I So Don't Do Spooky

I
have an überwonderful life!

Überwonderful spelled J-o-s-h M-o-r-t-o-n.

Josh Morton. Cute, cool, amazing eighth grader at Saguaro Middle School, Phoenix, Arizona. The same Josh Morton who just happens to be my boyfriend. Has been since spring break. Which today totals exactly two months of heart happiness.

On this rocking Friday morning in May, Josh and I are gonna hang together at the lunch tables before first bell. His idea. He wants to tell me something. He forgot our one-month anniversary, so I bet he's got plans extraordinaire for this one.

I slide a few pink hangers across the bar in my closet, stopping at my watermelon-colored skirt with
swirly black designs. Watermelon skirt + black Lycra T-shirt + black leggings + peachish ballet slippers = adorable fashion statement.

My makeup is done—that is, the minuscule amount I'm allowed to wear—but I still have my hair to tackle. And I will absolutely, one hundred percent be on time and perfectly put together for my romantic rendezvous.

“Sherry!”

The Ruler's calling me. My fairly new and obnoxious stepmother. Like I even need a stepmother. As it is, I can barely handle my own mom. Not to mention that The Ruler teaches at
my
middle school. Mega embarrassing.
And
she's my first-period computer teacher. Mega mega embarrassing.

“Sherry!”

“I'm getting ready.”

“Sherry!”

Ack. She's right outside my room. I swing open the door. Staring into the hall, I widen my eyes with attitude. “Yeah?”

Tall, thin and decked out in shades of golden brown, The Ruler's a walking, talking french fry. She glances at my eyes and pauses. After a deep yoga-ish breath, she says, “I've lost my school keys again.” Her hands flutter in the air. “You have to help me find them.”

What is the deal? Lately, the woman's been losing
everything. Which is way weird given her personality. I mean, the entire school doesn't call her The Ruler for nothing. Besides the fact that she stands inhumanly straight like she's got a ruler up her back, she's also Queen of the Control Freaks. In her class, your binder better have all the notes and homework dated and in chrono order. Or she'll shave points off your grade.

Living with The Ruler is no Laffy Taffy. It's like when you try on those strung-together shoes at Target. You can't take big steps; you definitely can't run; you can't really tell how you feel about the footwear. Well, with the gazillion rules in our house, I only get to take teeny-tiny steps that don't include TV on weekdays, MySpace anytime or unlimited texting. I won't even start ragging on the health food I'm forced to eat.

In short, living with The Ruler makes me want to bust out a pair of scissors and cut that shoe string.

“Sherry,” The Ruler says, “let's start looking for my keys downstairs.”

Hinting hugely, I wave my clothes in the air and nod toward the door. “I gotta leave in twelve and a half minutes, and I'm still in my pj's.”

“Twelve and a half minutes?” She frowns, her forehead turning into a crinkle-cut fry. “Classes don't start for over an hour. Anyway, I can give you a ride.”

I am officially stating here and now that I will never be caught entering or exiting the passenger
side of her forest green hybrid on Saguaro property. Nuhuh. Not happening.

“Sherry, hurry up,” she bosses. “I barely got any sleep last night with those phone calls again.”

That's the second time we've gotten phone calls in the middle of the night where the person doesn't say anything. Probably a student she's failing. “What about Sam?” I say. “He's better at finding stuff than me anyway.” Very brilliant suggestion on my part, as I need my eight-year-old brother to vacate our shared bathroom so I can do something, anything with my wild porcupine hair.

“You take the living room,” The Ruler says.

I glance at my clock radio and quickly calculate key-hunting time + dressing time + hair time + sprinting-to-school time. I huff, “Fine, but we better be fast.” Pounding on the bathroom door, I shriek, “Sam!”

The three of us motor downstairs. I'm leading the pack, boogying on fast-forward like I'm Halloween-candy hyper. We separate to search different rooms. The sec I hit the living room, I'm whirling, I'm twirling, eyes darting. I flip couch cushions, toss newspapers and magazines, kick up throw rugs.

Nada. It's like the keys grew wings and fluttered off.

All high-pitched, The Ruler calls from the kitchen, “Did you find anything?”

“Nothing in the office!” Sam yells.

“Ditto for the living room,” I say.

Sam wheelies from the hall over to me, bashing his shins on the coffee table. Eyes round like yo-yos, he scans the room.

The Ruler hurries in. Her jaw drops. “Sherry, did you have to destroy the place?”

“Just trying to be thorough,” I snap. Thorough and fast. So I can get back to my real life.

She closes her eyes and does the slow deep-breathing thing again.

Maybe she's enrolled in a yoga class I don't know about.

“Okay.” She opens her eyes. “Now for the upstairs. Sam, you take the bathroom. Sherry and I'll handle my bedroom.”

“No,” I wail. “I just want to go to school.”

Both The Ruler and Sam stare at me like I've gone crazy. Because that statement? It's so not me.

“Paula”—Sam runs his fingers through his half-gelled hair—“where'd you find your keys on Friday?”

“In the microwave.”

“In the microwave,” he repeats thoughtfully. “And the other day, they were in the fridge?”

The Ruler nods.

He grabs her hand. “Let's check the kitchen.”

Like a rocket, I zoom upstairs to my bedroom. I throw off my pj's, pull on my clothes, then jam my feet into the ballet slippers. Despite my desperate
hurry, I manage to mutter sweet nothings to my beloved bala sharks, who are zipping around the aquarium, dodging fake plants and castles.

“What do you think Josh is getting me for our anniversary?” I ask the fish.

Zip. Zip. Zip
.

“I agree. It'll be something perfect and Josh-like.”

Zip. Zip. Zip
.

Finally, I clip back my hair because, well, I'm out of time. With a wide swinging arc, my backpack is up off the bedroom floor and—

Yikeserama.

It isn't closed.

Books thud to the floor, papers flutter, gel pens roll. On my stomach, I grab as much junk as I can and shove it back in.

Then I'm bounding down the stairs, two and three at a time, backpack slapping at my spine like a giant flyswatter. My fingers are crossed that I don't trip and break a leg or an arm or a tooth. Given the way my morning has panned out so far, this stair-hopping is literally living life on the edge.

Hands on hips, and her face cranked up in a bad-cop expression, The Ruler guards the front door.

I skid to a halt only inches from her.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Sam at the archway to the kitchen. I try to catch his attention, but he's avoiding my gaze, staring down at his big toe
poking through his holey sock. Something is very wrong.

From her skirt pocket, The Ruler pulls a round brass key ring.

“Great. You found them,” I say.

She crosses her bony arms, the key ring jingling next to a pointy elbow. “They were in the pantry by the soda.”

My stomach begins a slow downward spiral.

“You know
I
don't drink soda, and I've weaned your
father
off the poison. I buy your
brother
organic juice boxes.” The Ruler joggles the keys so that they clink together like wind chimes.

My stomach hits the tile floor.

It's so totally obvious what's going on.

U
nfortunately for me, I deal with two not-completely-normal mothers.

First, there's The Ruler, my stepmother, who's all of a sudden losing it. Even more disturbing, she's blaming her crazy behavior on me.

The Ruler's usual rational, orderly self left the building a while ago. Ever since the school robotics club started back up this year with her as teacher-mentor. Now she's frazzled and disorganized and, apparently, nutzoid. Like thinking I would purposely hide her keys. Hello! I am so not a practical joker.

Second, there's my real mother. A cop with the Phoenix police department, Mom was killed over a year and a half ago during a drug bust. She enrolled
in the Academy of Spirits so she could watch over Sam and me. And learn to watch over the rest of the world, which is what the Academy trains ghosts for.

The thing is, while she was a dynamo cop, Mom has, well, struggled with the ghost thing. Just a couple of months ago, I had to help her solve a mystery to raise her in-the-toilet grades and save her from being expelled. I can always hear her and smell the coffee scent that trails after her. I can sometimes feel her.

But I never see her. Which is bugging me more and more.

I sigh. “Paula, I just wanna get to school early to see Josh. It's our anniversary.”

The Ruler smiles and her plainish face lights up.

In her own Rulerish way, she's got a sentimental heart thumping away in her chest. She definitely dotes on my dad, always baking him heavy bran stuff, like carrot muffins. She's been kinda down and sluggish with him gone to Las Vegas for a couple of weeks of sales meetings. Morphing into instant single mom can't be easy. From the gazillion phone calls, I know my dad's missing her and us.

“Your two-month anniversary?” The Ruler's eyes twinkle.

I tilt my head and close an eye. Peach blush, five or six coats of navy mascara and bright lipstick would totally spiff up her look. “Yeah.”

“Fine. But, Sherry, please leave my keys alone.”

I start to protest how it's her, not me, then snap my mouth shut. I just want outta here. Pronto. “Deal.”