The Ghost in Me (11 page)

Some people move to the floor, but Wren keeps me seated.

We're getting good at this--Wren and me--in working things out with drama.

Every morning, we wake up, go to school, sit at my desk, and then, Wren takes over like she's supposed to.

And everyday, when Diggs takes attendance, he doesn't know that technically, I'm not here--at least, not sitting in my own skin. Which is great. It truly amounts to one hundred percent
me-time
.

I don't have to deal with Brittley's hostile looks. I don't have to deal with the smell of Jordan Droone's feet, when he pumps up his aerator sneakers--
swish, swish, swish
--to air out his sweaty feet. I don't have to deal with the embarrassment that washes over me when I read my lines.

Nope. I don't have to deal with any of that. Smell and touch don't make it to my side of the world. Wherever my side is.... I haven't quite found the boundaries.

But I've laid plenty of boundaries for Wren. The first being,
stay in the back row
. If she's going to be me, then she's going to do it with as little attention as possible. That means, no talking, unless spoken to. No silly mannerisms from the 18
^th
century, unless they're needed for rehearsal (
NOT liking that detail
). No kid-like goof-ups--which, so far, haven't been a problem. After three hundred years, even a twelve-year-old ghost can act mature. Kind of. When she wants to.

"It's good to hear your stage voices so early in the day," Diggs says, "but let's put them away, so we can begin."

For a drama teacher, Diggs is turning out to be kind of cool, although he'd be a whole lot cooler, if he'd stop calling my mom. Not that he's calling the house. He's calling her cell phone, which makes it even more annoying with the way she ducks out of the room.

She's never done that--step out to take a call. And she's never laughed so much on the phone, either, which is a change, so I know they're not talking about death and burials. But what makes him so funny?

"Today, we're going to be learning about what may be the oldest word in human language. Or, at least what some say is linked to the origins of the universe and its infinite space. What do you think of that?"

No one says anything.

"Repeat after me. 'Ohhhmmmmm.'"

Some kids giggle, including Wren, because
yeah
, that's funny, even if it sounds dorky.

Diggs holds up a hand. "This is serious, kids. Give it a try. There's a good reason we're doing this."

He starts humming. This time, most of the students join him. "Ohhhmmmm!"

The ohms go up and down, which he directs like a music conductor.

"Can you feel that vibration?" Diggs asks.

"The whole class feels like it's vibrating," Duey replies. He's sitting two rows over, between Cam and another kid named Warren Sims.

"That's right. It does. But can you feel it inside you, as well?"

Brittley nods from her seat in the front row. "It kind of tickles. Right here." She points to the center of her chest.

Diggs nods, pushes himself off the desk, and walks down the center aisle. "Scientists study the feeling of peace that this word, ohm, can bring." Pausing, he looks to opposite sides of the room. "Do some of you feel more calm as you say it?

"Well, keep saying it, please."

"Ohhhmmmmm."

A curt laugh erupts from my throat. "Sounds more like the tune the poor cow died of!"

Cass titters from her desk.

I slap my hand over my mouth.
Quiet!

Diggs shoots me a glance, before returning to the front of the room. "This word,
Ohm,
may be the oldest word in the human language. But more than that, as drama students, it's
imperative
that you learn how to harness the inner feeling of peace it conveys.

"Because harnessing that peace, learning to clear your head of what makes you
you
, will help you tap into your character. It will help you learn what makes that character real. And, if you use it before your performances, it can help quiet the unavoidable, last-minute jitters." He circles his hands up. "Say it with me! Ohhhmmmmm."

"Ohhhmmmmm!"

"I'd like you to add this to your mental tool box. File it with your Veee's, your Vaah's, and your Voh's."

Wren clears my throat. "And those be the ones that the giant died of! When he fell off the stalk after wee little Jack."

Cass gives me weird look. "That's fee, fi, fo, fum. Not veee, vaah, voh."

Duey laughs. "Vee-vah the cow!"

It takes barely a second for Cam to translate Duey's attempt at Latin. "Long live the cow?"

"Yeah, viva the cow," Duey replies. He laughs, leans forward to look across the aisle at Wren (a.k.a., me). "Nice."

Wren shoots him a flirty wink.

Thankfully, we have a ringleader. Diggs gives a piercing whistle to quiet all the fees and fahs and vahs and voohs "I think this calls for a homework assignment!"

The entire class groans. Everyone that is, but Wren. She sits me up with an eager jolt.

"Yes, a homework assignment," he repeats. "On words that bring inner peace. Words that are known as
mantras
. One page, typed, double-spaced. Due next Tuesday. That should give you more than enough time to do it over the weekend.

"And!" Mr. Diggs adds over the grumbles that follow. "To give you a hint on where to start, you may want to look into methods of meditation." He grins at the unrest rising around him. "Now, take out your scripts."

Cass leans toward me, as she digs into her backpack. "Would you like me to kill you now, or later?"

"Hate to tell you," I mutter, pushing Wren out. "I'm already half-way there."

Chapter 24

"Hold still." Mom tugs me back on the stool, where we can both watch the fitting in the bathroom mirror. "Let me pin this horn in place."

"I thought female goats didn't have horns." I reach back to scratch an itch between my shoulder blades, but I can't press through the fur of the costume.

"They do. I checked." She pauses to scratch my back. "Mountain goats have curved horns, both the males and females."

"Do they have to be so big?" I swat the yellow horn curling on the side of my head. It barely moves, given that it's as thick as my fist.

Mom presses her lips around a pin, eyes me in the mirror, then takes the pin from her mouth. "The horns are fine. If you ask me, this mask is better than what was shipped by that company. I can always go back to that one, if you want."

I swivel my head, not agreeing either way.

Mom stands back to read my expression; then lets out a defeated sigh, when she can't. "Since you've been cursed close to one hundred years, Myri, I'd think you'd have to look it, just a little."

I'd rather not have to be in the play and look like anything at all. But she and I have had that conversation, and we both know there's no getting out of it. And even though I'm no longer tied to the play in a physical sense (thanks to Wren), emotionally, when I stop and think about it, I still get completely messed up.

Frustrated by my silence, Mom comes round to face me. "Look, Myri, I've got two weeks to work with here, and twenty other costumes that need to be touched up and finished--for kids I don't live with, so I'd appreciate it, if you'd cut me a little slack. I'm doing what I can to help make this play good. Maybe you need to do the same. Don't you have lines to practice?"

I pull the mask off my head, let it drop to the counter. "Yep, and for your information, I've been more than taking care of it."

• • •

When I push open the door to Gram's bedroom, I expect to find her reading a book on her bed--something she usually does before her afternoon nap. Instead, I find the room darkened, the shades drawn, and all the furniture--the bed, the coffee table, the odds and ends--pushed back against the walls to make space for a central card table draped with a satin red cloth.

Gram and Mrs. Gertestky are sitting at it, facing each other, their palms pressed flat on the table between them. It's hard to tell if the ghost, who is sitting in his chair, even notices the three white tea candles burning in front of him.

Seeing me hesitate, Gram beckons me in. I gather a quick glance of my surroundings, before closing the door. As far as I can tell, the only light in the room is coming from those tiny candles.

My eyes squint, before adjusting to the darkness. "What's going on?"

"A seance. We're trying to reach him," Mrs. Gertestky says, giving the ghost a nod.

"With a cup of tea?" My eyes settle on the three white cups near the candles.

Gram half-laughs, pulls me into her with a hug. "No, no. We're using the cups to read his fortune--his future--or, at least, what his future was supposed to be. You see, he keeps checking his pocket-watch, so he must have been wanting to go somewhere or meet someone before he died."

"But wasn't his future cut short? That meeting,
or whatever it was
, was missed?"

"Yes, but he certainly still believes he has one," Gram says. "And that may be enough to influence the cups."

Mrs. Gertestky pats the table, locks eyes with Gram. "But if he never responds to anything other than that watch, he may be forever stuck."

I distract my mind from that possibility by leaning forward to peer into the cups, expecting to see brown liquid, or the flecks of black tea leaves ringing the bottom, but they're empty.

"Here," Mrs. Gertestky says, jingling an armful of bracelets. She taps the table with a curled finger. "Take a seat next to your grandmother. I'll show you."

She touches her turban, taps the table again, insisting I sit.

I know I'm not getting out of the room until I do, so I get the vanity stool from Gram's dresser. Gram brushes her shoulders with mine, as I sit. My stomach tumbles into a fit of fluttering. I've never seen a fortune told. I didn't know Mrs. Gertestky did this.

She circles her hands above the center of the table, and as if casting a spell, mutters some strange words. After a moment, she carefully inverts each cup over each candle. The room grows dim, as their light is covered and extinguished. A candle I hadn't noticed burning on the bookshelf behind us intensifies the shadows on the walls, shielding Mrs. Gertestky's face in darkness.

Her words are brisk. "Each cup before you now holds heat and fire--elements of human desire." She looks across the table at me, her green-gray eyes in shadow. "Myri, I ask you... concentrate on who you are. Where you want to be... ten days, five months, six years from now--"

"Wait, you're reading
my
fortune? I thought this was for Old Top Hat." I tip my head at the transparent dude sitting next to me.

"No. To show you, I'll do yours. His can come later. Now, think about you. Myri Anna Monaco. That is all we will focus on. Time does not matter. Space does not matter. Let the cups fill with a message for you. To do so, ask the candles laying underneath the cups a question. The one you choose will hold your answer."

I let out a quick huff, reach across the table.

Mrs. Gertestky shoots her arm out, stops my hand as it hovers over the cup that is closest to me. "
Choose wisely
, Myri. Choose with intent. Even fate can read apathy. If you do this, and you don't care?" She tsks. "It can affect your future in a bad way."

I meet her eyes. "We're talking about a tea cup."

"No, a
gateway
. A glimpse at the future. The tea cup may be a vessel, but make no mistake, it can hold all that's important to you."

I shoot a look at Gram, thinking, yeah, right. This is the cup I drank hot chocolate from this morning. But I withdraw my hand and close my eyes, anyway.

I do need something good to happen.
I really do.

When I take in a shaky breath, my head swims.

According to Mrs. Gertestky, if I'm going to get something good, then I need to give this whole question-and-answer-thing about my future my best effort.

Tipping my head to one side, I ask the candle a question and focus on what I want.

Nothing out of the ordinary happens. The candle behind us doesn't flicker. The table doesn't shake. A crow doesn't rap at the window.

I reach for the nearest cup again, set my hand on it, when suddenly, a thought hits me.
Is this really the cup I want?
If one of these cups does hold answers about my future, don't I want to know what they are?

Letting go of the first cup I chose, I quickly upright the other I'm drawn to. The one in the middle.

A strong scent of sandalwood and musk seeps through the air from the extinguished candle that was sitting underneath. Dipping into the up-righted cup with her fingertips, Mrs. Gertestky pulls her arm up in a long, graceful arch. Smoke follows her fingers, swirling like a delicate white ribbon, before setting on a path toward the ceiling.

With a circle of her hand, Mrs. Gertestky disentangles herself from the smoke's journey and sits back in her chair.