The Ghost in Me Read online

  On this, I'm dead serious. As far as I'm concerned, Roz and I are living proof of In Utero soul-switching. Meaning somehow, someway, our itty-bitty baby selves switched souls before we were born. Because nothing else explains it--why we look like we fit into our families in the physical sense--me with the blonde and dark-eyed Monacos, her with the russet-haired, freckle-faced Lynnwoods--but in the emotional and mental sense, we're always looking into each other's backyard.

  Or, in Roz's case, into my mother's lab. Mom preps bodies at the back of the house. She's a mortician. And her funeral parlor--the place where people gather before burial--is the first thing you see when you walk through the front door.

  Roz thinks this whole set-up is cool, which is why I'm surprised she isn't doing the bug project.

  "Well, I would, if I could--" she says, answering my challenge, "--being that it's such a great idea and all, but I can't. My project is done."

  "Already?" The science fair is three weeks away.

  "Yep. I grew germs from swab samples I collected around school. I even collected some from Mr. Slayer's toilet seat."

  "Tell me you didn't."

  "Did," Roz says, before breaking into a laugh. "Wren helped me. She told me when the coast was clear."

  "You were at school? Helping Roz?" That's a first.

  Wren nods, looking for my approval.

  "And I'll help with yers, too," she says. "I was always good with a knife."

  "You can't hold a knife," I say, feeling irritated.

  "And get this," Roz says, waving her hands through Wren's, as she holds them up for a pitying look. "His was the dirtiest place!"

  "Mr. Slayer's?"

  "Yep. C'mon, I'll show you!"

  "You can wait. Believe me, you can wait," I say.

  But I know where we'll be heading next. Because if Roz is right, I'm going to want to see if Mr. Slayer, grand principal of Wolford Academy, part-time preacher at the pulpit, really will have a lot of explaining to do about the secret lives in his toilet.

  Chapter 3

  As it turned out, Duey wasn't making things up.

  There were all sorts of universities studying this cockroach phenomenon and posting their findings online, which was good. Because it meant I didn't need to catch roaches on my own to get the project done. Labs actually sold them.

  The bad thing was, I had to buy them in bulk; and the smallest box held 100.

  One hundred!

  Ye-eah.

  Let me just say, working with that many roaches was no easy task. I mean, have you ever held a cockroach?

  I hadn't. And I learned right away it required a really good grip, as in, squeeze them between your thumb and your forefinger, so they can't get away (one did). Ignore the touch of their little brown legs wrapping around your knuckle, doing their best to cling tight, while their head--their poor, pointy head--swivels from side to side, steered by skinny antennae....

  It was gross. Completely and totally gross.

  But still, I got busy. I had to. My life--and all its secret intentions--was hinged on this project.

  Needless to say, it was met with mixed reviews on Science Day. Love it or hate it, all of Wolford Academy was drawn to it, repeatedly, with a resounding and unending chorus of Ewwws! and Awesomes! and Coo-ooools!

  One-by-one and two-by-two, students would press their noses up to the tank, look at the bugs that still crawled inside, and ask me questions--which I mostly ignored.

  After all, I had a big poster that worked well for explaining the project without me. So well, that aside from the time Diggs came by, I stood behind it for nearly the entire fair, just like Roz suggested.

  But nearly is where I went wrong. Nearly is what happens when events occur that you don't plan for. Nearly is what gets you in trouble when kids don't move on, even when they're given a summary card that answers their questions.

  Nearly was Kate Humphreys, who tried taking my experiment to a whole new level with a flashlight by shining it in the tank, saying, "Walk toward the light! Walk toward the light!" Nearly was Kent Larsen, who kept sticking front ends of the headless (but living) bugs together. Two bugs got stuck that way, and I found out that unsticking them made them gooey, kind of like what happens when peeling a scab.

  But the worst offender--the whole reason everything went wrong--was Brittley Weatherfield, Wolford Academy's finest when it comes to the dramatic arts.

  Seriously. The girl has gotten the lead role in every Wolford play since third grade. Not only does she have an agent and a website, she's been invited to a handful of casting calls for Disney--not that she'd gotten any parts, and not that it matters. The point is, the girl was born to live a life-blown-out-of-proportion, which didn't work well for me when she blew that life into mine.

  And she did it without even looking at my project.

  She was checking out Roz's (rather squeamishly), when two little girls came up to see my bugs. They couldn't have been more than six years old, and what they were doing at our science fair in the middle of a school day, I'll never know, but apparently, someone thought it would be a good place for a cute set of pony-tailed twins to learn something.

  Well. These girls were either severely deprived in the pet department, or felt inclined to adopt everything with legs (but not necessarily heads). They kept asking if they could take my bugs home.

  That's right, home.

  They begged, all the while trying to show what nice cockroach parents they'd be by petting them.

  I should have known that wasn't a great idea. But I figured, Hey, if these girls want to pet headless bugs, I'll let them pet headless bugs. But then, one of the bugs that the twins was holding died in her hand. And even though 80-plus carcasses were pinned to a poster, showing what had happened many times before, those girls got way over-excited and acted like they'd never seen anything like it.

  Their arms started flailing, their mouths started yelling, their feet started stamping, and before I knew what was happening, that bug got tossed in the air.

  It landed in Brittley Weatherfield's hair.

  When Brittley saw that bug hanging by its leg, swinging back and forth in front of her face--bumping her nose, her lip, her cheek, because it was all tangled up, and getting even more tangled with all her jumping around--not only did she scream, she convulsed. And spun. And wiggled her tongue in and out of her mouth.

  I would have thought that after a few good moments of this, she would have calmed down. Reclaimed her dignity. But she didn't. She went on screaming until she fell on the table holding Eddie Lightning's volcano.

  As luck would have it, that fall tipped the table up and launched Eddie's volcano into the air, where it exploded all over Vice Principal Haydens. And me, who tried to save him.

  Yes, I did.

  Much to the surprise of everyone, including myself, I moved in to save the vice principal of Wolford Academy. Tackled him like a defensive-end for the New York Giants.

  But, as Wren would say, it was all for naught.

  Despite my heroic attempt at diverting disaster, Haydens took it upon himself to deliver a note from Slayer later that day.

  Please meet me in my office tomorrow at 8 am-sharp.

  And here I am.

  Since school starts at nine, and Slayer is allowing a full hour for the meeting, I figure I'm in deep doo-doo, and like my roaches, will soon be flailing--struggling to survive without a head.

  Chapter 4

  "He's a chairful of man, ain't he?"

  "Shhhh--!"

  --Now that was dumb. It's not like Slayer can see Wren's face poking through the painting of George Washington on the far wall.

  I whip my attention back to him and press back against the cold, gray metal of my chair. Slayer tips his polished head from side to side, cracking the vertebrae in his neck.

  "Something wrong, Miss Monaco?" His eyes flicker with quiet restraint, making my stomach quiver. He leans forward into the edge of his enormous mahogany desk, waiting for an answer.
r />   "No, just a sneeze. Sorry." I rub my nose with my finger, pointing at the window, hoping Wren will take the hint and go.

  Instead, she moves from the painting to hover under the light in the center of the room. The glare from Slayer's head weakens in her shadow, and he glances distractedly at the window to his right before opening the manila file laying in front of him.

  Giving a tsk, Wren dips down and spins through it, nearly sending me out of my chair to grab her. Not that I could.

  "Remember, Myr, there's nothing so bad, that it couldn't be worse!" This is what she tells me before pinching herself out.

  That's what I call it when she disappears. Pinching.

  I give a quick check under my chair, behind the door, to make sure she's gone.

  "Are you sure nothing's wrong, Miss Monaco?" Slayer sets the larger of his steely gray eyes on me. The other, being prone to wander, gazes unnervingly at something past my shoulder.

  "Uh, no, nothing." I make my fingers ease their grip on my seat, wishing I could take a quick look through the halls to make sure Wren isn't out there.

  "Good. Let's get on with it, shall we?" He pats the papers in front of him.

  I wince, swallow. "Look--Mr. Slayer, about the project, I'm sorry it got a little crazy, but you see, it really wasn't my own idea. There are all sorts of universities--"

  Mr. Slayer waves me off. "Yes, yes, the project. Rather creative, Myri." He pauses, takes in a breath, lets it out. "A bit unlike anything Wolford has ever seen. Yet, despite all the good things that teacher of yours, Diggs, had to say, if you ask me--"

  "Wait. Diggs liked it?"

  "Mister Diggs," he says, correcting me. "According to the records in the computer, he gave you an A."

  "An A?"

  Crap! My whole plan was a flop then. I'd wanted a good grade, but not that good. My mom will be so happy. With me. With him.

  "Yes, an A," he says, obviously not pleased.

  And neither am I.

  I wasn't aiming to be a star student. Far from it. Basically, I wanted Diggs to believe I was down-right demented, but in a B or B-minus sort of way. I could've lived with that.

  Slayer clears his throat. "As I was saying, I found the basic idea of the project rather lacking in regards to real science--science that actually gets us somewhere... somewhere, shall we say, spinning atop new horizons, burning with questions, both meaningful and profound...." Slayer waves his hand up, focusing on nothing in particular (thank God) on the ceiling.

  Finally, he brings his hand down, rubs the dark armrest of his chair. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  I shake my head.

  He tips his. "Well, maybe it doesn't really matter. When put in a broader context, what does matter, is the creativity of the project; because that is the very crux of our meeting today. Specifically, taking opportunities to use that creativity of yours in a productive outlet."

  He leans forward, curling the corner of a blue sheet of paper between his thumb and forefinger. "After review of your file, Myri, I don't see that you're involved in any ECSAs."

  "ECSAs?"

  "Yes."

  It takes a moment for those letters to sink in.

  Oh.

  I give him a questioning look, as if I don't know what he's talking about.

  "Extra-curricular school activities," he says flatly. "You've missed out on them for nearly the first half the trimester, which is a tremendous oversight on the administration's part."

  I squirm in my chair. "This isn't about the science fair?" I ask, suddenly wishing it was.

  "No, although, I have to say, if it wasn't for the science fair, I might never have looked at your file."

  Great. Now would be a good time for me to disappear.

  Slayer taps his pencil on its eraser once, twice, swivels in his chair. "But not to worry, Miss Monaco. I've forgiven the situation. And I've taken steps to correct it."

  "You have?"

  "Yes, with what I think will turn out to be the perfect solution."

  Chapter 5

  Roz, Queen-of-Subtle, is waiting by the office door, with Elise Fowler and Cass Barnes when I walk out. Between the three of them, I know that everyone in eighth grade has heard where I spent the morning.

  "Did you get detention?"

  Pushing Roz's shoulder with mine, I steer her down the hall. "Funny question coming from a girl who told me everything would be all right to begin with."

  Elise jogs to catch up. "But that was before you doused Haydens with sticky lava."

  "And before you cut up one hundred roaches," Cass adds, peering at me over Roz's shoulder.

  "Eighty-nine, actually. I only cut up 89. Didn't you read my summary card?" I'm joking, but still. A girl has to defend herself. "Ten bugs were left alone to show how they would've lived, if they'd never been touched."

  "Uh, that only adds up to ninety-nine," Cass says, doing the math in her head. "Didn't you order one hundred?"

  "Well, yeah, but one got away. Don't tell my mother."

  Cass and Elise snicker and say they're telling, as I check Roz's watch. We only have a few minutes before class, and as usual, the eighth-grade hall is crammed with kids. There's no clear path to my locker.

  "So, did you?" Roz tries again, hoisting her backpack on her shoulder, swiveling with me through the crowd to keep up.

  "Did I what?" A few girls glance in my direction and laugh.

  "Did you get detention?" Roz pulls me into her, as I'm about to skirt away.

  "Ye-ahhh," I gush, after regaining my balance. "I mean, no. I'll tell you what happened in a sec." Wriggling from her grip, I dodge through the oncoming traffic.

  With a quick spin of the combination, my locker door opens. Grabbing my books and binder, I shove my coat inside. I'm about to make my way back, when I see I don't need to. Roz is beside me, standing with her arms crossed, along with Cass and Elise.

  "Okay, okay, I didn't get detention. I got drama."

  Roz pulls a face, takes a step back. "Drama? What do you mean, you got drama?

  Sick at the thought of it, I hesitate, scuff my heel on the floor.

  Roz fans her hands. "Drama means what, exactly?"

  Cass starts hopping, like we're playing a game. Even though she's bouncing like a bunny, her short, high-lighted hair, slick with gel and spray, doesn't move. "Oh! I know!" she says. "Do you mean drama, as in, wailing, crying, oh-how-could-you-do-this-sort-of-thing-drama?"

  I take a quick breath. "Close. But no."

  "Drama, as in you-should-be-ashamed-of-yourself-sort-of-drama?" Elise says, wagging her finger, squinting one eye through her gold-rimmed glasses.

  "No. Worse. Drama, as in drama club, sort-of-drama."

  Roz's face pushes up in confusion. She lets her hands go to her hips.

  I let out a huff. "I didn't get detention, Roz. I got drama club. Slayer took away my study hall. Now I'm in drama club, for first period, for the rest of the trimester."

  "Are you kidding me? What kind of punishment is that?"

  "It's not a punishment. But for me, it may as well be. I don't want to do drama. Getting up in front of an audience isn't my thing."

  "Why not?" Cass asks, with a giggle. "I mean, you tend to be very dramatic, like yesterday. Plus, I'm in drama. It's fun."

  Elise throws her head back and laughs. "If I'd known being a delinquent was so easy, Myri, I'd have started walking on your side of the tracks a long time ago, joined forces with roaches, done all kinds of things."

  "Yeah, right," I scoff. Elise loves causing trouble. Or at least, thinking up ways to make it. With her, it's the doing-part that never seems to get done.

  "Besides," I continue, feeling a need to defend myself. "I wasn't being a delinquent. I was conducting a science experiment."

  "Oh, yeah," Elise's eyes wrinkle up. "And you got sentenced for it?"

  "No, I got drama, because I never signed up for ECSAs."

  I get blank stares in reply.

  "Extra-curricular student activities.
I never signed up for an academic club at the beginning of the year."

  "Oh, those!" Elise's voice fills with understanding and surprise. "You never did that? I thought everyone was supposed to sign up for a club. It's like a requirement, or something. They're kind of like classes."

  "I know, but I thought I could get out of doing one if I signed up for study hall."

  I don't tell them I knew Duey had signed up for study hall, too.

  "So, what was the problem, then?" Roz asks.

  "I needed parent-permission."

  "Ahhh," Cass says. Elise joins her with a nod. "You didn't get it?"

  I shake my head. "As of this morning, the consensus between my mother and the fine people who teach here is I can work on my grades--average as they are--at home."

  Roz gives me a nudge. "Why didn't you tell Slayer to put you in art? I'm in art."

  "I did, but it's full, which is the reason I didn't sign up to begin with. All the good clubs were taken by the time I got to them. All except debate and drama. Which are still the only choices I have now. So, Slayer chose for me."

  I shake my head, let out a breath. "Some choice. I can't even think the word drama, let alone say it without getting itchy all over. Look at this." I hold out my arm. "Welts. Big red welts. And they're spreading. And I'm not even near a stage."

  I try to give myself a hug, settle for grabbing my elbows. "It's crazy. The whole idea of it. I can't act. Can't dance. Can't sing. Can't even get up in front of a class and talk. Ask anyone who wanted to know about the cockroaches yesterday. Or, anyone who's going through the speech segment with me in English right now."

  "I'm in English with you now."

  Crap.

  That's Duey.

  And he's right behind me.

  Before I can think of an excuse to run away, Roz spins me around. It's amazing what a simple navy blue tee-shirt and jeans can do to a girl when they're combined with a green backpack casually slung over a shoulder and topped off with a mouth turned up in a grin.

  "Hey, Myri."

  They can send a girl's heart into convulsions.