A Guide to the Other Side

by Robert Imfeld

  “Well, spirits can make you go crazy sometimes,” I said.

  “Is that all you have to say for yourself?” she scoffed. “Your aunt Hilda is so upset.”

  “Who cares? Even after I delivered messages to more than a hundred people, she still called me a parasite, like I’m some nasty tapeworm that lives in your stomach. I couldn’t care less that she’s upset.”

  “Well, that’s really too bad,” she said, “because your father is going to take you to visit her this weekend so you can apologize in person.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said. “I’m not sorry. The best I can do for you is write her an e-mail and tell her that I’m sorry she’s so offended by me.”

  She gripped the wheel, her fingers flying up and down in waves, while she took a deep breath. “Baylor Douglas Bosco,” she growled, “you will visit your aunt Hilda and you will apologize sincerely to her, or else you will not get your driver’s license till you’re eighteen.”

  She had me in a death grip.

  “Fine,” I said. “Fine, I’ll do it, but if you ever make me go to an Italian place again, you better believe it’s going to be a hundred times worse than tonight was.”

  * * *

  That night I asked Colonel Fleetwood to give me a moment alone with Kristina, and she got an earful.

  “Your job is to protect me, Kristina, from all those crazy spirits,” I said, my voice firm and tense. She was sitting in my desk chair, staring guiltily, while I paced in front of her. “And you and Colonel Fleetwood were so busy joking with each other that you couldn’t even do the one thing you’re supposed to. You might as well not have even been there. You might as well have been one of the ghosts crowding around the tables and making noise and distracting me.” I shot her a look. “Oh, wait, you were one of those ghosts crowding around and distracting me.”

  “Baylor, I know, I’m sorry,” she said. “You just have to understand, it was such a nice change for me to have a friend on this side for once.”

  “I’m your friend, Kristina. Talk to me.”

  “Oh, stop, you know what I mean,” she said. “A friend who can talk to me instead of having to make weird faces at me.”

  “Well, that’s the way it is!” I said. “There’s a reason someone like Colonel Fleetwood isn’t usually around, and tonight made it very clear why. You totally failed me. You should have been paying attention to me the entire time instead of letting me down.”

  “Oh, Baylor,” she said, gazing at her feet, “shut up.”

  I stopped pacing. “What?”

  “You heard me. Shut up. Just stop talking.” She stood up, walked over to where I was staring at her, dumbfounded, and got in my face. “It must be so hard for you to be alive, and to be surrounded by your family, who can touch you and love you and hug you and kiss you, and it must be such a challenge for you not to be able to eat in one certain kind of restaurant, and to talk to anyone you want whenever you want, and to feel the sun in your face and the cold on your skin, and to be able to cry when you’re upset and feel things.”

  She paused, her eyes searing into mine. “I am so sorry that you feel so put upon. I apologize for not banishing that creepy guy at the restaurant fast enough, and sure, maybe I shouldn’t have let that ghost trick you into thinking he was the waiter, but if that’s really the worst I’ve ever screwed up, then you know what, Baylor? You should just shut up.”

  And she turned around and disappeared.

  * * *

  I had never gotten into a real fight with Kristina before, and I was fuming. Absolutely fuming. Who did she think she was to talk to me like that? She was the one who’d screwed up, not me. I should have been the one to march away and end the conversation, not her.

  It ticked me off big-time, and it was all I could think about at school the next day, especially since Kristina was being petty and didn’t make an appearance that morning.

  And it was all I could think about that evening, too, which was problematic, since I had plans to go to the Patty Joint downtown with Aiden and J.

  Even a trip to the Patty Joint—a rustic restaurant with license plates covering the bare wooden walls, and the home of the best cheeseburgers in New Hampshire—couldn’t invigorate my mood.

  “What’s up with you, Baylor?” J asked between bites of a mozzarella stick. “You’ve barely said a word all night, and from the looks of it, you seem to have a personal vendetta against that Rhode Island license plate you keep glaring at.”

  Stupid Rhode Island, with its stupid license plate covered in blue waves and anchors and the words “Ocean State,” as if people really thought of Rhode Island when they thought of oceans.

  I shook my head and sighed.

  “Sorry, I’m just a little out of it,” I said. “Lots on my mind.”

  “Hmm.” She pushed her glasses—tonight’s were covered in dark-blue stripes—up the bridge of her nose. “Does this have anything to do with the article?”

  “The what?”

  She looked down at the mozzarella stick basket. “The article about the boy medium at Carrino’s? It’s online.”

  I looked over at Aiden, who seemed very interested in swirling ranch around his plate with his mozzarella stick.

  “I haven’t read it yet. What’d it say?”

  “Oh, it was nothing bad,” she said brightly. “If anything, it sounded like it would’ve been amazing to witness it.”

  I felt awkward because I’d never really broached the whole ghost subject with J.

  I nodded. “Yeah, it was actually kinda cool, minus the old lady I nearly killed, and minus the fact that my mom hates me for ruining my aunt Hilda’s birthday dinner.”

  Aiden choked. “Aunt Hilda? Oh, yikes.”

  “I know,” I said. “Nightmare.”

  “I’m sure your mom doesn’t hate you,” J said, whispering. My mom and Mrs. Kirkwood were having a mom date at another table. I’m sure my mom was talking nonstop about last night’s escapades.

  “I know,” I said. “There’s just . . . there’s some other stuff going on too, and she said she’s not going to help me with it, and after last night she’s definitely not going to help.”

  “Like what?”

  “I need to go to Boston for something.”

  “What’s in Boston?” Aiden asked.

  “Just some, uh, ghost stuff I’m trying to figure out.” J didn’t know about the Sheet Man or my fight with Kristina, and as far as I was concerned, she didn’t need to. Things were so out of control that I wanted to keep only a few people in the know, which would hopefully keep everyone else out of danger.

  Our burgers arrived, and as I loaded mine with mustard and ketchup, J was staring over my shoulder. I’d seen that look before—the wheels were spinning in her brain.

  “Baylor,” she said quietly, leaning in, “what if we all took the bus to Boston?”

  “Wouldn’t it take, like, three hours on the bus?” I frowned. “Besides, buses aren’t exactly my style. Last time I was on one, a tiny Venezuelan woman kept yelling at me about recipes.”

  “But we’ll be there to distract you!” she said, touching Aiden’s arm. He immediately started coughing, pulling his hands away and grabbing his napkin to cover his mouth. It usually took him several seconds to recover from unexpected contact with J.

  “Totally,” he said, his cheeks completely red. “Let’s do it.”

  I looked at them both across from me, their eyes wide and eager, and I smiled.

  * * *

  The next morning I left a note on the kitchen counter, telling my parents I was working on a project with J and to call if they needed me. I was even more proud of the fact that nothing on the note was a lie. It’s not like I said I was going to her house, and we were working on a project, just one of the ghost variety.

  Wearing my backpack, which contained the handy-dandy talisman—just in case—I biked to the bus stop downtown, where J and Aiden were waiting for me already. As I chained my bike, I eavesdropped on t
heir thrilling conversation.

  “Dinner was pretty good, huh?” Aiden said.

  “So good. I love that place,” J said. “Your mom was so sweet to give me a ride.”

  “Yeah, my mom’s great.”

  “She is. I loved how, uh, excited she got when Baylor delivered that message to the waiter as we were leaving.”

  I felt like I could hear the blood rushing to Aiden’s face. “Uh, yeah, she sure can scream, huh?”

  It was like the Italian restaurant fiasco, part two, except not nearly as dramatic. She’d squealed so loud that the everyone in the Patty Joint turned to stare at her. There was no question which side of the family Aiden got his blushing skills from.

  “It was cute,” J said, her voice gentle and reassuring.

  “You guys ready?” I asked as I approached them.

  “You bet!” J said, handing me a ticket. “Eight thirty-five bus to Boston. We’ll get there at eleven, do some investigating, and get our tickets home on either the three or five p.m. bus.”

  “Perfect,” I said. The bus pulled up a few minutes later, and we were on our way.

  * * *

  The bus ride wasn’t that bad, mostly because it was nearly empty. There was only one ghost asking me to pass on a message, and I waited until we arrived in Boston to deliver it.

  The worst part of the ride was the very beginning, when we had to pick seats. I sat in a window seat without thinking, realizing too late that I should’ve arranged for J and Aiden to sit together. Instead I got to watch in horror as Aiden and J stammered to figure out who should sit next to me and who should sit alone.

  Ultimately, J sat next to me, and Aiden sat across the aisle, all alone. He made sure to glare at me whenever J wasn’t looking.

  We took the T to the stop nearest the coffee shop where William Parker apparently worked. I had done some serious online stalking to find the place, a little café called Cup-o’-Soul. He worked there on the weekends, while attending grad school at Boston University. I’d found a research paper he’d written on the criminology department’s website.

  “We’ll be right across the street if you need us,” J said, pointing to the other coffee shop.

  “Good luck, dude,” Aiden said. I nodded to them, thinking about Colonel Fleetwood’s comment about running toward death on the battlefield, and marched inside.

  TIP

  14

  Things don’t always go as planned.

  THE CAFÉ WAS PACKED WITH bold-colored couches and round tables, and the wall behind the baristas was made of exposed brick. Rhythmic New Age music played from hidden speakers. It all felt very cool.

  I approached the counter, fully aware that I had no idea what to do.

  “Welcome to Cup-o’-Soul,” said the frizzy-haired girl behind the cash register. She was short and perky, with teeth so white that she must have used bleach straight from the bottle to brush them. “What can I serve you today?”

  “I, uh, I will have a . . . let’s go with . . . how about . . .” The barista frowned. “I’ll have a macchiato.”

  “It’s mah-KEE-ato, not mah-chee-ato.”

  “Totally,” I said, nodding. “I’m also looking for someone. William Parker? Does he work here?”

  “Will? Yeah, he’s on break in the back,” she said. “I can get him for you. . . .”

  “Please.” I nodded.

  She disappeared into the back room, and a few moments later she was followed out by a tall, lanky guy with shaggy blond hair. His nose was far too big for his face, and his acne scars resembled the craters of the moon, but just like the girl, he was smiling kindly.

  “Can I help you, little dude?”

  “Yeah, uh, hi,” I said, really wishing for some reason that Kristina were there. “I was wondering if I could speak to you for a few minutes?”

  “About what?” he said. His smile never faltered, but his eyes had drooped.

  “I really think you should be sitting down for this part,” I said, jerking my head to an empty couch near the window.

  I grabbed my coffee, which was in a tiny glass, as he circled around the counter, and we sat down on plush purple sofas.

  “I’m Baylor Bosco,” I said. “And I know you’re Will Parker. I took the bus from Keene this morning to see you. You’re Alfred’s son, right?”

  He frowned. “Did you know my dad?”

  “Okay, Will, I’m going to be honest with you, and I just need you to hear me out with an open mind.”

  He didn’t say anything, much less react, so I kept going.

  “I can communicate with people who’ve crossed over, so I—”

  “Are you trying to tell me you can talk to dead people?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. Do you know how many loons have come out here and tried to tell me my dad left them a message telling me to invest in their company? At least a dozen. So who are you? What are you going to try to sell me on? It’s not going to work, but I’m just curious, since you’re the youngest one who’s tried to do it so far. How old are you? Ten?”

  “I’m almost fourteen! And listen, I’m not after your money,” I said, spinning the small cup around with my fingers. “I swear. I’m here because I think your dad is in trouble.” I took a sip and immediately regretted it. The bitter taste seeped down my throat like Drano.

  “How could my dad be in trouble?” Will asked, his voice like acid as he watched me convulse from the coffee. “He’s been dead for three years.”

  “I know that,” I said. “But last week he visited me. He was wrapped in a sheet and couldn’t speak. All he did was stare at me with these horrible black eyes.”

  Will stared at me the way most people stare at roadkill. “My dad didn’t have black eyes. And if he was in a sheet, how’d you know it was him?”

  “He visited a couple more times, and then he finally showed me his shoes. It had to be his way of communicating with me, because I found the exact same pair the next day, and they had his name in them, and then I searched online and found you and your sister.”

  He scoffed, looking at the frizzy-haired barista and shaking his head. “This is so stupid.”

  “I know it sounds crazy, but it can’t be a coincidence that I just happened to find the exact same pair of shoes that the spirit was wearing, and they just happened to have ‘A. Parker’ written in them.”

  “What shoes?” he said, narrowing his eyes.

  “They’re brown with golden stitching on the sides, and there’s a silver buckle on top.”

  He hesitated. “Those are the shoes he was buried in.”

  I bit my lip. “I don’t mean to sound awkward, but he wasn’t buried in those shoes. Not unless he had two pairs.”

  He shook his head. “He was buried in those shoes.” There was no point in arguing, even if he was totally wrong. We sat in silence for a few seconds, then he pointed at the little cup of brown sewage. “That might taste better if you put some more milk in it. It’s on the counter.”

  I filled it up to the brim with milk and stirred it. It looked sort of like chocolate milk now, so maybe I’d be able to trick myself into thinking it tasted like it too.

  When I sat down, Will was mindlessly scratching his upper arm, and I could see a tattoo hidden below the sleeve.

  “What’s the tattoo?” I asked before taking a sip of the drink.

  Nope. Definitely not chocolate milk. I tried not to spit it out.

  “Oh, this?” He pushed up his sleeve to reveal three stick figures: one boy and two girls. “It’s me, my sister, and my mom.”

  His father seemed to hang in the air again as we stared at each other awkwardly. There were sugar packets on the table between us, and I thought I’d give the macchiato one last try with some sweetener. I skimmed my fingers through the packets, looking for one that just said SUGAR, when I felt myself pulled into a memory attached to a packet of SuperSweetz.

  It was a quick
one: A woman was reaching for a packet of sugar when a red minivan crashed violently into a truck outside the window, and people rushed out of the café to help.

  I lurched back to reality, knocking the packets all over the table. “Dang it,” I said, gathering them up as he stared at me. “My bad. There was a memory attached to one of the sugars.”

  “A memory?”

  “Yeah,” I mumbled. “It happens sometimes, I have no idea how to control it.”

  “What was it?”

  “A minivan hit a truck, and then a bunch of people rushed out to help. Whoever left the memory must have been really shocked. That’s usually how it works, some kind of strong feeling behind it.”

  He blinked at me, bewildered. “That just happened a couple of days ago. It was the loudest bang I’ve ever heard. Everyone was freaked out.”

  “Oh,” I said, nodding. “Hope no one was hurt.”

  “Everyone was fine,” he said slowly, like he . . . like he didn’t know what to think anymore. He was clearly confused that I knew about the accident, and I realized this was my shot to get him talking.

  “Would you mind telling me about your dad?” I asked quietly, trying not to sound too desperate. “I’m just trying to figure out what he wants. I’m trying to figure out what he did when he was alive that was so bad.”

  He was looking at his hands, which were clenched tightly together, and I thought he was going to tell me to shut up. Miraculously, he started talking.

  “The man was a machine, Baylor. Super successful. Good shape. Then he married some chick named Angela, got dementia, and left her all his money, and now my sister and I are broke, and there’s nothing we can do about it.” He looked up at me. “So if it is him, maybe he feels guilty for marrying some greedy, gold-digging monster who dismantled our inheritance, stole it for herself, and left his kids out to dry. Does that answer your question?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to make you mad.”

  “It’s not your fault, kid,” he said, standing up. “I’ve dealt with it, it’s whatever. I’ve moved on. My sister got out of Dodge, my mom stayed in Winchester, and God knows where Angela went. She didn’t even show up to his funeral.”