“New friends are always nice.”
There’d been times in the past when the children had invented invisible friends for their friend who wasn’t exactly invisible.
“Her name is Genevieve.”
Interesting. Most invisible Stafford friends were named less exotically. Poopy Head came to mind.
I forgot about Stafford in the upheaval that began each new day. Getting fifteen five-year-olds into their seats long enough to count how many I had missing often took so long that I was missing one by the time I finished. But I managed. I always did. This wasn’t my first rodeo.
We studied shapes, grouping quadrilaterals and circles and triangles. You could never get kids prepared for geometry too soon, or at least that’s what the curriculum said. I handed out a worksheet; the children pulled out their crayons so they could color all the squares blue and so on. It wasn’t until morning recess that I spared a thought for Stafford, and then only because I saw him.
And his new friend.
At first I wasn’t sure if she was dead. Just because the child was hanging out with Stafford didn’t mean she was a ghost. Didn’t mean she wasn’t either. More often than not, the specters I saw seemed very real. At least until they disappeared, walked through a wall, or walked through me. Talk about an ice bath.
I joined the two of them on the edge of the playground where they sat side by side on a bench.
“This is Genevieve.” Stafford seemed so happy I almost liked him.
Genevieve had big blue eyes, short, curly chestnut hair, and skin just a shade darker than my own. The freckles on her nose were nearly as adorable as her frilly white skirt, black tights, ballet flats, and a pink T-shirt that spelled PRINCESS in bright, white sequins. No matter how far the women’s movement came, really, who didn’t want to be a princess?
“I’m Miss Larsen.” I held out my hand, thankful I was on duty for recess, so the only people who might see me shaking hands with air would be children who’d seen me do such things before.
Genevieve’s hand passed right through mine. She was dead all right.
Her lip trembled. She flexed her fingers. “Ouch,” she whispered. “Hot.”
“Sorry.” I rubbed my own hand on my jeans. It burned too—like frostbite.
I’d met other ghost children. A curve of the interstate bumped against the school property line. For some reason that meant elementary-school-age spirits killed on that highway often wound up here. They hung about to resolve fairly simple issues.
Kiss Mommy good-bye.
I want my dolly to go along.
Half the time I had them out of the building and into the light before the other children even knew they’d arrived. Which was why Susan had been so excited about Genevieve. I couldn’t remember the last time there’d been more than Stafford on the ghost-o-meter.
I also couldn’t remember anyone named Genevieve in New Bergin, and I hadn’t heard about an accident on the interstate lately. So why was she here?
Genevieve probably wouldn’t know. It often took ghosts a few days—months, years—to catch up. Nevertheless …
“Where are you from, honey?”
“Don’t,” Stafford ordered, though I wasn’t sure if he was telling me not to ask or telling her not to answer.
I never got a chance to find out. He took her hand, and they went poof. My gaze drifted over the playground. If Stafford thought he could get a rousing game of run around in circles until you puke—one of his favorites—started, I’d put a stop to it and quiz Genevieve again. However, my kids, and everyone else’s, were behaving the way kids do. Some playing nice, some not playing at all, and some not playing nicely.
“Drop it!” I pointed at the third-grade boy who had just picked up a worm and hauled back to toss it at a second-grade girl. I was in no mood for the high-pitched screaming that would ensue whether the thing landed in her hair or not.
He dropped it—whew!—and I headed for the door just as the bell rang. I took one final gander at the playground but caught no sign of Stafford or his friend.
He would be back. My luck was not that good. If Genevieve was with him, I’d try again. Maybe, by then, I’d know why she was here, and I could help her not to be.
Over my lunch period, I went to my computer. Google was no damn help at all. According to the search engine, the only death in New Bergin all week was that of a sister of a U.S. Marshal. The woman’s photo revealed her to be the poor one-armed lady on First Street, Anne McKenna.
Anne’s being the sister of a U.S. Marshal was interesting on several levels. Her brother had been assigned to the western district and stationed in Madison. She’d lived there too. Why was she in New Bergin in the first place?