The Ghost in Me (2 page)

Roz's eyes flash wide, and are quick to dance with laughter.

"Now, don't y' dare set in on me for me wretched looks!" Wren says, flying to her feet and pointing a pale finger between us. "I can see it on both your faces, ye'll be wanting to try, but I'm in no mood for it today."

Roz stifles a laugh, as Wren brushes at her skirt. Wren's sensitive about her looks, and I guess she has every right. It's not like there's a ghost mall she can hit up--a sad reality of the spirit world that has left Wren perpetually fashion-challenged. She's been stuck with the same natty hair, the same boxy nightgown, the same laced boots, and the same wool stockings with a patch at the knee ever since the night she died. Which, like she says, was over three hundred years ago when she went out in search of her Molly cow that'd gone missing, only to end up lost, herself, in an early-winter storm.

Wren died of hypothermia, pretty much on the spot where I live now. The land has changed, but Wren's connection to it hasn't. Gram says that's because she has unfinished business.

Gram knows these things. She's a spiritual consultant--kind of like a psychologist, only her clients hover on the couch, instead of lie directly on it. She's never discovered what needs to be done for Wren, though. Although lately, I've been feeling more and more motivated to try, since Wren is becoming more and more like an irritating, younger sister. In real life, that'd be bad enough....

But I guess this is real life, and Wren is as close to a younger sister as I'm ever going to get, only worse, because I don't have any control over her.

The situation is a bit ironic, actually. I'd rather stay faded in the shadows, while Wren would prefer to blaze ahead like a blinding light.

"Okay, okay, I won't be teasing ye," Roz says, giving Wren a wave of her hand.

"And don't be teasing me 'bout how I talk, neither," she replies. "Or, I'll be finding a way to walk in yer walls tonight. Scare your socks off, I will."

Roz half-laughs, shoots me a wink before setting her eyes back on Wren. "Oh, right. Walk through my walls? Ye-ah. Not so scary. But walk through me? Hmm-mmmmaybe a little bit more."

I can't help but nod, while showing the slightest of grins, because she's right. I let Wren do that to me once.

Once
.

And once was enough. Only she didn't walk through me, she sat--right in my lap, because I'd asked her to.

I thought it was a good idea at the time, but learned in matter of seconds that eating my peas was better than feeling crowded and squashed by a ghost. Plus, I could still taste the peas. And Wren, who had forgotten how much she disliked them, created an unfortunate conflict-of-interest when it came time to swallow.

Mom was startled, to say the least, when Wren popped out of me along with the peas; and she immediately dove into a lecture about the dangers of that kind of sharing, like getting lost, or getting stuck, or getting our brains all turned to mush.

That's what she said. Turned to mush.... Which just goes to show she doesn't know what she's talking about. Technically, Wren doesn't have a brain.

"C'mon, Roz!" Wren pleads. "Just tell me!"

"All right. Fine," Roz says, fighting off my attempt to cover her mouth. "Word on the bus is--
Ow!
That it--
Ow
! Takes eight days for a cockroach to die--
Erg!
--after its head is cut off.
Would you stop
?"

Roz stops me from swatting her a fourth time, as Wren jerks back in surprise. "Ew. That's a tizzy, now, ain't it?"

"Yeah, it's a tizzy, all right," Roz says, pulling her mouth up in a grin.

"Who came up with that?"

"Duey Williams." I can't help it, but saying his name makes my face flush. I squirm, pick up a card, hope Roz doesn't notice.

I don't think she does. She's still smiling, her eyes without focus.

"Is he a devil's child, or something?"

"No," Roz replies, with a hint of pride in her voice. "He's just one of the more well-informed eighth-graders at Wolford Academy."

This comment makes my eyes roll. Roz really needs to work harder at being an EX.

"But how does he know?" Wren asks, more interested in warped facts about the natural world, than the warped perceptions of Roz's mixed-up mind.

"He doesn't," I say, tossing an eight of diamonds on the pile.

Wren scrunches her mouth up tight. "Well, worms can live without their heads, or bods. They'll even grow new ones. And snakes, maybe. And chickens, for a minute or two."

Her eyes grow distant. "I always hated cutting and plucking them chickens. Their rumps always seemed to want to land on me boots--or me toes, if I wasn't wearing any. But roaches are horrible creatures. If anything can live longer, just to spite death--just to make themselves even more miserable, then I believe roaches could do it. I hate roaches. More than chickens."

Roz tips her head. "See, Myri. Wren believes it."

"Yeah, so?"

"So, what do you say?"

"What do I say to what?"

"What do you say to finding out whether it's true or not?"

"Why would I want to do that?"

"For the science fair."

I look at her like she's nuts, which she is, obviously. "Why are we talking about the science fair? I don't even want to do the science fair. For one thing, it's a complete health risk."

"Health risk?" It's Roz's turn to pull a face.

"Yeah. Health risk. You know how I get. Hives. Dry mouth. Shortness of breath. Talking in front of people totally freaks me out."

Roz laughs. "Who said anything about talking in front of people? You can hide behind a poster that explains everything for you. Besides, you don't get that bad."

I scrunch my lips. I hadn't thought of posters.

"Plus, a lot of good could come out of it."

"Good? Good, as in what?"

"For starters, good as in grades. You can't deny yours needs a bit of help. An-nnnd Diggs said everyone has to do something for the fair, no matter what. So you might as well do something that will liven things up. You're always good for that, you know."

I shake my head as if this is the most ridiculous thing I've heard, which it is. "Yeah, right. I'm going to cut heads off bugs for the science fair.
Because it will be fun
." I laugh, feeling not at all serious. "
That's a great project
."

"But that's the thing! It
is
a great project!" Roz bounces up to the balls of her toes, squats in front of me, grabs my shoulders for balance. "Look, Myri, no one else will be doing it, which will make it unique. That'll be a bonus in the grade department. At the same time though, it might lower someone's opinion of you." She bores her eyes into mine. "Someone who's interested in dating your mother."

Roz knows about Diggs. "It might be enough to shake him off, don't you think?"

Maybe.

"It won't be that hard. All you have to do is set it up like a normal experiment, follow a few simple steps, record a bit of data--"

"--tend to headless, disgusting bugs," I cut in, trying not to slump under her weight. "No, Roz, I don't think so."

I shake her off and throw down a two of hearts, hoping to divert her attention toward winning a game for once. Sure, I'm skipping turns, but I'm getting desperate. This whole conversation is getting way off track.

Plus, I'm actually starting to think she might be right, but for another reason. While Diggs might be put off by it--which could be useful toward relationship sabotage--Duey might like it.

"C'mon," she urges, not giving my sacrificed card a glance. "What's the big deal?"

"About cutting up roaches? Everything. But if you don't think so, you try it. It sounds like it's right up your alley."

On this, I'm dead serious. As far as I'm concerned, Roz and I are living proof of
In Utero
soul-switching. Meaning somehow, someway, our itty-bitty baby selves switched souls before we were born. Because nothing else explains it--why we look like we fit into our families in the physical sense--me with the blonde and dark-eyed Monacos, her with the russet-haired, freckle-faced Lynnwoods--but in the emotional and mental sense, we're always looking into each other's backyard.

Or, in Roz's case, into my mother's lab. Mom preps bodies at the back of the house. She's a mortician. And her funeral parlor--the place where people gather before burial--is the first thing you see when you walk through the front door.

Roz thinks this whole set-up is cool, which is why I'm surprised
she
isn't doing the bug project.

"Well, I would, if I could--" she says, answering my challenge, "--being that it's such a great idea and all, but I can't. My project is done."

"Already?" The science fair is three weeks away.

"Yep. I grew germs from swab samples I collected around school. I even collected some from Mr. Slayer's toilet seat."

"Tell me you didn't."

"Did," Roz says, before breaking into a laugh. "Wren helped me. She told me when the coast was clear."

"You were at school? Helping Roz?" That's a first.

Wren nods, looking for my approval.

"And I'll help with yers, too," she says. "I was always good with a knife."

"You can't hold a knife," I say, feeling irritated.

"And get this," Roz says, waving her hands through Wren's, as she holds them up for a pitying look. "
His
was the dirtiest place!"

"Mr. Slayer's?"

"Yep. C'mon, I'll show you!"

"You can wait. Believe me, you can wait," I say.

But I know where we'll be heading next. Because if Roz is right, I'm going to want to see if Mr. Slayer, grand principal of Wolford Academy, part-time preacher at the pulpit,
really will
have a lot of explaining to do about the secret lives in his toilet.

As it turned out, Duey wasn't making things up.

There were all sorts of universities studying this cockroach phenomenon and posting their findings online, which was good. Because it meant I didn't need to catch roaches on my own to get the project done. Labs actually sold them.

The bad thing was, I had to buy them in bulk; and the smallest box held 100.

One hundred!

Ye-eah.

Let me just say, working with that many roaches was no easy task. I mean, have you ever held a cockroach?

I hadn't. And I learned right away it required
a really good grip
, as in, squeeze them between your thumb and your forefinger, so they can't get away (one did). Ignore the touch of their little brown legs wrapping around your knuckle, doing their best to cling tight, while their head--their poor, pointy head--swivels from side to side, steered by skinny antennae....

It was gross. Completely and totally gross.

But still, I got busy. I had to. My life--and all its secret intentions--was hinged on this project.

Needless to say, it was met with mixed reviews on Science Day. Love it or hate it, all of Wolford Academy was drawn to it, repeatedly, with a resounding and unending chorus of
Ewwws!
and
Awesomes!
and
Coo-ooools!

One-by-one and two-by-two, students would press their noses up to the tank, look at the bugs that still crawled inside, and ask me questions--which I mostly ignored.

After all, I had a big poster that worked well for explaining the project without me. So well, that aside from the time Diggs came by, I stood behind it for nearly the entire fair, just like Roz suggested.

But
nearly
is where I went wrong.
Nearly
is what happens when events occur that you don't plan for.
Nearly
is what gets you in trouble when kids don't move on, even when they're given a summary card that answers their questions.

Nearly
was Kate Humphreys, who tried taking my experiment to a whole new level with a flashlight by shining it in the tank, saying, "Walk toward the light! Walk toward the light!"
Nearly
was Kent Larsen, who kept sticking front ends of the headless (but living) bugs together. Two bugs got stuck that way, and I found out that unsticking them made them gooey, kind of like what happens when peeling a scab.

But the worst offender--the whole reason everything went wrong--was Brittley Weatherfield, Wolford Academy's finest when it comes to the dramatic arts.

Seriously. The girl has gotten the lead role in every Wolford play since third grade. Not only does she have an agent and a website, she's been invited to a handful of casting calls for Disney--not that she'd gotten any parts, and not that it matters. The point is, the girl was born to live a life-blown-out-of-proportion, which didn't work well for me when she blew that life into mine.

And she did it without even looking at my project.

She was checking out Roz's (rather squeamishly), when two little girls came up to see my bugs. They couldn't have been more than six years old,
and what they were doing at our science fair in the middle of a school day, I'll never know
, but apparently, someone thought it would be a good place for a cute set of pony-tailed twins to learn something.