George. ‘If it’s all your work, it goes into the prize. If you don’t enter it, I’ll assume you had help and the B minus stays.’

  At lunch, Kaz and Emma were excited for Morgan’s news about entering the prize.

  Olivia however, was despondent. ‘I never get that kind of encouragement. Why is it that the good ones get ignored and the strugglers get all the help?’

  ‘I’m not going to enter,’ Morgan said by way of reassurance. ‘But clearly you’re the world’s best history tutor because I’m really getting the hang of it.’

  Kaz tapped at her phone. ‘You should enter. The Ford Prize is pretty awesome. And your essay goes on their website and you get loads of books . . . ahhh, the school gets money and they get books as well. That’s why the teacher wants you to enter.’

  Emma looked through the pages at the back of Morgan’s essay. ‘Is this a picture of him?’

  Morgan nodded. ‘He looks much nicer when he smiles.’

  Her friends’ eyebrows all rose.

  ‘What? Everyone looks nicer when they smile,’ Morgan said. ‘Even you Kaz.’

  Emma leaned forward and put her hand on Morgan’s. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Course I’m all right.’ Morgan withdrew her hand.

  Emma’s head tilted to the side. ‘Do you have pervy dreams about him?’

  ‘No!’

  Kaz clicked her tongue. ‘Don’t get defensive.’

  Along with the phrase, ‘What’s got you in such a bad mood today?’ The words, ‘Don’t get defensive’, always put Morgan’s hackles up.

  ‘She’s blushing,’ Kaz said.

  ‘Am not.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Olivia looked at the videos on her screen. ‘Have you seen this?’

  It was the paparazzi pictures of Morgan at the cemetery. George didn’t appear in the photos.

  ‘You’ve gone viral,’ Emma said, looking at the array of memes featuring Morgan at the grave site.

  ‘The video set to music is my favourite,’ Kaz said.

  ‘That’s because you made it,’ Emma teased back.

  ‘Nah-ah,’ Kaz said, then looked at it. ‘Oh yeah, I did do that one.’

  Emma turned to Morgan and mouthed, ‘sorry’ to her.

  ‘These things have the shelf life of warm yoghurt,’ Olivia said. ‘By tomorrow it will all be about someone else.’

  Invisible walls closed in around her. The wider world would only ever see her as some kind of joke. A poor-little-rich-girl, soon to be waste-of-space party-girl.

  A new thought formed. Maybe . . . oh but it wouldn’t be fair on George. But if she entered and placed in that essay competition, it would show the school, and by extension the gossip-hungry tabloids that she was an ordinary student who worked hard.

  It would prove her visit to the cemetery was research, not some morbid publicity stunt.

  Morgan cleaned under her nails for a while and let everyone else babble on while she debated with herself what to do. She hated the spotlight, but at the same time she was actively putting George into full public glare. That made her a hypocrite. He might be a ghost, but he was still a real person, with feelings and emotions which could bruise just as easily as hers could.

  If she fought so hard to protect her own privacy, she should fight just as hard to protect George’s. To protect what they shared and keep things away from the public.

  Not because she was ashamed of him. The opposite was true. She cared for him, and caring for someone meant protecting their secrets.

  The pink chaise longue sat in dappled shade by the lake. Mid afternoon sunlight glittered on the water, grasses swayed in the breeze.

  Deeply inhaling the warm air, Morgan’s breath hitched. She was wearing the fussiest, corseted dress. The high-waisted skirt pinched her ribs. It flowed down to her ankles and then some, judging by the extra material tumbling to the ground as she stood up. Checking her back, yet more fabric bustled behind her. Her bottom looked enormous!

  On the plus side, the whole effect made her waistline look tiny. If only she could breathe.

  George walked towards her. Strong. Healthy. Whole. He drew her fingers to his lips and kissed them. Did he pull her closer or did she fall in to him? Then he kissed her lips, softly, magically. On a sigh he pulled away, his irises grew larger and blacker. Fresh colour filled his cheeks.

  ‘You are breathing new life into me,’ he said. ‘You are making me whole again.’

  Morgan jolted off the chaise. She woke on a choked breath, in her own bed, heart crashing behind her ribs. Sitting up in bed, her eyes darted around to see if any parts of the dream had crossed over into reality.

  The chaise sat empty under the window. George wasn’t in the room. Thank goodness he hadn’t witnessed her dreaming. What if she’d talked in her sleep or acted out the scene?

  Distant grinding noises told her somebody was making coffee in the kitchen. It must be morning. She lay back on the bed, staring at the dark ceiling. What chance did she have to recapture the dream? Probably zero, but she closed her eyes and did her best to get back into it.

  Morgan woke, groggy from plummeting into heavy sleep and springing out again. The beginnings of a virus niggled. Sore throat, heavy head, blocked nose and achey legs. George sat on the chaise. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Don’t come near me. I’m getting a cold.’

  ‘A bothersome sniffle is no match for me,’ he said with a wink.

  He had a point. Being dead, he didn’t have to worry about getting sick any more. Lucky devil.

  Heat spread over her cheeks and forehead as details of the dream came back to her. Then a horrible coldness spiked her as she thought about the meaning of his words. He’d said she was ‘breathing new life’ into him.

  Was it at the expense of hers?

  She had to be crazy to think like that. Maybe she’d been coming down with a cold so her imagination blamed George for it?

  ‘If you are developing a cold, shouldn’t you remain abed?’ George showed only concern. ‘Colds should not be dismissed.’

  ‘We have medicine now.’ Morgan’s tummy rumbled with hunger, a sign she couldn’t be that sick.

  In the kitchen she helped herself to a cold and flu tablet from the medicine shelf.

  Dave looked at her and curled his top lip. ‘You’ve got a face like a half-sucked mango.’

  Morgan cracked up laughing, then pressed her hands to the sides of her head. ‘I’m getting a cold. It’s revolting. Can you please make me one of those blended drinky thingeys?’

  ‘Which one? Oyster roadkill or pureed grass?’

  ‘Which one has zinc in it?’

  ‘Oysters it is.’

  ‘Good morning all!’ An overly cheerful voice called out as he came through the mudroom.

  ‘Hey Gareth.’ Morgan waved. He moved in to kiss her but she held him back with an upturned palm, ‘I’ve got a cold.’

  Gareth recoiled in horror. ‘My voice is my fortune.’ He blew air kisses instead.

  ‘Hello love!’ Rachelle strolled in, fully dressed, her make-up immaculate. ‘Thank you for coming over.’

  ‘It’s thrown my podcast schedule into chaos, but anything for you.’

  Dave put the glass of grey froth in front of Morgan. She drank quickly to avoid tasting it.

  Gareth made a face as he tapped his phone. ‘Dear God, Morgan, you’re trending again. How do you do it? It’s like they can’t get enough of you, and you’re not even trying.’

  Morgan looke
d at his phone and groaned. ‘If I knew how to make it stop, I would.’

  Her phone buzzed with an incoming message from Kaz.

  Eurovision called, they want their crazy back.

  ‘See? And this is from my friend.’

  Gareth stared at her phone screen, his face losing all colour. ‘Jeebus H Christ on a pony! You have forty thousand followers!

  ‘No way! I’m not even doing anything!’

  Gareth moaned, ‘I’ve become Dannii to your Kylie.’

  Dave poured coffee and said, ‘In some parallel universe, I’m sure this is normal breakfast conversation.’

  ‘Shall we get started?’ Rachelle patted her perfect helmet of hair.

  ‘Right. Yes. Absolutely.’ Gareth pulled himself together. ‘Rule one of showbiz, mother, ‘Fake it ‘till you make it’.’

  After school, Morgan found George by the copse of tea-trees near the pond. Just like in her dream. Except she was wearing her school uniform instead of the constricting dress.

  ‘I missed you,’ he said by way of greeting.

  ‘Same here.’ Why did she jangle with nerves? They were in her family’s private garden, the tabloids at least respected the line in the sand that was their front gate and couldn’t get to her here. Not even a drone hovering above in the sky.

  ‘We wouldn’t have to pine for each other if you kept the tile in your bag.’

  He was pining for her? ‘I have to concentrate at school and randoms keep taking my picture.’

  ‘You are ashamed of being seen with me?’

  ‘I wish people could see you with me. Because then they’d know I wasn’t making you up and talking to myself.’

  ‘I see.’

  Silence stretched to the point of awkwardness.

  George said, ‘Everywhere is empty when you’re not with me.’

  Pain dug at her heart. She gave him a comforting hug. ‘I’m protecting you as well. If the media find out who you are, they would dig up your past and make it public.’

  He mulled this over. ‘It happened a very long time ago. Perhaps the truth cannot hurt me now?’

  That was a pretty massive admission. ‘You’re OK with the world finding out about your family?’ Because if he was, she needn’t feel guilty about entering the Ford Prize.

  ‘I am trying to arrive at that decision.’

  A smile burst free. ‘That’s awesome.’

  ‘Which means you will allow me to accompany you to school?’

  ‘We need to keep this low key, so we don’t take attention from Mum and her cooking show.’

  ‘In other words, I am to stay here.’

  ‘Is that such a bad thing?’

  ‘I do not mind waiting anywhere so long as you promise to visit me.’

  That had Morgan grinning. ‘I did really well on the history assignment. Couldn’t have done it without you.’

  ‘I accept your compliment and raise it two-fold. My family’s secrets would still be buried if not for your perseverance.’

  ‘I am sorry for your losses, George.’

  ‘And yet I do not feel as sorry as I should. When I am near you, Morgan, I feel alive. Your kisses, my goodness I blush to think of them. It’s as if you’re breathing new life into me.’

  Chest pains burned her. He’d used those words in her dream.

  ‘My dearest Morgan. Is something the matter? Have I spoken out of turn? Perhaps I should not mention the kisses?’

  ‘No, um . . .’ Heat stole over her face. ‘I like the kisses.’

  ‘You must understand I have nothing to offer you. The best I can hope for is to love you from a distance.’

  Her heart tripped over. He loved her? Whoa, slow down Romeo! He couldn’t love her. For one thing, he was on the wrong side of life. Mute with shock, Morgan could only swallow down the lump in her throat.

  ‘For such an observant girl, you did not see that coming?’

  No kidding, Sherlock.

  11

  Messages

  Morgan’s phone vibrated. A message from Kaz:

  ‘Your mum is so funny. Englossen, LOLfactory.’

  Queasies flipped her tummy as she opened the attached video file featuring her mum.

  ‘Add a full dob of butter and give it a good toss. Melted butter will englossen the dish.’

  She texted back to Kaz.

  ‘don’t you dare spread this.’

  The moment she sent it, she followed with.

  ‘Not angry at you, furious with mum for manglish.’

  Kaz texted straight back.

  ‘You should thank her for taking the heat off you and your imaginary boyfriend.’

  A wail carried through the house. Morgan charged towards the kitchen, where Mum held her hand under the fast-flowing tap. Her cries reverberated off the saucepans and hard surfaces, pushing the decibel level to the threshold of pain.

  Dave had two bags of frozen peas at the ready.

  At least there wasn’t a camera crew in here, so it wasn’t being recorded.

  ‘Mum? What happened.’

  ‘Burnt myself,’ she managed, as Dave moved in and wrapped her palm in the frozen vegetables.

  Big tears smudged Rachelle’s foundation but not her eyelashes. ‘That mascara is amazing.’

  ‘I know!’ Rachelle gave a wobbly smile.

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘New skin would be a fine thing.’

  Morgan gave her mother a hug. ‘You’ve got worker’s hands now, Mum, it means you’re the real thing.’

  Dave came back with proper ice packs and more tea towels. Together he and Morgan re-wrapped Rachelle’s burnt hand.

  A hiss of sympathy escaped Morgan. ‘That’s going to blister.’

  ‘Do you want me to call an ambulance?’ Dave asked.

  ‘Do they stock gin and tonic in them?’

  ‘Oh Mum.’ Morgan wrapped her arm around Rachelle’s shoulders and gave her a hug.

  ‘I worked so hard for this and it’s all fallen in a heap,’ Rachelle moaned. ‘We’ve lost another sponsor. Not a huge one, but . . . it’s so frustrating because now we have to change the recipes because we’d be using their ingredients.’

  ‘You’ll think of something. Dad will help –’

  ‘– No! I wanted this to be mine. I’ve worked so hard for this and if I take his help people will say the show only happened because of your father’s money.’

  Morgan gave her another hug. ‘They will anyway, so why fight it?’

  ‘Goodness me, who raised such cynical child?’

  Morgan said, ‘Dave.’

  Rachelle sighed. ‘I really love this kitchen. I mean, really, really love it.’

  ‘Nobody’s going to take it away, Mum.’

  Her mother looked at her and blanched. ‘You haven’t heard?’

  Morgan shrugged. There had been so much crazy descending on them lately, Rachelle would have to narrow it down. ‘Heard what?’

  ‘The council is calling in the lawyers. The house construction exceeds the permit. We’re ninety centimetres too high and one hundred and fifty too wide.’

  White noise filled Morgan’s brain ‘But . . . how?’ How could the house be too tall? Did that mean they’d have to chop off Morgan’s tower? ‘It’s an historic house, Dad kept in intact. There’s got to be some kind of–’

  ‘–you’re saying all the same things I did when I first heard. Somewhere along the line, somebody stuffed up.’

  Rachelle produced the council’s letter. It cited the television show which had featured the house moving from Portland to Melbourne, with references to the height of the house and the many bridges and overpasses they’d had to avoid.

  Rachelle said, ‘I have far too much on my plate right now. If you could do me a favour and hold off on your dramatics until things calm down, I’d be really grateful.’

  ‘Dramatics?’

  ‘The ghost silliness.’

  ‘George is real!’

  ‘Of course he is. Now if you could
show some consideration for the rest of the family, we’d really appreciate it.’

  Morgan had to leave the kitchen before her head exploded in frustration.

  A few days later, Morgan thought she’d walked in to the wrong class because everyone was looking at her in Humanities.

  ‘You’re here!’ Mrs Edgars said, ‘Morgan, you made the shortlist for the Ford Prize!’ The teacher’s hug thumped the air out of her lungs.

  Her classmates clapped. Not a sarcastic, slow clap but genuine applause. ‘Well done,’ Mrs Edgars said.

  ‘Wow, thanks.’ Morgan wished she could have said something more coherent, but nothing formed in her brain.

  Beside her, Olivia looked ready to cry. ‘Congratulations,’ she said, before hurrying over to take her seat.

  Morgan took her flurried brain to her regular seat beside Olivia. She couldn’t wipe the smile off her face. Her essay was shortlisted? She didn’t even know what that meant or how many others were on the shortlist with her, but it sounded great! This was the kind of attention she could get used to.

  ‘All right everybody, eyes to the front now please,’ Mrs Edgars called out.

  ‘It would seem congratulations are in order?’

  Morgan jumped at the sound of George’s voice. How could he be here after she’d asked him so nicely to stay home?

  ‘There must be remnants of rooftile in your backpack,’ he said by way of her unasked question.

  There couldn’t be. He shouldn’t be! Not now, not with everyone in the room looking at her and giving her praise for doing something academic and oh-so-normal. ‘Why are you here?’ Morgan kept her voice as low as possible.

  ‘I’m trying to be nice about it,’ Olivia said with a sniff. She looked ahead, pen poised, ready to take notes. Her standard, swotty procedure. Except this time, Olivia sat that bit higher than usual and her shoulders radiated tension.

  ‘I didn’t mean you Olivia.’ How messy could things get?