Mystic Mayhem (26 page)

"Absolutely."

They head out, and I turn to Surfer Dude. "What's your name?" I ask.

"Billy."

"How old are you?"

"Nineteen."

I close my eyes for a second. That's way too young. "How'd you die?"

He shoves his hands into his pockets and hangs his head. "According to my folks it was alcohol poisoning."

I attempt to slap him on the shoulder for sheer stupidity, but my hand goes through him. Wait, he's seen his folks. So he's been around for a bit, at least. "When did you die?"

"Spring break."

That's March for the college crowd. "Six months ago?"

He shrugs. "I guess. Time is kinda irrelevant now. So what's with the freezer? Why is it the portal?"

"Beats me. How do you know about the freezer? Does it have a beacon or some kind of alarm only the dearly departed can hear?" It's a question I've asked many times to many different deadies.

He shakes his head. "Nah, some dead guy by the beach mentioned it's the way to pass over, but he didn't say why."

That's the same sort of answer I always get. I guess we're the talk of death-central. Maybe we should add that to our advertising. Mancini Deli—Fresh Sandwiches, Salads, and Portal to the Other Side.

As far as I know, the deli has always been a hub of paranormal activity. When I was eight I went into the walk-in freezer to steal a Good Humor Chocolate Eclair. Ma and Pop were up front dealing with customers, and Izzie and our brother, Enzo, were arguing over whom Ma told to sweep by the sinks. It was totally Enzo, but he'd do anything to get out of chores, even make Izzie think she'd gone crazy.

The boxes of ice cream were on the third shelf, and I had to climb to reach them. I slipped and hit my head on the floor, knocking myself out. By time they realized I was inside, I was a human Popsicle. There's irony there too. Thank goodness 'cause it slowed down the dying process. According to the paramedics, I flatlined in the ambulance for one minute and thirty-two seconds.

I don't remember much—just falling, and some guy with white hair and shocking blue eyes grabbed my hand and tried to pull me to him. I later realized he was dead, too, a ghost who wanted me to cross over. You'd think there was a more tactful way of welcoming the recently deceased. Yanking is so tacky.

Thankfully, either the paramedics were skilled, or I couldn't fathom a future without grilled cheese. Miss all that ooey-gooey goodness? I think not.

It was after this that I started communicating with ghosts while awake and conscious. I could suddenly see them everywhere. Graveyards and hospitals are the worst. For some unknown reason they pass over to the other side through the deli freezer. The first time I saw it happen I thought the little old lady was looking for the Chocolate Éclairs. Really, who can resist them?

One day I asked one of them, and the guy said it was their way over. It seemed weird, but who am I to say how a dead person should cross? I don't make the rules.

Paulie and Harry walk through the living room with the box spring. Preoccupied with the past, I barely notice Harry's lecherous grin. When they're done, Paulie's steps seem to slow down, as if he wants to hang and chat and brew tea. We can't have that. I practically feel Izzie's negative energy float through the floorboards.

"Okay, well, I need to go." I make crazy eyes at Billy, hoping he'll think I'm a bit unhinged and find a new place to hover. He seems like a nice kid, but I want to be able to walk around in the buff, leave the bathroom door open when I pee, and not have to hold in gas until pain shoots into my belly. I don't think I'm asking for too much.

I run down, knock three times on the deli's back door, and stick out my tongue when Izzie's deep brown eyes appear in the glass. She unlatches it, and I hurry in with a glance to Paulie's black truck. He's watching us through his side view mirror.

I shut the door. "You ready?"

She looks awesome. She's wearing black pants and the pumpkin-colored, silk blouse I bought her for Christmas last year. Even though we both have an olive complexion, she looks good in the color. I wouldn't be seen dead in any shades of orange, brown, or gold. They make me look so washed out. Maybe it has to do with her hair being a milk chocolate shade of brown, and everyone thinks mine is black.

Izzie's arms are crossed over her chest. Her foot's tapping a groove into the tile. "You're not supposed to be nice to him if I hate him. That's the sister rule. What did he say about me?"

Whoa, paranoid much? And there's some serious discord between these two. Weren't they happy five months ago? She sent me a photo from their anniversary, and they were both smiling.

"Nothing. I didn't give him the chance."

Her foot stops. A half smile appears on her face. Hurricane Isabella has redirected itself. "Good. I'll go get my purse."

Her three-inch heels click-clack as she heads up front, and I'm reminded of her weird height issue. She's five-four and insists on never standing below five-five. I don't think she's owned a pair of flats since junior high. Meanwhile I'm five-two and try not to wear anything higher than a sneaker. Heels are evil, gorgeous torture-devices. They trap you with their sexiness and leave you in pain. And while that may appeal to some in the bedroom, it's not how I want my feet to feel daily.

I walk to the freezer, in my chunky-heeled, thigh-high boots, which are comfortable yet still rockin', and stare at the stainless steel. It's shiny, and it almost looks brand new. Ma knows how to sweet talk with a bottle of cleaner. I tug the handle and jerk the door. It opens with a soft whoosh. I shut one eye, anticipating a freezer full of walking stiffs. Nope. Nothing but trays of Ma's lasagna and eggplant parm. Not a single dead person. Ma will be happy. Not that I plan to tell her though. The family knows I've seen ghosts walk around the deli, but at around age fourteen I stopped sharing. No sense in freaking out their dreams as well. As open-minded as the family is, I don't think Ma would like to know that grumpy, old dead lady from church has been yelling at her every time she's muttered
damn
all week.

I shut the door and sigh. I'm not sure if no deadies is a good or bad thing. Living above ghost plaza could get disruptive, but then again, I've been kinda hoping to put my skills to use, to help. I like the idea of having "Ghost Buster" engraved on my tombstone when I die. Although, "Master of Deliciousness Between Bread" will be okay too.

Someone has to invent the next greatest sandwich.

"Gianna, you're staring at the freezer," says Izzie. She should work for the CIA.

I shut the door and turn to her. "Ready? I can really use that one drink."

"We need to make a quick stop first."

I groan. "Does this have to do with Paulie?"

She pushes me toward the back door and shouts, "Bye, Pop. We're leaving." To me she says, "Nope. It has to do with our annoying brother."

"Uh-oh. What'd he do?" I'd offered to be the designated driver tonight, so we walk across the gravel to my old silver Kia Rio.

"He snuck into the house last weekend, went into the basement while Alice and I were watching a movie, tripped the circuit breaker, and screamed like he was being gutted by a serial killer."

I fasten my seatbelt and try not to laugh. I love her imagination. Knowing my sister, she screamed as well. Knowing my thirteen-year-old niece, she did not. That girl is so like me. My earlier reaction to Surfer Dude Billy doesn't count.

"And what are we going to do?" I pull out of the corner lot and head east on Park Place.

"I went by his house this morning and unlocked the window in his spare room. We're going to sneak in and pay him back."

Oooh, a good old-fashioned Mancini scare. I've missed them. I'm so glad I'm home.

CHAPTER TWO

I was ten when I realized other families don't hide in closets and jump out at their siblings. It's something we've always done, even our parents. Ma says she'd do it with her sisters, but while Aunt Angela didn't mind, Aunt Stella hated it. Maybe that's why they never got along and Ma didn't want to go to her own sister's funeral.

I turn onto Enzo's street and switch off the headlights. It's quiet. Most of the homes are dark. There are no dogs barking or traffic zooming by. It's a great location. Enzo bought his first home a couple of months ago. He's the responsible one who makes plans and follows through. He decided to join the police force when he was eleven. When he graduated high school, he enrolled in college, got his bachelor's in criminal justice, and then started at the academy.

That's not to say that Izzie and I are irresponsible. Just that our plans don't always work out as we hope. Izzie got pregnant her senior year of high school and never went to college. I majored in psychology with no concrete plans for afterwards, and it shows. I've had one dead end job after another. If the ghost buster and sandwich maker gigs go south I could be a professional babysitter or dog walker.

I park three houses before Enzo's, and we're careful not to slam the doors.

"What if he locked the window?" she asks, sounding worried. Luckily this is a one-story home, 'cause I'm not climbing trees and swinging on vines ever, but especially not in a mini dress. No one needs to know my love for cotton Hello Kitty drawers.

"We'll figure something else out," I say.

I take the lead, bend at the waist, and run along the side of the house in true
Mission Impossible
style. Enzo has no fence or bushes, nothing to block the front from the back. His neighbor to the right has a six-foot, white picket fence along the sides of their property, so we're slightly hidden from prying eyes. Suddenly the tune of Hall and Oates' "Private Eyes" fills my head. Ma's a huge music fan. I know the lyrics of songs released before I was born more than what's currently on the radio.

We get to the last window at the side of the house, and I take a deep breath and hold it. I push the window up. It doesn't budge. What if Izzie's right? How the heck will we pull this off? Then the wood around the glass gives, and the window rides up. I'm so excited that I almost laugh. I lift the pane as high as it will go and freeze. The nearest street lamp casts enough light into the room for me to see there's a lump under the covers on the bed.

I crouch down and exhale slowly. Shoot.

Izzie's by my side. "What is it?"

"Enzo's in there."

"Why is he sleeping in the spare room?" Her whisper becomes shrill.

I shrug. "Because he can? Maybe he christens each room by sleeping in it. Maybe he's role-playing and he's Goldilocks. Who knows? Now what?"

We're silent for a second, and she says, "He's a heavy sleeper. He won't hear us."

Is she crazy? I'd hear someone climbing through my window.

"Remember the time he slept through the smoke detector?"

That's right. I was in junior high and they were in high school when Ma burned bacon on the stove. It was an early Saturday morning, and the darn thing rang for ten full minutes before it turned itself off. Enzo didn't stir the entire time. Izzie and I stood in the doorway to his room, watching him sleep and waiting for Ma to air out the kitchen by beating the smoke with a towel. It became a running joke—how the house would burn down around him and we'd all be outside watching the flames.

We have a weird sense of humor.

"Okay, let's do it." I stand, plant my palms flat on the sill, and hoist myself up at the same time Izzie grabs my butt and pushes me forward.

I knock my forehead into the bottom edge of the window, and it takes all my will not to yelp.

"Sorry," she whispers.

Thankfully, Enzo doesn't have a lot of furniture yet, and this room only holds a bed. I lean forward and tumble toward the carpet. I give a quick prayer that I don't snap my neck and remember to tuck in my head. I land sprawled out in a very unladylike pose, exposing Kitty, and I freeze, listening for signs that we woke him.

Izzie perches halfway in and halfway out of the window in some delicate dancer-type pose. She took ballet as a child. I colored with my box of 96 Crayolas. I don't think Burnt Sienna could've helped with my landing.

We both hold our breath. A door slams in the next house. A car horn honks in the distance. I return to breathing, and Izzie climbs inside,
sans
the awkward finale.

I get to my feet and take a step toward the bed.

Enzo's on his back with covers over his head and one arm dangling over the side, although I can't make it out due to the blankets. In that position though, it has to be his arm. He was never one to worry about the monsters under the bed. Izzie and I liked our limbs tucked beneath our magical blankets, 'cause we knew that nothing could harm us under them.

Izzie whispers in my ear, "I'll find the fuse box."

She leaves the room, and I just stand there waiting.

And waiting.

This is the part of the plan that makes no sense. How is she going to find a small metal box without turning on a light? Granted, Enzo will probably sleep through that too. Some cop he makes. I'll forget to tell him that though.

I think a carefully laid plan would be great if we were stealing the Hope diamond, but surprise is always best with a scare. Hasn't Izzie learned that by now? She's always been an eye-for-an-eye kinda girl though.

I, however, want to…

Without a second thought, I charge toward the bed, leap as high as I can, and let out a war cry that would make Spartacus proud, especially if I had one of those nifty little loin-cloth-type outfits.

This time I land with precision—hands on both sides of his head, legs straddled across his thighs.

Enzo doesn't flinch, but I know I surprised him. He had to wake up to that.

"I got you, Enzo," I say and pull the cover off his head.

I gasp. It's not him.

A pasty-faced plastic chick with painted-on blonde hair, brown eyes, and a huge red open mouth stares up at me. Hey, that's my lipstick shade—Cherry Jubilee.

Izzie's voice and Enzo's laughter comes from the hallway. When they reach the spare room, Enzo flips a switch, and the bedside lamp zaps away all the shadows. And I'm left straddling a blow-up doll.