Girl Meets Ghost (7 page)

“What should I wear?” I'm at my closet, flipping through everything, and there's nothing. Not one thing that is even close to being Brandon-asking-me-to-hang-out appropriate. I check the clock, wondering if it's too late to make an emergency trip to the mall.

“Your jean skirt?” Ellie asks.

“No.”

“Ooh, how about that really pretty pearl-pink top with the layers of fabric?”

“Too fancy.”

“How about your gray hoodie with the gold butterfly?”

“Not special enough.”

“This is a total emergency,” Ellie says. “We need to take inventory of your closet immediately.”

We spend the rest of the night on the phone, putting together the perfect outfit for tomorrow, when Brandon maybe asks me out on my very first date ever. We decide on an emerald-green top with a boatneck, a white skirt, and Ellie's gold ballet flats. I'll do my hair in a messy bun and slide gold sparkly chopsticks through the top.

By the time we're done picking out makeup colors (soft pink lip gloss and a creamy silver eye shadow that isn't too dramatic, since my dad will totally flip if he sees me leaving
the house in too much makeup), I finish up my homework and then climb into bed.

And as I'm drifting off to sleep, all I can think about is Brandon Dunham.

• • •

Scrape. Scratch. Scrape. Scratch
.

Something that sounds like a piece of furniture being moved across the room wakes me up. I look at my alarm clock. Two thirty a.m. Ugh.

“Daniella,” I moan, “you better not be practicing any kind of gymnastics moves on my furniture. You're going to wake my dad up.” For some reason ghosts start to solidify more after midnight. That's why people are always claiming that ghosts come out at night. It's not that the ghosts only come out then, it's just that they become more visible. And it explains how some ghosts can move things when it gets late. They're stronger and have more physical presence at night.

Scrape. Scratch. Scrape.

“Daniella!” I say, and pull my pillow over my head. “I'm serious! If you get caught by a human, I won't be able to help you. You'll have to live in limbo forever.” This is a lie, but I'm hoping she won't know that and will go to sleep. Not that ghosts need sleep. But couldn't she just read a book or something? I guess not, since her fingers would probably just slip through the pages. Maybe she should go
spy on her old boyfriend whatshisname, the one she saw at the mall with another girl. That would serve him right, getting haunted, ha-ha-ha-ha.

Scrape. Scratch.
It's louder now, and coming from my bookshelf.

I turn over and throw one of my pillows in that direction, even though I know it's not going to do anything. “Daniella!” I say, trying to keep my voice quiet so that I don't wake my dad. “Stop it!”

But to my surprise the shadowy figure in the corner is not Daniella. It's a woman, about forty years old or so, and she's looking through my bookshelf, scraping my books back and forth as she goes. Wow. She must be a really strong ghost. Two thirty in the morning or not, the fact that she can move books is impressive. In fact, I don't think I've ever seen a ghost that could do that.

I swallow. Usually I'm not scared when I see ghosts, because they've just always been there. But something about this one is a little . . . intense. The way she's moving those books is kind of creepy. Like I said, I've never seen a ghost do that before. She must have some serious unfinished business, to have all that energy. And she's not even looking at the books. She's looking at me.

“Go away,” I say, and put my head under my pillow again. I try to keep my voice even so she won't be able to tell how freaked out I am. “I'm already busy, so, um, you
should find someone else to help you.” It's not even a lie. The last thing I need is another ghost bothering me. I have my hands full with crazy Daniella. Not to mention that I'm supposed to be getting my beauty sleep so that I can be ready to get asked out on my very first date ever tomorrow. I close my eyes tight and try to calm my heart, which is suddenly beating really fast.

But the ghost doesn't go away. She floats over to my bed. She's actually very fashionable, wearing skinny jeans and a tunic in a dark gray swirly pattern. Her hair is swept back off her face, and she's wearing tons of long necklaces.

“You,” she says, and points her index finger at me. “
You
need to be on the green paper.” She sounds very . . . sinister, and my heart catches in my throat.

“Hi,” I say. “Um, I'm really sorry, but I'm already in the middle of solving one mystery. So I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to ask someone else for help.” I have my covers pulled all the way up to my chin, and I cross my fingers under the blanket, hoping she'll go away.

“ADD YOURSELF TO THE GREEN PAPER,” she says, her voice getting all screechy.

“I'm sorry,” I say firmly. “But I don't know what that means.”

“You,” she says again. “Kendall. You must be on the green paper.” My heart is beating so fast, it feels like it's going to come out of my chest, and my mouth goes dry.
How does she know my name? I wonder if I should scream for my dad. But what would I tell him? That a ghost is freaking me out? But maybe if he came into my room she'd go away.

I sit up and get ready to scream, but before I can, the ghost disappears. I collapse back against the pillows. But I'm so keyed up that I can't go back to sleep. I lie awake for a long time, and the only way I'm finally able to fall asleep is by keeping the light on all night.

When I wake up
the next morning, I decide to do my best to put what happened last night right out of my head. I have enough going on, thank you very much, without worrying about some creepy ghost.

Still, it's easier said than done. I keep thinking about the ghost while I get dressed for school, about how she was so insistent that I add myself to the green paper. I've never had anything like that happen to me before.

Whatever,
I think as I do my hair for school. Ghosts are always saying things that don't make sense. Most of the time they're completely out of their minds. I mean, look at Daniella. She can't remember anything about her life, and she's always talking about things that are slightly nonsensical.

Besides, I look way too cute to be worried about ghosts. The outfit Ellie and I picked out last night looks fab, and my hair is cooperating perfectly. By the time I'm done getting ready, I'm starting to feel a little more calm, and I bound downstairs. I say good morning to my dad, then pour myself a huge bowl of cereal. I'm going to need my energy if I'm going to get through the excitement of the day.

“You look nice,” my dad says.

“Thanks.”

“This wouldn't have anything to do with that boy I saw you at the mall with, would it?”

“No,” I lie. Talk about awkward. How am I supposed to tell my dad that I like Brandon? Or that I like any boys at all? Ohmigod. I just realized something. How am I going to tell my dad that I'm going out on a date if Brandon
does
ask me? I mean, my dad has never really said I
couldn't
date, but maybe that's because he assumes that I already know I can't. But since he never said I couldn't . . . Wow, this is confusing. And humiliating. Oh, well. I'm not going to miss hanging out with Brandon just because of a potentially awkward conversation with my dad. I take a deep breath and decide to just go for it.

“So, Dad,” I say, trying to sound all nonchalant. “If my outfit did, you know,
hypothetically
, have something to do with the boy you saw me with the other day, how would you feel about that?” This is something I've learned works
with my dad. If I ask him how he feels about something, it's different than asking him for permission. It opens up a dialogue instead of setting him up as the authority figure. It's actually a very mature thing to do.

“Well,” my dad says. He's cracking eggs into a bowl so that he can make his morning omelette. My dad has a western omelette every morning. He's supposed to only have egg whites, but sometimes he lets a little bit of yolk slip in. “I suppose I would want to know exactly what's going on with you and this boy.”

Don't we all,
I think. “Weeelll, what if he was maybe going to ask me to hang out?” I ask. “Could I hang out with him?” “Hang out” sounds way less intimidating than “date.” Even though, of course, that's what it would be. Wouldn't it? Is it possible Brandon's just going to ask me to hang out because he wants to be friends? That would be horrible, and so I push it out of my mind, right into some mental “ignore” folder, like where I decided to put that woman ghost from last night.

“Like a date?” my dad asks. He's frowning suspiciously into the frying pan.

“Or maybe, like, a group thing, or a study session or something.”

My dad hesitates. And then, finally, he says, “I guess that would be okay.”

Daniella appears beside me and rolls her eyes. “God,
your dad is, like,
sooo
overprotective. I was going out on dates all the time when I was thirteen.” She thinks about it. “Of course, I was getting asked out constantly, so it made sense.” Ugh.

“Thanks, Dad,” I say, deciding to ignore Daniella's comment.
Today is going to be great,
I tell myself. Then I grab my bag and head out the door to catch the bus, Daniella trailing along behind me.

•  •  •

Okay. I really need to calm down. I mean, there's no reason to get all riled up just because Brandon might ask me to hang out. I don't even know if it's going to happen for sure. Kyle is definitely not the best source of information. He probably forgets things, or messes things up all the time. Especially important things like who his best friend is going to ask to hang out.

Still. I can't help getting butterflies in my stomach about it, and all morning I keep my eyes peeled for Brandon. When I pass him in the hall after third period, he says, “Hi,” and I feel my insides melt. But he doesn't ask me to hang out. Maybe he's waiting until later, when we have more time to talk?

By the time math rolls around, I am officially freaking out. I stopped off at the bathroom to reapply my lip gloss and reposition the chopsticks in my hair. Even so, I'm so wound up and jumpy that I'm one of the first people in the classroom.

“Well, Ms. Williams,” Mr. Jacobi says. “You're here early.”

“Yup,” I say, holding up my notebook. “Here and ready to learn!”

“Good,” he says. And I'm not sure, but I think I hear him mumble under his breath, “You need all the help you can get.” Which is pretty rude when you think about it. Just because some of us aren't so good at math, that doesn't give him the right to make comments about it. Not to mention that he's a teacher, and teachers really shouldn't be snarky about students. . . .

Ohmigod. It's Brandon. Brandon is walking in! He's wearing khaki pants and this navy-blue long-sleeved T-shirt, and his hair is a little bit messy, but in a really cute, rumpled kind of way, and my heart does a flip and my stomach gets even more butterflies.

“Hmmm,” Daniella says, wrinkling up her nose and putting her hands on her hips as she watches Brandon walk into the room. “I guess he's okay. I mean, if you like that type.”

“Shut up,” I whisper at her. The last thing I need is some ghost messing up my maybe-getting-asked-on-my-first-date-ever conversation.

“What?” Brandon asks. He's over by my desk now. “Did you just tell me to shut up?”

“Um, no.” I laugh and reach my hand up to twirl my
hair before I realize it's in a bun. Oops. “Why would I have told you to shut up?”

“I don't know,” he says, “since I didn't say anything. But I'm pretty sure I just heard you tell someone to shut up.” He looks around the classroom. Besides us and Mr. Jacobi, there are only two other people in the room, and they're all the way on the other side, near the windows.

“You must have been hearing things,” I say. Then I bat my eyelashes and smile at him in an effort to keep him distracted.

“I guess.” But he looks doubtful.

Daniella laughs. “Great,” she says. “Now he thinks you're crazy. You better change the subject, pronto.”

I want to give her a dirty look, but I figure Brandon seeing me glare into the air definitely isn't a good way to change his mind about the fact that I might be crazy, so instead I say, “So did you do the homework?”

“Yeah,” he says. “You?”

“Yup.” I did it last night, after picking out my clothes. Although I had a really hard time concentrating. “I don't know how well I did, though.”

“I'm sure you did great.”

“No,” I say, sighing. “I don't think I did.”

And then Brandon blushes. Seriously, his face gets all red. “Well,” he says, “I could probably help you with it.”

“I think it's too late for that,” I say. “The homework's already done.”

Daniella smacks her hand against her forehead, like she can't believe how stupid I'm being. Which is ridiculous, since I'm not being stupid. Does she really expect that I can just do my homework all over before the bell rings in a minute? Just because she's older and probably thinks the quadratic formula is super-easy doesn't mean she has the right to just—

“No, I mean . . .” Brandon clears his throat. “I mean, I could help you study. You could maybe come over after school today.”

Oh. My. God. This is it! Brandon Dunham is asking me to hang out, just like Ellie said he was going to!

“Sure,” I say, all casual, even though a million fireworks are going off in my stomach. “That could be cool.”