The Year of Shadows (22 page)

Each ghost was assigned to one of our zones, from the map we’d made for Frederick. Everyone helped search, so things would go faster—ghosts in the walls, ghosts in the basement, ghosts skipping through ceiling panels. It took us three days to find
The Resolute Steed
, buried in a tin box in the walking park outside. Once she had her anchor, Pearl Branson sat curled up in one of the ceiling rafters and finished her story.

Then she was gone. The pages of her completed book fluttered to the Hall floor like wings.

Henry checked off Pearl’s name on his spreadsheet. “One down, fifty to go.”

Resolute
: seeing something through to the end. And that’s exactly what I was going to do. Even if our ghosts, our
first
ghosts, didn’t have the guts to do the same.

I
T WASN’T UNTIL
three ghosts in—Pearl Branson, Sue Han (heart attack), Reggie Black (tuberculosis)—that things started to fall apart.

Right before Thanksgiving week, we were supposed to turn in these essays to Mrs. Farrity. An expository essay, to help prepare us for the end-of-the-year tests everyone in the state had to take.

I’d completely forgotten about mine.

When Mrs. Farrity stood by my desk, the other kids’ essays stacked neatly in her hands, I just stared at her. Every time I blinked, my eyelids scratched together like sandpaper. It had been a long couple of weeks. I was amazed I wasn’t puking my guts out in the restroom, much less at school or even awake. How in the
world
were we supposed to get through forty-eight more ghosts? That’s all I could think about. Had we taken on too much? Were Henry and I insane for trying this?

And our ghosts—would they ever come back? Not only
was I exhausted from sharing with the ghosts, but I’d also stayed up late every night after Nonnie fell asleep, the old séance materials surrounding me and Igor in my lap. I whispered to my ghosts, asking them to come back.
Begging
them to come back.

So far, they hadn’t listened.

I blinked up at Mrs. Farrity, my brain whirling with everything in the world
but
my essay.

Mrs. Farrity drew her lips tight. “See me after class, Olivia.”

When the bell rang, I trudged up to her desk, trailing my hand along the top of each chair I passed. I hoped it looked casual. Really, I was just trying to stay upright.

“Forget something, Stellatella?” Mark Everett whispered as he shoved past. “Or did you just spend all your time drawing instead? Idiot.”

One thing exhaustion does to you is dull your control center. Like, the part of your brain that tells you you should or shouldn’t do something.

That’s why I punched Mark Everett.

Or tried to, anyway.

At the last second, right before my fist connected with that stupid face of his, Joan grabbed my arm and pulled me away. I teetered back on my heels and almost fell over.

Mark ran out the door, laughing.

I yanked my arm from her. “Why’d you do that?”

“Because he’s not worth it,” Joan said calmly, shaking back her hair. “He’s a lesser being. And you’re welcome.”

Then she left, and it was just me and Mrs. Farrity. Who stared at me like she was trying to dissect me with her brain.

“I’m worried about you, Olivia.” If her lips got any thinner, they would have sucked her face inside out. “You’ve always been somewhat distractible, but you usually at least
do
the assignments.”

I nodded. Coming up with words was so hard when all I wanted to do was keel over. Or hunt down Mark Everett and sic some ghosts on him. “Yeah. I know. I’ve just been . . . busy.”

Mrs. Farrity eyed my gloves. “You’ve started wearing gloves a lot. Why is that?”

“I like them. They keep germs away.”

Then she eyed my arm, the one with the burn. “And you’re always wearing jackets these days. Even inside.”

I shrugged. “Fashion.”

Mrs. Farrity stacked some papers on her desk, straightened her pencils, cleared her throat, and looked right at me. “I’ve heard about the orchestra, Olivia. Things aren’t going well, are they?”

“Things aren’t going well for most people right now. With The Economy and all.”

Something went out of Mrs. Farrity then, like someone had popped her. “I know. And I hate that for you kids. It’s always the kids who suffer the most.” She sighed and rubbed her eyes. “If you turn in your essay before Thanksgiving break,
I’ll just dock you a few late points. Okay? How’s that?”

“Yeah. That’s great, Mrs. Farrity. Thanks.”

“And, Olivia, you know that the staff here is always available, if you need someone to talk to. Right?”

Now, that would be funny, to sit Principal Cooper and Mrs. Farrity down and tell them about my ghost problem. I pictured their faces and couldn’t contain a snort, which I think hurt Mrs. Farrity’s feelings, so I mumbled “Sorry,” and thanked her, and left.

The next day, I tried to do some cleaning after getting home from The Happy Place. Backstage had turned into even more of a pigsty since the new ghosts came because I spent all my time sharing and searching for anchors and trying to sleep. But sleep didn’t come so easy. I kept dreaming about the lives of the ghosts I’d helped, like their memories had latched onto my brain and wouldn’t let go.

Nonnie watched me as I swept the kitchen. “So dim these days,
ombralina
,” she whispered, rocking in her chair, weaving scarves into a braid. “You are darker than ever.”

I tried not to pay attention to the ghost eyes I could feel watching from the doorway, waiting for me to join them. Waiting for me to save them.

“I don’t know, Nonnie. I’m just tired, okay?”

Nonnie cupped her hands around her mouth and whispered, “Is it the ghosts? Are they bothering you?”

Yes. They’re taking over my brain, they’re taking over my sleep. “No. Just school and stuff, you know? And work. I worry about money.”

“I worry too. Always worrying.” Nonnie’s lips twisted. “I worry about you every minute,
ombralina
, every day.”

I dropped the broom and grabbed Nonnie’s hands. They were cold as a ghost, and it terrified me. I rubbed them to warm them up.

“Don’t worry about me, Nonnie. Okay? Worrying wears you out.”

“You should have . . .” Nonnie looked around, spread out her arms. They were shaking and draped with scarves. “More. More than this.”

“Yeah. And so should you.”

The Maestro was out that night, uptown at some dinner party for orchestra donors. When I got to his room, I whacked the broom across his floor, knocking over stacks of music and heaps of garbage. It didn’t make me feel much better.

Then I found the pile of mail shoved underneath his dresser, like he’d just walked in, dropped it to the floor, and kicked it out of his way, day after day after day.

I sorted through it. Bills and junk mail, mostly. Part of me hoped I’d find a letter from Mom.
It was all a joke!
it would say.
I’m coming home tomorrow! Surprise!

No such luck. I did find some letters from school, though. Four of them. All unopened, all from Counselor Davis’s office.

I opened the most recent one. As I read it, my stomach dropped to my feet.

According to her teachers,
the letter read,
Olivia rarely pays attention in class and is easily distracted. She is consistently rude to other students and has even neared physical assault on multiple occasions. She lacks focus, and her schoolwork is suffering. She seems to have few friends, and we worry that the students she does associate with will follow her poor example. We are deeply concerned about Olivia’s future. We are also concerned that our previous letters have gone unanswered, and urge you to call the counselors’ offices and make an appointment for both you and Olivia before more severe action is taken. We suggest . . .

I sank down against the wall, hugging the broom. So everyone at school, even the teachers, thought I was stupid, lazy, violent. Without a future. And friendless, too. And they were right. Well, mostly. I had Henry, but that was about it.

I didn’t think ghosts counted.

“I have a future, though,” I whispered. No one heard me but Igor, who slid in through the open door. “I have my drawings. I can . . . I can draw things, I can go to art school someday, maybe. I can figure out a way.”

Igor wound himself around my ankles.
Oh? How?

“The Barskys say my drawings are good.” I could barely hear myself. The words kept getting stuck in my chest.
But the Barskys are just as crazy as I am.
“I’m not stupid.”
But I don’t make good grades; Henry’s made the honor roll three years straight.
“I’m not lazy.”
But I never pay attention in class.

I hauled Igor into my lap and stared at him, nose to nose. “Well, of course I don’t pay attention in class. I have to draw. My drawings are . . .”

Igor licked the tip of my nose.
Are what?

Mom had always told me it was important to dream, to lie in my bedsheet fort and do nothing but stare at the paper stars over my head and make origami swans and let my imagination run wild across my sketchpad. My drawings were my dreaming, my secret thing that made my heart expand and scrubbed away the bad thoughts. And they reminded me of Mom.

But with that letter in my hands, the thought occurred to me for the first time: Maybe dreaming isn’t enough.

The Monday before Thanksgiving, I went to Counselor Davis’s office at lunch instead of to the cafeteria. I didn’t know what “more severe action” meant, and I didn’t want anyone showing up at the Hall, looking for the Maestro. They would see how we lived, and they might take me away—away from the ghosts, away from Nonnie.

So I turned myself in.

I walked right past Counselor Davis’s assistant and into his office and set the four letters on his desk. “So, hi. Sorry I never answered these. Or showed them to my—to the Maestro. It’s just, I was embarrassed. You know? But I’m doing the right thing now.”

Counselor Davis leaned back in his green cushioned
chair and stared at me, his fingers steepled. His office was a million shades of green. I’d heard somewhere green was supposed to be soothing, but not, like, an explosion of green.