The Haunting of Sunshine Girl (13 page)

“Sure,” Nolan says, but he makes a strange sort of face that I can't read. Walking around in circles on a track like this makes me feel like a hamster in a cage, but I pick up my pace a little bit until I'm a few steps ahead of him. “Besides, you said your mom is so busy, she might not even notice, right?”

I nod slowly. “Of course. Good point. Right.”

When I showed him the video of Dr. Hoo earlier, Nolan practically threw his arms up over his head. He was actually excited, not horrified, to have more proof of my ghost. Or maybe just of ghosts in general. No wonder he wants me to keep taking videos. They're proof that his grandfather's stories were true—or could have been true, at least. Proof that his grandfather wasn't the crazy old man everyone else thought he was.

“Hey,” I slow down so that we're walking in step again. “What if . . . I mean, do you know any experts?”

“Experts?”

“You know, people with experience with this kind of thing. Maybe they could help me or something.”

“You mean like the Ghostbusters?” Nolan says, laughing.

“No, I don't mean like the Ghostbusters,” I answer, wrinkling my nose just like Mom. “I mean . . . did your grandfather have any friends, people he'd mentioned in some of his stories?”

This time it's Nolan's turn to walk out of step, but instead of speeding up, he slows down. Actually he stops altogether. Now I'm able to read the look on his face, and it's not good. Oops. I shouldn't have brought up his grandfather. I mean, I don't think
he's about to cry or anything, but he looks so sad I'm tempted to reach out and hug him. But of course, I don't. Instead, I say, “I'm so sorry, Nolan. I didn't mean to be insensitive.”

Nolan shakes his head. “It's not that. I just wish my grandfather were still alive.
He
probably would be able to help us.”

“I'm sorry,” I repeat.

“Most of his friends are gone. It's really just my grandmother who's left, and she never paid any attention to his ghost stories.”

“It was a silly thing to suggest.”

“No, it's a good idea. I mean, if you have bugs in your house, you call the exterminator, right?” I nod. “If your sink breaks, you call a plumber,” he continues.

“So you're saying it's time to bring in an expert?”

Nolan nods. “We just need to find one first.”

I don't think it'll be nearly as easy to find a ghost expert as it is to find an exterminator or a plumber.

“I'll drive to my grandmother's place this weekend. I don't think she touched any of the papers in his desk.”

“Papers?” I echo. It's strange to think of Nolan going through his grandfather's desk, like maybe the answers we need will be marked neatly in a file.

Nolan nods. “I know he wrote down some of his stories. You never know what else might be in there.”

I'm tempted to ask whether I can come with him, but I can tell from the look on Nolan's face that this is something he'd rather do alone. Besides, how would he explain my presence to his grandmother?
Oh hi, Granny, this is my classmate, Sunshine. I know she never met Gramps, but would you mind if she helped me go through his desk looking for ghost-hints?

After school I walk into the house holding my phone out in front of me the way cops hold their guns in the movies. But I'm not trying to kill anyone (obviously). I just want to catch them. Mom isn't home (of course); she's at work. There's a note taped to the refrigerator that says,
Don't wait up.
I don't bother taking the note down. I'm pretty sure it'll apply to tomorrow night, and the night after that.

I grab an apple and head upstairs, prepared to capture whatever's on the other side of my bedroom door before I step inside. But with the apple in one hand and my phone in the other, I don't have a hand free to turn the knob, so I pop the apple in my mouth, gripping its flesh with my teeth. Next I reach out, turn the knob, and brace myself.

The checkerboard is right where I left it beside my bed, and I can see that someone has made her countermove: it's my turn. But I guess just checkers isn't enough for her anymore. My Monopoly board is set on the floor with all the pieces in place, the pastel-colored cash neatly distributed for two players.

In my bare feet I step on the little dog from the Monopoly game and let out a shout. I reach down and pick it up, squeezing it in my hand.

“Checkers not enough, huh?” I ask with a smile. I cross the room and roll the dice.

“Double sixes,” I shout triumphantly. “Beat that!” I'll play with her if that's what she wants. If it will keep her out of the bathroom, I'll play every game I have. But only until I'm able to figure out who she is and why she's here.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Slip of a Knife

Nolan was right:
Mom doesn't question it when I tell her I'm using my phone to record things around the house for a school project.

“A video collage about my life for visual arts class,” I say, wishing that Ms. Wilde actually gave out those kinds of assignments instead of lurking all over the school. Mom looks up from her paperwork long enough to smile at me. Maybe she's relieved I'm talking about something other than ghosts for a change. Or maybe she's too busy to care.

I start in my room, recording the movements of the glass unicorns, the board games strewn across my floor, the way Dr. Hoo is facing a different direction every time I open the door. I carry my phone with me everywhere, ready to record at a moment's notice. I skip the bathroom entirely—nothing to see there, not anymore—and head down to the living room, recording the sound of skipping footsteps on the floor above. I race upstairs, trying to capture sight of an actual specter skipping
around the hall, but of course, the minute I step foot on the stairs, the footsteps cease. I catch flickering lights and slamming doors. And of course I record our games. We're on our second round of checkers—I won the first game—and we're both busy building real estate empires in Monopoly.

But I think she's cheating. I mean, not cheating exactly, but not quite following the rules either. I came back into the room once and saw that her piece—she picked the shoe—was on Marvin Gardens. But when I looked at her last roll of the dice—five—and counted back from her last spot on the board, it was clear that she should have been on Water Works. So I crouched down beside the board and slid the shoe back one.

But as soon as I lifted my fingers from the shoe, it slid right back to Marvin Gardens.

“Hey!” I shouted. “No cheating.” I tried again, and it slid back again. This time the shoe was wet to the touch. “You'd think you'd feel right at home on Water Works,” I muttered, sliding it into place once more. I held it there for good measure.

And then, I swear, something—someone—smacked my hand out of the way with such force that I fell backward.

“Geez, have it your way,” I said, sitting back up cross-legged in front of the board. I leaned over and studied it. And then it hit me so hard that I felt stupid for not seeing it earlier. She didn't want to be on Water Works, not even for an instant. The symbol for Water Works is a running faucet.

“What are you trying to tell me?” I closed my eyes, remembering the splashing sounds in the bathroom that night.

She didn't answer. I got up and went to my desk and grabbed the fattest black marker I could find. I leaned down over the board and drew all over the Water Works box until it was all
but invisible. “There,” I said. “We'll play the rest of this game like Water Works doesn't even exist.”

Then I did get an answer: the soft sound of a child laughing. And soon I was laughing too, right along with her.

Maybe this was her plan all along. To get me to
like
her. To get me to care.

On Saturday Mom actually has the day off—
hallelujah!
—and we go to the supermarket to gather groceries to cook dinner together, just the way we used to in Austin. (I try not to think about what happened after the last time Mom cooked me dinner.)

“What are we digging into tonight?” I ask eagerly. She printed a new recipe off the Internet and is scanning the list of ingredients.

“Chicken marsala.” Mom smiles as she pushes the cart through the produce section, stopping to pick up a carton of mushrooms. She's wearing jeans and a gray sweatshirt; I can't remember the last time I saw her wearing anything but her pastel-colored nurse's scrubs.

“You expect me to eat fungus?” I ask, mock incredulously. Mom knows I love mushrooms.

“And like it,” she answers. “We just have to find the wine . . .” She looks up at the signs above each aisle, moving slowly until she finds the right one. She's leaning on the cart in front of her like an elderly person does with a walker. All those long hours and late nights are wearing her out. There are circles under her eyes, and she yawns heavily.

“Why don't I do the cooking tonight?” I volunteer. “You could just put your feet up and rest.”

Mom shakes her head. “You know it's more fun when we do it together,” she says, and I grin. I wanted to help her and everything, but I was also kind of hoping she'd say that.

At home we unload the groceries and get to work. I feed Oscar and Lex while Mom slips her sweatshirt off, revealing her high school T-shirt underneath.

“Hey!” I shout. “You stole my mustang shirt.”

“I most certainly did not. Don't forget it was mine first.”

“Prior ownership does not obviate the felony of your theft.”

Mom grins. “Sunshine, do you have any idea what you just said?”

I shake my head. “No, but it sounded good,” I answer. “I heard something like it on a cop show or something,” I add, grinning back. It's all so blissfully ordinary that I'm tempted to lean over and kiss her. But that wouldn't be ordinary, so I don't. Mom begins slicing the mushrooms. She doesn't even bother turning on the kitchen lights before she starts.

“It's too dark in here,” I say, flipping the switch, but the room doesn't get any brighter. I turn on the lights over the kitchen table for good measure, but it doesn't make a difference. It takes me a second to realize why.

I mean, of course it's foggy outside—what else is new?—but right now it's foggy
inside.
Mist is snaking its way in from the windows, over the counter and around the stove, above the refrigerator and beneath the table—our own private meteorological phenomenon.

I hesitate before reaching for my phone; I don't want to break up our normal evening. But I guess the stupid fog has already destroyed our brief foray into normalcy, so I go ahead and pull my phone out of the pocket of the jeans I stole from Mom back
in August. Mom is so intent on slicing the mushrooms that she doesn't notice it when I hit record and scan the room, walking in an enormous circle around her, recording every last inch of fog. If we were in a movie, this would be the moment when an actual specter would appear. All the mist would gather together, condensing until it was in the shape of a little girl. Maybe she'd open her mouth and say something.

I walk around the counter island, standing across the way from Mom. I focus my camera on the center of the room, waiting. Mom takes up a tiny space in the corner of my screen; the sound of her knife going through the mushrooms is a steady sort of drumbeat, one after another after another.

Suddenly the sound changes, and the corner of my screen turns red.

“Mom!” I shout, dropping my phone with a clatter on the counter. Blood pours out from her left wrist.

“I must have cut myself,” she says, stating the obvious. She's much calmer than I would be if I were the one who was bleeding. She
is
a nurse, after all.

“Don't tell me my klutziness is rubbing off on you,” I say, but the joke falls flat. Maybe because my voice is shaking as I say it. I grab a wad of paper towels and press them against her left wrist.

“You're shaking, Sunshine,” Mom says. “Are you really still that grossed out by the sight of blood?”

I nod, but it's not just the blood. I'm shivering because I'm freezing. The temperature in here seems to have dropped fifty degrees in the last thirty seconds. I gag on the musty smell of mildew in the air.

Her right hand is still wrapped around the knife. She's holding it so tightly that her knuckles are white. “You can put
that down,” I say, pointing. “Mom?” I prompt. “Put the knife down.”

Mom shakes her head. “I'm not finished.”

“The mushrooms can wait.” I reach for the knife when suddenly—

“Ow!” I shout. Now I'm the one who's bleeding. I hold my left hand out in front of me. There is a gash at the base of my thumb. Tears spring to my eyes.

“Sunshine!” Mom shouts. “What were you thinking?” I shake my head—what
was
I thinking, reaching for the knife like that? They teach you that kind of thing in kindergarten: never grab a knife by the blade.

But I didn't mean to grab the blade. I was reaching for her hand, wrapped around the knife's handle. I must have slipped or something.