Who Let the Ghosts Out? (2 page)

Two boys stood near the window. One was tall and athletic-looking. All puffed up with abs of steel. He looked as if he worked out at least twenty hours a day.

He had short, spikey blond hair, blue eyes, and a dimple in each cheek. He wore a plaid flannel shirt open over a black T-shirt, and tight-fitting, faded jeans, torn at the knees. He was the older brother, I decided—thirteen or fourteen. The one named Colin.

Max didn't resemble his older brother much. He was eleven or twelve, average height, and a little chubby. He had a bird's nest of black curly hair on top of a round sort-of baby face.

He wore a
Matrix
T-shirt over baggy cargo khakis. He kept clenching and unclenching his fists.

“I don't think the Plover School is the right place for Max,” the mom said. She had a tweety, birdlike voice that kept trilling up and down. “Max is a sensitive boy.”

Colin tossed back his head and laughed. “Sensitive? Is that another word for helpless wimp?”

“Don't call your brother names,” the mom said.

Max stuck his tongue out at Colin. “It's very rude to call people names, you stupid idiot.”

Colin raised his fist at Max. Max tried to hide behind his tiny mother.

“Max is kinda cute,” Tara whispered. “In a geeky sort of way.”

Colin grinned at his brother. “They make you march all day at the Plover School. In the hot sun. Most of the guys faint from heat exhaustion. A few kids drop dead every year, but they don't think that's a big deal.” He laughed again.

“I can't go to a school with uniforms,” Max said. “You know I'm allergic to starch.”

“I went to the Plover School, and I loved
every minute,” the dad boomed. “It turned me into a man. It will do the same for you. You'll be strong and athletic and popular, like Colin. And you won't bring home any more report cards like this.” He waved a sheet of paper in the air.

“But Max got straight As,” his mother protested.

“He's failing phys ed,” Mr. Doyle said. “I can't have a son of mine fail phys ed. Look at him. Day and night at his computer. He never works out. He doesn't have a girlfriend.”

“Dad—I'm eleven!” Max cried.

Mr. Doyle shook his head. “Colin is right. I hate to say it, Max, but you're a wimp. And now you're seeing ghosts everywhere in the house. Making up crazy ghost stories.”

“I don't make them up. They're
true!
” Max said. “There's a ghost in the kitchen! I hear it late at night!”

“The Plover School will take care of your ghosts, Max,” Mr. Doyle said. “I'm doing it for your own good. Now, stop arguing. Here. Let's all go outside and toss the ball around.”

Colin picked up a football and started toward the door.

“Dad, it's night. It's too dark,” Max said. “And I hate that football. It's too pointy. Last time, I had bruises all over my chest.”

Colin stepped back and raised the ball. “Max— think fast!” He heaved the ball into Max's stomach.

The ball bounced away. Max let out a groan and doubled over in pain.

The mom rushed over and threw her arms around him. “You leave Maxie alone!” she shouted at Colin.

Colin laughed. “Sorry, Maxie. I thought you could catch it.”

Max groaned again and struggled to stand up straight. He raised his fists toward Colin. “You want a piece of me? Come on. You want a piece of me?”

That made everyone laugh.

“That's what the Plover School will do for you,” Mr. Doyle said. “Make you strong enough to take on your brother.”

“Let's go, Dad,” Colin said. He picked up the ball. He and his father jogged out the door.

“Max is funny,” Tara whispered. “Why would they want to send him away?”

I shrugged. “We can't worry about Max. We've got big-time problems of our own.”

I pointed to the mirror over the mantel. Tara followed my gaze. I could see Max and his mom reflected very clearly in the mirror.
But where were Tara and I?

Not there.

Tara crossed the room and stepped up close to the mirror. She waved her hands in front of it.

No reflection.

When she turned back to me, she had tears in her eyes. “We're invisible,” she choked out. “They can't see us or hear us because …”

She couldn't say it.

I couldn't say it either. I kept swallowing and swallowing. My mouth felt as dry as burnt toast. I had a frightening, cold feeling all over.

Finally, I said, “Because …
we're
ghosts? We're the ghosts here, Tara, haunting our own house.”

She wiped the tears off her cheeks. Tara was tough. She never cried. Never. Not even when Potsy, our dog, was run over.

“How can we be ghosts?” she asked. “I don't remember dying, and we were shivering outside in the cold, right? And I'm starving right now. Ghosts don't get cold or hungry, do they?”

I stared at her. “How should I know? I've never been a ghost before!”

“What do we do now, Nicky?” Her voice broke.

“I don't know,” I whispered. I started to feel very strange … weak. “Tara …”

A thick gray mist filled the room. Max and his mom disappeared behind the mist. I couldn't hear their voices anymore.

“Nicky—I'm fading.” I heard Tara's frightened whisper. “I'm fading away … disappearing.”

“Me too,” I choked out. I struggled to hold on. But something was pulling me away … away …

“Goodbye,” I whispered to my sister.

“Goodbye.”

I could barely hear her reply.

W
HY DOES
D
AD MAKE
such a big deal about phys ed? I got straight As this semester. I always get straight As. The kids call me Max the Brainimon because I'm the brainiest guy in my class. But Dad doesn't care about brains.

That football hit me so hard in the gut, I thought I was going to toss my dinner on the couch. And what did Dad do? He laughed.

Ha, ha. What a riot. Dad thinks if he throws enough footballs at me, I'll start to want to learn how to catch them. But I won't.

What I'd really love to do is heave the ball into Colin's gut. I'd love to see the look on his face. Well … actually, he probably wouldn't have a look on his face. Baboons don't have expressions, do they?

He probably wouldn't even feel it. He's always in his room with those workout tapes of his.
Perfect Abs. Stomach of Steel. Buns of Titanium.

He has to spend all that time on his body
because there's no point in developing a brain that small.

Ha, ha.

Dad thinks Colin is so perfect. Just because he stars in three sports, he's really popular with girls, and has a million friends.

Big deal.

Okay. He's perfect. Colin is perfect.

But there's more to life than being perfect, isn't there?

How about being nice to your little brother?

Could he pass a
Lord of the Rings
trivia test? No way.

Has he reached Level Seven in
Tomb Raider V
on PlayStation?

Does he know how Houdini did his famous straitjacket escape? Does he know how any of the great magicians did their tricks? No. But I do.

There's a lot Colin doesn't know.

Why do I have to go to the Plover School? So
what
if Dad loved it so much? Maybe I don't
want
to go to a school that will make a man out of me. I'm eleven! I don't want to be a man yet!

I was so steamed, I wanted to punch the wall. But I knew I had to be careful. I need my hands for my magic tricks. Besides, I'd probably cut myself, and I hate the sight of blood.

Can Colin make a live pigeon disappear?

Can he?

I don't think so.

At school, I've been spreading the rumor that Colin wets the bed every night. It isn't true, but so what? I think at least a couple people believe me.

And Dad is wrong. I
do
have friends. Well, I have one good friend—Aaron.

But Mom and Dad don't want me to be friends with Aaron. They think he's weird. Hey, what's wrong with being a little weird?

Okay, okay. So he wears swim goggles to school every day. He needs glasses, so he had prescription lenses put into them. A little oddball, maybe, but who are they to judge?

He does some other strange things too. For one thing, he never does his homework. He says it takes too much time away from watching TV.

On Career Day, Aaron wrote that he plans to study to be a superhero and fight crime everywhere in the universe. He got an F on that paper, and his parents had to go in for a conference.

Aaron is a little whacked, okay? But he's also a really good friend.

What can I do? I can't let Dad send me to that school. I can't go to a school where you have to wear an ugly gray uniform. I look terrible in gray.

Yes, sir. No, sir. Yes, ma'am.
They turn kids into robots at the Plover School. Aaron and I are going to make a video about kids who get turned into robots. But I don't want the movie to be my life story!

I
can't
let them send me there!

Okay, okay, Max. Easy, boy.

When I'm totally steamed, practicing my magic tricks is the only thing that will settle me down. It works because I have to concentrate really hard on what I'm doing. So I forget about Dad and Big Dude Colin and all my other problems.

I'm going to perform at the Halloween party at school. So I've got to get my act together. No slipups. I want everyone to think my act is really cool.

I mean, I'm not exactly in the cool group at school. I guess I'm not in any group at all. Aaron and I can't be a group on our own, can we?

I'm not the best magician in the world yet. But I'm working on it.

Mom even bought me a white pigeon to practice the disappearing trick with. I named him Joey, and I keep him in a nice big cage near the window so he can see the sunlight.

Making Joey disappear right from my hands is my best trick. And it's the hardest to perform. Mainly because I have to make Joey slide down my jacket sleeve so fast that no one sees it.

I pulled on my black magician's jacket with the extra-wide sleeves. Then I crossed the room to the window. “Hi, Joey.”

Joey tilted his head at me, staring up with one eye. I lifted him carefully out of the cage with both
hands. He warbled. I could feel it come from deep in his throat.

“We're going to practice our trick, Joey.” He warbled some more. Did he enjoy the trick? I couldn't tell. He never tried to fly away. Maybe that meant he was happy.

“Hold very still,” I told him. “That's your whole job, holding still.”

I cupped Joey in the palms of my hands. “And now, ladies and gentlemen,” I started in my deep, magician's voice.

But before I could go any further, a cold rush of wind brushed past me.

“Boo!”
a voice screamed.

And an ice-cold hand gripped the back of my neck.

“A
AAAIIH
!” I
SCREAMED
. J
OEY
fluttered to the floor.

The hand let go. I spun around.

Colin hunched over me with a disgusting happy grin on his face. “Gotcha, Freak Face.”

I took a step back. “You are
so
not funny.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “Why is your hand so cold?”

His grin grew wider. “I kept it in the freezer for fifteen minutes.”

My mouth dropped open. “Just to scare me?”

He snickered. “Yeah. Did you think it was one of those ghosts you've been hearing ever since we moved in here?”

“No,” I lied. There was no point in talking about the ghost. I know I hear something late at night in the kitchen, but he'll never believe me.

I bent down to pick up Joey, but Colin got there first. He tightened his fingers around the pigeon and raised him high in the air so I couldn't reach him.

“Give him back!” I shouted. I gave Colin a hard shove, but he didn't budge.

“I need him,” Colin said.

“What for?”

“For dog food. I'm going to feed him to Buster.” He laughed as if that was the funniest joke in the world.

“Give him back! He's mine!” I screamed. I jumped as high as I could, but I couldn't reach Joey.

“I'll bet pigeon tastes just like chicken,” Colin said. “You know Buster likes chicken.” Holding the pigeon in his tight fist, Colin started for the door.

“Give him back to me!” I screamed, chasing after Colin. I tried to tackle him, but I slid right off. What was that ripping sound? Did I tear my magician's jacket?

“You can't do this! You can't!” I wailed.

Colin turned at the door. “Want to save Joey's life?”

“Yes,” I said, climbing to my feet. “If you haven't already squeezed him to death.”

“Okay. Walk Buster for a week,” Colin said.

“You're joking!” I cried.

Buster is our big furry wolfhound. We adopted him from the pound a couple of years ago, and we keep him mainly in the garage and backyard. He hates me. The minute he sees me, he starts
growling and snapping. I don't know why. Maybe he senses that I really wanted a Chihuahua.

“That's the deal,” Colin said, holding Joey up. “Walk Buster for a week—or the bird is doggy dinner.”

“But—but—” I sputtered. “Last week, Buster tried to chew my leg off!”

Colin shrugged. “Maybe
you
taste like chicken.” He squeezed Joey tighter. “Deal?”

I stared at the little pigeon, his little head poking out of Colin's fist. “Deal,” I said.

I could see Buster's eyes glowing in the darkness of the garage. I clicked on the light and raised the leather leash. “Walk, Buster? Go for a walk?”

The huge dog ducked his head and uttered a low growl.

“Good boy,” I lied. “Good boy. Go for a walk.”

I took a step toward the dog. My legs were kinda shaky. Why am I doing this? I wondered. I had to remind myself I was saving a pigeon's life.

To my surprise, Buster loped up to me and lowered his head so I could put on the leash. “Good boy. Good boy,” I kept repeating. “Please don't bite my face off tonight. I want to look good for the class photographs.”

The dog nodded as if he understood. I clicked the leash onto his collar. He gave a hard tug, eager to get outside and do his business.