School Spirits

chapter 7




By the time we walked into class, everyone was already in their desks, and I felt thirty pairs of eyes suddenly land on me.

It was not the best feeling.

“This is Izzy,” Adam announced to the teacher. According to my schedule, she was Mrs. Steele, and Adam was right; she didn’t seem put out by our lateness.

“Welcome to Mary Evans High, Izzy,” she said to me. “Why don’t you take a seat near the front for today. Romy, can you move over one desk?”

I spun around, wanting to catch sight of this girl. It wasn’t like I thought her little ghost-hunters club would actually be that useful. Every once and a while, groups like that spring up somewhere in the country, and they have a really bad tendency to result in a high body count. Nothing more dangerous than civilians who think they can track Prodigium, Mom had said a few years ago after she’d had to go clean up after one of those groups. “Kids read a few books, watch a couple of stupid TV shows, and get in over their heads before they know what’s happened.”

But still, if I was looking for a vengeful ghost, this was a start, and a heck of a lot better one than I’d thought I’d get.

A tall Asian girl got out of one of the desks in the first row, and I realized I’d seen her on the bus. It would’ve been hard to miss her. Next to my all-black ensemble she was a riot of color. Her jeans were bright red, and her white T-shirt had two rainbows splashed across it, with the words DOUBLE RAINBOW ALL THE WAY written in electric-blue bubble letters. A hat that same vivid blue was yanked low on her head, and the frames of her glasses were neon purple. When got up, I noticed she was wearing red Converse sneakers.

As she sagged into the other desk, she flipped up the dark lenses of her sunglasses, revealing regular glass underneath. “Enjoy that desk. It’s one of my favorites.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. Mom said to get close to people, find stuff out. Investigate. What she’d neglected to mention was how. Should I introduce myself to Romy now? Use the cover story? Or was that too much too soon?

Luckily, I was literally saved by the bell. It trilled, and Mrs. Steele started handing out work sheets. I spent the next fifty minutes using words like “inscrutable” in a sentence. When class ended, Romy bolted for the door, so I didn’t have to practice my cover story after all.

Next up was P.E., the one class I wasn’t that worried about. Mom had had me and Finn running at least six miles a day basically since we could walk. Besides, in all the TV shows Mom had gotten me, people usually just spent P.E. talking under the bleachers, or meeting up with their secret boyfriends. Since I didn’t have anyone to talk to, or a boyfriend, secret or otherwise, I figured I had this.

Or I would have if I’d been able to find the gym. It took me a while to figure out that the gym was actually an entirely separate building, slightly downhill from the school itself. And once I finally got there, I realized there was one thing I didn’t have: a uniform. Everyone else was coming out of the locker rooms in these awful gray shirt/shorts combos with MEHS scrawled across the chest.

The coach, a tubby guy who was about my mom’s age, looked me up and down and barked, “You! Why aren’t you dressed out?”

Before I could answer, a voice called, “She’s new, duh.”

It was Romy. Dressed all in gray, she seemed smaller than she had earlier. The coach frowned at her. “Attitude!”

“Sorry,” she said, sounding anything but. Then she turned to me. “He basically shouts everything. You’ll get used to it.”

And then, to prove her point, the coach yelled, “Okay, you over here!” He waved at my half of the gym, “You’re Team A, rest of you are Team B. Opposite sides, let’s go!”

Groaning, Romy pushed her glasses up her nose.

“Teams for what?” I asked as the kids next to us began heading for the nearest wall.

“Effing dodgeball,” she said with a long sigh.

Dodgeball. Right. I’d heard of that. And it seemed kind of self-explanatory. Clearly, there’d be balls. And then we’d…dodge.

Sure enough, the coach began placing a line of red rubber balls between our two “teams.”

“I swear to God, if my glasses get broken again, I’m suing this crappy school,” Romy muttered darkly under her breath. When she caught me looking at her, she added, “Twice last year. Two pairs.” She raised her voice, her eyes fixed on the coach’s back. “This game is barbaric!” she called.

“Zip it, Hayden,” the coach replied with the air of someone who had said those three words many, many times.

Romy scowled but stepped into line. I stepped next to her, tugging at the hem of my hoodie.

“What’s your name?” Romy asked. A tiny dimple flashed in one cheek. “I mean, in my head, you’ll always be The Girl Who Took My Desk, but that’s kind of an awkward thing to call you all the time.”

“Izzy.”

“Ah, a fellow holder of a cutesy name. So you’re new?”

I nodded, but before I could say anything else, the coach blew his whistle. At the sound, several kids darted forward and grabbed the rubber balls. Before the whistle had even faded, a tall boy on the other side of the gym took aim at Romy and threw.

The ball didn’t hit her glasses at least, but it did slam into her forearm with a meaty smack. Romy winced, rubbing the red mark already forming on her skin. As the tall boy laughed and high-fived one of his friends, Romy called out, “Yeah, nice one, Ben. You took out a ninety-pound myopic chick. Congratulations on your masculinity!” With that, she trudged over to the bleachers.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a ball zooming at me, but I jerked back so that it sailed harmlessly by. Okay. I could do this. It was actually kind of similar to a training exercise Mom used to make me and Finley do. That involved dodging a much heavier ball made of leather, but the principle was the same. It was one of Mom’s favorite training exercises because it combined both strength and agility. Finley had always been better than me at the strength part, but agile? That I could do.

By now, kids were getting hit all over the place, and soon there were only five of us on our side of the gym, and six on the other side. One of those was the tall boy, Ben, who had hit Romy. I guess some girls would’ve thought he was cute, but all I could see was “psychotic jerk who goes out of his way to hit girls.”

His gaze locked with mine, and one corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. Rearing back on one leg, like he was pitching a baseball, Ben hurled a red rubber ball directly at me. He threw it so hard that I actually staggered back a step when I caught it. But I did catch it. Ben’s smirk turned into a frown, I guess because he’d been looking forward to seeing me sprawled across the gym floor.

“Too bad, buddy,” I muttered under my breath. And with that, I threw the ball back at him.

I meant to hit him in the arm, the same place he’d hit Romy. I didn’t mean for it to hurt—okay, so maybe I meant for it to hurt a little bit—but the second the ball was out of my hands I knew I’d thrown it too hard. The ball we trained with back home was made of boiled leather. It was heavy and required some real heft to get it through the air. This ball was rubber, but I’d put the same amount of force behind it.

It hit Ben’s shoulder and sent him skidding across the hardwood, his sneakers shrieking as he slid. Arms pinwheeling, he stumbled back against the far wall of the gym before finally collapsing in a heap.

For a second, everything was deadly quiet. Then the coach’s shrill whistle pierced the air. “You!” he barked, letting the whistle fall from his lips. “New girl! What’s your name?”

I was suddenly very aware of everyone in the gym staring at me. Crap.

Straightening my shoulders, I faced the coach. “Izzy Brannick.”

“Okay, Izzy Brannick, do you wanna tell me why you just knocked McCrary here on his butt?”

Confused, I glanced over at Ben. One of his friends was helping him up. His face was pale, and when the other boy touched his shoulder, Ben winced.

“I was just…playing the game,” I replied, and this time there was a little waver in my voice.

“He was out,” the coach said, and when I just stared at him, he shook his head. “You caught his throw. So he was already out. There was no need to throw the ball at him, and certainly no need to—” He broke off to look at Ben, and his eyes went wide. “Dear God, did you dislocate his shoulder?”

Ben did look a little…crooked.

“I didn’t mean to,” I said, but the coach wasn’t listening. “Get him to the nurse’s office,” he called to the boy beside Ben. Then his gaze swung back to me. “And you. You…just go run some laps. Until the end of the period.”

“Seriously, it was an accident—” I said, but Coach Lewis just pointed at the double doors. “FOOTBALL FIELD. LAPS.”

I heard a few giggles, and Romy was squinting at me, but basically everyone else in the gym was watching me with a combination of dislike and fear. Suddenly I saw myself through their eyes—all in black, my hair scraped back from my face—and I wondered how “fitting in” had ever seemed possible.