Anyway, when I'd walked outside to get into Mom's car, I'd found that it was freezing out again, and that was why I was wearing the wool coat.
Father Dominic told me that my locker was number 273, and he seemed content to let me find it myself, strolling behind me with his eyes on the breezeway's rafters, in which, much to his professed delight, families of swallows nested every year. He was apparently quite fond of birds – of all animals, actually, since one of the questions he'd asked me was how was I getting along with Max, the Ackermans' dog – and openly scoffed at Andy's repeated assurances that the timber in the breezeways was going to have to be replaced thanks to the swallows and their refuse.
268, 269, 270. I strolled down the open corridor, watching the numbers on the beige locker doors. Unlike the ones in my school back in Brooklyn, these lockers were not graffitied, or dented, or plastered with stickers from heavy metal bands. I guess students on the West Coast took more pride in their school's appearance than us Yankees.
271, 272. I stumbled to a halt.
In front of locker number 273 stood a ghost.
It wasn't Jesse, either. It was a girl, dressed very much like I was, only with long blonde hair, instead of brown, like mine. She also had an extremely unpleasant look on her face.
"What," she said, to me, "are you looking at?" Then, speaking to someone behind me, she demanded, "This is who they let in to take my place? I am so sure."
Okay, I admit it. I freaked out. I spun around, and found myself gaping up at Father Dominic, who was squinting down at me curiously.
"Ah," he said, when he saw my face. "I thought so."
CHAPTER 6
I looked from Father Dominic to the ghost girl, and back again. Finally, I managed to blurt out, "You can see her?"
He nodded. "Yes. I suspected when I first heard your mother speak about you – and your ... problems at your old school – that you might be one of us, Susannah. But I couldn't be sure, of course, so I didn't say anything. Although the name Simon, I'm sure you're aware, is from the Hebrew word meaning "intent listener," which, as a fellow mediator, you of course would be...."
I barely heard him. I couldn't get over the fact that finally, after all these years, I'd met another mediator.
"So that's why there aren't any Indian spirits around here!" I practically yelled. "You took care of them. Jeez, I was wondering what happened to them all. I expected to find hundreds – "
Father Dominic bowed his head modestly, and said, "Well, there weren't hundreds, exactly, but when I first arrived, there were quite a few. But it was nothing, really. I was only doing my duty, after all, making use of the heavenly gift I received from God."
I made a face. "Is that who's responsible for it?"
"But of course ours is a gift from God." Father Dominic looked down at me with that special kind of pity the faithful always bestow upon us poor, pathetic creatures who have doubts. "Where else do you think it could come from?"
"I don't know. I've always kind of wanted to have a word with the guy in charge, you know? Because, given a choice, I'd much rather not have been blessed with this particular gift."
Father Dominic looked surprised. "But why ever not, Susannah?"
"All it does is get me into trouble. Do you have any idea how many hours I've spent in psychiatrists' offices? My mom's convinced I'm a complete schizo."
"Yes." Father Dominic nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I could see how a miraculous gift like ours might be considered by a layperson as – well, unusual."
"Unusual? Are you kidding me?"
"I suppose I have been rather sheltered here in the Mission," Father Dominic admitted. "It never occurred to me that it must be extremely difficult for those of you out in the, er, trenches, so to speak, with no real ecclesiastical support – "
"Those of us?" I raised my eyebrows. "You mean there's more than just you and me?"
He looked surprised. "Well, I just assumed ... surely there must be. We can't be the last of our kind. No, no, surely there are others."
"Excuse me." The ghost looked at us very sarcastically. "But would you mind telling me what's going on here? Who is this bitch? Is she the one taking my place?"
"Hey! Watch your mouth." I shot her a dirty look. "This guy's a priest, you know."
She sneered at me. "Uh, duh. I know he's a priest. He's only been trying to get rid of me all week."
I glanced at Father Dominic in surprise, and he said, looking embarrassed, "Well, you see, Heather's being a bit obstinate – "
"If you think," Heather said, in her snotty little voice, "that I'm going to just stand back and let you assign my locker to this bitch – "
"Call me a bitch one more time, missy," I said, "and I'll make sure you spend the rest of eternity inside this locker of yours."
Heather looked at me without the slightest trace of fear. "Bitch," she said, stretching the word out so it contained multiple syllables.
I hit her so fast she never saw my fist coming. I hit her hard, hard enough to send her reeling into the line of lockers and leave a long, body-shaped dent in them. She landed hard, too, on the stone floor, but was on her feet again a second later. I expected her to strike back at me, but instead, Heather got up and, with a whimper, ran for all she was worth down the corridor.
"Huh," I said, mostly to myself. "Chicken."
She'd be back, of course. I'd only startled her. She'd be back. But hopefully when I saw her again, she'd have a slightly improved attitude.
Heather gone, I blew lightly on my knuckles. Ghosts have surprisingly bony jaws.
"So," I said. "What were you saying, Father?"
Father Dominic, still staring where Heather had been standing, remarked, pretty dryly for a priest, "Interesting mediation techniques they're teaching out east these days."
"Hey," I said. "Nobody calls me names and gets away with it. I don't care how tortured he was in his past life. Or hers."
"I think," Father Dominic said, thoughtfully, "there are some things we need to discuss, you and I."
Then he brought a finger to his lips. To one side of us a door opened and a large man, his face heavily bearded, looked out into the breezeway, having heard the crash of Heather's astral body – funny how much the dead can weigh – hitting the row of lockers.
"Everything all right, Dom?" he asked, when he saw Father Dominic.
"Everything's fine, Carl," Father Dominic said. "Just fine. And look what I've brought you." Father Dominic placed a hand on my shoulder. "Your newest pupil, Susannah Simon. Susannah, meet your homeroom teacher, Carl Walden."
I stuck out the hand I'd just knocked Heather senseless with. "How do you do, Mr. Walden?"
"Just fine, Miss Simon. Just fine." Mr. Walden's enormous hand engulfed mine. He didn't look much like a teacher to me. He looked more like a lumberjack. In fact, he practically had to flatten himself against the wall to give me room to slip past him into his classroom. "Nice to have you with us," he said, in his big, booming voice. "Thanks, Dom, for bringing her over."
"Not a problem," Father Dominic said. "We were just having a little difficulty with her locker. You probably heard it. Didn't mean to disturb you. I'll have the custodian look into it. In the meantime, Susannah, I'll expect you back in my office at three, to, um, fill out the rest of those forms."
I smiled at him sweetly. "Oh, no can do, Father. My ride leaves at three."
Father Dominic scowled at me. "Then I'll send you a pass. Expect one around two."
"Okay," I said, and waggled my fingers at him. "Buh-bye."
I guess on the West Coast you aren't supposed to say buh-bye to the principal, or waggle your fingers at him, since when I turned around to face my new classmates, they were all staring at me with their mouths hanging open.