The Ghost In The Girl Read online

  “Make some friends,” his dad said. “Act like a normal human being.”

  “I have friends. A friend. Gramps,” Wiz said.

  “I mean real friends. Otherwise the military is going to teach you how to interact with people. Do you understand?” Wiz’s dad said.

  Poor Wiz nodded.

  And so, the next day, all red-faced and filled with bad energy, Wiz set out to make real friends with real human beings, because he did not want to be sent away to some terrible school, sent away from his mom and his gramps.

  During first hour, he made a chart in his idea notebook (he carries this rad notebook around everywhere, filled with scientific sketches of various flying machines and, these days, paranormal traps and sensors). On the chart, he determined that his best shot at making friends with “real human beings” would be in Earth Science, which was a required course for all us eighth graders. It was one of only two classes during the day where the nerd kids were pulled from the gifted wing of the building and placed in the slobbering maw of the general student body. (The other one was gym, and what was he going to do, make friends while everyone was changing into their gym shorts? “Hey, looking good, Keegan!”)

  Wiz hated Earth Science. The class was so far below his abilities, he was bored stupid. Also it was completely filled with goons and reprobates. (Did you consider me a goon or a reprobate, buddy?)

  Except, weren’t goons and reprobates “real human beings,” the exact type of person his dad would want him to hang with? He circled the class on his chart in red. He whispered, “Best opportunity, Wizard.”

  It was a huge day for everyone involved. That afternoon in Earth Science Ms. Farhaven announced the Science Fair Project. “Fully twenty percent of your grade for the semester will come from this project,” Ms. Farhaven had said.

  Wiz sat in the corner and eyeballed the room. I actually watched him, because I was having friend problems of my own, and wondered if maybe I could work with him. He didn’t look at me at all. He quickly focused on Mouse and Mattheson who had just been told they had to work by themselves and had been sent to a table in the back as punishment for not listening and for building the “ghost” ass out of balloons and plaster.

  Ms. Farhaven circled the room as she talked. She stared down at the ghost ass and shook her head. “You’ll provide a visual presentation and a group report, both of which you’ll show to a panel of judges. You have TWO WEEKS to work! This is a huge percentage of your semester grade, so choose your workmates wisely!”

  I snapped my fingers, trying to get Wiz’s attention. He wouldn’t look at me. He stared at the laughing Mouse and Mattheson (Mouse wore his dirty stocking cap and Mattheson had a large Band-Aid on his forehead from falling off his skateboard). Wiz seemed to focus for a moment on their ridiculous plaster-and-balloon ass.

  And then he slowly raised his hand.

  “Yes, Wizard?” Ms. Farhaven asked.

  “Um. Well. I know you said they have to work by themselves, but I think I’d like to work with those guys.” He pointed at Mouse and Mattheson. “I think I’d have a generally favorable impact on their academic pursuits.”

  Ms. Farhaven cocked her head to the side. “Oh. Are you sure?” she asked.

  I heard Mattheson whisper, “No, I don’t want to hang with a dork.”

  “Shut up. This is dopeness, dude,” Mouse whispered back. “He’ll do all the work.”

  “Oh!” Mattheson whispered.

  Wiz stared at the idiots. “Yes. I’m sure,” he said.

  “Oh, yes, Ms. Farhaven!” Mattheson said. “We would like to take Wiz in our group.”

  “Indeed,” Mouse said, “We would be very honored to have him be part of the team.”

  “Your funeral, Wiz,” Ms. Farhaven said.

  “It’s going to be really good, I’m sure,” Wiz said. “Really good.”

  I was shocked, pals. If Wiz worked with the fools, who would I team up with? Pretty much everyone hated me; even the new kid, fat boy Riley, seemed to. And, shit, I had almost been pulverized standing up for the dude!

  Who could I work with?

  CHAPTER THREE

  I was not a happy boy back in the spring of eighth grade. Not at all. In the fall, I could’ve been in any damn science group I wanted. I played baseball and basketball and all those dudes were my friends, even the total douche sacks. The ladies thought I was a stud, which I would contend remains factual, even if they don’t think so anymore. Truth is, I’d always been a little weird, but being good at sports covered it up. And things were okay at the beginning of eighth grade, except for my dad.

  He was an Air Force pilot. That’s what he’d done my whole life. That didn’t stop him from being weird and funny, from having time to play with me, my sister and my brother. He took us on trips, to baseball games, out hiking. But, right before eighth grade, he was moved to a top secret program. He began to go on longer and longer missions. His health started to get worse, like the color drained from his skin and his hair turned gray. He got skinny, too. He stopped doing anything with us. When he was home, he was asleep or bent over his laptop working. Mom got pissed at him, shouted at him to talk to his superiors, get help, but he just said, “This is too important,” and the Air Force kept sending him away. Then, in December, he didn’t come back. My mom called everyone she could think of in the Air Force, but no one had information. She finally called the Pentagon and threatened to go to the press! That night a man in a black suit showed up at our house. He said it was imperative (that’s the word he used: imperative) that we maintain with neighbors, friends, teachers, and everybody that Dad was fine, just continuing to work.

  “But where the hell is he?” Mom shouted.

  “We’re not at liberty to say,” the man said.

  “Is Dad dead?” I cried.

  “We aren’t ready to make that determination. We have lost contact, however,” the man said. Then he turned to my mom. “In the short term, it is imperative that you maintain that he is simply working. Do you understand? Lives are at stake.”

  My mom told the man to stick it in his ass. But, after he was gone, she told us to do what the man said, to keep all of this secret. Because of Dad’s missions and his sickness, I was already turning into a piece of crap (it was like I drained of energy and happiness while he did). With the news that he was missing, I hit the damn wall. School went to shit. I stopped talking, stopped studying. I quit basketball because it seemed stupid and pointless, which pissed off the douche sacks. The coach sent me to the school counselor. She asked a bunch of questions about my home life. I couldn’t explain anything, nothing about Dad. The man in the black suit said, Lives are at stake . . . I just shrugged. The counselor called in my mom. She just shrugged. What were we supposed to do? I had to keep going to school even though I didn’t want to talk to anybody.

  To be perfectly honest, I still have a hard time sleeping. I still hear Dad’s voice in my head, still think it’s him when the phone rings or when a car pulls into the driveway at night.

  Anyway, by that spring, I’d turned into one freaky-ass loner. One edgy, weird, loner.

  I also got super sensitive about some kinds of jock behavior. Back in seventh grade, I’d never participate when my asshole friends picked on kids, but I wouldn’t stop it, either. I’d go on my way. By spring of eighth grade, I couldn’t let a single injustice go. I hated bullies, maybe because I felt like the world—at least the U.S. Air Force—was bullying me? Maybe because I figured life is short and brutal and stupid and mean people make it worse? I don’t know.

  Anyway, early that Wednesday morning, I sat on my bike and watched as this new kid at school, Riley, got shouted down by the old man who was dropping him off. The man (I know now the jackass is his grandpa, an old fart named Hoover) was completely vicious. He called Riley a pig. Seriously. I locked my bike and watched Riley walk away from the car. I could tell he was crying, which just about killed me. Then I followed Riley into the building. I don’t know what I was going to do. Ask if him he was okay or something? I didn’t get a chance. Once inside, my old best friend, Landon Anderson, came around a corner and for no reason at all called Riley a fat bitch and shoved him into a wall of lockers. What a great start to the morning, huh?

  I didn’t even think. I just jumped into action, charged right up to Landon, reached and grabbed him by his throat, slammed him up against a locker.

  “Leave him alone,” I hissed.

  “Dude. You’re psycho,” Landon wheezed. “You don’t say a word to me for a month but now this shit?”

  While I held Landon’s throat, Riley ducked and ran. Very courageous.

  The bell rang and Landon shoved me away. “I don’t want to, but I will beat the shit out of you,” Landon said.

  I was exhausted after that, like a zombie. Too much adrenaline expended or something.

  Then, in Earth Science, group work! Oh, did I hate that crap. I didn’t want to talk. How the shit was I suppose to participate in a group? I watched all my old friends form a group and then the music kids formed theirs and the gamer nerds formed theirs and the cheerleader chicks (including Natalia Carron) formed theirs and that left the criminal papier mâché butt builders, Mouse and Mattheson, the bullied boy Riley, Wiz and me. I flat out couldn’t believe it when Wiz chose to join Mouse and Mattheson. What, was I going to be stuck working with Riley, that weak-jawed butterball who let me face his bullies alone?

  I surveyed the scene, sighed. I didn’t like anyone, but Wiz seemed less bad than the rest. Mouse and Mattheson I figured were complete idiots, but they weren’t part of any stupid clique. I looked over at Riley, felt pity for the fool, then took aggressive action. “Hey, Ms. Farhaven?”

  She was startled, like she couldn’t believe I was talking (I get it, since I
hadn’t talked since before winter break). “Yes?” she asked.

  “Do you think me and Riley could join Wiz over there?” I pointed directly at the papier mâché butt.

  “No!” shouted Mouse. “Not Mr. Basketballs! We have our group!” Apparently Mouse hadn’t noticed my social decline.

  Ms. Farhaven said to me, “You’ll have to put up with the other two, you understand.”

  “What are we, reprobates?” Mouse shouted.

  “Reprobates?” Wiz said. “You know that word?”

  “We are Team Champion!” Mattheson said.

  “I can deal with them,” I said to Ms. Farhaven. I turned to Riley. “I guess we’re with them.”

  Riley stared into space, but he moved when I did. We picked up our stuff and slid over to join our new group. And yeah, Riley dropped a pen and then a folder and had to bend down to pick his crap up. Yeah, other students looked on and laughed. Yeah, Landon Anderson, that dick sack, whispered, “Fat ass and freak show join the carnies.” Yeah, maybe I blushed a little, embarrassed about what I’d become. But you know what? Right there, right at that moment, the Strange Times team was formed! Historic!

  Of course, none of us knew shit, yet. Wiz glared at me when I sat down, because jocks had treated him like crap and he figured I was one.

  Mouse shook his head, said, “Why us?”

  Mattheson, who apparently didn’t even recognize me from being in the same classroom with him all year and didn’t even know who I was, even though we’d been in the same school for three years running, said, “Hey! We’re going to build a ghost ass volcano for the Science Project. Wiz says we can run a plastic tube out a hole in this butt and blast vinegar and baking soda out of it!”

  “We are not doing that!” Mouse shouted. “Respect the ghost girl!”

  “The what?” I asked. “We’re going to build what?”

  “A ghost butt volcano,” Wiz mumbled. He pulled down his aviator goggles.

  “That’s stupid,” I said.

  “Why?” Mattheson asked.

  Seriously, did I really need to explain why building a papier mâché ass was a dumb idea for science project? I stared at Mattheson for a moment, then said, “Can we just meet up tonight to make a better plan?” Eighth grade sucked. I definitely didn’t want to flunk and repeat it.

  The bell rang.

  “Oceannaire Coffee? Like 6:30?” I asked.

  I hadn’t said that many words to anyone outside my family in months, but what was I supposed to do? It was group work.

  Strange Times, though, right? That was us! And, even though we didn’t know shit, the strange times would start unfolding that very night.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I wish I would’ve enjoyed the bike ride over to the coffee shop more. Maybe hit some jumps or something, because I wouldn’t get to ride my dad’s old Redline Proline BMX bike ever again.

  I locked the bike to the rack behind the Oceannaire. The shop was close enough to the middle school that lots of eighth graders went there to work on group projects.

  Riley stood right behind me—like two feet behind me, silent. We’d met at school so I could show him the way to the shop. He didn’t say a damn word the entire time we rode. Not one! I should’ve had some empathy, right? I didn’t like talking to people, either. But I had no empathy. Something made me hate him. I know now he was basically in a catatonic state, okay? Not only had he been forced to move away from his parents to grandparents who were butt-wipes, he was also having very, very scary dreams. I should’ve felt bad for him.

  No way.

  Riley seemed like one weird-ass, thick through the gut, creeper. Also, he rode a stupid rusted-out beach cruiser that he didn’t even lock, which was also stupid. I had a cable and a U-bolt to deal with, because my old-school Redline was pretty dope. After I got the lock job done I motioned for Silent Riley to follow, then walked to the front.

  Right then Mouse and Mattheson tore into the lot on their skateboards. Mouse was all frothy.

  “Keep your eyes open, dude, and your nose and your ears. We can’t miss any signs if she’s sending them,” Mouse said. He skidded to a halt about ten feet in front of us. “We must be vigilant.”

  “And sly,” Mattheson said.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked. “Who’s sending you signs?”

  “Look who’s here! It’s Mr. Fuzzy and Fatty McFartsalot,” Mouse said.

  “Mr. Fuzzy?” I asked.

  Then a Beemer sped into the parking lot. It squealed into a spot nearby. The back right-side door opened and Wiz stepped out. “No,” he shouted into the car. “No. I need a ride. I can’t walk! God!” He slammed the car door and the Beemer pealed back and out. “One hundred percent asshole!” Wiz shouted.

  “Hi Wizzy!” Mouse cried.

  Wiz barely looked at us. He lowered his goggles onto his eyes and headed for the door. “Hey,” he mumbled going in.

  Everybody entered before me. I stood out on the sidewalk for a moment. Two idiot name callers, a freaking mute, and a dude who can’t look at another human being without wearing goggles? Really good idea choosing these losers for your science team. I shook my head, wondered how I’d gotten to be such a loser myself. Then I remembered Dad, how life was pointless. My heart sank in my chest, and I stumbled into the store. Two idiots, a mute, a goggled freak, and a fatherless boy who almost cries in public . . .

  Five minutes later, we sat around a circular table in the corner of the shop, all silent. Riley sucked on a giant coffee shake called a Moocho Choco. Wiz didn’t get a drink and didn’t look at us at all. He played a game on his phone. Mouse and Mattheson punched each other under the table. I sipped my smoothie, waited. Nobody said anything for a long time, so even though I didn’t want to speak, I spoke. “Okay. So, I guess we have to do a science project, huh? All together. As a group, which is dumb, but whatever.”

  The other dudes just stared at me.

  “So,” I said, “What do you think?”

  Mouse leaned forward and said, “I think you shouldn’t be talking, because clearly Wiz should be our leader, Mr. Fuzzy.”

  There was that Mr. Fuzzy crap again. I didn’t understand. “Why do you keep calling me that?” I asked.

  “Because you grew a fluffy little fuzzy mustache in like a day, dude. It’s hilarious,” Mattheson said.

  It was true. That fuzzy fur popped out on my upper lip in a blink. I didn’t know what to do about it. I didn’t know how to shave. Again, fatherless boy. “Oh yeah,” I said.

  “Fuzz or no fuzz, Wiz is our leader, because he’s a man of science.”

  “Fine. Tell us what to do Wiz,” I said.

  Wiz still didn’t look up from his phone.

  “Come on, Wiz, tell these dudes how it’s going to go down,” Mouse said.

  Wiz looked up but didn’t say anything.

  “Wiz-nut-ski!” Mouse shouted. “You’re our leader, bro. Come back to earth!”

  “Me?” Wiz mumbled. “I made a suggestion at school but you didn’t like it.”

  “I liked his idea,” Mattheson said. “Papier mâché ass that blasts foam out of its a-hole. That’s funny.”

  I shook my head. So stupid. We were definitely flunking if we did that. “Yeah. But funny isn’t the goal for the science fair,” I said. “Plus, how is a plaster ass science? You gotta know that’s not science, Wiz.”

  “I’m not in this group for the science,” Wiz said.

  “It is science, you idiot, because the ass is the ass of a ghost,” Mouse said.

  “Yeah, dude,” Mattheson said. “For real.”

  Suddenly Riley sat up straight. His eyes opened wide. “Real ghost?” he asked.

  “Yeah, bro. A real live ghost,” Mattheson said.

  “Ergo, we are providing scientific proof that ghosts exist, because we have a copy of her real butt,” Mouse said.

  Wiz stared at me through his stupid goggles. A smile crept across his face. He nodded slightly and smirked. I knew what he was saying. “Welcome to our group, asshole.” Thing is, while Wiz didn’t believe in ghosts back in the day, I did. I already knew, factually, that ghosts not only exist, but manifest regularly. See, my dad was more than an Air Force pilot, he was also a serious amateur paranormal investigator. I’ve always been interested in that stuff, too. And, because of Dad, I’d seen things that made me believe.