"Okay," I said. "Mom, she's going to try to appear to you, but DON'T scream. It scares her."

"It scares her?" Mom repeated, incredulous.

Mom stood in the doorway, holding her breath. Her eyes went from the pen on the floor to my hand, which was still hanging stupidly in the air.

I brought my hands down in front of me and pushed my face into a smile... tried to appear all innocent and casual. My smile was kind of shaky, though, and I must have looked very guilty.

At least I had enough sense to keep my mouth shut... to wait for Mom to speak first. What kind of story could I tell, after all, if I didn't know how much she'd seen and heard?

But she wasn't talking either. At least, at first. Maybe she decided she'd imagined everything, or seen it wrong. Or maybe she was afraid she'd lost her mind, and didn't want her suspicions confirmed.

In any case, she didn't ask about the pen passing through my hand or Misty's stage whisper. Her eyes scanned the mass of crumpled papers that covered the desk and the floor around it. I'm sure they added to her confusion, but she didn't ask about them, either.

I realized, with some alarm, that she'd probably heard Misty crumpling papers all afternoon, if not all day.

With her face deathly white, Mom moved quickly into the room. She looked behind me, in my closet, under my bed, in back of the chairs, under the desk. She lifted the curtains, she looked out the windows, and then she stuck her head into my dressing room.

"Where is she?" she asked, and her look was wild, almost feral. "Who is in here with you?"

I licked my lips, unsure how much to say. "What did you hear?" I asked.

That brought her down to earth. She gave me the wrong-answerlook, and in a no-nonsense voice told me, "No, Marcie, that's not the way it works. I'm your mother. You tell me. You tell me now."

"No, Mom, for real: It was just me talking."

"No," she said. "I heard you and another girl."

"Oh yeah! That was Eden," I lied. "We were doing an internet chat."

"She's still in school," Mom countered. "It's not three o'clock yet in California."

"Oh," I said. Now I was stumped. For a second I was tempted to say I was practicing ventriloquism.

Afterward, I wondered why I didn't just say I was talking to Maisie on the phone. It would have been the easiest excuse. But it didn't occur to me.

Then I looked at my mother's face and realized that she wasn't angry. Not really. She looked more frightened than anything else. Her face was still a scary white, as if she was about to faint, and her shoulders, arms, and face were so tense I could almost feel an electric buzz coming off her.

Now, there was no doubt: I was sure she'd seen Misty's trick with the pen, and heard Misty's whispered "sorry"...

And it struck me that Mom was playing a you-first game with me, too: she wasn't going to risk sounding like a looney.

Even so, she really wanted to know what was going on. She was suffering, so I had to let her off the hook.

My shoulders fell. "Okay," I admitted. "It was Misty."

"Misty who?"

"Misty Sabatino. She's a ghost. She died here thirteen years ago, on the day I was born."

Mom's face turned even more impossibly white. Now I was *really* afraid she was going to faint. Or have a heart attack. In either case, I had to be ready to catch her if she fell.

"What does she look like?" she whispered.

"She's a little taller than me, bare feet, workout clothes, brown hair pulled back in a scrunchie..."

"So she's real," Mom said, in a barely audible voice.

"You've seen her?"

She nodded and gestured vaguely with her hands. "Glances. I'd see her from the corner of my eye, but when I'd turn she'd be gone." She looked very intently into my face. "This isn't a joke or a trick, right? This isn't some prank that you and Maisie dreamed up, is it? Because if it is..."

I shook my head no.

She drew a long breath and let it out. "You really have seen her and talked to her?"

"Yes, Mom."

"That's who you've been talking to?"

"Yes."

"That night, when I thought you were on the phone..."

"Yes."

Instinctively I took her hands in mine. First, because she was driving me crazy, waving them around all out of control, and second, because I'd never seen her so agitated. It was pretty scary.

I turned my head and addressed the room. "Misty? Are you still here?"

A soft voice came to my left ear. "I'm right behind you. What do you want me to do?"

"Can you appear, for my mother?"

Mom's eyes darted around nervously, as if a bat were flapping around the ceiling.

"I'll appear to her," Misty told me, "but tell her NOT to scream. I hate that."

"Okay," I said. "Mom, she's going to try to appear to you, but DON'T scream. It scares her."

"It scares her?" Mom repeated, incredulous.

Behind Mom's back, over her shoulder, I saw Misty fade into view. She was sitting in one of my armchairs, by the front windows.

On my cue, Mom turned slowly around. When she saw Misty, she completely spazzed. Her arms and legs jerked and flailed as if she was having a fit. Still — I have to hand it to her — she didn't scream.

After she got her nerves under control, she spoke. "Your name is Misty?"

Misty smiled and nodded. Sitting in that big chair, both feet on the floor, with her big eyes, pony tail, and bright smile, she reminded me of a little girl posing for a portrait.

"Can I touch you?" Mom asked, and Misty nodded. Mom gingerly poked her with one finger, then said, "How do I know you're not just a real girl? How do I know this isn't one big joke at my expense?"

In answer, Misty made an odd face for a second, as if she was doing difficult sums in her head, then told Mom, "Try and touch me now."

Mom cried out in astonishment and delight when her hand passed right through Misty's head and shoulders. Laughing, she swept her hands through Misty's arms and legs, and then boldly stuck her hand deep into Misty's belly. "I can feel the chair behind you!"

With a huge grin, Misty faded slowly until she completely disappeared.

Mom's head jerked all around as she asked, "Where'd she go? Where'd she go?" like it was a game of hide-and-seek. Misty reappeared, walking in through the (closed) door of my dressing room.

"Wow!" Mom shouted, enormously impressed.

Misty looked quite pleased and proud of herself. She'd never had such an appreciative audience, or such a great opportunity to show off her ghostly skills.

And strange to say, after all that, Mom was tremendously relieved.

"Oh, my goodness!" she cried. "I'd hear creaks and footsteps and a girl's voice, and I'd tell myself it was the house settling; that I wasn't losing my mind! When I'd half-see you, I'd say it was in my imagination. And, here, all this time, it was only a ghost!"

At that, the three of us started laughing. Only a ghost? Only a ghost? Only a GHOST?

Mom suggested that we move downstairs to the kitchen, where we sat around the table.

I'm always a little nervous when my mother meets my friends, but this time beat them all. Mom babbled at Misty for 40 minutes straight.

She kept offering her things to eat and drink ("Can I get you a soda?"), which Misty couldn't, and each time Mom would say, "Oh, I forgot!" and Misty would say, "That's okay."

It happened, like, ten times! It was so exasperating that I put a sandwich on a plate, poured some Coke in a glass, and set it in front of Misty.

"Honey," Mom said, as though *I* were some kind of idiot, "You know she can't eat or drink."

"Yes, Mom!" I replied. "*I* know that! I did it so YOU would quit asking her if she wants something!"

"Oh!" she said. Misty smiled and Mom started giggling.

I told Mom in a sentence or two how Misty died. The thing that amazed her the most was the fact that Misty was Mrs. Wix's identical twin. She only met Mrs. Wix once (or twice at most!), and still she insisted on looking for a resemblance. At last I told her, "Mom, let it go!"

One thing we all agreed on, was that we wouldn't tell Dad. Misty was sure that he couldn't see her or hear her at all.

"Oh, and don't tell Maisie, either," I said.

"Why not?" Mom asked.

"She scares me," Misty said. "And she can't see me, anyway."

"She scares you?" Mom asked. "Why?"

"I think she's mean," Misty replied. "And she smokes."

"She smokes?" Mom repeated.

I cut in. "Oh, Mom! Didn't you know? Her own mother knows. Maisie is my friend. I like her and everything, but she can be hard to be around. And she can be a merciless tease. Don't tell her about Misty, please?"

When Mom hesitated, I said, "If she finds out, I'm sure she'll do something bad. Something mean. I don't know what or how, but I'm sure."

"So am I," Misty said.

Mom looked from me to Misty and back, then shrugged. "Okay. Maisie won't know. What about Susan?"

"Oh, her I like!" Misty said. "And Marcie already told her!"

"How do you know that?" I asked.

She looked coy. "Sometimes I go to your cafeteria," she confessed.

"You spy on me?"

Misty nodded shamelessly. "What else am I supposed to do? Watch TV?"

© 2007 Kaleigh Way