But that's the thing about ghosts. They are never around when you actually need them. Even, if they happen to be your dad.
I guess I must have zoned out for a little while because next thing I knew, the microwave was dinging. I took the popcorn out and opened the bag. I was pouring it into a big wooden bowl when my mom came into the kitchen and switched on the overhead light.
"Hi, honey," she said. Then she looked at me. "Are you all right, Suzie?"
"Sure, Mom," I said. I shoveled some popcorn into my mouth. "Dope – I mean, Brad and I are gonna watch a movie."
"Are you sure?" My mother was peering at me curiously. "Are you sure you're all right?"
"Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired, is all."
She looked relieved. "Oh, yes. Well, I expected you'd have a bit of jet lag. But ... well, it's just that you looked so upset when you first walked into your room upstairs. I know the canopy bed was a bit much, but I couldn't resist."
I chewed. I was totally used to this kind of thing. "The bed's fine, Mom," I said. "The room's fine, too."
"I'm so glad," my mom said, pushing a strand of hair from my eyes. "I'm so glad you like it, Suze."
My mother looked so relieved, I sort of felt sorry for her, in a way. I mean, she's a nice lady and doesn't deserve to have a mediator for a daughter. I know I've always been a bit of a disappointment to her. When I turned fourteen, she got me my own phone line, thinking so many boys would be calling me, her friends would never be able to get through. You can imagine how disappointed she was when nobody except Gina ever called me on my private line, and then it was usually only to tell me about the dates she'd been on. Like I said, the boys in my neighborhood were never much interested in asking me out.
My poor mom. She always wanted a nice, normal teenage daughter. Instead, she got me.
"Honey," she said. "Don't you want to change? You've been wearing those same clothes since six o'clock this morning, haven't you?"
She asked me this right as Doc was coming in to get more glue for his electrodes. Not that I was going to say anything like, Well, to tell you the truth, Mom, I'd like to change, but I'm not real excited about doing it in front of the ghost of the dead cowboy that's living in my room.
Instead, I shrugged and said, with elaborate casualness, "Yeah, well, I'm gonna change in a bit."
"Are you sure you don't want help unpacking? I feel terrible. I should have – "
"No, I don't need any help. I'll unpack in a bit.' I watched Doc forage through a drawer. "I better go," I said. "I don't want to miss the beginning of the movie."
Of course, in the end, I missed the beginning middle, and end of the movie. I fell asleep on the couch, and didn't wake up until Andy shook my shoulder a little after eleven.
"Up and at'em, kiddo," he said. "I think it's time to admit you've gone down for the count. Don't worry. Brad won't tell anybody."
I got up, groggily, and made my way up to my room. I headed straight for the windows, which I yanked open. To my relief there was no Jesse to block the way. Yes. I've still got it.
I grabbed my duffel bag and went into the bathroom where I showered and, just to be on the safe side – I didn't know for sure whether or not Jesse had gotten the message and vamoosed – changed into my pajamas. When I came out of the bathroom, I was a little more awake. I looked around, feeling the cool breeze seeping in, smelling the salt in the air. Unlike back in Brooklyn where our ears were under constant assault by sirens and car alarms, it was quiet in the hills, the only sound the occasional hoot of an owl.
I found, rather to my surprise, that I was alone. Really alone. A ghost-free zone. Exactly what I'd always wanted.
I got into bed and clapped my hands, dousing the lights. Then I snuggled deep beneath my crisp new sheets.
Just before I fell asleep again, I thought I heard something besides the owl. It sounded like someone singing the words Oh, Susannah, now don't you cry for me, 'cause I come from Alabama with this banjo on my knee.
But that, I'm sure, was just my imagination.
CHAPTER 5
The Junipero Serra Catholic Academy, grades K-12, had been made co-educational in the eighties, and had, much to my relief, recently dropped its strict uniform policy. The uniforms had been royal blue and white, not my best colors. Fortunately, the uniforms had been so unpopular that they, like the boys-only rule, had been abandoned, and though the pupils still couldn't wear jeans, they could wear just about anything else they wanted. Since all I wanted was to wear my extensive collection of designer clothing – purchased at various outlet stores in New Jersey with Gina as my fashion coordinator – this suited me fine.
The Catholic thing, though, was going to be a problem. Not really a problem so much as an inconvenience. You see, my mother never really bothered to raise me in any particular religion. My father was a non-practicing Jew, my mother Christian. Religion had never played an important part in either of my parents' lives, and, needless to say, it had only served to confuse me. I mean, you would think I'd have a better grasp on religion than anybody, but the truth is, I haven't the slightest idea what happens to the ghosts I send off to wherever it is they're supposed to go after they die. All I know is, once I send them there, they do not come back. Not ever. The end.
So when my mother and I showed up at the Mission School's administrative office the Monday after my arrival in sunny California, I was more than a little taken aback to be confronted with a six foot Jesus hanging on a crucifix behind the secretary's desk.
I shouldn't have been surprised, though. My mom had pointed out the school from my room on Sunday morning as she helped me to unpack. "See that big red dome?" she'd said. "That's the Mission. The dome covers the chapel."
Doc happened to be hanging around – I'd noticed he did that a lot – and he launched into another one of his descriptions, this time of the Franciscans, who were members of a Roman Catholic religious order that followed the rule of St. Francis, approved in 1209. Father Junipero Serra, a Franciscan monk, was, according to Doc, a tragically misunderstood historical figure. A controversial hero in the Catholic church, he had been considered for sainthood at one time, but, Doc explained, Native Americans questioned this move as "a general endorsement of the exploitative colonization tactics of the Spanish. Though Junipero Serra was known to have argued on behalf of the property rights and economic entitlement of converted Native Americans, he consistently advocated against their right to self-governance, and was a staunch supporter of corporal punishment, appealing to the Spanish government for the right to flog Indians."
When Doc had finished this particular lecture, I just looked at him and went, "Photographic memory much?"
He looked embarrassed. "Well," he said. "It's good to know the history of the place where you're living."
I filed this away for future reference. Doc might be just the person I needed if Jesse showed up again.
Now, standing in the cool office of the ancient building Junipero Serra had constructed for the betterment of the natives in the area, I wondered how many ghosts I was going to encounter. That Serra guy had to have a bunch of Native Americans mad at him – particularly considering that corporal punishment thing – and I hadn't any doubt I was going to encounter all of them.
And yet, when my mom and I walked through the school's wide front archway into the courtyard around which the Mission had been constructed, I didn't see a single person who looked as if he or she didn't belong there. There were a few tourists snapping pictures of the impressive fountain, a gardener working diligently at the base of a palm tree – even at my new school there were palm trees – a priest walking in silent contemplation down the airy breezeway. It was a beautiful, restful place – especially for a building that was so old, and had to have seen so much death.