I So Don't Do Mysteries (2 page)

I must be
losing my mind. I start freaking out, inhaling
humongous amounts of air. Palm over my pounding heart, I force myself to breathe evenly. In through
the nose, out through the mouth.

The smell of coffee is suddenly stronger, like when someone's using the
grinding-machine thingie at the grocery store. The branch above me dips and bounces.

“Mom?” I whip my head up. “Is it really you?”

“Yes, it is,” she says, “even though you can't see
me.”

A Play-Doh-ish lump sticks in my throat. That voice—I never thought I'd
hear it again.

We sit there, both of us sniffling. At least, I sit there. For all I know, my invisible
mom's standing on her head.

I swallow hard. “I miss you.”

“Me too, pumpkin.” It comes out all strangled.

Tears start rolling down my cheeks. With the back of my hand, I wipe them away. I
croak out a nonword.

Right at this hugely emotional moment, a cactus wren loops by, then lands by the wide
date palm in the middle of our yard. It swipes at its little dark eyes with a tattered old wing. Bizarre. Is it
crying along with us?

“Crazy, isn't it?” Mom says. “All those years I made fun
of Grandma, and it turns out she was right.”

This time I croak out a sort-of word. “Huh?”

“About ghosts existing. That's what I am.”

This is majorly not sinking in for me. Like in the summer, when the sun bakes the
ground so hard and dry, it can't absorb water? Well, my brain's not absorbing this
big-time-strange situation.

“Can I touch you?” I ask, hushed.

There's a whoosh, and my branch jostles. The smell of coffee is right beside
me. I pat the air but don't feel anything. “I wish I could see you.” I pause.
“Unless you're all, you know, with the bullet hole and stuff.”

“We're restored to how we looked thirty minutes before our death. I
just look like myself. I still need a haircut. Remember, I canceled my appointment?”

And I do remember. “Because of your migraine.” I swallow.
“This is way weird.”

“I had choices,” she says. “I could either cross over right away
or go to the Academy of Spirits or choose an animal form. I chose the Academy so I could keep an
eye on you and Sam.”

“Wow.” I'm shocked out of my shock. Mom picked us? Shut
up. She was so . . . not maternal when alive. So not there for us. She practically lived at the Phoenix
Police Department. And when she was home, it was all friction and “I'm very
disappointed in you, Sherry.”

True, I always have lousy report cards. True, I hate trying new things, so I panic and
fail. True, I've had several royal screwups. Like, once when I was baking a cake, I overfilled
the mold with batter and started an oven fire. Another time, I was in charge of Sam at the beach, and I
totally lost him, to the point the lifeguards had to make loudspeaker announcements, then dive in for a
search. Turned out my brother had wandered off to the playground. Not to mention the gazillion times I
lost keys, library books, and school assignments.

Basically, my overachiever, superambitious, workaholic mother and me are polar
opposites. I spent my life looking for her attention. She spent her life looking for the next promotion.
And then came the drug bust that killed her.

But now? Maybe this very strange, very freaky situation is a chance for us to get it
together.

“You've been watching me and Sam?” I say.

The branch sways. I can totally imagine her in her fave position, legs crossed with her
top foot wiggling and jiggling.

“Only from a distance so far. I can tell you're both taller.”

I'm taller? That's all she noticed? What about my increased cleavage?
Seems like a fourth of a cup size would be noticeable.

Mom sighs. “Actually, the whole Academy experience has turned out to be
more than I bargained for.”

“What do you mean?”

“I'm stuck in the beginner Prevent a Crime class. Everyone else passed.
It's very embarrassing, given my background in law enforcement.”

“You always rocked at work stuff. What's the deal?”

“I'm having a tough time with basic ghost skills such as flying and
hanging on to a location once I get there. Also, a lot of areas that were difficult for me in life are next to
impossible now.”

“Huh?”

“Well”—Mom pauses—“I've always had a
poor sense of direction, right?”

“Definitely dismal.” I nod. “I was pretty much your personal
MapQuest.”

“Now I can't even find point A,” she says, “never mind
get from A to B. The Academy is only on the other side of town. Under Dairy Queen. But it took me
months to find my way here and even longer to make contact with you.”

Weird, weird, weird. Next she'll be telling me she's going on a field trip
to Hogwarts. “And the Academy is what, exactly?”

“An organization that trains ghosts to protect the living. To enroll, you need
prior experience in a field such as law enforcement, firefighting or PI work. And to advance through the
various levels, you have to conquer your weak areas. For example, I'm currently targeting my
sense of direction.”

I rub my forehead, thinking how a Blizzard will never be the same for me.

“Sherry?” Mom's voice goes soft and gooey and sweet, like
fresh bubble gum. “I've been watching you, and it looks as though you've
gotten even more fearful of challenges since I've been gone.”

“Mom, I'm fine. Really.” Except for the fact that I totally freeze
up in tough situations. Like a Popsicle. As in frozen solid.

“I did some research at the Academy library and found an interesting loophole
in their rules.” She pauses. “A loophole that would allow us to work
together.”

“Like . . . partners?” I picture Mom's partner—well,
ex-partner—Stefanie, with her cute haircut and cool blue uniform. I smile. Then I picture a bunch
of bad guys with guns and scars. I frown.

“It would be completely safe,” Mom says, reading my frown.
“You'd just be helping me with a little mystery solving. It would build up your
self-confidence.”

It feels like an undigested carnitas burrito with guac and sour cream is sitting in my
stomach.

“I don't do mysteries, Mom. In case you haven't noticed,
I'm not Nancy Drew.” I fluff my dark hair for emphasis. “Do I look like a
strawberry-blond-haired teenage detective?”

“Sherry—”

“You know me,” I say. “You know I'll
choke.”

I can make myself sweat with memories of my many mistakes. I always flunk pop
quizzes; I was held back in beginner swimming five times; I'm the star of miles of videotape of
school shows where I just stand there like a moron. And the lame list goes on.

“You wouldn't be operating alone. I'd be very
involved.”

“No, no, no.” I'm shaking my head so fast, the front of my
brain has probably Jell-O-jiggled all the way to the back and vice versa.

“You can do this,” Mom says gently. “You've
overcome challenges before.”

There's a long pause where I can imagine her twirling her dark, curly hair into a
ratty knot around her index finger just like I'm doing. Same hair, same habit. In fact, with my
wild shoulder-length hair and large brown eyes, people often say I take after my mom. Maybe just to be
nice. But still.

Finally, she sighs. “Sherry, I need to be a little more up-front. I didn't
want to put this pressure on you, but—”

“What? What?” I say. “What's going on?”

“The Academy is”—Mom clears her
throat—“highly competitive. This is my last chance. If I fail this
assignment”—her voice cracks—“I'll have to move
on.”

The heavy burrito feeling is back in my stomach. My go-getter mother is failing at
something? “Move on?”

“To the afterlife reserved for Academy failures.”

So I'd be losing her all over again. Right after we found each other. And to a
terrible fate for which I don't want details, thankyouverymuch.

“I really need your help,” she says.

Like the pitiful drummer in our school band, my heart beats all erratically. My mom
needs me. My überindependent, never-turns-down-a-challenge mother needs me. And not just
for babysitting but for big stuff. This is mind-blowing. “What would I have to
do?”

“Someone is leaving unauthorized banana treats in the rhino enclosure of an
animal park.”

“And?”

“They're either using the bananas to lure the rhinos to a spot where they
can shoot them or planning to poison the bananas and thus the rhinos. My assignment is to find the
culprit, figure out the motive and prevent any rhino deaths.”

“Why doesn't the park just tell the cops?”

“According to Academy sources, the park officials don't know
there's a deadly agenda. They think it's a simple case of unauthorized treats,”
Mom says. “And they feel they can handle that internally.”

“Of course they can.” I'm big-time buying into the
park-people-take-care-of-the-prob scenario.

“They most definitely cannot.” She pauses. “Besides, for me to
get the credit for my class, we can't let anyone else solve the case.”

“You have tons of experience catching criminals. Why do you even need
me?”

“My basic ghost skills and sense of direction are not up to par,” she
says. “It'll take us both.”

“How do you even know something bad's going on?”

“A ghost who knows a ghost who knows a snitch. Typical informer
situation.”

“Why'd they assign you this case, anyway?” I scrunch up my
face. “Like, why rhinos? Why aren't you going after the scumbags who killed
you?”

“The Academy's not about personal revenge,” Mom says.
“And I got the rhino case because”—her voice goes all
proud—“I'm advanced when it comes to connecting with live animals. I was the
only one who got an A plus in the Animal Mind Control class. Who knows? Maybe all that time I spent
working Canine gave me a special ability. Remember Nero Wolfe, my springer spaniel? That dog could
sniff out—”

Oh no. She's on a roll. I swear she loved that dog more than me.
“Listen, Mom—”

“You can do it, Sherry. We can do it together.”

Perched on the end of a palm frond now, the wren's glaring at me with beady
eyes. Creeeepy. His feathers are thin and ratty, and he's got a bunch of wrinkled pink skin
pouching out. Grooooss.

This whole situation is so not me. My stomach goes all churny. “I still
don't get what I'm supposed to do.”

“Go to San Diego over spring break. The rhinos are at the Wild Animal Park.
You can stay at Great-aunt Margaret's.”

Wham.
It's like the time I rode my bike into the garage door. After years
of contradicting each other, now my parents decide to act as a unit? “So you and Dad are
ganging up on me?” I spit out. “Just so he and The Ruler can go on their
honeymoon?” I clap my hand over my mouth to stop the words. Too late.

“The math teacher?” The branch above me shakes wildly. “Oh!
Oh! Oh!”

Thud
.

Sand from the sandbox sprays out onto the lawn.

“Ouch.”

“Mom! Mom! You okay?”

“See what I mean about having trouble staying in a location?”

Below me, a plastic shovel stands to attention, then begins digging. I guess
she's decided to hang out in the sandbox.

“I figured he'd remarry,” she says, “but not so
soon.”

“Yeah. Well. He was pretty much a basket case after you died. She's
kinda been good for him.” Can you say awkward?

The shovel digs faster. “Weren't the neighbors helpful? And how about
Stefanie?”

“Yeah, everyone was helpful, bringing meals and stuff. And we still see Stefanie
every once in a while. But you guys were so tight from being partners for a long time that I think chilling
with us makes her sad.”

The shovel stops and lies down.

I have a sudden vision of Dad and The Ruler kissing. I wouldn't want Mom to
witness that. Actually, I wouldn't want to witness that grossness myself. “Can you get
into our house?”

“I can't cross thresholds.” A toy dump truck drives slowly
around the sandbox, leaving wavy tire tracks in its wake. “I can only make contact outside. And
only with certain people.”

“Who else besides me?”

“Well . . .” The truck bumps a wall. “No one. You're
the only one.”

A warm, fuzzy feeling balloons inside me. I'm special. “Not
Sam?”

Mom sighs. “Even in death I have to deal with sibling rivalry?”

“Not rivalry. Just an innocent question.”