“She didn’t really steal him,” Jen says, chewing on her lip. “She . . . I mean, she . . .” She sighs, then shakes her head and starts over. “She didn’t really take him. We had broken up.” She looks down at her hands. “It was kind of a gray area, I guess.”
“Not really,” Daniella whispers, even though she told me before that it was a gray area. “I knew she still liked him.”
“Well, she felt really bad,” I say.
“Why did she tell you about it?” Jen asks. She’s looking at me, her green eyes serious.
“Why did she tell me about it?” Good question.
“Yeah. I mean, no offense, but you’re in middle school. I doubt you would have a ton of advice for her about boys.”
At first I’m kind of insulted, because hello, I have a kind of, sort of boyfriend. I wonder if I should tell her this. But then I realize she’s obviously right, and that I’d be totally out of my element when it comes to this stuff. Not to mention that my kind of, sort of boyfriend’s mom keeps showing up and, like, haunting me, and I’m so nervous he’s going to think I’m a crazy person that I can never relax. I’m definitely not really on the right track when it comes to dating.
I look at Daniella for help, but she just shrugs her shoulders. Great.
“I don’t know why she told me,” I say. “Um, maybe she figured it was safe? She knew that I didn’t know anyone she knew, so it wasn’t like I could tell anyone, you know?”
“Yeah,” Jen says. For a second I think she’s going to believe me. She looks down at the floor, thinking. But then she looks back up and says, “How did you know Daniella?”
“How did I know her?”
“Yeah, like how did you guys meet?”
“Umm . . .” I try to remember if I ever told her how I knew Daniella, but then I realize that of course I didn’t, since up until a few minutes ago, I was still pretending Daniella and I were strangers. “Our families were really close,” I decide.
“Funny,” Jen says. “We were best friends for a long time, and she never mentioned you. And I don’t remember seeing you at the funeral.”
Uh-oh. “I didn’t go to the funeral,” I say. “My, uh, parents thought I was too young to see something so traumatic.” Totally plausible!
“Right.” She picks her bag up and hefts it over her shoulder. “Look, whatever happened between me and Daniella, it . . . it doesn’t matter anymore. And honestly, it’s really upsetting to talk about it. So I’d appreciate it if you just left me alone.” She starts walking toward the door. She’s leaving!
“Wait!” I yell desperately. “Daniella was always talking to me about some kind of digging. Do you know anything about that?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she yells over her shoulder. “But I’m going to tell my mom about you. And if you show up here again, I’m going to call the police.” And then she walks out.
“Why am I still here?” Daniella demands, looking down at herself. “You told her I was sorry, so WHY. AM. I. STILL. HERE?”
I sigh. “Either she didn’t believe me,” I say, sitting down on the bench and putting my head in my hands, “or there’s a lot more to the story.”
Chapter
11
Well. I guess that didn’t go very well. I mean, anytime someone threatens to call law enforcement on you, it’s definitely not good. Not to mention that I thought I had the mystery all figured out, only to find out I have more work to do. I’m so upset that when I get home, I take a shower and then spend two hours putting my hair into a million little braids. It takes forever, but with my hands occupied, my mind has a chance to calm down.
“Let’s eat out tonight,” I say to my dad at dinnertime. “I feel like getting out of the house.” The weather has been getting a little colder lately, and before we know it, it’s going to be winter, and then I’ll never get out of here. My dad, even though he’s this big, burly guy, likes to hibernate in the winter, spending most of his time reading books in front of the fireplace or playing games on his iPad. He hates the snow.
“Sounds good,” he says.
So we go to the Château, my fave Italian restaurant, which has the yummiest chicken Alfredo. We order cheesy garlic bread and talk about my dad’s work and how I’m doing better in math, and it’s actually a really nice time, just what I need to distract myself from all the ghost and boy drama that’s been going on.
We even get tiramisu for dessert, but then, just as I’m thinking of ordering another Shirley Temple, a voice rings out over the dining room.
“Bob! And Kennnddalll! What a surprise!” I turn around to see Cindy Pollack barreling toward us. And okay, she’s not really barreling, because hello, she’s tiny. But anytime I see Cindy, it really does look like she’s barreling, because I don’t want her anywhere near me.
“Hi, Cindy,” my dad says. He shoots me a look over the table. A look that says to be nice.
“Hi, Cindy,” I say politely. I wonder if she’s now switched over to full-blown stalker mode. I mean, there’s no way she could have known we were here, since it was a totally last-minute thing. But maybe she was waiting outside our house, just sitting there in her car, waiting to follow us if we went somewhere. Things like that really do happen. Ellie’s dad is a psychiatrist, and one time one of his patients totally started stalking him and would even go through his trash when they put it out on the curb. My dad should really stop leading Cindy on. She’s so obviously in love with him. “We were just finishing up,” I say pointedly, but she doesn’t get the hint.
“Oooh, tiramisu,” she says. “I love tiramisu.”
“Me too,” I say. “I always eat the whole piece. By myself.”
“Would you like to join us?” my dad asks.
“I don’t want to intrude,” Cindy says as she sits down. Which is ridiculous, because if she didn’t want to intrude, she could have just left. Which means that she did want to intrude and was just saying that she didn’t.
She reaches over and grabs a fork off the table (why didn’t the waitress clear those extra place settings when we sat down? Her tip is so going down) and then takes a bite of our dessert.
“Yum,” Cindy says. I sigh. “So, Kendall,” she continues, “how was your date the other night?”
“It was good,” I say, thawing a little bit because it was nice of her to remember. And also because it was her idea to let me go, and if she’d said no, who knows what my dad would have said?
“So who is this boy?”
“His name’s Brandon,” I say, my face getting all red.
“Is it serious?”
On the other side of the booth, my dad shifts and looks uncomfortable. “It’s not serious,” he says. “They’re only in seventh grade.”
What’s that supposed to mean? That just because I’m young, I can’t be in love? I mean, I’m not in love with Brandon, but still. I don’t want to think that the thing with Brandon doesn’t mean anything.
“Things are going great,” I say. It’s a halfway lie, of course. Things are going sort of great. Besides the fact that his mom keeps showing up. And that I spotted that green paper in his backpack. And that even though Ellie and Kyle are boyfriend-girlfriend, Brandon and I are nowhere near being official.
“They are?” My dad seems surprised.
“Yeah,” I say, taking some more tiramisu. “Why do you seem surprised?” Aren’t your parents supposed to think that every boy should be in love with you? My dad should be thinking I’m so fabulous that of course Brandon would fall in love with me, not questioning the validity of my relationship. Although, obviously it’s not really a relationship. It’s just . . . I don’t know what it is.
“I’m not surprised,” he says. “Any boy would be lucky to have you.” That’s more like it.
“Well, I think it’s wonderful,” Cindy says. She reaches over and forks up the last piece of tiramisu. “Is he cute?”
“He’s very cute,” I say. “He has floppy hair and a perfect smile. Do
you remember him from the mall?”
“Sort of,” she says.
My dad shifts in the booth again. “Well,” he says, “I think it’s time I met this Brandon.”
“What?” I almost shriek. Is he crazy? I can’t have my dad meeting Brandon. Talk about a disaster waiting to happen. “No! And besides, you already met him, remember?”
“When?” My dad shifts in his seat and looks suspicious, like I’m trying to get one over on him by making him think he met Brandon when he didn’t.
“At the mall that day.” I decide it’s time to change the subject. “Cindy, I really like your sweater. Where did you get it?”
“I made it myself,” she says. “In the beading class I’m taking.”
“Really?” Wow. That’s actually pretty impressive. It’s this cool V-neck black sweater with rainbow glitter beads that sparkle in the light.
“Kendall, I’m serious,” my dad says, obviously not ready to let it go. “If you’re going to be spending time with this boy, I think it’s time I met him.” He puffs out his chest, like he needs to protect me or something. I want to tell him this isn’t the Middle Ages, but something tells me that won’t go over so well.
“I’m not going to be spending time with him,” I say. “I mean, I am, but I’m not . . . It’s not . . . You don’t have to meet him.”
“I’m sure Kendall’s smart enough to know if you’d approve of the boy she’s dating,” Cindy says, I guess in an effort to save me. I throw her a grateful smile.
“I’m sure she is too,” my dad says. “Which is why she shouldn’t have a problem inviting him over for dinner.”
“For dinner?”
“Yes. This weekend. And until then, I don’t think you should be hanging out with him.”
“What?” Cindy and I say at the same time.
“Bob,” Cindy says, her voice gentle, “don’t you think that’s a little harsh?”
“No,” my dad says. And that’s that. My dad might ask Cindy for advice, but once he’s made up his mind about something, there’s nothing you can do to change it.
• • •
“How am I going to get Brandon to come over to my house for dinner?” I whine to Ellie later that night. I’m at her house, helping her organize her wardrobe. Ellie’s not a morning person, and lately she’s been almost missing the bus every single day because she’s obsessing over what to wear. So we’re going to coordinate her outfits for the week, including applicable shoes and accessories, and lay them out ahead of time.
“Just ask him,” Ellie says, and shrugs. Easy for her to say. She has a boyfriend.
“I can’t just ask him! He’ll think I’m, like, obsessed with him or something.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Nooo!” I think about it. “Well, okay, maybe a little. But I don’t want him to know that.”
Ellie picks up a yellow dress that’s lying in a ball on her bedroom floor. “What do you think of this dress?” She holds it up in front of her and poses in front of the silver full-length mirror that’s hanging on the back of her door.
“It’s cute,” I say, “but it’s a summer dress.”
“But,” she says, “if I put some black tights under it and pair it with a cute sweater, it would be fab.”
“Totally,” I say. “But it needs to be washed.”
Ellie nods and then throws it into the needs-to-be-washed pile that’s rapidly growing on her floor. “When was the last time you did laundry?” I ask her. Ellie looks at me blankly, like the thought of doing laundry is crazy. “You do do laundry, don’t you?”
“Of course!”
“Ellie?”
“Well . . . I mean, my mom does it.”
“When was the last time your mom decided to do laundry? Because most of your stuff is dirty. No wonder you have a hard time picking out what to wear in the morning.”
“Well, she’ll do it whenever I need it, but . . . I just . . . sometimes I forget to bring it down to the laundry room.” She holds up a beaded blue shirt that hits just above her knees.
“So cute with white leggings,” I tell her. She tosses it into the pile of needs-to-be-washed. I throw myself down onto her bed and look up at the ceiling. “Oooh,” I moan. “What am I going to do?”
“Call him,” Ellie says. Her words are muffled because she’s in her closet now, poking around. When she emerges, she has a huge pile of clothes in her arms that’s threatening to spill over and fall onto the floor.
“And say what?”
“Invite him over,” she says. And then she drops the clothes. “Actually, invite us all over!”
“What do you mean?”
“Me, Kyle, you, and Brandon,” she says. “That way it’ll seem more like a party. And your dad won’t have a chance to grill him too hard with everyone there.”
“That’s a great idea!” I say, sitting up. “Ellie, you’re a total genius!” I step around all the piles of clothes that are on her floor and start picking through them. “And now you need to let me borrow something to wear.”
• • •
It’s actually relatively easy to convince my dad that he should let me have three people over instead of just one. My dad loves Ellie.
Daniella, however, is not happy. Not one little bit.
“You can’t just have them over tonight!” she yells at me on Saturday. We’re walking through the cemetery because she insisted that we talk, and I couldn’t have a whole conversation with her with my dad around.
“Yes, I can,” I tell her. “Why wouldn’t I be able to have them over? They’re my friends. And besides, my dad is starting to freak out about the whole Brandon thing, and I have to make him feel better.” It’s a little chilly out, and I walk faster, hoping it will warm me up. I really should be at home, getting ready for my big night. But no.
“But what about meeeee?” Daniella whines, and then starts walking on her hands. God, what a show-off.
“Well, you can come too, of course,” I say. Although I’m just saying it to be nice. I know I said I would miss her when she’s gone, and I will, but I don’t really want her at dinner. Who knows what kind of trouble she’ll cause?
“I don’t want to come!” she says. “I’m on the verge of some kind of breakthrough. And I think that, as my ghost protector, you should be helping me to get through it, not planning dates.”
“What kind of breakthrough?” I ask.
“I’m not sure.” She bites her lip and tosses her long blond hair over her shoulder. “But I know it’s coming. I’m remembering something about that digging.” She frowns, her pretty face crumpling up in concentration.
“So I’m supposed to cancel my date with the most perfect boy to ever live because you might remember something about digging? Yeah, I don’t think so.” I’m at my favorite bench now, and so I plop down onto it and raise my face toward the sky. The sun is peeking out now, even though it’s chilly. It’s the first sunny day in a long time, and I feel my spirits start to pick up.
Tonight is going to be great, I tell myself. I mean, how could it not be? Brandon immediately accepted my invite to hang out when I asked him over, he’s been really friendly and flirty with me lately, I haven’t said anything weird or crazy to him, his mom hasn’t been around at all, and—
Wait. Is that . . . Oh, God. It is! It’s Brandon’s mom. She’s lurking by some headstones! I’ve totally jinxed it by thinking about how she hasn’t been around lately! Why is she showing up at the graveyard? It’s like she wants to know where she ended up. Which is really silly, when you think about it, because she knows where she ended up. At the cemetery, which is where everyone ends up. Although, I guess some people get cremated. I don’t know if I’ve ever met a ghost that was cremated. I never really ask them. But maybe I should start. Because what if getting cremated means that you can’t come back? Not that I want to come back, but if I ever had unfinished business, then—
Oh, God. Mrs. Dunham spots me and then starts stomping over toward the bench
I’m sitting on.
“Who’s that?” Daniella asks.
“That’s Mrs. Dunham,” I say warily.
“Brandon’s mom?”
“Yes,” I say. “She’s a ghost.”
“She’s a ghost? Like me?” Daniella starts getting excited. But something tells me Mrs. Dunham isn’t going to be all that excited to talk to Daniella.
“The green paper,” Mrs. Dunham says. She shakes her finger at me and then gets really close. “You need to put your name on THAT. GREEN. PAPER.” Her eyes feel like they’re boring into mine, and even though they’re normally blue, today they look gray and not friendly at all. “I mean it, Kendall,” she says.
“Wow, lady,” Daniella says, “you need to back off.” I guess it’s easy not to be scared of a ghost when you are one yourself. For the first time, I’m glad Daniella’s here. Maybe if Mrs. Dunham starts with me, Daniella will protect me. I mean, she’s pretty muscular.
But Mrs. Dunham doesn’t seem intimidated. She keeps glaring at me.
“Ewww,” Daniella says. “What’s her problem?”
“That’s the thing,” I say, and sigh. “I have no idea. Come on,” I say to Daniella. I turn and start walking back toward my house. I wait until I’m almost home before I turn around to check for Mrs. Dunham. But she’s gone.
• • •
When I get inside, my dad’s in the kitchen, flipping through a cookbook. And then he announces that he’s making pot roast for the dinner with my friends tonight.
“We can’t have pot roast!” I say. I go over to the cookbook and flip the pages, looking for something a little more fun. Why is my dad using a cookbook, anyway? Everyone knows you can get way better recipes on the internet. How old school.
“Why can’t we have pot roast?” He’s over by the stove now, and he pulls this big roast out of the oven, bastes it, and then slides it back in. Then he starts lining up cans of vegetables on the counter.
“Because you can’t . . .” I wonder how I’m going to explain this to him, and then realize that it’s probably pointless. “Dad, we need to, like, order pizza or have tacos or something.”