The Ghosts of Now

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  I just shrug.

  “We wouldn’t have to do this at all if it weren’t for you sticking your nose in.”

  “Why did you steal these things?”

  “We were bored.”

  “And you got Jeremy involved.”

  He moves to the chaise and flops astraddle. “It wasn’t hard to get him into it. But he’s a creep.”

  I take a long look at him. “You’re telling me that once he got in he didn’t want to stay in. Right?”

  “A creep,” he says again. “He has no sense of adventure.”

  “It wasn’t a party he was running from. It wasn’t hard to figure that out. He was running from this house. Now tell me why.”

  “It would have been a good joke,” he says. “But your brother wouldn’t go along with it. The rest of us have done it, but he wouldn’t. Robbing his own house, that is.”

  “What did you do with the things you took? Sell them?”

  “Nope. Kept them. We never took much. It was the game that was exciting.” He leans toward me, his black eyes glittering. “The fear of being caught, the tension, wondering if the people who lived in the houses would suddenly return home, the safe getaway. That was the great part.”

  He swings his left leg over the seat of the chaise, so that he’s facing me. “And you ruined it for us, Angie.”

  “It’s a dumb game,” I tell him. “It’s not a game at all. What you’ve done has hurt people.”

  He slowly gets to his feet.

  “And Jeremy,” I add. “You went after him when he ran from here, didn’t you? You panicked, because you thought he’d go to the police.”

  I think for just a moment. Maybe it’s the closed-over look in his eyes that tells me the real story. “You were driving Debbie’s car, not Debbie.”

  “It was an accident,” he says. “Jeremy suddenly turned and ran into the street.”

  “Why didn’t you stay with him? Why didn’t you help him?”

  “Debbie was coming apart. I had to get her away from there.” Boyd pulls a lighter from his pocket and fiddles with it. “She’s still a basket case. Scared to death of what you’re going to do.”

  “I know. Debbie is the one who called me after Jeremy was hit.” I think about the last call. “She phoned me again—today—to warn me.”

  “Besides being a basket case she’s an air head.”

  “You tried to warn me too. Weren’t you the other whisperer?”

  His mouth twists into what looks like a smile. “You’re awfully stubborn.”

  I’m so intent on our conversation that it takes me a moment to react when Boyd suddenly stares at the open doorway.

  I whirl to see Del, and an ache rushes into my throat. “Not you, Del,” I murmur.

  “You told me you didn’t want to come here.” He sounds puzzled.

  I just shake my head. I can’t answer him. Tears will spill out instead of words.

  “You know that if you say anything about this, Jeremy will be liable too,” Boyd says to me.

  “You’re all cowards—all of you who are in on this.” I can’t look at Del. I don’t want to look at him ever again.

  “There’s just a few of us,” Boyd says. “But enough, and we know what we’re doing. It really wouldn’t matter what you’d say, because it would be your word against ours. And not a scrap of proof. And just to make sure you don’t tell some wild story about this house—”

  His arm sweeps wide, the flame from his lighter a red flash. I lunge toward him without thinking, screaming “No!” and we fall across the chaise, banging against the floor, Boyd under me.

  But I’m too late. The flame swoops up the nearby brittle window shade, splashing itself across the wall, exploding in loud crackles and choking, acrid fumes.

  Hands are tugging at my shoulders, strong hands that jerk me to my feet. “Get out of here!” Del shouts.

  But Boyd doesn’t move.

  “You knocked him out,” Del yells at me, and he stoops to grab Boyd under his arms, shoving the smoldering chaise out of the way, dragging Boyd across the floor.

  “Take his legs!”

  I do, and we stagger through the hallway and down the stairs, coughing and choking, racing the smoke and flames.

  The front door stands open, and we stumble through. My foot catches on the lower step, throwing me forward, off balance, and I drag Del down with me, landing in a heap on top of Boyd.

  Boyd groans, coughs, and stares up at us, shouting “Get the hell away from me!”

  A burning shingle bounces near us, and we scramble. Del hangs onto my arm as we dash into the street. Boyd runs a few steps from us and turns. “And you, you stupid kicker!” he shouts at Del. “Don’t you try to do anything either!”

  He’s down the street and in his car before what he has said sinks in. I’m struggling through guilt and relief, but Del’s strong hand is here, and I hang on.

  People are rushing out of their houses, and we can hear the whine of the fire sirens coming closer.

  Del just grabs my elbow and steers me through and around the people who are gathering. No one pays attention to us. They’re intent on the burning house.

  I don’t look back. I keep walking until we’re standing beside my car.

  “You shouldn’t have come here by yourself.” It’s the first time I’ve seen Del angry.

  “Why did you come?”

  “Because you sounded strange on the phone. And I know how you feel about this house. When I called back, and you weren’t there, I was pretty sure where I’d find you.”

  “Oh, Del!” I wrap my arms around his neck, wondering how my crazy mind could have mixed him up with all of this. My tears are wet between our cheeks. He tilts my chin upward, then holds me tightly. His kiss is long and warm and firm against my lips. For a while I forget about everything except Del.

  When we move apart his voice is a little deeper, not as strong and steady as it usually is. But he’s as responsible as ever. “You drive home,” he says. “I’ll be right behind you. When I see that you’re safe inside, I’ll go on.”

  I don’t want to let go of his hand. “Del, come in with me.”

  “No,” he answers. “I think you’ve got things to tell your parents about Jeremy that need family privacy.” He opens the car door for me. For a moment I think he’s going to kiss me again, but he takes a step back and smiles. “Hey, Angie, we’ll get together again—soon.”

  I smile back. “Very soon.”

  It’s difficult to do, but I start my story at the beginning. I sit across from Mom and Dad in the living room. When I’ve finished I wait for them to say something. Anything.

  Finally I break that awful silence. “We’ll have to tell the police.”

  Mom’s voice is so soft I can hardly make out the words. “That might mean Jeremy will be arrested.”

  “Maybe, but I don’t think so,” I tell her. “They can’t arrest Jeremy and no one else.”

  “But—”

  “They won’t arrest Debbie and Boyd and the other kids who were involved in that so-called game. They won’t dig for proof. Not if it’s going to upset those fine old Fairlie families.”

  “Honey, you sound so bitter.”

  “Maybe I am, Mom. I guess I’ve found out that life isn’t always fair.”

  Mom looks to Dad for help. “Greg, what should we do?”

  Before he has a chance to answer I say, “I think we should also let Debbie’s parents and Boyd’s parents know what’s going on.”

  Dad shakes his head. “Do you think they’d listen to you? Did Debbie’s parents believe you when you talked to them before? They’d rather not know the truth.”

  “But they’re going to hear it—from us and from the police. Then it’s going to be their problem, not ours.”

  “Our problem is that Jeremy was involved. We have to accept that.” Dad stares at the floor. Is he talking to us or to himself?

  “Maybe—” Mom clears her throat and tries again. She’s been hangi
ng onto Dad’s hand until her knuckles are white. “Maybe—after Jeremy’s better—he could—uh—get some help.”

  “Help?” Dad turns to her. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Counseling? Uh—maybe a psychiatrist?”

  “Forget that,” Dad says. “We can take care of Jeremy’s problems ourselves. Only the physical problem is serious. He just got in with a bad bunch of kids. If—when he’s well again he’ll straighten out if he makes other friends, joins a club or something.”

  I have to speak up. “Mom’s right about Jeremy,” I say. “But he’s not the only one who needs help. We all do.”

  “Angie!” Dad doesn’t like this, but I continue.

  “We’re not a family. We’re four people living in the same house. And it’s the same with Debbie and Boyd and their parents. Don’t you see? All of us are in Jeremy’s poem.” I close my eyes, thinking of the words. “We’re ‘the shadows no one wants to see, with screams no one wants to her.’ We’re ‘the ghosts of now.’ Only I don’t want to be a ghost, and neither does Jeremy.”

  They let me go to the hospital to see Jeremy, even though it’s so late. I go alone. I don’t even want Del to be with me.

  The corridor is empty. My footsteps echo on the tiles. If anyone tries to make me leave, they’ll be in for a fight. But I’m ignored. Mrs. Burrows is drinking a cup of coffee. I ask her to leave, and though I try to be polite, I suppose I sound so determined that she scurries from the room without a question.

  It doesn’t take long to go through the story with Jeremy. But that’s not what’s important. What I need to tell him comes next.

  “I’m your sister,” I say, “and I love you. I love you so much that a lot of things I thought were important aren’t any more. I’m going to live here and go to the junior college for the next two years. We may never make it as a real family, but if the two of us are together, then we can try.”

  I reach over and lightly touch the yellowed bruise on his forehead. “Jeremy,” I say, “when you get right down to it, ‘brother’ and ‘sister’ is a big deal. It goes on forever.” I gently squeeze his hand. “I’m glad I’m your sister.”

  At first I think Jeremy’s long, gentle sigh must be from my imagination. But slowly, his hand barely turns and his fingers press steadily against mine.

  JOAN LOWERY NIXON has been called the grande dame of young adult mysteries. She is the author of more than 130 books for young readers and is the only four-time winner of the Edgar Allan Poe Award for Best Young Adult Novel. She received the award for The Kidnapping of Christina Lattimore, The Séance, The Name of the Game Is Murder, and The Other Side of Dark, which also won the California Young Reader Medal.