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He reached over and hit the stop button on the CD player, cutting the music to the earphones. “You missed. And I'm the one who should be sorry. I didn't mean to startle you, Lilah. How's it going?”

“Getting better, I think.”

“It sounds like it. You're making some good progress.”

I shrugged. “Me and Alex want to start a band.”

He nodded. “You two could really rock it out.”

I really liked Mr. Robertson. He was maybe thirty or so. He wasn't all stiff and boring like some of the other teachers. You could imagine this guy was
a kid once, not like Mr. Burrows, who lived and breathed math. You assumed that guy was
born
bald and middle-aged.

“You and Alex both have talent. You just need to practice, practice, practice.”

I nodded. “I know. We're still not very good, but we're determined.”

“Hey, Lilah, want to hear something really fun?”

“Yeah, for sure.”

He grinned. “Okay, let me in there for a second.”

I got up and retrieved my drumsticks from the floor, handing them to him.

“Thanks.” Mr. Robertson took my spot on the stool, took a breath, and started drumming.

I was instantly awestruck.

The drumming was like nothing I'd ever heard before and certainly nothing I'd aspired to be able to do, at least not for many years. But Mr. Robertson was totally kicking it, his hands a blur as he hit the drums in all the right places. His face was lit up, like this was what he lived for, his passion.

I was in total awe.

When he finished, with a big cymbal crash, he turned to me. There was sweat on his forehead but he smiled. “So, what do you think?”

“That was awesome, Mr. Robertson. I didn't know you could play like that!”

“Practice, Lilah. You'll get there.”

I seriously doubted it, but still, it was cool to watch my teacher drum like a rock star.

“What was that?”

He shrugged. “Just an old Van Halen song.”

I'd never heard of Van Halen, but I was definitely going to look them up. Maybe my dad had one of their CDs.

“That was really so cool, Mr. Robertson,” I said, taking the drumsticks from him. But as my hand touched the wood, a jolt of something went through me. I looked up into my teacher's face. “Ugh, did you feel that?”

He tilted his head as though he was listening for something. “Feel what?”

I looked down at the drumsticks. They seemed to be pulsing in my hands.

“The sticks, do they seem weird to you?”

He glanced down and shrugged. “They're not the kind I normally prefer to use, but there's nothing wrong with them.”

“Oh, never mind,” I said, feeling really stupid. I mentally willed my grandmother to come and explain what was going on.

No such luck.

Mr. Robertson let go of the sticks and got up off the stool.

“Bubby!” I coughed into my hand, hoping he didn't get that I was beckoning my dead grandmother to come help me decipher a new psychic quirk.

He turned around. “Bless you.”

Clueless. Good. But apparently, so was my grandmother.

“So, are you in a band, Mr. Robertson?”

He shook his head. “I used to be, but most of the guys are married with jobs and kids now, so it's hard for us to get together and jam.”

“That's sad. You're really talented. You shouldn't let that go to waste.”

He smiled down at me. “It's not wasted. I get to watch kids like you develop your talent. Maybe someday your band will be famous and you'll give me free tickets, and I'll be able to tell everyone you were my student. That's good enough for me.”

“Really? That's good enough?” I had my doubts. And when I asked, his smile receded a little. Just a little, but enough for me to see it.

“Ask him about jet-black wig,” a woman's voice said from across the room.

There was no one there. How could there be? We were in a closed practice room.

A sick feeling landed in my stomach. I had told the spirits to go away today, but here was a cheeky
one, determined to talk to me. “No,” I said out loud, smoothing the hair down on my arms.

“Sorry, Lilah?”

I looked back at Mr. Robertson. “Sorry, I was just thinking of something.”

He frowned. “Are you okay? You seem a little, I don't know, distant.”

I shook my head. “No, I'm fine. I just thought I heard something.”

He laughed. “Well, it's a soundproof room, so I can't see how.”

“Ask him. Ask him about jet-black wig and you'll find out that teaching isn't enough for him.”

The voice was like a finger, poking in my brain. Not letting go until I did as it demanded.

I took a deep breath.
Here we go again
. “Mr. Robertson, do you believe in ghosts?”

He blinked. “That's kind of an odd question to ask your music teacher, isn't it, Lilah?”

“Not as weird as you think. You know how I got hit by lightning last weekend?”

He nodded, still frowning. “Of course.”

“Well, it seems that since then I have some sort of superpsychic powers.”

He crossed his arms in front of his chest but didn't say anything.

“I hear voices.”

“Lilah, do you want me to ask the nurse to call one of your parents to come get you?”

I shook my head. “No, I'm okay. Really, about the voices, I can prove it.”

He arched his eyebrows, waiting.

“There is someone here in the room with us telling me to ask you about jet-black wigs, although I have no idea what that means.”

Based on the way he dropped down onto the drum stool,
he
did.

“How could you know about that?”

“I'm telling you, there's someone here. A woman, telling me to ask you about jet-black wigs.”

“Jet Black Wig was the name of the band I was in a decade ago. We were just about to sign a record deal when our lead singer died.”

“That was me,” the voice said.

“What was your lead singer's name?” I asked.

Mr. Robertson looked at me. “Her name was Serena.”

“Yup, that's me.”

“That's who's here. Serena.”

“Lilah, you're fooling with me,” Mr. Robertson said, suddenly not sounding so teacherlike. “You Googled me or something.”

I shook my head. “Nope, I promise you I didn't. How did she die?”

“Cancer,” Serena said.

“Car accident,” Mr. Robertson said.

I looked at my teacher, wondering why he was lying. “She said it was cancer.”

And then as I stood there, my music teacher began to cry. He covered his eyes with his hands and just lost it. “Serena, are you really here?”

“I'm here, Frankie,” Serena said.

“She says yes.” It felt kind of weird, watching him cry like that. I looked out the window into the main music room, but no one seemed to be paying any attention. Most of the kids were goofing off and talking instead of playing their instruments, but I wasn't about to point that out to Mr. Robertson. Grabbing a tissue from the pack in my bag, I handed it to him.

“Sorry to dump this on you,” I said. “It seems spirits have figured out I can hear them, so they come to me, demanding to be heard.”

He took the tissue and looked at me. “I'm sorry. You shouldn't be seeing me like this. It's just a bit overwhelming.”

“It's okay,” I said. “It's pretty overwhelming for me, too.”

“Tell him he's a jerk for not keeping the band together.”

I relayed the message.

“Can she hear me?” he asked me.

I nodded.

“Serena, there was no moving on after you… were gone. I couldn't. I just couldn't.”

I was beginning to think they were more than just bandmates, but kept my mouth shut.

“Tell him to get the band back together.”

“She wants you to get the band back together.”

“Oh, Serena, I can't do that.”

“Tell him he has to. Tell him that Phil Rivers is working at Sony now and he'll remember us.”

I relayed the message.

“Phil Rivers,” Mr. Robertson said.

I shrugged.

“He was the guy at the label that was going to sign us. But Serena, he was just at an indie label. If he's at Sony now, he'll never want to sign a garage band like us.”

Serena seemed to not want to take no for an answer. “Frankie, you have to. Period.”

I told him what she'd said. I also told him if he didn't, Serena promised to haunt me until he complied.

“Nice tactic,” Serena said. “You're a sassy one, aren't you?”

“Fine then,” Mr. Robertson said finally. “I guess I've been thinking about it lately, anyway, how it would be cool to try again. Okay, fine. I'll call the guys and see about getting the band back together.”

“Good. Mission accomplished,” Serena said, her voice softer now.

Then she surprised me by talking
to
me and not just
through
me. “Lilah, If you'd heard the band, you'd understand how important it is that they get back together. We were going places. They
will
go places, even with another singer. Thank you for your help. I've been waiting a decade for this opportunity.”

“You're welcome.”

“And I'm sorry if this is kind of weird for you,” she continued. “But can you please tell him I love him?”

It
was
weird, but how could I not? So I did, which just made Mr. Robertson cry more (which just made it weirder for me, of course).

“I love you, too, Serena, and still miss you so much.”

Serena was quiet for a long time. But just as I was about to ask her if she was still there, she spoke up. “Enough for now. Lilah, tell him I'm leaving. And that I look forward to seeing him onstage with the guys.”

I told him what she'd said and that she was gone.

Mr. Robertson wiped at his eyes with the now tattered tissue. After several weird minutes, he finally spoke. “Are you okay with all this, Lilah? This
sudden gift you have seems like a real double-edged sword.”

I thought about how I'd silenced the spirits at the door that morning and straightened my spine, determined. “Yeah, I'll be okay. Just don't go advertising this around. I don't need Ms. Francutti breathing down my neck thinking I'm a psycho.” I had little reason to think Mr. Robertson would rat me out to the school social worker, but still, you gotta make sure.

He nodded and put his hand on my arm. “I won't say anything to anyone. And Lilah, thank you. I can't say thank you enough.”

“You're welcome. I'll just take some free passes to
your
show as payment, okay?”

He grinned. “Deal. Now I'd better get back out there and do some actual teaching.”

The bell rang, signaling the end of class.

We both laughed. I grabbed my bag while he stood up and reached for the door. My stomach growled. Seems this psychic work makes one very hungry.

So as if I wasn't frazzled enough after that, I was walking down the hall toward my math class when I saw Andrew Finkel. Wow, he was so cute. His hair
was all shaggy like he just got out of bed, but it really suited him. And those eyes…

Suddenly, he looked right at me and opened his mouth to say something.

Ah!

I freaked out a little and hurried past him, ducking into the bathroom. I had no reason
not
to talk to him, other than I'd surely sound like an idiot, all stuttering and nervous. Best not to put myself in that situation.

Needing to kill a minute or two until he was gone from the hall, I checked myself out in the mirror. Hair was good, now teeth.

“You look fine.”

I looked around to find the source of the voice. But there wasn't anyone there. There was one girl peeing in the stall, but I knew it wasn't her who'd spoken. And, anyway, the voice sounded like a grown woman.

“Pardon?” I said quietly.

“I said, you look good. You don't have anything stuck in your teeth.”

“Thanks,” I said, dryly, running the water so I wouldn't be heard talking to myself.

“But your outfit is a disaster.”

“What?” I looked down. I was wearing my comfy cargo capris and flip-flops with my favorite T-shirt.

“The baggy look is out. And flip-flops? Please.”

“I didn't ask for your opinion,” I said. “I don't even know who you are.”

The girl in the stall came out and joined me at the sinks to wash her hands.

It was Dolly Madison. Her real name was Dorothy, but she liked to be called Dolly, which Alex thought was stupid, because who would want to be named after a snack-cake company, anyway. I didn't bother telling Alex about Dolley Madison, the First Lady from a long time ago who was so famous, she'd even made it onto a coin.

Someday, Alex would figure that one out on her own.

Anyway, Dolly was in eighth grade and was popular with the boys because she was tall and had boobs, something she and I certainly didn't have in common. Her boobs and the subsequent attention from members of the opposite sex made her kind of snobby and mean to other girls. Especially younger girls without boobs.

Girls like me.

She looked me up and down before saying very sarcastically, “Nice pants.”

“See? I told you so,” said the disembodied fashion critic.

I straightened my shoulders. “I like these pants.”

Dolly rolled her eyes so far, they almost disappeared. “Whatever. Although they do take the focus off your chest.”

See what I mean? Harsh. It would have made me sad, but I knew my boobs were coming. No one stays flat forever.

Right?

With a loud snort, Dolly turned to leave the bathroom. But before she got to the door, she tripped and fell flat on her face!

I couldn't help it—I laughed.

“You tripped me!” she yelled as she got up.