Girl Meets Ghost (15 page)

“I made it myself,” she says. “In the beading class I'm taking.”

“Really?” Wow. That's actually pretty impressive. It's this cool V-neck black sweater with rainbow glitter beads that sparkle in the light.

“Kendall, I'm serious,” my dad says, obviously not ready to let it go. “If you're going to be spending time with this boy, I think it's time I met him.” He puffs out his chest, like he needs to protect me or something. I want to tell him this isn't the Middle Ages, but something tells me that won't go over so well.

“I'm not going to be spending time with him,” I say. “I mean, I am, but I'm not . . . It's not . . . You don't have to meet him.”

“I'm sure Kendall's smart enough to know if you'd approve of the boy she's dating,” Cindy says, I guess in an effort to save me. I throw her a grateful smile.

“I'm sure she is too,” my dad says. “Which is why she shouldn't have a problem inviting him over for dinner.”

“For
dinner
?”

“Yes. This weekend. And until then, I don't think you should be hanging out with him.”

“What?”
Cindy and I say at the same time.

“Bob,” Cindy says, her voice gentle, “don't you think that's a little harsh?”

“No,” my dad says. And that's that. My dad might ask Cindy for advice, but once he's made up his mind about something, there's nothing you can do to change it.

•  •  •

“How am I going to get Brandon to come over to my house for dinner?” I whine to Ellie later that night. I'm at her house, helping her organize her wardrobe. Ellie's not a morning person, and lately she's been almost missing the bus every single day because she's obsessing over what to wear. So we're going to coordinate her outfits for the week, including applicable shoes and accessories, and lay them out ahead of time.

“Just ask him,” Ellie says, and shrugs. Easy for her to say. She has a boyfriend.

“I can't just ask him! He'll think I'm, like, obsessed with him or something.”

“Aren't you?”

“Nooo!” I think about it. “Well, okay, maybe a little. But I don't want
him
to know that.”

Ellie picks up a yellow dress that's lying in a ball on her bedroom floor. “What do you think of this dress?” She holds it up in front of her and poses in front of the silver full-length mirror that's hanging on the back of her door.

“It's cute,” I say, “but it's a summer dress.”

“But,” she says, “if I put some black tights under it and pair it with a cute sweater, it would be fab.”

“Totally,” I say. “But it needs to be washed.”

Ellie nods and then throws it into the needs-to-be-washed pile that's rapidly growing on her floor. “When was the last time you did laundry?” I ask her. Ellie looks at me blankly, like the thought of doing laundry is crazy. “You do do laundry, don't you?”

“Of course!”

“Ellie?”

“Well . . . I mean, my mom does it.”

“When was the last time your mom decided to do laundry? Because most of your stuff is dirty. No wonder you have a hard time picking out what to wear in the morning.”

“Well, she'll do it whenever I need it, but . . . I just . . . sometimes I forget to bring it down to the laundry room.”
She holds up a beaded blue shirt that hits just above her knees.

“So cute with white leggings,” I tell her. She tosses it into the pile of needs-to-be-washed. I throw myself down onto her bed and look up at the ceiling. “Oooh,” I moan. “What am I going to do?”

“Call him,” Ellie says. Her words are muffled because she's in her closet now, poking around. When she emerges, she has a huge pile of clothes in her arms that's threatening to spill over and fall onto the floor.

“And say what?”

“Invite him over,” she says. And then she drops the clothes. “Actually, invite us all over!”

“What do you mean?”

“Me, Kyle, you, and Brandon,” she says. “That way it'll seem more like a party. And your dad won't have a chance to grill him too hard with everyone there.”

“That's a great idea!” I say, sitting up. “Ellie, you're a total genius!” I step around all the piles of clothes that are on her floor and start picking through them. “And now you need to let me borrow something to wear.”

•  •  •

It's actually relatively easy to convince my dad that he should let me have three people over instead of just one. My dad loves Ellie.

Daniella, however, is not happy. Not one little bit.

“You can't just have them over tonight!” she yells at me on Saturday. We're walking through the cemetery because she insisted that we talk, and I couldn't have a whole conversation with her with my dad around.

“Yes, I can,” I tell her. “Why wouldn't I be able to have them over? They're my friends. And besides, my dad is starting to freak out about the whole Brandon thing, and I have to make him feel better.” It's a little chilly out, and I walk faster, hoping it will warm me up. I really should be at home, getting ready for my big night. But no.

“But what about meeeee?” Daniella whines, and then starts walking on her hands. God, what a show-off.

“Well, you can come too, of course,” I say. Although I'm just saying it to be nice. I know I said I would miss her when she's gone, and I will, but I don't really want her at dinner. Who knows what kind of trouble she'll cause?

“I don't want to come!” she says. “I'm on the verge of some kind of breakthrough. And I think that, as my ghost protector, you should be helping me to get through it, not planning dates.”

“What kind of breakthrough?” I ask.

“I'm not sure.” She bites her lip and tosses her long blond hair over her shoulder. “But I know it's coming. I'm remembering something about that digging.” She frowns, her pretty face crumpling up in concentration.

“So I'm supposed to cancel my date with the most
perfect boy to ever live because you might remember something about digging? Yeah, I don't think so.” I'm at my favorite bench now, and so I plop down onto it and raise my face toward the sky. The sun is peeking out now, even though it's chilly. It's the first sunny day in a long time, and I feel my spirits start to pick up.

Tonight is going to be great,
I tell myself. I mean, how could it not be? Brandon immediately accepted my invite to hang out when I asked him over, he's been really friendly and flirty with me lately, I haven't said anything weird or crazy to him, his mom hasn't been around at all, and—

Wait. Is that . . . Oh, God. It is! It's Brandon's mom. She's lurking by some headstones! I've totally jinxed it by thinking about how she hasn't been around lately! Why is she showing up at the graveyard? It's like she wants to know where she ended up. Which is really silly, when you think about it, because she
knows
where she ended up. At the cemetery, which is where everyone ends up. Although, I guess some people get cremated. I don't know if I've ever met a ghost that was cremated. I never really ask them. But maybe I should start. Because what if getting cremated means that you can't come back? Not that I want to come back, but if I ever had unfinished business, then—

Oh, God. Mrs. Dunham spots me and then starts stomping over toward the bench I'm sitting on.

“Who's that?” Daniella asks.

“That's Mrs. Dunham,” I say warily.

“Brandon's mom?”

“Yes,” I say. “She's a ghost.”

“She's a ghost? Like me?” Daniella starts getting excited. But something tells me Mrs. Dunham isn't going to be all that excited to talk to Daniella.

“The green paper,” Mrs. Dunham says. She shakes her finger at me and then gets really close. “You need to put your name on THAT. GREEN. PAPER.” Her eyes feel like they're boring into mine, and even though they're normally blue, today they look gray and not friendly at all. “I mean it, Kendall,” she says.

“Wow, lady,” Daniella says, “you need to back off.” I guess it's easy not to be scared of a ghost when you are one yourself. For the first time, I'm glad Daniella's here. Maybe if Mrs. Dunham starts with me, Daniella will protect me. I mean, she's pretty muscular.

But Mrs. Dunham doesn't seem intimidated. She keeps glaring at me.

“Ewww,” Daniella says. “What's her problem?”

“That's the thing,” I say, and sigh. “I have no idea. Come on,” I say to Daniella. I turn and start walking back toward my house. I wait until I'm almost home before I turn around to check for Mrs. Dunham. But she's gone.

•  •  •

When I get inside, my dad's in the kitchen, flipping through a cookbook. And then he announces that he's making pot roast for the dinner with my friends tonight.

“We can't have pot roast!” I say. I go over to the cookbook and flip the pages, looking for something a little more fun. Why is my dad using a cookbook, anyway? Everyone knows you can get way better recipes on the internet. How old school.

“Why can't we have pot roast?” He's over by the stove now, and he pulls this big roast out of the oven, bastes it, and then slides it back in. Then he starts lining up cans of vegetables on the counter.

“Because you can't . . .” I wonder how I'm going to explain this to him, and then realize that it's probably pointless. “Dad, we need to, like, order pizza or have tacos or something.”

“Order pizza? But I'm a great cook!” He turns back to the cookbook and flips it back to the pot roast recipe.

“Ellie's a vegetarian,” I try.

He points to a package that's sitting on the counter. “I'm making her a veggie burger.”

“Yeah, but . . . Dad, this has to be fun.” I imagine all of us sitting around the table, eating pot roast and having stilted conversation. I mean, I'm sure the pot roast will be good and everything, but I'm trying to make this a fun, normal night, not a night filled with pot roast and vegetables. That
doesn't say “party.” That says “family dinner where my dad is going to interrogate Brandon and everyone is going to have the worst time ever.”

The doorbell rings, and my heart drops to my shoes. “That can't be them already, can it?” I haven't even put on my dinner outfit (black ballet flats, black tiered poofy skirt, white long-sleeved shirt with little hearts all over) or done my hair (straightened and curled at the bottoms, but with a string of tiny heart jewels woven through it).

“Uh, no,” my dad says. He wipes his hands on one of the dishcloths that's sitting on the counter, and looks guilty. “That's probably Cindy.”

“Cindy! Why is Cindy here?”

“I thought it would be good for her to meet Brandon,” my dad says.

I narrow my eyes at him. This is turning out to be a very, very bad idea. Now not only are Kyle and Ellie coming (which at first seemed like a good idea because it would be more of a party, but now I'm not so sure), but we are having pot roast and Cindy is coming. Which is okay, because Cindy will probably like Brandon and say something to my dad, but it's not really her place. She's not my mother. She's not even my stepmother. She's not even my dad's girlfriend! I mean, talk about trying to weasel your way into the family. I know I keep saying that, but come on! It's true! I might need to have a talk with my
dad about this. I really do not need a female role model.

“Do you want to go and get the door?” my dad asks. He's opening a can of corn.

“Not really,” I grumble. But I get up from the table and go to the door.

“Hello!” Cindy says when I open it. “Don't you look adorable!”

I raise my eyebrows and look down at what I'm wearing. Black pajama pants, a long-sleeved white T-shirt, and a gray and pink hoodie. “I haven't gotten ready yet,” I say. And then I add pointedly, “No one's coming for another couple of hours.”

She's oblivious to the fact that she's super-early, and breezes by me and into the kitchen.

“Kendall,” my dad says, “you could offer to take Cindy's coat.”

“Can I take your coat, Cindy?” I ask, sighing.

She slides it off and hands it to me. I hang it up in the hall closet, then return to the kitchen. “Cindy,” I say, “how do you feel about pot roast?”

“Oh, I love pot roast,” she says, and then she giggles. Seriously. She totally giggles. She's kind of too old to be giggling, but whatever. “Your dad makes the best pot roast.”

“When have you ever had my dad's pot roast?” I ask.

My dad clears his throat and starts getting super-busy pulling out an onion and peeling it. “Oooh,” he says, swiping
at his eyes, “chopping onions always makes me cry.”

Great. Obviously my dad and Cindy have had some kind of clandestine dinner involving pot roast. And they didn't tell me about it. Which means that there had to be some kind of reason they didn't want me to know. Was it a date? Are Cindy and my dad having secret dates together? This is way too much for me to process.

“Cindy,” I say hopefully, “don't you think we should have pizza? Or maybe tacos or something?”

She frowns. “Why would we do that when your dad is making pot roast?”

Oh, for the love of . . . “Well, because it's supposed to be a
party
. You know, and pot roast isn't exactly that much of a party food.”

“Pot roast is perfect for a dinner party,” she says. “And don't worry, your friends will love it.”

Great. When it comes right down to it, Cindy is totally loyal to my dad. Either that or completely clueless. I should have known. “I'm going to take a shower,” I announce. When I leave the kitchen, they're chopping potatoes and Cindy's still giggling.

•  •  •

I take a bath instead of a shower and stay in there so long, reading and soaking in my honey wheat vanilla bubble bath, that my fingers get all pruney. But my skin is super-soft and my hair smells delish. Hopefully this will be enough to
distract Brandon from the fact that we're having pot roast.