12
I wore Bennett’s sister’s coat again the next morning. The snow hadn’t melted, but the wind had blown it from the trees, and the roads had all been plowed. As we trudged to school, I was less thrilled by the winter wonderland and more wondering how I was going to survive a whole New England winter.
Latin was miserable. Harry was completely hungover, and bragging about spending the snow day “Ad fundum3-ing” through endless shots of Stoli.
Coby would not be happy with him. Or with me.
So I sidled up during open conversation and said, “Harry, can we talk?”
He took a deep gulp from a thermos he’d claimed held chicken soup and said, “Abi sis, belua.”4
Vodka fumes rose from the thermos. “Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
“Quando podeces te regina eorum fecerunt?”5
Took me a moment to work that one out. And I was repulsed, once I had. “Harry, stop. We need to talk. Coby’s worried—I mean, would be worried about you. You can’t go on like this.”
“Shall I say it in English, Emma? You are a human cancer. You are a scab and an abomination, and you ruined the best thing in my life.”
There was no polite way to answer that, so I slunk back to my desk. Well, at least I’d talked to him.
Later that morning, I vowed to keep my distance from Sara in Fencing, but then I found her crying alone in the locker room.
Maybe I should’ve walked away, but I sat beside her instead. “Sara, what happened?”
She turned toward me, her face wet with tears. “Don’t you dare be nice to me.”
“I’m not being nice. I’m only asking what’s wrong.”
“What’s wrong? Coby’s dead, and Harry’s drinking, and it’s all your fault.”
“So let me help you. It’s what Coby would want. What are we going to do about Harry?” I asked.
“There is no we, Emma. There’s only you.” Her hands balled into fists. “And he’d still be alive if not for you.”
Natalie stepped beside me. “It’s not her fault, Sara. She couldn’t save Coby—none of us could. But we can help Harry, if you let us.”
“Oh God!” Sara screamed. “Don’t even pretend you care.” She grabbed her bag and stormed out of the locker room.
“That went well,” I said.
“Very,” Natalie agreed.
After Sara left, we dressed in our whites and entered the gym. We ran through the warm-ups and watched Coach critique some other girls, then Kylee pummeled me for a while.
When we took a break, I sat at the bottom of the bleachers and looked at the ghost jocks. I hadn’t seen them since the mausoleum, and I hated to admit it, but I needed to thank them. They’d done their best to protect us.
I guess it’s time I learned your names, I said, if you’re going to fight wraiths with us, and all. Okay, so that wasn’t exactly a thank-you, but it was a start.
I’m Neil, said the darker-haired one. And this is Lick.
Neil and Lick? I said.
Our balls!!! they both yelled, and burst out laughing.
Grrrrr. I swished my foil in the air. Forget it! I just wanted to thank you, that’s all.
Ah, sorry, man, the light-haired one said. That’s cool.
Yeah, his friend said. You’re a bangin’ ghostkeeper.
Bangin’? I guess that meant they’d died in the eighties.
Whenever you and the hot chick need backup, the light-haired one said, nodding toward Natalie, just call and we’ll be there.
Thanks! So maybe now we can be friends? I said hopefully. Because friends don’t heckle friends from the bleachers.
That’s not gonna happen, the dark-haired one said.
No, the other agreed.
Well, at least tell me your real names, I said.
Sure, the dark one said. I’m Craven.
Moorehead, said the other.
Ick. Never mind!
I’d never understand why boys were so gross.
The next few days weren’t much better; then it was Thanksgiving.
My first Thanksgiving without my family.
Maybe that’s why I finally acted on my plan to contact them. During Simon’s lessons, he’d mentioned that ghostkeeping powers were changing. Or, at least, reemerging. Summoners weren’t only able to make ghosts appear, but also disappear. Readers were learning to “write” their impressions and memories onto objects. Simon was beginning to think that dispellers could heal ghosts, too, and that compellers could free them.
So I’d been wondering what was possible for someone who could use all the ghostkeeping powers. I needed to find out. If Max was right about the siren, if he was right about finding Neos’s grave and some “final rite” to unleash the full power of the amulet, I needed to hear what else he and my parents knew.
Thanksgiving morning, I locked my bedroom door and grabbed the red cashmere hoodie of my mother’s. I could still smell her perfume in the knit, but faintly—more faintly every day. I sat on the bed and focused my “reading” attention on the sweater, trying to tap into her memories.
I found one at last, of her standing in the kitchen in the San Francisco apartment, wearing this sweater, while watching my father chop carrots for soup. I smiled at the sight of them, suddenly homesick and distracted from my plan—then I shook myself and concentrated.
I scrolled the image forward, like a movie advancing one frame at a time, as my mother crossed the kitchen toward him. She grabbed a bell pepper and he turned and touched her arm.
There. A handprint on the left sleeve. I placed my hand on that spot, and found a pinprick of my father’s residual power. I focused on his power, magnifying it in my mind, then I opened myself to the Beyond.
When I summoned a ghost, I let the power flow in waves around me until I felt an actual presence. This time, instead of trying to draw something from the Beyond, I pushed something into it.
I sent a little pulse of power into the mist, a guided Dad-seeking missile with a tiny message inside: I need you. Please come.
Then I pulled my power back into myself, having no idea if it would work. But I felt better for trying.
Downstairs, I found Anatole in the kitchen making apple pie while Celeste wiped down china that had probably been in storage. The day was gray, as usual, yet the kitchen was cozy and inviting, and the scent of a huge savory meal filled the air.
You made turkey? I beamed. Real turkey, not tofurkey?
Mais oui, said Anatole. And ze dressing and my creamed onionz.
I adore stuffing. Which was more than I could say about creamed onions. Can I help you make the pie?
Non! This iz not proper.
But I wheedled for ten minutes, until he grudgingly allowed me a crack at the crust. Under his tyrannical gaze, I gently rolled the dough flat and laid it in the enormous glass pie dish, then trimmed the sides. I felt like a kid again, molding Play-Doh.
I was crimping the edges when Natalie came in. “Oooh, pie! Let’s make little leaves for the top, too.”
Anatole eyed us warily. Don’t let her overwork ze dough. It will become flat and lifeless.
I passed this info on to Natalie, and she burbled something French that made Anatole’s mustache waggle.
What’d she say? I asked Celeste.
Celeste blushed—at least, as much as a ghost could blush. Nothing that ze proper young lady need hear.
We carefully rolled the scraps of dough and used sharp knives to cut leaves. After carving a few amoebas, we got the hang of it. We dumped the apples Anatole had prepared into the crust and laid the leaves on top.
Natalie clapped when we finished. “It’s like Martha Stewart made it.”
“Except her leaves would be botanically correct,” I said.
Then we helped Celeste set the table. There were like eighteen pieces to each place setting: goblets and water glasses; aperitif, salad, and dinner plates; and soup bowls.
“Wait, why are there five settings?” I asked when we finished. “Me, Natalie, Lukas, Simon. Four.”
Master Bennett, Celeste said.
My heart did a loop-the-loop. “Oh, is he coming?” I asked coolly, setting down some silverware.
“Is who coming?” Natalie asked. “And that’s a soup spoon.”
I looked at the spoon in my hand. “So?”
“So you just put one where the wineglass goes.”
I ignored her and asked Celeste, What makes you think he’ll be here?
She gave her Gallic shrug. He’s always home for Thanksgiving.
“Have you heard from him?” I asked Natalie, carefully not dancing around the room.
“Who?”
“You know who!”
“Bennett?” She shook her head. “No, not in a while.”
That didn’t mean he wasn’t coming. Setting the table was suddenly my favorite thing to do. The glasses, the silver, the plates. I loved every one of them. I loved the chairs, the tablecloth, the salt and pepper shakers. The napkins were perfect.
“You’re humming,” Natalie said.
“I am not!”
Her eyes twinkled with mischief, but before she could torment me further, Lukas and Simon burst into the dining room, their arms and coat pockets filled with large red and green apples.
Simon struck a pose and intoned, “ ‘Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree.’ Martin Luther. He had a point.”
“Where did those come from?” Natalie asked.
Lukas grinned. “Thatcher.”
“Simon, you stole apples from Thatcher?” I said. “What kind of role model are you?”
He gave a wicked grin. “An absentminded one.”
“Well, you’re too late for a pie,” Natalie said. “We already made one.”
“Hmm.” Lukas glanced at Simon. “We hadn’t thought what we’d do with them all.”
Miss, Celeste said. If I may suggest … a centerpiece? She reached into the sideboard for a silver bowl with scalloped edges and a fluted stand.
“Voilà,” I said, and helped them arrange the apples in the bowl. “Now that’s Martha Stewart.”
We sat down to dinner an hour later. I’d wanted to wait, because Bennett hadn’t arrived yet, but Anatole claimed if we waited, the mashed potatoes “will be like ze gluey paste.” So I was overruled.
I sat beside Lukas, with Simon and Natalie across from us, and the place at the head of the table vacant. I didn’t mind if he was late. Just as long as he showed.
In an effort to duplicate my usual holiday, I insisted it was family tradition to go around the table and give thanks for something we were grateful for.
“I’ll start,” Natalie said, entering into the spirit. “I’m grateful to the Knell. I kind of hate them sometimes, but if they hadn’t helped me, I’d be married to some old coot by now and pregnant with my second child.”
“Whoa,” Lukas said, looking shocked.
Natalie flushed and fiddled with her fork, oddly embarrassed by his surprise.
He looked desperate for a moment, then said, “Is it weird that I’m sort of jealous of an old coot?”
She laughed, and my respect for him increased. Nice save.
“My turn,” Simon said. “Although you are ignorant children, you may have noticed I’m not American. Still, I’m willing to play. I suppose I will agree with Natalie.”
Lukas scoffed. “Like you’d have a chance with an old coot. He’d never marry you.”
Simon ignored him. “I’m grateful that at a time when the Knell suffered such a terrible blow, they still found use for me. And I’m grateful that it involves working with three such talented ghostkeepers.”
“Aww,” said Natalie, “who knew you were such a softy?”
“Okay.” Lukas cleared his throat. “I’m grateful that instead of being sent to a home for disturbed kids for claiming to see ghosts, I’m living with people who are just as whacked as me.”
Nobody said anything for a moment, and I knew Natalie was thinking the same thing I was. Lukas was one of us. His parents hadn’t been there when he needed them most.
“Do your mom and dad know you’re here?” Natalie asked.
“I told my dad I got a scholarship to boarding school. I think he figured if I disappeared, so would the problem.”
“They didn’t expect you home today?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Some pretty messed-up things were said when I left.”
“Give them time, Lukas,” Simon said. “My parents never understood, either, but we’ve managed to preserve our relationship. We just don’t discuss it.”
“Man, but it’s everything though, you know?” Lukas said. “You try to maintain, but the ghosts are always there in the background.”
We all nodded. We knew. Maybe that’s why we all got along so well. We all lived this double life, we all doubted ourselves, and we all knew how it felt when people in your family turned their backs.
“How about you, Emma?” Simon asked.
I thought for a moment, then sent for the house ghosts: Could you come into the dining room, please? Yes, even you, Anatole.
When they shimmered through the walls, I said, “What I’m most grateful for is you. My new family. The people who are actually there for me, day in and day out. The only ones who really understand me, and accept me, and …” I almost teared up. “If it weren’t for you, I think I’d crawl into a black hole and never come out.”
“We love you, too,” Natalie said. She raised her crystal goblet—Simon had poured each of us half a glass of red wine—and said, “To Emma.”
“To Emma,” they echoed.
“And to all of you,” I replied before sipping my wine. “Especially Simon, for letting us have wine.”
I ignored Simon’s look of hesitation. He was still worried someone here had betrayed us. But I knew he was wrong. This was my family. I trusted them with my life.
Now if only Bennett would walk through the door.
But he didn’t. Not before dinner. Not during dinner. Not after dinner. He never showed.
I brushed my teeth and scowled at my reflection, then went into my bedroom. A moment later, I heard a tap on the door. Celeste came inside, her flowing red hair burnished by the light of the fireplace.
Maybe I should dye my hair, I said.
She pursed her lips disapprovingly. Your hair iz lovely. And so iz what you say at dinner, about family.
Thanks. I … you said he always came home for Thanksgiving.
If he cannot, he cannot. But Master Bennett, he iz a good man. You know thiz. Oh! I just remember. She took a small black box with a red bow from her apron. Thiz came for you.
I smiled happily. I loved gifts. Then I remembered Simon’s warning about trusting no one—which came pretty naturally, actually. Where’d it come from?
The special-delivery man.
You think it’s okay? It’s not, like, some kind of spectral mail bomb?
I do not know theez words. I think iz okay.
I ran my finger around the edge of the black box and didn’t feel any sense of ghostly resonance, so I opened the lid and found a nest of red tissue paper inside. Buried beneath the layers was an iPhone.
That iz not jewelry, Celeste said, clearly unimpressed.
I grinned as I grabbed the phone and turned it on. Weird. Who’d send me a phone? I swiped to unlock it and found a shoe-phone icon and I knew the answer. There was also a little 1 next to the mail application, which I touched with my finger.
A message had been sent to EmmaVaile at an account I didn’t recognize. It was from BennettStern at the same network.
Four words: “I’m grateful for you.”
I felt my face light up with joy. It’s from Bennett.
Iz still not jewelry, Celeste said, but she looked pleased for me. Then she faded away, leaving me alone with my gift, which I liked a thousand times better than any bracelet.
I tried to e-mail him back, but the account no longer existed. I flipped through the other applications and found the phone loaded with apps and ringtones. Then I clicked the music. He’d loaded a hundred songs, all of them about love. Some I recognized, some I didn’t.
I plugged in the white buds and settled into one of the playlists. As the beats began to throb, I was grateful, too. Grateful he hadn’t forgotten me.