“Where’s your pool bag?” Mom asked. “I want to see the sunscreen you used today.”
“It’s no big deal.”
“Oh, really? Are you going to think it’s no big deal when you’re forty and the dermatologist tells you that you have skin cancer?”
Amy listened to the rest of the lecture—intently. I tuned it out, focusing on the wall behind my mother’s head, noting how her nostrils flared in time with her inflection. Her southern accent, what we here in Georgia call a Piedmont accent—very elegant—was much more pronounced when she was angry.
When Mom paused for a breath, I had no clue what she’d been saying, but I’m sure it was something along the lines of surgery, chemotherapy, and dying at a young age all because one day at the pool I attempted to get a tan.
I nodded. “Um, hmm.”
As Mom continued on, I began to think she sounded a little like the teachers in those retro Peanuts cartoon specials. You know, wha, wha, wha, wha, wha, wha, wha.
Then Amy whooshed by me, which really hurt because of the sunburn.
“Hey!” I shouted, the pain making me careless.
“Don’t hey, me, young lady,” Mom said. “No pool for the rest of the week.”
No pool? No Drew?
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“Help me with the craft camp.”
“Camp,” Amy repeated, doing a haint version of a happy dance. “That sounds like fun. I wanna go.”
“Yeah,” I told Mom, “like I want to be around a bunch of little kids.” I had my hands full with one who wasn’t even alive.
Mom smiled. You know the one—that sort of smug, I’m-the-parent-and-you’re-the-child- you-must-listen-to-me sort of smile. “Then it’s the perfect punishment. You’ll come with me tomorrow.”
Amy clapped her hands.
“Are you sure you really want to do that?” I made sad puppy dog eyes at Mom. “I mean, I’m not exactly good with little kids, like Claire is.” I let the implications wash over her.
Mom dropped her arms to her sides, and I saw the message emblazoned across her chest: Embarrassing My Children, Just One More Service I Offer. “You’ll manage just fine, sweetheart. Now set the table. Dinner’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
“I’ll come down. Just give me a minute,” I said.
Mom remained standing in front of me like I’d forgotten to add something to my capitulation.
“Oh, all right,” I said. “When I help you tomorrow, I’ll be all sweetness and light, okay?”
Mom nodded. “Put some aloe on that burn.” She started to leave, but stopped just shy of the open doorway. “And you know I’m only punishing you for your own good.”
“I know, okay?” I swear, she goes on and on about these things. Make your point, don’t rub my nose in it.
“Punishing?” Audrey said from the hallway. I could actually hear the smile in her voice. She must have gotten done with her shift.
“What did she do now?” she asked, then poked her head in the doorway. She looked at me through those beady brown eyes like I was the stupidest person on the planet.
“Go away, Audrey,” I growled. “This is my room and you aren’t part of the punishment.”
Almost immediately, I recalled one of my goals for the summer was getting her to like me. Pissing her off, further, was not a good move at this point.
“Heather.” Mom said my name like a sigh and raised her hand to her forehead. I guess I was giving her a headache. “Can’t you try to get along with your sister? For me, at least? Audrey isn’t being mean. She’s concerned.”
That’s my mother, always believing the best of everyone . . . except me.
How it killed part of me, the part that was still ticked off at Audrey, to do it when I knew full well I had every right to be poopy. But what hurt worse was knowing how much Audrey hated me. Maybe letting her win this round would make her see I wasn’t so bad.
“I’m sorry,” I said, actually meaning it, because I knew I’d embarrassed her at work and probably at a much deeper level than any I’d sunk to before.
She shook her head sadly in fake sympathy, making me wish I hadn’t meant it. “Yeah, you are sorry.”
Mom raised her hands in surrender and left, and I remained in my room with a bratty little ghost who was humming a ditty about going to camp.
Why hadn’t Audrey told Mom what I’d done at the pool, I wondered. Was she was saving the revelation for a better occasion, like dinner? What little appetite I had, left.
I wasn’t stupid. I’d figure out how to become less of a freak before school started, and when I did, Audrey would forgive me. Step one—get rid of Amy. She said she wanted fun, so I’d give it to her. What ten-year-old didn’t like crafts?
If going to the Michael’s craft store with Mom didn’t work, I’d come up with a veritable smorgasbord of activities. I didn’t intend to spend the next week, much less the entire summer and—God forbid—the school year at the mercy of Amy’s ghostly moods.
Chapter Five
What exactly, I wanted to know, had I done to deserve this? Sick at heart and ready to pop with hives, I gave my mop a rest and surveyed the once orderly craft classroom that Amy and I had transformed into a tie-dyed war zone.
We’d arrived at the Michael’s store without incident even though I’d borrowed Audrey’s new white micro-tee without asking—only because I didn’t have anything that was clean. I swear. Oddly enough, Audrey hadn’t bitched me out yet for borrowing the shirt without asking. I guess she was more interested in arriving on time to meet Karen and her other friends than in tattling on me. Or she was saving it for the right moment—guaranteed to provide me with maximum penalty.
At first, Amy happily flitted about the classroom while I covered the worktables in brown paper, then placed tee shirts and this new tie-dye string product on top of the paper. Yes, I wished my mother had told me about the tie-dye prior to my wearing Audrey’s shirt. But I wasn’t in full panic . . . yet.
The strings have the dye on them, so, all the know-how this project required was showing the kids how to tie their shirts with their colored strings and then helping them submerge the tees in a bucket of water. An easy, Skill Level One, twenty-minute craft that wouldn’t get Audrey’s shirt ruined, right?
Wrong.
From what I’ve observed, ghosts are fascinated with water. Or maybe it’s just my ghost. Considering Amy spent part of her life toting water from the well and was not “well-versed” in indoor plumbing, I should have known turning a knob for water would be a mind-blowing experience for her. But I was more focused on other things like when Audrey would tell on me, how long she would let me worry about it, and what the repercussions would be.
Once the little kids started filing into the classroom, I gathered the plastic-handled buckets and brought them to the sink. Mom greeted the children with her happy-aren’t-we-going-to-have-fun voice. “We’ll be getting started in a few minutes once my assistant Heather finishes setting out the materials. How about if you all take a seat and tell me your names?”
The swish of water flowing from the spigot I turned on drew Amy like spilled orange soda drew bees.
The air directly behind me cooled, which for a moment felt nice considering the extent of my sunburn. Tingling from the crown of my head all the way to my heels, I shivered as Amy entered my body again. She flicked my hand in and out of the stream of water running from the spigot.
“You almost done, Heather?” Mom asked, sounding a wee bit impatient.
I glanced back at my mother and the shiny little faces, then focused on the sink. “Out,” I said in an angry whisper.
You can’t make me, Amy thought back in my brain, but she weakened enough that I managed to gain control of my hand to turn the chrome knob to off and carry the buckets to each of the tables, spilling not a drop.
Caught up in helping the little brats, I mean children, knot their strings, I actually forgot Amy was inside me until I started dumping the dye-tinted water from t
he buckets.
The plan was for Mom to teach her pupils a song about blending colors while I readied the tees for rinsing.
With no trouble, I emptied the first six buckets and piled the wet tees on the counter beside the sink. As I reached for the handle of the seventh bucket, which held a t-shirt that belonged to Morgan, a five-year-old who’d insisted on a purple-string-only shirt, Amy regained control of my body.
Normally I wouldn’t bother to find out one of the brats’ names, but Morgan was so annoying I learned her name without really wanting to. She was heading to kindergarten in the fall. I know about kindergarten because she told me twelve million times, while I was forced by my mother to help her cut the purple bits of dye string from the other colors.
Let me do it, Amy said.
“No,” I whispered under my breath and reached for the handle.
My hand missed the handle and went straight into the violet-tinged water. I splashed water onto the table, soaking the heavy brown paper. The water dripped down onto the folding metal chair next to me and the tiled floor.
You’re making a big ol’ mess, Amy said. Just let me do it.
“No,” I said louder, loud enough that Mom ended her song before they got to green on their third verse.
“Heather, stop fooling around.”
Morgan’s pale blue eyes grew round, her little brow furrowed. For a moment, I paused to wonder how a five-year-old had worn worry lines into her forehead. Her expression reminded me of someone. I just couldn’t recall who. Not surprising considering I was engaged in a battle to end all battles.
As I fought Amy for control of my body, I lurched over to the next table and knocked the bucket completely over. Dye water spewed everywhere, including onto Audrey’s white micro-tee.
“Heather,” Mom called out, making the “er” like a growl.
But how could I worry about her when I was trying to force Amy out of me. Why I bothered to fight the ghost, I don’t know. I was going to be dead anyway in a matter of minutes because Audrey’d be here soon to pick up Mom and me.
“Are we having fun yet?” I shouted, since I apparently had control of my mouth.
Mom’s face grew redder and redder, approximating the color of my sunburnt skin. She’d blow as soon as her crafters were gone.
As I slipped and slid my way to upending the rest of the buckets, most of these nameless, faceless kids hooted. They must have thought I was performing for them. One little boy let loose an evil laugh. He scared me.
Other than Mom, Morgan was the only other living human in the room who didn’t think what I was doing was funny. She actually tugged on my Mom’s shirt, which today said All I ask is that you treat me no differently than you would the Queen. “You should put her in time out. That’s what my mother does when I’m making bad choices.”
What a pain in the butt—a five-year-old offering parenting advice.
Once there was nothing left to spill, Amy gave up, left my body, and hovered in the back corner of the room pouting. “You shoulda let me do what I wanted.”
Yeah, I could imagine how much better that would have been.
With every inch of my skin hurting from the contortions Amy put me and my sunburned skin through, I started mopping my mess. My worry about what Audrey would say when she saw what had happened to her shirt expanded exponentially.
I wanted to protest to Mom that I hadn’t made the mess, all evidence to the contrary. However, telling her a ghost had entered my body and made me do it could have two possible outcomes. No, make that three, and none of them were good.
One was that I was just like her sister Geneva. Two was that I was crazy, and I’d have a little overnight-for-observation visit on the adolescent unit of the hospital psycho ward. And three, Mom would tell me that I had the most active imagination she’d ever been privy to and that I should become a writer some day.
“You know I’m not about to tell you nothing now,” Amy said, calico-covered arms folded over her chest as she hovered, angry-faced and in the way of my mop.
The kids’ parents started arriving, so Mom rinsed the tees, then placed each one in an individual quart-sized plastic bag with the children’s names on them—something I was supposed to do.
“I mean it,” Amy said. “I coulda had fun today, but you wouldn’t let me!”
I continued giving her the silent treatment. Now, I had to find my way out of a more immediate predicament—Audrey’s wrath over her no longer white shirt.
About ten minutes after what most people would consider forgivable, all the kids but two—the boy with the evil laugh and Morgan—had been picked up by their moms or babysitters. The boy sat in one of the chairs swinging his legs and singing the color song Mom taught him, over and over and over. I think I preferred the evil laughter.
With worry etched across her forehead, Morgan alternated between watching the clock and scanning the aisle by the big picture windows. Moms who forget their kids should be shot.
That’s when I realized contact with this ghost was adversely affecting me, even more than I’d suspected. I didn’t want to be sucked into feeling sorry for this kid. The babysitter vortex was right around the corner. I wouldn’t baby-sit again. Never. Ever. Especially since I needed to keep my evenings free in case Drew ever asked me out.
“Hey, Morgan,” Mom said, drawing the little girl’s gaze from the windows. “Can you help me find the lollipops I put in my bag? I know I have some in here, but for the life of me, I can’t find them.”
Glad to have something to do other than wait, Morgan smiled, and I noticed she hadn’t lost any of her perfectly spaced, white corn nibblet baby teeth. “What kind of lollypops are we looking for?” she asked, smile turning to frown. “Are they in a bag?”
As cool as Mom was for helping distract the kid from being upset about her mom or dad or whoever forgetting to pick her up, I doubted she’d be as nice about me ruining Audrey’s shirt.
Eyes to the floor, I resumed mopping toward the doorway, dreading the passing of time until my doom as I endured Amy’s constant glare. A small part of me felt fortunate she, too, had resorted to the silent treatment to let me know she wasn’t happy. I didn’t think anything could lift my spirits as I reached the pair of sandaled male feet next to the door. I looked up.
Imagine if you will, the moment of joy that filled my heart upon seeing the lifeguard of my dreams leaning against the doorframe, jingling the keys in the pocket of his long khaki shorts. Even the ugly fluorescent lighting couldn’t fade his tan. His pale blue eyes sparkled. I dropped my mop. “Hi,” I said, then looked down at the mop.
“Hi.” He looked at the mop and bit his lip. “You want me to—”
“Drew!” Morgan squealed, making tracks across my freshly mopped floor and holding her grape swirl safety-pop tightly in her little hand.
I think he’d been about to say ‘pick it up for you.’ Yes, I am a dork, I thought as I bent down to pick up the mop. I was still pretty much incapable of moving.
His arms flexed in an oh-so-pleasing manner as he lifted soon-to-be kindergartner Morgan and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Hey, squirt.”
“Where’s Mommy?” she asked.
Mommy? Oh, my, God. I could see the family resemblance . . . now. The brat was his sister. I was thankful I was wearing a tagless shirt.
“She’s in a meeting,” Drew said. He looked over at my mother. “Sorry I’m late. Did my mom at least call and tell you I was coming?”
“No, I’m sorry, she didn’t.” Mom glanced down at the clipboard of contact information she keeps for the enrolled children as I headed to the sink. “But she does have brother Drew on the pick up list. So it’s fine.”
“Thanks,” he said, smiling his perfect smile, which I now knew was genetic since the kid had the same grin.
Some woman whose shirt had crisp, starched lines, chose that moment to push past Drew and Morgan and me. With one eye watering and blinking—contact trouble was my guess—she sighed. “I guess you tho
ught I wasn’t ever coming.”
Uh, yeah.
What had I been doing before Drew arrived? Oh, yeah mopping. I was about to take the mop to the sink to rinse it, but I noticed Drew’s fingers for the first time. They were long and tapered, not what I’d expected. I figured a guy who must work out like he did to have those guns and that six-pack, now covered in a light blue polo that matched his heavenly eyes, would have muscular fingers. I kind of liked that he didn’t. It was unexpected. I wondered if he was an artist or musician in his spare time. Maybe liking art ran in the family.
Forcing myself to walk away, I headed to the sink. I rinsed and rung the mop, then debated whether I should rinse Morgan’s shirt since Mom was busy talking to the little boy’s perfectly ironed mother.
Why hadn’t anyone told me Drew had a younger sister, who, apparently, liked the color purple and Mom’s summer craft classes? I wondered if Audrey knew. Audrey. Yikes! She’d be here any moment now. Life as I knew it was over. Poor Amy, neither one of us would have any fun for a good long time once Audrey caught sight of her ruined tee. Unless I bribed her.
“Bye. See you soon, Nick,” Mom said, her sneakers squeaking along the tile floor toward me. “Let me get Morgan’s shirt for you, Drew.”
While she gave the tee a final rinse, I headed to one of the dye-stained tables with a bucket of bleach water and a sponge.
“You know what happened today?” Morgan asked as they waited.
“You made a tie dye shirt,” Drew answered.
“Yes, and that girl there was very bad.”
I glanced up at two pairs of identical blue eyes focused on me. Identical furrows formed on their foreheads. I rubbed at my itchy skin around my neck. Using my fingernails to scratch was too painful with a sunburn.
With her polka-dot bow and soft brown curls bobbing, Morgan recounted all the bad things I’d done, scarcely taking a breath in between items in the list.
Could I get a little help here, I thought, trying to reach Amy telepathically.
I must have succeeded because she just shook her head at me.
Drew’s look of concern morphed into a smirk, and my heart sank. He must think I’m a total loser. “Yup, she’s trouble all right. I almost had to put her in time out at the pool. Looks like she didn’t use her sunscreen, too.”
Haint Misbehavin' Page 6
