I So Don't Do Spooky Page 16

  She stops cramming the cruise picture into her backpack. “Sherry, you’re good at talking to people and figuring them out.” She pushes the photo in the rest of the way, then zips up her pack. “I wish I could be more help. But I can’t see him or hear him or anything.”

  “I know.” I stand and hoist my backpack on. In some ways, even with Junie there, I’m basically on my own.

  There’s a whiff of coffee. “Hi, girls. Any time you’re ready,” my mother says.

  Grandpa flaps in and perches on my shoulder. “Let’s go.”

  Junie and I hop on our bikes and get pedaling.

  By the strong smell of coffee, I can tell Mom’s flying between us. “What’s in your backpacks, girls?”

  “A bit of this and a bit of that.” I name the objects.

  “Good job, Sherry,” Mom says. “And you have flashlights?”

  “We have flashlights,” I say.

  All leaning forward on her handlebars, Junie’s huffing and puffing. She manages to nod.

  “Extra batteries?” Mom asks. The questions are really only directed at me. The whole world’s aware of Junie’s super organizational powers. “The espresso coffee beans?”

  “Chill, Mom. We’re on it.”

  We’re quiet, each lost in our own thoughts. A few cars drive by us. But mostly all you hear is our lungs sucking in air, our pedals creaking and our tires squelching on the pavement.

  “The. Cemetery. Never. Seemed. This. Far. Away.” Junie’s face shines in the dark.

  I bend down and rub my calf. “I’m getting some serious leg cramps.”

  Junie doesn’t even answer. Unless you count heavy breathing.

  “Earlier today, Grandpa and I found a small woods on the opposite side of the cemetery from the entrance,” Mom says. “That’s where we’ll wait. We’ll be far enough away that Dylan won’t sense us, but close enough that if you coffee-call, we can fly over in a flash.”

  I fill Junie in on where Mom and Grandpa plan to hang out. “Mom, what exactly can you do to him? I mean, he’s got more power than you.”

  “Mrs. Howard is coming for backup,” Mom says.

  “But if she bails us out,” I say, “we don’t get credit for solving the mystery.”

  “Sherry, keeping you and Junie safe is more important than class credits. Even more important than Real Time.” Her voice is heavy with emotion. “I want Real Time too, where we can sit and talk face to face, like … we used to. But I’m not willing to risk your life or Junie’s.” She swallows. “So if Dylan starts to lose control, I want you to promise you’ll call me. Immediately.”

  All tight and tense, I nod.

  “Mrs. Howard is the mistress of the silver box,” Grandpa croaks.

  I stop pedaling and coast to give Junie a chance to catch up. While she’s gasping and catching her breath, I tell her about Mrs. Howard.

  Junie slows to a stop and clambers off her bike, her feet thudding heavily on the road. “Who knew there were so many hills on the way?”

  I climb off my bike too.

  “And you’ve got the silver box?” Mom asks.

  I pat my pocket. “Right here.” I’m constantly aware of it pressing into my thigh.

  Junie and I stop wheeling our bikes. There, in front of us, is a big Sun Cemetery sign and a drive with a chain across it. We’re at the entrance.

  “This is where Grandpa and I leave you two,” Mom says. “Remember, if for any reason you feel you need us, call.”

  I repeat this to Junie.

  She nods.

  There’s the faintest feathery squeeze on my shoulder. Mom! Grandpa waves a tattered wing.

  And they’re gone.

  It’s dark and creepy. We’re a couple of teens armed with backpacks full of ordinary objects, a plastic bag of coffee beans and a magic silver box. Yikes.

  We push our bikes over to the chain. Then we slide under, dragging the bikes after us.

  The lights on our handlebars throw off dim, wobbly beams that stretch into long, quivering shadows. The palm trees rattle in the breeze. A cemetery at night is überspooky. And I so don’t do spooky.

  My hands sweaty, my pulse pounding, I force myself to keep moving forward. When all I want to do is race home.

  Before we get to the gravestones, we reach a little garden area with a stone bench and a floodlight shining from a nearby pole. There’s no moon, but we won’t need our flashlights.

  “I’m not going any farther.” I lean my bike against the back of the bench.

  “Sounds good to me.” Junie drops her bike in the grass.

  Cross-legged on the ground, we start hauling Greene family treasures from our backpacks. The air feels thick with danger. There’s no honey + socks smell. Yet.

  Junie and I chat nonstop about nothing. To fill in the silence. To keep an ongoing link between us. Any thing to keep from getting totally creeped out.

  I’m naming the objects as I pull them out. Like my backpack’s a big party grab bag. “Oh, here’s a shiny soccer trophy. And look at this little tiny baby shoe.”

  There are times in life when the sound of human voices is more important than the words. This is one of those times. Our silly conversation feels like a big, comfy blanket that’s wrapping around us and keeping us safe.

  On the stone bench, I start building a little stalker shrine. The tall stuff in the middle, with some small stuff to the right and some small stuff to the left. I place the sandwiches in front.

  Junie follows my lead, listing everything she hands to me. She plays along, all singsongy. Like nothing’s bizarro or out of the ordinary. Like we often spend a school night in the cemetery, piling somebody’s junk up on a bench. In the hopes their mean ghost will show up and agree to getting squished up in a metal box. And sent on his merry way to wherever.

  Then Junie clams up.

  And the silence separates us, like someone threw up a brick wall.

  “Sherry?” Her voice is high and squeaky. “Do you have the coffee beans?”

  I shove my hand back in my pack and feel around. Nada. “I thought you had them.”

  “I think I left them on the sidewalk in front of your house.”

  We both jump up, like the ground suddenly heated up to volcano temperatures.

  We’re in front of a shrine, constructed specifically to summon a nasty ghost-stalker. And we don’t have any coffee beans to call for help. We’re two standing ducks.

  Junie hops on her bike. “We have to ride to your house and get them.”

  I grab my bike. “And be back here by midnight.”

  “We can make it if we don’t walk up any of the hills,” Junie says.

  My leg is in the air, halfway through the arc that will carry it over my bike seat to the ground on the other side.

  Unfortunately, I don’t make it.

  chapter

  thirty-six

  When you’re unathletic, something as simple as climbing on a bike can trip you up.

  Instead of my leg arcing over the bike seat, my foot jams against it. Hard. I tumble backward, twisting my body around to land on my front. I stick my hands out to break the fall.

  Ouchie ouchie mama.

  Best-case scenario: I have broken only one wrist.

  Worst-case scenario: I have broken both wrists, both legs, both hips, and all my fingers and toes.

  Junie drops her bike and sprints over to me. “Are you okay?”

  I explain the two scenarios to her.

  All doctorish, she orders me to stand and walk and wiggle my fingers and toes. Quickly. Because a ghost-stalker is on the way. Because the clock is ticking closer and closer to midnight.

  When we get to the left wrist, I gasp and whimper.

  “I bet it’s broken,” Junie says. “It’s swelling and your hand’s twisted kind of funny. At least it’s your left; you can still take the science test.”

  With my right hand, I press on my left wrist, massaging it feather-gently. I yelp. “This is the worst pain of my entire life
.” My eyes swim in tears. “No way I can ride my bike. No way I can even ride on the back of yours. What’re we going to do?”

  “Can you smell Dylan yet?” Junie asks.

  I stick my nose in the air and sniff. “No.”

  “Okay. You stay here. And sit.” Junie claps for each point. “Move as little as possible. I’ll get the beans.”

  “Don’t leave me.” My voice wavers. “We can handle Dylan together, without Mom and Grandpa.”

  She touches my shoulder. “Sherry, I’m next to useless. I can’t hear him, or smell him, or see him.” She’s talking fast and breathless. “But the second I find the beans, I’ll summon your mom. As soon as she spots me by myself, in front of your house, waving the bag of beans, she’ll know you need help desperately. If your grandfather happens to arrive before her, I’ll tell him. Then I’ll speed back.”

  “Junie?”

  She leans in close, her worried-best-friend face right next to mine.

  “Pedal faster this time,” I say.

  Junie runs her bike to the chain, flings it under, then jumps on and soars down the drive. All that’s missing is a superhero cape billowing out behind her.

  I drag myself over to the bench, carefully cradling my wrist. Then I sit down, lean back, close my eyes and gulp baby breaths. The stiller I am, the less I feel like I’m at death’s door.

  “Sherry?”

  Ack! Eek! Ike!

  My eyelids jerk open. “Sam!”

  From behind a nearby bush emerges a dark blur of a brother. Perched on his bicycle, his toes scrape along the bumpy ground, slowly propelling him forward. “Sherry, are you okay?” His forehead is crinkled with concern.

  “What are you doing here?” I shriek.

  “I heard you and Junie talking in the office today. So I came to help trap the bad-guy ghost.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” I shriek again. “Get out of here, Sam. Go catch up to Junie.” I point with my good arm.

  “Do you really think your wrist is broken?” His voice is small.

  With the back of my hand, I rub sweat off my forehead. Sweat from pain. Sweat from fear. “Yeah, I do. But you gotta leave, Sam.”

  He sets his lips in a thin determined line.

  “Go! Home! Now!” In my agitation, I jostle my arm. I bite back a scream. Sam will never leave if he figures out how much agony I’m in.

  “Where’d Junie go?” he asks.

  “To get magic beans.”

  “Magic beans!” Sam says. And the fact that he swallows this bizarro paranormal explanation so easily only goes to prove how much he bought into Harry Potter. “Where are they?”

  “Under the streetlight in front of our house,” I say.

  Suddenly, all goes still. The small breeze dies. Every blade of grass stands perfectly stiff at attention. Every leaf freezes. Maybe even the blood has ceased swimming in my veins.

  From somewhere, a clock starts gonging midnight.

  The silver box hums in my pocket.

  The smell of honey + dirty socks swirls gently through the air.

  “Get out of here!” I scream at Sam. “Go home!”

  Sam crosses his stubborn twiggy arms over his stubborn sunken chest and plops down on his stubborn bony butt. “I’m not leaving my big sister with a broken wrist all alone in a cemetery to face an evil ghost.”

  Sam, my math-whiz younger brother, responds to logic. Not to screaming. I switch tacks. “I need you for a very, very important task. It’s not something I’d normally ask my younger brother to do. But with this wrist …”

  His face goes all intent and focused, like a cat getting ready to spring.

  “It’s the beans. You’ve seen Junie ride a bike?”

  He nods.

  “You’re, like, a thousand times faster. Even with the head start she’s had, you could easily pass her and leave her in the dust.”

  He stands, arms straight at his sides. Like a soldier awaiting orders.

  The sickly smell of honey + dirty socks is stronger.

  It takes all my willpower to speak slowly and evenly. “When you get to the beans, open the bag and hold it up high above your head. The magic beans will banish the ghost.”

  He grabs his bike, hops on and is gone, a hair before the twelfth clock gong.

  The ghost-stalker’s smell surrounds me. The silver box is fighting to get out of my pocket. My wrist throbs like it’s going to fall off. The last gong echoes.

  It’s midnight.

  chapter

  thirty-seven

  “So, this is how you got me here,” Dylan says. “Impressive.” The Popsicle-stick craft thingie floats in the air. “My pencil holder from Boy Scouts.”

  Boy Scouts? I was thinking preschool. Hard to believe he went from that lame pencil holder to award-winning robots.

  “So, did you get Ms. Paulson to quit robotics?” He gales around me, chilly like air-conditioning. “Is that why you summoned me?”

  I sit up straighter, getting ready for business. The small movement wrenches my wrist. I squeeze my eyes shut briefly, to get a handle on the pain.

  I position my broken wrist on my stomach and slowly walk my good hand into my pocket. The silver box is cold. I ease it out.

  “You brought the silver box?” Dylan’s voice hikes up in shock. “What kind of freak are you?”

  “I’m a freak?” I’d put my hands on my hips, if I could. “This from a ghost who won’t move on. Who just hangs around bugging people.”

  “You’re not talking me in.” Dylan spits out the words.

  The box is dull. Not one single sparkle glints off it.

  “Why won’t you move on?” I say. “Don’t you have better things to do?”

  “Better than making sure the Donner Dynamos beat Saguaro?” Dylan truly sounds shocked, like he never considered there might be more to life after death. “I want to see the Dynamos back on top and at the world championships for robotics.” The team buttons flip over on the bench where he’s examining them. “Which means we need your school’s team to take a nosedive.”

  “So you thought poltergeisting The Ruler, er, Ms. Paulson would freak her out and she’d quit mentoring the Saguaro team?” I say. “In a million years that would never happen. She doesn’t do backing down. She’s kind of a terrier that way. I speak from experience.”

  “I have more plans for her.”

  I shiver at his words. And yelp at the wrist pain. A one-armed negotiation is not for sissies.

  “Why’d you overfeed my fish and take the lid off their tank?” My blood boils at the thought. “Fish! Innocent fish!”

  “Because you were a mole on my team.”

  “I never did anything bad. I’m useless at robotics.” I roll my eyes. “You know what, Dylan? You are a bully. You bullied Ms. Paulson and you bullied me and you bullied my fish.”

  “I have a cause.” Dylan sounds defensive. “Winning at robotics is important for Donner.”

  “Winning by cheating isn’t the same as plain old straight-out winning.” The silver box is warm, like banana bread just out of the oven. “Besides, cheating is unfair to Claire.” The box gleams.

  “Really?” he says, a huge question mark in his voice. Like I’ve said something he never considered before.

  “Claire saw your outline last night at Donner. Did you know that?”

  “No,” Dylan says, the o all drawn out. “She saw me?” He pauses. “For real?”

  “For real.” I pause, thinking Sam must be halfway to the beans, which means I need to talk Dylan into the silver box quickly, before my mom and grandpa show up. I hold the box a little higher in the air.

  “What was she doing at school so late?” he says.

  “Checking on the robot. She knew something was up with its performance at the practice competition.”

  “Wow.” He’s impressed.

  “She’s working hard, Dylan.” The box is hot. One end cracks open. “She wants to be just like you and take the Donner Dynamos all the way to t
he world championships.”

  “She can’t.” I can just imagine him frowning and shaking his head.

  “She can. If not this year, then next year. You don’t give her enough credit. Probably because she’s your little sister,” I say. “Lots of people believe in her. She’s smart. She’s dedicated. She gets the importance of bling on a robot.”

  “Yeah, but there’s knowledge and a whole philosophy I didn’t get a chance to pass on to her,” Dylan says.

  A philosophy of robotics? Puhleeze. I think we’re taking ourselves a little seriously here.

  Dylan must still be at the shrine because the cruise photo, the picture with his entire family, hangs in the air.

  The silver box sizzles. I try to visualize Sam’s whereabouts. Three-fourths of the way to our house?

  “I met your mom.” I hug my wrist in closer.

  “You saw my mom?” Dylan asks wistfully.

  “She seems really nice. A great baker too. I love her frownies.”

  The silver box glows and sparkles and bounces up and down on my palm.

  Dylan’s waiting for me to make the next move. He must sense it’ll be huge.

  He’s right.

  It is huge.

  I know exactly how to talk him into the silver box.

  chapter

  thirty-eight

  Sometimes, even when you know what to do, you don’t want to do it. Sometimes, you have something someone else needs more than you. But it still kills you to give it up. This is one of those times.

  “You miss Claire?” I say.

  “Uh-huh,” Dylan says.

  “And you have unfinished robotics business to share with her?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I take a deep, shaky breath. This is it. Once I say it, there’s no going back.

  The box glitters and shines, the brightest it’s ever been. Like it was polished up for this very moment. This moment of connection for me, the box and Dylan.

  “I’ll give you my five minutes of Real Time,” I say quietly.

  No response.

  “If you go in the silver box. Willingly. With the intention of moving on after.”