The Haunting of Sunshine Girl (6 page)

I shake my head, smiling. Ashley knows the answer will be no, but she likes teasing me almost as much as Mom does. “Why mess with perfection?” I say, and Ashley laughs. I hear the sound of Mom's key in the lock. “I gotta go, Ash. Keep me posted about Cory and the Kiss with a capital K.”

“I will.”

“And you'll bring the film to Max's for me?”

Ashley groans. “Jeez, yes, I said I would.”

“Good night,” I say, “and thanks.”

“Night,” Ashley replies, “say
Hi
to the ghost for me.”

I'm putting the ice cream away when Mom wanders into the kitchen. She looks surprised to see me here. “Sunshine, what are you doing up?”

“Ashley and I were just catching up. First day of school, that kind of thing.”

I wait for her to ask me how school was, to ask me for minute details about the kids at Ridgemont High—what do they wear, who did I sit with at lunch, how were my classes, that kind of thing she used to ask me. Back in Austin she asked how even the most uneventful of days were.

But instead, she pulls a sheaf of papers from her bag and says, “You really shouldn't be up so late on a school night.”

“You're up late, and you have to get up earlier in the morning than I do,” I say. I pause, sure that she's going to tease me in response, make a smarmy remark about how I'm still a growing child, not a grown-up like her. But instead she sits at the kitchen counter and stares at her papers.

“Mom?” I prompt.

“Hmm?” she says, looking up at me like she'd already forgotten I was here in the room with her. She hasn't even said hello to Oscar and Lex, who are circling her stool anxiously. “It's late. You really should go to bed.”

I don't say it out loud because I would sound like a whiny little kid, but I don't want to go to bed. I want to stay down here and tell her about Dr. Hoo and the unicorns. I don't want to go back into the room with them.

“New patient?” I ask, gesturing to the papers that Mom's studying.

Mom shakes her head. “Budgets,” she says dismissively, like I couldn't possibly understand. I think about her face our first night here in Ridgemont, how nervous she looked when we sat in the hospital parking lot.

“Okay, then,” I say, turning on my heel. “Good night.”

Mom looks up, just for a second, and smiles. “I'm sorry, sweetie. Believe me, I'd much rather be hanging out with you than working on budgets.”

“Don't worry about it.”

“I'll come home earlier tomorrow. I want to hear all about how you wowed them at your new school.”

“Not so much wowed them as bumped into every table and corner, resulting in some fabulous new bruises.”

“I'm sure you'll accessorize the heck out of them,” Mom says, then drops her gaze back to the papers spread out in front of her. I'm pretty sure she's not actually going to come home early tomorrow.

Things will be better once she's had time to settle in to her new job. And, they'll be better once I get the film developed and can show her that something creepy is happening in this house. I'll take some more pictures tonight before I send the film to Ashley; I'll photograph the unicorns and Dr. Hoo and the canisters on my desk. Something will show up, something that can't be seen by the naked eye. Mom will apologize for dismissing me, but I won't be mad. After all, I can't blame her for not believing in ghosts. Most people don't.

By the time I open the door to my room I feel much better. Excited even. Maybe Ashley's right—maybe we'll sell these photos to the highest bidder and I'll become famous:
The Girl Who Discovered Ghosts.
My face will be plastered on the cover of magazines. Kids will start dressing like me; vintage shops will be sold out of flowing blouses and printed scarves.

But on the other side of the door my room is a mess. The stuffed animals who'd been neatly lined up on a shelf above my bed, my teddy bears and my favorite stuffed dog, are now lying
across my bed; the stuffed giraffe that Mom got me for my sixth birthday is perched on top of my pillows. The board games I'd left in a box in my closet, Connect Four and Jenga, checkers and Monopoly—hadn't gotten around to unpacking them yet—are scattered on the floor.

I open my mouth to scream for Mom. She can't explain this away with branches on the windows or the sounds a house makes when it settles. But then I close my mouth before any sound escapes. She won't need to explain it away. She just won't believe me.

I step inside my room, the pink carpet plush but cool beneath my feet. What does all this mean? I reach for my camera and take pictures. Looking at the world through the viewfinder is usually comforting, but tonight I can't make heads or tails of what I'm seeing.

Slowly I begin putting all the toys away, first the board games and then the stuffed animals. I brush my teeth and pile extra covers on my bed to keep out the cold. Just as I'm about to turn off the light I notice that Dr. Hoo is back on the windowsill, looking outside again. I throw off the covers and march across the room to turn him back around; I like the idea of his plastic eyes focused on me while I sleep, like he's standing guard or something.

I reach for him, my fingers itching to touch his soft feathers. And that's when I feel it. He's
wet.
Not completely, not all over, but there are a few stripes of moisture down his front, as though someone reached out with wet fingers to pet the soft tuft of his feathers.

I leave my owl by the window. Evidently someone wants him that way.

CHAPTER FIVE

Leather Jackets

Despite the lack of photography,
visual arts class is quickly becoming my favorite part about life at Ridgemont High. Not because of my increasingly silly collage—I'm adding a layer of glitter and confetti to the left of the pipe cleaners—and certainly not because of Ms. Wilde's tutelage. She might just be the oddest duck in the pond that is my new school.

No, I like visual arts class because Nolan Foster always sits directly across from me. And for whatever reason—whether it's because he's hot like Ashley says or because of something else entirely—I continue to feel warm when I'm near him. Or at the very least, not freezing.

Actually I'm pretty sure Ashley wouldn't think Nolan is hot. He's nothing like Cory Cooper, who has a bright red car and a letterman's jacket. Every day Nolan wears the same leather jacket that he wore on the first day of school. Maybe if I were his girlfriend, he'd let me borrow it. Just the thought makes me roll my eyes at myself. You're not supposed to want to date a
boy just for jacket access. Not that the jacket is the only reason I might want to date Nolan. Not that I want to date Nolan. I mean, I don't
not
want to date him . . . oh my goodness, Sunshine, get a grip.

Nolan has stuck with pipe cleaners for his collage, raiding the supply closet for all the black, white, gray, and cream-colored ones. They're twisted into a million different shapes on the table in front of him. When Ms. Wilde leans over me to study Nolan's creation across the desk, the fringe from her lacy black shawl falls into my eyes.

I know I'm in no position to judge—it's not like anyone else in town dresses the way I do—but seriously, I'm pretty sure our art teacher is the only person in Ridgemont who outfits herself like a witch in mourning.

I brush the fringe from my eyes as Ms. Wilde says, “Such
intense
work, Nolan. Where do you get your inspiration?” Without waiting for an answer, she keeps talking. “It's so clear what you're communicating about our mortality—all that black, all that death, but the dusting of white pieces in between—symbolizing hope, I assume?”

Nolan nods. “Of course,” he says, his voice low and serious. “What could be more hopeful than white pipe cleaners?” Ms. Wilde keeps her eyes on his collage, so Nolan can wink at me without her seeing.

“All that death,” she repeats softly, spinning Nolan's collage in circles on the table. “Have you always found yourself drawn to death?”

“What?” Nolan sputters, caught off guard by such an odd inquiry. Man, this teacher is weird. I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to ask your sixteen-year-old student a question like that.

“I mean, do you find yourself drawn to relics from an earlier time? Tools that were used by extinct peoples, technology from past decades, clothes that were worn by people now dead?”

Nolan doesn't answer her. Instead, he turns pale. I eye his obviously vintage leather jacket. As soon as Ms. Wilde walks away I'm going to tell him that I like vintage clothes too.

But Ms. Wilde doesn't walk away. Instead, she hovers at our table, waiting for an answer.

From across the room a student shouts, “Ms. Wilde, are we out of charcoal?” But our teacher doesn't even look away from Nolan's collage. “Ms. Wilde?” our classmate repeats, louder this time. Instead of answering, she leans closer to Nolan's collage.

“Ms. Wilde?” I prompt. She turns sharply from Nolan's collage to me, as though noticing my presence here for the first time. “I think, ummm—” I don't know the name of the student across the room. “I think she needs you over there.”

“Tabitha Chin,” Nolan supplies. “Tabitha was asking for more charcoal.”

Ms. Wilde shakes her head. I get the idea that she's not particularly interested in what her students are asking for. But Tabitha stands up and walks over to our table. She taps Ms. Wilde on the shoulder, finally forcing her to take her eyes off of me.

“I'm sorry to interrupt, but I really wanted to finish this sketch before next period. I couldn't find any fresh charcoal in the supply closet.” Tabitha pushes a few strands of her dark hair behind her ear.

Across the room the other students at her table giggle. I may not have spoken to anyone in this class besides Nolan, but I'm pretty sure we all agree on one thing: Ms. Wilde is the weirdest
teacher we've ever had. She might be the weirdest teacher anyone's ever had. She lets out a sigh as she walks across the room with Tabitha, off in search of sketching charcoal.

“Lucky,” Nolan mutters once she's out of earshot.

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

“Why's that?”

“Tabitha distracted her before Ms. Wilde could comment on your project.”

“She probably wouldn't have liked it anyway. All this glitter and confetti aren't nearly deathly enough for her taste.”

Nolan nods. Now Ms. Wilde is holding up Tabitha's sketch—a vase—asking whether it's meant to be a metaphor for the containers in which we live, how fleeting our bodies are, fragile as glass.

“No,” Tabitha shakes her head, “I just thought it was a pretty vase.”

Looking disappointed, Ms. Wilde drops the sketch back onto the table and moves on.

“Guess she's not interested in pretty things,” I say. Some of the blue glitter from my collage must have stuck to her shawl as she leaned over me; she practically sparkles under the fluorescent lights as she moves from student to student.

“That woman looks for death in everything,” Nolan shrugs. “Give her time. She'll find a way to argue that your glitter is a symbol of something maudlin.” He points to the left side of my collage and puts on a high-pitched voice. “We start out young and sparkly, but the passage of time ravages us, until we fade away.” He points to the other—so far, glitter-free—side of my project.

“Well, I can't have that,” I say jokingly, upending a jar of glitter all over the other side of the collage. I lean down to blow away the excess.

And promptly unleash a storm of glitter all over Nolan.

“Ohmygosh, ohmygosh,” I stammer, standing up. “I'm such an idiot. I didn't put glue down before I sprinkled the glitter.”

“Don't worry about it,” Nolan says, standing up to brush the glitter from his jacket.

I run to the back of the classroom and grab a stack of paper towels. “I'm so so so so so sorry.
Sunshine strikes again
,” I moan, rushing to his side. The rest of the class seems utterly oblivious to the emergency going on down at our end of the table.

“Really, Sunshine, it's okay. Believe me, this jacket has been through worse than a glitter bomb.”

“But it's literally the nicest jacket in the entire world and I had to go and—”

“Really?” Nolan grins. “You like it?”

“Are you kidding?” I ask, reaching out to brush some of the glitter away. The leather is warm under my fingers, wrinkled and ridged from what looks like decades of use. I bet it has that amazing old smell, the kind you can usually only find along the spines of ancient books or inside antique furniture. I lean a bit closer, just to get a whiff, even though it must make me seem like the weirdest girl in the entire world, even stranger than Ms. Wilde.

But before I can inhale I draw back. I step away from him and head back to my side of the table. “Here,” I say, holding out the paper towels, far enough away from him that I have to straighten my arm for him to reach them.