"Marcie, before you get carried away, you have to consider a few things."

"Uh-oh," I said. Already I felt the money slipping away.

---

 
1. Rich For Half A Minute
 

---

Maisie Beale's Diary, First Entry:

Dear Diary,

Nothing personal, but I hate you. My therapist told me to keep this diary so I can explore my feelings. But I don't want to explore my feelings. I don't *need* to explore my feelings. There isn't any point. It won't change anything and it won't help anything.

She asked me to write down whatever bothers me, whatever thoughts I have, so we'll have something to discuss.

As I already said, there isn't any point: I don't need to discuss anything, but I figure that sooner or later my parents will find this book, so I am writing it for them. I want them to see how badly they screwed up my life. Or maybe they'll see how badly they screwed up their *own* lives, but I doubt it. That may be too much to ask for.

I never asked to be born. That's the first thing that bothers me. My parents are the ones to blame for that. Maybe we could discuss that in my next session. Maybe Ms. Goldenflower will have some alternatives we can explore. NOT! It's too late for alternatives. I'm already here.

What's the next thing that bothers me? Oh, right. I want to know who made my parents get married in the first place? From the stuff they yell at each other, it sounds like a classic case of hate at first sight, and it's only gotten deeper over the years. Mom says Dad's been a stuffy, self-absorbed child the whole time she's known him. Dad says Mom is a vindictive, anorexic witch, and always has been.

Why don't we discuss that, Ms. Goldenflower? Why don't you explain why two people who hate each other all the way down to the ground — why do those people marry each other? They don't even pretend they were ever in love. I've never heard them talk about "how it used to be" or "back when things were good" — as far as I can tell, things were never good.

When I heard my parents were getting divorced, at first I was relieved and glad. I thought that divorce would be good for them — that they could finally stop hurting, walk away, and be happy for the first time. Instead, they use it as a new, no-holds-barred battleground. Sometimes they both want me. Sometimes neither wants me. Sometimes I'm their weapon, and sometimes I'm their target.

People say that Truth is the first casualty in war, but it isn't. Truth is the second casualty at best. Children are always the first casualty.

Aren't I profound?

Isn't it all a big huge waste?

Now tell me, Ms. Goldenflower: how is discussing this — any of this — going to make it better?

Do you think I need to understand it? Come to terms with it?

I have news for you: I've already come to terms with it. I get it. I've got the whole picture, in living color and full-shout stereo.

Oh, there is one more thing, and this one I actually would like to discuss: My parents are going to split up, and live at opposite ends of the country. Couldn't I live by myself someplace in the middle? Chicago, maybe? Can we discuss that, Ms. Goldenflower? (I honestly *would* like to discuss that!)

Yours truly, with lots of fake hugs and kisses,

Maisie Beale

---

 
My name is Marcie Donner, and until last summer I was a boy. Now I'm pretty much a girl, or almost a girl. More than halfway girl, maybe. My parents have been really nice about accepting the change, so I'm trying to be nice about accepting the move from California to New Jersey.

I've made a serious resolution: I'm not going to complain about the climate, or where we live, or the fact that my parents are sending me to a Catholic girls school. I'm going to make the best of everything and be a good, obedient daughter.

It shouldn't be hard. How could it be hard?

At this exact moment, Mom and I are on a plane flying from Sacramento, California to Newark, New Jersey. We took off a half-hour ago, and Mom just gave up on trying to read a small-print document about our new house.

I don't understand all the details, but I do know that we haven't "closed" yet, which means we can't move in. Until the closing, Mom, Dad, and I will squeeze into a itty-bitty studio apartment, where Dad's been camping out alone.

After Mom put the paperwork away, she took off her glasses, eased off her shoes, rubbed her eyes, and said, out of the blue, "You know, Marcie, we've never discussed your room."

"My room? What room?" What in the world was she talking about?

Usually when she mentions my room, it means I have to go clean it. And right now I don't have a room. My old room, the room in our old house, is gone — the house was sold. The room in Aunt Jane's house, where I lived the past three months, has gone back to being a guest room. Was there a room just for me in Dad's little apartment?

"I mean your bedroom in the new house, silly. I didn't tell you this, but we made a fair amount of money when we sold our old place, and we got an incredible deal on the new place. Which means that we have money left over. The new house doesn't need any work, really, so we can put that money into furniture and this and that..."

I understood about the money, but not about the furniture. Our old house was full of furniture. Nice furniture, too. I couldn't imagine having space for any more.

"Mom, how could we possibly need new furniture?" (To say nothing of the "this and that".)

"Your old bedroom furniture is kind of small for your new room–"

"Small?"

She nodded. "It's a big house, honey. Bigger than our old one. I think you'll be very surprised. And your room is, well, it's more than good sized. There's space for a vanity, a desk, maybe some chairs. And, like the rest of the house, it has a high ceiling. So, if you want a canopy bed..."

I had a flashback to Nina Auburn's room. "Mom, I'm not nine years old."

"I know, honey," she said with a smile.

"I don't want a pink room, with lace and teddy bears and hearts."

"I know," she repeated with the same smile, "but your old furniture is so boyish, and so — well, old. Wouldn't it be great to pick out new colors and new furniture together? We could create a whole new room for the whole new you!"

"Hmm." I had to think about that. It sure didn't sound "great." Plus, I know how Mom is: she'll make me pore over paint samples, and after I've finally picked something I like, she'll set my choice aside. Then she'll choose five identical colors and ask me which one is my favorite. And THEN she'll ask me why it's my favorite. The furniture story could only be worse.

Deep down inside I heaved a deep, secret sigh. Then I remembered: Be a good daughter. You owe them. At that thought, I quit resisting. Why not let her have her fun? How hard could it be?

"Okay, that does sounds like fun," I lied, smiling.

"Great!" she enthused, and squeezed my arm so tightly that my mouth opened and my eyes popped. "A little mother-daughter bonding!" Then she reached down and hauled a big, fat notebook out of her bag. It was chock-full of pictures clipped from magazines. And how many pages was it? Two hundred? Three hundred? Four?

"Oh," I said, feeling as if I'd wandered into a mine field and didn't know the safe way out, "I didn't think we'd be starting so soon."

She smiled at me as she put her reading glasses back on. "Honey, what did you think we were going to do on this long, long flight?"

"Watch a movie?" I offered, but as her smile began to fall, I quickly said, "Just kidding! Let's see what you've got!"

We spent what seemed like hours talking about colors and styles, and despite my best efforts, it was putting me to sleep. Everything looked the same! She'd turn a page, and I'd swear it was identical to the page before. I looked at my watch. Only fifteen minutes had passed! This was going to be a long, long flight. Maybe the longest flight in history.

"Oh, Mom," I said. "I need to go the toilet. Urgently."

"Okay," she said, not looking up from her book.

I got up, hoping and praying there'd be a line. A long line of old ladies... and with that thought, a song I heard once came to mind — though I could only remember the chorus:

Oh, dear, what can the matter be?
Seven old ladies got locked in the lavat'ry;
They were there from Sunday till Saturday,
Nobody knew they were there.

Unfortunately, there were no old ladies, stuck or waiting. There was no line at all. Both toilets were free, so I leaned against the back wall and chewed my fingernail.

A stewardess was back there, organizing the drink cart. "Stretching your legs?" she asked.

"Yeah," I said. "Really I'm escaping... my mother wants to talk..."

"Ah," she said sympathetically.

"... about how to decorate my room."

"I see," she said. "You want something modern and cool, and she wants something frilly and old-fashioned."

Well, not really, but I went with it. "Pretty much."

The stewardess shrugged and said, "Try to compromise. Find something you both like."

"Thanks," I said, "I can try."

She busied herself with the cart, and I went back to my seat. No help back there!

"There you are!" Mom smiled. "I thought maybe you'd jumped off the plane."

"No," I joked, "they locked the door and I couldn't find a parachute."

As I wiggled into my seat, just as I was about to close my seat belt, I suddenly realized that now I really *did* need to use the bathroom.

"I thought you just went!" Mom exclaimed.

"I forgot," I said, "I was talking to the waitress. I mean, the stewardess."

"Oh, Marcie," she sighed.

When I came back from the tiny room, I saw the stewardess, whose name turned out to be Liz, bent over my seat, talking to my mother. When I got closer, Liz straightened up and smiled at me. "Marcie, your mother has some great ideas!" In a whisper she hissed, "You don't know how good you've got it, girl! I'd kill for a room like that!"

Sighing, I slid back into my seat.

"Ready?" Mom asked. "Need to go the bathroom again?"

"No," I said, "I got it all out of my system. Let's have a look."

In spite of the combined enthusiasm of Liz and my mother, the decorating ideas did not excite me. Everything my mother showed me was beautiful, but I couldn't choose. I didn't have opinions. All of it was just fine with me, and it was so hard to think of something to say!

I wondered how many bathroom trips I could take before Mom would get suspicious. Maybe if I was lucky the film would be too good to miss, and Mom would shut the book.

No such luck. It was a boring legal "thriller" — even more deadly dull than the decorating.

I realized that I needed to find something interesting to me in the midst of all this, and something started to come to me. Often Mom would point and say, "I had one of these when I was a girl..." or "Your Grandma Toni bought this for me when I was your age..." so I rubbed my eyes and scratched my nose and asked her, "Mom, why don't you tell me about *your* room? I mean, what your room was like when you were my age?"

That was the right thing to say! Her eyes lit up, and she described everything. The colors, the furniture, the fabrics... I forced myself to pay attention, to try desperately to remember it all, because this was what she would try to recreate for me. (I think.) Unless I understood where she was coming from, I wouldn't have a chance of getting what I wanted in there as well.

Unfortunately, all those details just turned into mashed potatoes once they entered my head. Or cotton, big wads of cotton. Not a single detail stuck. I kept spacing out. Whenever she looked away, I shook my head hard or pinched myself to try to stay awake.

Her words kept fading out and fading in. I realized she was describing her old desk, and suddenly thought, Maybe if I talk, it will help, so I said, "I bet a new white Apple laptop would look great on a desk like that."

That stopped her dead. Her smile faded and after a short pause she said, "You know, Marcie, sometimes you're just like your father."

"What?" I asked. "What did I say that was wrong?"

She didn't answer.

"Oh, come on, Mom! I didn't mean anything!"

"It's all right," she said quietly. "I can see that you're not interested. You've been yawning and looking at your watch ever since I opened this book."

"Oh, Mom, I'm sorry! I *want* to do this with you, I really do! Maybe I'm no good at decorating, but I can learn! You can teach me..." I trailed off. She'd shut the book, and was now bent over, putting it away. I was relieved and sorry at the same time.

But then, as all the decorating cotton-and-mashed-potatoes was clearing out of my head, something struck me. There *was* something I wanted to know. Mom had mentioned money. Could there be money for a computer? For fun things for me?

I asked, "Mom, how much of a budget are we talking about, here? Can you tell me?"

At that, she straightened in her seat, and her eyes lit up. She grabbed my arm, and started talking in an excited, low voice, so no one else could hear. "Oh, Marcie! I forgot to tell you! The call came just as I was running out the door, and what with the house and the trip... I completely forgot!"

"Forgot what?" I asked. She was *incredibly* animated. Whatever it was, it was big!

"They wanted to have a presentation ceremony, and put you on TV. Somebody's probably going to come and interview you anyway, but it turns out that one of those kidnappers that you helped catch was a wanted criminal."

"Yeah?" I didn't see the point. They were kidnappers; of course they were criminals.

"No," she said, her voice dropping to an even lower whisper. I had to strain to hear over the whine of the plane's engine. "There was a reward for catching one of them, and they're sending you the money."

My jaw dropped. "How much?"

Almost inaudibly she told me: "Ten thousand dollars."

"TEN THOUSAND DOLLARS!" I shouted. Everyone on the plane turned and looked. Several people had been dozing, and the glares and stares made me want to shrink away.

"Eek! Sorry everyone!"

It took a while before they all finally turned away. When they did, I said in a soft voice, "Oh my God, Mom! Ten thousand dollars!"

The wheels in my head started turning. I was so shocked I didn't even know what I wanted to do with the money... what did I want? I was too young for a car...

"Now, before you get carried away, you have to consider a few things."

"Uh-oh," I said. Already I felt the money slipping away.

"First, there's college." I nodded. "Then, there's an operation that you need to get."

"Oh, yeah," I said, getting the point.

"Yes," Mom continued, "It would be nice if you helped out with that."

"Okay," I said, in a chastened voice.

"You can use some of the money for fun," she said, "Maybe a nice pair of boots, or a coat, or some jewelry."

"I guess," I said. I felt like a balloon with the air let out.

"Don't feel bad, honey," she said. "You'll be glad later on."

© 2007 by Kaleigh Way

"Marcie, I've seen pictures of you since you... changed, but seeing you in person is..." Dad looked at me for a few moments, then hugged me and pulled Mom into the hug. "... so much better!" he finished.
 

---

 
2. Take-Your-Daughter-To-Work Day
 

---

Maisie Beale's Diary, excerpt:

Dear Diary,

Parents think that children are stupid, or that they don't hear or register or understand things. I have news for them: everybody misses things. Everyone is stupid sometime. But nobody is stupid all the time.

Since they've started shouting about divorce, I've discovered a lot of things about my parents that I didn't know before. Some of those things I don't particularly care to know, but I've written them all down in a little notebook just in case they might be important later.

The first thing is that my father is very rich. His salary is a quarter of a million dollars a year (!), plus big quarterly bonuses, stock options, benefits, and "perks" which I guess are presents of some kind. He owns three OTHER houses "free and clear" and two boats. I've never seen any of those things. According to my mother, Dad is trying to "hide" them. The boats are supposedly big, like yachts — they sound too big to hide. Still, when I asked him when I could see one of his boats and go for a ride, he told me that he doesn't own any boats.

Fine. Lie to your own daughter.

Something that I would like to know — just out of curiosity — is: how do you hide a house? I mean, the thing is on a street somewhere. Anyone could drive by and look at it. You can't pick it up and move it to the middle of a forest. I'd like to discuss that, Ms. Goldenflower. Seriously, I want to know.

Dad also has several bank accounts and investment accounts. Some of them are in other countries. Mom cleverly got the details on those before the subject of divorce arose.

She likes to brag about that to her friends. I've heard it many times.

My mother doesn't exactly have nothing, either. She owns a time-share and her parents' old house in New Jersey. She also has a lot of jewelry, paintings, and money she's put away (hidden) over the years.

The problem for both of my parents is that California is a community-property state, which means that husbands and wives own everything 50/50. Now that they're splitting up, Dad doesn't want to lose half of what he owns to Mom, and Mom doesn't want to lose any of what she has. So they're each trying to hide stuff, but they're not doing a very good job of it.

The biggest surprise of all, though, was finding out that *I* have something, too...

---

 
Thanksgiving was nice. It was really nice, in fact. Dad was so happy to have us back! He was shocked when he saw me, but I could see it was a happy/proud shock. I can't blame him for his surprise: after all, last time he saw me, I didn't have any breasts or hips to speak of. Plus — even though he probably didn't notice — my skin and hair are a lot softer.

"Marcie, I've seen pictures of you since you... changed, but seeing you in person is..." he looked at me for a few moments, then hugged me and pulled Mom into the hug. "... so much better!" he finished. "I'm glad you're both finally here!"

He'd made reservations for dinner at a nice restaurant. It was a little bit of a drive, but worth it.

"I'm glad Janey had that idea about explaining the Mark/Marcie business," Dad began.

"I still don't get it," I interrupted.

"Marcie, give up on it," Mom said. "It makes sense to everybody else!"

Aunt Jane's idea was to say that I've always been Marcie — that I've always been a girl — but that I had a long tomboy phase: during that phase, I wanted to be a boy so much that I insisted on being called "Mark" and always dressed in boy clothes. Once I started growing breasts, I changed my mind and turned into a girly girl.

Mom says that "it happens" and "people can relate to that."

I guess it's just another weird thing from the strange world of parents.

"It was a huge relief to me," Dad said. "In fact, this weekend we have an appointment to get a new family portrait so that on Monday I can put it on my desk.

"And speaking of work, one or two of the people I work with are going to be at this restaurant — including my boss — so you might get to meet them."

Mom started quizzing Dad about names, making sure she knew who was who before she met them.

I tuned it out and stared at the scenery. I'd never seen so much snow. I mean, aside from up in the mountains. Here in New Jersey, it could snow anywhere. I understood that this was an early snow, but shouldn't an early snow be a light snow?

Everyone was bundled up, including me. I don't know how Dad knew how to choose them, but he bought me a pair of very cool black snowboots with a fur trim. I was wearing a knee-length kilt, black tights, and a soft red turtleneck. It wasn't just soft — it was supernaturally soft!

"Hey, Mom!" I said, "What is this sweater made of? What material?"

"Marcie," Dad cautioned, "You interrupted your mother."

"Sorry," I said. "I was daydreaming."

"That's okay," Mom said. "It's silk and cashmire. Isn't it nice?"

I murmured agreement. The last item in my outfit was a black faux-fur bomber jacket — also chosen by Dad! I never knew he had such good taste in clothes!

I have to say, the best thing about being a girl is the clothes. And the hair. And — well, everything.

The car skidded slightly. Mom said, "I guess we have to get used to winter driving."

"The hardest thing is the black ice," he told her.

"What's black ice?" I asked.

"It's ice on the road that you can't see. I don't know what makes it that way, but you can't count on seeing the ice patches. Sometimes you just feel them."

That sounded pretty weird and nonsensical until I got out of the car. I took one step, slipped, and almost landed on my butt. Almost. Some wild wiggling and arm waving kept me vertical.

"Good save," Dad commented.

"Um, Dad," I asked, embarrassed, "Can I take your arm? I'm afraid I'll fall."

"Me, too," Mom grinned. I don't think she really needed the help, but for sure I did. My boots didn't have much of a grip. I should have guessed that real snowboots wouldn't have heels, but what do I know about winter clothes?

I made a desperate grab for Dad's arm. Thank God he's a big guy.

"That's quite a grip you've got there," he told me.

"Sorry," I told him, loosening my hold.

Mom strolled over (without slipping!) and took his other arm.

"What's the deal?" I asked. "Am I the only one having trouble?"

"It's okay," Dad said, which didn't really answer my question.

I had several more slips on the way in, with all the associated wiggles and wobbles and waves.

It was a distinct relief when my feet were on a normal floor. We checked our coats and moved inside.

"This place used to be a railroad station," Dad explained as I gawked.

"Cool!" I said, with awe.

The ceilings were high — really high, and made of dark wood. There were heavy iron lamps in the walls and actual lamp posts here and there. They looked like gas lamps, but had electric bulbs inside. It was very old-timey, like something out of the 1800s: solid, heavy, substantial. At the same time it was warm and welcoming. The staff was friendly. They ushered us to our table, pointed out the buffet, and took our drink orders.

"There are live plants everywhere," Mom observed, looking up. "Even the ones way up there are real. No plastic."

I followed her gaze, and saw vines extending from planters high in the walls. Some of them must have been 30 feet up or higher.

"I wonder how they water them — they're so high up," I said, "and how do they change the light bulbs way up there in the ceiling?"

Our waiter, who had just arrived with our drinks, heard me and answered, "We've got a cart that's like a little elevator. It lifts people most of the way up. Then they use long poles with special attachments."

"Thanks," I said, and he smiled.

We loaded our plates at the buffet. I tried to take a small taste of everything... there were so many choices! I was afraid of overdoing it, but I wanted to try it all.

When we were settled with our meals and drinks, Mom asked Dad, "Do you see anyone you know?"

He looked around, scanning the dinners, and when he turned his gaze over his right shoulder, someone waved to him. He smiled and waved back.

"That's Rhonda Means," he told Mom, who also smiled and waved.

Rhonda made signs that we should eat first and talk later, which I was glad to do.

"I didn't know your boss is a woman," I commented. "Or that she's black."

"Are either of those things problems for you?" he asked.

"No, no," I said. "I was just surprised. I thought you'd mention something."

"Well," he said, as he dug into his turkey, "You've been pretty involved in your own life lately."

"Sorry," I said.

"It's okay," he sighed. "It's part of being young. I actually did tell you, but I guess you don't remember. In any case, she's a good boss. So far, one of the best I've had. Smart, no baloney, tells it like it is. She keeps meetings short, doesn't let other groups hassle us..."

I realized I didn't know much about my father's job. "Do you think I could come in some day and see what you do?"

He looked up and smiled, "Yeah, that would be good. A 'take your daughter to work day'." He laughed. "We could do that during your winter break."

"Cool!" I replied, and we turned our attention to the food.

© 2007 by Kaleigh Way

"When I saw the way you wiggled in the parking lot, I just had to meet you. You had some serious moves going on out there."

"Oh," I replied, reddening just a little, "Aren't you the bold one?"

---

 
3. Fortune Favors The Bold
 

---

Maisie Beale's Diary, excerpt:

I didn't even know I had a godfather. I probably should have guessed, but he died when I was a baby. This means I have a godmother somewhere, too. I have to remember to find out who she is.

Anyway, my godfather was one of Dad's rich friends. He was never married and he had no kids, so when he died he left — I want to say everything but I don't know if it's true. In any case, he left me a lot. Enough to make my parents fight over me. They don't want to share custody.

Why? Because whoever gets me gets to spend my trust fund. Even if it's my money, they get to draw off it for expenses related to raising me.

The one good thing that Ms. Goldenflower did was to hook me up with a lawyer. I kept asking her questions about divorce and about my trust fund. She wanted to talk about my feelings (as if they ever mattered). I wanted to talk about reality and the things my parents were fighting about.

Finally, out of desperation, she got me an appointment with a young guy who was the first adult on this planet who ever took me seriously.

The first thing I asked him was whether he worked for my mother or father. I'd heard about "conflict of interest" and really needed to know. He didn't work for either. Never had. Could not, as long as he represented me. He would bill my trust fund, so I was paying him. This defines loyalty in the world of lawyers.

I ran down my list of questions. I wanted to know if I could stop them from spending my money. He said that I could. He got my parents' financial papers from the divorce proceedings, and had a judge issue a stop on withdrawals from my account unless a custodial parent could demonstrate need. I also got a record of the money they'd already taken. They'd each taken a lot. My lawyer had my bank send a letter to each of my parents, so they'd know a lock was put on the account and that I had "received a comprehensive statement of all account activity to date." Put 'em on notice.

The sweet taste of victory didn't last very long.

I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised when the custody battle changed direction, but I was.

Instead of fighting to keep me, my parents starting fighting to get rid of me. They also wanted to cancel my therapy sessions. Before, when they thought they'd get my trust fund, each wanted sole custody. Now, they each want the other to have sole custody.

I'm not going to say that it hurt me.

It didn't hurt.

It just surprised me.

Still, it's one thing to believe that you're not wanted, but having legal, documentary proof that you're not wanted, is... just... it's something else.

I had to go to court so custody could be "awarded." Children's court. It was a little room, but the chairs were all normal size. The judge was okay. He tended to treat me like a kid, always reassuring me about unimportant junk and explaining obvious things. Still, he didn't overdo it.

He asked me which parent I'd prefer to live with. "Neither," I said.

He replied, "I can understand that. I can't blame you. In your position, I wouldn't want to live with them either."

Then came the nice part of the day: the judge told my parents off. He took his time about it, and he was very thorough. Dad tried to interrupt, but the judge shut him right up. He said, "Mr. Beale, if you don't close your mouth and listen, I'll charge you with contempt, and you'll spend the night in jail. And that's just for starters."

Once he had their attention, he ripped them up, down, and sideways, especially about how they'd used my trust fund and the way they were trying to dump me. He said, "I can understand your fighting over houses, bank accounts, cars... but this is a child! Someone who came from you and depends on you for her very life!"

In the end he said, "I'm sorry to do this to you, Maisie, but I have to award joint custody. I wish there was some alternative, but I don't see one. If you can find one, you give me a call, and I'll see what I can do."

---

 
I tried to get a good look at Ms. Means without being too obvious about it. She was a very attractive woman. I remember Dad said she was about 40. I hoped to look that good at 40. Her hair was cut in the short, straight style that's big now (it probably has a name, but I don't know it). Whatever it's called, it looks good on her. She wore a red silk blouse and black slacks — very simple, understated, elegant. I wanted her shoes.

She was a fair-skinned Black; her skin was a light caramel color, that went well with her reddish-brown hair.

There was a young man with broad shoulders, obviously her son, sitting next to her. His skin was slightly darker, and his hair was fuller and wavier. He had his mother's fine features, but set in a strong, masculine face. He could be an athlete, but I couldn't decide which sport.

There were two other people at the table: a gorgeous blonde woman with a miraculous tan. The girl sitting next to her was similarly blonde, though her skin was pale. She had an almost anorexic thinness, and caught me staring but didn't seem to mind.

I looked down at my plate, which was mysteriously empty. "Dad," I asked, "did you take my food?"

He started back, incredulous, and nearly choked with laughter.

"Marcie," my mother told me, "I think you need to slow down when you eat. You shovel food in your mouth like you're stoking a furnace."

"Thanks, Ma," I drawled.

"You're not even aware that you're eating."

"Okay," I droned.

"Do you even taste your food?" she asked. I sighed.

"You need to know," she shrugged. "It's not ladylike."

"Right," I said as I started to stand, "I get it. I'll work on it."

"Going back for more?" Dad asked, grinning. I nodded. Mom drew a long breath and gave me a cautionary look.

The buffet was set up on two sides of a long table. I went down the left side. This time I was trying to be selective, but everything looked so good! Still, I kept myself to tiny samples of each item.

When I came around the end of the buffet, I saw Ms. Means' son working his way down the other side, heading toward me. I had the feeling he was waiting for me.

"Oh, hey," he said.

"Hi," I replied, feeling suddenly shy. He was a good four inches taller than me, and I was in heels.

"Marcie Donner, right? I'm Trevor Means." He held out his hand.

"Uh," I said stupidly. I had both hands full, so I offered him an elbow. He waggled it, grinning.

"My mother told me your name," he said. "When I saw the way you wiggled in the parking lot, I just had to meet you. You had some serious moves going on out there."

"Oh," I replied, reddening just a little, "Aren't you the bold one?"

"I am," he agreed. "Fortune favors the bold."

"So I've heard," I said. "Has it favored you?"

"Today it has," he replied, grinning.

"I guess I left myself open on that one," I commented.

"Would you also be open to my calling you sometime?" he asked. "Sometime soon?"

I had to admire his grammar and style. He was confident and — what was the word? active? — yet he wasn't pushy. He wasn't pushy at all. He was persuasive.

"What sport do you play?" I asked.

"None really," he replied. "I play a little ball, but nothing serious. Why? Do you only date a certain type of athlete?"

"No," I said laughing. "You look like... you're built like a jock, but I couldn't figure out which sport... And you said 'ball' — which kind of ball? Basketball?"

"Guilty as charged," he replied, nodding. "Yeah, Mom said you were some kind of girl detective. I see she was right."

"Oh, no," I said. "I'm no detective."

"Huh. I was misinformed then. So, I'll call you," he concluded, and walked past me, smiling, before I could reply.

Very smooth. I looked in the direction of my table, but the buffet centerpiece blocked the view. Clever, Trevor, very clever.

"Trevor, how are you going to call me?" I asked through the foliage.

"Tell me your number," he replied.

"Will you remember it?"

"Try me and see."

I recited the number, and he said, "Got it."

When I got back to my table, Mom was looking at me in a strange way. "What happened to you?" she asked.

"Nothing," I replied, as innocently as I could manage.

At that moment, Trevor walked past. He didn't look our way. He didn't give any clue that he knew who we were, but when Mom saw him, her glance shot back to me. How did she know?

"Marcie," she warned.

"Mom," I said, protesting my innocence.

"What's going on?" Dad asked.

In answer, Mom pointed at Trevor's back with her eyes.

Dad sighed and looked at me. "My boss' son!" he lamented, as if that said everything.

"I didn't do anything!" I protested.

"You never do," Dad replied. "It all just happens somehow."

I blushed and looked down at my food, pushing it around with a fork.

Mom's eyes were still on me. "I have to say I'm a little jealous," she said. "I never got this kind of attention when I was your age."

Dad somehow managed a look that was both a frown and smile at the same time. "That's not how I remember it. As I recall, I had a lot of competition."

It was Mom's turn to blush. My mouth fell open.

"Now *this* sounds interesting," I said with a big smile, glad the tables had turned.

"Don't change the subject, young lady," Mom countered. "You've got to put the brakes on now. Don't give him your phone number, for one thing."

I tried to look nonchalant, but my face gave me away.

"Hoo boy!" Dad said. "Maybe it's time to take that cell phone away."

"Noooo!" I cried.

© 2007 by Kaleigh Way

"You're going to lie low in a Catholic girls school?" Maisie grinned.

"I hope so."

"Oh, God, I hope not!" she cried. "Listen, next time you do something crazy, bring me along!"

---

 
4. Not A Smoker
 

I was saved by Trevor's mother, who came over to meet me and Mom.

"So, Mark, is it?" she said to me.

I stammered in response.

"Just teasing!" she said. "I'm glad you realized that being a woman is better. Isn't it?"

"Definitely," I agreed.

Dad coughed shifted in his chair. "Marcie said she'd like to come to the office and see what we do," he told her.

"Great!" she said. "Do you want to come and do a little work, or just hang out with Daddy?"

"Uh...," The question sounded like a test, and I figured she wanted me to say work, but I said in a firm voice, "I want to do both."

She nodded approvingly. "I hear you're a sort of Nancy Drew, Marcie. What's that like?"

"I'm nothing like that," I told her.

"Aren't you the Marcie Donner who single-handedly caught two kidnappers?"

"The police caught them," I said.

"You just hung onto the getaway car as it sped through town," she supplied.

"How do you know that?" I asked.

"Your father mentioned it, and then I googled you," she said. "The Tierson local paper is on the web."

"I didn't know that. Anyway, Nancy Drew was a detective. I'm just... just a girl."

"Actually she was a sleuth," Ms. Means laughed a deep, throaty laugh. "I always thought that was a funny word. In any case, keep me abreast of your new adventures, and do come visit."

Then she crouched down next to my mother and started talking to her. I was surprised by the way she so abruptly dropped me, but in the next moment I felt a small hand lightly touch my shoulder. I turned to see the blonde girl from Ms. Means' table. She looked even thinner up close.

"Hi," she said. "I'm Maisie Beale. You're coming to BYHS, right? Marcie Donner?"

"B-Y–" I started, confused

She interrupted by saying, "Blessed Yvette's" in an undertone. She clearly disliked saying it out loud.

"Oh, oh, yeah!" I agreed.

"You're going to be in my class," she announced, and smiled. I liked her smile, and found myself smiling back.

"Great," I said.

"So where are you from?" she asked.

"Tierson, California," I replied.

I glanced over at Maisie's table. Trevor smiled at me, and the blonde — Maisie's mother — stood up and headed our way. I told Maisie, "Oh, looks like your mother's coming over, too."

Maisie made a look of distaste. "That fat cow!" she snarled.

I was shocked. Maisie went on to criticize and insult her mother in a low voice that only I could hear. Most of it was variations of the words "fat" and "sloppy," but believe me, her mother was neither. She was a complete knockout.

"I think your mother's beautiful," I told Maisie.

She gave me a strange look, as if to say if only you knew or how would you know?

Maisie's mother called, "Oh, honey, have you made a new friend?"

Without even looking at her mother, Maisie said, "Back off."

Her rudeness offended me. I couldn't believe it. Still, no one had heard it except for her mother and me. I was so shocked and disturbed that I couldn't keep my eyes off her mother's face, to see how she'd reaction. I felt mortified for her, but she didn't change expression at all, as if Maisie wasn't speaking.

Without missing a beat, Maisie's mother turned and introduced herself to my mother. She and Ms. Means pulled chairs over and made a little women's circle.

At that, Maisie grabbed my arm, pulled me out of my chair, and said, "Come on. I need a smoke."

Her grip was surprisingly strong, and I found myself running after her down one hallway and then another, until we emerged from the back of the restaurant, where some of the kitchen workers and waiters were smoking. They stood in the warm air of a big exhaust vent.

Maisie, with no hesitation, walked over and said, "Can we get in here, too?" They didn't answer, but moved to make space for the two of us.

She fished two cigarettes and an enormous old-fashioned lighter out of her bag. She put both cigarettes in her mouth, lit them, and passed one to me. She shut the flame inside the lighter with a loud click!

"I don't smoke," I told her.

"I know," she replied. "That's why I lit it for you."

"How can you tell?" I asked.

"You didn't reach for one, and you're holding your cigarette all wrong." She smiled, but she wasn't making fun.

I put the cigarette to my lips, but in my nervousness I shoved half of it into my mouth. I pulled it out again quickly, but the workers were already laughing. I fiddled with it until it was between my first two fingers, the way Maisie held hers, but it felt funny. Finally I put it between my thumb and forefinger.

Then I took my first puff, and blew the smoke skyward. I took another puff and blew the smoke away. I wondered whether I could blow smoke rings.

"This isn't bad," I said.

"You're not inhaling," Maisie informed me quietly. "But it's okay. Don't start now."

"Why not?" I asked. Wasn't I inhaling? I drew the smoke into my mouth, kept it there, then inhaled some air through my mouth. The smoke went down my throat into my lungs, and I started hacking and coughing. I bent over, and someone gently put their hand on my back. No one laughed, and when I straightened up, one of the kitchen help handed me a glass of water.

"Oh, little girl, this is not for you!" another man said. "No smoking for you!"

"Sorry," Maisie said. "I wasn't trying to corrupt you. I just wanted company." She ground my cigarette out with her toe.

"That's... okay," I coughed. Then I drew a breath. Much better. "I'm good now."

Someone took the empty glass from me and brought me another. Then the restaurant workers went away, leaving me and Maisie alone. She lit another cigarette, but didn't offer me one.

She asked, "Is it true that you helped catch some kidnappers?"

"Yes," I said. "It wasn't a big deal."

Her eyebrows went up. "No big deal? And did you really climbed up the side of a building to get a kid's asthma medicine?"

"It was only to the third floor," I replied. "How do you know all this?"

"Mrs. Means was talking about you. She said you're a teenage action hero."

I laughed. "Not any more."

"You're going to lie low in a Catholic girls school?" she grinned.

"I hope so."

"Oh, God, I hope not!" Maisie cried. "Listen, next time you do something crazy, bring me along!"

"Okay," I laughed, "but don't hold your breath. I don't think the crazy stuff that happened in California could ever happen here. And I'm really going to try to just be a regular girl."

Maisie shrugged, then laughed to herself. "Maybe all that crazy stuff is in *you*, not California. I always thought California was pretty boring."

"Yeah, so did I," I admitted, "until–" I stopped myself.

"Until what?"

"Uh, until the crazy stuff started happening," I replied, a little stupidly. I'd almost said that it was boring until I became Marcie.

Maisie nodded and give me a wry smile. "We could use some crazy stuff happening around here."

I didn't answer. Maybe a lot of what happened to me was exciting and fun to hear about, but some of it was terrible when it happened. I didn't wish for anything exciting. Just being Marcie was enough for me.

She threw her cigarette on the ground and pressed it under her boot. Then she handed me a piece of gum. "To get rid of the smoke smell," she said. Then she looked in my eyes. "One of your eyes is red from coughing. Come here." She got something out of her purse and unscrewed it.

Quickly, decisively, she grabbed my face with her right hand, tilted it back and pulled open my eye with thumb and forefinger. Before I had a chance to react, she dropped two drops of some liquid into my eye.

"Hey!" I protested, blinking.

"Feel better?" she asked.

To tell the truth, it did. I nodded.

"Visine," she said. "Let's get back before they come looking for us."

© 2007 by Kaleigh Way

"I never thought I'd complain about this, but Mom, the skirt's too short."

"No it's not," she replied. "It looks fine."

---

 
5. Another Use For Lampposts
 

Maisie and I talked and talked. We found some chairs against the wall, far from everybody, where we sat down next to each other.

We traded stories. We got the lowdown on each other.

She told me about her parents' divorce, and how she was always going "from one hell to the other" as she put it.

We talked about school. She told me about my classmates, the teachers, and the principal. What she said about Sister Honororia, the principal, pretty much confirmed the warning Mr. Bryant had given me.

"Your old principal warned you about Honororia?" Maisie asked in disbelief.

"Yeah, he was pretty cool," I said.

"With everybody? Or just with you?"

I blushed, and that made her press the issue, so I ended up telling her about my first day of school, when I got into trouble for wearing too short a skirt.

"Oh, yeah, the nuns are crazy about that at BYHS, too," Maisie told me. "They actually take a ruler and measure the height of your skirt."

"Oh, that reminds me!" I said. "If I bring a camera on Monday, will you take a picture of me in my uniform?"

"Sure," she laughed. "For your boyfriend in California?"

I nodded, my cheeks slightly red. "Do you think that's weird?" I asked, "That he wants to see me in the uniform?"

She shook her head. "Guys are weird. For some reason, the uniform is a big turn-on for them. Go figure."

We laughed together.

---

All in all, the day was a big success. A boy had asked for my phone number and I'd made a new friend.

Mom was all excited about meeting Dad's boss and Maisie's mom, whose name is Ida. The two mothers made a date to meet for coffee on Monday "after the girls are in school."

Dad was glad and relieved to have the family together again. Once we got home, the sleep that comes after eating turkey swept over the three of us.

When we woke from our naps, Mom insisted that I get ready for tomorrow, which meant I had to try on the Blessed Yvette uniform for the first time. I have to admit, it wasn't too bad. I hadn't seen a blue plaid before. Probably after wearing it every day I'd get sick of it, but right now I didn't mind.

Tomorrow we had an appointment with the principal, Sister Honororia, at the ungodly hour of nine AM.

It would have been bad enough to make an early appointment on a day off, but what made it truly insane was the fact that Mom and I were still on California time. Meaning: it was going to be like six in the morning for us.

Plus, the nun insisted that I wear the school uniform to the appointment.

Mom thought it was a "fine idea."

"I never thought I'd complain about this, but Mom, the skirt's too short."

"No it's not," she replied. "It looks fine."

"It has to be at most two inches above the knee. This is at least three."

"I don't think that's important, Marcie. No one is going to take a ruler and measure."

"Yes, they do! Maisie told me they do!"

"She was just pulling your leg, I'm sure," Mom said.

"No, Mom. Listen, I have some experience with this: I was in trouble for two weeks in Tierson for wearing a short skirt."

"That was a tennis skirt," Mom countered. "This skirt is fine."

I tried to tug it down, but it didn't go.

Dad was getting antsy. He was hungry (we all were!) and I had to quickly change so we could go out for supper.

This time, he explained, the restaurant would be more intimate. No one from work would be there.

We were going to walk there and back. The sidewalks were (fairly) clear of snow, and my father wanted to celebrate: the new job, the new house, the family back together. He and Mom were going to drink champagne, and he didn't want to worry about driving home after.

So we walked. Or they walked. I slipped and slid and wiggled and waggled. I was unsteady, but determined to do my damnedest to keep from falling down.

Mom and Dad were arm-in-arm ahead of me, and they kept stopping as they talked. I understood that they wanted to get all lovey-dovey — parents can get weird that way. But it was driving me crazy, because they were breaking my momentum! All the stop-and-start was throwing me off balance. When we reached a corner, I scurried around to get ahead of them.

It was easier to negotiate the slippage if I could just keep moving.

After a long, slow ten minutes of walking, we reached the town center. This time, *I* was the one to stop dead in my tracks. I didn't expect it to be so nice.

It was only a few blocks long, maybe five blocks, that rose up a gentle hill. The main street was very wide, which was — I don't know, kind of relaxing in a funny way. It was as if the town was saying, Let's just spread out and have a nice little spot here. The buildings were all in the Tudor style, with dark brown beams and light cream stucco. Nothing was higher than two stories, and it was all clean and sparkly and quiet.

The most striking feature was the streetlights. I had liked the streelights in the train-station/restaurant earlier, but these were much nicer. They were taller and more elegant. They really had class. They were old iron, but they looked almost delicate, like a lovely lantern sitting at the top of a narrow tree.

Then the light itself caught my eye. The lamps were like old gaslamps. I say "like" because there was no gas. The glow came from a special bulb that seemed to move and burn like a flame. They were beautiful.

So far, I was liking Flickerbridge. I could see myself hanging out down here. The stores were definitely worth exploring. If only I had those ten thousand dollars... oh well. Still, I might find something fun for the money Mom would let me spend.

I turned to see where my parents were. They were moving slowly, about two blocks behind me. They stopped yet again. Just out of habit, I huffed in impatience, but this time I didn't really mind. It was pretty right where I was, and I felt so much like I was in the right place at the right time.

I decided to stop so my parents could catch up.

Close to where I stood was a tiny patch of sidewalk that was completely bare. No snow, no ice, no black ice. It was only six or seven inches square, but I planted myself right on it. It was great. Standing still on non-slippery ground, I felt how tense I'd gotten in all my efforts to stay upright. I moved my shoulders around and loosened up.

Just at that moment, as if by magic, it started to snow lightly. For the first time in my life, I caught snow flakes on my tongue. I tipped my head back and felt the tiny crystals fall and melt on my cheeks. They caught in my eyelashes, and danced up and down as I blinked. For a girl who'd never really seen snow, it seemed like fairyland.

Then I watched the flakes dropping steadily into the street, huge heavy flakes. It wasn't snowing hard, but it was constant.

Through the falling whiteness I saw an old lady coming down the hill toward me. She was carrying a large purse. She walked slowly, but only because she was old — she wasn't having *any* of the trouble that I had. I guess *she* had the right kind of boots!

She plodded along, sure footed, her arms bent like two angular hooks. Hmmph! If I could, I wanted to take a look at the sole of her boot, to see where I'd gone wrong.

Behind her, in the distance, somebody else clearly had the right sort of boots. At first he was only a shadow, but the shadow quickly grew, and that meant he was moving fast. In fact, he was running.

I was amazed. My boots seemed designed to make me fall. The old lady's boots let her walk normally. This man's boots actually let him run!

Soon I could tell that it was a young man, and I watched his sure-footed progress with awe. For some reason, seeing him run made me take a tiny step back, and I shimmied just a bit on his behalf. He wasn't going to slip, after all. I had to do it for him. I looked down and centered my feet on the bare spot.

He came closer and closer, never missing a footfall, and as he passed the old lady, he smoothly lifted her purse right off her arm and kept on running. There wasn't the slightest break of pace. It was a smooth, almost practiced move, and it happened oh-so fast.

Shocked by the suddenness of it, I lifted my arms and wavered unsteadily, but I couldn't speak. The old lady herself was too startled to cry out yet.

The thief's quick steps brought him directly in front of me. He growled, "Out of the way, little girl!" and gave me a rough shove.

Instead of knocking me out of the way as he intended, his blow only made me teeter more. By now, I'd had a lot of practice wobbling, and instinctively my body shifted and shook to compensate. I was practically an expert by now.

My right foot hit a patch of ice, and it slipped and shot out from under me.

Just one thought filled my mind: Don't let your butt hit the ground! Desperate to not fall, I grabbed his jacket with both hands. My hands were like tight iron claws. There was no way I was going to let go. I was NOT going down!

He cursed and twisted a little, to shake me off, which made my left foot hit the ice, and it slid away from me. In spite of my determination, it looked like I was going down. My butt was going to strike the ground after all. Worse yet, I was probably going to bring the thief down on top of me.

"Get off!" he whined, and swatted at my hands.

I scrabbled with both feet to try to stay up, still clutching his coat with both hands. It was getting ridiculous: my feet were churning like a cartoon character, and my body kept lurching up and down. A few times I accidentally kicked him while he stood still, trying to free himself from me. The way we were locked together, if he tried to get away, he was sure to fall himself.

He turned his body hard left, determined to shake me loose, but — in spite of his high-traction boots — he slipped, falling backward, and his head made a dull bonk! against the nearby iron lamppost.

Once he stopped moving, I found my little square of clear, non-icy ground, and managed to get my footing back.

By some crazy miracle, I hadn't fallen at all. The thief, on the other hand, was sitting on the ground, looking around in a daze, and he actually said, "Who hit me?"

After straightening my clothes, I reached down and took the woman's bag from his hand. I waved it at the lady, shouting, "It's safe!"

"Marcie!" my mother called anxiously.

"I'm okay!" I shouted in her direction.

A moment later, my phone was in my hand. I dialed 911 as I carefully balanced on the tiny, clean square, where I waited for the woman, my parents, and soon after, the police.

© 2007 by Kaleigh Way

"Why are you staring at me?" she demanded.

"I'm sorry," I replied, "I didn't mean to be rude. I've never seen a nun up close before."

---

 
6. Clever or Good?
 

The police put the thief in the back of the squad car and took our statements.

"Word to the wise," the first policeman told me, "It's not a good idea to tussle with bad guys. You could have gotten hurt."

"I didn't tussle," I told him, "I was just trying to keep from falling down."

The second policeman laughed, but the first silenced him with a look. Then he asked me, "What school do you go to?"

"BYHS," I replied.

"Huh?"

"Blessed Yvette's," I said in an undertone. He nodded.

---

Mom and Dad were quiet at dinner. I don't think they knew what to say.

Finally I said, "Can you see now that things really do just happen to me?"

Dad cleared his throat. "They never used to happen to you when you were a boy. Why is that?"

"I don't know."

"It's as if one day you stepped into a crazy teen-spy movie."

I laughed, but they didn't.

"It's unnerving," Dad said.

"It's frightening," Mom said.

"I don't look for it," I told them.

"Let's talk about something else," Dad said.

---

It was a nice dinner. After two glasses of champagne they began to relax and have a good time. I tried to keep my mouth shut, so they could talk and be all mushy with each other. It was kind of hard to watch, and — I couldn't help it, but I kept picturing the sleeping arrangements back at the apartment. They had given me the tiny bedroom (with its single bed), while they shared a queen-sized sofa-bed in the big room. I hoped (with a shudder) that the lovebirds could behave.

When we walked home afterward, they each took one of my arms. They said it was so I wouldn't fall down, but I know it was some sort of protectiveness. I felt like a prisoner, but I understood why they were doing it.

---

The next morning my alarm woke me at six. To my inner clock, it was three in the morning. "I can't believe it," I groaned to myself. I crawled out of bed, and made my way on hands and knees into the bathroom. Once the shower warmed up, I lay down and let the spray rain over me.

After probably twenty minutes the water woke me up... somewhat. Awake enough to wash my hair and get ready for my appointment. The reason I started so early is that we only have one bathroom, and I wanted to be absolutely sure I got all my stuff done in time, without a rush. I needed to make a good impression on this principal. If she was even half as bad as Mr. Bryant and Maisie told me, it was best to stay on her good side.

I took my time with my hair, and decided to wear no makeup or jewelry at all. While I was studying my reflection, Dad knocked on the door, so I left the bathroom to him. "All yours!" I announced.

"Your mother is still sleeping," he warned in a low, sleepy voice. "Good Lord, it's like a sauna in here!"

I put the uniform on again, this time adding a camisole under the blouse, so my bra wouldn't be so evident. Somehow the skirt looked even shorter today, though I knew it was impossible. I experimented with letting down the zipper so I could bring the hem down an inch, but it didn't work. The blouse isn't long, so it hung sloppily and showed a little skin (which is also against the dress code!). Plus, the skirt could easily fall down, since the zipper doesn't hold unless it's zipped all the way up.

There was nothing for it except to go with the non-dress-code, too-short skirt.

It seemed like a weird thematic destiny of mine.

Dad and I quietly ate breakfast together. Then he kissed his still-sleeping wife and left for work. At quarter to eight I woke her. I began to wish I'd woken her sooner! She was moving so slowly I was afraid she'd make us late.

"How long does it take to walk there from here, Mom?" I asked, as an indirect hint.

"I don't know," she replied in a lifeless tone.

"In the snow it might take a little longer," I added.

She stopped putting on her mascara to look at me. "We'll get there on time," she said.

"I just want to make a good impression!" I told her. "Maybe we should call a taxi?"

Mom stopped again and glared at me. I made the motion of zipping my lips. If I didn't talk to her, she wouldn't keep stopping.

We did make it on time, but just barely. When we got in the door of the school, I took my uniform shoes from a shoe bag and changed out of my boots into the shoes.

"Aren't you prepared?" Mom commented, in a tone of approval.

As soon as we entered the principal's outer office, the principal herself came to meet us. I almost laughed at first. Maisie should have warned me. Sister Honororia was tiny, like an elf, with small, round, wire-rimmed glasses. Her face had only a few wrinkles, but those wrinkles were deep and sharply defined. She was shorter than me, and she was in heels!

She wore the whole black outfit that nuns wear, the white bandeau across her forehead, the black veil, the black long-sleeved tunic, and the scapular, which is the long strip of cloth that rests on the shoulders, like a narrow poncho. I learned all those terms later on, and I also discovered that Honororia was the only one who wore them all. Most of the other nuns just wore simple dresses. They looked like ordinary women, except that their clothes were much plainer than an ordinary woman's.

"Why are you staring at me?" the nun demanded.

"I'm sorry," I replied, "I didn't mean to be rude. I've never seen a nun up close before."

"I assume you've never spoken to a nun before, either?"

"No."

"No, sister," she corrected. "You should address a nun as sister."

"Yes, sister," I replied.

Honororia walked around me, looking me up and down. When she returned to her original place, she asked, "Do you know why I asked you to wear your uniform today?"

"Perhaps you thought it would show my attitude, sister," I replied.

"And what attitude would I see?"

"You would see a willingness to comply, even if I am a little unprepared."

"In what way are you unprepared?"

"My skirt is an inch too short."

"If you knew it was too short, why did you wear it?"

"I only received it yesterday, sister. I'll make sure it's fixed before Monday."

"Do you know how to sew?"

"No, sister, but I can learn."

She was now standing very close to me, studying my face. "Good answers," she commented. "You should know, Marcella, that you have an advantage or a disadvantage, depending on your point of view. I already know all the other girls in the school, so I'll be able to devote more time to getting to know you. I'm interested to see whether you answer so well because you're clever or because you're good."

"Both, sister," I replied, "I could be both."

© 2007 by Kaleigh Way

As we walked away from the school, Mom said, "I think that went very well."

I looked at her in astonishment.

---

 
7. Virtuous And Ladylike Behavior
 

Sister Honoraria said, "Please have a seat." Mom and I sat down. I was watching myself the whole time, trying to move in the right way, smoothing my skirt under me, keeping my knees together and all that.

The nun watched me closely, and then walked around me, correcting pretty much everything. First she told me to put my knees together. They already were together, but I gave them a squeeze. Then: feet directly below knees, ankles together, hands on knees, head up, eyes forward, shoulders back. Throughout the rest of the interview, whenever I relaxed slightly, she was on me again to correct my posture.

"I won't give you detention this time for the short skirt," she told me, "but of course next time I'll be obliged to."

"Thank you, sister."

"I had an interesting talk with your last principal, Mr. Bryant," she said. "Apparently he took a great interest in you." She let that statement hang for a few moments, to see if any implications fell out of it. "Frankly I found his attitude to be overly indulgent. I've also been informed of your various adventures."

She said the last word as if it were dirty. "Most recently, you were fighting in the street with a muscular thief. I must tell you, Marcella, this is not appropriate behavior for a young lady."

"What?" I asked, confused. "Fighting?"

"My brother is a policeman here in town," she explained. "It was he who took your statement. Apparently you gave a rather heavy blow to the man's skull."

My jaw fell open.

"Don't gawk, girl!" she commanded.

"In spite of its size, Flickerbridge is a small town," she continued. "Wherever you go, whatever you do, no matter how you are dressed, people will know that you are a Blessed Yvette student, and they will take you as a representative of our school. If you are a brawler or worse, it will reflect badly on the school, on your classmates, on the teachers and the staff. I will have to take such episodes as disciplinary matters. Do you understand, Marcella?"

"Yes, sister," I said, my mouth suddenly dry.

"Keeping out of trouble is not enough," she said. "That's a negative virtue. You must be a positive model of virtuous and ladylike behavior, always and everywhere. That may not be fashionable, but it is right, and it is our standard here at Blessed Yvette's."

"Yes, sister," I said quietly.

"And one last thing," she said. "We have zero tolerance for gang activities."

My eyebrows went up at that, and when I didn't reply she asked, "Is that clear?"

"Yes, sister," I said.

---

As we walked away from the school, Mom said, "I think that went very well."

I looked at her in astonishment.

She was smiling. She caught my expression and asked, "Didn't you?"

"I think she wanted to chain me to a wall in the basement and beat me with a cane," I replied.

Mom huffed, irritated. "This is exactly what you need, Marcie," she said. "Virtuous and ladylike behavior. You need to learn that. And if she's a little strict, it won't kill you."

A little strict?

"I hope not," I replied, and Mr. Bryant's warning came to mind: find a way to bend without breaking.

"I could always run away," I mused aloud. I was ONLY KIDDING, I swear.

Mom looked at me, her face filled with pure terror.

"I'm joking!" I cried. Her frightened look shocked me to the core. "It was only a joke! I was joking! It's just a joke, mom! Really!" I hugged her and held her until she believed me. Honestly, I'd only said it to tease her!

"There are things you can not joke about," Mom told me.

"Okay, I'm sorry," I said. "I really am. I didn't think it would upset you!"

"Well, it did!" she replied. "Don't ever say that again. And don't ever run away! It would be so dangerous for you, and your father and I would just... die."

I let go of her and we both wiped the tears from our eyes.

"Oh, what a morning!" I said. "It must be the time change."

She laughed, which made us both feel better.

---

From the school we went to the bank, so I could open an account. Since I'm a minor, one of my parents has to be on the account as well.

While I was counting how many people were in line ahead of us, I noticed that the man who was first in line was wearing dark glasses and a floppy hat, which made it hard to see his face and hair.

"Hey, Mom," I said, smiling, "Do you think that man is going to rob the bank?" I pointed one hand like a gun, made some goofy faces, and silently giggled.

She glanced at him, then looked at me and pursed her lips. "Remember what Sister Honororia said, Marcie. Virtuous and ladylike behavior."

I sighed and rolled my eyes in the most ladylike way I knew. I didn't really think the man was a bank robber. It was just a joke about the way he was dressed. Still, my eyes followed him as he went to the teller's window, and I saw the teller's eyes widen. She was shocked by something he said.

Then her eyes went down to something that he showed her inside his coat, and she began to shake. He passed her a gray cloth bag, and she, head down, began to load it up with money. Somehow no one saw any of this except me, and I wasn't sure what to do.

"Mom," I hissed, tugging hard on her sleeve. "Mom! This is a real bank robbery!"

She looked where I indicated, but at that moment there was nothing to see.

"Oh, Marcie," she sighed.

Then the teller passed the bag to the crook. As he lifted his arm to take the bag, his gun came clearly into view. Mom's face went white. Another teller saw it, too, and so did the security guard.

The guard came walking up quickly, drawing his gun as he approached. He said, "Sir, put your firearm on the counter and keep your hands were I can see them." The guard was short and overweight, but he didn't show the slightest trace of fear. I, on the other hand, had plenty of fear, and it showed. It prickled like cold electricity all over my arms and legs, and the hair on my neck felt as if it were standing several inches high.

The robber didn't look scared at all. He lifted his gun and coolly aimed at the guard's chest. The guard had his gun in hand, but he wasn't ready to shoot. The robber got there first.

The bad guy's gun didn't waver in any way. In a cold, low voice, he told the guard, "Lay your gun gently on the floor."

The guard hesitated, just for a moment, so the robber shouted, "DO IT!" All of us in line flinched, and the guard did as he was told.

Then, in a loud, clear voice, the robber ordered, "Everybody stay calm. Nobody moves, nobody gets hurt." He told the guard to lie face down on the floor, and once the man was down, the robber used his foot to shove the guard's gun well out of reach.

Then he took a step toward the front door, gun still trained on the guard, when a police car pulled up outside, directly in front of the door. The siren was silent, but the lights were going, and they flashed and circled all through the bank.

The robber swore. Then he looked at the tellers, then at the people in line. My blood turned to ice when his eyes rested on me. "Come here, girl," he said. I didn't move. He pointed the gun at my mother and said, "Come here now or mommy gets it."

I quickly moved toward him. I heard my mother's barely suppressed whimper behind me. My heart was pounding. He grabbed me roughly, held me close, and pressed his gun against my head. He gripped me so tightly that my feet left the ground for an instant. Then he set me down, but his grip was desperate, and the gun was pressed so hard against my head that it hurt.

He was strong. His muscles were hard, as hard as bone. His heart was pounding through his chest — or was that my heart? — but his grip never loosened: it was steady and unwavering.

Two policemen had come inside, but they stopped just inside the door. Each of the cops held his gun with two hands, arms straight out, and the guns were directed at me and the bad guy. This does not look good, I thought. But there's no way that this is the end for me. I'm not going to die like this, wearing this silly uniform.

"I'm taking the girl with me," he said. "Nobody follows, nobody tries anything, or I shoot her. UNDERSTAND?" The policemen didn't respond, and they didn't put their guns down. I wondered what they had in mind. Were they going to shoot him as he held me? Wasn't that dangerous?

We moved slowly toward the door, just past the guard, who was still lying on the floor. I could see my mother crying, and it made me angry. He made my mother cry! How dare he! At that moment, something inside me said, I'm not going anywhere with this jerk!

It struck me that, however bad things were right now, it would be much worse if he took me away. Here at least there were two policemen and the guard, and all the other people. Out that door, it would be me, alone.

I had to make sure he didn't take me through the door.

If I was going to try something — anything — I had to do it now.

An idea came to me. I pictured the movement a couple of times to be sure I'd do it right, and then I let loose. I picked up my right leg and slammed the side of my foot as hard as I could against his shin. Then, with all my might, I brought it down, the hard sole of my school shoe, scraping his shin all the way, and planted my heel deep and hard in his foot. At the same time I pushed his gun as high as I could, straight up in the air.

The security guard must have seen it coming, because he was the first to react. As round as he was, he was on his feet in a flash, and quickly disarmed the robber as I gave him a fierce kick and a scrape down his other shin.

The police ran over. One of them grabbed me (and with unnecessary force, I'm sure) almost threw me out of the way. I ran to my mother, who wrapped her arms around me, crying and telling me all sorts of incoherent things.

Once the crook was safely stowed in the police car, the guard came over and said, "You're a very brave young lady. I'm glad you had the presence of mind to do what you did."

"Don't tell her that!" the tall policeman contradicted. "It was foolhardy! She could have been killed!"

Then I recognized him. He was Sister Honororia's brother. "I told you just yesterday not to brawl with the bad boys! That's what policemen are for!"

Behind him, the other policeman, his partner, gave me a shrug and a grin, to tell me he didn't agree, even if he couldn't say so.

I didn't answer. What could I say? I just hugged my mother. My mind was a wide empty blank.

After the police left, the bank manager wanted to talk to me. He brought Mom and me into his office and offered some water to drink. "I'm sorry I don't have anything better," he told us. "But honestly! I have to tell you that it was disgraceful, what that policeman said to you. It was rude and unfeeling! He spoke to you as if — as if — well, as if *you* were the criminal!" He was quite agitated, so he made an effort to calm himself. Then he continued. "If that man had dragged you out of the bank, who knows what would have happened to you? I have a daughter of my own, and I hope she'd have the pluck to fight the way you did."

Then he personally helped me open my account, and told me that he would deposit the reward money into my account as soon as some paperwork was done. Reward money? "It won't be much," he said apologetically. "It depends on the amount stolen, so I'm afraid that it will be only be something like $200."

My jaw dropped. "That's a lot of money to me!" I told him.

He laughed. "I'm glad you're pleased! I hope you'll always be our customer, in spite of what happened today." He stood and shook my hand. "And if there is ever anything I can do for you — I mean for either of you, of course — please don't hestitate to ask. Whatever I can do, I will."

I was walking on air when we left the place, but not for long. Mom and I fought all the way home, as though what happened was in some way *my* fault.

"It's because you were looking at him," she said. "You were watching him from the moment we got in line. He knew, and that's why he grabbed you. Do you understand?"

"Mom, I was the youngest person in line! He thought I'd be the easiest to handle!"

We went back and forth, getting hotter and hotter. "What was I supposed to do?" I demanded. "What would you have done?"

"I wouldn't have been there in the first place," she said, illogically.

"But you were there!" I shouted back.

I don't think we ever had such a horrible fight. When we got back to the apartment, I took off the stupid uniform as quickly as I could. Then I looked around for a door to slam or someplace to be alone. But the apartment's too small; there isn't even a closet to hide in. And it was too cold to go outside. What could I do?

While Mom was in the bathroom, I grabbed the phone. I called Maisie and asked whether I could come over.

"Hell, yeah!" she said. "Mom can pick you up. Are you ready now?"

© 2007 by Kaleigh Way

I looked up at the second floor, and saw a girl's face in one of the windows. She looked directly into my eyes, but she didn't move or wave. I was so startled, at first I couldn't tell the others, but when I did, the girl was gone.

---

 
8. In, Like, A Triangle
 

"Mom, why are going this way?" Maisie asked, in a tone that suggested that her mother was complete idiot. I like Maisie, but one thing she does that I cannot stand is the way she treats her mother.

"Marcie hasn't seen her new house. I thought we might drive by."

"Oh, thanks," I said. She smiled at me, then turned her eyes back to the road.

Maisie rolled her eyes and whispered to me, "She is such a total witch! She drives me up the wall!"

The car stopped in front of a big blue Victorian house. It sat on hill, and there were two flights of stairs from the sidewalk to the front door. I had to tip my head back to see the front door.

"Do you want to get out and see it?" Maisie's mother asked. "Nobody lives here, so we can walk around, but we can't go inside."

"Sure," I agreed. We walked up the driveway, which was steeper and had less snow than the steps. I have to say, I liked the place right off. It was big — bigger than our house in California, and there was a large porch in front with a porch swing.

Maisie lit a cigarette the moment she stepped from the car. Her mother looked at her, opened her mouth to say something, then stopped herself, tightening her lips.

I looked up at the second floor, and saw a girl's face in one of the windows. She looked directly into my eyes, but she didn't move or wave. We locked eyes for a couple of seconds. I was so startled, at first I couldn't tell the others, but when I did, the girl was gone.

Maisie's mother told me, "It must have been a trick of the light, Maisie — Marcie."

"I'm Maisie," Maisie said in a reproving tone.

"I know that!" her mother snapped. "I misspoke for a moment."

In a dismissive gesture, Maisie threw her cigarette into the snow, where it hissed out with surprising loudness. Then she turned her back and returned to the car.

I'd seen all that I could easily see of the house, and my feet were getting cold, so I wanted to go, too.

"Thanks for showing me the house," I told her mother. "I really appreciate it."

She gave me a tight smile, and followed me back to the car. I couldn't understand the tension between the two of them. Maisie had told me about the divorce and she had called her mother's house one of her "two hells," but I was having trouble seeing it.

Then I remembered the fight I'd had with my own mother today. I knew that we'd apologize and make up... eventually. Maybe Maisie and her mom had a fight and just stayed mad? Who would know? Plus, I realized that I hardly knew either of them... Maisie might have good reason to dislike her mother, no matter how nice she seemed to me.

When we got to Maisie's house, her mother got on the phone to my mother, and the two talked for a solid hour. Even if I was still mad at my mother, I was glad that she'd made a friend so quickly.

Maisie wanted to hear the blow-by-blow of my argument with my mother. For once, she didn't interrupt me.

When I was done, she almost shouted, "I can't believe it! She's mad at you because the guy grabbed you!?" She shook her head. "Adults are so messed up! It must be that once you pass a certain age, your brain dries up and hardens. That's why it quits working."

She scoffed to herself and continued, "You know what it's like? I thought of this one time, and it's true: getting older is like climbing a ladder. Becoming an adult is when you kick the ladder away and pretend it was never there."

"Not all adults are that way," I replied, feeling uneasy.

She continued, "Maybe, in the distant past, when our parents were teenagers, things were so different that they can't even comprehend what it means to be alive today."

"Oh, Maisie," I protested, and repeated, "Not all adults are that way. Hopefully we won't turn out that way."

She nodded. "That's for sure!"

It wasn't so much that I wanted to change subject, but I there was a question I wanted to ask Maisie almost from the moment we met. "Why do you smoke?" I asked her. "I've been wanting to ask you."

She looked at me for a few moments before replying. "I have lots of reasons," she said. "Good reasons. One, is for weight loss. It reduces the appetite. Two, it pisses off my mother, and she can't stop me, which is a bonus. Three, I like it. Four, it's cool."

I searched for something to say. I didn't want to preach to her.

"Look," she said, "I don't care whether *you* smoke. Nobody I hang out with smokes. Susan doesn't smoke. I don't expect you to pick up the habit, and I hope you don't expect me to stop."

"Okay," I agreed. "There was something else I wanted to ask you, and I know it's none of my business, but how come you and your mother don't get along with each other?"

"Oh, that's an easy one! And I don't mind telling you. When my parents got divorced they both fought to dump me on each other. Neither of them wanted me, so I don't want either of them."

If she had a cigarette in hand, she would have blown a cloud of smoke to the ceiling, to signify how little it meant to her.

I was stunned. How could she be so casual about it? What she'd just said was horrible — worse than horrible!

Maisie came from such a different world than me! I mean, sometimes my parents got angry or irritated with me, but I never felt that they didn't want me. Even now, when I was practically burning with anger at my mother, I knew that nothing could ever break our connection. She was always my mother, and I was always her child.

Maisie looked at my striken face, and laughed. She stretched and smiled. "Look at you! Don't worry, Marcie! It doesn't matter! Okay, so my parents are jerks. It's not the end of the world! Come on, let's not talk about that junk. Tell me about the bank robbery!"

Well, I did, but of course I had to back up a bit and tell her about the purse-snatcher, first. Otherwise, I wouldn't have been able to explain the cop's reaction.

It was Maisie's turn to be shocked. She didn't know that Sister Honororia had a brother, let alone a brother on the Flickerbridge police force. "Figures," she said. "I think *my* family's messed up, but that one just wins the prize. Could you imagine the two of them as kids?"

"Hmm," I said. "No, honestly, I can't."

Maisie wrinkled her nose and shuddered, then laughed. "Me, neither!" Then an idea kicked in: "Unless... unless... they were the worst bullies in their school!"

"Yuck!" I reacted, shuddering as well.

---

Maisie's mom invited me to dinner, and I was glad to stay. It was nice to hang out in Maisie's room. It was big and comfortable and warm, and nobody bothered us.

Then I realized that I'd never done this before. When I spent time at Eden's house, we were almost always in the rec room, working on the dance routine. I'd never been to Carla's house, and at Jerry's I was always with Jerry, but never in his room.

"Do you always wear skirts?" I asked Maisie.

"I guess," she said. "I like clothes that are bulky and loose, and it's hard to find pants that fit that way and don't fall down. I'm not really into clothes, like you. My mother buys me all this stuff and I just grab things at random. She's always like 'this-doesn't-go-with-that', but I could not care less!"

"Ah," I said. "I never really thought I was into clothes, but I guess you're right." It sounded like not being interested in clothes was a way Maisie had of rejecting her mother. I didn't completely believe that she wasn't interested in how she looked.

Maisie smiled. "I bet you read one of those fashion mags, like Cosmo or Elle."

I blushed. "I'm still trying to find the one that fits me best."

Maisie shrugged. "It's cool. I'm just not into it. Maybe when we go to a dance or something, you could pick out what I should wear."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Otherwise my mother will get involved. If I say that you picked what I'm wearing, she won't want to step on your toes, or she'll talk to you about it."

I nodded. That actually didn't sound bad. In fact, it sounded good. Maisie's mother dressed like she knew quite a bit about clothes. I could learn a lot just watching her, and if I could talk to her, it would be even better.

The more I thought about, the more I liked the idea.

---

The "dinner" was just three frozen meals, microwaved and set on plates. I got the impression that this was how it usually went. Maisie's mother asked me questions, talked to me, talked about my mother. Maisie tuned it out and didn't say a word. While her mother and I talked, Maisie made the motions of eating, but when we got up from the table, I noticed that she'd barely eaten anything.

"Wanna walk by your new house?" Maisie offered. "It's really close. You'd never guess from the way we drove here..." She rolled her eyes at her mother's inept driving skills.

It was close, but I wouldn't say it was very close — it was about five blocks away. And, to tell the truth, I was sure that we walked the exact same route that Maisie's mother had driven.

The house still looked good: big, welcoming, homey. Still, no one was inside, so the windows were dark. I scanned them for the girl I'd seen earlier, but didn't catch a glimpse.

"Do you want to see if we can get inside?" Maisie asked.

"You mean break in?"

She shrugged. "Why not? It's your house."

"No," I said. "With my luck, Honororia's brother will come by and arrest me."

Maisie laughed, and lit a second cigarette off the end of her first.

"So, uh, which way is school?" I asked her.

Maisie waved her arm vaguely ahead. "It's kinda that way... and it's too far to walk in the snow. Flickerbridge is really big, area-wise. The school, and where you live now, are way on the other side of town. When the weather is nice enough, I walk to school. It drives my mother nuts, for some reason.

"Oh, and speaking of driving, did you know our mothers are going to take turns driving us to school?" She rolled her eyes.

Suddenly goosebumps suddenly ran up my arms, and I had the feeling that someone was watching me. I turned quickly and my eyes flew automatically to that same second-floor window, but there was nothing to see — or at least it was too dark inside to see anything.

"What?" Maisie asked.

"I felt like someone was looking at me," I said.

"Ooh! Maybe it was a ghost, Nancy Drew!" Maisie laughed.

"Don't call me that," I said.

She shrugged. "Okay, if it bugs you, I won't." She was silent a moment, then said, "Hey! We could go by Susan's house! Want to?"

Susan Ash was a friend of Maisie's and she was also in our class at BYHS. We started walking, and suddenly darkness fell. The streetlights came on, and at the same moment, my cell phone rang.

"Hi, Mom," I said.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked.

"Caller ID," I said. "What's up?" I couldn't tell whether she was still angry.

"I just wanted to know where you are. Are you coming home soon?"

"I guess," I said. "I can. I'm out walking with Maisie. We went by the new house."

"Again?" she enthused. "Do you like it?"

"Yeah, I like it. It looks pretty nice. It's big. How did you know that I was there already?"

"Ida told me."

"Mmm."

"Listen, I can come pick you up. I'll come now and chat with Ida until you get back to Maisie's."

"Okay," I said and we both hung up.

Maisie seemed surprised when no one was home at Susan's house, but I was pleased to see that it wasn't far from where I'd be living.

Maisie said, "I just realized that the three of us will be living in, like, a triangle. From here it's about five blocks to your house, and um, five blocks to mine."

"Cool!" I said.

"And we'll all suffer at BYHS together," she added.

© 2007 by Kaleigh Way

The PA crackled to life, and said, "Will Marcella Donner please report to the principal's office? Marcella Donner to the principal's office."

---

 
9. Detention!?
 

Monday morning, both mothers drove us to school. Well, Maisie's mother did the actual driving. My mother was a passenger. The woman were chatting away nonstop.

"Look at them! They're just giddy!" Maisie whispered to me. Aloud, in the tone of a mother talking to children, she told them, "Now don't you girls get in any trouble while we're away."

Mom giggled, but Maisie's mother didn't react, aside from a little twitch in her jaw.

"How come Susan didn't come with us?" I asked.

Maisie's mother glanced at me in the mirror before replying. "Her mother's not very social," she sighed. "Lord knows I've tried."

"I hate to agree with my mother," Maisie commented, "but it's true. Susan's mother hardly lets her out of the house. She makes her study all the time. Chinese," she said, as if the last word explained everything.

When I frowned, she explained, "Chinese families have this work ethic, you know? Susan has to get A-plus in everything and go to an Ivy-League school. All work and no play. She has to go straight home after school."

"That doesn't sound so bad," my mother said.

"Maisie, you're giving her ideas!" I cautioned, and made a big-eyed cut it out face. Maisie grinned.

As soon as the car stopped, the two of us barrelled out of the car and ran up the walk before the Moms could get out any last motherly words.

"Oh my God!" I told her. "It's bad enough she wants to send me here..."

"Oh, don't worry," Maisie laughed. "I don't see the Ivy League in your future!"

I stopped and stared at her, and said in a voice full of offended irony, "Oh, thank you very much, Maisie Beale, for that vote of confidence! It's not like you were being rude or anything!"

"I'm just kidding, you goof!" she said with a smile. Then she shouted, "Last one in the door is a rotten egg!"

We were laughing as we fell through the front door, but at the sight of Sister Honororia, we stopped and fell silent. "Good morning, sister," we sang out together.

"Good morning, Margaret, Marcella," she said. "I hope you two weren't tearing up the street like a pair of hooligans." Without waiting for an answer, she added, "Remember: virtuous and lady-like behavior." Then she turned her back to us so she could look down the hallway. Maisie stuck her tongue out.

I grinned until Sister Honororia said, "Keep your tongue inside your head, Margaret."

Maisie frowned, shook her head and gave me a shrug that asked How does she know?

"I know everything that goes on in this school," Honororia replied, still with her back to us.

Maisie gawked at the woman's back, astonished.

"Don't gawk," the nun commanded.

I pulled on Maisie's arm and we left.

"How did she know?" Maisie asked, once we were safely out of earshot.

"There must be a reflection someplace," I said. "We can check on it later."

As we walked into homeroom, a friendly voice called, "Hey, new girl!" It was an Asian girl with long black hair and a nice smile.

"Susan?" I asked. She nodded and held out her hand. We shook.

I made a mental note that girls shook hands sitting down. I'd have to get used to not jumping up.

"Welcome to BYHS," she said as she rolled her eyes.

"Now there's three of us," Maisie said. "We can be a gang."

"Oh, but there's zero tolerance for that!" I quipped.

The three of us sat together, chatting and laughing, while a frumpy, friendly-looking woman unloaded her briefcase onto the teacher's desk. She looked around the room and when her eyes landed on me she waved, smiling. I waved back.

"That's Mrs. Wix," Susan explained. "English teacher, and our homeroom teacher."

The PA crackled to life, and led the entire school in a prayer and the Pledge of Allegiance. Then it said, "Will Marcella Donner please report to the principal's office? Marcella Donner to the principal's office." Mrs. Wix gave me a wry grin, and whispered, "We'll introduce ourselves when you get back."

As I walked through the empty halls, I wondered why I was being called. It couldn't be for running up the walk. If *that* was the problem, Maisie would have been called, too. Then again, maybe there wasn't a problem. Maybe there was some kind of paperwork or forms I had to bring home, just because I was new. Whatever it was, it couldn't be anything bad.

The stairwell and the hallway echoed with the announcements. The last echoes where fading as I entered the principal's outer office. Sister Honororia was waiting at the door of her inner office. She beckoned, and I followed.

"I daresay you know why you're here," she said, after she shut the door and we both sat down.

"No, sister," I replied, and checked my posture. The nun gave me a once-over, but didn't correct anything.

"I am glad to see that you lengthened your skirt," she commented. "Did you do it yourself?"

"Yes, sister. My mother showed me how."

"Good. Cultivate a teachable spirit. Now to the business at hand. You won't be surprised that I know about your exploit at the bank on Friday."

"No, sister."

She nodded. "I asked you to come here so I could tell you that you will have detention for the next two weeks. Normally a student would be expelled or at least suspended for doing what you did, but you're new here, and I want to give you a chance."

I was shocked. I opened my mouth and shut it, and my body twitched several times. Detention?

My first impulse was to protest that I'd did nothing wrong. However, I'd already had *that* argument with my mother — twice — and once with my father. So I waited for my second reaction, which was try to bend without breaking. I swallowed hard and said, "Thank you, sister."

Her mouth worked a little. Had she been hoping for a fight? For a protest? Was she disappointed that I wasn't crushed or angry or upset? She watched me closely, waiting for the faintest hint of battle.

When none came, she licked her lips. "Good then. You can return to class."

When I put my hand on the doorknob, I was struck by an idea. I turned around and asked, "Sister, can I ask your advice on something?"

"Certainly," she said, in a crisp, no-nonsense voice. She was ready to parry any thrust I could possibly give. But I didn't give one.

"What would you have done, if you had been in my position?"

"There at the bank?"

"Yes."

"Yes, sister," she corrected.

"Yes, sister," I repeated.

"Had I been in your predicament," she replied, "I would have prayed for the grace of God." She pursed her lips. "I certainly wouldn't have fought, like a common hooligan. You put yourself and everyone in that bank in great danger by doing that. Especially when you consider that you were wearing your school uniform. That alone should have helped you remember how you need to comport yourself."

I nodded. "Thank you, sister."

"You're welcome, Marcella."

---

"WHAT!?" Maisie shouted, when I returned to class and told her and Susan. Then, in a lower voice, "Detention!?"

"Maisie?" Mrs. Wix said.

"Sorry, Mrs. Wix." Maisie replied. "I was just surprised by something."

Mrs. Wix nodded, as if she didn't mind.

Maisie silently mouthed That's insane!

Susan gave me a smile of rueful commiseration.

"Everyone, we have a new student with us today: Marcella — or do you go by 'Marcie'?" I nodded, so she went on, "Marcie Donner, who just moved here from California. I guess you came for the snow, which is pretty early this year, hmm? Please make her welcome, girls."

I smiled and gave a little wave as I looked around the room. I was surprised to see that maybe three-quarters of the girls were Black. I guess I'll see what it's like to be in the minority, I said to myself.

Mrs. Wix picked up a book and said, "Today we'll start off with one of my favorites," and her fingers dug into the pages just in front of a tasseled bookmark.

I silently sighed to myself. It was strange that here I was, starting out again, my first day at school, with two weeks of detention. I thought about what the nun had said, about not fighting. There was no way I could do that. Honestly, being expelled from BYHS seemed like a small price to pay for staying alive.

© 2007 by Kaleigh Way

"Now," I said, "my parents want to keep a very close eye on me, and they think that Sister Honororia is just wonderful."

"Don't say her name too loud," Maisie cautioned. "She's behind you in the corner, and she's looking right at you."
 

---

 
10. The Cloths Of Heaven
 

"Tread softly because you tread on my dreams," Mrs. Wix finished.

I had never liked poetry, never read it, but at that moment I was hooked. It was the most magical thing I'd ever heard, and I wanted more of it.

"That was He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven by William Butler Yeats, girls," Mrs. Wix said again. I wrote "Yates" in my notebook so I could look it up later.

Susan looked at what I'd written, shook her head, and wrote "Yeats" on my pad.

"Thanks," I whispered.

"Marcie, just so you know, I start every class by reading a bit of poetry or a piece of prose that is exceptionally well written." I nodded.

Then she dove into the lesson, which had nothing to do with Yeats or poetry.

---

At lunch, Maisie, Susan, and I sat together. "So how does this compare to your old school?" Susan asked.

"Well...," I said, "at lunch I used to sit with two of my friends just like this..." The three of us smiled at that. "But right over there," I gestured over my right shoulder, "was the boyfriends' table, where our boyfriends had to sit."

"Really?" Maisie snorted. "It sounds like prison! It defeats the whole purpose of going to school with boys! Could you talk to each other?"

"Sure you could. The only problem was that if the teachers knew you were an item, you couldn't sit together in the cafeteria. There was a no-PDA rule."

"PDA?" Susan asked.

"Public Displays of Affection," I explained. Maisie snorted again.

"So you had a boyfriend?" Susan asked. I nodded. "What happened now that you moved away?"

"We talked on the phone a couple times since I got here..." I replied. "I really miss him."

"I didn't mean to get you down," Susan said. "I was just curious." She sighed. "I don't know if my mother will ever let me date. That's one reason she sent me here, to an all-girls school."

"Yeah, me too," I said. "I wasn't even supposed to be dating when I went out with Jerry."

"How did you manage it, then?" Maisie asked as she munched on a carrot.

I laughed. "The first time he asked me out, he wanted to take me to a movie. When I told him that I wasn't allowed to go out with him, he said we could both happen to go to the same movie, and he could accidentally buy two tickets..." Susan and Maisie laughed. "The thing was, my parents were *here*, and I was *there*, so that's pretty much how I got away with it."

"Mmm," Susan commented, looking quite envious. "Did you stay with a relative or something?"

"Yeah, my Aunt Jane."

"And she let you do whatever you want."

"Well, she wasn't supposed to... but, yeah, I guess I got away with a lot." (Talk about understatements!)

"Lucky you!" Susan commented.

"Now," I said, "they want to keep a very close eye on me, and they think that Sister Honororia is just wonderful."

"Don't say her name too loud," Maisie cautioned. "She's behind you in the corner, and she's looking right at you."

As if on cue, Honororia came to our table. "Margaret, Susan, Marcella," she said, as a greeting.

"Good afternoon, sister," I replied.

"What have you learned today, Marcella?" she asked.

Huh? I thought. I wasn't ready for the question, but something came to me quickly. "I learned that I like poetry, sister. I didn't know that before."

"And how did that happen?" she asked.

I told her about Mrs. Wix's reading.

"Ah, yes," she said. "I'm sure you can find Yeats in our school library. Susan can certainly help you find your way.

"Mrs. Wix is one of our graduates, did you know that? Class of '94. It seems like yesterday, that she was sitting at one of these tables, just like you, with—" she stopped in midsentence. Actually, it was more like she froze in midsentence.

I looked at her in surprise.

She caught my look, and willed her face into an expressionless mask. Then she took a breath and hurriedly said, "In any case, she's one of our best."

She looked at each of us in turn, then said, "Girls," as a — well, as the opposite of a greeting — and left.

Once she was gone, I said, "Mmm," with a slight grimace. "Susan, do you think you could help me in the library now?"

"Yeah, why?" Susan asked.

"I have to keep on her good side, and I know she's going to ask me about Yeats next time I see her." I sighed. "I need something to read in detention, anyway."

After a quick visit to the library, I called my mother on my cell phone. She almost sounded glad that I'd gotten detention.

Mothers!

---

Dentention wasn't so bad. At least I wasn't the only one there. It was me and another girl, but we had to sit on opposite sides of the room, and the detention nun wouldn't let us even look at each other. I didn't mind so much because I was a little sweaty and sticky from gym class. I didn't want anyone smelling me!

After I got through my homework, I read a few pages of the Yeats book. I found the poem Mrs. Wix had read, and I liked it as much as when I first heard it. I read it over and over, in fact, and even thought about memorizing it.

Looking back over my day, I had to admit that gym had been the strangest class, mostly because it was a class of seniors. Mom had set it up — it was the only way I could have gym at the end of the day, which would allow me shower at home. At least, on a normal day I could shower at home.

One thing that was clear: if I did any school activity on a gym day, I was going to be uncomfortable, unless I could figure out a way to shower alone.

Or — I could get the operation to make me all the way girl. I had to get it done soon. Mom had mentioned it when she told me about the reward money, which meant that my parents had discussed it. I knew that before I could get the operation, I had to get a new therapist and endocrinologist. I also had to wait for my parents to quit freaking out about the purse-snatcher and the bank robbery — not that *that* had anything to do with anything.

Then — not to change the subject, but — I had a funny idea. I wondered whether the public library has the Nancy Drew books... Then I wondered where the public library was. No, no, it's a stupid idea, I realized. If something else happens, they'll think I got the idea from the books... that I went looking for trouble... I had to avoid any idea of adventurous, crime-fighting teens.

When I left detention, I headed straight for the front door. Mom was there, talking to Sister Honororia. Hoo, boy. Remember: find a way to bend without breaking.

"Ah, here she is now," Sister said. The two women were smiling.

"Hello, sister. Hi, Mom."

Honororia looked at the books in my arms, and tapped her index finger on the red Yeats book. "So you found it," she said, approvingly.

"Yes, sister. I was able to read some of it during detention."

"I hope you were also able to reflect on the error of your ways," she said. I wasn't sure, but that might have been a joke. There was a kind of twinkle in her eye, but it didn't completely convince me.

"I may have," I replied. I don't know why I said it. What else was I supposed to say? It just came out of my mouth — but the nun seemed to think it was funny.

"Good! Good!" she laughed. "Well, off you go! Nice talking to you, Mrs. Donner."

As we walked home, I could see that Mom was very happy. I resolved to not burst her bubble.

"You like Sister Honororia, don't you?" I said.

"I think she's a wonderful woman!" Mom gushed.

Luckily Mom didn't see my face. To say I was taken aback is putting it mildly.

"I found out that my English teacher used to be a student here," I informed Mom. It seemed like neutral information that she might like to know.

"Oh, really?" she asked. "Mrs. Wix was a student here?"

"How do you know her name is Mrs. Wix?"

"I met her," Mom said. "I met all your teachers, while you were still out in California."

"Oh," I said, considering.

"Is that a bad thing?"

"I guess not," I admitted.

"So how was your day?" she asked.

With an effort, I managed to not sigh, and pretty much told her everything.

She just got happier and happier. Interesting.

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

"I guess I didn't think about it because there weren't any boys around."

"Oh, my," Maisie commented. "Aren't you a woman of the world!"

---

 
11. Girl, Interrupting
 

"Can we conference Susan in?" I asked Maisie.

"No," she replied. "Her parents don't let her use the phone."

"They don't let her use the phone at all?"

"No. She's never called me, and I only called her once. And that was a mistake!"

"Why was it a mistake?"

"Well, one time there was this party at school... it was a school thing, so her parents were going to let her go. I couldn't remember what time the party started, so I called Susan to ask her."

"And?"

"And she was grounded!"

"What!?"

"She couldn't go to the party."

"Because you called her?"

"Yes! Isn't that crazy? I guess they figured we were planning something bad. I don't know."

"Wow!"

"Yes, it's very wow. I felt like a jerk when I found out. So never, never call her."

"That makes absolutely no sense!"

"I told you: her family is super strict. So, what were you telling me?"

I'd almost completely forgotten! With all Maisie's interruptions... What did I want to tell Maisie? "Oh, right! When my mother and I were walking home from school–"

"Wait! Your mother walked you home from school!?" Maisie giggled. "Did she make you hold her hand when you crossed the street?"

"Oh, uh," I fumbled. The wrongness of my mother coming hadn't hit me until then. It *did* sound as if I was in third grade. "I guess I didn't think about it because there weren't any boys around."

"Oh, my," Maisie commented. "Aren't you a woman of the world!"

"ANYWAY," I continued, trying to get back to the point, "she was all gushing about Honororia, and wanted to know everything about my day–"

"Everything!? You didn't tell her everything did you? You didn't tell her anything about *me*, did you?"

Oh, lord! Maisie was so paranoid! "No, just harmless stuff. Nothing about you."

"Good! Be careful! Remember: anything you say to your mom will get repeated to mine. And I don't want mine to know anything. I wish she didn't need to know where I live."

"I get it," I said. "Don't worry. I won't even tell her I know you! ANYWAY–"

"Quit saying 'anyway', Marcie. Just tell the story."

"Okay! The thing is, I realized that she's reliving her high school years through me."

"Who?"

"My mother!"

"Oh, yuck!"

"I thought it was kind of cute. I mean, a little weird, and maybe a little creepy, but cute."

Maisie was silent for a few moments. Then she said, "I tend to forget that all mothers aren't like mine."

"Yeah, sorry."

"It's okay."

The conversation was exhausting and a little frustrating. It was so much work! All those distractions and detours! The only thing I wanted to tell her about was Mom's vicarious second childhood. I'd never seen my mother so excited and happy... I just wanted to talk about it with somebody my age.

In retrospect I could see how it would creep Maisie out. It was a little strange to me, too, but I guess that's what mothers do. Maybe it was behind her wanting to decorate my bedroom, too.

Maisie asked some questions about my dress-code punishment back in Tierson. She wanted to know how many days of detention I had, and did I think I was fated for detention and so on. I answered her questions — with many interruptions on her part.

After I hung up, I went to the kitchen. My feet were dragging. The call had worn me out!

Mom had just finished getting dinner ready, so I set the table while she put some things in the sink. Dad wasn't home yet.

"Mom?"

"Yes?"

"I was just on the phone with Maisie... Do girls always interrupt each other when they talk?"

She laughed. "Maybe you don't notice..."

"Oh, I do not!"

Mom put one index finger on the end of her nose and pointed at me with the other, laughing.

"No!"

"You just interrupted me, Marcie! You do it all the time! Ask your father if you don't believe me!"

"I never!" I protested. "There is no way I interrupt like Maisie does! You never heard her!"

"I hear you two in the car in the morning. Neither of you ever finish a sentence."

"No, that's you and Ida," I countered.

"Oh, Marcie," she began, but her smile burst into a laugh.

I scoffed, but she kept on laughing. I wasn't really offended, but I was a little miffed.

I turned my back to her, but she came over and hugged me from behind. I shook my shoulders as a gentle hint for her to get off me.

"You know, you're a lot more fun as a girl," she teased. She started playing with my hair, so I shook my head and walked to the cabinet where the glasses were.

In the midst of my irritation, I had a sudden thought: Mom was in a good mood, so it seemed like a good time to ask my big question. I gave it a shot: "Mom, do you and Dad ever talk about my getting... the operation?"

"Yes, we do. You do want to get it, don't you?"

"I wish I could get it tomorrow!" I declared. Her eyebrows went up.

"I'm glad you're so sure," she said cautiously, "but there are a couple of things to consider..."

"Like?"

"See? You interrupted me again."

"Mom!" I groaned.

"ANYWAY," she said (in exactly the same way as I said it to Maisie), "it's an operation, so you'll need four to six weeks to recover. That means it has to happen in the summer. You can't miss that much school."

"Oh," I said in a small voice.

"AND, you're supposed to wait until you're eighteen. I've spent a lot of time talking to Mr. Marks about this–"

"You have?"

She nodded. "You've gone so far, we thought it might to be possible to make it happen sooner..."

"Do you think it could happen next summer?"

She went white before she said, "We'll see," in a quiet tone, so I figured I ought to drop the subject for now. I guess she could handle the idea of it, but not as an imminent reality.

I turned back to the glasses, and after what I thought was a discrete pause, told her about Mrs. Wix reading the Yeats poem. It was just about the only thing that happened at school that I hadn't already told her.

She didn't say anything, so I snuck a look at her. Changing the subject didn't seem to be working, because she still looked a little freaked.

Just then my cell phone rang. I ran into the bedroom to get it. It was Trevor Means!

"Of course I remember you," I said, smiling, "And no, you're not interrupting dinner."

"Ah, that's good, at least," he said.

He sounded even sexier on the phone than he had in person, but he didn't sound happy at all.

---

After I put the phone down, Dad arrived, and a few minutes later the three of us were sitting around the table.

"I have some news," I announced. "Bad news for me, but good news for you."

Mom turned to look at me, and Dad raised his eyebrows.

"Trevor Means called to say that he can't go out with me."

Dad frowned and Mom gave me a questioning look.

"Apparently his mother noted his interest in me," I said, echoing Trevor's words, "and she told him that if he was dating the daughter of one of her employees, it could create complications in the workplace."

"Ah," Dad said in a careful tone.

"You don't have to pretend you're not glad," I told them both. To tell the truth, I wasn't all that upset — I was disappointed, yes — but I felt like pouting a little.

"I'm not glad," Dad told me. "Relieved is more the word. At the same time, I'm sorry for you."

"I'm not glad either," Mom said. "It's just that your life is so complicated... and a boyfriend just–"

"I know, I know," I said, a little testily.

"Oh, that reminds me," Mom said, smiling a little. "Marcie asked me whether girls interrupt a lot."

Dad chuckled, so I rolled my eyes dramatically.

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

Sister said in a quiet voice, "Come with me." I had no idea what was going to happen next, and to tell the truth, I was a little afraid. She walked to the far corner of the room, and opened a tall, dark door.

---

 
12. Detention Again
 

"Oh," I said, my mouth full of mashed potatoes. "Who is Peppermint Patty? Do either of you know?"

"Um, yeah," Dad said. "Don't you know Peanuts? And don't talk with your mouth full."

I thought for a moment and shook my head.

"Charlie Brown?" he prompted. "Lucy, Linus, Snoopy?"

"Oh, right," I said. "I thought it was just called Charlie Brown."

"No," he said. "And Peppermint Patty... who was she? Peppermint Patty is the tomboy, right, Linda?"

"I think so," Mom said. "Why?"

"In gym, the senior girls kept asking me where Peppermint Patty was."

A light went on in Dad's brain.

"Oh, right! Peppermint Patty's best friend was called Marcie. She was this dorky girl with glasses. She always calls Peppermint Patty 'sir'."

"Umm," I said. "How nice."

Dad chuckled in spite of himself.

"If you ignore it, they'll probably stop saying it," Mom suggested. "Besides, none of your friends look like Peppermint Patty, do they?"

"And I don't look dorky, right?"

Unfortunately, Dad was thinking — about something else. So instead of answering my question, he said, "I've got one of those Peanuts books someplace. I'll get it after din–" He stopped dead, then said, "No, I won't. It's in storage."

The three of us were doing that all the time. You'd think of something, a book, a tool, a funny little thing you want to show someone, and just as you were going to go get it, you'd remember: it was in storage. It just kept happening, over and over.

Most of my stored stuff was Mark stuff, so I didn't miss it much, but even so, I couldn't wait until it was all unpacked and available.

So I could throw it all away, I suppose.

"I'm pretty sure we'll get a closing date tomorrow," Mom said, literally crossing her fingers. "It might be as soon as Thursday or Friday."

"Oh, God, I hope so," Dad and I said at once.

We were *all* tired of the close quarters.

"But wait," I said. "If the date is tomorrow, how could it be Thursday or Friday?"

Mom gave me a look. "Tomorrow they will give us the date, which could be–"

"I get it, I get it," I said quickly.

---

We talked about the new house for a bit, but I didn't tell my parents about seeing the girl in the window.

Why? Well, I wasn't sure whether I'd imagined it. If she really was there, she'd probably just gone in on a lark, just to sneak into an empty house. She couldn't be living there. Mom and Dad have been through the place several times already. They would have noticed. Besides, I was pretty sure I'd recognize the girl if I saw her again, so if she broke anything... But anyway, once we moved in, I knew Dad would change all the locks and make sure the house was secure. It was one of the first things on his to-do list.

There *was* something I wanted to talk to Mom about, though. "Mom, I think I'm going to need more uniform blouses for the next two weeks."

"Marcie, you interr– oh, never mind. Why do need more blouses?"

"I have to go to detention after gym, and I can't shower. So I have to sit there, all funky, for an hour."

"Mmm," Mom said. "I'll get you some more. Maybe you could clean yourself with some baby wipes..." Her voice trailed off.

"Huh?"

"I did that once in an airport. You just go into a bathroom stall and, you know, use them..." She waved her hands around her underarms and upper body, holding an imaginary baby wipe. "It's not horrible."

I silently passed on that option, and said, "I'm okay with blouses for tomorrow and Wednesday."

Then, after a pause, I licked my lips and threw this out to them: "You know... if I had the operation, I wouldn't have this problem."

It was my father's turn to go white. My mother just bit her lip.

"She brought this up earlier," Mom said. "I told her what we'd discussed. Marcie, you can't push this. Nobody switches from boy to girl in the space of a couple of months."

Dad wiped his mouth. "Doctors have protocols they have to follow. We have been working on this, though, since you've come so far in other areas." He reddened a little. "AND since you're so actively interested in dating."

He cleared his throat. "About that: I hope you understand that we're primarily concerned about your safety..."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"I mean, we worry that someone might accidentally find out that you're not... all girl."

"Oh."

"The point is, we don't want you to get hurt. At the same time, we don't want you to be... how can I put it..." He sighed and said, "sexually active."

"Ohhh," I said, getting it. "You don't want me to think that if you help me get the operation, that you're giving me some kind of license..." Now it was my turn to get embarrassed.

"Exactly," Dad said grimly. "I'm glad we understand each other."

I ate in silence for half a minute, and had some trouble swallowing.

Dad continued, "We do have to find you a new endocrinologist and a new therapist. We made an appointment for you with someone Mr. Marks recommended. We'll see whether you like him, and whether we like him."

"When is that?" I asked.

"Saturday at nine."

I groaned.

"It's a small price to pay, if you really want to do this," Dad said, a little irritated.

"I know," I said. "I'm not complaining about that."

"Good."

"It's just that it's so early in the morning!"

My father shook his head, but he smiled.

"We are still on California time," Mom admitted.

---

Even if I'm not tall, I never felt little until the next day in gym. A lot of it is due to the age difference: I'm the only freshman in a class of seniors, so they're all three years older than me.

Plus, we were playing basketball, which I've never been good at. I thought that girls wouldn't be as competitive and mean as boys, but I was wrong. Many of the girls in the class are on the team, and they pretty much played by themselves while the rest of us ran back and forth trying to catch a rebound.

Everyone — even the girls who weren't basketball players — seemed to be at least a foot taller than me. I'm in the land of the giants, I told myself.

Okay, so they weren't really *that* tall, but still... I had to look up to virtually everyone.

One of the seniors, who was a little geeky, took pity on me and explained that the gym teacher was also the basketball coach. "You just have to do two things: keep moving, and keep your arms in the air when you're near your basket." So I did that, but still the coach kept yelling unintelligible things at me.

We hadn't played for very long when Mara, a big-boned basketball star, gave me a hip-shot that knocked me off the court. I didn't expect it, so I fell like a ragdoll on the sidelines. Of course the teacher missed seeing what Mara did, so she yelled at me to get back in the game! Mara hung out her tongue and laughed.

It didn't bother me much the first time, but when she did it a second time, I got angry. The coach yelled at me again, so I pointed at Mara and shouted, "She knocked me down!"

"No excuses!" the coach yelled. "Get in the game!"

The third time, I saw it coming. Mara was coming up fast and hard. She shifted, turned, and cocked her hip. I dropped flat to the floor, so that when her hip swung, it met no resistance. She stumbled, falling over me, and she went down hard. Her legs hurt me a little as she fell, and her big clunky sneakers scratched my thigh, but I quickly slid away from her and jumped up smirking.

Not for long! Mara's face twitched with anger, and the coach was suddenly behind me. She grabbed both my arms and marched me off the court.

"Right now! Office! Detention!" she barked as she pushed me toward the door.

"What!?" I shrieked. "Why is okay when she does it?"

"She's a basketball player!" the coach shouted. "Now move!"

As I headed out of the gym, I looked back at Mara, who sat on the floor, smiling wickedly, with the ball on her lap.

Glistening with perspiration and red-faced with anger, I made my way through the empty hall to Sister Honororia's office. Another detention!

Sister herself was standing in the outer office. Her secretary wasn't there, and Honororia was looking through some papers.

"Marcella," she said in a questioning tone. "What brings you here?" Her voice was strangely different: calm, almost tired. It didn't have its usual edge.

I told her the story, and she surprised me by listening to the whole thing without interrupting or reacting.

The way she looked at me, I was very conscious of how sweaty and angry I looked. Part of me was wondering what the correct "virtuous and ladylike behavior" was supposed to be, but I couldn't come up with anything.

When I finished talking, Sister said in a quiet voice, "Come with me. I want to show you something." She walked into her office and I followed. I had no idea what was going to happen next, and to tell the truth, I was a little afraid. She led me to the far corner of the room, and opened a tall, dark door.

I remembered my fear that she wanted to lock me in the basement and beat me with a cane, but when I looked inside the door, all I saw was a large bathroom with very old fixtures. What in the world? I didn't get it. Then she spoke.

"This is my private bathroom," she said. "While you have detention this week and next week ONLY, on the days when you have gym, you may shower in here. I'll make sure you find a clean towel."

"Th-thank you, sister." I was utterly and completely shocked.

She shut the door, and walked back to the outer office, where she picked up a pad from her secretary's desk. Without looking at me, she said, "I would appreciate it if you don't mention this liberty to any of the students."

I quickly said, "No, sister."

"And don't touch or look at anything in my office. I'm sure I'd notice." She scribbled something on the pad and ripped off the top sheet. "Give this to your teacher," she said. "It says that you have detention today, which is true." She looked into my eyes, but it was an expressionless look.

"Thank you, sister."

"One more thing: I'm taking away one of your detentions. A week from Thursday will be your last detention. Understood?"

"Yes, sister. Thank you, sister."

"Now go," she said. "And remember."

I ran back to class, and managed to look a little hangdog as I gave Coach the note. She tucked it into the papers on her clipboard and said, "Get back in the game, Donner."

---

Honororia wasn't there when I showered. It was certainly a relief to be clean for the hour of detention. Once again, the same girl was there, and once again we couldn't sit together or talk. Since we weren't supposed to look at each other, I couldn't get a good view of her, but I didn't think I'd seen her during the day in the halls or the cafeteria.

I finished my homework, read some poems, and thought a bit. It was odd, the way that Honororia had been nice to me. She hadn't made any comment at all on my story. Nothing about who was to blame or what I should have done. I wondered what was behind it. Maybe she had a problem with Coach? Maybe I caught her in a good mood?

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

Mom paused and looked at me for a moment. "I don't understand why that girl can't talk to her own mother."

"I can't speak for Maisie," I protested.

---

 
13. A Shiver of Excitement
 

I didn't tell anyone about Sister Honororia's kindness. Not even my mother. I was pretty sure that she'd tell Maisie's mother, and who knows who she would talk to.

To tell the truth, I didn't get a *chance* to tell my mother. She wasn't there when I left detention, so I walked home by myself. A lot of the snow had melted and all the sidewalks were clear. I started thinking about what it would be like when we moved across town. It was nice, being able to walk home. After we moved, I'd have to get a ride every day. Maisie said we could walk in nice weather, which meant we had to get a ride when the weather wasn't so nice. This was something I'd have to figure out. I didn't want to depend on someone else to get home.

When I walked into our apartment, Mom was on the phone. It didn't take long for me to figure out that she was talking to Ida, Maisie's mother. Mom sounded all happy and excited — "giddy", like Maisie said. I was glad for her. I know she had friends back in California, but not like this — so close and giggly, like kids. I wondered whether Dad was making friends, too...

I changed into the short skirt that Eden had gaven me and a t-shirt. It was pretty warm in the apartment. Then I flopped down on the couch with the Cosmo from Cassie. I mostly looked at the pictures, even the ads, just absorbing the clothes, the shoes, the hair, the looks, the poses... as I did I realized something. I was never really interested in girls. I mean, dating girls, kissing girls... none of that stuff ever entered my head. I did admire the way some girls and women looked, and now that I had the chance to look that way too... well, that's what I wanted all along. I went back to the beginning of the magazine and started looking for a girl whose coloring was similar to mine.

Mom hung up and rushed over to me. "I've got big news!" she said. Her eyes drifted to my legs, and I saw the isn't that skirt a bit too short, young lady? thing coming up, but it never got out — it was trumped by whatever it was she wanted to tell me. "GREAT big news! I've ready told your father. We're closing tomorrow!"

"Tomorrow?" I repeated. "So we can move in..."

"Tomorrow!" she replied. "After the closing, the house is ours! The earliest I could get the movers to come is Friday morning. Your father is going to take off work–"

"I could take off school," I offered hopefully.

"Nice try," she grinned, "but no. You wouldn't be any help on moving day. The movers will do all the work. But don't make any plans for the weekend. If any of your friends want to come and help, they're welcome, but they have to be ready to work. Ida will be there... you can invite Maisie."

She paused and looked at me for a moment. "I don't understand why that girl can't talk to her own mother."

"I can't speak for Maisie," I protested.

"She must have told you something," Mom persisted.

"Will you tell me what Ida's said about it?" I hazarded, hoping for a no.

"No, of course not!" Mom snapped.

I smiled. She understood. We each had to keep our own friend's secrets.

"Okay, Miss Smarty-Pants. In any case... about the house: tomorrow after school, Ida will pick you up and bring you to the new house, and we — WE, got it? We will do as much cleaning as possible."

"Remember, I have detention," I said. For once, I was glad about it. "Friday, too."

"Hmmm." Mom considered this. She was probably thinking of calling Sister Honororia to see if some arrangement could be made. Then she let the idea go. "All right. But make sure you do all your homework while you're in there — Friday, too — and be ready to work afterward."

Then she floated off, singing some goofy song about "moving on up" as she got dinner ready. I kept flipping the pages of Cosmo, but I couldn't really concentrate.

Suddenly the singing stopped and Mom re-emerged from the kitchen, her hands dripping. "Marcie? Go pick out some work clothes for tomorrow. I'll bring them with me so you can change when you get there. Something that can get dirty. Don't forget whatever shoes, socks, underwear you need."

"Okay," I said without looking up. "Shoes, socks, underwear."

Mom didn't move. She stood in the doorway, waiting.

"I meant now," she said.

"OKAY!" I jumped up and picked out my sneakers, a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and a do-rag to tie up my hair. Plus the incidentals (socks, underwear). I put the sneakers in a plastic bag and threw everything into my gym bag. Then I left the bag by the front door. Mom went and checked it.

"Don't you trust me?" I asked.

"Of course I do," she answered. "But you might innocently forget something that would prevent you from working..."

"Oh, Mom," I groaned.

---

At dinner, Dad seemed a little nervous. "Aren't you happy?" Mom asked.

"Sure," he said. "It's just that there's a lot to do."

She waved her hand dismissively.

"Oh, I almost forgot! I found out that our house has a name!" she announced. "It's called the Villa Sabatino."

"Why?" I asked.

"Because it was built by a man whose last name was Sabatino in the 1920s, and he gave the house his name. His family lived in the house ever since — well, except for the current owner, who apparently never actually lived there. So, the house really only belonged to two families: the Sabatinos and now the Donners!"

"The twenties isn't all that long ago," Dad puzzled. "I wonder..."

For some reason the face of the girl I'd seen in the window came to my mind, along with Maisie's voice saying Maybe it was a ghost, Nancy Drew!

I shivered.

"What's wrong?" Mom asked.

"Oh, nothing," I said. "Just a shiver."

"A shiver of excitement," she commented, smiling.

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

"Who's Mark?" Susan asked, suddenly very interested.

Maisie responded by pointing at me.

---

 
14. Outed Already?
 

For some reason, I had to walk to school on Wednesday. Mom was busy and couldn't explain why Ida wasn't coming. I figured there was a blow up between Maisie and her mother, and that Ida didn't want to make a scene in front of Mom and me. As badly as I felt for Maisie and her Mom, I was glad to be able to walk a bit, and it was nice to be alone for once. Even if it was cold, it was a clear, sunny day. The air felt very clean, and aside from gym class I really hadn't had much movement since we arrived.

Soon — this weekend! — we'd be in the new house... It would be my third move in four months!

I thought about inviting Maisie and Susan to help with the move, then stopped dead in my tracks. I pictured the moving men carrying all our boxes out of storage, and that's when it hit me: What did I have in storage? Boy clothes, boy furniture, a boy's bicycle, boxes with "Mark" written on them... How could I possibly explain? The two girls who were probably going to be my closest friends would know I used to be a boy!

Sure, they'd want to help me unpack... they'd want to see my stuff, my clothes...

This weekend looked like a shortcut to disaster!

So what if I didn't invite them? Would they be offended? Susan, maybe not. Her parents probably wouldn't let her come, anyway. Maisie? She would be offended for sure. She's so touchy, she'd end up hating me the same way she hates her mother!

Speaking of which, I remembered Mom telling me that Ida would be helping. So if Maisie doesn't come, it will be an absolute, undeniable snub.

What was I going to do?

I fished for my cell phone and took a quick look around. There was no one, except for a woman about a block away, walking toward me.

I pushed the speed dial to call Mom. The phone rang and rang, but she didn't answer. Maybe she was in the bathroom? I waited. And waited. I must have heard ten rings. Didn't we have an answering machine? (Of course we did. It was in storage!)

The woman was getting closer. She paused in front of the school, as if she was going to go up the walk, but then she looked at me and put her hand on her chin. She was a thin black woman with curly black hair. She wore a long purple silk dress that clung to her and moved as she moved. Her coat, which hung open, was black and fur trimmed. She had an hourglass figure, amazing legs, and the most beautiful face I've seen in real life. I was in awe. It was like seeing a movie star.

And I wasn't the only one staring at her. A man in a car fell under her spell, and he cut his speed down to a crawl. I saw his face tracking her as he passed in front of the school. He moved at a slow constant rate, but all his attention was on her.

She suddenly moved toward me, and I realized that my call home was still ringing. Mom hadn't answered. I closed the phone and put it away. I didn't want anyone to hear this conversation, not even a stranger.

It turned out she wasn't a stranger.

"Marcie?" the woman asked when she was in front of me. "Marcie Donner?"

"Yes," I said. "I'm Marcie Donner."

"Ah!" she said, delighted. "I'm Yvette Overmore. I am your French teacher!"

"Pleased to meet you," I said, shaking her outstretched hand. "How did you know my name?"

"It's a small school, Marcie. Yours is the only new face. I see an attractive young lady in our school uniform, but I don't recognize her. Who else could it be, but Marcie Donner?"

Ms. Overmore was simply charming. I felt like I'd been lifted up, welcomed, flattered.

Over her shoulder I saw the man's face, still transfixed. His car was moving with impossible slowness. He wanted to make his vision of her last as long as humanly possible, and as we stood there, he plowed right into another car that was pulling out of a parking space. There was a loud, long sound of crumpling metal, followed by the sounds of two men shouting at each other.

"I think we should go," she said, with a mischievous twinkle, and took my arm.

As we made our way up the path to the front door, I said, "That man hit the other car because he was staring at you."

"Oh, yes?" she smiled. "Are you saying I'm responsible for that accident?"

"Not responsible," I fumbled.

"How do you know he wasn't staring at you, you little minx?" she countered in a sly tone. I knew it wasn't true, but I felt incredibly buoyed by her remark, and as the two of us entered the school, I had a big sunny smile.

I was still smiling when we encountered Sister Honororia.

"Good morning, Ms. Overmore, Marcella," she said. "Marcella, could I have a word?"

---

"What did Honororia want with you?" Maisie asked when I sat down in homeroom. Mrs. Wix was busy unloading her briefcase.

"She wanted to know if I was moving soon."

"Are you?" Susan asked.

"Oh, yeah, my mother said!" Maisie threw in. "Can I come help?"

"Me, too!" Susan said.

"Can you get out of the house?" I asked.

"Sure," she said. "For something like that, yeah. I might have to bring my little sister, if that's okay."

"Yeah, I guess... sure," I replied. I'd have to figure out the Mark issue before Saturday morning! "Oh, hey, I found out that our house has a name!"

"A name?" Susan asked.

"Yeah. It's called the Villa Sabatino." The moment I spoke, Mrs. Wix dropped her books. They clattered and banged to the floor. The class stopped talking and looked at her. She had a strange expression... as if she'd seen a ghost. A strand of hair fell into her face, but she left it there.

"What did you say, Marcie?" she asked in a strained voice.

"I'm moving this weekend, Mrs. Wix."

"After that."

"My new house has a name. It's the Villa Sabatino."

Mrs. Wix face went white. "Really," she said, breathless. I thought she was going to faint. "Interesting."

One of the girls in the first row jumped up and gathered the fallen books. Mrs. Wix sat down heavily, pulled over one of her books, and opened it. I noticed that she was holding it upside down.

Then the PA cracked to life and the morning prayer began.

---

It didn't take long for the mystery to be explained. Second period was French. I don't know a word of the language, but for some reason, I had to "audit" the class. Before class began, Susan, Maisie, and I sat together. We were talking about Mrs. Wix's strange reaction, when Ms. Overmore glided over and asked in a friendly way what we were talking about.

"You're thick as thieves," she laughed in her beautiful, throaty voice.

When I told her what had happened with Mrs. Wix, she said, "Oh!" with great surprise, and the smile dropped from her face. "Hmm. I understand; I understand. Marcie, that house is where your Mrs. Wix grew up. Her maiden name is Sabatino." She looked at me for a moment, then glanced at Susan and Maisie. Her demeanor was quite serious. She seemed to want to say more, but considered her audience... and decided to stop there.

She turned abruptly and walked away.

"Well, girls, back to our sheep, as the French say..." and so began my first French class.

---

"That's pretty strange, isn't it? That you'd live in Mrs. Wix's old house?" Susan said. We were sitting at our usual table in the cafeteria.

"I wonder how Ms. Overmore knew it was her house," I puzzled.

Maisie nibbled on the end of a single french fry. "You know what I wonder?" she threw out, and looked at me. "I wonder about the whole Mark business. What's that all about?"

"Who's Mark?" Susan asked, suddenly very interested.

Maisie responded by pointing at me.

Susan frowned. "Another boyfriend?"

"No," Maisie corrected. "She's Mark. Or at least she used to be."

My face was red, and I was paralyzed with fear. Where did this come from? How much did Maisie know? Had she heard the tomboy story? I had to assume that that's what she was talking about. My mother probably told Ida, who told Maisie... I stammered, "I used to... ah..."

"She used to want to be a boy," Maisie filled in, with a mocking smile. "She wanted to be called Mark."

She suddenly paused, and said, "Mark Donner," as if the name rang a bell. I was terrified. It seemed as if a rift had opened in the cafeteria floor and my feet were slipping at the edge.

How in the world could she know Mark? I *never* knew Maisie before — I was quite sure of that. And I'd never heard her name before, so how could she possibly have heard mine? Sure, she came from California, but California's a huge place. The chances of our ever being anywhere near one another were infinitesimal!

I had to keep my grip: I couldn't freak out.

In that moment I realized that I didn't know where she lived in California. When we first met in the restaurant we had so many things to talk about that we never got to that one detail.

For sure, I couldn't ask her now, or she'd realize I had something to hide.

"Why in the world would you want to be a boy?" Susan asked.

Maisie looked like she was still turning my old name over in her mind.

"Oh," I groaned. "I don't want to talk about it."

I wished I had talked to Mom before I had this conversation. Was I going to be outed already?

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

"Look at this, though!" I said, pointing to a comment in italics. It read The "evil twin".

"Whoa! What does that mean?" Maisie asked. "Mrs. Wix, evil? I don't believe it. It's impossible."

---

 
15. Pray For Her Soul, Girls
 

"Why on earth would you want to be a boy?" Susan repeated.

"I don't know," I said, squirming. "I was stupid. What can I say?"

"I can't imagine..." Susan said. She looked at me as though she was trying to mentally subtract my female attributes. Then she shook her head. "And you made people call you Mark?"

"Can we talk about something else?" I begged.

"Like what?" Maisie asked, as she crunched on a piece of celery.

"Like how Ms. Overmore knew that, ah... how did she know that my house was where Mrs. Wix grew up?"

"Oh, that's easy!" Susan said. "They used to go to school here together. They were classmates."

"How do you know that?" I asked.

"After Honororia told us that Mrs. Wix was a student here, I went to the library and found the old yearbook. It turns out that they were friends back then."

"Friends?" I asked. "Mrs. Wix and Ms. Overmore? Friends? I didn't even think they were the same *age*!"

It was hard to think of two people more different, or of a more unlikely friendship. One woman was fashionable, young, and energetic, and the other was old, frumpy, and slow. (And honestly, I'm not trying to be mean! I really like Mrs. Wix.)

Susan nodded and gave a cute shrug.

"I don't think they're friends now," Maisie commented. "They avoid each other in the hall, and they only talk when they *have* to. And then, they're really stiff with each other."

"Huh," I said. "Can we go look at that yearbook after lunch?"

Susan nodded.

Maisie said, "Anything you say, Mark."

"Don't call me that!"

---

The three of us crowded together at a library table, Susan in the middle. "You have to see this picture on page 19," she said, opening the book to a photo of the teenaged Wix and Overmore, smiling and holding a poster together.

Ms. Overmore was even more striking back then: her cheeks were fuller, her skin looked a little darker, and she had a sassy smile that looked like something out of a fashion magazine. The young Mrs. Wix was cute, pale, big eyed, slim, and smiling. Very different from the Mrs. Wix we knew.

The two girls were shoulder to shoulder, and looked like the best of friends. "See?" Susan said. "I told you!"

Maisie read the caption aloud, "Misty Sabatino and Yvette Collinson designed the fund-raiser's poster."

"Misty?" I echoed. The name didn't suit Mrs. Wix at all. I couldn't imagine anyone ever calling her Misty.

"It must have been her nickname," Susan said.

"Yeah, but...," I objected.

Pointing to the young Ms. Overmore, Maisie noted, "Her name used to be Collinson." She tapped her index finger loudly. "That means that Ms. Overmore was married, too — or is married."

The was married too jarred my ear, so I asked, "Is Mrs. Wix *still* married?"

Susan and Maisie replied with one voice, "Mr. Wix was killed in a car accident."

I was startled, and they both laughed, which startled me even more.

"Oh, we shouldn't laugh..." Susan began, putting her hand on her lips.

"... but it's an old, tired story..." Maisie continued, rolling her eyes.

"Mrs. Wix tells it all the time. Don't worry, you'll hear it. It's the tragedy of her life," Susan concluded. Her mouth was working as if she was trying not to laugh.

Maisie caught my look and said, "Oh, come on! We're not heartless. It's just that after you hear it ten times... twenty times... I don't know. It kind of loses its punch."

I wasn't convinced, but didn't feel like arguing the point.

Susan looked at me with raised eyebrows and a little smile. "Back to the pictures?"

She turned to the individual portraits, and found Ms. Overmore.

"She was already beautiful," Maisie commented.

"She's amazing," I agreed. "She could be a movie star."

"And here," said Susan, turning pages, "is Mrs. Wix." She showed us a photo captioned, "Margaret (Maisie) Sabatino."

"Oh, crud!" Maisie cried, "She's a Maisie! I picked this nickname because nobody else would have it. And who has to be Maisie but that old cow!"

"Maybe nobody calls her that now," I offered.

Susan nodded. "The other teachers all call her Margaret or Marge."

Maisie huffed with great indignation, but Susan's comment seemed to mollify her, at least a little.

"Look at this, though!" I said, pointing to a comment in italics under the name. It read The "evil twin".

"Whoa! What does that mean?" Maisie asked. "Mrs. Wix, evil? I don't believe it. It's impossible."

I had an idea. Mrs. Wix's picture was the last one on the right-hand page. I reached over and turned the page, and there was the answer: the first picture on the next page was Mrs. Wix's twin!

"Mary (Misty) Sabatino," Susan read. "She has a twin!"

Under her name was written In Memoriam.

"Had a twin," I commented.

"Freaky," Maisie said.

Suddenly, a voice behind us made us jump. It was the librarian. "Can you girls please keep it down? There are people here trying to study. It *is* a library, after all."

"Sorry, sister," we three sang.

Her eyes fell on the book, where Susan's finger rested under Misty's picture. "Oh, Misty," she said sadly.

"Did you know her?" Maisie asked.

"Of course I knew her. Didn't you know? I've been here since the dawn of time." The nun smiled thinly. "Misty was a wonderful girl, always positive, full of life. And she loved to dance." She gazed at Misty's picture with a pious look, and said in a church whisper, "The poor girl died March 17, 1993."

"The day I was born," I said.

"St. Patrick's Day," Susan said in the same moment.

"Mmm," the librarian said, making a point of ignoring our references. "She was killed by a drunk driver. Pray for her soul, girls, and keep your voices down."

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

Maisie asked, "Why do you go to therapy? I know why I go — I've been screwed over by my parents. But why do you go? There's nothing wrong with you. Is there?"

"Uh, it's kind of personal," I replied.

---

 
16. Someone To Tease
 

Maisie grabbed the yearbook from Susan's hands and rifled the pages. She was impatient with Susan's slowness in going through the book. "Oh, look at this!" Maisie said, turning the book toward us, showing one of the last pages.

It was a tribute to Misty Sabatino: a collage of pictures of her. There was one of the twins (her and the young Mrs. Wix) with their heads together, but all the rest were Misty alone. In some she was dancing, in one she played a guitar. You saw her laughing, walking to school...

"Look," Susan said, "She's smiling in all of them except this one." She pointed to a small photo off to the side of the collage. It showed a pale, big-eyed Misty staring straight into the camera.

"She looks so sad!" Maisie commented.

"Like a little lost girl," Susan added.

I froze. It was unmistakably the girl I saw in the window. It couldn't be anyone else.

"What?" Maisie asked, catching my expression.

"Nothing," I said with a shiver. "It's just awful that she died so young."

I wasn't sure I wanted to tell anyone that I'd seen Misty's face in the window. I could still believe I'd only imagined it, but that was a little harder now that I recognized the face. Then again, maybe I was only fooling myself into thinking that it was Misty's face I'd seen. It could easily have been a girl who looked like Misty. It could even have been someone from the Sabatino family, a teenage girl who wanted to look around her family's house before my family moved in.

"So, it's a mystery," Susan said.

I realized that I missed something. "What's a mystery?" I said.

"I knew you were off in the clouds!" Maisie laughed. "This should be right up your alley, you girl detective, you."

"I'm not a girl detective," I said.

Maisie shrugged.

"So what's the mystery?" I repeated.

Susan answered, "Why Mrs. Wix was the evil twin. It looks like Ms. Overmore was friends with Misty, not Ma– Mrs. Wix."

Maisie said, "I wonder whether Ms. Overmore blames Mrs. Wix for Misty's death?"

"Oooh," Susan said. "A guilt trip." She flipped to one of the pages in front, then nodding said, "Ms. Overmore was on the yearbook staff. She could have made the tribute and slipped in the 'evil twin' comment."

Maisie continued, "Maybe Mrs. Wix is so dowdy because she feels it's her fault."

This was the side of Maisie that I didn't like at all. She could be so incredibly unkind. "I like Mrs. Wix," I said.

Maisie looked at me for a moment, and said, "You would, Mark."

At first I felt distress, but then remembered my mother's suggestion about the Peppermint Patty comments: If you ignore it, they'll probably stop saying it. Maisie was only trying to get a rise out of me. So I smiled.

Then something struck me. "Wait. If Misty was killed by a drunk driver, how could it possibly be Mrs. Wix's fault?"

Maisie shrugged.

"I don't know either," Susan replied, "but what else could the evil-twin remark be about? I doubt that Mrs. Wix put that under her own picture. I mean, who was the driver?"

The three of us sat looking at each other until Maisie said, "So what's next? Is there somebody we could ask?"

Susan replied, "I think I can get to the public library tomorrow night. I could look through old issues of the Flickerbridge Sentinel. We know the date, so it shouldn't take me long to find the story."

"Good thinking," Maisie admitted. Then added, "Better you than me!"

---

When I got out of detention, Ida's car was waiting for me. I was a little excited; this would be my first view of the inside of my new house. And there was a surprise waiting in the car: Maisie, dressed in jeans. "Hey, girl!" she called to me.

"What are you up to?" I asked.

"I'm helping you clean your new house," she replied. I smiled. "I do know how to clean," she informed me. "You'll see. Everything shiny, clean, and manageable."

"Cool," I said.

Ida broke in. "I have a message from your mother, and a menu for you to look at. The message is, your therapy appointment is moved to next Saturday. Here's the menu. I need to know what you want for dinner so I can put the order in."

As I tried to scan the menu, Maisie said, "Why do you go to therapy? I know why I go — I've been screwed over by my parents. But why do you go? There's nothing wrong with you. Is there?"

"Uh, it's kind of personal," I replied.

Maisie gave me a look of disbelief. "What do you mean personal? I'm your friend. You can tell me."

"I can't," I said.

She looked genuinely shocked. "Marcie," she protested. "You have to tell me! I'll let you read my diary if you tell me."

"You keep a diary?"

"Yes, Miss Goldenflower makes me," she said. "She's my therapist."

"I wish you wouldn't call her that," Ida scolded. "You know that's not her name. And you can't ask Marcie that question. Let a girl have her secrets."

Maisie looked daggers at the back of her mother's head. "But you're going to ask Marcie's mom, though, aren't you? If you haven't already. When you find out, will you tell me? I'll be a loving daughter if you do."

Ida scoffed. "Hardly," she replied. I wasn't sure which part of Maisie's remark she was replying to, but it didn't matter.

"Let me think about how to tell you," I said.

"Okay," Maisie replied. She looked out the window, then back at me. "Have you thought about it?"

"No," I laughed. "Maisie, give it a rest. It really is personal."

"But you'll tell me?"

I opened my mouth and shut it. Then I said, "I'll tell you something. Not everything."

"Hmmph!" She didn't really seem put out. She just wanted to tease me and get me riled.

And so she fell silent for a bit. Then an idea hit her. Smiling a wicked little smile, she whispered, "It's the Mark business, isn't it?"

I don't know why I didn't react. Maybe it's because I knew something a little mean was coming. She was right, but at the same time she was so, so wrong.

I looked at her and felt a strange feeling that I don't think I've ever felt before: I felt kind of sorry for Maisie. I felt pity. Her mother seemed nice, but if what Maisie said was true, neither of her parents really gave a damn about her. As far as I could tell, Susan and I were her only friends, and our friendship was still fairly superficial. She couldn't hang out with Susan, or even talk to her, except during odd moments at school.

So what did she do before I arrived at BYHS? What does she do after school now? Is she alone all the time?

"Oh, Maisie," I said. "You are a terror." She grinned happily.

I guess having someone to tease is the closest she's come to having a friend.

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

Maisie was full of surprises. I knew she was rich, that she'd always been rich, and that she didn't clean her own house, let alone her own room. She didn't even make her own bed! Yet, here she was digging through trash with me, and she seemed to find it less disgusting than I did.

---

 
17. Just Like Us
 

I figured that Maisie was going to call me "Mark" in front of my parents to see what would happen, so when she did I was ready.

"Where do we start, Mark?" she called out.

Before my mother could react, I said, "I don't know, Mike."

"Ow!" she groaned dramatically, as if she'd been struck. "Point goes to Miss Donner."

Mom cut in, "I think the first thing you ought to do is see your new room. After that, take a look around the house. Then you can either start cleaning upstairs, or you can bag up the trash in the basement and carry it to the garage." Maisie and I looked at each other, and Mom continued, "Your room is the one on the right at the top of the stairs."

The two of us tore up the stairs. I thought I had a sure win, but Maisie arrived several steps ahead of me. She's little and bony, but she's wiry and fast. She also did some strategic elbow work and at the end she took three steps in a single bound.

When I walked into my new bedroom, all I could say was "Wow!"

"Luck-ee!" Maisie commented.

The ceiling was very high, and the windows were huge. "You're going to need curtains, girl, unless you want to give anatomy lessons to the neighbors."

There was a bay window in front, and its three windows faced the street. "This way's south," Maisie told me, "so you'll have a lot of light." There was a fourth window on the east wall that looked out to the side yard and the neighbor's house.

"You know what this room is?" Maisie asked. "This room is vast. I can't believe all this is for one person."

I opened the door to the closet, which was in the north wall. "Yikes, that, on the other hand, is painfully small," Maisie commented. "A little musty too. Better leave it open."

There was one door left to open, in the middle of the west wall. "Is this another closet?" I wondered aloud. It turned out to be a tiny room with a narrow window at one end. "What the heck is this?"

"I dunno," Maisie admitted. "It could be a closet, if you put up a bar, or even a couple bars. But it's so long and narrow! I suppose you could fit a skinny little bed in here, but it would be claustrophobic."

"What were they thinking?" I said. "If that window wasn't there, you could use the whole thing for storage."

"Or if the door was at the other end, near the window, you'd have all this part," Maisie said, waving her arm. "Another mystery, Nancy."

Automatically I almost said, Don't call me that, but stopped myself. It was certainly better than being called Mark.

"Okay, let's see the rest of the house," I said. "We can finish our tour in the basement, and then decide which job is worse."

---

In the end we opted for carrying the trash out of the basement. As dirty and creepy as it was down there, cleaning the bathroom seemed far worse. "Plus," Maisie pointed out, "we might find something interesting!"

Dad gave us each a pair of work gloves, and armed with two boxes of large trash bags, we descended the stairs from the kitchen. The basement was lit by two bare light bulbs in the unfinished ceiling. I was glad I wasn't down here alone!

Maisie looked around, sniffing. "No mice or rats," she commented. "That's good."

"What are you, a cat?" I asked. "How do you know what mice and rats smell like?"

"Oh, I can smell them, girl, believe me. They have a very distinct stink. Huh! Distinct stink — I just made up a tongue twister!"

Maisie was full of surprises. I knew she was rich, that she'd always been rich, and that she didn't clean her own house, let alone her own room. She didn't even make her own bed! Yet, here she was, digging through trash with me, and she seemed to find it less disgusting than I did.

"What is it with all this old cloth?" she wondered aloud, as she shoved a handful of it into a bag. "None of it was ever any good; it's all rags and rags of rags."

Lifting one of the larger "rags of rag," I found a pile of newspapers and old magazines. There were similar piles nearby. "Hey, Maze!" I said. "Do you think any of this stuff is worth anything?"

Her nose wrinkled as she sampled the pile. There were old, dirty copies of Look, Life, and The Saturday Evening Post. "They would be, if they weren't so dirty and bent," she said. "Collectors want things in good condition."

"Maybe if I cleaned them up a little, I could sell them in a yard sale," I ventured.

"Oh, yeah," she said. "You could do that. We should make a SAVE pile over there." She pointed to an empty spot near the north wall, and went back to bagging rags.

Under another pile of rags we found a cache of rock-hard paint brushes. Some of them were stuck forever to mixing sticks or paint-can lids. "Could be modern art," Maisie mused with fake pretension, and I giggled.

The work went fairly quickly, and we didn't talk much. In the end, we didn't find anything of real interest, and — excepting the petrified paint brushes — there weren't many laughs to be found. A few items were pretty gross, and I still shudder when I remember finding a dead mouse.

"Calm down!" Maisie said. "This thing is so dried out, it must have died a thousand years ago, when the pharaohs ruled this land."

"Just... just... throw it away, will you?" I screeched.

"Okay," she said. "Quit being such a girl about it." With a look of distaste, she speared it with an ancient screwdriver. It made a very dry crunch. Then she dropped it into a garbage bag.

"Sorry, Maze," I began, but she turned away and got back to work.

Again, I marveled at what a hard worker Maisie was. I couldn't think of a way to compliment her on it without it sounding patronizing, so I just kept working, trying to keep up with her. But it was hard! She never stopped. The song John Henry came to mind, although I'd be John Henry and she'd be the machine.

"Hey, let's lug these bags out to the garage, and get something to drink," Maisie said. "We have to keep hydrated or we're going to ache tomorrow."

"Yeah, I guess so," I replied. "How do you know this?"

She pushed a stray lock of hair from her face and smiled. "Experience, my young friend, experience."

---

When dinner arrived, we all washed our hands and gathered in the empty dining room. It was lit by a chandelier full of little bits of glass cut like crystals. Luckily someone else (not me!) had cleaned it. Probably Mom and Ida had tackled it during the day. It must have been a pain, taking down all the little pieces (being careful not to break them!), cleaning them all, and putting them back up.

"What are you talking about?" Maisie asked me, incredulous. "It's not a big deal. Once you take it apart, it's easy to clean. It would be hard to clean only if you left all the glass bits on there."

Ida knelt next to the bags of food and handed things to my mother, who took care of the distribution. Since there weren't any chairs or tables, we were going to have to sit on the floor.

"And Marcie," Mom cautioned, "even though these are work clothes, there is no need to get food all over them."

"Mom!" I protested, blushing.

Maisie mugged a haw haw face at me. I figured it was better to let my mother's comment go. If I continued to protest, she was bound to have plenty of examples of times I'd ruined clothes by spilling food. I couldn't remember any, but I'm sure she could!

"Mrs. Donner, do you have any lamps, like floor lamps, you could bring tomorrow?" Maisie called across the room.

Ida pulled a pile of paper napkins from the bag. She didn't look up.

"No, Maisie, I don't think I do," Mom replied. "They'd all be in storage." It was already dark, so we could only work in the rooms that had light fixtures: the basement, the kitchen, the bathrooms... "But you're right, we could certainly use a couple..."

"I can bring some tomorrow," Ida quietly told her.

Maisie smirked. "The moving men will do that tomorrow."

My mother glanced quickly at Maisie, then Ida. When Ida didn't react, Mom said, "Yes, that's true, but they'll all be packed. If I could borrow a few lamps, it would make tomorrow night more productive."

"Good," Ida said. "Then it's settled."

The two women sat on the floor, facing each other, leaning against opposite sides of the doorway to the living room. Their voices dropped when they started talking.

"Look at them," Maisie commented, "Mom's probably going on about her girlhood in Flickerbridge again. They're like two schoolgirls. Isn't it gross?"

Maisie and I were sitting against the far wall, opposite our mothers. Dad was by himself with his back to the windows. He heard Maisie's comment, and looked from the two women to Maisie and me a couple of times and grinned in amusement. Even without looking, I could tell that Maisie had turned red. She hadn't meant to be overheard.

"Sorry, girls," Dad said, still smiling. "But sound carries in an empty house. I didn't mean to eavesdrop."

Maisie looked down, a little uncomfortable.

---

After dinner, we all went home. There wasn't much we could do in the dark, and tomorrow was a school day. I wasn't surprised by how tired I felt.

"I wish I'd thought about the lights," Mom said. "We didn't really get that much done."

"At least the bathrooms and the kitchen are clean," Dad said. Mom nodded.

Dad looked at me in the rear view mirror. "Hey, back there. How're you doing?"

"I'm good, Dad. I'm beat, though. Maisie is like a machine! It wore me out, trying to keep up with her."

"She does work hard," Mom agreed. "And she doesn't complain the whole time, like some people I know."

"Oh, Mom," I protested, but I was too weak to go any further.

"And she was the first one to mention lamps. I should have thought..."

Dad cleared his throat. "I have to tell you both something. Tonight I realized who Ida and Maisie are. I never met them before, but, Ida is the ex-wife of Aiden Beale, who was head of IT at my old job. He's actually the one responsible for the layoffs."

"Oh!" my mother said, surprised. I froze.

"I've never met Aiden Beale, but the point is, if I were you two, I wouldn't explore their life or our life in California too deeply. You never know... they might know somebody who knows us. I don't want you to worry, because it isn't likely. At the same time, we have to be ready, because everything about Mark might come out.

"Beale is very rich, really snooty, and not a very nice man. I doubt that he knew or cared who I was. There were at least three levels of managers between me and him. The point is, the Beales moved in a very different social circle."

My mother said in a quiet voice, "I had no idea. Ida doesn't like to talk about California anyway. It's all connected to her divorce and her husband, which is... well... You can see how it must have been... must still be... so incredibly painful."

"Where did they live?" I asked.

"Tarhent," Dad said. "Just like us."

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

"Maisie, you're *not* fat," I told her. "You've never been fat. You're never going to BE fat. You're so not fat that you, uh, that you..." I didn't know how to finish, but it didn't matter. Her face had changed, and she was furious.

---

 
18. She's Not Maisie
 

I gasped.

"Don't have a heart attack," Dad said. "They lived in Llewellyn."

I let out a great sigh of relief. Llewellyn was an enormous gated community on the edge of Tarhent. Llewellyn has its own security force, its own stores and movie theater, and there's a big wall around it. The people who live in Llewellyn are constantly trying to separate from Tarhent. They want to be a town in their own right with their very own zip code.

The zip code in particular is a very sore point.

You can address letters to Llewellyn, California, and they'll get there, but if you look up the zip code it always comes up TARHENT, which really burns the rich folks.

"Now, even though I don't think there's any cause for worry, I do think it's better if you can connect with them here in New Jersey, in the present, and not in California, in the past."

"That's very philosophical, Dad," I commented.

He looked at me in the rear view mirror again. "I guess you feel good enough to joke about it."

"Well, yeah!" I replied. "If they lived in Llewellyn, they might as well have lived on the Moon."

People never walked in or out of Llewellyn. I don't know if that was allowed. I'd only seen expensive-looking cars driving in and out. Tarhent itself wasn't poor or bad or anything, but there was no mixing. I didn't know anyone who lived in there, and I didn't know anyone who knew anyone who lived there. So there was no danger that Ida or Maisie could ever have known or come across me as Mark.

"Not exactly," Dad said. "You never know. There might be some random connection in there someplace."

"Oh! That reminds me!" I said. "Mom, did you tell Maisie's mother about the whole Mark-tomboy thing?"

"Um... no," she said, frowning. "In fact, it's never come up. Let's see... Rhonda Means could have told her, at Thanksgiving. Why?"

"Oh, just that my boxes with MARK written on them will be all over the place. Susan and Maisie will see them."

"Don't worry. We'll just tell them the same story."

"They already know the story! Maisie's mother must have told her, and Maisie told Susan..."

"Okay, okay," Mom said. "I get it. How about this: I'll have the movers put all the 'Mark' boxes and your old furniture in the basement. It's dry enough, and since you and Maisie cleaned it, no one has any reason to be going down there. We will have to put your old bed in your room until we get your new furniture, but it is just a bed. Oh, and I guess your bureau can go in there — I don't think it looks too boyish... you'll need it, in any case. Then we'll keep you and your friends busy unpacking the kitchen. Does that sound like a plan?"

I exhaled. A big exhale, as though I'd been holding my breath for days. I was so relieved! "Thanks, Mom!" I gushed. "You're the best!"

"Oh," Dad said, pretending to be hurt. "And what about me? Aren't I the best, too? Can I at least be second best?"

I laughed and grabbed his shoulders from behind, giving him a happy squeeze. It felt like an enormous weight had lifted off me.

---

That night I had a dream about the new house. When it started, I was outside with Maisie and her mother, standing in the snow. The three of us were wearing BYHS uniforms. Somehow, even though none of us were wearing coats, we weren't cold. I was staring at Maisie's mother — I can't tell you how beautiful she looked.

"I should send Jerry a picture of you in that uniform," I told her. "You make it look good."

Ida frowned and said to me, "No, Maisie — I mean Marcie — that's not the point! Don't look at me! Look at her!"

Bewildered, I looked up where she was pointing. It was one of my bedroom windows. It was the window where I'd seen the girl, but she wasn't there now. There was nothing to see.

I turned to tell Ida, "She's not there," but Ida was gone, too. So I turned the other way to look at Maisie, but she had moved... far, far away. She was so far off! In the distance she looked oh-so tiny, like an itty-bitty doll. Even though she appeared to be only two inches high, I could see that she was dancing. It was a weird kind of dance. Her head was down, and she was mostly moving her elbows and knees... jerky movements, like a marionette's.

Maybe people danced like that before I was born, but no one danced that way now.

"Maisie!" I called. "Maisie! Quit dancing like that! What are you doing? Maisie!"

The girl lifted her head.

A horrifying chill ran through me. Every hair on my arms lifted in terror.

"I'm not Maisie!" the girl laughed, as if it were a cute joke. She was right: she wasn't Maisie at all. She was Misty Sabatino.

As soon as I recognized her, she zoomed right up to me, and stuck her face in mine. Her eyes were enormous, and there was a dull roaring in my ears. Misty said something, but I didn't get it.

"What did you say?" I asked. I wanted to get away, but I was paralyzed. I couldn't move a muscle. It was even hard to talk. My tongue was thick; I couldn't get the words out. For some reason, it was important for me to ask her what the little room was for, but it was impossible.

She repeated whatever it was she'd said, but I missed it again, so I shook my head.

Exasperated, she shouted in my ear, "I didn't want to be fat. I don't want to be fat! I'M NOT GOING TO BE FAT!"

"Maisie, you're *not* fat," I told her. "You've never been fat. You're never going to BE fat. You're so not fat that you, uh, that you..." I didn't know how to finish, but it didn't matter. Misty's face had changed, and she was furious.

"I'M NOT MAISIE!" she screamed, "DO YOU GET IT?"

I woke up in a sweat, my heart pounding.

It took a few moments to remember where I was: New Jersey, Flickerbridge, Dad's apartment.

I lay without moving a muscle, while my eyes darted all around the room.

Every atom of my body was listening, fearing. Was she here? Was she gone? Was she in the room with me? I knew it was only a dream, but it scared the bejeezus out of me.

After half a minute, with great caution, without making a sound, I slipped out of bed. By now I was awake and knew full well that it was only a dream, but what I told myself in my head didn't matter.

Even if I knew it was crazy, I had to poke all the clothes in the closet to make sure nothing was behind them or hanging between them. I searched every corner, and looked under my bed. I even pulled the sheets back — all the way back — to make sure no one was in there with me, hiding at the bottom, waiting to grab my feet. I wanted to pull back the curtain and look in the street, but didn't dare.

Why didn't I dare? What if I opened the curtain, and she was there, standing in midair, with her face against the window?

After taking another good look under the bed, I climbed back in and pulled the covers up to my neck.

I lay there shivering until I finally feel asleep again.

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

Maisie cut me off. "Listen to me. I know that Ida seems like a nice person. Maybe she is nice to you and your mother... and to everyone else on earth except me." At this point, Maisie was fighting back tears. She dropped the wrench, balled her fists, and swore. "I'm NOT going to cry...," she said, gritting her teeth.

---

 
19. The Idea Of Swapping Mothers
 

After detention on Friday, Ida picked me up again. Maisie wasn't in the car, so I sat in the passenger seat in front, next to her.

This was the first time I'd ever been alone with her, so I felt a little shy. She seemed as she always did... sort of business-like, guarded. Not un-friendly, but not exactly open.

"Are we going to the old apartment?" I asked.

"No," she replied, "Your father took care of that today. That little place is history. He packed up everything, and once the moving men were done at your new place, they went and picked up the few things you had at the old one."

"Where's Maisie?" I asked.

"Maisie is helping your mother," Ida replied. She sounded almost offended, maybe even a little hurt.

"The mother-daughter thing is rough sometimes," I offered.

Ida looked at me for a moment, and when she saw I wasn't teasing or being mean, she smiled. "Thank you, Dr. Phil."

I laughed.

Ida sighed and continued, "I wish Maisie and I got along as well as you and your mother do."

"Yeah," I said, "well..."

Ida sniffed slightly, but I didn't see any sign of tears. I tried to find something to say to her, but the only things that came to mind were things I couldn't say. I couldn't tell her anything I'd heard from Maisie, because she'd confront Maisie with it, and then Maisie would feel betrayed...

For sure, I had no intention of wading into the minefield of Maisie's relationship with her mom. Better to talk about something else entirely. So I said, "Mrs. Beale, how did you learn about clothes?"

She stiffened. "In the first place, my name isn't Beale. I never took... that man's name. I'm Ida Falange, which may not sound like the greatest name in the world, but it sure as hell comes off better than Ida Beale."

She gripped the steering wheel tighter and in a low voice, to herself, she muttered, "Ida Beale! I was never Ida Beale!"

I wasn't sure how to respond, so I kept quiet. It sounded like she was on the verge of... I don't know what, but I didn't want this adult — who I barely knew — I didn't want her exploding on me. I didn't want to find out firsthand whatever it was that Maisie didn't like about her mom.

Then, Ida's grip relaxed and she frowned, as if trying to remember something. She glanced at me again. "But what was it you asked me?" It came to her, and her face softened into a smile. "Oh, clothes! Well, I've always loved clothes. Do you?"

Thank goodness! I'd hit on exactly the right topic.

Afterward, when I told Maisie, she reminded me that it had been her idea for me to talk about clothes with Ida. Whatever.

In any case, Ida really did love clothes, and she loved to talk about fashion. She said a lot that was hard for me to follow: she rattled off a lot of unfamiliar names. I realized that there was more to the world of fashion that I'd thought. Along the way, I managed to tell her that I loved the way she dressed and wished I had a sense of style like hers. I asked her what kind of shoes Ms. Means was wearing on Thanksgiving (Michael Kors). I even asked her how she did her makeup, because she has this very light, subtle style, that looks like the merest shading, almost like no makeup at all...

"Oh, honey, that's a whole 'nother hour or two in the telling," she replied happily, "and it would be easier to show you than to tell you."

I noticed that Ida had taken the long way home, to extend the conversation — which was fine by me. She really knew a lot.

She didn't just talk, either. She asked me questions, wanted my opinions, and she drew some things out of me that I didn't know I knew. It was great, and I was a little sorry when we had to stop.

"I have to say," she confided after we got out of the car, "I wish that Maisie had the same interest in looking good that you have." I smiled and shrugged. She took my arm and we climbed the stairs together.

As we entered the house, we could hear Maisie's voice coming from the kitchen, all bubbly and light. My mother's voice interjected here and there. It sounded like they were getting along as well as me and Ida.

When the two of us walked into the kitchen and saw Maisie's face flushed and happy, I said, "Hey, Maze, maybe you and me should swap mothers for a little while!"

"Sounds good to me!" she replied tartly, and I felt Ida's mood drop like a stone.

---

"You know, seriously, it might be a good idea," I told Maisie later, as she helped me put my bed together.

Or — to tell the truth — I watched her do it, and tried to hand her the right things.

"What?" she asked, as she tighted a screw. It was hard to believe she'd never done any of this before.

"Switching mothers. Maybe for a night or a weekend you could stay here and I could stay at your house."

Maisie stopped and stared at me for a minute. "Why?" she asked, shaking her head slightly.

"For a change," I said. "I heard how happy you were talking to my mother–" Maisie nodded, and went back to work. "... and I had a great time talking to your mother about clothes."

Maisie rolled her eyes.

"Seriously, Maisie. I could learn a lot from her. She could show me how she does her makeup."

"That stupid cow," she muttered, more out of habit than anything else. "I have to admit, she does know that stuff."

"And it kills her that you're not interested."

Maisie's tone grew hot. "That's kind of the point, isn't it? If I was interested, then she'd want to talk about it. If I'm not interested, then there's nothing to say."

I was about to reply, but she cut me off. "Listen to me. I know that Ida seems like a nice person. Maybe she is nice to you and your mother... and to everyone else on earth except me." At this point, Maisie was fighting back tears. Her jaw worked as she tried to push her emotions back down, but it was a lost battle.

She dropped the wrench, balled her fists, and swore in a low whimper. "I'm NOT going to cry...," she said, gritting her teeth.

"It's okay," I said softly.

"I mean, what kind of monster doesn't want her own child?" she growled, choking on the words. "Animals don't even do that! She and my father fought over who would get stuck with me. I heard them! And not just once! It was weeks and weeks! Day after day! All day long! You take her! No, you take her! Why should *I* take her?" She drew breath in a backward wheezing cry that was painful to hear. "I hate them! I hate them both! But I'm stuck with them and I can't get away!" She wasn't shouting — her voice was low, a near-whispered concentrate of pure emotional power.

A flood of tears and sobs followed, and she grabbed me, crying and gasping. She held onto me as if she were a shipwreck victim, finally on land, but still afraid that she'd drown. It actually hurt, the way she was pulling me down, but I set my teeth and waited it out.

I looked around the room, but there were no tissues... not even a scrap of cloth...

She cried on and on, and clutched me desperately. Her whole body trembled and quaked, and when I put my arms around her, I felt her rib cage right under her skin. She's nothing but bones, I thought, and those poor wretched bones shook and shivered.

There was nothing I could do but hold her.

I have been afraid in my life, and I have felt lonely at times, but I never felt that no one loved me. As I hugged my skinny friend, I caught a glimpse of that feeling: the terror and emptiness of being alone on earth, of having no one... no mother, no father, no sister or brother...

After a couple of minutes, she stopped and sniffed, but kept her grip. She held me by my shirt sleeves and rested her forehead on my shoulder. After a few more sniffs, she let go.

"I can get some tissues from the bathroom," I told her. "I'll be right back."

She smiled weakly, and I quickly retrieved the box.

After she cleaned her face, she said, "Whew!" She swallowed hard, then took a deep breath. She licked her lips. She sighed and her chest rose and fell heavily.

When Maisie could finally talk, she said, "That's the first time I've cried since..." a hard shudder passed through her and she shook her head. "... since it all fell apart. Sorry, Marcie."

"Sorry?" I echoed. "Maisie, I'm your friend. I'm here for you. This is what friends are for!"

"Really?" she asked.

"Really!" I said. "Come here, you!"

Then I hugged her until she protested. "Okay, okay! Let go, girl! I get the point! Lemme go! Enough with the mushy stuff already! Let go!"

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

Susan smiled and flounced. "What can I say?" she grinned. "I'm just that clever! So when's Maisie get here? I have to tell you guys what I found out about Misty Sabatino. It's scandalous."

---

 
20. Susan Triumphant
 

I slept in my new room for the first time — my big, new, empty room... alone. Last night's dream came back to me, but I was too tired to be scared or to worry about ghosts. In fact, I felt like I was finally at home. My sheets and blanket were functional and plain, but at least they were familiar. They were mine, from California. They were the ones I'd had back in Tierson, before I was Marcie, before my life really began.

We'd get new bedclothes soon, something that better suited a teenage girl... but for now I could deal with the ones I'd used way back when.

The night passed in deep and dreamless sleep, and when the sun came through my curtainless windows, I woke, feeling better than I had in a long time. I guess the hard physical work was good for me.

And maybe I was finally over the jet lag!

I dressed in the little room, since no one could see in that window, and I went downstairs. My parents were nowhere to be seen, and from the quiet in the house I guessed that they were still in bed, asleep.

The new house was great. It was huge, and at the moment was filled with boxes, and as silent as... uh, a tomb? a church?

Anyway, it was silent. Silent in a nice way, a good way.

And it was HOME! I *really* liked this house. It had a nice feel, it had a good vibe. It was light and sunny and clean and open. Mom really made a good choice: I had to hand it to her.

I ate some cereal, standing at the counter in the kitchen, then made my tea and some toast. The kitchen table and chairs were set up already, but I took my food into the living room, where I ate and drank standing by the window. I hadn't eaten two bites before I saw a familiar girl walking up the street. I ran outside to meet her.

"Susan! Up here!" I waved. It was a little chilly to be out in a t-shirt, so I backed into the front door as she came up the steps.

"Whoo!" I said, shaking off the cold, which was surprisingly penetrating. "You made it!"

"Yes!" she enthused, "and I didn't have to bring my little sister!"

We hugged each other for some reason, and I took her coat. She didn't want any breakfast, so I wolfed down my toast and carried my tea with me as I showed her around. We made our way silently upstairs, and I showed off my room.

"Now here is a mystery," I told her. "See if you can figure out what this is supposed to be." I opened the door to the little room, and the two of us walked in. "See? It's too narrow for almost anything. Either the door is on the wrong end, or the window shouldn't be there."

Susan took it in without saying a word. She shut the door and looked at the blank end-wall behind it. "This is a dressing room," she said. "See those marks? There used to be a mirror there, as big as the wall.

"And there and there," she continued, pointing to spots on the side walls, "there used to be lights. Oh, maybe they were gas lamps! And they didn't replace them with ordinary lights, which would change things in here quite a bit. And a vanity would go right there, by the window. That way, you get light, but the way this window is placed, no one can see you."

I was amazed. It all made sense. "I did get dressed in here this morning," I told her.

She smiled and flounced. "What can I say?" she grinned. "I'm just that clever! So when's Maisie get here? I have to tell you guys what I found out about Misty Sabatino. It's scandalous."

Susan was not moved by my pleas for a preview or a hint, and she didn't believe that I could pretend to be surprised when I heard it the second time.

"Why did you tell me about it if you weren't going to tell me?" I pouted.

"Do you think it's easy for me to wait?" she countered. "I'm dying to tell!"

"So tell!" I cried.

My father stuck his head in the door. "Hey! Keep it down to a dull roar, will you?"

"Sorry, Dad. Did we wake you?"

"You woke me, Marcie. I didn't hear your friend. But it's okay."

I introduced them, and then Dad went off to wake up properly. Mom followed soon after, and I finished Susan's tour of the upstairs.

---

After Maisie and Ida arrived, the two mothers worked in the kitchen, and we three girls unpacked books. Dad was replacing the locks on the doors and checking the windows.

As soon as he moved upstairs, I said, "Okay, Susan, spill."

"Huh?" Maisie asked.

"She found out about Misty Sabatino," I replied.

"Okay," Susan said in a low voice. "So I was at the library last night..."

"Oh, whatsit?" Maisie said. "The evil twin stuff?"

"Right," Susan said, and began again. "So I was at the library last night, and I found a small news item about Misty Sabatino's death. It said that she died of heart failure."

"What!?" Maisie and I shrieked.

"Shh!" Susan cautioned with a glance toward the kitchen.

"But the nun said she was killed by a drunk driver!" I hissed.

"So the nun lied?" Maisie asked in an undertone.

Susan waved away the questions and went on. "The newspaper also said that she died at home, alone. Now, I *would* have stopped there, if the librarian-nun hadn't told us that lie..."

I began to say, "If she died at home, alone..."

"Right," Maisie finished my thought. "There's no way she was killed by a drunk driver, unless he drove up those stairs."

"No," Susan agreed. "I figured there was more to the story."

"And was there?" Maisie queried.

"I kept going through the paper, but in the weeks that followed, the only other reference I found was a letter to the editor from an anonymous BYHS student."

"If she was anonymous, how do you know she was from BYHS?" I asked.

"Good question, Nancy," Maisie commented waggishly.

"She said she was a BYHS student," Susan replied. "Anyway, the thing is, she talked about amphetamines and weight control."

"Huh?"

"Back then, apparently, a lot of people were taking amphetamines to lose weight."

"Appetite suppressant," Maisie explained.

"Doctors would prescribe them; you could get them at the pharmacy," Susan added. "I guess they didn't know how dangerous they were."

"Yikes!" I commented.

"The long and the short of it is this: the letter pretty much said that amphetamines were what killed Misty Sabatino. The writer didn't say so directly, but she managed to make it clear." From her bag she pulled out two photocopies of an old newspaper and handed one to Maisie and one to me.

"Whoever this girl was," Susan continued, "she must have worked very hard on this letter, because she tells a lot without actually saying anything explicitly. She talks about peer pressure and body image, but she also lays specific stress on family pressure."

I tried to read the article, but it was hard to do that and listen to Susan at the same time.

"Why don't you put it away and read it later," she suggested. "It's amazing, but you really have to pay attention to get it all."

I could see the wheels turning inside Maisie's head. She started off saying, "So... family pressure... evil twin... Ms. Overmore and Mrs. Wix don't speak..." she nodded several times and gave Susan and me a significant look.

"Oh, you don't think–" I put in.

Susan, triumphant, tied it all up: "Ms. Overmore wrote this letter. She blames Mrs. Wix for making Misty feel fat. Misty took amphetamines to try to lose weight, and maybe she overdid it. She took too many pills, or maybe it was simply a side effect, but in any case, she suffered heart failure."

"... and died upstairs, in your room!" Maisie added, looking at me.

"Thanks, Maze," I said. "I really needed that picture in my mind."

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

"It's never hard to know what boys are thinking," Maisie said.

"Or what they're looking at," Susan added.

---

 
21. Who Needs Criminals?
 

"'Maze'?" Susan echoed. "Hey, if she gets to be Maze, can I be Suze?"

"Hmm," Maisie reflected. "Then you would have to be Marz," she said to me.

"I don't think I need another nickname, thanks. But I'll be glad to call you Suze."

Susan brightened.

I said to her, "You look so different in casual clothes. You're a lot prettier."

"Why thank you," Suze replied. "I feel prettier, too."

"Hey, do your parents know?" Maisie asked me.

"Know what?"

"That somebody died in this house?"

"I don't know. I don't think it would matter."

"But isn't it creepy? I mean, are you going to have a hard time sleeping in that room, knowing that Misty died in there?"

Sometimes Maisie didn't seem to have any feelings or tact at all. "Maybe if you keep going on about it, I will. Could you quit reminding me? I think Suze found out what we wanted to know. That's the end of it, isn't it?"

"I don't know...," Maisie mused. "I mean, two of the main people involved... we see them every day at school..."

"And," Susan added, "we don't know why the librarian-nun felt the need to lie to us."

"A cover-up," Maisie continued, and Susan added, "Something is rotten in the state of Denmark."

When Maisie and I looked at her puzzled, she explained, "Shakespeare," and at our uncomprehending looks, she waved her hand. "Never mind."

---

After we'd worked several hours, I was ready for a break, and even Maisie was wiping her brow.

At just that point, Mom asked the three of us if we'd go do some food shopping. "Ida and I don't want to stop, and your father has a lot to do, so if you girls don't mind walking..."

We didn't. It was fun to be out with the girls.

At one point, where the sidewalk was wide enough, we linked arms and walked three abreast: Maisie on the left, Susan in the middle, and me on the right. Each of us was wearing jeans and boots, and we were all smiling, heads up, confident.

Two boys watched us approach. One of them smiled and said, "You girls look like an ad for jeans or boots or hair or something."

The other waited until we passed and said something that was both complimentary and rude at the same time.

"It's never hard to know what boys are thinking," Maisie said.

"Or what they're looking at," Susan added.

"Still, it's nice to know that we've got it," I offered.

"Oh, we've got it!" Susan said.

"Coming and going," Maisie added.

"Oh!" I was suddenly struck with a thought. "Are we walking back the same way?"

The three of us broke up in giggles.

---

After finding and buying everything on Mom's list, I wasn't paying attention while the cashier bagged the groceries.

And so, when we left the store, Maisie and Susan were each struggling with a heavy bag, while I followed, stuffing the receipt into my purse.

"Hold up," Maisie said, "Suze, set the bag down here." Here was a bench just outside the store. Then she turned to me. "Princess, will you go get a third bag? We can split this up into three small loads."

I dashed back inside while they waited, and when I arrived with a third sack, Maisie fished in her purse and frowned. "I'm out of cigarettes," she announced, and without further ado walked back into the store.

"Okay..." I began, as I opened the third bag.

Susan interrupted saying, "I want to go look with Maisie. I've always wanted to see all the different brands..."

"You do?" I asked, with some surprise.

"Oh, come on!" she protested. "You know I'm not dumb enough to smoke — no offense to Maisie —"

"Who can't hear you anyway–" I put in.

"I'm just curious about the colors and designs and the names. My mother would kill me if looked, so here's my chance. Just think of it as anthropological research."

"Whatever," I said. "I'll just divide up the loads."

Suze skipped off and I got to work.

It didn't take long to get the bags more or less the same weight. I had my head down, working, moving cans and containers around, packing the bags a little better.

As I finished, I had the distinct impression that someone was watching me. And not in a nice way.

I turned my head slightly and saw that it was a man, a big man. I didn't need to take a second look to know who he was: He was Sister Honororia's brother, the policeman. Instinctively, I wanted to flinch, but I made an effort not to react.

When he saw that I'd noticed him, he approached me.

I decided to try and be friendly. So I smiled and said, "Hello, officer. Plain clothes duty today?"

"Don't try to be funny," he replied, in a dry, humorless tone. "I'm off duty. I'm a cop, not a detective."

"Sorry," I said.

"I wear the uniform."

I nodded.

"Are you keeping your nose clean? Not getting into trouble?" he asked.

I didn't like his tone. He was talking to me as if I were a felon. It seemed like he was trying to provoke me.

And then it hit me: that was exactly what he was trying to do. He wanted to provoke me, so that I'd do or say something stupid, something blameworthy. Even if the law wouldn't let him punish me, he'd go and tell Sister Honoraria that I needed more detention.

Don't play his game, I told myself. Remember, bend without breaking.

"Yes, sir," I replied.

"What's that look mean?" he demanded. "What's with that face you're making?"

"What face?" I asked. "I didn't think I was making a face."

"Do you have something to hide?"

"No, sir." I said. He was so aggressive and hostile, I almost stuck my hands in my pockets, but caught myself and left my hands dangling at my sides.

"Why are you waiting here? Are those your groceries?"

"Yes, they are."

"Do you have the receipt?"

"Yes I do."

"You didn't answer my question: why are you waiting here?"

"I'm waiting for my friends to come out."

"Are they students at Blessed Yvette's?"

"Yes, they are."

He nodded, stepped over, and glanced into my grocery bags. He twisted his jaw and sniffed. "Just remember," he said as he left, "I've got my eyes on you."

"Yes, sir." I replied. Then I turned my eyes to my bags. I was careful to not watch him walk away.

Maisie and Susan came over as soon as the policeman was well away.

"Who was that?" Maisie asked as she peeled the cellophane off her cigarette pack.

"That's Sister Honororia's brother, the policeman."

"What did he want?"

"He just wanted to hassle me," I sighed.

"I hope you told him to mind his own damn business," Maisie said.

"No, I did not," I replied. "I don't want another week of detention."

"Oh, yeah," Maisie agreed, getting it. "Jeez! With cops like him, who needs criminals?"

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

"Mom, you're killing me!" I protested.

She just scoffed. Dad was no help... he just slogged along, head down, perspiring.

---

 
22. Planning The Switch
 

The weekend was tiring, but it was good. Mom and Ida kept pushing forward, wanting to make the most of it.

My mother kept saying, "We can't lose momentum! If we leave something undone now, it will stay that way for months!"

"Mom, you're killing me!" I protested.

She just scoffed. Dad was no help... he just slogged along, head down, perspiring.

And Maisie and Susan were there, both days, all day, working.

"Aren't you guys tired?" I asked. "I'm just about dying here!"

They shrugged.

"We take breaks," Susan said.

"And we don't complain all the time like you do," Maisie grinned, "so it isn't as obvious."

In the end, all the boxes were empty, everything was put away, and all the furniture was in place. I didn't think it was possible. If I'd been in charge, we wouldn't be anywhere near done.

"Oh, but we're not done," Mom informed me. "There is so much left to do!"

I groaned. It sounded like she was enjoying herself!

---

On Monday, Ida drove me and Maisie to school. I was sore all over, but they seemed fine.

"Maybe you pushed yourself too hard," Ida suggested.

Maisie scoffed. "You're too soft, Marcie!"

I rolled my eyes.

"And, I told you to hydrate!"

I huffed loudly, but said nothing.

Ida dropped us off and drove off to meet my mother. They had plans and projects, and for once I thanked God for school, so I could miss all that "home work"!

"Oh, you are a lazy spoiled thing, aren't you?" Maisie asked, with surprising affection.

When the two of us were nearly at the door of the school, I told her, "Watch. Honororia is going to want to talk to me."

"About what?"

"About her stupid brother."

She shook her head. "If you get detention, you ought to complain of police harrassment."

Sister Honororia was waiting, and she *did* want to talk to me. "Marcella, a word, please."

She drew me aside to a niche in the corridor, and spoke in a low voice. "Marcella, you don't have any older siblings, do you? No big brother or sister?"

"No, sister, I don't."

"Mmm," she said. "That's right. You're an only child, so you don't know what it's like. It's interesting, but older children, especially first-borns, often feel an ... exaggerated sense of responsibility ... as if they were some sort of additional parent. Do you follow me?"

"I think I do, sister."

She fixed her eyes on mine and nodded. "They have a way of meddling ... or controlling ... It's a sort of misplaced ... or misdirected kindness, I think," she continued, "and it's often quite inconvenient."

Her eyes searched my face.

I smiled. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about, sister."

"Oh, good!" she replied with a sigh of relief. "Then off to class you go!"

As I started to walk away, she said, "Oh, Marcella... Let's say your last day of detention is Wednesday, shall we?"

"Thank you, sister."

---

Maisie and Susan were waiting anxiously. "So do you have detention?" Susan asked.

"I have one less," I crowed.

After I told them what happened, Maisie said, "Interesting... so even the wicked, controlling nun has problems with her brother, the wicked, controlling cop."

"Looks that way," I said. "But don't spread it around."

---

That night, Maisie called.

"Hey, Maze, what's up?"

"Can I talk to your mother?" she asked.

"My mother?"

"Yeah, you know that lady who lives in your house?"

"Ha, ha. I *know* who my mother is. What I dont know, is why you want to talk to her?"

"That's right — you don't know. But don't worry, I'll tell you after. Will you put her on?"

My mother was a little surprised, but she took the phone. I stood by, on pins and needles, listening, while Maisie did most of the talking.

As Maisie spoke, my mother's puzzled expression relaxed into a smile. She even chuckled a bit. What was going on?

My mother's side of the conversation didn't tell me anything. All she did was agree, saying, "Oh, that's a great idea! Yes, I do," and things like that. I kept making questioning faces at her, but she ignored me.

Maisie's voice was just barely audible, like a series of squawks. I moved my head closer to the phone so I could listen better, but my mother — my own mother! — turned her back on me so I couldn't hear a word! She wedged the left side of her body, the one with the phone, into the corner of the kitchen counters so I couldn't get my head in and listen!

Then she said to Maisie, "Oh, yes, she's here. She's dying to know what we're talking about." The she laughed, and I could hear Maisie laughing too.

I growled with frustrated impatient curiosity.

Then Mom said to Maisie, "Okay, great! That sounds like a plan! Yes, right, but that shouldn't be a problem. No, I don't think so ... No, not at all. Right! Good! I'm looking forward to it. Yes, Maisie, yes. I'm glad. Okay, here's Marcie again." Smiling, she handed the phone back to me.

"So what was that all about?" I asked as I walked out of the kitchen, heading for the stairs to my room.

Dad, who was sitting in the living room, called after me, "Don't monopolize the phone!"

"It was Mom on the phone all this time!" I retorted, and trudged up the stairs.

"Okay," Maisie said. "This is great! It's better than great!" She was obviously in a good mood. "You know your idea about trading mothers? We're going to do it!"

"What!? Are you kidding?"

"No, I'm not kidding! We're going to do it this weekend. That is, if the cow agrees. But she should. Don't you think?"

I sighed.

Maisie said, "Yeah, yeah, I know you hate it when I call her that. I don't care. But listen, you can come here and play the good daughter. She'll be so happy. And you can talk about girly things with her. You'll both be in heaven, and I'll be the hell out of here."

"Uh...," I said. It was a lot to process.

"Don't tell me you want to back out!"

"No, no, it's not that... it's just a surprise..."

"You want to do it, right?"

"Yes, sure, yes..."

"Listen, you hate working around the house, but I love it..."

"You do?"

"Didn't you see me last weekend?" she demanded. "Yeah! I fix everything around here! My mother is so useless. So's my dad, but anyway... if you stay there, you're going to work like an Egyptian slave girl, building the pyramids, eating only straw or hay, like in the Bible."

"Oh, Maisie," I laughed, "I'm sure that's all wrong."

"So? Do you want to slave around your house this weekend?"

"No..."

"Wouldn't you rather squirt perfume in the air and walk into the mist with my mother?"

"I guess..."

"Then listen." Maisie gave me the details of the switch: Ida would take us to school on Friday. She'd drop Maisie's weekend bag at my house and pick up my weekend bag.

Then my mother would pick us up from school on Friday and drop me at Ida's house.

One of the mothers would drive us to school Monday morning.

"That's a long time," I observed.

"Yeah, isn't it great?" Maze enthused. "All you have to do is ask Ida. She doesn't have a clue about it, so you have to explain it and sell it. You can do it."

"Okay," I replied. "Can you give her the phone?"

"As if!" she countered. "You can call her. I'll hang up. You call back. I won't answer, so she'll have to."

"Ah... I..."

"Look, it's better if you call her. She'll be touched. Okay, I'm going to hang up now. You call right back. Then call me after to let me know."

"Maisie, listen," I began, but she'd already hung up.

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

Could somehow Maisie and her mother *both* be right in some way? Could Maisie have exaggerated? Could Maisie have misunderstood?

I sighed. Why do people have to be so complicated?

---

 
23. The Weekend Of The Switch
 

"Thank God I don't have detention today!" I told Maisie.

"Yeah, that's a big change for you, isn't it, you wicked thing?" she teased.

Girls in blue plaid skirts and white blouses flooded past us, anxious to get OUT OF THE BUILDING. Friday afternoon is exciting in and of itself, but for Maisie and me it was even more so: today begins the weekend of the switch.

"Hey, cool!" Maisie observed. "Your Mom staked out the primo parking spot!"

In fact, Mom was standing by her car directly in front of the building. I turned to Maisie and was astonished to see something like joy on her face. I'd never seen her so plainly, simply happy. Ever.

"She must have been waiting for us for, like, ten minutes!" Maisie gushed in admiration.

"Hi, girls!" Mom called out. "Ready for the big weekend?"

"Shotgun!" Maisie shouted, and jumped in the front seat, next to my mother.

I climbed in the back, smiling a little, but at the same time feeling a bit odd. I was glad to see Maisie happy for once, but it was weird to be sharing my mother with her.

After Mom settled herself behind the wheel, she turned to me and said, "Now we have to drop you at your house, Marcie." I pushed my face into a smile.

Mom started the car and Maisie started babbling. "This was a great idea, Marcie! I'm so glad you thought of it. This weekend is going to be the best..." I tuned her out and looked out the window.

I'd been looking forward to spending the weekend with Ida. I really had. At the same time I was nervous. I know that Ida's Mom's friend. I know that Mom has spent a lot of time with her, and trusts her. She has to trust her, or she wouldn't let me stay with her. At the same time...

Maisie had told me so many bad things about Ida. Not just bad things, but terrible things. Things I couldn't imagine a parent doing.

At the same time, I couldn't imagine Ida doing any of it. As far as I could tell, Ida cared about Maisie. She looked out for her. She tried to connect with her. It was Maisie who'd shut everything down between them.

At the same time, Maisie couldn't have made all that stuff up.

And so, I was afraid. Yes, now that I was going to spend three nights and two-plus days with Ida, I finally admitted to myself that I was afraid.

What if I got to see the bad side of Ida? The side that only Maisie knows? Could she hurt me? Would she hurt me? I didn't think so, but what did I know?

At the very worst, I could get out of there and run home. So I did have a way out.

Could somehow Maisie and her mother *both* be right in some way? Could Maisie have exaggerated? Could Maisie have misunderstood?

Or, could Maisie and her mother *both* be wrong? For a moment, I felt as if a light had gone on, but then I couldn't work out what it would mean, so I dropped it.

I sighed. Why do people have to be so complicated?

AND THEN, as I watched my mother happily listen to Maisie's babble, I realized something: I'd been so busy thinking about how things would go between Ida and me, that I hadn't spared a thought for Maisie and my Mom.

What were they going to do? "Work around the house." Doing what? It was all done! What were they going to do all weekend? Were they going to talk about me?

I wanted to ask... something, but the two of them chatted away sixteen to the dozen, and there was no way I could get a word in. I tried, but they were jumping on the ends of each others' sentences, and laughing away... My attempts to talk just got lost...

... as if they'd forgotten I was even there. In fact, Mom almost missed Maisie's street, and had to make a big awkward turn to get back to it.

"Lucky no one was around to see that!" Mom laughed, and Maisie let out a big, open-mouthed haw haw haw and clapped her hands like a little girl.

The two of them were beginning to seriously bug me.

They dropped me off without ceremony, and drove away almost before I shut the car door.

I watched them disappear around the corner. For a few moments I stood there, feeling vaguely like a orphan, trying to somehow feel sorry for myself, but the feeling wasn't very strong. I took a deep breath and turned toward the house.

Ida was there, waiting, smiling, at her door.

I waved and smiled back, and when I was a few feet away I grinned and said, "Hi, Mom!"

"Oh!" she cried. "It's been so long since anyone's called me that!" She wrapped me in a warm, enveloping, mom-ish hug. I put my arms around her waist and realized for the first time how soft she is. So feminine, so soft.

I made a mental note to ask her what scent she was wearing.

And I was quietly glad that Maisie wasn't around — it was so much easier to be with Ida without all of Maisie's negativity.

We went inside and Ida showed me to my room. I knew that Maisie would be sleeping in my room, but I was staying in their guest room. Ida had already unpacked my bags.

After she showed me where she'd put my things, I quickly changed into jeans and a sweater.

"I've got ideas for tomorrow and Sunday," she told me, "but I wanted to hear what you'd like to do tonight."

"Uh, I'd like to go food shopping first," I told her. "I want to cook dinner for you... If that's okay."

"Oh!" she said, surprised. "That would be different!"

First I checked that she had the right pots and pans. Surprisingly, she did. Next, I made a quick inventory of what little food she did have. Then the two of us put on our boots and walked to the store. The shopping didn't take long. I got jasmine rice, tofu, and small bottles of oil and soy sauce. I didn't want to spend a lot of time peeling and chopping, so I opted for a bag of frozen stir-fry vegetables. Ida silently watched me select all these things, as if I was doing something that was utterly foreign to her. I wondered whether she had ever cooked in her life.

It didn't take long to whip up the meal, and it came out pretty well. Ida was impressed. "You should come over more often," she said. "Not a lot of cooking goes on in this house. I never learned, and Maisie couldn't care less."

After dinner I ran through their collection of DVDs. One of the titles rang a bell, and the picture on the cover made me sure: John Tucker Must Die was a movie I'd meant to see, but Jerry had always refused to watch it with me.

"Oh, yeah," Ida said drily. "*I* got that one — and some others — in hopes that Maisie would want to see them with me, but..."

"So let's do it!" I interrupted.

We sat together on the couch and watched the movie. It was a lot of fun. You ought to see it. The two of us laughed our heads off! Although it's a "chick flick," there aren't any tears. Plus, it isn't corny at all.

At some point after the movie began, Ida moved closer to me and put her arm around my shoulders — which caused me an anxious moment. Why? Well, Ida is a beautiful, beautiful woman. Her proportions are perfect: she has nice curves, but is very trim at the same time. Her hair is a honey blonde, and her face is cute and open. Her breast rubbed softly against my upper arm as she snuggled up, and... well, okay: what I was afraid of was how much boy I had left in me. I didn't want to get, um, excited about being near her. I didn't want my secret revealed in such an embarrassing way.

As it turned out, I didn't need to worry. If there was any "boy" in me, it didn't show. Something else was happening, something else entirely. I could tell that Ida was longing for that mom experience that Maisie wouldn't let her have. Maisie didn't talk to her mother if she could help it, and when she did, she made sure it hurt Ida in some way. I'd never seen Ida even dare to reach her hand out toward Maisie, let alone touch or hug her.

So I relaxed and rested my head on Ida's shoulder. It was nice. My Mom wasn't so touchy-feely, and it was nice to be wrapped in all that comfort and safety. I could almost feel her womanliness passing into me as she held me.

When the movie was over, we shut the TV off and shifted so I was lying with my head in her lap. She gently ran her fingers through my hair, and asked me about school. She told me about her parents and how she'd grown up in the house... She told me which room was hers, what school she'd gone to, how the town had changed, and what was still the same.

As I listened to her voice and breathed her scent, I relaxed, and felt the tension drain from my body... I didn't realize until just then how tense I was: I'd been on edge ever since we arrived in New Jersey. This was the first time I could let go and do nothing.

Ida's voice drifted in and out, and what she said mixed with half-dreams in my head.

I looked up at her through my sleepy fog and said, "I want to be just like you."

She smiled and passed her hand over my forehead. "You need to get to your bed, little girl. Come on."

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

Ida told me that she didn't want to be too ambitious on our first weekend together. "I'm hoping we can do this again, maybe often, and so I'd rather take it easy and get to know you a little bit. It's nice to be with you when, uh–"

"I understand," I said, and finished her thought: "– when Maisie's not around."

---

 
24. Foundations
 

"I know you want to learn about makeup," Ida said, "but there are other things that will make a lot bigger difference to you."

"Like what?" I asked, frowning. We were just finishing breakfast, and I was nursing my special tea.

"First, we need to get you some bras–"

"I have plenty of bras!" I replied.

"I know you do," she said gently, "and I'm sure they're very nice. But they don't fit right. Most of them don't give the support you need, and you probably don't realize how uncomfortable they are."

I shifted a little in my chair and resisted the urge to adjust myself. "I thought that's just how they are, or how they're supposed to be, or something."

She shook her head. "So, bras. That's the first thing. The second thing is shoes." My eyes lit up. "You need two good pairs of school shoes."

"School shoes!?" I echoed. "I thought we were going to look at cool shoes, like the kind you and Ms. Means wear. Michael Kors and Manolo and stuff."

"Oh, we can look at them too," she said, smiling, "but in case you didn't notice, I don't wear shoes like that all the time. Most of the time I'm wearing something sensible and comfortable that also looks good. Like these." She showed off the shoes she was wearing. The heel wasn't very high, but they still looked like designer shoes.

"Those are sensible shoes?" I asked.

She nodded. "It is possible to look good without suffering," she said. "Most of the time. Your day-to-day look has to be comfortable. You don't want to be one of those women who tear off their shoes every chance they get, and moan and groan about how much their feet hurt. Shoes and bras are not supposed to hurt."

"Okay," I said. I was doubtful, but willing to be guided. "Then what?"

"Oh, after that we'll have dinner," she said. "Do you feel like cooking again?"

"Uh, sure," I replied. "But those two things are going to take all day?"

---

They didn't take all day, but we took our time going from place to place, and pretty much gave into any whim that took us off track. It was so nice to not be goal-driven, to not have to do something for once!

Ida told me that she didn't want to be too ambitious on our first weekend together. "I'm hoping we can do this again, maybe often, and so I'd rather take it easy and get to know you a little bit. It's nice to be with you when, uh–"

"I understand," I said, and finished her thought: "– when Maisie's not around."

She bit her lip and didn't answer, but later that afternoon, when we were sitting in a pastry shop, the topic came up again.

---

Ida played with her collar and made a strained face before launching into it.

"I'm not going to ask what Maisie's told you... I shouldn't... and I won't... it's better if I don't hear..."

I looked at her and tried to not tense up. I *so* did not want to get involved in the Maisie-Ida conflict. If I had to take a side, I'd have to side with Maisie, no matter what. She's my friend. Ida, even if she's Maisie's mom, is still just a random adult.

Ida continued, "I'm sure that Maisie's given you her version of my, ah, divorce." She didn't look to me for confirmation. She gazed into her cup as she swirled her coffee around. I noticed she was trembling slightly and looked extremely uncomfortable.

"People who've never had one think that divorce is the easy way out," she said, "but it's not. It's one of the worst things imaginable. It's like dying."

"You don't have to–" I began, but she interrupted.

She locked eyes her eyes on mine and said, "Marcie, whatever Maisie told you — whatever she said — it's probably true."

Ida shocked me to the core by what she said, but she must have shocked herself as well. In a paroxysm of nerves she seized her left hand with her right and her eyes darted one way and the other. She let go of her hand and knocked her coffee to the floor.

The cup didn't shatter: it cracked into pieces. Ida stared at pool of liquid spreading near her feet. She said nothing, but drew a slow shaky breath. I didn't dare move.

The two of us kept silent while the shop owner came over, cleared up the mess, and brought Ida another coffee.

"You don't need to tell me this," I said, as gently as I could. "I don't need to know." And I don't want to know! I shouted silently.

"But I do need to tell you," she said, with some desperation. Then she caught herself and backed off. "No, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Marcie. I can't impose... But still..."

In a softer voice she asked, "Can you let me tell you my side of the story? It won't take very long. I would hate for you to think I'm the same monster that Maisie sees."

"Okay," I said, nervously, and made a few jerky movements of my own, one of which nearly sent my hot chocolate to the floor. I had to sit on my hands to keep them steady.

Ida swallowed hard. "My husband, Maisie's father, was a jerk. He was unfaithful, he drank... he cheated on his taxes, he cheated on me... he was arrogant and thoughtless and generally absent. Maisie and I were just ornaments in his life, usually on the shelf, but trotted out when he needed to show us off.

"And me? Well, I can't claim that I was ever the *best* mother in the world, but before I filed for divorce, Maisie and I got along. Not as well as you and your mother, but we had our moments." She looked at her nails. "At least, she didn't hate me. Or call me names." She took a breath.

I recalled that Maisie had told me she'd spent most of her childhood with nannies, but I didn't ask Ida how that fit with her story.

"And now comes the bad part," she said, pulling out a tissue with a shaky hand. "My husband didn't love me, didn't need me, didn't want me. As far as Maisie was concerned, he was barely aware of her. I filed for a divorce. I thought he'd be glad to see us go. But he wasn't.

"His pride was offended, and he wouldn't let me go without a fight." She swallowed.

"So he didn't want you to leave?"

"No, ah," she looked confused by my question. "I mean yes. I mean–" She frowned to get her bearings. "Look: he might have wanted me to go, but *he* wanted to choose the how and the when. In his mind, I was just an add-on to his life... more like a possession than a person. He might have wanted to throw me away, but if *I* walked away, then that was like... stealing to him. He had no problem rejecting me in a thousand ways, but if I told *him* I didn't want him... well, that was wrong in his mind. He wanted to hurt me as much as he could for wanting to leave. He wanted to be the one to end it...

"Anyway... I'm not rich like Aiden — my ex — but I have enough. I didn't really want his money... I just asked for enough to maintain me and Maisie as she grew. Not only did he not want to give me a cent, but he also threatened to take away everything that I had."

"How could he do that?" I asked.

"It's complicated," she replied.

I must have given her a look, because she said, "Okay, it's not complicated. By California law, half of what he owned was mine, and half of what I owned was his. So he was entitled to half my house here in Flickerbridge, and I was entitled to half his house in Llewellyn, just for example."

"Couldn't you each just keep your own house?"

"Well that would make sense, wouldn't it? If everyone was sensible, it would all be easy. Unfortunately, in a divorce everyone is so angry and hurt and crazy that they go for the jugular, and do as much damage as they can. If you can't take someone's money outright, you can at least make them spend it all on lawyers and..."

She stopped and spread her hands as if to steady herself. "The point is, I was afraid. I was afraid to be alone... a little. But mainly I was afraid he'd leave me penniless and homeless. Which is what he threatened to do, in so many words."

She drew a very deep breath and let it go.

"And then, we fought over Maisie's money."

"Maisie has money?" I asked, with some surprise.

She laughed. "Oh, yeah. Didn't you know? Maisie has more money than me and her father put together. It's in a trust fund, though, so she can't touch it, but anyway...

"I was so angry with Aiden! We started fighting over Maisie's money, Maisie's money, Maisie's money, and then over Maisie herself. It was just..."

She passed her hands over her face. "We'd been arguing about all these... things... inanimate objects... houses... money... things... and then we started arguing about Maisie in the same exact way." Beads of sweat broke on her forehead.

"The two of us were screaming and shouting and saying the worst possible things... and not just one time, but for days and days on end. It was awful. Inhuman."

Her lips tightened. "It was never about Maisie. It was all about hurting each other... me and Aiden."

Ida looked at me without seeing me. Her face was pale and her pupils were like pinpoints. She was miles away, and it was frightening. Here I was, in a mall, in the middle of... Someplace, New Jersey, with an adult I barely knew, listening to things I never wanted to hear.

"We said the most horrible things about our little girl... and Maisie heard everything." She went white for a moment. "Everything. Every single nasty hurtful word. Things no one on earth should ever say, but we said them."

She tried, with shaking hands, to take a sip of coffee, then thought better of it.

"I've come up with a thousand excuses for what I did... my mind does it, all by itself... churns out reasons, justifications, for what I said... but..." She shook her head and didn't finish the sentence.

"You know, when you're a kid, you think that adults understand everything, can handle everything, always know the right thing to do... but sometimes you're just in over your head, and you're lost...

"I was overwhelmed by selfish fear, and — honestly, I swear — I didn't realize how horrible we were — *I* was — until the custody hearing." Tears welled in her eyes, but didn't fall. Her voice fell to a whisper. "The judge called us awful parents. He didn't want to give Maisie to either one of us, and he apologized to her — can you believe that? The judge actually apologized to Maisie for having to leave her with her own parents." She gasped for breath, but didn't cry. "I was devastated. In that short space of months, I made Maisie hate me, and now we can never go back."

She dabbed her eyes. "You can't imagine, Marcie, when the two most important relationships in your life go bad at the same time. And not just bad, but irretrievably bad." A small shudder passed through her.

The two of us sat in silence for a while. I didn't know what to do or say, so I put my hand on hers.

She sat there, sniffing, for some time. I wondered whether I could safely take my hand back, but I didn't. I just left it there.

After a minute and a half (I was watching the clock) she finally looked up, smiled, and put her other hand over mine. "You're such a good girl, you know that?"

"I try," I said.

---

That night, after dinner, I called Maisie.

"Hey, Marce!" she said, "I am having a blast with your mother! She is so cool!"

"Really?" I asked. "What are you guys doing?"

"We put up ALL the curtains in the house. All of them!"

"Wow," I said. "And that was fun?"

"Yeah! It was a lot of work, though. Putting up the curtain rods isn't as easy as you'd think. Your dad helped with that part."

I made a noncommittal grunt.

"Then we had to adjust the lengths..."

"I don't know how you can enjoy doing that stuff, Maisie. Honestly, it makes me feel bad for you, but I'm glad I missed it!"

"Well, what are you guys up to?" she challenged.

"Girl stuff," I replied. "Clothes, shopping, shoes, hanging out, watching movies."

"Oh, I see," she said, in an unenthusiastic tone. "You two are just going hog wild, aren't you?"

"It is fun, Maisie. I wouldn't trade it for hanging curtains any day."

"Maybe we should stay like this," she suggested. "We could swap moms for good!"

"Oh," I began, but she cut me off.

"I know, I know. You'd miss your mommy!"

"Well, yeah," I replied.

"I wouldn't," she retorted.

"I know," I said sadly.

"Oh, well. Hey! Do you mind if I paint your room?"

"Uh, no, I guess not... what color?"

"Do you really care? Can I choose? I mean, me and your Mom?"

"Um, I, ah, no," I said. I honestly had no idea what color I'd like. "Sure. Go ahead. Knock yourself out. Just don't make it pink, okay?"

"Great!" she replied. "Hey, speaking of pink, why don't you girls go do your nails or something?" She laughed as if it was the funniest thing in the world.

I considered for a moment. "That's not a bad idea," I said.

She scoffed, and after a little more talk we both hung up.

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

In a low voice that was almost a whisper, Maisie told me, "I saw the ghost of Misty Sabatino."

Goosebumps rose in a rapid wave up the back of my neck and both my arms.

---

 
25. And Then What Happened?
 

Monday morning I woke early, before the sun came up. It was dark, but I knew exactly where I was. In the past three weeks, I'd slept in how many beds? I counted four: in Aunt Jane's house, in Dad's tiny apartment, in our new house, and here at Maisie's house.

I lay there in the dark, enjoying the silence, until the sky began to lighten. That meant it was six-thirty. I got up quietly, showered and put on my school uniform. It seemed so bizarre to be going back to school: the weekend with Ida had been so full, so much fun, that I felt as if I'd been away for a month. School was like a distant memory — it just didn't seem real.

It had been a great weekend. I'd finally relaxed, unwound. I was SO GLAD to not be working on the house or cleaning, and I had a great time with Ida.

I really did. Even with the weird breakdown scene at the mall, when I had to listen to her story, I really liked Ida.

At the same time, I was more confused than ever about the Maisie-Ida conflict. After spending time with Ida, I liked her. A lot. I wanted to spend more time with her, but that would be difficult with Maisie's — apparently justified — negativity.

I pushed it from my mind. I wasn't going to solve it by thinking about it. Maybe I could talk to Susan... she always had an idea... she might have some way of figuring it all out, and maybe finding a way to fix it.

If it could be fixed.

BUT ANYWAY, enough about that! I pushed it from my mind and got out of bed.

After washing my face and dressing, I carried my suitcase and my backpack downstairs and left them by the door. Then I set up the coffeemaker for Ida, made myself some cereal and and poured a glass of juice. She came in, wrapped in her bathrobe, just as I sat down to eat.

"Hey, there, kiddo," she said in a soft voice. She gave me a gentle hug, and a kiss on the top of my head before she clicked the coffeemaker on. She listened to its strange hissy gurgles for a while, then quickly pulled out the pot and stuck her mug into the dark stream.

"Ahh!" she sighed as she took her first sip. "There is nothing — absolutely nothing — like that very first sip of coffee in the morning." She cradled the mug with both hands to enjoy the warmth of it. Then she set it on the table and reached over to rub my arm. Her hand was pleasantly warm.

"It's been so nice having you here," she said. "It makes me feel like a normal mother again."

I smiled by way of response.

"I was talking to your real mother last night on the phone, and she wondered whether we'd want to do this again next weekend."

"Really?" I squeaked. "I'd love to!"

She smiled and pulled me into a hug. "Oh, I'm so glad!" she said. She kept on hugging me, and I hugged her right back. She was a much better hugger than Mom, who tended to smother me when we hugged.

When Ida let me go, she continued with what she was saying, "Apparently they got so much done around the house, that they want to keep going next weekend too."

"Yeah, Maisie told me that they hung all the curtains, and she said they were going to paint my room."

"They painted a lot more than your room," Ida said. "It looks like your mother and my daughter are an unstoppable team. Your father had to leave the house on Sunday afternoon and go sleep in his car somewhere. It was the only way he could get any rest!"

"My God!" I cried.

Ida shrugged and laughed. "To each her own," she said, and wagged her newly-painted nails at me with a grin. "Next weekend, makeup!"

I smiled and wagged my newly-painted nails back at her.

---

 

Later, in homeroom, I looked at the flecks of color on Maisie's arms and in her hair. "Which one is the color of my room?" I asked.

She grinned and scanned her forearms. At last she settled on a dot of blue. "It's this one. Tropical Blue."

I stared at it, but couldn't get a good idea of how it would look on a wall.

"You'll see it tonight," she said. "And with the curtains... très magnifique!"

"Excellent pronounciation, Maisie," Mrs. Wix interrupted, "but this is English class. We're about to begin."

"Very magnificent!" Maisie quipped, and we got to work.

---

 

On the way to the cafeteria, Susan said she wasn't hungry and went off to the library.

"What's eating her?" Maisie asked me.

"I think it's the mom swap," I said. "She got all quiet and distant when we were talking about it."

Maisie frowned, uncomprehending.

I raised my eyebrows at her, disbelieving.

"What!?" Maisie demanded. "I don't get it!"

I sighed. "If Susan asked you to swap moms with her, what would you say?"

"No friggin' way!"

"Right," I nodded. "She'd like some of the freedom we have."

"I see," Maisie said, nodding. "That's very astute of you, Miss Donner."

---

 

After we got our food and sat down at our table, Maisie gasped and said, "Oh, I can't believe I forgot to tell you!"

"What?" I asked.

In a low voice that was almost a whisper, Maisie told me, "I saw the ghost of Misty Sabatino."

Goosebumps rose in a rapid wave up the back of my neck and both my arms.

"I was sound asleep, and she woke me up," Maisie continued. "She was staring at me with these great big eyes, and she said, What are you doing in my room?"

I was thunderstruck, and it took a few moments before I knew what to say. "And then what happened?"

"At first I thought it was a dream, you know? I figured that maybe I was still asleep." She snapped off the end of a baby carrot with her teeth and munched it loudly as she spoke. "But she didn't go away. She just kind of stood there in a floaty way, and she was sort of transparent."

My mouth hung open. "And then what happened?"

"She said, This is MY room! Get out of my room! You're not supposed to be here!"

My heart was pounding. This was my bedroom, my house, she was talking about. What was going to happen to me tonight?

"Maisie," I asked, "Were you scared? What did you do?" It was like pulling teeth, getting the story out of her!

Maisie assumed a very cocky look and — after several open-mouthed chews of her carrot — replied, "I told her to eff off!"

My jaw dropped. "You did? What did she do?"

"I said, Back off, ghost girl! You don't scare me!"

I stared into Maisie's face. I couldn't believe she'd been so bold! "Maisie, the suspense is killing me! What happened next?"

"She... she...," Maisie made a strange face, as if she was going to sneeze, but was trying to fight it. "I told her..." Maisie's face contorted again, and I was confused. She sucked in her lips, as if she was biting them.

She shut her eyes for a moment.

Then she exploded into shrieks of laughter.

"Oh my God!" she cried. "If you could see your face!" She imitated my stupidly gaping amazement, then burst into laughter once more. "If you hadn't made that goofy face, I could have strung you along the whole lunch period!"

"Oh, Maisie, sometimes you're such a jerk," I said, in an irritated tone.

"How can you be so gullible?" she retorted, "You really thought I saw a ghost?" For the rest of lunch period she let out snorts and giggles every few minutes.

A few times she started going woooo in a ghostly tone, but broke off in laughter.

I *so* wanted to smack her.

---

 

What happened next was so predictable, I should have seen it coming.

Well, not next next, but the thing *after* the next thing.

---

 

When I got home, I was amazed at how different everything was. The living room was completely done: all the furniture in place, rugs on the floor, curtains on the windows, and the walls were a pale, uh... "What color is that, Mom?"

"Salmon. A very light salmon. Maisie and I mixed it ourselves, actually."

Nearly the whole first floor was painted, and there were curtains on every window. The transformation was astounding. "It must have been a lot of work!"

Mom stared at me, her hands on her hips. "Yes, my real daughter, it was."

"Hey!" I protested, "I... and you and she..."

Mom waved away my protests. "It's all right," she said, as if to say I forgive you for running off and having fun while I was slaving for you.

"Still," she continued, "I have to say that your friend worked awfully hard in a house that is not even hers..."

She likes doing that stuff! I thought, but managed to bite my tongue. "Do you want me to stay home next weekend and work around here with you?"

"Oh, heavens no!" Mom replied. "I saw how you were last weekend, dragging around, doing as little as possible, moaning and groaning the whole time ..."

"Mom! I worked my butt off!"

She smiled, and was about to say something, but then she beckoned me into one of her smothering hugs. I took a deep breath and went in.

---

 

On the other hand...

What they'd done to my bedroom absolutely blew me away. The bed was covered by a white spread that I think I've seen before. The walls were this amazing blue: Maisie had called it "Tropical Blue." It did make me think of a deep blue tropical sea (although I've never seen one in real life). The curtains were two kinds of green in long thick vertical bands. Mom told me the exact colors: teal and lime green, and the way the four colors went together was simply amazing. A boy would never live with these colors: this was a real, bona fide, teenage girl's room.

"I love it!" I shouted. "It's fantastic!"

Mom was very pleased with my reaction, and she said, "It's not done yet!" with a little smile.

---

 

Although I haven't lived in this house very long, I felt like I was finally back in my own bed, and was so tired that I fell deeply asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

The bed was my old bed, and the pillow was my old pillow... even so, they seemed fresh and new, and at the same time completely familiar and comfortable.

I lay in a profound, dreamless sleep that seemed to last forever...

... until exactly 2:15 in the morning, when my eyes snapped open. A pale but pretty girl was bending over my bed. Her eyes were open as high as they could go, and her expression was one of timid curiosity.

"Who are you?" she asked me. "Why are you here?"

I tried to respond, but panicked: the words caught in my throat. A wave of fear washed over me, and I clutched my blanket desperately with both hands.

There was no need to ask who she was: I recognized her right away.

She was Misty Sabatino.

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

Here it was, the first time I was ever face to face with an actual ghost, and it was clear as clear could be: She was afraid of me.

---

 
26. The Noises The House Makes At Night
 

When I was small, I was afraid of bugs and frogs and lizards and things like that. Over and over my father would tell me, "They're more afraid of you than you are of them."

Of course, it never helped. How can you tell if a spider's afraid? It doesn't make a sound, and you can't see its face. Then too, the things move so fast, one second you notice them on the wall and the next second they've jumped halfway up your arm.

Scared or not, they never seemed afraid of me.

On the other hand, here it was, the first time I was ever face to face with an actual ghost, and it was clear as clear could be: She was afraid of me.

Of course, I was afraid of her, too. I was scared to death! I'm still surprised I didn't wet the bed when it happened.

And yet, the confusion and uncertainty on Misty's face didn't make me brave. I couldn't unlock my throat and get any words out. I tried to get a grip on myself.

After a couple gulps of air I managed to clear my throat, and finally croaked out "Marcie."

Then, before she could reply or I could make another sound, there were footsteps in the hall. Another ghost?

In the same moment, Misty and I turned to look toward the sound, then back to look at each other. We were equally startled. She didn't know who it was either!

Then it connected; I knew those fast-approaching feet. "It's my mother," I whispered. The footsteps arrived at my door. The doorknob rattled, then turned. Misty faded out and was gone before the door was even open a crack.

Mom glared at me. Her hair was a mess. She looked like she'd just woken up. When I say she didn't look at all pleased with being awake, I'm putting it mildly. She was loaded for bear. "Who were you talking to?" she demanded. "What in the world were you thinking, using your cell phone at this hour of the night? Was it some boy?"

I gaped at her. What was she talking about? My phone? Why was she talking about my phone? I'd just woken up, too, and her words didn't make sense — they barely registered as words.

"We'll take that phone away from you if you can't be responsible. Where is it? Who were you talking to?" She walked to the middle of my room and looked around her. There wasn't much to see.

"Well?" she demanded. "Answer me!"

I gestured at my backpack. "My ph-phone's in there," I told her. "It's off. I wasn't using it."

She picked up the backpack and fumbled clumsily with it.

"It's in the little outside pocket," I offered, "the one on the strap–" just as she found it and pulled it out.

"It's cold," she said.

"I told you: I wasn't using it."

"I heard you talking. You woke me up."

"I must have been talking in my sleep," I lied. "Sorry."

She drew a heavy sigh and stopped moving. Then she looked down, as if she'd forgotten what she was holding: my backpack in one hand, my phone in the other. She shoved the phone back in its pocket and set my backpack on the floor.

"I'm sorry," Mom said, sounding a little calmer. She came over, sat on the edge of my bed, and took my hand. "I guess I'm still not used to sleeping in a new house. You know all the noises the house makes at night?"

I shook my head.

"No? Oh, it's just the house settling: those creaks and snaps and weird sounds. There's one noise I can't even describe... I don't know what it sounds like or what it is.

"The problem is, that they're just sounds, but they sound like all kinds of things... like somebody opening a door, or footsteps...

"One day when I was here all alone I could have sworn that somebody ran up the stairs. But it was nothing. There was nobody there."

Even though Mom was trying to be reassuring, I could feel the little hairs on my arms standing up in alarm.

"Still, even though I know it's nothing... that it's just an old house... well, you'd think that if it had to settle, it would have been finished and done with it a long time ago... and even though I know that it's nothing, it's keeping me awake at night. Eventually I'll get used to it. You're lucky you don't hear it.

"Anyway... I'd just fallen asleep — finally — and then I heard you... talking... oh–" She looked at my windows, struck by a sudden idea. "Maybe it wasn't even you, maybe some girl was walking by the house, talking to her friend. Maybe she was out there on the sidewalk, and I thought it was you."

She looked in my eyes and ruffled my hair. "I don't think you talk in your sleep. You never did before."

I shrugged.

"So why were you awake?" she asked.

"I don't know," I said. "But I was sound asleep until a couple minutes ago. I like it here. I didn't — I don't hear any weird sounds."

My face felt like it had a wild, guilty look, but Mom either didn't notice or put it down to my just having woken.

"Good," she said. "I'm glad. I like it here too, but I just have to get used to another house's noises. This one doesn't sound like home to me yet."

I smiled. She smiled back, and said good night.

After she left, I lay there for a while, wondering about what happened. When I saw Misty, I thought I was awake, but it could have been a dream. It was exactly like what Maisie said... so it could have been suggestion, you know? She told me about seeing the ghost of Misty Sabatino. I believed it, it made a big impression, and so I dreamed about it that night. When I first woke up, it seemed so real that I could feel the fear on my skin, but now, especially after talking to my mother, it was fading, the way dreams do.

But maybe it wasn't a dream...

I thought about looking around the room and under the bed, but I drifted back to sleep instead...

---

The next day Maisie was out sick. It turned out to be the flu, and I wondered if maybe she'd just worked too hard last weekend.

When Maisie didn't show up Wednesday, Susan sullenly joined me for lunch. She ate in silence, looking down.

"Susan?" I asked. "If I tell you something, will you promise to not tell Maisie?"

She looked up, but didn't answer. I could see she was interested, but her curiosity hadn't overcome her resentment. "Why don't you want Maisie to know? I thought she was your best friend."

I let that little conversational landmine just slide on by. "This is something serious, and Maisie doesn't take anything seriously."

Susan nodded. "So I'm the serious one."

She wasn't making this easy at all. "Do you believe in ghosts?" I asked.

At first, she wasn't sure how to process that one, but after a couple of chews she said, "Yes, I do." Then she stopped, and turned to me. The full light of her attention was on me, and she got it: she knew exactly what I was saying. "No!" she said in a low voice. "You didn't!"

"I think so," I said, "but I'm not sure." I told her the whole thing: from Maisie's joke to my mother walking in.

"Wow," Susan said, both hands flat on the table. "This is incredible!"

"What do think I should do?" I asked. "Is there anything I can do?"

"I don't know," she answered. "Do you mind if I ask my grandparents about this?"

I was confused. "What? Your grandparents? Why?"

"Yes, my grandparents," she said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "They might know something that would help. If it happened to me, I'd go talk to them about it."

"Uh–"

"They're not going to laugh, and they're not going to tell anybody."

"Well, sure, okay then."

"Good!" she said, smiling brightly again.

The old Susan was back.

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

Susan shrugged and smiled. "They said that if it bothers you, you have to find a way to get Mrs. Wix involved."

"How can I do that? What am I supposed to do? Invite her for a sleepover?"

---

 
27. Back, With A Vengeance
 

Thursday, Maisie returned. She was subdued, but looked okay. Her smile was weak and she hardly spoke at all.

At the beginning of lunch she paid a long visit to the bathroom.

"I hate to say it," Susan said, "But I like Maisie better this way. I didn't realize how... abrasive she can be until she quit talking."

I smiled ruefully. "I know what you mean. I've tried to talk to her about it, but it's all that stuff about her parents' divorce..."

Susan sighed. "I know, I know." Then, anxious to change the subject, she said, "I talked to my grandparents about your... you know, visitor."

I raised my eyebrows. "And?"

"They said was that it wasn't about you. They said it's Mrs. Wix's problem."

"Mrs. Wix's problem!?" I repeated. "That's no help. How can it be Mrs. Wix's problem? Misty's popping up in my bedroom. What am *I* supposed to do?"

She shrugged and smiled. "I don't know. All they said was that if it bothers you, the only solution is to get Mrs. Wix involved."

"How can I do that? What am I supposed to do? Invite her for a sleepover?"

Susan giggled at the thought. "Do you see the ghost every night?"

"No," I said. "She hasn't been back since that first time." I bristled a bit. "How can you be so nonchalant about it?"

Susan shrugged. "I guess 'cause it isn't happening to me," she said as she sipped her iced tea. "If it was me who saw her, it would be different. I suppose."

I wasn't so sure. I'd never seen Susan shocked, surprised, or stumped by anything. She seemed to just take everything in, and calmly sort it out in her head.

In fact, when she got upset about Maisie and me swapping mothers, it surprised me. I guess no matter how smart you are, you can still feel hurt from being left out.

I twisted my mouth to the side as I thought. I couldn't get the imagine of Mrs. Wix, her hair in curlers, unrolling her sleeping bag in my bedroom. And then, I had a great idea.

"Hey, Suze! Do you want to come for a sleepover?" I asked. Then, joking, I added, "I'll see if Mrs. Wix can come and we'll really make a night of it!"

"Is that a joke?" she asked cautiously. "I mean, I know the last part is, but–"

"No, it's not a joke," I replied. "I'm inviting you for a sleepover. In the hope that we get to see Misty Sabatino together."

"Oh, I wish," she sighed. "But my parents–"

"I know, I know, but you can ask, can't you? Not this weekend, though."

"Are you and Maisie doing the mom swap again this weekend?"

I nodded.

She smiled and thought a moment. "I guess I can ask. It won't hurt to ask..."

---

Maisie was smiling and chewing gum when she got back from the bathroom. She dropped into a chair next to Susan and groaned with pleasure. "I finally had a cigarette!" she declared. "It's been almost a week without a single puff! No wonder I was dragging!"

"Maisie," I objected, "Do the math: you've only been sick for three days–"

"I didn't smoke while I was at your house," she retorted. "I didn't want to shock your mother. So I haven't had one since last THURSDAY!"

She smiled, stuck out her tongue, and proceeded to attack her food. It was amazing to see the change in her.

"She's back!" Susan crowed.

"With a vengeance," Maisie added, speaking with her mouth full.

"Are you still up for the mom swap this weekend?" I asked.

"Oh, yeah!" she replied. "Wouldn't miss it!"

"What are you two going to be working on?" I asked.

"Oh, it's going to be a surprise, Princess," she grinned. "While you're off buffing your toenails and trying on tutus, we're going to be working."

"I'm not going to be trying on tutus," I said, a little irritated. "But I can see you're feeling better: you're already teasing me."

She scoffed. "Do you know why I tease you? It's because you're so easy! Your hackles go up at the slightest thing."

"Oh," I said. Was that why she didn't tease Susan? Suze was completely unflappable.

"Anyway," Maisie said, "unless your mother's already done it, we're going to paint the kitchen and some other rooms, and hang all the pictures. Stuff like that. What are you going to do?"

"Your mother's going to teach me about makeup," I said, and for some reason I blushed deeply.

Maisie gave a little hmmph! and Susan smiled.

"Oh, hey!" Maisie said, suddenly remembering, "Have you seen any ghosts yet?"

"No," I replied drily, as she chuckled at her own joke.

Susan and I gave each other a knowing look.

---

That night at dinner my mother said, "I'm glad Maisie's feeling better. I get so much done when she's here."

"Hmmph!" I said.

My mother and father glanced at each other. Mom asked, "Does it bother you that she comes here? Remember, this was your idea."

"I know," I said, "but it's getting pretty weird."

"Weird?" Mom asked. "What do mean, weird? Is it weird for you at Ida's house? Are you uncomfortable there?"

"No," I said. "I like being with Ida. She's really nice."

"So what's weird then? Not being home?"

"Oh, I don't know," I protested, sorry that I'd brought it up.

"I thought I was doing you a favor," Mom continued, "knowing how much you hate housework. But, if you'd rather stay here and help me get things done..."

"No!" I said more forcibly than I meant. Then, softly backpedaling, "I mean, it's all, you know–"

"I understand," Mom said, in a long-suffering tone. "It's alright."

"Oh, Mom," I groaned.

"Do you want to help me fix up the house?" she asked.

"If you really want me to stay," I said, trying to choose my words carefully, "or if I have to stay, I will. And I'll work hard. But, if you're letting me choose, I think I can learn a lot more if spend the weekend with Ida."

Mom said nothing. She turned her attention back to her dinner.

I wasn't sure whether I'd hurt her feelings, but I was pretty sure it was a good time to keep my mouth shut.

Dad quietly took the two of us in, then said to me, "Even when you were a boy, you weren't very handy."

"I wasn't?"

He shook his head no. "I still don't know you've managed to pull off some of the stunts you've done, like climbing a building, jumping onto a moving car, doing a chimney climb to the top of a wall..."

"To say nothing of fighting hand-to-hand with thieves and gunmen," Mom added.

"Come on," I protested. "I wasn't fi–" but Mom wasn't finished.

"Obviously, hanging curtains and unpacking boxes just isn't exciting enough for you."

"Oh, Mom! Come on!" I cried. "If you *really* want me to stay, I'll stay!"

"Oh, good!" she said. "With you and Maisie here, I'll really make progress!"

"What!? No, Mom, that's totally unfair! We — I — you..."

Mom's eyes twinkled. "Look at you!" she said. "My goodness! I'm only kidding! You really don't like working around the house, do you?"

"It isn't that," I said.

"Look," she said, "I've planned everything out, and if I can get Maisie here for two more weekends, we can finish everything. It'll be worth it to me."

"Two more weekends?" I asked. I didn't want to push Susan's sleepover off (that is, if Susan could make it).

"You like being with Ida, don't you? You talk about her a lot."

"I do?"

"Yes, you do! About makeup, and shoes, and fashion, and hair... it's Ida this and Ida that..."

"I didn't realize," I said.

"As if your own mother didn't know about those things..."

"Uh..."

"It's alright," Mom said. "I can deal with the rejection. Ida's a good influence. Just remember that I miss you. I want you here with me. At the same time, there is just too much to do, and I can't relax until the house is livable."

"Okay, okay!" I said.

"And I know that Ida loves having you there. What will you two be doing this weekend?" she asked.

"She's going to teach me about makeup," I said, and once again I blushed furiously.

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

I was astounded. "How did you know it was me?"

She chuckled. "I'm psychic, remember? No, seriously, I have caller ID. What did you think?"

---

 
28. Bad Stuff Followed By Good Stuff
 

This weekend was even better than the last. The more time I spent with Ida, the more I liked her. We did the makeup thing: she talked to me about colors. We flipped through a fashion magazine and she used the faces to illustrate different techniques, and explained when and where they're appropriate. We talked about day, evening, and night. She showed me how she did her own face. Together we picked out some good cosmetics for me, and she helped me get three different looks with them. I had my eyebrows tweezed, which is always fun (I'm being sarcastic, in case you can't tell — tweezing eyebrows is a pain!).

We did other things too. We watched The Devil Wears Prada together, and we took a long walk through the neighborhood. She told me how things had changed since she was my age... who used to live in this house and that house... who was her best friend, and what they did together.

I got so comfortable during our walk that I almost told her my secret — my big secret — I mean, about how I used to be a boy.

Thank goodness I didn't, but it was only chance that stopped me: we ran into a tiny little girl with a cute little dog, and after that distraction was over, the feeling passed and I realized what a bad mistake I almost made.

On Sunday night when I was lying in bed, I realized that Ida and I were bonding. It used to sound like a stupid meaningless word to me, but now that I'd experienced it, I deeply appreciated it.

And then, of course, Monday at school was a terrible let-down after the weekend. It was hard to take the mundane ritual... high school almost seemed unreal: flat, dull, and, well... high school.

Until the big moment: when I finally went home. Maisie had told me at the very end of lunch period that she and my mother had "done" my room. She told me at the absolute last minute of lunch, so it was impossible for me to ask her anything at all. I know she did it that way on purpose. I was in agony the rest of the day.

"You'll see, Princess! You'll see," she cackled, and I wanted to smack her. Plus, I had to tell myself that being called Princess was a lot better than being called Mark.

When I got home, I ran upstairs and burst into my bedroom.

It was a dream! The furniture was white neo-Victorian (my mother told me later). There was a bureau as tall as me, a huge desk, a rolling chair, a bookcase, a cute bedside table with a lamp. Near the front windows was a sitting area with two massive armchairs, a rug and a coffee table. The bed had an antique cast-iron frame, and an incredibly high mattress, and the whole thing was covered with a mountain of blankets, covers, and pillows. I couldn't believe it. All the furniture, the rugs, the bedclothes, must have cost a fortune!

"It wasn't as much as you might think," Mom said. "With Ida's help, I was able to get some amazing deals. Most of these pieces were a display setting, so we saved quite a bit just from that... And knowing what I was looking for helped a lot. I think I mentioned to you on the plane that we had a generous budget."

"Although you did go a little overboard," my father commented with a smile, as he peeked in the doorway over Mom's shoulder.

"What about you?" she asked, nudging him conspiratorially in the side.

"Oh, yeah!" he laughed as he hauled out a computer video screen from behind his back. "I'd almost forgotten!" He walked theatrically over to my desk, where he set it down with a flourish.

"The rest of it's in the extra room," he said. "I'll hook it up later."

"A computer!" I shouted, overjoyed.

"We figured you could use some of that reward money now," Mom said, "and your father says that the computer will help you with your homework."

He raised his eyebrows and smiled. "So, Marcie, are we the best parents, or what?"

"Yes!" I shouted, "You guys are the best parents ever!" And I ran over to hug them.

---

Now, I told you all of that just so I could tell you this: That night, after dinner, after my dad had set up the computer ("We don't have the internet hookup yet, so you'll have to be patient," he cautioned), after I finished my homework and changed into my pajamas, I sat on the floor in the middle of my room and looked around me.

I had never had a bedroom like this before.

I never dreamed I would ever have a room like this, yet here it was.

I didn't mind that Mom, Ida, and Maisie had chosen it all for me. It was better that way: I didn't have any ideas about it. I wouldn't have known where or how to even begin.

My room was beautiful, and far better than anything I could have come up with on my own.

That's when it hit me: I was finally settled. Since last August, when we started packing, I hadn't really had a home. But now, I did: I was HOME. I could feel it, through and through.

It was exactly the feeling that Mrs. Earshon, the psychic, had mentioned: "When you're in your new house, the first time you look around your room and feel that everything's in place, then you can call me."

I looked at the clock. It was 9:15. That meant it was 6:15 in California. I dug out my address book and dialed the number.

It rang twice, and then I heard the familiar voice say, "Hello, Marcie?"

I was astounded. "How did you know it was me?"

She chuckled. "I'm psychic, remember? No, seriously, I have caller ID. What did you think?"

"Oh," I said. "So..."

"Tell me, Marcie, how is your room? Is everything in place?"

"Yes, it's–"

"Hang on, Marcie, I don't mean to be rude, but I'm going to start dinner soon. We can talk a little bit about you, and a little bit about business. But we have to be quick, because my tummy's rumbling. I've been going all day, and had to skip lunch."

She put on a headset and chatted as she quickly dealt some cards. "Let's see what we have," she said, and then let out an sigh of dismay. "With you, there is always this double... um, two things mixed together." This was something that confused her greatly when I first met her, before she knew I was transitioning.

"I never... Oh, look at this: There is danger coming, soon, I mean physical danger, but it's not for you... but at the same time it involves you. Oh, dear. Let's see. Oh, I wish we had more time, but... hmm... Right: what it probably means is that somebody misses their aim: they want to hurt someone else, but end up trying to hurt you."

"Is it bad?" I asked.

"You'll be alright," she replied. "The cards that talk about your health and well-being, they're all good. So, you won't be harmed. Maybe a little scared, but you're a brave girl. What you need to remember is this: you have to try to be the best friend that you can be. That's what will save you; that's what will get you through."

Oh, brother! It sounded like an after-school film! Incredulous, I asked, "I'm supposed to be best friends with a person who tries to hurt me?"

"No, that's not what I said. You have to be a friend to the people around you. People your age."

"Is someone my age going to try to hurt me?"

"Hold on. Try to stop interrupting, okay? This danger that I mentioned, it involves an adult, a man, not a relative. Someone you've met." I thought of the bank robber and the purse snatcher. Who else could it be?

For some reasons, Sister Honororia's brother, the policeman, came to mind as well, but it couldn't be him. He wouldn't hurt me. He was a jerk and a power freak, but he was a policeman, after all.

"As far as people your age... there is a girl close to you, probably in your class, your school, who will be... very negative toward you. VERY negative. But there, too, you have to try to stay open, to love, to be a good friend. I see this girl has a broken heart. And this is someone you've already met. Do you know who I'm talking about?"

"Oh, yes," I said, and tears came to my eyes. It had to be Maisie.

"Okay, so be ready. This is going to happen soon, too. The good news is that both things are going to come in the next week or two, and then it will all be over. Oh, and hmm. It says here that you just got some money, but I saw that in the newspapers already. Put it in the bank. You'll need it for something... I don't know what."

I wanted to interrupt and complain about all the love and be a friend stuff — how could she be serious? What was it? Love conquers all? Give me a break!

I didn't get a chance to ask her, though. Just as I was opening my mouth, she went on to something else.

"Here's one more hard thing with some good news behind it: you have to call your old boyfriend–"

"Jerry?"

"I don't know his name, Marcie. Anyway, you need to call him so he can break up with you."

"What!? You can't tell me to break up with him!"

"I'm not, Marcie," she said. "I never said you should break up with him. I'm just saying that you have to call him. However, according to the cards, when you call, he's going to break up with you. You don't need to — in fact, you shouldn't — say anything about a breakup. If I'm wrong, I'm sorry, but I don't think I am."

"Hmmph!" I commented. "I don't want to do it!"

"You have to. Otherwise you won't be able to go on with... oh, you'll find out. You have to call him. But don't worry: there will always be a boy buzzing around you. Not 'boys', plural, but there will always be a boy for you. Okay?

"I guess," I said glumly.

"Keep your chin up," she said. "It's mostly good news. Bad stuff followed by good stuff. That's going to be your life, so get used to it. And, listen, I have to go. I'm starving! This one's a freebie, but I'm going to send you a little brochure with prices and what to do if you want to talk with me. I told you, this is what I do for a living. You're an interesting person, but I can't do this for free. Okay?"

I gave her my address and we hung up.

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

I almost dropped the phone in shock. I wanted to slam down the phone. I wanted to slam it down and break it, but still somehow cry and shout and tell him off... but I didn't.

---

 
29. An Unexpected Temptation
 

I decided to bite the bullet and call Jerry right away.

"Am I interrupting dinner?" I asked.

"No," he said. "It's cool. I was just about to call you myself."

"Oh," I said. "Well, here I am!"

I wanted to say I miss you, but if Mrs. Earshon was right, I didn't want to make it harder for him.

I really like Jerry. I've always liked Jerry. Hearing his voice made me wish I was there, in California, with him, rather than here in cold New Jersey, clutching a telephone.

I wanted to be right next to him so I could feel... all that I was feeling... there, with him. He could put his arm around me, and we could kiss, and never stop...

In my mind's eye I could see us, feel us... our lips touching, our eyes closed, his arms around my shoulders, mine around his chest... me standing on tiptoe...

It felt like months since our last kiss... though it's only been two weeks.

I asked about his family. He told me that Nina said hello, and that Cassie asked whether I liked the Cosmo she'd given me.

"She also told me to ask if you found a new boyfriend yet," he added. "That's Cassie asking, not me."

"I know," I said, blushing. "She's a terrible tease."

"Yeah, tell me about it!" he agreed. "But she wouldn't tease you if she didn't like you."

"I know," I said. "It's the Auburn family's way of showing affection."

"Yeah, I guess. That's what Mom says, anyway. She says she consoles herself with that thought." He laughed. She would need some consolation: Mr. Auburn was the biggest tease of all!

"Anyway," Jerry continued, "speaking of Cassie — and I'm not supposed to tell you this, in case it doesn't happen — but she might stop by and visit you in January. Did you know she's going to Princeton next year? Is that close to you?"

"Oh, uh, I didn't know — I don't know," I said. "I don't think Princeton is close-close... I'll have to look at a map... but, oooh! Ivy League! I didn't realize she was that smart! Princeton is Ivy League, right?"

"Yeah, it is. My parents are over the Moon about it. And yeah, she is that smart. I'll tell her you had your doubts, though," he replied in a smirking tone.

"Oh, don't do that! I don't want Cassie mad at me, especially if she's coming here!" I laughed.

"Don't worry, I'll just tell her you said hi. And that you hate Cosmo." He laughed again.

After that, a silence fell between us, a silence that for some reason seemed extremely awkward. I put my fingertips on the mouthpiece and sent a wordless I miss you down the line. It felt like he got it.

But then, he took a breath and began saying something he must have rehearsed before we spoke. It had that pre-prepared sound to it. "Marcie, I know you haven't been gone very long, but–"

Ouch! This was it! Mrs. Earshon was right! It was coming, it was here, plain as day. Suddenly Jerry was on tiptoe, choosing his words carefully, as if he was afraid of breaking something.

When he got as far as, "... and this isn't easy to say..." I couldn't stand the suspense, so I blurted out, "Jerry, are you breaking up with me?" and started wringing my hands.

Why did I rush right to the point? Part of me wanted him to suffer and squirm, to make him squeeze out the words as painfully as possible, but another part of me — well, most of me — wanted to get it over with. Like pulling off a bandaid: I always took a deep breath and just did it, as fast and hard as possible. If it was going to hurt or even make me scream, at least it would be quick: I wanted it to happen and be over.

Unfortunately, having somebody dump you isn't anything like pulling off a bandage. Even if you know it's coming, even if it happens long distance, even if it's because you moved away, it still hurts, and as badly as it hurts in the moment, it hurts much worse afterward.

I knew there was no point in trying to hang on. I knew it before I left California. I was just a freshman in high school, for pity's sake. And honestly (as I told myself the next day) what I missed wasn't so much Jerry himself, but Jerry's family. I was an only child, and being with the Auburns was my first experience of family life. Do you know what I mean? I have a family, but not brothers and sisters...

No, that's all a lie: I missed Jerry. I missed him: his smile, his protective arms, his jokes, the way he'd embarrass me and make me blush, then laugh and call me cute... and I'd miss the way he kissed me.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm sorry. But you're far away, and..."

"Oh!" I said, struck by that last phrase... what did he mean? "You're far away," he'd said, leaning a little on the you're, as if to say... *I* am far away... but someone else is near!

Again, I rushed right to the point: "You're already seeing someone else?"

"Um, yeah, right," he said. "How did you know? Did she tell you?"

She? Who was this "she" that could tell me? There was only one person: "Eden?" I gasped, astonished. My best friend, Eden!? "You're going out with Eden? Oh, Jerry! How could you?"

I almost hung up. I almost dropped the phone in shock. I wanted to slam it down and break it, but still somehow cry and shout and tell him off...

... but I didn't.

We talked for twenty minutes more. I cried for fifteen of them.

When we finally hung up, I set the phone down and looked at it. With both hands I swept the tears off my cheeks and wiped my hands on my skirt. I took yet another tissue for my nose, and grabbed the phone again.

I called Eden and went through the whole business again with her. She told me how it happened. They ran into each other and started talking about me. They sat together in the cafeteria to talk about me. They walked together so they could talk about me.

Pretty soon, one thing led to another, and — well, it wasn't that they weren't talking about me, but they found other things they could do together... and Jerry ended up back at the boyfriends' table.

She didn't say, but I could picture him touching her hand, the two of them kissing... I didn't want to see it, but my mind did it all by itself, illustrating all the things that Eden didn't say.

Still and all, I understood. It hurt, and so did my stomach after all that crying, but I understood. Corey was a nice boy, and he was Eden's first boyfriend ever, but... (sigh) he couldn't compare to Jerry.

And Eden was lonely, too. She and Carla were friends... but it wasn't the same since I left.

Unfortunately, my mental pictures were far too good: I could see the two of them! Eden and Jerry, laughing, talking, arm in arm, walking away, kissing... my face grew red with embarrassment.

I felt rejected, flat, ugly, and unloved, but at the same time, I had to admit, however grudgingly, that they made a nice couple. At least they did in the pictures in my head.

After an hour with Eden, we were laughing again, friends like before, and I missed her so much! When I finally hung up, my ear was all hot and flabby. I grabbed it and tried to waggle and rub a little life back into it, when the phone rang again. I picked up before it finished the first ring.

"The Donner Residence," I announced, trying to sound as prim and proper as possible. I was goofing around, figuring that Eden had forgotten to tell me something. But it wasn't her at all!

"How formal!" a familiar, sexy voice replied. "I hope I didn't need a reservation before I placed this call."

"Trevor?" I said with some surprise. Recovering, I asked, "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I'm glad you find talking to me such a pleasure," he said, with an audible smile. "Marcie, I'm calling to see if you're free. Do you we think we might be able to see each other this weekend? I'm thinking maybe lunch, maybe a movie... or if you prefer something more active, there's roller skating, or we could even go bowling. I'm pretty open as to what we do, as long as it's you and me, doing it together. How does that sound?"

"Hmmm," I said. "It does sound good, but what about the difficulties it would create in the workplace?"

"I figure that we could be — oh what's that word... discreet? I don't know about you, but I've never been discreet before, so it could be something new for both of us."

I laughed, but then I sighed. "Oh, Trevor."

It was certainly tempting, especially after getting dumped by Jerry. Heck, Trevor was temptation incarnate!

I sighed again. "I'm sorry, because I'll be busy this weekend, but anyway, I've never been good at keeping a low profile."

"I see," he said. "You're figuring that we'll go somewhere and terrorists will pop out of the woodwork."

"Something like that," I agreed.

"And you will have to subdue them," he continued.

"Yeah, right," I said. "Seriously, though, things happen. Usually when I don't expect them. And the more I try to be invisible, the worse it gets. At least, that's my history."

"So why don't you try expecting them and looking for them, and then maybe those things won't happen? We could do it as an experiment, say Saturday afternoon? Besides, even if all hell breaks loose, I wouldn't mind a little adventure... Flickerbridge is way too quiet. If we get caught, we can always say that we simply ran into each other. A coincidence. After all, we *do* live in the same town. It could happen." After a pause, he added, "In fact, I think it should happen. I'll willing to bet that it's bound to happen."

"I forgot how persistent you are," I said, feeling warm and flattered. I glanced at myself in the mirror and ran my hand through my hair. "But I have to say no. Our parents work together, and..." I wanted to kick myself, but somehow I had to do the right thing.

"I get it, I get it," he said. "Listen, why don't we do this: can you save me a few dances at the company's Christmas party? Like all of them?"

"That sounds good," I agreed with a smile. "That can certainly be done."

"Then it's settled," he said. "Let's call it a date. We'll make it happen."

I laughed and agreed, and we said our goodbyes.

When I ran downstairs for a snack, Mom was standing by the refrigerator. I still had a big smile on my face. She noticed it, and pointed to my big red ear.

"Looks like someone's been on the phone a long time," she observed. "Who were you talking to?"

"Oh, Jerry," I said. "He broke up with me." Mom's eyebrows went up. "Then I called Eden. Jerry's dating her now."

"Ah," Mom said, taken aback. She couldn't put it together, so she said, "I see. And that makes you happy because..." She waved her hand in a vague circle, indicating that I should fill in the blanks.

"Oh," I said, suddenly realizing that I couldn't tell her why I was smiling. "Oh, uh, Eden just told me some funny stuff and made me laugh. Right at the end of the call."

"Uh-huh," Mom grunted. She clearly didn't believe me, but it didn't look like she was going to push it.

She did look like she was about say something, though, so I quickly pre-empted it.

"Mom, please don't say anything about me and boys tonight, okay? Don't tell me I'm lucky I don't have a boyfriend or any of that stuff, okay?" The last "okay" came out as a high squeak, and two big round tears rolled down my face. My smile was gone... I don't know where.

"Oh, honey," she said, and came to hug me.

The tears ended there, though. "I guess I got all cried out with Eden," I told her, turning my head inside her hug so I could breath and talk.

"Do you want to tell me about it?" she offered, as she squeezed me and rubbed my back a little.

"Maybe tomorrow," I said, not resisting the hug. "But promise–"

"No comments about boys or dating or luck," she smiled. "I guess that means I don't get to say anything."

"We'll see how it goes," I said, laughing, and wiped the last two tears away.

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

"Yeah," I agreed. "Could you imagine if you died wearing some outfit that you hated? And then you were stuck in it forever?"

"You mean like a Blessed Yvette High School uniform?" The two of us laughed aloud. "Yuck!"

---

 
30. Caught Dead In That Outfit
 

"Did you say your name is Marcie?" she was asking me, as I floated up from sleep.

"Yeah," I replied as I rubbed my eyes and let out a huge yawn. "Misty?" I asked. And it was her.

She didn't look like a ghost. She just looked like a girl, any girl, a little older than me, about Cassie's age. I couldn't see through her, and she wasn't floating in the air. She sat on the edge of my bed, with one leg tucked under her and the other leg dangling. She sounded friendly and curious, as if there was nothing strange about who we were or how we were meeting. It was like we were two new girls on the first day of school.

Misty was dressed in workout clothes: spandex shorts, a sports bra, tank top, and loose t-shirt. Her hair was pulled back with a pink scrunchie and her feet were bare. It was a seriously outdated look.

She saw the way I looked her over and explained, "This is what I was wearing when I died."

"Oh," I said. "So you know you're... uh–"

"Dead? Yeah, I know. At first it was horrible, and then it was creepy. And then for a long time I was scared to death, but then it got so boring! " She scratched her head and then tossed her ponytail. "After a while I got used to it... There wasn't anything else to do. You know, most people can't see me. I wonder why that is? I used to look out the window a lot, but not many people looked back, the way you did. That other girl can't see me at all."

She poured so many words into what she said, it was a bit hard to follow. Maybe, being dead, she didn't need to catch her breath?

In any case, my brain caught up a few moments after she finished, and I thought ''the other girl?''

"Do you mean Maisie?" I asked.

"I guess," she said. "Blonde hair, skinny like a skeleton, smokes?"

"That's her," I said. Did that mean that Maisie smoked here?

"She scares me," Misty confided.

I laughed. "She's alright. Hey, can we go into that little room over there? I don't want to wake up my parents."

"Sure," she said. "I think your mother can hear me. She is your mother — you said she's your mother, right?"

"Yes," I said. "And I'm sure she can hear me."

Maybe once Misty got used to talking to someone, she'd slow down. I hoped so, anyway.

As we stood up and crossed the room, I softly asked her, "Does it bother you that we moved in here?"

"No!" she said. "I'm so glad! I was alone in here for years and years! I had NOBODY to talk to!" She was looking at me over her shoulder as she talked. My mouth opened and my hand went up — I had to warn her: she was about to walk into the door!

And then she did. Walked right into the door, through the door, ghosting her way into the dressing room. It was a little bit of shock. I mean, you see it in movies and on TV all the time, but when it happens in real life, it's a whole 'nother thing.

I, on the other hand, opened the door, walked in, and closed the door behind me.

Once we were both safely inside, we sat on the floor and started talking.

---

"And the two of you just talked — chatted? Just like that?" Susan asked me.

"Yeah," I replied, stifling a yawn. "Sorry, but we talked for a long time. It was exhausting. She talks nonstop, all kinds of stuff all mashed together..."

Susan grinned. "I guess she doesn't need to stop and catch her breath, does she?"

"That's what I said!" I agreed. "Plus, she hasn't been able to talk to anybody for years, which must be tough."

"So you're getting the brunt of all her pent-up... words... or whatever."

"Yeah. It's like the dam broke. I'm hoping that once she's used to me, she'll slow down and talk about one thing at a time."

I picked at my lunch. I was so tired that I had no appetite.

But then I remembered something. "Oh, Suze! You know what? She didn't kill herself! She didn't take an overdose or anything. She said she never even took that many diet pills. It turned out to be a bad reaction... or a side effect. Maybe she was sensitive to them, or allergic or something."

"So it wasn't Mrs. Wix's fault," Susan put in.

"Misty said it wasn't," I told her. "And I believe her. That letter implied that Mrs. Wix got Misty obsessed with her weight, but I don't believe it. Misty seemed pretty normal to me."

"For a girl who's been dead for 13 years!" Susan quipped.

"Well, she doesn't seem like the type who'd kill herself," I offered.

Susan smiled.

"I know, I know," I said. "She's already dead, so even if she was the type, she can't... but if you met her, I think you'd feel the same."

"I hope I *do* get to see her! Oh! Oh! I forgot to tell you!" Suze was actually jumping in her seat. "I can come! My parents are going to let me come for a sleepover! But it can't be this weekend. Is the weekend after, okay? Like, Friday night?"

I pretended to think for a minute. This was going to work out great! But I had to level with Suze, because she was going to find out anyway. "Actually, it works out a lot better. My mother wants Maisie to come over next weekend to finish the work around the house."

"Oh," Susan said, a little disappointed.

"I'm really glad you can come," I told her, and she brightened again. "I hope you get to see her, too."

I pulled out my agenda and took a quick look at the calendar. "That's going to be the Friday before Christmas! Wow, it really snuck up on me this year!" Christmas would be on a Monday. I didn't think my family would mind if Suze came over on the Friday night before.

"Oh, but...," I began, "Did your parents realize that next weekend is just before Christmas?"

She shrugged. "No. They wouldn't notice. They're pretty traditional Chinese, and we're not Christians, so we don't celebrate Christmas."

I nodded. A wave of tiredness washed over me.

"Whoa, you looked like you were going to nod out there!" Susan commented. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Yes," I said, "if Misty lets me get a little sleep tonight."

"So what else did she say? Did you ask her about Ms. Overmore?"

"No, I forgot. I asked her stuff about being a ghost."

"Like what?"

"I asked her whether she could change her clothes. You know? Because she was wearing these goofy workout clothes when she died. She said that she could take them off, but there isn't any way she can get anything else to wear. And she said that a couple of times she threw away her t-shirt, the one she wears on top, just to see what would happen, but when she wasn't paying attention it came back. She was wearing it again."

"Hmmph," Susan commented. "That kinda sucks."

"Yeah," I agreed. "Could you imagine if you died wearing some outfit that you hated? And then you were stuck in it forever?"

"You mean like a Blessed Yvette High School uniform?" The two of us laughed aloud. "Yuck!"

"Oh!" Suze snickered. "What if you were wearing some hideous clunky shoes? Like clown shoes? And you just put them on for a JOKE... and then you died..." she burst into giggles.

In a mock serious voice I said, "I wouldn't be caught dead wearing those shoes!"

"But you would be, because you would be–" she couldn't finish for laughing.

"Oh, and I asked her — I asked Misty — if she was stuck in the house... if she had to stay there forever."

"Is she?"

"No. Well, kinda. She can go places, but she doesn't want to. Anyway, she keeps popping back. She'll go somewhere, but then suddenly she's back home."

"Sounds like some dreams I've had..." Susan mused.

"And I asked if she ever visited Mrs. Wix..."

"Did she?"

"Yes," I said, dropping into a quieter voice. "But when Mrs. Wix got older she didn't like looking at her. And she said it was hard to talk to her."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know," I replied. "But I gather that Misty used to go around to places a lot more, like here at school and around town, but when things and people changed, it wasn't as interesting... or it was depressing... or something. Besides, she couldn't talk with anybody."

"Except you, now."

"Yeah, I guess." I remembered my food, and started nibbling on my sandwich.

"Oh, Marcie," Susan sighed. "These things could only happen to you."

She looked at me as she sipped her iced tea, and then asked, "Are you going to tell Maisie?"

I let out of huff of air. "I don't know. I don't think so... For some reason I don't want to. Not yet, anyway. I think she'd laugh and wouldn't believe me anyway."

Even more than that, I felt convinced that Maisie would be unpleasant to Misty. I can't imagine how she could, or what she would do, but I had that feeling... "It just doesn't seem like a good idea."

Susan smiled a little at that; she liked being my sole confidant.

I added, "It's too bad in a way, because Misty likes the way they fixed up my room."

Speak of the devil! Maisie came trotting up to our table as I spoke, and she caught the tail end of my sentence.

"Yeah, we did a good job on your room, Princess. Me and your Mom." She chewed some food with her mouth open, grinning.

"Oh, gross, Maisie!" I said. "Chew with your mom closed!"

"My mom?" Maisie repeated with a smirk. She indulged in some more open-mouthed chewing, just to bug me. Then, she connected. "Oh, I get it!" she said. "Very interesting, Miss Donner. You don't like the fact that I'm spending time with your mother, and that I get along with her better than you do."

"What!?" I said. "That SO not true!"

"It was a Freudian slip, Marce," she said, still chewing with her mouth open. "You said mom instead of mother — I mean, mouth — because it bothers you."

I gave a snort of disgust.

Sister Honoraria suddenly appeared out of nowhere. "Margaret, young ladies do not chew with a slack jaw, nor do they talk with their mouths full of food," she admonished.

Maisie's mouth snapped snut.

"No, sister," she replied in a muffled voice. "Sorry, sister."

The nun sniffed and walked off. I smiled a superior smile, and Maisie made a defiant face at me, wagging her head as she mouthed a silent nyah, nyah, nyah, still displaying her half-chewed food.

"Oh, jeez," I said, and tossed an empty paper cup at her head, but in a half-affectionate way.

Maisie didn't move, and the cup made a satisfyingly hollow boink! as it bounced off her forehead.

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

Mom sighed. "You have to get that operation soon," she said. "You really forget that you're not a girl, don't you?"

"Yeah," I admitted glumly.

---

 
31. Permission Problems
 

Tuesday night at dinner Dad announced that our internet connection was up. I was halfway out of my seat before Mom stopped me. "First, finish your dinner," she commanded.

"Sorry, I wanted to catch up on email."

"Remember the rule," Dad said. "The computer goes off at eleven."

"Which is only eight o'clock in California," I whined.

"You'll have to make do," he said, smiling. "And don't forget about your homework."

"Oh!" I said. "Changing subject: can Suze come for a sleepover in two weeks? Friday, the 22nd?"

Dad stopped his fork in midair. Mom got a strange look, and — after a long pause and a quick look at Dad — she said, "That's just before Christmas. Won't her family miss her?"

"Her family's Chinese. They don't celebrate Christmas. They've never even had a Christmas tree. Please? It's just one night, and then on Saturday morning she'll go home. Can she come? She never gets out of her house, and that's the earliest we can do it."

Dad and Mom looked at each other, and Dad cleared his throat. "Where would she sleep?"

"In my bed, with me... oh!" Now I saw the problem.

Mom sighed. "You have to get that operation soon," she said. "You really forget that you're not a girl, don't you?"

"Yeah," I admitted glumly. "I didn't even think about that part... but if I wear something that kind of hides everything–" I guestured vaguely.

Dad interrupted by putting up his hands. "Could we not discuss lingerie at the dinner table, please?" His face was red.

Lingerie? I echoed silently.

He went on, "Also, there's the fact that you are a boy, at least where it counts. How do we know nothing's going to happen between you and Susan? How am I to know that's not what you have in mind in the first place?

"Even if it's *not* what you have in mind, you seem to have a talent for letting things happen... in a big way! Can you imagine what sort of disaster we'd have on our hands? How could we possibly explain to her parents?"

"It won't happen," I said, my face burning. "Nothing will happen. She's a girl." That statement seemed to explain everything, at least to me, but Dad's expression hadn't changed. So I went on, to try and make him get it: "So... I'm... She... It's not... I'm not... I don't... I'm..."

Why was I getting so tongue-tied? It was really pretty simple. I stopped for a moment, took a long breath and let it out. "I like boys, Dad. I don't like girls that way. I just like boys."

It was like (conversationally) dropping a stone into a well. I just let what I said go, and sat there waiting, listening, for a sound to come back... or at least for Dad's *face* to say something I could understand.

Mom was waiting, too, to give Dad a chance to respond. She, at least, was smiling, and at last she spoke.

"Boys, mmm?" she buzzed. "And boys like you, too, don't they?"

I raised my eyebrows. Could the tide be turning?

Dad was blushing, and started busily re-arranging his plate and fork and knife. Mom and I sat in silence until he stopped and looked up.

After he took a few tentative breaths, he quietly asked me, "Have you ever fantasized about Susan? Wondered what she looked like naked? Anything like that?"

"No!" I said, laughing.

It never occurred to me until he asked, but it was true: "I don't think I've ever thought about any girl that way."

My parents looked at me and then at each other. Then Mom shrugged and said, "They could each sleep in their own sleeping bag..."

My face lit up.

Dad considered, chewing. "That might work," he said. "But one condition: you have to tell her that 'skin condition' story that we used for your gym class."

"Oh, Dad!" I groaned.

"It will cover a multitude of sins," he explained.

"Yeah, but it's gross!" I protested.

Mom gave me a look that said, Let it slide for now — I'll talk to your father later. I was surprised, but gave her a secret smile in reply.

Then Mom said, taking Dad's hard-line tone, "You have to get changed in the bathroom or in that little changing room."

"Yes, no changing together, or showering together, or sleeping together, or anything like that."

"And you have to leave your bedroom door open."

I was about to wail a loud what!? but they dropped a heavy ultimatum on it:

Mom said, "It's that or no sleepover."

Dad said, "Take it or leave it."

I took it. I took it and tried to not resent it. At least Susan was coming. I had to keep reminding myself of that.

The next ten minutes of the meal passed in silence, except for the sounds of eating. I know it was ten minutes, because I was watching the clock.

At last, Mom, without raising her eyes from her plate, said, "You know, I was thinking... what you said about Susan's family never having had a tree... and I thought: What if we put the two sleeping bags on the rug in the living room, next to the Christmas tree? We can put some padding underneath them, of course..."

My mouth opened in a silent oh!

"... but it might be nice for both you, and you could leave the tree on all night."

"That would be perfect!" I enthused.

Dad, on the other hand, looked at Mom and kept on chewing. I still couldn't read his face.

Mom continued, "That way, you don't have to leave your bedroom door open — which would seem odd on a sleepover — because your father or I could see you from the top of the stairs, if we really needed to..." She said that last part in a way that suggested that there really was no need.

Dad nodded, swallowed, said, "That would work."

A big smile broke out on my face.

Then Mom rounded it off with this: "And since the girls would be so easy to, ah, supervise, I think we might spare Marcie the embarrassment of the skin-condition story."

Dad turned quite red and cleared his throat. "I guess so," he admitted. Then to me he said, "I'm sorry, kiddo. You understand, don't you, that the point wasn't to embarrass you, it was just that I — ah — the —"

He wasn't quite sure how to go on, so Mom put her hand on his arm and said, "It's okay, honey. She gets it."

I smiled and nodded and said, "Thanks!"

---

After dinner I tore upstairs and jumped on the computer. There were emails from everybody in Tierson! As I was reading and smiling and laughing, I became aware of a cute pony-tailed head looking over my shoulder. I turned to look, and it was Misty.

Who else could it be?

I still don't know why she doesn't scare me, or freak me out, or creep me out.

It's probably because she's just like any other girl from school.

Except that she's dead and can walk through walls... and can never change her outfit.

Aside from that, though, she's pretty normal.

"What 'cha doing?" she asked.

"Looking at my email," I replied.

"Email? What's email? Can I watch?"

Having her watch slowed me down, but I didn't mind. She had a bazillion questions. Thankfully, she didn't ask what the internet was, or how email worked. Once she got the idea that it was like ordinary mail (put in the address, hit SEND and away it went!), and that the "letters" were squeezed in and out through the "telephone" wire, her technical curiosity was satisfied.

"It's like a fax without paper," she concluded.

"I guess," I replied. Then, realizing that her idea let me off the hook, I said, "Yes, yes, you're right."

But then, once those technical details were out of the way, I had to tell her about life in Tierson, and who my friends were. One email that was new to me was an old one from Jerry (sent before we broke up): it had a link to the photo of the two of us at the mall: him in his Giants shirt, me in my Dodgers shirt, and his arm was around me.

And, by the way, my breasts are not as big as they look in the photo! Was it the shirt that made them look that way? Had I been photoshopped?

I made the mistake of asking Misty, who with casual, ruthless honesty confirmed that, yes, my breasts were much smaller in real life than they were in the picture (thank you very much!) and what in the world did "photoshopped" mean?

It turned out to be a shorter explanation than I expected. I said, "It's a program for manipulating pictures–" and she cut me off.

"Okay, okay, I get it," she said. "But... with this internet thing, can anybody see that picture? Or only people who have your email?"

"Anybody in the world," I sighed. "They can even buy a poster of it and hang it on their wall. See?"

I showed her how the online shopping cart works, and as I did a warning bell went off in my head. I hope I wasn't letting myself in for a world of trouble with this. I didn't want a ghost-girl going on a wild internet-shopping spree while I was at school or asleep.

"You didn't see my password, did you?" I asked her.

"Your what?" she asked.

"Never mind."

Misty went back to studying Jerry's picture, and nodded. "He looks nice."

"Yeah," I sighed. "He is nice."

She turned to me with a cute little smile and said, "Can I ask you something?"

Hoo boy! I thought. Here comes some embarrassingly intimate question about me and Jerry, like whether we ever–

Misty gave a silent laugh, then asked, "Can *I* get an email account?"

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

"You want an email account? Ha– Who w-would you wr-write to?"

"My sister," she said, as if that were obvious. Then, grinning, she added, "You know, Mrs. Wix."

---

 
32. Good At Crumpling
 

Now, Misty really had me frightened.

"You want an email account? Ha– Who w-would you wr-write to?"

"My sister," she said, as if that were obvious. Then, grinning, she added, "You know, Mrs. Wix."

"Oh, Misty, I don't know if that's a good idea. I think they could tell where the emails came from."

"So?"

"I mean, they could see that they came from this computer, and they would think that *I* sent them!"

"Oh," Misty said thoughtfully. "Well, what if I sent them while you were in school?"

I just wilted; I went limp. What was I supposed to do? If she really wanted to do it, I couldn't stop her. I could lock the computer, but she could easily get my login password just by watching me type it. I'd never even know she was there.

"Can't you write a letter?" I asked. "With a pen and paper? I can mail it for you."

She wrinkled her nose. "Pen and paper is so last century! Email is way cooler! I could even do that chat thing with her!"

I groaned.

"I could!"

---

Suze's jaw hung open. "And then what happened?"

"I made her promise not to do anything without me."

"Do you think she will? Not do anything?"

I bit my lip. "I hope so."

"Why didn't you bring the network cable with you to school? Then she couldn't send email no matter what."

"Ooh, that's a great idea!" Then I realized: "She could just take Dad's cable."

Suze grinned.

"Or she could even use Dad's computer. He doesn't use a password."

Suze chuckled. "Don't worry. Even if she does get an email account, or gets into yours, there's no way she can send email to Mrs. Wix. Mrs. Wix doesn't have an email account. She doesn't even have a computer at home."

"How do you know?"

"Wix said so. Every so often she makes a point of it." With a fair imitation of Mrs. Wix, Susan said, "I still prefer to write with pen and pay-pah."

"Oooh! Thank goodness!" I said, letting all my breath out in relief.

Miss Overmore happened to wander by our table and greeted us. "Hello, girls. I'm the cafeteria monitor today. What fun! Just think: all that schooling, all that work, for this." She laughed good naturedly.

"Miss Overmore?" I ventured. "You knew Misty Sabatino. Was she very smart?"

Her smile fell and her pretty eyes narrowed. "Why are you asking about Misty Sabatino?"

"I live in her house now," I said. "I mean, we just moved into Villa Sabatino, and I was curious about her."

"Hmm," she said. She repeated my question, "Was she smart?" and glanced at Susan. "Let's just say that she was not brilliant like our Susan here. She was... ah, she was more like you."

I didn't know whether that was an insult or a compliment, but I did see that Miss Overmore looked angry.

She continued, "Hers was a tragic story, and one that I don't like to revisit. If you have other questions, you could ask her sister." The last word was spoken with a sneer.

I decided to play dumb. "Her sister?"

"Your Mrs. Wix. She was Misty Sabatino's sister." She did a quick check in her memory and said, "I'm quite sure I told you that already." She fixed me with a suspicious look.

I was about to protest, because she hadn't exactly said that, but stopped short because of a weird change that came over Ms. Overmore.

Her face abruptly dropped its scowl. She smiled a beautiful, sunny smile, said, "Good day, girls!" and walked off with a swish, as though our conversation had never occurred.

A chill ran through me.

"Oooh, that was freaky," Susan commented under her breath.

---

When I got home, there were balled-up papers all over my desk. The trash can was full to overflowing, and there were wads of paper on the floor.

It looked like Misty had gone though an entire pack of paper or more, and crumpled it up, sheet by sheet.

"What the–" I began, and started to unfold one of the wrinkled balls.

"Don't look at it!" Misty said. "Writing with a pen sucks! It's way too hard! I need to use the computer!"

"Sorry," I told her. "I didn't know. But why would the keyboard be any easier?"

She huffed with impatience and irritation. "IF I write with a PEN, I have to concentrate on HOLDING the thing AND writing well AND what I'm trying to say all at the same time! If I forget about the pen, it falls out of my hand! If I concentrate too hard on holding the pen, I make mistakes in what I write! If I think too hard about what I'm saying, I write all messy, or I drop the pen!

"If I could just use the keyboard, all I'd have to do is hit one key at a time, and I'd be able to go back if I made mistakes. If I didn't pay attention, nothing would happen, so nothing would get messed up."

I looked at the sea of wasted paper. "Even if you're not good at writing, you're good at crumpling," I offered.

"Ha, ha," Misty said. "That's so funny, I forgot to laugh."

"Sorry." Then I thought about what she'd said. "I guess you're right about the keyboard." I sighed. "Okay, I can show you how to open a document and save it. After you finish the letter, we can print it out."

She nodded. "And then would you mail it for me?"

I nodded. "Yeah." As freaky as that could be... what the heck. "Yes, I will. Oh, hey, I found out that Mrs. Wix doesn't have email, by the way."

She shrugged, and absentmindedly blew a few stray hairs out of her face.

I froze. Ghosts don't breathe, right? So how did she... I was going to ask her, but it was clear from her face that she'd had a long, frustrating day, and somehow I knew she didn't feel like answering questions.

In fact, the news that her sister didn't have email, just seemed like one more thing gone wrong. Poor Misty!

By anyway... yay! One landmine avoided! Could you imagine if Mrs. Wix — or worse, Ms. Overmore — started getting emails from Misty? From their old friend or twin sister — who just happened to be dead?

Everyone would think I'd done it as a sick prank.

Still, I have to say, even with the danger of her going wild on the internet, it was great having Misty around. She was always ready to chat, and I could tell her anything.

Well, almost anything. I didn't tell her about my big I-used-to-be-a-boy secret, but I told her everything else: about Jerry and Eden, about Maisie and her mother, about Sister Honoraria and her policeman brother...

She, in her turn, told me about when she was at BYHS, and story after story about her Maisie (Mrs. Wix) and Yvette (Ms. Overmore) when they were teenagers. The three of them were great friends, and did all kinds of crazy things together.

Two things in particular astonished me to no end: that Misty and Mrs. Wix called Ms. Overmore "the third twin" and that Mrs. Wix was one of the most popular girls in school.

"...if not THE most popular!" Misty complained. "She used to sing and draw... people would go on and on about her lovely voice and her beautiful pictures... I was the quiet twin... all I could do was dance... and she was the one with all the boyfriends!"

"Really?" I asked in utter disbelief. It was hard to reconcile Misty's stories with the now-frumpy Mrs. Wix, but I had to believe her.

"Wow," I said without thinking. "What could have happened to her to make her the way she is now?"

"Uh," Misty replied, pointing out the obvious, "I died."

"Oh," I said, embarrassed beyond degree.

But Misty laughed, told me not to worry about it, and immediately launched into another long, breathless story.

It was like having an older sister. She was easier to be with than Maisie — a lot easier — and she could do such cool things. She showed me one now.

"Hey, watch this!" she said. "I did this by accident earlier, but now I can do it on purpose."

She stuck her tongue out the side of her mouth to help her concentrate, and then she picked up the pen. She held it and shook it slightly a couple of times.

"Uh... uh... oh...," she said, with apparent effort. Her eyes widened, then: "There! Okay!"

She extended her arm toward me, as if she was giving me the pen. "Here: try to take it."

I reached for the pen, but my hand went right through it. "Whoa! Cool!" I said, a bit louder than I intended.

"Isn't that cool?" she asked proudly.

"Very cool," I agreed, chuckling. I moved my hand through the pen several times. It looked solid, but it wasn't there. Misty giggled.

Then I remembered a question: "Hey, Misty, I wanted to ask you something. Do you ever sleep?"

She thought for a moment, as if the question had never occurred to her. "No," she said. "At least, I don't think so. I kind of go off sometimes... and then when I, uh... well, the next thing I know, it's tomorrow or the day after or whatever. I guess that's kinda like sleeping."

"Do you dream when that happens?"

"No, it's just... nothing."

Suddenly, my bedroom door flew open. Misty vanished immediately. Mom stood in the doorway, her face pale and full of concern. I was on my feet in the middle of the room with my hand up, reaching for the pen, which still hung in midair. I put my fingers in front of it, to make it look as though I was holding it. Silently I prayed that Misty didn't let go.

"Marcie, who were you talking to?" Mom asked. "Is someone else in this room?" She glanced at my arm, but didn't comment on my unnatural pose. I stuck my other arm under my elbow, to prop it up.

"Uh..." I began, but got distracted by the pen. It was halfway through my index finger, so I pulled back a little and cupped my palm underneath it. It must have looked strange. I hoped Misty would have the sense to let it fall into my hand.

"I was..." I ventured, and at that moment the pen tipped and hung for a moment, passing straight through my wrist. Full of alarm, I couldn't help but look at it. Most of the pen was above my hand, but about a third was sticking out though the back of my wrist, the part facing my mother.

There was no way she could miss it. In fact, she gaped and pointed. Then the pen fell with a loud clatter to the floor.

"Jeez Louise!" Mom shouted. "How the– what the– that–"

"Sorry," Misty whispered. "I dropped it."

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

"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.

---

 
33. Only A Ghost
 

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

Mom gave me a tight hug and said, "My gosh, Marcie! Now I'm having adventures, just like you!"

I rolled my eyes, and she burst out laughing.

---

 
34. Something With An M
 

"How do you get to school?" Mom asked Misty. "Do you walk, or fly, or...?"

Misty giggled. "Fly? No! I just think about Marcie in a certain way, and then I end up wherever she is."

"Really?" I asked. "Can you do that with anybody?"

"Anybody I know, I guess," she said. "Sometimes it doesn't work, but usually it does."

A light went on in my head. "Can you go to Susan's house and try to appear to her?" I asked. "She'd really like to see you."

"Okay," Misty said brightly. "I'll be right back." With that, she faded out.

"Are you sure that's a good idea, Marcie?" my mother asked. "Susan could get a nasty fright."

"Believe me, nothing rattles Susan. If you put a bomb next to her she would look it over and try to find the OFF switch."

Mom drew a deep breath and smiled. Then she gave me a tight hug and said, "My gosh, Marcie! Now I'm having adventures, just like you!"

I rolled my eyes, and she burst out laughing.

---

Misty didn't come back right away. It wasn't until almost an hour later, when Mom called to me from the kitchen. "She's back!"

I ran down the stairs. Misty was so excited that her hands were waving and she was jumping like a little girl. "She could see me! She could see me! And she knew who I was! She recognized me right away!"

"Was she frightened?" Mom asked.

"No! Not at all! She just looked up and said, 'You must be Misty Sabatino' – as if she was expecting me!"

"Yeah, Susan is super calm," I said. "Nothing surprises her."

"You know what she said?" Misty asked. "She said that she should change her name to something that starts with an M."

"Why?" I asked, frowning.

"Because there's Marcie, Maisie, Misty, ...., and Susan."

"Oh, I see," I said. How weird. Usually Suze didn't say anything that dumb.

---

"Duh!" Susan said at lunch on Thursday. "Of course I don't! The point is, I proved that it happened!"

"How?" I asked.

"I sent you a message," Susan explained patiently. "Something you couldn't expect me to say, and something you couldn't receive any other way."

"Huh." She was right. "Did you think of it just then? in that moment?"

"No," she said, as if it were obvious. "I was ready, in case it happened. Now we know that none of us imagined her."

"Wow, Suze. You really are smart."

Susan stifled a yawn.

"Why are you so tired?"

"Because after you fell asleep, Misty came to my house and woke me up. She talked my head off. It was like she swallowed a radio. My eyes were rolling in my head, I was so tired."

"Why didn't you tell her to let you sleep?"

"Well, I did in the end, but it was so interesting talking to her! I've never met a ghost before. Oh, and I gave her that letter."

"What letter?"

"The one from the newspaper, about how she died. I don't know if it was a good idea, but it got her to go back home and let me fall asleep."

She groaned. "I could fall asleep right now." With that, she lay her head on the table.

Maisie came bounding up at the point and dropped her tray with a crash. Susan winced, but kept her head down. Miraculously, nothing spilled, but Maisie's soup splashed and narrowly missed my books.

"Hey, watch it!" I cried.

"Oooh, sorry, Princess," she cooed.

"What is it with you?" I asked. "You're acting more and more like a boy!"

"That's strange, coming from you," she countered.

I eyed her suspiciously. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She started eating, again chewing with her mouth open. "What do you think it means?" she asked.

"It means that you think that teasing me is funny," I said.

"Oh, sorry," she said in an exaggerated way. "I just thought you might miss your old days in Tarhent, back when you were Mark."

"Oh, brother," I said crossly. If she kept this up, I was going to go to the library.

Suddenly I got a wiff of cigarette smoke from her direction. Susan's head came up at the same moment, and she looked directly at Maisie. She must have smelled it too.

"Maisie," I asked, "Are you smoking more than usual?"

"Yeah, so?"

"No offense," Susan offered, "but you reek of it."

That brought Maisie down to earth. She closed her mouth as she chewed. She seemed to be mulling it over. Then she asked in a quiet voice, "Do you think your mother will smell it?"

"Yeah!" Suze and I said with one voice.

I looked at her and considered for a moment. My mother was the only adult with whom Maisie had a positive relationship. And it meant a lot to her. "Just air out your uniform tonight," I told her. "If it still smells of smoke tomorrow, we can try switching clothes before you go with my mother... though I'm not sure I could fit into your things."

Maisie smiled, and for once I thought she was going to say something nice. Instead she said, "Thanks, Marky, but I don't wear boy's clothes."

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

"Remind me why we're friends with Maisie," I said to Susan.

"She does have her moods, doesn't she?"

---

 
35. The Bad Stuff
 

Maisie never made it to lunch on Friday. I don't know why. Maybe she just didn't eat. She never eats very much anyway.

"Remind me why we're friends with Maisie," I said to Susan.

"She does have her moods, doesn't she?"

"Lately she's been so weird, so hostile..."

"She's been acting like a boy, like you said yesterday."

"But today—"

"Did she talk to you today?"

"No. You?"

"Not at all. Are you guys still doing the mom swap today?"

I sighed. "Yeah. This is supposed to be the last one."

"It really bothers you, doesn't it?" Suze asked. She crunched into a celery stick.

"Yeah."

"Why?"

"I don't know. It's like... I know it's good for Maisie to have a positive relationship with an adult..."

"Meaning your mom."

"Right. And it's great that I don't have to do all that work around the house..."

"You lazy thing!"

"Hmmph! But it seems like Maisie's been meaner to me since it started."

It was weird. It began more or less as a joke, when I saw Maisie laughing and having fun with my mother. Then, I thought it would be nice for Maisie, who has so much that's bad in her life... plus, Ida is about the coolest adult I've met, and I get to spend time with her.

I guess I expected Maisie to be happier, or better, or nicer... or at least grateful! Instead, she's gone from friendly teasing to being pushy and rough and rude... and just downright hostile.

Susan mused, "Maybe Maisie wishes she could take your place. I wonder whether psychologists have a word for this? It isn't sibling rivalry... it's more like family envy or... what could they call it?"

"Oh, Suze! It doesn't matter what anybody calls it!"

"Sorry," she said, and mentally filed the question away, so she could think about it later. "Anyway," she went on, "It could be that after living in your house, in your life, she might hate her own life even more than before. Maybe she resents the way you relate to your mother. I mean, that you don't have a problem with your mother. Or even with her mother, for that matter."

"I don't know..."

"Just think: at the end of each weekend away, she goes from fun, relationship, caring, smiles, back to–"

"Back to one of her two hells," I said, finishing the thought as Maisie would have.

Susan sighed. "But you know what's weird? *I* envy Maisie. I would switch places with either of you in a heartbeat. I love my family and all that, but you guys have this total freedom, while I live in permanent lockdown."

"You would switch places with Maisie?" I asked. "Is it really that bad at your house?"

She sighed. "No, I guess not. I wouldn't want to be Maisie. She is so messed up. And I could never give up my family."

"No, me neither," I said.

The two of us ate in silence for about twenty seconds, when I said, "The thing is, I keep feeling that something bad is coming. Like Maisie is going to knife me in the back somehow."

Susan laughed. "What do think she'll do? Kill you and take your place? Like in a Lifetime-television-for-women movie?"

"Yeah," I replied. "Something like that."

"Oooh, creepy!" she giggled.

Susan obviously thought I was joking or exaggerating, but I wasn't. At the same time, I didn't like badmouthing Maisie. She *is* my friend, in spite of the way she's behaving now. So I shook off my negative thoughts with a shudder and followed Susan to the library.

---

At the end of the day, I was standing my by my locker, struggling with my stuff. I probably should have set something down, so I could arrange things better, but instead I clung to my weekend bag with two fingers. I didn't have my backpack — Mom had put it in the laundry and forgot to dry it in time, so all my books and papers were stacked in my arms, and they tended to slide in different directions.

The arrangement was pretty awkward, but I thought I could make it outside to the car. I shut the locker by leaning my back against it. At that precise moment, Maisie came tearing down the hall. Quite purposefully, she knocked the whole pile out of my arms, sending my belongings flying halfway across the hall. Without looking back or saying a word, she ran out the front door.

"Maisie!" I shouted angrily after her, but she didn't stop, turn, or even seem to hear me.

She picked the worst possible moment to do it, too. An instant later, the Friday stampede was unleashed. Every girl in the school had only one thing in mind: GET OUT THE DOOR. And nothing could stand in their way: it was a flood of blue-skirted balls of energy with legs — and hard, sensible shoes.

Each time I crouched to pick up a book or paper, some girl would nearly fall over me, or at least bump into me. Sometimes they kicked me, or kicked my things away. It didn't matter whether it was on purpose or by accident. The point is, it was overwhelming.

Girls kept shouting, "Watch out!" as if it were my fault. I didn't see who, but someone else tried (unsuccessfully) to knock my books down again. A few girls from my senior gym class came strolling down in a group. At first they stopped and gathered up everything of mine. I was grateful and relieved, until they pitched all of it as far from me as they could, or tucked my books into places I couldn't quite reach. It wasn't until virtually everyone had left that I was able to find everything. Plus, I had to do a fair bit of jumping to get the books in high places.

They set my weekend bag on top of the lockers, just out of my reach, but after I'd whacked it a bit, one of the handles dropped far enough that I could jump, grab it, and pull the whole bag down on my head.

The cover had come off my Algebra book, and the others looked a bit worse for wear. All of my papers had footprints on them. I didn't think girls could be so mean!

Still, aside from the one book, nothing was broken... just dirty, and I could dust them all off at Ida's house.

By the time I got outside, Maisie and my mother were long gone. Ida was the only mother left. "Your mom wanted to say goodbye," Ida told me, "but you took so long to come out. Are you okay?"

In answer, I threw my things into the back seat, and hugged Ida around her waist. She put one hand between my shoulders and the other on the top of my head and held me. She didn't say anything or ask anything, and she didn't move or try to end the embrace. She just held me.

When I felt a little better, I stepped back. Looking into her face, I said, "Thanks."

"For what?" she smiled, and ran her hand through my hair. "Listen, how about we stop at the grocery store first and pick up some food. Okay? I've been looking forward to your cooking all week!"

"Great!" I replied. "I already worked out the weekend menu and the shopping list."

She chuckled and walked around to the driver's side. As I opened my door, I had the feeling someone was watching me. I looked up, directly into the eyes — or rather, the dark glasses, of a man. He was sitting behind the wheel of a white panel truck, which was parked across the street.

He turned his head away slowly, started the truck, and drove off. Wherever he was going, he wasn't in a hurry. I stood next to Ida's car and watched the van until it went down the block and took a right turn. It gave me an uneasy feeling for some reason, but at least they were heading away from us, away from the direction we were going.

"Everything okay?" Ida called from inside the car.

"Oh, yeah," I replied, and climbed in.

---

As we walked from the car to the grocery store, my cell phone rang. The caller ID told me it was Maisie.

"Hey, Maze," I said. "What's up?" I'd been happily chatting with Ida, and had forgotten for a moment about the books and Maisie's hostility.

"You tell me," she said, in a low, poisonous voice.

"What do you mean?" I asked, my blood chilling.

"Who are you?" she asked.

My face grew hot. "You know who I am. You called me. Maisie, what's this about?"

"Do you remember Miriam Clegg?"

I stood stock still, frozen in fear. Miriam was a girl from Tarhent, a girl from my block, a girl I knew since kindergarden. If Maisie knew Miriam, then she probably knew that I used to be a boy.

Ida didn't realize that I'd stopped, and she kept on walking.

"Sounds like you do remember. Did you know that Miriam is a friend of mine? I just finished talking with her. It was a *very* interesting conversation. I asked her if she knew you, and she did. Well, she knew Mark. But it turns out that Mark wasn't a tomboy, Mark was just a regular boy-boy, wasn't he?"

"Oh," I said in a small voice.

Ida had almost reached the door of the supermarket. I felt cold and small and far away.

"Yeah, oh. So what are you, Mark? Some kind of freak? A boy, dressed like a girl? A pansy? A sissy?"

"Oh, Maisie!" I cried in distress.

Ida heard me and turned back to look. Now that she saw how far behind I was, she stopped to let me catch up. I heard a car take a sharp corner behind me, but I didn't turn to see.

"You sound like a girl, and you look like a girl, but you're not a girl. You disgust me. You make me want to throw up. I wish I could kill—"

I didn't hear the rest, because a pair of rough hands grabbed me from behind and yanked me into the back of a van. "Go! Go! Go!" a voice shouted, and the van took off. The last thing I saw before the door slammed shut was Ida's face, contorted in a mask of fear, horror, and helplessness.

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

"Hoo, boy," I said. "You got the wrong girl!"

"I'm SO sure," he said sarcastically.

---

 
36. Not A Bad Guy
 

There were two men: one driving the van and the other, the one who'd grabbed me. He took my phone, turned it off, and dropped it into my purse, which he tossed aside.

As soon as he did that, something clicked inside me. I had to move. I had to get away.

He was still behind me, and I was almost on my back, so I brought up my left leg as hard as I could and kicked him in the face with my shin. It hurt a lot, but from the way he cursed, I was pretty sure it hurt him more than it hurt me. I looked around me for something heavy to throw, but the only thing I found was a roll of duct tape, so I grabbed it and threw it as hard as I could at the back of the driver's head.

"Ow!" he shouted, and the van swerved. The tires squealed and we pitched to the right for a few moments, until the driver got the van back under control. He called to his accomplice, "Tie her up! Keep her quiet back there!"

Quiet? I hadn't thought of that. I opened my mouth and let out the loudest, highest scream I had. I jumped to my feet and turned to face my abductor, who (surprisingly) had his hands over his ears. I balled up my fists and started pounding on his head with all my might, and kicked him as much as I could without falling down. It was hard to do any of this in the back of a moving vehicle, but I began to feel that I was getting the better of him, and my hopes were high of getting away.

That is, until the driver slammed on the brakes.

I fell forward, hurting my hip, and narrowly missed banging my head on the wheel well. I heard the driver scrabbling as he fished for the roll of tape I'd thrown. One he had it in hand, he jumped into the back. I bit and fought and shrieked and cursed and struggled and squirmed, but in the end the two of them were too strong for me. Soon I was trussed up and had a piece of duct tape over my mouth.

That done, the driver got back behind the wheel and resumed driving.

A few minutes later, we pulled into a garage-like building and stopped. When they opened the side door, I saw that we were right up against another van, whose side door was already open. I was clumsily lifted into it by the man who'd grabbed me, while the driver gave a careful look around the first van. He picked up my purse, some cigarette butts and some other trash, which he tossed into the new van. Then he slid the door shut, climbed behind the wheel, and we were off again.

Now that we'd changed vehicles and I was settled, the driver took it easy. He drove slowly, without any haste or hurry. No doubt, he wanted to avoid attracting attention. I couldn't hear any people outside, pedestrians or other cars, so there was little point in kicking up some noise.

The man in back with me lit a cigarette. It was noxious, stinky, and stale smelling, but while he and the driver relaxed, I tried to consider my options.

This van was even dirtier and older than the other one, and there was a old, filthy, oil-stained curtain behind the front seats. There was no chance that anyone could see me from the outside. And no one would be looking for me in this van: the police would be looking for the white one... which was probably stolen in the first place. So, unless the driver did something stupid to make the police stop us, I couldn't expect any help from outside.

As far as getting myself free, I doubted that I could get out of the tape. At least, not any time soon. If they left me alone, I'd try... probably I could find something, some sharp edge that could rip the tape, at least a little, and get a tear started. In the meantime, while they were with me, it was better to be quiet, to let them think I'd given up... that I was docile... maybe they'd think it was safe to take the tape off.

So... where were they taking me? I couldn't see through the back windows. They were a translucent milky-white. I had no clue as to where we were. I didn't know the area anyway. I couldn't hear anything but traffic sounds, the noise of the van engine, and the bumps we drove over.

I'd gotten several good looks at both men, and mentally tried to compose a description. The one in back with me was bald, and the other had medium brown hair... they could be brothers... the driver would have to be the older brother. They were average height, average weight, average build... what a crappy description! I'd have to work on that.

It struck me how calm I felt. Maybe this was why so many strange things happened to me... my first reaction was never fear or panic... Susan was like this in ordinary life, but I guess I'm cool in a crisis... and this qualified as a crisis.

Soon the traffic sounds died away, and I figured it might be safe to try to talk with the bald guy. I needed to find out what was going on. Why had they taken me? It didn't make sense, especially when you considered how they'd switched vans. This was an organized effort; it wasn't a casual, opportunistic thing.

Lying still, and with as calm a face as I could manage, I made muffled sounds at him. I didn't know what to say, so I just made noises, hoping he'd be curious. He looked at me a bit, then a light seemed to go on. He said, "Oh, I get it! You want a smoke!"

My first reaction was yuck! no! but then I figured, if it gets this tape off my mouth, sure! so I nodded my head enthusiastically.

He fished in my purse, which confused me for a moment. "Looks like you're all out," he sighed. "I'll give you one of mine, but you can't make a habit of it. Maybe we can pick your brand up later."

The van was moving more slowly now and bouncing much more. We were probably on a dirt road or a old road, but in any case it was a bad road. My head banged against the bare metal floor.

"Hey, sorry!" the driver called. "Big pothole!"

The bald one knelt down and took hold of the tape on my face. Before he took it off, he cautioned me: "If you scream, no one's going to hear you anyway, but I will slap you as hard as I can. Do you understand? No screaming. It goes right to my nerves."

I nodded, and he ripped the tape off.

Oooch! It hurt! It took all I could do to not scream. I screwed my eyes and mouth shut as tight as I could, and stiffened my entire body. Ow! Jeez! Ow! On TV it never looks like it hurts! Thank God I was wearing lip gloss! Otherwise I'm sure the tape would have ripped chunks off my lips.

When the pain passed, I ran my tongue over my lips to check them. They didn't feel damaged. I worked my jaw around a bit. "Did the tape mark my face?" I asked.

He smiled. "You've got a little of the sticky stuff on you, where the, uh, edges were. That's all." He pointed to his cheek, to show where the tape was on mine.

Then he put a filterless cigarette in my mouth and lit it. Remembering my first experience with Maisie, I was careful to not inhale. I just puffed.

He watched me and laughed. "Kids!" he said. "Pretending to smoke."

"Can you let my hands go?" I asked, and as I did the cigarette slipped down toward the corner of my mouth, dangling dangerously. I was afraid it might fall into my clothes.

He clenched his own cigarette with his lips as he spoke. "No funny stuff," he said, and I nodded. After straightening the cigarette in my mouth, he sat me up, and with a few rips freed my arms. I leaned back against the wheel well and took the cigarette out of my mouth. My legs were still taped together. For a moment, I felt like a mermaid.

"So what is this about?" I asked. "What's the big idea?"

His first reaction was a startled "What?" — as if he had no idea what I was talking about. Then, getting it: "Oh! Oh, yeah, yeah!" He rubbed his hands together. "Your daddy's gonna pay a big bucks to get you back! That's the idea. Big bucks! We're gonna be rich!" He chuckled with joy and rubbed his thumb against his fingers: money.

Daddy? Big bucks? There was no way my father could pay a... My jaw fell as the realization hit me, and it hit me hard.

Oh, my God! They thought I was Maisie!

"Hoo, boy," I said. "You got the wrong girl!"

"I'm SO sure," he said sarcastically.

I took another puff of the cigarette, and with an effort managed to keep from coughing. Cigarettes don't smell good anyway, but these stank in a way that was exotically, particularly foul. "What kind of cigarettes are these?" I asked him.

"Gauloise," he said proudly. "Do you like them?"

"I guess it's an acquired taste," I replied, which struck him as funny.

He laughed with a strange, simple delight, and actually slapped his knee. I guess that was good for me.

I told him, "You know something? You don't seem like a bad guy."

"You're right. I'm not a bad guy. I'm a nice guy."

"No, no, I don't mean that way. I mean 'bad guy' as in 'crook'."

"Oh, I getcha! A bad guy: black hat, sinister, evil. No, no, that's not us! This is just a little job, a good opportunity. Easy money, lots of money, and nobody gets hurt."

I gave him a disbelieving look.

He scoffed and said, "What, you? Nobody's hurt you, have they?"

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

No doubt my uniform stank of smoke and was dirty from rolling around in the filth back here. Couldn't they have cleaned the vans before they abducted me? I wished I had a change of clothes. I wished I'd had a little warning! If I knew I was going to be kidnapped, I would have worn jeans, for one thing.

---

 
37. She Wishes For More Hygenic Kidnappers
 

"Nobody's hurt me!?" I repeated, incredulous. "You've kidnapped me, just for starters!"

He put his hands up defensively. "Whoa, whoa," he said. "Down with the high-pitched voice and the finger-pointing! If you start complaining and whining and getting all high-pitched with us, my brother's going to make me put the tape back over your mouth. For good. Believe me. You're much better off to just go with the flow. Trust me: there's a good plan in place here. Soon you'll be back in your rich little house with your rich little blonde mommy, and everyone will be happy."

I stubbed my cigarette out on the steel floor of the van. No doubt my uniform stank of smoke and was dirty from rolling around in the filth back here. Couldn't they have cleaned the vans before they abducted me? I wished I had a change of clothes. I wished I'd had a little warning! If I knew I was going to be kidnapped, I would have worn jeans, for one thing.

My conversation with Susan came back to me: What if they killed me? What if I died wearing my BYHS uniform? I'd be stuck wearing it for all eternity. Oh, lord! And I thought Misty looked goofy in those workout duds. That's what I get for laughing at someone else's misfortune! Maybe I could ask the kidnappers to get me a change of clothes? As a last request? Something clean, at least? I sighed. Probably not. Why would they bother?

Still, I would ask them, if it came to it.

What a fate that would be! Me, as a ghostly teenager, stuck, until the end of time, in a hideous school uniform. AND NOT ONLY THAT: a filthy school uniform that stank unbearably. Would living people be able to smell me? Would *I* have to smell me? Forever? That would be the worst! And I wouldn't be able to wash it or change it. No baths or showers...

No one would want to talk to a ghost like that... except maybe a lonely, hormonal, geeky, teenage boy.

Unbidden, a picture of just such a boy leaped into my mind. I had to cover my eyes with my hands... it was just too horrible.

I sighed. It was not the best prospect for an afterlife.

Shaking off my morbid thoughts, I tried to shift my thoughts to my present situation.

I wondered: Would they have a toothbrush for me? How long would they keep me prisoner? Would I be able to take a shower?

Just about the stupidest thing I could do would be to tell them I wasn't Maisie. There was no telling what they would they do when they found out they had the wrong girl. I didn't want to imagine.

The only sensible thing to do, was to be to pretend to be Maisie, and look for a chance to escape.

My companion-abductor was smoking yet another of his stanky cigarettes.

"Can I ask you something?"

"No more cigarettes, if that's your question. I'm running low."

"That's not my question. But now that you mention it, why are you running low? If you knew you were kidnapping me, why didn't you get some extra, ahead of time?"

"Oh," he said with disdain. "A Monday-morning quarterback! Everything's easy, as long as somebody else is doing it! Well, maybe I was busy doing other stuff. Did you ever think of that? We had a lot of things to think about. I suppose you think you could have done a better job."

I bit my tongue. It was not a good question to answer, so I returned to my original question. "No, what I wanted to know is this: I've seen your face and your brother's face. Aren't you worried that I could identify you?"

"No," he said proudly. "We look like everybody. What are you going to say? 'Average height, average weight, average build, average looking, no distinguishing marks'?"

He was right. What could I say about them?

"That's why we were chosen, because we're average. And when this is all over, we're going to be far, far away from here. Nobody's ever going to see us again. So, you can look at us all you want, not that you're going to see us all that much." He laughed.

''Chosen?" I repeated. "Chosen by whom?"

The driver called out, "That's enough talking back there!"

My bald companion raised his eyebrows and made the motion of zipping his lips. I nodded and kept quiet. My legs were still bound. I thought about freeing them, but didn't. Even though it would give me a chance to run when the van opened, they'd expect it, and my running would make them more vigilant. If I left the tape on, it would make me seem more passive, and they might be more likely to let their guard down later.

So, I arranged my skirt as demurely as I could and tried to keep my head from knocking against anything as we continued down the bad, bumpy road.

---

Eventually the van stopped. The driver got out and opened the side door. He looked at me for a moment, then reached in to pick me up. Just before he put his arms under me, he said, "If you scream, if you scratch, hit, or bite me, I will drop you. Hard. Got it?"

I nodded.

I'm not saying I'm heavy — I'm not — but I was surprised at how easily he picked me up. He must be awfully strong, because I felt weightless in his arms. The man carried me with no effort whatsoever.

As he took me toward a dilapidated cabin, I tried to take in as much as possible.

First of all, we were deep in the woods. And I mean deep. We were on a hill, so I could see for quite some distance, but there was nothing but trees, all the way to the horizon.

"It's not the end of the world," the bald man quipped, "but you can see it from here!"

The driver frowned at his brother's attempt at humor. Then he pointed out to me, "Look all around you. There are no neighbors. None at all. You can scream your head off, and no one will hear you. But don't. Especially while I'm carrying you, or I'll drop you butt-first in the mud. And you wouldn't like that, because this lovely place here doesn't doesn't have a shower." He chuckled. "It doesn't even have running water!"

"Oh, boy," I said. "What fun." I wasn't sure how stinky I was now, but I was sure I'd be a lot stinkier before this was over.

"Yeah," he agreed. "You can take a shower when you go back home. You can even take two."

He grinned, but in a good-natured way, which was puzzling, but a little encouraging. I doubted that either of these men were capable of hurting me. I mean, I know that they kidnapped me, but I didn't think they could do me any bodily harm, let alone kill me. Oddly enough, I actually felt safe in this man's arms.

You're fooling yourself! a voice in my head cautioned, but I didn't think so.

There was a lot of snow on the ground, but not under the pine trees. There, the ground was covered with brown pine needle, pine cones, and scrubby plants.

I hung my head back to look down the road we'd come. My captor didn't seem to mind that I got my bearings. I guess he figured it would keep me from running away. Or maybe he liked the view and wanted me to enjoy it. Who knows? He actually turned around so I could get the whole panorama. I straightened my head and saw why there were so many bumps on the ride up here: the "road" was a long, packed-dirt trail with two deep ruts from truck tires.

The van, which was dark green, was parked in a clearing. There was room for a few more cars or trucks.

The only other thing to see was the small, two-story cabin standing nearby. Judging from how it looked outside, it was a filthy rat trap. My skin crawled at the sight of it.

"Tain't much, but it'll be home for a spell," the bald man laughed in a put-on hillbilly accent.

He ran ahead and held the door open as his brother carried me inside. The moment we entered, my nostrils were hit by an odor that I knew instantly, even though I'd never smelled it before: it was the scent of mice. Lots of mice. I wanted to cry, but I held it in, pushed it down.

The ground floor was one big room, with a living area on the left and a kitchen on the right, divided by a set of stairs. It might have been nice, long ago, when it was first built, but I wouldn't bet on it.

My captor carried me up the stairs. At the top was a tiny, windowless landing with a door open on the left and a door closed on the right. He carried me into the room on the left and gently set me down on the dirty floor.

"Ugh," I said. "Do you have a broom and a mop I can borrow?"

He laughed. "There's no such thing in the place, as you can see. Don't let that worry you, though. You won't be here that long."

In a glance, I took the room in. It was small, and had a single window. There was no glass in the window, and three boards were screwed into the frame. The gaps between the boards were too small for me to squeeze through.

In one corner was a sleeping bag, four six-packs of 2-liter water bottles, and a cardboard box full of snack bars and packaged sandwiches, the kind you can buy from a vending machine.

The only piece of "furniture" was in the corner by the window: it was a big white plastic bucket, like the kind you see in restaurant kitchens. Next to it was a roll of plastic bags and a 12-pack of toilet paper.

"You can line the can with the bags. Then tie 'em and toss 'em out the window," he said.

"Oh, gross!" I protested. "You have got to be kidding me!"

He didn't give any answer, other than a shrug. Then he walked out of the room, shut the door, and locked it. He took the key out of the lock and went downstairs.

I sat there for a while and listened, but there was nothing to hear but the wind in the trees and the occasional voices of my captors below.

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

Grabbing one of the boards with both hands, I climbed and got both my feet up on the wall. Straddling the board, and hanging like a spider, I pulled with all my might. Nothing happened. I tried a series of tugs, but still nothing. There was no "give" and no hope that I could get a board loose.

I got back down and after a few deep breaths I gave the lowest board the mightiest kick I had...

---

 
38. Nowhere To Go But Up
 

It didn't take long to get my legs free. I set the tape carefully aside in case it might be useful later. Then, before anything else, I had to pee, but wanted to avoid using the disgusting bucket. So I used my last residue of boyness and stood at the window. It was gross, but well, it was the world of nature out there.

Afterward I realized it was a bad idea. It could have been a shortcut to being found out. Although my kidnappers didn't seem violent or evil, there was no telling what they'd do once they realized I wasn't Maisie and that my father couldn't pay the sort of ransom they expected.

In my head I ran through all the relatives I knew. No one in my family — no aunt, uncle, grandmother, cousin — had any real money, the kind of money these men were expecting. There were no riches in the Donner clan. Beyond my family, there was no reason to expect Maisie's father to pay a penny for me. And Ida? I knew from my time with her that she was fairly economical. She may have enough money to stay at home, but it didn't look like she had anything to spare beyond that.

I went back to the window and studied the frame, in the hopes of finding something I could use as a tool or a weapon: loose wood, glass shards, nails... But there was nothing. It was clean. They may not have swept the floor, but they did clear away anything that could help me. And the boards, which prevented me from climbing out, were tightly screwed into the frame.

Grabbing one of the boards with both hands, I climbed and got both my feet up on the wall. Straddling the board, and hanging like a spider, I pulled with all my might. Nothing happened. I tried a series of tugs, but still nothing. There was no "give" and no hope that I could get a board loose.

I got back down and after a few deep breaths I gave the lowest board the mightiest kick I had...

... and saw stars. It was like kicking solid metal. I didn't know it at the time, but the wood was oak, and even with a hatchet I would have had difficulty.

Limping and whimpering, I checked the door. It was heavy, solid, and new. It was the same dense, unbreakable wood as the bars on the windows. This time, I didn't try to kick.

I had nothing to try to pick the lock with — not that I have any idea how it's done, but I would have given it a try.

Someone had recently moved the hinges to the outside, so I couldn't just pull the pins and open the door that way.

What did that leave? The walls: I hoped for plasterboard. If the walls were plasterboard, I could bust through between the studs, but no. These walls were made of wood. Solid. The place was old and disgusting, but it was built to last.

Conclusions? No obvious way out. Nothing to make a weapon from, except maybe a half-empty water bottle that I could swing like a club... but from the look of things, they didn't plan on coming in here until the ransom was paid, if then.

Trust me, there's a good plan in place, the bald one had said.

If I was my captors, I thought, I'd take the ransom money and tell my parents where to find me. In fact, they could go away right now and leave me here. They didn't need to guard me.

Just after I had that thought, soft footsteps came slowly up the stairs, and a timid knock at the door. "Who's there?" I called. What else was I supposed to say?

It was the bald one. "Hey, uh, girl in there. I'm sorry. I can't get you any cigarettes. We can't let you play with fire. You'll have to go cold turkey for a day or so. Sorry! But, oh, hey, maybe it's time you quit! I wish that *I* could quit. Something to think about, anyway."

"Hey," I called back, "I have any idea!"

"What's that?"

"I can lock you in here, and you can go cold turkey. This could be your chance to quit smoking for good!"

"Ha ha," he said, a little amused. "Good try. If this was a silly movie, I might be dumb enough, but it's not. Anyway, I'm sorry."

Then he went back downstairs. As his footsteps retreated, I heard the van engine start and drive off. So I was alone with the bald one.

I knelt at the window and looked outside for something to help me. I doubted than anyone would hear me if I called. There was no point in yelling, unless they both left.

As the sun dropped lower in the sky, my heart fell with it. What would the kidnappers do when they found out who I was? I began to cry silently. For the first time in my life, I was alone. Really alone. I thought about Maisie, and pushed the horrible things she'd said out of my mind. They didn't matter now. If I was here, at least Maisie wasn't. But I was here. Alone.

This is how Maisie feels all the time, I thought, and the tears came pouring out of me.

I knew that Ida and my parents would do whatever they could to help me. It might not be enough, though. I might die. I might. I didn't want to, but I might. I had to do whatever I could to not die, to get away, to save myself.

When it got dark, a sliver of moon came up and saved me from total darkness. I took off my coat and shoes and unrolled the sleeping bag. I didn't think I could sleep, but after eating one of the horrible sandwiches and drinking a little water, I went out like a light.

---

I dreamt a crazy dream that had everybody in it: Eden, Jerry, Aunt Jane and Denise. Cassie was there, Jerry's big sister, and somehow she made me feel safe. I was wearing my Dodgers shirt, and I was happy. It was a long dream, and a complicated dream, and it seemed so real, that when I woke up I had no idea where I was at all.

After a few moments it came seeping back into my memory: the abduction, the vans, the nasty cigarettes, the mistaken identity, the possibility of death.

I didn't feel like an "action hero" in that moment. Not at all. And Nancy Drew, I wasn't.

I was lying in a cheap sleeping bag on a dirty floor beneath a window with no glass in it. Three strong boards were screwed in tight to the window frame. The sun was shining and the birds were singing, and there was a big stain on the ceiling.

Even though I had to pee again, I wrapped the sleeping bag closer around me and shivered. There was no way to shut the damn window, and it was cold. Was there any heat in this house? It seemed warmer last night.

As I shivered and squirmed some warmth into the bag, my eyes were glued to the stain on the ceiling. There wasn't much else to look at.

I wasn't thinking, exactly, but something in my head was slowly analyzing: ''Stain... water... stain... water... leak... erosion... water stain... decay..." and I had a mental picture of my fingers picking apart old rotten plasterboard. And what made plasterboard old and rotten? Water.

I slid out of the sleeping bag, and shaking in the cold, pulled on my coat and shoes. My shoes, like the rest of my clothes, were disgusting. Me, my hair, and everything I was wearing felt funky, stiff, and stinky, but there was nothing I could do about it. There was nothing else to wear. I so wanted a shower!

The memory of the phone call with Maisie came flying back into my mind, but again I pushed it aside. As bad, as hurtful as what she'd said had been, my current situation was far worse.

By leaning against the side wall, I was able to climb the boards in the window and reach the corner of the ceiling. As I'd imagined, the plasterboard was brittle and easy to pick apart. It was disgusting, too, and I wondered what horrible junk was above it. I couldn't help but imagine mouse-droppings, old hair, centuries of dirt and dust mixed with nameless disgustfulness. I steeled myself and shoved my hand through, and soon made a little hole. It wasn't as gross as I expected it to be. The hard part was keeping the stuff that fell, from going into my face and hair.

Spitting, I wondered whether I could make a head-covering and makeshift gloves from the plastic bags, but instead of getting down to try it, I kept on working. It was slow going, but the progress was very real.

However, before the hole was big enough for me to squeeze through, I heard a terrible sound. It was the sound of a car bouncing along the potholes in the road. I climbed down to listen. It wasn't the van. I knew the sound of the van, and I knew the van was parked out front. I'd heard it come back last night after dark.

Whoever was coming was driving way too fast for that road. The car's suspension was knocking against the car... if those are the right words. Anyway, he was in too much of a hurry, and he was pushing his car too hard.

Once he arrived at the clearing and cut the engine, the car door opened with a creak and shut with a bang.

A voice bellowed, "Idiots!"

The sound was like the growl of an animal... hungry, fierce, and wild.

It made my hair stand on end, and somehow was familiar. I couldn't place it, though. I knew I'd heard the voice before, but couldn't imagine where. My heart began pounding. This had to be the boss, the one who'd "chosen" my abductors, and he probably knew that they'd taken the wrong girl.

I looked at the ceiling. One or two good rips, and I'd have a hole big enough to get through. But once inside the attic space, what would I do? Where would I go? It wasn't much of an escape plan, but at this point, it was my only option.

Still, my curiosity got the better of me, and I quietly went to the door and listened. It wasn't hard. No one was whispering.

"You jackasses! You half-wits!" the new voice shouted. "You took the wrong girl! You've ruined everything! A perfect plan, a SIMPLE plan, and you two simpletons had to screw it up!"

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

Her brow wrinkled. She looked hurt and offended, and she started to fade away.

Alarmed, I said, "No, no! Misty, don't go anywhere!"

---

 
39. Dead Like Me
 

"But she was with her mother," the driver protested. "The car was right, the school was right, the mother was right."

"Yeah," the bald one added. "The blonde mommy picked up her at school. They hugged!"

"The Beale girl and a friend did some sort of mom-swap this weekend," the new voice explained. "You grabbed the friend."

"What are you talking about? What the hell is a mom-swap?"

"It doesn't matter. What *does* matter is that you got the wrong girl!"

"Maybe her parents will pay–"

"Nothing like the Beale girl's parents. They're beyond rich."

"So, who is this one?"

"That, I don't know. Let's go see."

"How could you not know? I mean, you're a–"

"Quiet!" the voice commanded. "Little ears can hear."

"Huh?" the bald one asked. Then, "Oh, oh, I get it! The girl has little ears."

I heard a loud sigh from the third man.

Three sets of footsteps climbed the stairs and stopped in front of my door. "Wait a minute," the new voice said, "let me get this mask on," and some fumbling followed.

I backed into the corner farthest from the door and picked up a half-empty water bottle. It was my only defense. At worst, I could use it as club to hit them with.

As I clutched the bottle to my chest, I realized there was plaster and other dirt on my hands and arms, but at the moment it didn't matter.

The key turned in the lock and the door opened. A tall, broad-shouldered figure in a ski mask ducked through the doorway and stepped inside. The moment I saw him, I knew who he was, mask or no mask: the voice, the way he talked... everything clicked.

A wave of gooseflesh shot all the way from my hips to my ears. My heart was pounding before, but now it went into overdrive.

"You!" he and I cried in the same moment.

It was Sister Honororia's brother, the policeman.

I was horrified. I was trembling. There was no worse person for him to be. No one on earth. The two of us gaped at each other in silence. He knew who I was, and he knew that I knew who he was.

He swore, stepped out of the room, and locked it.

---

It was the worst, most blackest moment of my life. I hope I am never that frightened, ever again. My mind went entirely blank, and I crawled on hands and knees to the door to listen. I didn't even remember getting down on the floor.

It sounded like the men had stopped halfway down the stairs to argue.

"... You two have to disappear!" the policeman was saying.

"With what money?" the driver shouted. "We don't have any money to go anywhere! That's why we did this job! If we had money, we wouldn't have broken the law!"

"Money or no money, you two are out of here! Don't you get it? This has gone as badly as it can go, and we have to cut our losses NOW."

"What about the girl?" the bald one asked. "Do we let her go?"

"Are you kidding?" the policeman scoffed. "She knows who I am. She can identify me. She has to go!"

"You mean, go with us?" the bald one asked. "I'm not dragging a kid along!"

"What, are you stupid? I'm not asking you to adopt her! I'm telling you we have to kill her! There are two shovels out back. Go to the woods and dig a deep hole. As deep as you can. Deeper than six feet, if possible."

"I'm not killing anyone, especially a kid," the driver said. "Frank isn't either. We didn't sign up for that. We won't let you kill her, either."

"And why are there two shovels out back?" the bald one shouted. "You were going to kill her all along, weren't you?"

"SHUT THE HELL UP!" the policeman shouted.
 

Suddenly I was aware of a presence next to me. A cute, smiling, pony-tailed head... It was Misty! She was imitating me, crouched down on hands and knees. Of course, she was wearing her workout clothes, and her ponytail hung straight down behind her.

"Misty!" I cried. I was never so glad to see anyone! I tried to hug her, but although she looked solid, my hands passed right through her body.

"Hi," she said, smiling brightly. "I missed you, too! I was wondering where you were. Why are we on hands and knees? Are you playing some kind of game?"

"No, Misty! It's not a game! I've been kidnapped! Can you tell my mother where I am?"

She looked confused. "No...," she said. "I can't. I don't know where you are! I just thought of you and then I was here. We could be anywhere for all I know. But I can tell her you're okay."

If I could grab her, I would have shaken her. "Misty, I'm not okay! Can't you get it?"

Her brow wrinkled. She looked hurt and offended, and she started to fade away.

Alarmed, I said, "No, no! Misty, don't go anywhere!"

When she first appeared, crouching next to me, she looked as real as I am. Now she was half-transparent. I could still see her, but I could also see the room behind her, through her. The thought of losing her frightened me, but it also gave me an idea.

"Misty! Misty, listen: Can you get me out of here? Can you make me pass through the door? Can you make me invisible?"

She shook her head sadly. "No. Sorry. No offense, but you're too big. I can only do that with little stuff, like pens and papers and things. And even that's hard."

My mind was racing. "Okay! Listen: My purse is just outside, in a van parked out front. Can you go down and get it for me? Or at least get me my cell phone?"

"Yeah, I think so," she said uncertainly. For some reason, it didn't sound as though she wanted to. "Why can't you get it yourself?"

Was she being deliberately stupid? I couldn't understand what was going on with her. "Misty, I've been kidnapped. I'm locked in this horrible room. This is like a prison cell. I can't get out."

She looked around, taking in the room, her lips wrinkling in distaste. "Why would anybody kidnap you?" she asked.

"Because they think I'm Maisie."

"But Maisie's at your house."

"I know. We did the mom swap again."

"Why would they kidnap Maisie?"

I bit my lip. This was going nowhere fast, but I had to humor her: she was my only hope.

"Maisie's father is rich. They figure he'll pay a huge ransom."

"Won't he pay a ransom for you?"

"No. Why would he?"

"Won't your father pay?"

"We don't have the kind of money they want."

"Hmmph," she said, and seemed to be thinking.

I couldn't wait any longer for her to connect the dots. I burst out, "Misty, please! Go get my phone! You have to help me! I need your help! These guys want to kill me, do you understand? They have shovels out back — they're going to dig a hole and murder me! You're my only hope. You're the only one who can help me. There is no one else!"

I was begging her, but she wasn't reacting at all. I wasn't getting through, and couldn't understand why.

She hesitated, sucked her lips in, and sat down on the floor, crossing her legs. She was calm and quiet. She didn't look at me, and she wasn't smiling any more.

Then Misty tilted her head to one side and looked me in the face.

"Marcie," she said softly. "I know this is hard for you... but if they kill you, you'll be dead, like me. Being dead's not so bad... Once you get used to it, anyway. And I can help you with that! We'll be friends – better friends than we are now. And you could still talk to your mother."

Her face had a serious, unsmiling set, but just under the surface her quiet excitement rippled and simmered, like a fever.

"Think of the fun things we could do together, Marcie! All kinds of cool, spooky things!"

Her eyes were the biggest they'd ever been, and her face lit up with an unearthly smile. She looked like a child, dreaming of Christmas morning, and the one gift she wanted — the one she wanted most of all — was a ghostly playfriend just like me.

"Oh, my God," I whispered.

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

"Misty," I said, as calmly as I could, "can you smell me?"

"Smell you? Yes, of course I can smell you. You really need a bath."

---

 
40. Don't Let Me Die In These Clothes
 

My breath caught in my throat. I was horrified. Misty smiled in a friendly way as she watched my expression change.

"No, Misty, no!" I cried. "I don't want to die! I don't want to die today!"

She frowned, as she would at a disobedient child. "Marcie, you don't know what it's like. I think you'll like it. And we can be together. We can be BFF: best friends forever, right?"

"Oh, Misty! I can *wait* to find out what it's like, believe me! Besides, we wouldn't be together! I wouldn't be at your house! I'd be stuck in this dirty, disgusting shack!" She looked around the room and made a face. "AND... I'd have to wear this ugly school uniform! It would UCF: ugly clothes forever!"

Her mouth twisted, and she looked at what I was wearing.

"And how do you know, if I'm a ghost, that you'd be able to find me? You said you don't know where we are!"

"I'd just think of you..."

"But have you ever done that with a ghost? Thought about another ghost and just gone to them? Maybe it only works with living people!"

She frowned. "I don't know any other ghosts. But, anyway, it ought to work."

"If it doesn't, I'll be alone here, and you'll be alone back home! Besides that, how do you know that I'd even be a ghost?"

She blushed slightly. "I have a feeling," she said. "I'm pretty sure you will be. I mean, you can see me; I can talk to you. We have some kind of connection."

"Oh!" I growled in frustration. I wondered for a fraction of an instant whether the men downstairs could hear at least my side of the argument, but they were still shouting at each other. Honestly, I didn't care if anyone could hear me at this point.

"Misty, look: YOU might be ready to take the chance that I'll be a ghost who can hang around with you, but I'm not! What if it doesn't work? Then you lose one of the few people who can see and hear you... and I lose everything!"

I thought I was making a strong case... heck, it wasn't just strong, it was air tight! But Misty wasn't buying it.

She just sat there, staring at me, knowing that all she had to do was wait...

I looked into her eyes as I wracked my brain, trying to find something to say, some way to convince her to help me... But the only one time I felt that I'd reached her at all was when I mentioned the clothes.

"Misty," I said, making a huge effort to stay calm, "can you smell me?"

"Smell you? Of course I can smell you. You really need a bath!"

"I know that I do. But I can't have one. They won't let me. Misty, I want you to tell me something: When I die, will I still smell bad? Will I be stinky forever?"

Her gaze never left my face, but she didn't answer. Maybe she didn't know, but if she did, she wasn't telling. I had the distinct feeling that I would smell bad forever. And if she was going to hang around me after I was dead, she was going to be smelling it!

"And Misty, here's something else to think about: We're almost the same size. If I die, would you want to swap clothes sometimes?"

Her face wrinkled into a grimace of disgust.

"Misty, listen to me: if I die in these clothes, dirty like this, smelling like this, I will never be able to wash. Ever. Not me, not my clothes. I will wear these nasty rags for all time. When you were alive, you wore a uniform like this once. Did you like it?"

Again she twisted her mouth to the side, and looked over at the window. "No," she admitted.

"Did you ever wear one for two days straight? Dirty like this?"

She took a deep breath. At last, it seemed I was getting through.

Her eyes flitted over my outfit, and I could see that finally she was wrestling with herself. She looked at my face, then at my uniform, as if they represented the two sides of her dilemma.

I couldn't believe it! My only hope of staying alive was a ghost, and she liked the idea of my being dead! I had to convince a dead girl to keep me alive, and the deciding factor was going to be my clothes!

I gave it one last shot: "I'm *begging* you, Misty. Don't stick me with these ugly clothes for all eternity, please! They're not even clean!"

"You could take them off before they kill you..." she started to say, then thought better of it.

My ghostly friend was silent for a space. Then her face fell into a sad, resigned look. She stared at the floor and she heaved a heavy sigh. After a leaden, sullen, "Okay," she faded out.

In spite of my fear, shock, and desperation, I found myself wondering how Misty could sigh if she didn't breathe. Ghosts don't breathe, do they? I realized I'd had this question a couple times before. At some point, I had to ask her.

In the meantime, my captors' argument had shifted to the ground floor. Aside from that movement, it didn't sound like they were getting anywhere.

In a minute or less, an unsmiling Misty returned with my cell. I switched it on, wondering why phones take forever to come up, and praying that the men didn't hear the loud, stupid startup music.

While waiting to see how strong the signal was, I noticed a strange symbol that usually I ignored. "GPS!" I softly exclaimed.

"What's that?" Misty asked.

"It's a locator. It lets people see where the phone is. The police will be able to find me!"

The phone had a strong signal. There must be a tower nearby, or on a hill or whatever. I called 911. It took a little work to convince the operator that I really was Marcie Donner. She already knew my name and that I'd been kidnapped. I explained about the GPS.

"I'm going to leave my phone on so you can find me," I told her, "but I have to hide it so the kidnappers don't find it. If they find the phone, they'll turn it off. So I'm not going to be able to talk to you, and I'm going to turn the sound way down. So PLEASE DON'T TALK, okay?"

As if she hadn't heard me, the operator replied, "Marcie? Marcie? I'm going to ask you to stay on the line. Please stay on the line with me. I need you to stay on the line..." Instead, I turned the volume as low as possible, and put the phone inside the sleeping bag to muffle the sound.

I returned to the door to listen. The argument had gotten more heated. There were blows and thuds and scuffling. The driver shouted, "No! No! Don't do it!" almost like a scream. Furniture was knocked over and heavy objects were thrown. I flinched with each bang and crash, as though I was the one being struck.

I know that my words can't communicate the horror of listening to the fight downstairs. It may not sound like much, the way I describe it like, but it was like listening to the end of the world. Things were wildly out of control down there, and I was scared nearly out of my wits. Do you know why? Because all of that violence, once it finished downstairs, was going to come upstairs for me.

At last, there was a gun shot, a sickening thud, some scuffling, a gun shot, and a second lifeless thud. Then silence.

My blood froze inside of me. There was no way on earth that anyone could reach me in time. Now that the two brothers were dead, there was no one left to defend me.

"Misty, please don't leave me," I whispered. "I don't want to be alone when this happens."

She nodded in a cold, almost clinical way, and stood next to me, watching. Now she was perfectly solid, like a real live person. For a moment, she put her hand in mine, and squeezed it.

I could almost feel what was going through her head. She knew there was a strong chance that soon I'd be walking through walls, too. At the same time, she must have seen – or at least known – that a lot of people had died during the time she was dead, yet she was still alone. She was hoping the two of us could be ghosts together, but she'd probably been disappointed many times before.

I'd already told the 911 operator that Honororia's brother was the bad guy, so even if he killed me, they would know who'd done it. It was a small consolation, but at least he wouldn't get away with my murder, and now the murders of the two brothers.

He came upstairs, unlocked the door, and walked inside. Misty was standing next to me, but he didn't see her.

"He looks familiar," Misty said. I didn't reply.

He motioned with his gun, and said, "Let's go downstairs." He grinned. "It's kind of a mess, but don't worry. It's going to get messier."

I walked slowly toward him, looking for some sort of opening, for something I could do, but there was nothing. If I tried to hit or kick him, he'd bring the gun down on my head. I descended the stairs ahead of him. All the furniture was up-ended. Some of it was broken. There were knickknacks and books and things thrown everywhere. Worst of all were the bodies of the two brothers. My stomach heaved and I wretched loudly. The two men were lying in their own blood. Even worse, blood was still pouring from their wounds. I tried to looked away, but the man pushed me and I had to grab the stair rail to keep from falling.

He shoved me toward the kitchen, where things were slightly cleaner. "Have a seat," he said, and he used his foot to turn a kitchen chair upright for me. He straightened another for himself, still using his feet, and sat down near me, facing me. Not close enough for me to hit or kick him, but he had longer arms and legs, so even if I couldn't reach him, he could easily grab me. He seemed relaxed... happy, even.

"I need a story here," he said. "and I think I have it... almost. Because, see, I was never here. Eventually someone's going to find you three, and it has to look like you killed each other."

He smiled and leaned back. "What I'm thinking is that somehow... doesn't matter how... you got hold of a gun. You heard the two of them fighting... probably when they realized they got the wrong girl. You came down the stairs, see? and you shot the two of them from up there." He pointed. "That explains why the angle is high, get it? Then, hmm..."

He turned his head as he pondered, and glanced at the front door. The bald brother was lying face down, one arm reaching for the door. He was obviously trying to get outside when he was shot. "Ah – oh, now I got it! You shot him, see? but you didn't realize that you hadn't quite killed him. Right! So he's lying there, and you don't know it, but he's not dead. You go out the door, and he shoots you from behind, from the floor. Yeah! That way, I can let you run from me, and it will look good." He grinned at his invention. "If you're really fast," he laughed, "you might even get away! I could count to five or even ten. Maybe even fifteen. Give you a sporting chance."

"I won't run," I told him.

He shrugged. "Facing the house works too," he said.

"I won't stand up," I replied.

He thought for a moment and shrugged. "It doesn't matter. Sitting, lying, it will all work. Even if I have to knock you out first and then shoot you. I can make it all work." He looked at me and smiled. "If you walk out the door, though, you get to go out as a hero. Isn't that important to you?"

I frowned at him and shook my head. What in the world was he talking about? I didn't care about being a hero.

"People will say, What a brave girl! If only this-or-that, she'd still be alive. Still, she did what she could. That's what you want, isn't it? Have people think you're strong and fearless? The girl crime-fighter?"

I shook my head.

He shrugged, smiled, and continued.

"After that, all I have to do is put a gun in your hand and one in Frank's hand and fire them so you both get gun residue on you. Then I'm clear."

"What about your tire marks outside?" I asked.

He nodded approvingly at me. "Not bad. Good thinking. Maybe you would have made a good detective, if you'd lived." He laughed. "It's Frank's car. I'm just going to drive it back to his house. The tire tracks won't mean a thing."

I suddenly realized that Misty was gone. She hadn't followed us downstairs. A chill fell over me, and the cold coming through the open front door seemed to pass into my bones.

"I've covered every angle," he gloated. "In half an hour, I'll be home free. I'll have to work up a new plan for the money, but I can do it. I've got time. And here..." he glanced over the wreckage, "it will be an unfortunate, but very closed case."

"It won't work," I mumbled.

"What?" he asked in a patronizing tone, "I didn't hear."

"It won't work," I said, after clearing my throat. "I called 911 and told them you're involved."

His eyes widened. "You're lying," he said. "There's no way!" Still, he turned his head to the side when he looked at me. I knew he wasn't sure.

"Believe what you like," I told him.

He studied my face, weighing the possibilities, and said, "Your phone is in your purse, in the van, outside."

I looked him in the eyes, but didn't respond.

"You couldn't get to it," he said, but I saw his certainty crack.

I smiled.

"Shit!" he barked, and jumped to his feet. He paced back and forth for a moment, then shouted, "Up!"

We walked upstairs, back to my prison cell. He scanned the room, but saw nothing. He listened, and heard — as I did — the 911 operator's little voice chirping. His eyes stopped on the sleeping bag. He pushed me into a corner, far from the door, and still pointing his gun at me, stuck his hand into the sleeping bag. In a moment, he fished out the phone.

His eyes widened as he saw 911 on the display. The call was still active, and the woman's tiny voice was asking, "Marcie? Are you still there? Marcie, answer me! Are you all right? Marcie? Marcie?"

He hung up the phone and turned it off. Holstering his gun at the back of his belt, he took out a handkerchief and carefully wiped his prints off the cell. Then he dropped it back into the sleeping bag.

"You're done," I said to him. My face went all jerky, and my arms and legs were spazzing.

"So are you," he sneered, and reached for his gun.

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

I sat down on a tree stump, away from the action. My cell phone battery was dead, and I still hadn't called my parents. And I was cold. Really cold. So cold that I wasn't trembling anymore. My energy was utterly depleted.

A police detective approached me, a woman, and she asked, "Is anybody helping you? Are you okay?"

---

 
41. Misty's Big Day
 

Sister Honororia's brother looked startled, as he groped for his gun and didn't seem to find it. He looked on the floor and patted himself down in back. He took the sleeping bag and shook it hard. My phone clattered out, but there was no sign of his weapon.

A soft whisper came to my right ear. "It's kind of heavy, but I got his gun. Here it is," Misty said, as she pressed it against my back. I quickly reached behind me and grabbed it.

I had never so much as touched a gun before. Misty was right, it was heavy. One thing I did know about guns was that they have a safety mechanism. On the side of the gun I saw a button with red on its side. Did that mean that the safety was on, or off? I figured red meant danger. I was betting it was off, ready to shoot.

"How the hell did you get that?" he said. "Nobody moves that fast! Give it here."

"No," I said. "I'm going to hang on to it." I slid a little toward the door.

He smiled. He didn't look scared at all. In fact, he seemed to relish the situation. "No, you're going to give it to me, one way or another. You're not going to shoot me. You're a good girl. Good girls don't play with guns." He straightened up to his full height, which was well over six feet.

"Sit down," I told him. I meant for it to sound like an order, but it came out like a request. It didn't matter how it sounded, because he didn't sit down.

What I wanted to do was to lock him in the room and go for help. If he reached me, if he grabbed me, he'd overpower me. I took another big step toward the door. Unfortunately, there was no way I could get out the door, close it, and lock it unless he sat down.

Of course, he knew that, too. Even if I left the room and shut the door, as soon as I got busy with the lock, he'd come crashing through. I doubted I could even get *that* far.

He took a short, slow, easy step toward me. "You can't fire that gun anyway," he told me. "The safety's on. Look at the side."

I ignored what he said. I knew he wanted to confuse me so I'd take the gun off him for a moment. By now, the situation was perfectly clear: he wasn't going to cooperate and he wasn't going to let me leave the room. I didn't want to do it, but I had no choice. I planted my two feet square on the floor, and tightened my grip on the gun.

"Another step, and I shoot," I told him. I was pretty sure I was going to have to shoot. He, on the other hand, was pretty sure I wouldn't, so he smiled and took another step. Can't say I didn't warn him!

Before I had a chance for second thoughts, I stiffened my arms, aimed for his left foot, and pulled the trigger.

The shot sounded like a huge explosion, and the recoil made me dance back and bang into the wall behind me. But the important thing was done: he fell down, and I kept my death grip on the gun. Before he could move again, I was out the door, pushing it shut behind me, and with trembling hands, I locked it. I pulled the key from the lock, but couldn't hang on to it. It fell to the floor with a loud clatter.

Then my nerves kicked in, freaking me out, making my body spazz and jerk.

My arms were shaking like mad. I knelt down to try to pick up the key. My right hand was locked around the gun, and I couldn't let go. My hand was shaking already, but I shook it even more, hoping the gun would fall, but it was stuck there. With the heel of my left hand I pried my fingers off the gun, and finally it clattered to the floor. It took both hands to pick up the key. My arms were jerking out of control, and my fingers wouldn't open or close. I started to cry with the effort of shoving the key into the small pocket on my skirt. I couldn't do it, so, still crying, I swept it down the stairs with the side of my hand, and got a splinter in the process.

Once that was done, I managed to pick up the gun by pressing it between my palms. My fingers had quit working entirely, and my elbows had minds of their own. I started running, and clumsily fell flat on the stairs, face down. The gun fell away below, I didn't see where, and I bumped down a few steps. I couldn't tell whether I'd hurt myself.

Moaning, I brought up my hands, but they still weren't working. They were like two catcher's mitts at the ends of my arms, and my legs weren't much use, either. If I could only get out of the cabin, I was sure I'd be better. At a loss, I turned on my side and slowly slid headfirst the rest of the way down the stairs. Once at the bottom, with the help of the banister, I managed to work my way to my feet.

My stomach twisted at the sight of the two brothers, and this time, my insides didn't stop churning until I vomited behind an overturned table. I think I was crying... I remember that my face was soaking wet.

Partly because I had so much trouble standing, and partly so I wouldn't have to look at the blood, I pressed my face against the wall and slid my way around the perimeter of the room until I reached the front door. Just as the smell of the blood was beginning to register and set off alarm bells in my stomach, I stumbled outside.

I could barely walk, my legs were shaking so hard. The air was cold, very cold. The humidity must have been two or three hundred percent, because the cold soaked deep into my bones. My knees were literally knocking. In the background I could hear Honororia's brother bellowing and cursing, but the sound seemed to come from ten thousand miles away.

There was the van, and a smaller car. I got my purse from the van, and decided I'd go with the car. Unfortunately, it had three pedals, and I couldn't figure out which pedal did what, and I couldn't get it to start. Each time I turned the key, the car shuddered, choked, and died. The motor would only make one jerky turn, then stop.

So I got in the van and took a deep breath. "You can do it," I told myself out loud. Then I looked at the dashboard. It was a complicated mess of dials and switches that made absolutely no sense at all. I wasn't even sure how to turn on the radio. Plus, it stank of old oil and dirt and God knows what. Still, it had only two pedals, so there was less to think about. The main thing is to stay calm, a little voice inside told me, but I wasn't calm. I was a thousand miles away from calm.

I wished I had my cell phone, but that was still upstairs, with my prisoner. I gripped the steering wheel, and realized that my fingers were working again. I took some deep breaths. Then I took some slow breaths. "You can do this," I said out loud. "You can. You know you can. You have to."

Suddenly Misty faded into the passenger seat. She looked all excited and giggly, and completely oblivious to my shattered state of mind. She actually laughed and said, "Hey! Looking for this?" and held up my cell phone.

"Oh, thank God!" I cried. "Misty, you're a life saver!"

"Wow!" she gushed. "What a day! This is intense! This is GREAT! It's like a MOVIE! Oh, my God! More stuff has happened today than in all the years I've been dead!"

"Good," I said, "I'm glad you're having a good time."

In spite of all that had happened, she almost made me want to laugh. Almost. "Oh, Misty," I sighed. "Thanks. I'd be dead now, too, if I wasn't for you!"

She grinned happily and made some goofy faces at me, dancing in her seat and drumming with her feet. What a nut!

---

I dialed 911 again and put them on speaker so I wouldn't have to hold the phone. The same operator answered. She told me that the police were on their way and said, "Please stay on the line."

"This time I can," I replied, and at her prompting, I told her the whole story. As I talked, I took the keys from the van and the car and started walking down the road, away from the cabin. If the police were coming, I wanted to meet them sooner than later, and I thought that walking might warm me up. Misty disappeared somewhere along the way, and after about ten minutes, a police car came bouncing toward me. Two others followed, and soon the bad cop was handcuffed inside an ambulance. The small space in front of the cabin was full of police vehicles and flashing lights.

I sat down on a tree stump, away from the action. My cell phone battery was dead, and I still hadn't called my parents. And I was cold. Really cold. So cold that I wasn't trembling anymore. My energy was utterly depleted, and my mind was empty.

A police detective approached me, a woman, and she asked, "Is anybody helping you? Are you okay?"

In a tired voice I said, "Apart from freezing, stinking like a horse, and wearing an outfit that I hate, I'm fine. Is there any way I could get out of here?"

She grinned and said, "Come with me. I've got a car with heated seats. AND nobody's blocking me. Let's get the hell on out of here, girl!" She talked into a walkie-talkie as she led me away. Once we drove off, I was going to ask if I could borrow her phone, but without meaning to, I fell sound asleep and didn't wake up until she stopped at the end of my street.

"Holy crap!" I whispered. Even from where we were I could see the lights and cameras of the news crews. A bright light illuminated a tall woman with blonde hair who posed in front of my house and spoke into a microphone.

"Is there any way we can get in through the back?" the detective asked. It turned out that there was. She parked on the street behind mine, and we snuck through my backyard to the kitchen door.
 

After the hugs and tears and questions, I turned to my mother and said, "Mom, I need to take a long, hot shower now, but first, I have to ask you to do something for me. Something really important. You have to swear that you'll do it."

Frowning, she asked, "What do you want me to do?"

"Burn these clothes," I said. "I never want to see them, ever again."

Mom was stunned and began to reply. I cut her off.

"I've never been more serious." I told her. "I want you to burn them tonight, in the back yard. The shoes, the coat — everything."

I wasn't sure that I'd convinced Mom, but Theresa, the detective, laughed and said (with a wink at me) that she needed to take it all as evidence.

"That would be great, as long as I never get them back," I told her. "Promise me I'll never get them back."

I dropped my coat into a big plastic bag. I emptied my purse and threw that in, too. It had grease and dirt on it from the floors of the vans.

Once in the bathroom, I stripped out of those horrible, funky clothes and shoved them into the bag. They felt so scummy and disgusting that I could hardly bear to touch them. I put my shoes in a smaller bag, and threw it on top of the other clothes. It was too bad — it was a pair I really liked, the first pair of shoes that bought with Ida, but there was no way that any of those clothes would ever touch my body again.

I opened the bathroom door a crack, and handed the bag to my mother.

"Seriously, Mom," I said. "Make sure Theresa takes it all. Far far away."
 

A shower never felt so good. The heat, the steam, the clean water... it was exactly what I needed. As I stood there, finally relaxing, my mind went to Maisie, my next big problem. Soon I'd have to deal with what Maisie knew about me, but at the moment it didn't seem important or even that difficult. I was alive. That's what mattered. And I was clean. Best of all, I wasn't a ghost in a BYHS uniform, glued to a ratty shack in the woods.
 

I kind of expected Misty to show up, but I guess she respected my privacy in the bathroom. At least I hoped so.

No, even that didn't matter. She could pop up anywhere and everywhere. I owed her my life. I owed her everything.

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

"Talk to her?" Maisie laughed. "Are you kidding? Are you out of your mind? Her brother tries to kill you, and you want to talk to her? What is there to talk about?"

---

 
42. Maisie's Other Hell
 

I had to tell my story over and over, to the police, to my parents, to the press, to people I knew... of course I didn't mention Misty, except when I was talking to my mother and Susan. It wasn't hard to leave the ghostly girl out: I just fudged the story a bit... about the cell phone: I said that it was in an inside coat pocket all along, but I didn't realize it... There's this little pocket I don't usually use... I must have stuck the phone there during the struggle in the van.

Then, about the gun: I said that I skipped forward quickly and quietly and took it from the back of the bad guy's belt. That's what *he* thought happened, anyway, so I just went along with his story. Everybody believed it and said what a brave, foolhardy girl I was.

My parents kept me home from school... it was the last four days before the Christmas holidays, anyway. Each night Susan called and the two of us picked the kidnapping apart. I cried sometimes, and freaked out a few times, but Suze stayed calm and talked me through things in her rational way... But, yes, Susan actually got to use the phone! Her parents gave her that leeway because they very kindly thought I needed the emotional support. And I did. It turned out her grandparents had weighed in heavily on the issue of giving Suze more freedom so she could be with me.

And I did finally get to keep an appointment with my new therapist, too, which helped, but that's a whole 'nother story.

So anyway, Friday, the day of the sleepover, Susan came over in the early afternoon. Mom set up a little campsite in the living room, underneath the Christmas tree. Suze and I giggled and talked in our sleeping bags until my bleary-eyed father came to ask pity on his weary bones.

"Let an old man get his sleep," he told us. "Keep it down to a dull roar."

Misty wasn't there, though, which was strange. We called to her and looked for her all through the house. We didn't find her and she didn't appear.

Maisie was gone as well. When I was kidnapped, it was clear from the ransom request that Maisie was the intended target. Her father came in a private jet and whisked her away to California, saying she'd be safer with him. She was supposed to go there for the Christmas holidays, anyway.

So Maisie hadn't had a chance to tell my secret to anyone.

"Aren't you going to call her?" Susan asked, not knowing. "I can't believe you haven't called her already."

"I have to get my courage up," I said, and told her how Maisie had knocked my books down last Friday.

"Why would she do that?" Susan asked.

"I have no idea," I honestly admitted. It happened before she talked to Miriam Clegg, so she couldn't have known about my boyhood at that point.

Or maybe she didn't know for sure? No, given the venom she spewed when she did know, I think she would have confronted me right away, then and there in the school hallway, for maximum effect. I think she knew there was something behind the "Mark" story, something that I wasn't saying, and she tried to tease it out of me. I'm sure she'd heard the name "Mark Donner" before ... I know it rang a bell for her.

Maisie isn't stupid; she could see there was a secret in my Marky past ... it was probably the reason she called Miriam ... to get some clues, to figure it out ... Although, maybe something clicked for her just before she knocked my books down? I don't know.

"I think it's what we were saying the other day," Susan concluded, "this mom-swap that you guys did, aggravated her whole mother issue."

"Yeah," I agreed, "and now she's with her father-issue. I have to call her."

I did. I really did have to call her. Whatever she knew about me, however she felt about me, I had to call. Yes, she'd been mean ... even vicious. I couldn't pretend that she hadn't hurt me, but I wasn't ready to give up on that bony little devil. As evil as she'd been, a memory kept coming back to me: the memory of the time when she cried in my arms. I could see it, as if it happened yesterday. I can still feel the shock of that moment, when I put my arm around her, of feeling her ribs right there under her skin. She was drowning in her aloneness and clutching me as if I were her only hope.

I don't want to sound melodramatic, but in that moment, I looked into the abyss: the boundless emotional vacuum in that little girl's soul. After seeing that, I couldn't just walk away.

Also, I think I was still a little stunned and shocked from the kidnapping, and that took a lot of the sting out what Maisie had said. It made it seem unreal, from another world, almost as if it hadn't happened. I doubted that I'd feel that way forever, but for right now I could still think about Maisie without getting angry or scared.

If she was still my friend, I couldn't let her down. She could be frightened about the kidnapping, she could be alone and in agony because of her dad... whatever it was, if she needed me, I had to be there.

I had to call to see whether we could still be friends. I had to give her one more chance.

At the same time, friend or not, I wasn't going to let her abuse me any more. If she was going to be nasty to me, or if she was going to tell people about me, I'd have to deal with it, but that would be the end of our friendship ... if it wasn't over already.

---

The next day, Saturday, after lunch, after Susan gave me a big smiling hug and a "Thanks!" to me and Mom, she left, and I went and stood by the phone, just looking at it.

"Calling Maisie?" Mom asked.

"Yeah," I said. "How did you know?"

She shrugged. "I don't know ... just guessing. I'm surprised that she hasn't call you ... but I suppose she couldn't get through, the way the phone's been ringing off the hook."

"I guess," I said. "Hey, Mom. Have you seen Misty since ... since I got back?"

"No, not at all. Have you?"

"Nope. I'd like to see her, and thank her."

"I would too. I'm so glad and grateful that she was there for you. She's a real friend, and a brave girl, just like you."

With that, Mom turned and left. I heard her sniff and saw her wipe her cheek with the back of her hand. Oh, Mom!

Now that I was finally by myself, I swallowed hard and took a deep breath. Then, before I had a chance for second thoughts, before I lost my nerve, I pulled out the number Ida had given me, picked up the handset, and started punching numbers. Inside, part of me was protesting, screaming, ''Don't call her! You don't even know what to say! She's not going to talk to you! Hang up! She'll be nasty and negative..."

I ignored it and listened as the call connected.

Her phone rang three times before she picked up. She didn't say anything, not even hello.

"Maisie?" I asked, in an uncertain voice. "Hello?" Had I dialed the right number? "Are you there, Maisie?"

"Mar-ceeee?" she cried, in a long, piercing screech. I froze. What did that screech mean? Was it a good screech or a bad screech? "I can't believe you called me!" she wailed, and began sobbing uncontrollably. "After what I said to you!"

"Maisie, are you alright?"

"No, no, I'm not alright! I'm here with my horrible father and his horrible girlfriend with her fake blonde hair, her fake tan, her fake smile, and her huge fake tits! I'm in hell!" she gasped a few breaths, then, just as I was about to speak, she went on.

"I was so horrible to you, and I'm sorry! I said I wanted to kill you, and then you almost DIED! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm so so so sorry!"

"Oh, Maisie," I said, tears coming to my own eyes, "It wasn't your fault. It was Sister Honororia's stupid brother who did it."

"He did it?" she asked, with genuine surprise.

"Yes," I said. "Didn't you see the newspapers or the TV?"

"No," she said, calming down a bit. "It was too scary. And my stupid father wouldn't let me. But then, oh, yeah, the police here told me his name — they showed me his picture — but it didn't mean anything to me. I didn't realize it was him! Because he never really had a name, you know? He was always just Sister Honoraria's brother. You know what I mean. And I don't think I ever saw him, except that one time, from the back. And they didn't tell me he was a cop. How weird!" She sniffed a bit. "What about the nun? Is she going to jail too?"

"No," I scoffed. "She had nothing to do with it!"

"How do you know?"

"She would never do something like that!"

"Huh," Maisie said. "Could of fooled me."

I took a deep breath and blew it all out. Looked like there was something else I had to do. Resigned, I said, "I guess I should go talk to her."

"Talk to her?" Maisie laughed. "Are you kidding? Are you out of your mind? Her brother tries to kill you, and you want to talk to her? What is there to talk about?

"I know you, Marcie, you're not going to go to tell her off, which is what you *should* do. You should tell her ... you should tell her ..." Maisie floundered for a bit, trying to find a negative message I could give to the nun.

"Maisie–" I began, but she interrupted.

"So why are you going? What are you going to do? What are you going to say? Are you going to ask her if she's alright? After *her* ordeal?" She barked a few short laughs. "Oh, that would be rich." She laughed alone for a bit, but then she got it: "Oh, wait a minute! That is why you want to see her, isn't it! You want to go and see whether Sister Honoraria is okay!"

"Yes," I said. It didn't seem strange to me at all. I couldn't explain my reasons. I just knew I had to do it.

Maisie was silent for a few moments as the dots connected in her own mind. Then she saw it. "Oh," she said softly. "That's why you called me, too."

"Well, yeah, Maisie, you're my friend."

"Even after what I said to you? What I did to you?"

"Well, yeah, it was mean, what you did," I answered. "but I care about what happens to you."

"Oh, man!" she groaned. "Listen. I didn't tell anybody. About you. About Mark. Not even Miriam Clegg. I just asked her if she knew you."

"Oh," I said. It was nice to know, but somehow it didn't seem important. (At that moment, anyway. Afterward, I was pretty glad.)

"So," she said, with an air of settling back for a long conversation. "Do you want to tell me the story? Do you trust me? I mean, not the kidnapping, but the Mark story."

Oh, Maisie, I thought, I don't trust you, but I'm going to tell you anyway.

"Hey!" she cried out. "Is *that* why you see a therapist? I knew it was the Mark thing! Didn't I say so?"

"I guess," I conceded.

"So, spill!" she commanded.

I let out a big gust of air. "Okay, it all started last September. I missed the first two days of school..."

"Why?"

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

The old story of the scorpion and the frog came to mind. Maisie would be the scorpion... striking out at people is part of her nature. Maybe someday she could heal and change. Maybe. In a way, it didn't matter, because I knew that from now on, at least a part of me would always have an eye on her, ever vigilant. I'd been stung already, and I wasn't going to get stung again.

---

 
43. Unexpected Dismay
 

I didn't tell Maisie every single thing, but I gave her the big picture of how Mark became Marcie.

We talked and talked. It brought me back to when we'd first met in the railroad-station restaurant, when the two of us went off by ourselves and got to know each other. Back then, it was easy. There was no teasing. It was just two girls getting to know each other.

It was that way again, but different. There'd been a crisis, a cataclysm, a meltdown, and we weren't the same two people any more. We knew each other before everything happened, but "before" was gone, now. It would never come back.

How was I different? I guess I had a bit more backbone. And Maisie? Maisie was — what's the word? — not shy... subdued, maybe?

Then the word came to me: tentative. We were both being tentative with each other. Why? In my case, it was simple: she'd hurt me and I knew she might hurt me again.

For Maisie, it was something else. No, I take that back: it was practically everything. Once again, someone had been out to hurt her. Specifically her. Only her. The kidnappers didn't want me, they wanted Maisie. Just for money. And once they got their money, she would have been killed. From the very beginning, that was the idea: she was meant to die, along with the two brothers.

Maisie got that. She understood the intention. No one needed to spell it out: Once again, just for her, the world was not a safe place.

It wasn't as though someone was trying to kill Maisie. It was worse than that. It was that she didn't matter. Maisie knew that her death was just incidental to the plan. She was expendable.

Yes, she was lucky: she wasn't hurt — not physically anyway. And yet, even though the blow missed her, it struck her anyway.

And in the midst of all that, she'd lashed out and hurt me. Me, one of the few people who puts up with her, who for some insane reason wants to be with her, to be her friend.

Maisie was vulnerable and afraid. Someone had tried to kidnap and kill her. She became a virtual prisoner in her father's house, and she had no one she could call. She knew she'd hurt me, she knew she'd given me enough reason to hate her forever. And she knew she might hurt me again if she wasn't careful.

It's like the old story of the scorpion and the frog, with Maisie as the scorpion. Striking out at people is part of her nature. Maybe someday she'll heal and change. Maybe. In a way, it doesn't matter, because I know that from now on, at least a part of me will always have an eye on her, ever vigilant. I've been stung already, and I won't be stung again.

She didn't tease me, not even a little. I think she finally realized what she stood to lose. I'm glad she didn't start, because I would have had to finally put my foot down. I had a little speech prepared for her, about how easily her teasing had turned mean, and how destructive it can be to a friendship.

I had a couple speeches ready, depending on which direction the conversation took, but thankfully I didn't get to use any of them. I didn't need to.

The fact that she'd wished me dead, and then I'd almost died... it was too much for her.

It was almost too much for me, too, but the thing is... I'm better equipped to handle the hurt than she is. I can't forget what she did — and I won't forget. I know that Maisie is capable of that, and much, much worse. If I shut her out of my life for good, I'd be perfectly justified.

But I won't. Not now, anyway.

And not because she needs me, and not because I should. And not because she's alone and I feel sorry for her, or because I'm such a good person. I do feel sorry for her, but that's not the reason.

It's because Maisie is my friend.

Mrs. Earshon had said that Maisie's heart is broken, and she was right. More than that, I think Maisie had her soul ripped out of her. I don't know if she'll ever get over the things that happen to her.

What I do know is that I'm not Maisie. I have a good life, and a good family, and I *can* get over it. For as long as I can be friends with Maisie, I *will* be friends with Maisie.
 

After we talked out my story, I listened to hers. She told me about her father. Even when I filtered out Maisie's exaggerations, he still sounded like a complete and very pompous jerk.

But, oddly — and this was SO not Maisie — she didn't linger on the subject. Usually, she loved to heap abuse on someone she despised. This time, she didn't.

Instead, she switched over to tell me about her father's new girlfriend, Chrissie, who seemed to spend a lot of time with Maisie. In spite of what Maisie said at the beginning of the call, this woman didn't sound half bad, and I said as much to Maisie.

"Yeah, I guess she's okay," Maisie admitted. "I shouldn't have said that stuff before, about her being all fake. She's not. At least, I think she's not. Aside from those gigantic breasts, she's okay. She actually listens to me when I talk. She's only the second — I mean, the third adult to do that."

"Who were the other two?"

"The first was a lawyer, but he got paid for it, so I don't know if that counts. The second was your mother... will you tell her I said hello? And the third is Chrissie. She's going to take me shopping for clothes later. When my father scooped me up, he didn't let me pack my bags, so I don't have anything to wear out here, except the stuff I brought to your house and my stupid school uniform."

"Wow, clothes shopping!" I laughed. "That'll be new for you!"

"Yeah," she admitted. "And Chrissie knows how to put things together in a way that I like."

"I'm glad," I told her.

"You're glad she knows how to put clothes together?"

"No," I said. "That's not what I meant, but it doesn't matter."

When she finally finished telling me about things she'd done with Chrissie, things Chrissie had said, things Chrissie had worn, we hung up. It had gone much better than I expected. I didn't have to be hard with Maisie, not this time anyway. And I was glad she had a friend out in California, or at least someone who seemed to be looking out for her.
 

I took a little bathroom break, and then I called the school. I expected to get a message machine that would give me another number to call, but instead Sister Honororia herself answered the phone. She told me that she was in her office "cleaning up" and that she was at my disposal, so after checking with Mom, I told her I'd be right over.

"Sister, do you mind if I don't wear my uniform?" I asked.

She gave a humorless bark. "Marcie, at this point, you could come in your bathrobe. Don't worry about the uniform."
 

Mom was silent on the drive over. While we were stopped at a traffic light, she turned and looked into my eyes. I don't know what she thought I was going to do when I saw the nun, but she didn't ask. She just smiled and said, "I hope you know how proud of you I am."

I fumbled for a tissue. She handed me one.
 

When we pulled up in front of the school, I said, "Mom, do you mind if I go in there alone?"

"No," she said, "If you're sure."

"I can call you when I'm done."

"I'd rather wait out here," she said. "I'll listen to the radio and think for a bit." She reached over and squeezed my hand.

I got out of the car and walked toward the school building. When I was halfway to the front door, Sister herself opened it, and ushered me in.

"I'm so glad you're alright," she said. "You are alright, aren't you?"

"Yes, sister," I replied, and we went into her office.

Another nun served us tea and cookies, and then left.

Sister Honororia spoke first. "Marcie, I can't tell you how mortified I am by my brother's behavior. I'd long suspected, and sometimes known, that he was... not always honest or faithful in his duties... but... he is my older brother, and in spite of the fact that he and I are adults... grown up... he was always... dominant. I should have known better and resisted. If I'd followed my instincts and spoken to him, dealt with him, long ago, perhaps even when he and I were children, none of what happened to you would have occurred."

"It isn't your fault, sister," I said.

She ignored my remark and went on. "I won't bore you with the history of my life with my brother, except to tell you that one of the reasons I became a nun was to escape his influence. That's not to say that I don't have a true vocation, but my brother was always a bully and a totalitarian.

"When he became a policeman, I hoped that his profession would channel and discipline his harmful and controlling tendencies. Instead, I think, he made it a playground for his vices.

"Selfishly, I hoped and expected that when I took my vows, I'd be sent far away, as a missionary nun. I wanted to go to Africa, to Gambia or Somalia. I thought I could help the poor. But that didn't happen. I didn't see how a willingness to take the worst job could have been denied, but it was. Apparently my skills, whatever they are, were more in demand right here in Flickerbridge.

"I should have realized, when I couldn't run away, when the one thing I wanted most was denied me... I should have looked for a reason. All these years I've resented the fact that I couldn't escape from my brother, but now I finally see–" her voice broke a little here, and she set down her teacup "–I see, with painful clarity, that God kept me here for a reason."

She took a few difficult breaths and calmed herself. Then she went on. "God kept me here because I, and no one else, should have stood in my brother's way. I should have drawn a line. I should have told him when he was wrong. There were times when I could — when I should have spoken to his superiors. I should have made it clear when he overstepped his bounds, and forced him to face the consequences."

She put her hands in her lap and looked at me. "However... I didn't do my job. I didn't do any of that. Not even once. Not even a little. I failed at the one thing, the only thing, that God has ever asked of me." Tears rolled down her face. "And so it fell on you. I'm sorry, Marcie. I'm sorry with all my heart."

"But sister," I protested, "it's really not your fault. You didn't do anything."

"No, Marcie. It is my fault. It's my fault for exactly that reason: I didn't do anything."

She looked at me in silence for a moment, then said, "And now, I can't help but think back to our first meeting. I asked you whether you were clever or good."

I smiled.

She continued, "And you said you might be both. How right you were. How right you were."

She sighed and dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief. "So! Are you coming back in January?"

"To school, you mean?"

"Yes, will you still be a BYHS student?"

"Oh," I said thoughtfully. I hadn't considered. When I first came here, I couldn't wait to leave, to go to public school, but now I felt... a part of the place. The thought of leaving never crossed my mind. "I'll be here, sister. I couldn't leave my friends."

"Yes, your friends. Susan... and Maisie, for whom you almost died. At my brother's hand..." The nun's face wrinkled up into a small, tight ball, and she began to cry. But only for a moment. "I'm sorry."

She took a quick breath and composed herself. Then she sipped some tea to steady herself before she spoke again.

"Well, Marcie, there is one more thing I want to tell you, and then I should let you go. It's a bit of news that I'm glad I'll be able to tell you myself. It's fitting that you should be the first student to hear. I'm leaving BYHS. In January, you'll have a new principal. I've already resigned from my post. After what's happened, in good conscience I couldn't possibly stay on."

"Oh, no!" I cried.

Her head jerked up at my sudden outburst, and slowly a half-smile appeared on her face.

"My, my," she said. "I certainly didn't expect that! Genuine dismay? Well, Marcie, that's a moment I'll treasure."

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

In the late Christmas afternoon I was in my room, sitting in a chair, hugging my knees and feeling glad to be clean and warm, when I heard two women talking outside. It sounded like friendly banter, but it never stopped or let up. I figured that the two were walking slowly, but they never seemed to move on. And they didn't quit jabbering for an instant. Finally, out of curiosity, I looked out the window.

---

 
44. Misty's Christmas Gift
 

The next day was Sunday, and the day after that was Christmas. It didn't snow. All we had for snow was the same old dirty snow that had been on the ground since my arrival. I didn't mind. I'd never seen snow on Christmas, so even if it was off-white, vanilla-and-chocolate, it was still the whitest Christmas I'd ever had.

We opened presents and had the big midday meal. Mom wouldn't let me help for some reason, but she wanted me to sit in the kitchen so she could see me. Not to be left out, Dad sat next to me at the kitchen table, and the two of us watched my mother bustle around. Occasionally she gave us little tastes of one thing and another. When all the dishes were happily cooking, the three of us set the dining room table.

I know the word nice is way overused. I use it too much, I'm sure, but that was how it was. The three of us, at home, fully and finally settled in our new house in our new town. We'd gotten through two major holidays here in Flickerbridge and so many changes. It was nice... yes, nice to take a breather.
 

In the late Christmas afternoon I was in my room, sitting in a chair, hugging my knees and feeling glad to be clean and warm, when I heard two women talking outside. It sounded like friendly banter, but it never stopped or let up. I figured that the two were walking slowly, but they never seemed to move on. And they didn't quit jabbering for an instant. Finally, out of curiosity, I looked out the window.

Mrs. Wix and Ms. Overmore were standing in front of my house. Together! There couldn't have been a less likely couple. The moment I recognized them, they looked up and saw my face in the window. My brow wrinkled in confusion at their apparent friendliness, and my mouth hung stupidly open. They both smiled and waved. I waved back, a bit confused, and ran downstairs when they started up the steps to my front door.

As I barreled down the stairs, I yelled to my mother, "Mom! Mzwixenovermore are here!"

My mother emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands and saying, "Marcie, slow down. Where's the fire? The way you pounded down the stairs, I almost thought you'd fallen and rolled all the way down. And gracious, I didn't understand a *word* of what you said. Oh! Is someone at the door?"

I opened it to find Ms. Overmore smiling quietly and Mrs. Wix positively beaming.

And they were so different... changed. It wasn't just that they were glad or happy, something was *gone*... something had left them. Something bad and heavy, and their faces looked soft, relaxed, and most of all, relieved.

Transfigured is too strong a word, but it was something like that, particularly for Mrs. Wix. I had never realized how hangdog she usually looked: so dowdy, so down, so... crushed, plain, and sad. Now she looked ten years younger, and her face was almost... beautiful. For the first time ever, she looked like Misty. I knew they were identical twins, but now Mrs. Wix finally looked the part.

After Christmas greetings were exchanged, and Mom asked "Won't you come in?" I took their coats, and the four of us sat around the dining-room table. I don't know where Dad was, and I don't know why we were sitting at the table. It seemed like a meeting. It felt like a meeting. I half expected Mrs. Wix to begin things by saying, "I guess you're wondering why I called you all here."

Instead, Mom offered tea.

Mrs. Wix glanced at Ms. Overmore, then replied, "That would be nice, but could we talk a little first?"

Then she pushed an elegantly wrapped package across the table to me. It was obviously a book, but the wrapping paper and ribbon were the most beautiful and elaborate I'd ever seen. The paper was gold-colored and heavy, and had a soft marbling in different shades of gold. It was lightly embossed with curved designs that felt like a smooth secret under my fingertips. The ribbon was a heavy, stiff material, and there was wire in the edges to make it keep its shape. The ribbon was nearly transparent, and the colors were dark burgundy edged with gold. As I carefully undid the wrapping, Mrs. Wix said, "It's from Misty."

"Misty?" I repeated cautiously, trying to not catch my mother's glance.

"Yes, my sister Misty," Mrs. Wix replied. She spoke with a bold self-assurance. "We know that she spoke to both of you, and she said she was with you when you were kidnapped. It's true, isn't it?"

The two women looked expectantly at Mom and me, so I nodded. They smiled knowingly, and Mrs. Wix gestured to my gift, urging me to open it more quickly.

I didn't want to spoil the wrapping, though! Making an effort not to rush, I lifted the taped edges as carefully as I could, to avoid tearing the paper. When I finally got it open, I said, "Wow! Cool!"

And it was cool. It was a beautiful leather-bound copy of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol.

"A little hokey," Mrs. Wix admitted, "but she thought it was appropriate. You know, Christmas miracles and all."

I opened the inside cover, and saw the inscription "To Marcie Donner, Thanks! From Misty Sabatino, Christmas 2006" written in large, awkward letters.

"It took her forever to write. She said you'd understand how much effort it took," Mrs. Wix said. "I thought she was going to bite her tongue off." She imitated the way Misty stuck her tongue from the corner of her mouth to help her concentrate, and she and Ms. Overmore giggled. "She inscribed one for Susan as well. The two of you have matching gifts, just so you know."

"Thanks so much," I said. "But where is Misty?"

"She moved on," both women said together, and they laughed again. I wouldn't have been surprised if they shouted "Jinx!" but they didn't.

"What happened," Ms. Overmore told me, "is that after the police came and you were safe, Misty realized that it was wrong of her to hang around. I don't mean there at the cabin, but here... among the living." She hesitated a moment. "She realized it was wrong of her to hope that you would be..." – she hesitated again – "another teenage ghost she could be friends with."

Ms. Overmore glanced at me and Mom to see what effect this had on us, but I'd already told Mom the whole story. "I know she wanted that," I offered. "She's been alone for thirteen years." The two women shifted uncomfortably.

Then Ms. Overmore picked up the story again: "When you told Misty that you might not be a ghost when you died, she knew that you were right, and she began to wonder why. From the time she died, she never met another ghost. Not even one. So many people that she knew and didn't know had passed on, and none of them became ghosts.

"And so she thought, something must be keeping me here, and immediately she knew what it was. There was a piece of unresolved business that Misty needed to fix. It wasn't Misty's problem, really, but... See, when Misty died, so many people — myself included — thought she'd committed suicide. The nuns, of course, with the help of the police, immediately tried to cover it up–"

I couldn't help but interrupt. "But why? Why did they do that?"

Ms. Overmore replied, "There's a lot of shame associated with... that sort of death, and for Catholics, it's a mortal sin. And, ah" — she glanced at Mrs. Wix for a moment, then said, "The Sabatino family had given a lot of money to the school, and I guess Sister Honoraria felt that she owed them. You see, if Misty was a suicide, she couldn't have a Christian burial."

Mrs. Wix's mouth twitched, but she looked down and didn't say anything. Ms. Overmore touched her friend's arm and said, "Sorry."

Mrs. Wix roused herself, lifted her head, and said, "It's okay. Go on."

"Misty didn't know any of that. I guess she was still in shock from having died and discovering she was now a ghost. And so, even if she'd known that she was here for a reason, she had no way of finding out what that reason was. Until Susan gave her that letter." Ms. Overmore cleared her throat. "In fact, I was wondering how in the world she found that letter. Misty didn't know. Can you tell me?"

"What letter?" Mom asked.

I told my mother and the two teachers about the yearbook, the librarian's lie, and Susan's research.

Ms. Overmore bit her lip as she listened. After I finished talking, she said, "I knew that Susan was bright, but that was an amazing piece of deduction, especially for someone her age."

"She's brilliant," Mrs. Wix commented.

"And she was exactly right," Ms. Overmore added. Then she picked up the story. "I was so angry at the lies, at the face that everyone put on it." She sighed loudly and paused for a moment. "I *did* write that letter. I worked very hard on it, and no one in thirteen years ever knew that it was me who wrote it. Yes, Susan was right about everything: I *did* blame Maisie – my Maisie" (she gestured to Mrs. Wix) "for Misty's death, for exactly the reasons that Susan said."

Mrs. Wix took up the story. "Misty went to Yvette's house – you know I mean Ms. Overmore – and talked to her."

Ms. Overmore said, "It was three days before she convinced me that I wasn't losing my mind and that I'd been wrong about her death." She smiled at me. "You should have seen me at school. I was a total wreck. In any case, once Misty managed to show me that she was real, she was finally able to tell me how she died. She had a sensitivity to the weight-loss pills. She died from side effects, not from an overdose."

"And then she came to me," Mrs. Wix said, picking up the story, "and got me to call Yvette. She had an idea from something that Susan had done, she said. Susan sent you some sort of message through Misty? Anyway, Misty figured that if I called Yvette and told her certain things, then she would know for sure that Misty had really talked to her." Tears came to her eyes, but she didn't cry. She said, "Yvette came to my house, and Misty sat down with us. The three of us talked the entire night. It was such a shock when the sun came up."

"Once the two of us talked, once that wall of resentment and blame and guilt came down," Ms. Overmore said, "Misty was able to move on."

"What was it like?" I asked.

"When she moved on?" Mrs. Wix asked. "Oh," she said, blinking back some tears. "It was like when someone says goodbye and leaves. She was there with us, talking. When we finished, she said goodbye and she was gone."
 

We were silent for a few moments, then Mrs. Wix smiled at me and said, "She asked me to tell you that she won't have to wear those stupid workout clothes any more."

"Oh, good," I replied, with a laugh. "But I'll miss her! She was a good friend. She was like an older sister to me."

"Well, we miss her too!" Mrs. Wix said with a sob, and soon the four of us were bawling our eyes out. Of course, Dad picked exactly that moment to walk back in, and the look of confusion on his face was priceless. We four women looked up at his helpless bewilderment, and soon we were laughing harder than we'd been crying the moment before.

© 2007 Kaleigh Way

Our two visitors started shifting anxiously in their seats. I couldn't imagine what was on their minds.

"Uh, one reason we came over—"

"...if you don't mind..."

---

 
45. The Low Profile Returns
 

Maybe Misty had warned Mrs. Wix and Ms. Overmore that my Dad didn't know about her, but in any case, as soon as they saw him, the two immediately switched gears.

Mrs. Wix told my father about Sister Honororia's leaving – which he already knew — and said it was because of her brother's role in my kidnapping. He already knew that, too, but it left him to infer that our crying had something to do with... well, with something, somewhere in that bundle of information. At least he could feel that we didn't need him to do anything.

Still, the next thing she said was a total surprise. She told us that Ms. Overmore was going to be the new principal! "She'll be the first principal who isn't a nun in the history of the school!" Mrs. Wix announced proudly.

Ms. Overmore, in her turn, as part of the new old-friends mutual-admiration society, said, "They did ask you first, though."

"And you said no?" I asked.

Mrs. Wix smiled. "I'm taking a sabbatical year. I need some time to look at my life. I've been so closed up and inside myself ever since Misty died — which means my whole adult life. You may not realize this, Marcie, but I'm still pretty young, and I've been hiding under a rock all these years. I've got to shake myself! I need to go places and do things."

"You need to get your groove back, girl!" Ms. Overmore joked.

"Well, good for you!" I said. (It seemed like the right thing to say.)

Mom said some encouraging things as well, and then our two visitors started shifting anxiously in their seats. I couldn't imagine what was on their minds.

"Uh, one reason we came over—"

"...if you don't mind..."

"We were hoping you'd let us see the house a little bit..."

"...if we're not intruding."

My mother was only too happy to oblige. She explained, much to my embarrassment, that Maisie — my Maisie — — had done a great deal of the work, and pointed out many specific examples.

The room they mainly wanted to see, it turned out, was my bedroom. They oohed and aahed, and loved everything. "It's so different from how it used to be!" Mrs. Wix exclaimed. "This used to be our room — Misty's and mine — and now one girl lives in it alone!"

"The three of us spent hours here – years," Ms. Overmore declared. "A lot of it camped on the floor of the dressing room."

They were both astonished at how small the dressing room was. They both declared that they "remembered it being much larger."

---

After the tour, we had a late cup of tea, and then our visitors took their leave.

"I'm so glad you knew Misty," Mrs. Wix told me, her eyes shining. "She was a lovely person, a wonderful sister, and a very good friend. Now, thanks to you and Susan she's moved on to a better place, and Yvette and I have patched up a good old friendship gone bad." She gave me an awkward, if enthusiastic, hug, followed by a kiss on both cheeks from Ms. Overmore.

The two went off, arm in arm, into the Christmas evening.

Mom put her arms around me, apparently oblivious to the cold outside air. She rested her chin on the top of my head and started talking, "Oh, Marcie. Life has been one crazy adventure after another ever since you became a girl. As frightening and stressful as it gets, though, I don't know whether I'd want it any other way. I mean, look at all the good you've done," and she gestured with her hand at the retreating figures of my high-school teachers. "Even though you were in awful danger, you kept your head and came through, and put a bad man behind bars, where he belongs."

I heaved a big sigh, and said, "Yeah, but this time really did it for me. I am SO through with any kind of action or adventures. From now on I'm going to live a quiet life, and REALLY keep a low profile for once."

Mom held me in silence for a moment, then I realized she was shaking. I turned my head and saw that she was stifling a laugh. When I frowned in distress, the laugh just burst out of her.

"Oh, Marcie! I'll believe that when I see it!"

I rolled my eyes. Mothers!

---

This is the end of What Maisie Knew

---

 

© 2007 by Kaleigh Way