Read Online Haunted by Lynn Carthage - Free Book Online

started to worry about trig, because sometimes we had a pop quiz right when we walked in. But Mr. Pelkey didn’t seem to be in a hurry; apparently he had this next period free.
    â€œDo you feel lonely like your character?” he asked. Behind his glasses, his ginger-colored eyebrows were raised in concern. A whole network of lines appeared on his forehead from this expression.
    â€œNot really,” I said. “She’s just someone I made up.”
    I was sitting on one of those folding metal chairs he used for conferences at his desk, and it squeaked as I leaned back, away from his intensity. He was fiddling with a red pen, tapping one end of it against the top sheet of a tower of papers. He was a nice guy, one of the younger teachers who still thought their work was noble. There was chalk dust in his hair.
    â€œShe finds it hard to talk to people. Do you?” he asked.
    Finally, something I could laugh at. “No! Most of the time I open my mouth and stuff comes out. Too much stuff. That’s what my mom would say.”
    He smiled, but he didn’t look convinced. “Anyone would look at you and think there couldn’t possibly be anything wrong in your life. But even the most outwardly happy people can struggle with their emotions,” he said.
    I nodded. Nothing to argue with there.
    He shifted in his chair, and I became aware of the loud ticking from the clock above the board. He let silence settle around us.
    I was just about to say, Look, I wrote a story about a character. It was fiction. I’m not about to kill myself! but then something funny happened. My throat got clogged with tears. “I’m not sad,” I managed to say.
    â€œPhoebe, it’s okay to be sad. These years can be the hardest years of anyone’s life. There’s so much going on, and you’re trying to figure out how to be an adult in a world that’s increasingly confusing.”
    That made me cry harder. I was so embarrassed, but his face showed nothing but concern and kindness. I wiped my eyes with my fingertips and tried to get control. But more tears seeped out.
    â€œIt’s just . . . my family’s changed. I have a little sister now,” I managed to say.
    â€œAnd there’s not much energy or time left over for you,” he said.
    â€œI feel so stupid,” I said, blowing my nose into the Kleenex he handed me. “Who’s jealous of a baby?”
    â€œIt’s perfectly natural to miss the relationship you once had with your parents.”
    He seemed like he wanted to listen, so I told him how it used to be when I’d get home from swim practice. Mom would come to meet me at the door and give a huge hug. We’d talk about our respective days while she’d walk me over to the fridge and pour me a big glass of Arrowhead water. I never had the heart to tell her I was already well hydrated and carried my own bottle . . . but it didn’t matter, the water Mom poured tasted better anyway.
    The way she looked at me just made me feel like she was intensely interested, that whatever I had to tell her was the most fascinating thing she’d heard all day. Her love for me radiated from her eyes.
    But now that Tabby was born, sometimes she didn’t even acknowledge my coming home. I’d walk through our house to find her. Sometimes she’d greet me with an eye roll, depending on how hard her day had been—not aimed at me, more sort of at Tabby, but it still hurt. Other times, she was laughing her head off at something cute Tabby had done; it felt like an inside joke that they shared, even when she described what it was.
    Steven was the same way. He’d arrive home and instantly take Tabby off Mom’s hands so she could relax and start dinner, so any kind of real discussion I tried to have with him was overrun by her. We’d try to talk over Tabby’s head, but Tabby always interrupted.
    â€œI really love her,” I told Mr.