The Girl in Acid Park

Copyright

Dedication

Mailing List

Chapter One - Fat Girl Stealth

Chapter Two - There's an App for That

Chapter Three - Fact or Flush

Chapter Four - Hanging Out

Chapter Five - Psychopomp and Circumstance

Chapter Six - A Joint Effort

Chapter Seven - Coffee ex Machina

Chapter Eight - Shrink Shrank Shrunk

Chapter Nine - Good Vibrations

Chapter Ten - Zippity Boo Da

Chapter Eleven - Pieces of April

Chapter Twelve - Paper Push

Amazon Review

Author's Note

Acknowledgements

About the Author

THE MILLROAD ACADEMY EXORCISTS, BOOK TWO

THE GIRL IN ACID PARK

A Pendragon Press Novella

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 2015 by Lauren Harris

Cover design copyright © 2015 by Starla Huchton

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form

or by any means without the express written permission of the publisher.

For information address:
[email protected]

Author photograph by Corinna Rinkenburger

PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

This book is dedicated to the late Vollis Simpson, the real creator of the whirligigs in my parents' hometown of Wilson, North Carolina. Though he hated the (very fake) urban legend of Acid Park, his whimsical reclaimed metal art has inspired people all around the world. May his memory live on, and his art continue to make an impact. I can think of no greater praise.

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CHAPTER ONE

Fat Girl Stealth

One consistency throughout my years at Millroad Catholic Academy was that, on parent visitation days, the entire school reeked of barbecue. This morning, the smell of vinegar and pork concentrated in the library, as if determined to distract me from my reference book, and Sister Ann-Margaret kept walking past with gaggles of parents fresh from the smoke pit.

Their sweater-sets and sports-coats were saturated with that down-home pig-pickin' perfume, and the nun herself had a super-conspicuous Brunswick stew stain on her habit's white collar. Twice I'd tried to flag her down and point it out, but both times she'd bulldozed straight past, bleating about the public library's unmarked teen fiction with its sex and drugs and lack of Jesus.

As she shouted a greeting to what I could only assume was a fresh batch of parents, I closed my book over my arm and looked across the library table. My heart jumped at the sight of Hiroki's face, turned up toward me, his dark eyes staring at something just over my shoulder. From anyone else this wouldn't be alarming, but given Hiroki's unique ability to see and speak to ghosts, that stare meant I could have a confederate soldier drooling spirit blood onto my shoulder and only he would know about it.

The skin on my nape tightened. "What is it?" I whispered, pulse catching.

Hiroki redirected his eyes to mine, then gave a disgusted snort and bent back over his book. "
Mō
," he said. "Can I not just zone out without you thinking it's a ghost?"

I might have been jumpy since I literally had a glimpse of what Hiroki sees every day, and if he'd resorted to muttering about his irritation in Japanese, it was getting to him.

"Oh my God," I whispered. "Is it your mom?" I tried to sound just as horrified as before, but he'd stopped listening, head in hands, forehead screwed up in concentration.

"Hey," I hissed. I kicked his foot under the table. "Hey, asshole."

He looked up. I would have given him hell for responding, but he didn't have to sit in the library with me while the other students enjoyed the last October sunshine. Research is only fun when you don't have to do it, and pouring over the carefully curated stacks for any mention of my newfound ability definitely qualified as necessary. Not for Hiroki, of course, but that's why he's my best friend.

"You hungry?" I asked.

He shook his head, eyes straying back to his book.

"Come on," I said. "We haven't eaten since seven thirty."

Still looking at his book, he pointed a finger at himself. "Smoker."

"Yes!" I said, and pushed aside a book detailing Leviticus's guidance on talking to ghosts, which thus far had said nothing more helpful than "don't". Leaning across the table, I slapped a hand over his book pages. "There's an even bigger smoker outside. The daddy of all smokers. And it's got dead pig on it, waiting to be eaten."

Interestingly, also something Leviticus said not to do.

Hiroki's eyebrows showed signs of life. "I'm not going to fetch you food," he said. "Go outside and get the walk of shame over with. Unless you're enjoying the library-sideshow approach."

As if to illustrate his point, the aisle to my right darkened and Sister Ann-Margaret marched in. She was preceded by the orange stain on her epic bosom, and followed by three adults, two students, and the scent of boiled collard greens.

"The library is a quiet place to study," she bellowed. "Students whose work requires communication are encouraged to use the study rooms down the hall."

That was when the parents saw me leaning halfway across my table with a hand on another student's book, clearly mid-conversation. I'd normally have grinned at them. Instead, I froze like a possum in a floodlight.

Here's the deal: almost two months ago, a student at our school was murdered and his vengeful spirit kind of made our school a national spectacle. With the lacrosse team captain pleading guilty in the face of a recorded confession, Millroad Catholic Academy looked less and less like the place to send your kids, sterling college acceptance rate or not.

And I guess some of that was my fault. At least, the recorded confession part was. You'd think that would endear me to the parental population, and I'm sure it did on some level. But with every passing group there was a whisper from a student, a nod in my direction, and the all-too-familiar flash of contempt.

"Miss Collins," Sister Ann-Margaret snapped. "If you have something to discuss with Mr. Satou, might I suggest someplace other than the library."

Eyes widened, chins lifted. The corners of lips turned up, but there was no kindness in those smiles. They'd I.D.d the freaks.

In that instant, they knew Hiroki was the kid with spectral sight, who saw and talked to ghosts as easily as he talked to me. They'd seen him on the news, getting microphones shoved in his face. They knew my name was Georgia Collins, and that I solved a murder and discovered I can help spirits pass into the afterlife, no exorcism required.

Worst of all, as parents with kids at Millroad Catholic Academy, they know that, immediately after exorcising my classmate, I did something incredibly stupid: I wrote about it on my blog.

I want to be a journalist, but news is scarce when the faculty observes chastity vows and there's no such thing as prom. Since sixth grade, I've chased every case of mono from tonsil to tonsil and written about it on an underground school news blog--the Toilet Paper.

After the exorcism, I'd needed to write about what happened. I'd needed to prove to everyone who had ever doubted me because I'm fat, or crass, or female, that I could be a journalist. I didn't think about all the dirty laundry in my RSS feed--I just wanted to write something important, something to remember Aaron. Instead, my whole school had its scandals on display, and no matter how many posts I took down or comments I disabled, my own words always seemed to come back to haunt me.

Still, I just couldn't bring myself to delete it, not with all my best writing on there, not with the tribute to Aaron, which had meant so much to his parents and best friend. It was selfish, probably, but I just couldn't take it down.

Sister Ann-Margaret glared until Hiroki and I grabbed our bags and applied foot to floor. The instant we stepped into the hallway, I felt the pressure on my ribs and heart that meant I was going into target-mode, prepared to walk through the school as if there were a gigantic bulls-eye on me, which I countered with a little trick I like to call fat-girl-stealth.

Step 1: I wiped off my lipstick--I wasn't supposed to wear it anyway, but the faculty had bigger problems to deal with than minor dress-code violations.

Step 2: I looked at the linoleum a few feet ahead, walking with my shoulders hunched until I was closer to Hiroki's height.

Step 3: I slowed down. I usually power-walk with the best, charging my way from place to place like a tank intent on making straight lines.

Fat-girl stealth is basically all the shit I've unlearned over the past few years, once I decided I didn't give a fuck what people thought. Once I decided not to be ignored. I hated feeling like I had to go back to it, just to get down a hallway without someone hurling Proverbs 13:3 at me. "He who opens wide his lips comes to ruin."

Even the irony of them literally having to "open wide their lips" to quote it wasn't enough to get me past the first week or so.

Hiroki and I hadn't invited our parents this year, neither of us being certain how the bitchslap of fame would affect them. I'd planned to avoid the barbecue altogether, but Hiroki was right--maybe if I just made a public appearance, I could get the stoning in the center square over with and vanish later.

I got halfway down the stairs before it happened. I turned at the landing to find four lacrosse players climbing toward us. We saw each other at the same time. All of us paused--an unexpected meeting of enemies.

For the record, I don't hate jocks, and there were a few team members who didn't suck, but I'd put a third of their starting lineup in juvenile hall. Two more had lost girlfriends because of my blog, and all suffered scrutiny because of Aaron Nguyen's murder. I was not exactly their favorite person.

My intestines constricted into a knot and I considered turning around. But what good would it do? I'd done the right thing with exposing Aaron's murderers. Their teammates had deserved to go to prison, at the very least.

The lacrosse jocks climbed, Hiroki and I descended, and none of us looked at each other. I felt the air move as we passed each other, each pressing as far to the stair's edge as possible.

The last guy was on my step and I began to let out my breath when a backpack checked me in the shoulder. I pitched forward. There was a moment of panic before I caught myself on the bannister two steps down and jerked to a stop.

My fingers stung, and I'd somehow kicked my own ankle, but I hadn't fallen down the stairs. I clung for a moment, regaining my wits and deciding if I was going to throw up--two months post-concussion, and most of the nausea was behind me, but the jolt had unsettled my equilibrium. It was probably a good thing I hadn't eaten for several hours.

"Are you
all
homicidal?" Hiroki barked. He lunged up the stairs again, but I pivoted and snatched at his messenger bag, keeping him from pursuing certain ass-kicking.

"Hiro! Hiro, I'm good!" I said, though I clutched at my stomach with the other hand. "Don't be an idiot."

What I meant was, don't get yourself hurt, like last time. He glared up after them, and though my arms still shook with adrenaline, I dragged him along after me. Their chuckles and jeers followed us until we left the stairwell. We slunk through the foyer in front of the main offices, dodging the tables of parent-focused displays when a familiar southern accent called out to us.

"Mr. Satou, Miss Collins!"

I pulled a one-eighty before Hiroki had even looked up from his phone. The parents in the foyer looked first to the source of the shout, then, when name-recognition kicked in, turned wide-eyes on Hiroki and me. For once, though, I didn't care. There, standing in the office door, was Mr. Temptation himself--our blue-eyed Adonis of a school priest, Brother What-a-waste.

"Yes!" I said, immediately regretting the lipstick wipe.