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Authors: Jill Baguchinsky
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near Coach Frucile’s office shuddered and fell open, spilling bandages and antibacterial wipesand disposable cold packs onto the floor. I pressed my back against the end of one bank of lockers.
“You can’t hurt me!” I yelled as invisible winds whipped around me, pulling at me, dragging me toward the alcove.
Then the thing’s intensity pulled back a little, just enough for me to notice Coach Frucile watching me from the doorway.
“Um,” I said, breathing hard.
“Forget your inhaler again?”
“Kind of.”
“Get back in here. Your team’s up. If I catch you leaving my class again, it’ll be a week of detention. Got it?”
“Got it,” I muttered. To tell the truth, I was so glad to get away from the thing that I almost welcomed the idea of volleyball—until I took my first ball to the forehead, anyway. I wondered how much of my encounter Coach Frucile had witnessed. Had she heard me yelling? Had she seen the lockers opening and shutting on their own? Had she wondered why the first aid kit’s contents were all over the floor? If she had, she gave no sign.
I managed to find my phone when I reluctantly returned to the locker room to change after class. Despite having been tossed around, it worked just fine once I got it out of the locker room. None of the photos or recordings I’d gotten were on the memory card, though.
After that, I started going to school in my gymclothes, with my regular clothes crammed into my messenger bag. When first period ended, I changed in the bathroom. Anything to avoid the locker room. I felt unsafe in there.
Drawing was better, since I had Tim to talk to. But Head Jock (technically Jake Bartle, though I preferred my own nickname for him) and his minions were still upset about the Dirk thing, so they looked for any excuse to give me a hard time.
They had even started calling me “Spookygirl.” I suppose it could have been worse—Spookygirl sounded kind of cool, like a superhero name. And at least it kept the jocks from picking on Tim, which had apparently been the status quo before my arrival. I even encouraged the attention, reporting on Dirk’s activities whenever he was spooking around.
“He’s laughing at your drawing,” I told Head Jock when Dirk leaned over his drawing bench and guffawed at Head Jock’s lopsided attempt at a still life in charcoal.
Dirk gave me a misty blue glare. “Freakin’ quit it, will you?”
“Yeah, right,” said Head Jock, but he glanced nervously over his shoulder anyway. “If you really can see dead people, tell me what my grandpa’s first name was.”
It was one of the dumbest ghost-related demands I’d ever heard. I wasn’t psychic—unless Head Jock’s deadgrandfather was following him around and happened to introduce himself, there was no way I could know his name. Still, I figured Head Jock was trying to mess with me, so I took a guess and went with the obvious. “Your grandpa’s not dead.”
Head Jock’s left eye twitched amusingly. “How’d you know?”
I rolled my eyes. “Dirk told me.”
“Spookygirl,” Head Jock muttered, returning to his still life. On the paper in front of him, a pitcher drooped hopelessly next to an apple that looked more like a horribly damaged internal organ. A kidney, maybe.
“Hey.” Dead Dirk vanished from next to Head Jock’s bench and reappeared next to me. The temperature around us dropped a few degrees. It wasn’t really noticeable unless you knew a ghost was nearby—nothing like what happened when Buster was around. “How come you keep doing that?”
Crap. I hated moments like this, when ghosts wanted to chitchat in public. I’d more than learned my lesson in the hall with Henry on the first day of school.
“Not a good time,” I muttered, trying not to move my mouth.
“Did you say something?” Tim muttered back.
I shook my head.
Dirk didn’t give up. “I’m serious. Why do you keep telling my friends I’m still here?”
“Uh, because you
are
,” I
“You can’t hurt me!” I yelled as invisible winds whipped around me, pulling at me, dragging me toward the alcove.
Then the thing’s intensity pulled back a little, just enough for me to notice Coach Frucile watching me from the doorway.
“Um,” I said, breathing hard.
“Forget your inhaler again?”
“Kind of.”
“Get back in here. Your team’s up. If I catch you leaving my class again, it’ll be a week of detention. Got it?”
“Got it,” I muttered. To tell the truth, I was so glad to get away from the thing that I almost welcomed the idea of volleyball—until I took my first ball to the forehead, anyway. I wondered how much of my encounter Coach Frucile had witnessed. Had she heard me yelling? Had she seen the lockers opening and shutting on their own? Had she wondered why the first aid kit’s contents were all over the floor? If she had, she gave no sign.
I managed to find my phone when I reluctantly returned to the locker room to change after class. Despite having been tossed around, it worked just fine once I got it out of the locker room. None of the photos or recordings I’d gotten were on the memory card, though.
After that, I started going to school in my gymclothes, with my regular clothes crammed into my messenger bag. When first period ended, I changed in the bathroom. Anything to avoid the locker room. I felt unsafe in there.
Drawing was better, since I had Tim to talk to. But Head Jock (technically Jake Bartle, though I preferred my own nickname for him) and his minions were still upset about the Dirk thing, so they looked for any excuse to give me a hard time.
They had even started calling me “Spookygirl.” I suppose it could have been worse—Spookygirl sounded kind of cool, like a superhero name. And at least it kept the jocks from picking on Tim, which had apparently been the status quo before my arrival. I even encouraged the attention, reporting on Dirk’s activities whenever he was spooking around.
“He’s laughing at your drawing,” I told Head Jock when Dirk leaned over his drawing bench and guffawed at Head Jock’s lopsided attempt at a still life in charcoal.
Dirk gave me a misty blue glare. “Freakin’ quit it, will you?”
“Yeah, right,” said Head Jock, but he glanced nervously over his shoulder anyway. “If you really can see dead people, tell me what my grandpa’s first name was.”
It was one of the dumbest ghost-related demands I’d ever heard. I wasn’t psychic—unless Head Jock’s deadgrandfather was following him around and happened to introduce himself, there was no way I could know his name. Still, I figured Head Jock was trying to mess with me, so I took a guess and went with the obvious. “Your grandpa’s not dead.”
Head Jock’s left eye twitched amusingly. “How’d you know?”
I rolled my eyes. “Dirk told me.”
“Spookygirl,” Head Jock muttered, returning to his still life. On the paper in front of him, a pitcher drooped hopelessly next to an apple that looked more like a horribly damaged internal organ. A kidney, maybe.
“Hey.” Dead Dirk vanished from next to Head Jock’s bench and reappeared next to me. The temperature around us dropped a few degrees. It wasn’t really noticeable unless you knew a ghost was nearby—nothing like what happened when Buster was around. “How come you keep doing that?”
Crap. I hated moments like this, when ghosts wanted to chitchat in public. I’d more than learned my lesson in the hall with Henry on the first day of school.
“Not a good time,” I muttered, trying not to move my mouth.
“Did you say something?” Tim muttered back.
I shook my head.
Dirk didn’t give up. “I’m serious. Why do you keep telling my friends I’m still here?”
“Uh, because you
are
,” I
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