I rested my head on her shoulder. “I recognize you.”
She smiled through her tears and rubbed my upper arm before pulling me into a giant Mom-hug. “You’re one of a kind.”
“That’s probably for the best,” I said.
She kissed me on the forehead and then stood up. “Oh, look, your sink is running. How strange. Is the faucet acting up?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t think so. I’ll keep an eye on it.”
“Dinner’ll be ready in about an hour, okay? I made spaghetti.” She went into the bathroom, shut off the faucet, hugged me again, and left, closing the door gently behind her.
I lay back on my bed and stared at the ceiling for a while, feeling oddly at peace.
Later that night, as I brushed my teeth, my whole body suddenly felt warm and clammy, and my head began to ache. I took this as a not-so-great sign.
I closed my door and climbed into bed. Even though I was already hot, I didn’t push the blanket off. I wanted protective layers between myself and whatever the night had in store for me.
As I reached over and switched off my bedside lamp, I heard a short, sharp shattering sound.
I forced my eyes shut so tightly that they ached immediately.
I’m ignoring you, Diana, I thought. La la la, I can’t hear you.
Except of course I could.
Through the darkness came another sound:
Squeak, squeak, squeak.
I sat up and walked over to the bathroom, gave the door a tiny shove, and reached in to switch on the light.
Nothing happened.
Pushing the door open a few inches farther revealed what must have been the source of the first sound — a lightbulb in a thousand pieces on the floor.
That didn’t explain (a) why the lights hadn’t come on at all, because there were two bulbs, and (b) the source of the second sound, which was now poking me in the brain with a fiery-hot knife.
SQUEEEEEEEEEAK.
Could it be a mouse? But it seemed to come from up high. Then my eyes went to the lone lightbulb that remained in the fixture over the vanity.
Ever so slowly, making the faintest squeak, squeak, squeak, the bulb was spinning. Before I could dash forward to catch it, it came free and plunged to the counter below, shattering.
The ghost was there. Right now. With me.
In a panic, I backed away, staring in horror into the darkened room.
“What?” I asked, my voice trembling. “What do you want, Diana?”
Another crash. The towel bar fell, leaving two patches of torn plaster in its place.
Then the bathtub faucet and shower both turned on at once.
Was it going to destroy the whole bathroom?
Feeling utterly helpless, I sank to the floor, ducking my head and squeezing my eyes shut. Like a little kid making herself as small as possible.
“Please,” I said. “What do you want?”
The faucets turned off. The room fell quiet.
I opened my eyes and glanced around.
In my bedroom, on the wall opposite the bathroom, in huge black letters, was written:
WRONG
Behind me, the sink faucet turned on again.
Suddenly, the word wrong was appearing on every inch of the wall, and floor, and ceiling of my room. WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG WRONG.
The closet door burst open. Thousands of rose petals flew out, swirling in midair.
I watched for a moment, speechless, and turned to run for the door.
Then I saw my bed.
The sheets and blankets had been completely stripped off. My pillow was shredded, its stuffing strewn everywhere.
Drawn on the mattress, in black, was a giant question mark.
“What?” I said. “What?”
I spun in a slow circle, taking in the chaos around me. The flower petals churned silently overhead.
“Wrong … question?” I asked.
And in a whoosh, everything disappeared. The rose petals were gone. The walls were wordless once again. I heard the faucet shut off.
“Wrong question,” I whispered, looking down at the pillow stuffing that littered the floor.
Not what do you want, but …
Maybe there was a reason Diana Del Mar wasn’t replying to my questions.
“Who?” I asked. “Who are you?”
I swallowed hard and waited for my answer.
More writing appeared, once again covering every available square foot of wall space in the room:
I AM AN ASPIRING HOLLYWOOD TYPE DETERMINED TO DO MY HOMEWORK BEFORE PLUNGING INTO THE SWAMP OF TINSELTOWN I AM AN ASPIRING HOLLYWOOD TYPE DETERMINED TO DO MY HOMEWORK BEFORE PLUNGING INTO THE SWAMP OF TINSELTOWN I AM AN ASPIRING HOLLYWOOD TYPE DETERMINED TO DO MY HOMEWORK BEFORE PLUNGING INTO THE SWAMP OF TINSELTOWN I AM AN ASPIRING HOLLYWOOD TYPE DETERMINED TO DO MY HOMEWORK BEFORE PLUNGING INTO THE SWAMP OF TINSELTOWN
I closed my eyes and sat down on the bed.
And then I said, “Hi, Paige.”
The next morning, after cleaning up the mess Paige had made and sneaking around the house to find replacement lightbulbs, I couldn’t wait to get out of Mom’s car to find Wyatt and tell him about everything that had happened.
But my mother was practically wringing out a hankie at the idea of being away from me for a whole weekend.
I tried to extract myself from her clingy embrace. “You’re going to be gone for seventy-two hours,” I said. “And Monday afternoon, when you come to pick me up, I’ll come trotting out that gate like always.”
“I wouldn’t describe your movement as trotting,” Mom said, not letting go of my hand, “even on the best of days.”
“A joke!” I said. “Why, that’s wonderful, Mother, what smashing progress. So listen, you have my phone number, and I have yours, but don’t call me. This is your honeymoon, remember?”
She frowned. “Not even to say good night?”
“You can text,” I said. “You get two texts a day. How about that?”
Mom sighed.
I gave her a hug. “Have fun,” I said. “And remember, a honeymoon doesn’t involve actually mooning people.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
“Can’t have you getting arrested.” I kissed her on the cheek, then slid out of the car and hurried to the gate.
Behind me, I heard her call out, through the open window: “Be sure to say thank you to Marnie’s parents!”
I spun around and saluted, which in my humble opinion was a very effective way to get out of actually lying to her.
Marnie was absent again. Not that she and I had any relevance to one another anymore, I guess. But it was nice to walk over to Wyatt’s table at lunch without her eagle eyes watching me.
“It’s Paige,” I said as soon as I sat down. I hadn’t been able to find Wyatt that morning, and my news came bursting out. “The ghost in my house is Paige Pollan.”
“What?” Wyatt looked up from his laptop in shocked disbelief. “How do you know?”
“Trust me,” I said. “She made it very clear.”
“Then … then … this changes a lot of things,” he said. “We need to kick-start our investigation. We need to figure out what Paige’s death could possibly have to do with your house. This weekend.”
I shook my head. “We can start on Monday. My mom and stepdad are out of town, and if Paige burns the house down when I’m not even supposed to be home, there’s going to be a lot of explaining to do.”