The Ghost in Me (12 page)

The trail of smoke curls and unfurls in small, gentle waves. Some ribbons, thinning into thread-like strands, hover close to the table and fold back into the cup. For a moment, I'm almost disappointed that the connection between the smoke in the cup and the smoke dancing a ballet at the ceiling will be severed.

Yet, swirls of smoke re-emerge, fanning their way around the cup's rim, as if pulled by an invisible force, before spilling onto the table.

Mrs. Gertestky's gaze moves toward the cup I had originally meant to tip. The cup on the left. The inverted rim is propped at an angle on the edge of the candle sitting underneath. In my haste, I'd not reset it to lie flat, and now a thin stream of smoke is escaping--curling out in a slithering mass toward the cup I chose.

Mrs. Gertestky's eyes widen, then narrow, as the two bodies of smoke merge, then fan out, before slowly fading away. Concern fills her face. "It's a warning," she says.

Gram takes in a worried breath. "What does that mean?"

Mrs. Gertestky's eyes cloud, as she raises them to meet mine. "It means, stay straight on the paths you follow, Myri. Don't be pulled from your future by another." Her brow furrows at the base of her turban. "The cups are telling you, stay straight on the paths you follow."

Chapter 25

For the rest of the weekend, my paths brought me through a list of chores that I had to finish on Saturday and my lovely drama assignment, which took up most of Sunday. (I'm not the world's fastest typist.)

Plus, it was hard to come up with a whole page of things to say about
Hamsa
(a meditation word that means, Who am I?) and
Soham
(another meditation word that means, I am that), until I pretended I was Diggs.

Sick and wrong, I know. But it worked.

Pretending to be Diggs was the only way I could fill my paper with long, flowing, smart-sounding sentences. I couldn't believe how easy it was to write the assignment, once I got into the groove. It was so easy, in fact, that I think pretending to be other people is a good thing. There's so much that can done!

Which is why I was almost giddy to be back in school this morning. Or, not back in school--at least when it comes to drama club. Wren's been doing a great job pretending to be me. So good, that most of the time it feels like I'm not there.

English class is another story, however. And my stomach has been letting me and everyone else know that I'd appreciate being let out early for lunch.

Roz may be partly to blame. She's taking a quiz in
Teen Life
, trying to discover which cookie her personality resembles most. Based on where her finger is pointed on the page, it looks like she's heading in the direction of either a gingersnap or a cocoa crinkle. Which, of course, has absolutely nothing to do with what Miss Augustus is talking about.

"In the art of persuasion," she's saying, "you need to be convincing, whether you believe in what you're saying or not. It's critical, really. You'll need to keep that in mind when you work on your next set of essays. In them, you'll demonstrate your understanding of persuasion."

Samantha Wheeler raises her hand, grinning. "Persuasion is like lying then? We have permission to lie in our essays? I'm not sure if my parents will like that."

Miss Augustus starts to reply, then lets her arms dangle by her side. This is her first job out of college, and we tend to frustrate her with these types of questions. Some kids even make a sport of it--seeing how many times they can get her to let out a deep breath, rub her forehead in frustration, cry--she's cried twice.

But today, Miss Augustus is saved by the bell, and so are we, since she doesn't have time to finish going over the assignment.

Roz grins up at me, as I sit on the corner of her desk. "Ready?"

"I'm a gingersnap," she says. "And you're a sugar cookie. I did your quiz for you."

"That seems to be the new trend."

Roz steps with me into the hall. "So... I've been meaning to ask... how's drama?"

I shrug. "It's going all right."

"And Wren? She's okay with everything?"

"Yep. We're getting along."

"How about Duey?"

"What is this? Twenty questions?"

"Ye-ahh. Has he talked about me lately?"

Crap. If I were to be honest, I'd have to say, no.

"Well, I know he's not interested in Brittley, like you thought he would be." I figure that's one thing she'll be happy to hear. "Even though they're in the play together, it's not happening."

"It's not?" Roz pauses mid-step, as her look of confusion spills into delight at the possibilities she thinks are opening before her. "Really? Are you sure?"

I suck in my lips until they smack apart. "Yep. That's what it looks like, but it's hard to tell. All we've been doing in class and at rehearsals is read the play aloud, over and over, so that in the event of a disaster--like, someone forgetting their lines, or throwing up, or getting abducted by aliens--the show can go on, because someone will be able to step in. We're all understudies for everyone else."

"Oh."

"So, I haven't really talked to him... or seen him all that much."

"You're in a play with him," she says, her voice going flat.

"Well, yeah, but that doesn't mean we talk about his life."

She doesn't say anything, and that's okay. Everything I've said is true. I mean, he definitely doesn't seem to be going out with Brittley, anymore--she must have reeled in that newsflash before it got around. Typically, stuff like that--who's going with whom, and who's dumping whom--spreads like wildfire before it even happens.

And Duey only
hinted
at the fact he would be okay with going out with me. Nothing more was said on that issue to clarify whether he thinks he's my boyfriend. And even though he does seem to hanging closer to me--talking to me after class and rehearsal--technically, when it comes to time spent in drama, he's not himself. He's Prince Bastian. And I'm
really
not myself. I'm Wren, who's playing me, who's playing Nelle. Which is tricky, now that I think of it.

Duey did say, "See you at rehearsal," to me this morning, after sliding a Twix bar in my pocket. But that's a given (the what-he-said-part, not the Twix part). It's something he'd say to anyone in the play. But it would have been better if he'd said, "Say hi to Roz for me," or, "Tell Roz to come by rehearsal."

...I'm working on that. And if that means I have to keep playing up to the 'that'd-be-more-than-okay' hypothetical-girlfriend-idea, so that Brittley can't be his real-girlfriend, then so be it. It's all being done so that good things can happen between Roz and Duey.

Eventually.

The sooner the better, actually.

Because now that Roz is asking about him again, this whole deal is starting to make me nervous.

So nervous in fact, that for the first part of rehearsal tonight, I'm going to be me. That way, I can talk all about Roz to Duey. Remind him of all the good qualities he couldn't resist in the past. Then I can have better answers for Roz's questions. Answers she wants to hear.

"Well, tell him I said, 'hi,'" she says, backing down the hall toward her Spanish class.

"I will."

Now I just have to get him to do the same.

Chapter 26

"We have a problem." I push the script across the kitchen table toward Wren.

She drops her hands from an energy ball, floats higher in her chair to look.

"What'll be eating y' now?"

"The kiss. At the end. It can't be done."

Her head pulls back. "Sure it can. It's how he breaks me spell."

"Well, yes. But that's not what I mean.
You
can't kiss him. It has to be me. It didn't occur to me until today."

Wren's mouth drops. "But that's the best part! I don't want to be stepping out for that."

"I don't want you to step out for it, either, but you have to. It's too close of a touch. If you kiss, he might see you."

"He won't see me. How can he see me when it's yer bod that I'm setting in?"

"He might see double. And that would be weird. He could totally freak. Which wouldn't be good for me, or you, or the play. And if it happened in rehearsal, we wouldn't be able to do what we do anymore.
You
won't be able to do what you do anymore. And Duey might get all revved up about ghosts in the theater again."

Wren goes silent. She knows I'm right. Touches, bumps on the arm--she and Roz had already figured out those were fine when they did the history test. But a kiss? That's much more. That could be like walking through a ghost on any given night--when, with the chill, the instant sight, you suddenly realize you're not alone. And we needed Duey to think that throughout the play, I was up there on that stage alone.

Chapter 27

"Girls. Boys. Attention, please. Thank you. I know we haven't gotten through all of Act One today, and I know we are running short on time, but I'd like to run through the final scenes in Act Two."

Crap. The scene Wren can't do.

I look around at the theater. Where is she? She said she'd be back in a minute, but that was five minutes ago. Sure, she can't do the scene, but I don't want her showing up in the middle of it, thinking she needs to help me, and jump in at the worst possible moment.

"The reason is...." Diggs continues, holding his hands in the air until everyone stops talking. "The reason is that
this is the climax
of our story. This is what we are all working toward. This is where our characters are
most alive
. This is where their dreams
are either made
, or shattered. And as actors, as
thorough
actors
, we need to understand what attaining or losing those dreams means."

Well. I know what it means to me. It means I've got to lie down on this stage on my own and look dead, which I'm hoping will not be all that hard.

"Nelle's dream is different from Prince Bastian's dream," Diggs continues, "which is different from Witch Ekatera's, which is different from King Wester's, and even those of the soldiers. We have to understand what each one of us is working toward."

I'm working toward not being kissed. At least, that's what I'd like to work toward. If I weren't going to be kissed, then Wren could be Nelle through the whole play.

Diggs spins from the table at the side of the stage with his script binder in hand. "If you could all take your places.... Narrator. Nelle. Soldiers One, Two, Three. Prince Bastian.... We're in the scene after Witch Ekatera, in a fit of jealousy, has just ordered her soldiers to go to the bakery to do our poor heroine in."

He looks over at Londyn, who is hesitating at stage-right. "Yes, Londyn, that's fine, right there. Pretend we have an audience." He spins his hands forward, gesturing her to start speaking in her role as narrator, when Brittley jumps up at the back of the stage, swinging her blue-and-white-striped binder from her hip.

Her shirt is also blue. But her pants--
we're talking big diet RISK here
--are khaki. She strides to the front of the stage. "So, you don't need me?"

"No." Diggs steps down to his seat at stage-left.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. This is the start of scene five, Act two. Not the end of scene four."

Londyn is waiting by the curtain. He gives her a nod. "Whenever you're ready. Places, everyone!"

I grab a brown plastic tray and stand near the right side of the stage, wishing that the counters for the bakery scene were set up. At least I'd have something to stand behind, instead of looking like a fool in the middle of nothing. Everyone else gets to wait for their cues behind the curtains.

Londyn clears her throat. "The soldiers set out at once. It was easy to find the bakery. As her new friendship with Prince Bastian had blossomed, so had Nelle's passion for baking. The aromas of a thousand different dishes drew the soldiers to the stoves where she labored.

"But even the promise of baklavas and Danishes, mincemeats and stews could not soften the savagery of their mission."

With her introduction to the scene finished, Londyn nods with a smile and steps aside. Soldier One, played by a boy named Nate Bilyard, emerges from the eaves.

"There she is!" he says, thrusting a finger toward me. "The monster with the head of a goat!"

Yes, one of my better qualities. Thank God I'm not wearing the mask now.

Although it suddenly occurs to me. Maybe I should be? It might help.

Soldier Two steps forward and stamps his foot. "The beast with the flesh of a snake!"

Even more lovely.

Soldier Three raises his arm as if to swing a sword. "The creature with the hump of a camel! Surround her!"

I drop my tray and run to the back of the stage where I pretend to climb stairs--which I'm told will be set up tomorrow. I let out a cry for, "help!" but at the moment, I can't tell if that's just me reacting out of fear, or if it's something that's really a part of the play. I can't remember. But with the soldiers in quick pursuit, waving their bows and arrows, it really does feel like I'm in trouble. As they take aim, I do my best to hide behind a wood bench.