The Year of Shadows Page 14

  But Henry just nodded at me in this determined way and kept on writing. I snuck a peek at his list: Rules for the New Ghosts.

  “We’ll make appointments,” I continued. “Everyone will get a number, and then we’ll draw numbers, and it’ll be completely random, because that’s the only way it’s fair. Agreed?”

  The ghosts nodded.

  “I’ll make a spreadsheet.” Henry’s eyes lit up. He would like making spreadsheets. “Everyone come give me your name, and I’ll assign you a number.”

  The ghosts filed quietly by Henry, giving him their names.

  Tabitha Jenkins was in two pieces, like something had sliced her right down the middle. She kept having to grab a half of herself and pull it back into place. Frankie James looked pretty normal until you noticed that his skin was bloated with water. Edgar Burroughs had no head, and his friend, who everybody called Geronimo, had to translate because he knew Edgar’s hand signs.

  Fifty-one ghosts in all. When we were done, their names, numbers, and descriptions took up a full page in Henry’s notebook.

  “We’ll draw names tomorrow, onstage after the concert.” I tried not to look at the overwhelming list of names. Fifty-one ghosts? “That’s all for now.”

  “Does this mean . . .” The pale ghost woman was trembling, clutching the hand of a darker, frailer ghost beside her. “Does this mean you will help us, then?”

  I made myself look at Henry’s notebook, at the ghosts’ names spelled out in his neat handwriting. This steady knot burned in my chest, and when I focused on it, pushing past my doubts I almost didn’t miss my ghosts so much anymore.

  Almost.

  I caught Henry’s eye, and he smiled and got to his feet.

  “Yes,” I said firmly, Henry by my side. “We’ll help you. We’ll help all of you.”

  The sound of their cheering and thank-yous followed me through the rest of the day, all the way into sleep.

  With so many ghosts to get through, Henry and I agreed to share with a new ghost once a week. If it were completely up to me, I’d have done one a day, to get them moved on as quickly as possible.

  But it wasn’t up to me, it was up to my body.

  As we’d already figured out, a human body can’t take too much sharing before it starts to feel sick and tired. Sharing multiple times, though, and with only a few days between, quickly turned into a disaster.

  The first time wasn’t so bad.

  “Number forty-three,” Henry said, examining the spreadsheet on his clipboard. “Pearl Branson.”

  Pearl’s number had been drawn first, and when she came forward for her sharing, the other ghosts in a semicircle around the stage to watch, she shook so bad that curls of smoke fell off her like rain. She looked about Tillie’s age.

  “It’s okay, Pearl,” I said, not very convincingly. I wasn’t sure it was okay. What would sharing be like this time for me and Henry? However Pearl had died, I hoped it wouldn’t hurt as much as stabbing did. “Just come a little closer.”

  “You have to kind of just drift into us,” said Henry. “When Frederick did it, he drifted closer and closer, until he was leaking into us, and then our bodies kind of slurped him up. Got it?”

  Pearl rolled her eyes. “I’m nervous, but I’m not stupid. I know how this works.”

  Henry turned toward me, his legs crossed just like mine were. Our knees bumped against each other. “You really okay with this?”

  “Sort of.” I wiped my hands on my pants. The last thing I wanted was Henry feeling how sweaty my hands were. “We made our decision, though, didn’t we?”

  Henry looked around at the ghosts. Their faces looked ready to fall apart from excitement. “I guess you’re right. It might be impossible to share this many times, though. You know that, right?”

  I knew. But we had to try. The more ghosts showed up, the more shades would come. And who knew how much damage they would do to the Hall, to the Maestro?

  For my answer, I took Henry’s hands and folded my fingers around them. Together, we nodded at Pearl.

  Pearl took a deep breath, her insides churning white, and drifted into us, like Frederick had done. Cold wrapped around us. Memories overwhelmed us. We were the memories: Pearl Branson, ten years old, who lived in an apartment on the corner. Pearl Branson, with the bad fever. Pearl Branson, with the weak heart.

  Pearl started writing a story. She couldn’t do much else with a weak heart. She liked to sit next door to her apartment in the Hall’s gardens and write. But Pearl didn’t finish. One sunny day, her heart gave out halfway through Chapter Six.

  And that was it. Henry and I faded away with Pearl, and it was peaceful. Much better than being stabbed.

  Until the sharing ended. The force of Pearl releasing us sent us skidding across the stage. Pearl flew back into the floor seats in a plume of white smoke.

  As I lay on the floor recovering, my insides spinning and Henry gasping beside me, I actually considered chickening out. Saying, “Sorry, ghosts, but you’ll have to recover your impossible-to-recover memories all by yourselves.”

  But then I realized something. As I lay there, clutching my stomach, I took in the sight of the ghosts, staring at us with those mangled, burned, smoky faces. Behind them loomed the shadowy rafters of the Hall, the rows of faded seats, the chipped angels and dragons on the ceiling, winking down at us.

  My home, whether I liked it or not.

  And if it wasn’t my home, if I hadn’t moved in here, would my ghosts have ever decided to trust me? Would any of these ghosts be here now? Or would they still be drifting around aimlessly, lost and forever soulless?

  I pulled myself into a sitting position and took several deep breaths. I was tingling all over and not because of the ghosts’ chill, but because I had recognized fate. This was fate; this was destiny. Maybe I was meant to help these ghosts. Maybe I was meant to move in here. I had a choice; I could quit now. Or I could keep helping them, even if it was hard. Especially if it was hard. And maybe then it would be like moving in here, losing our house, not having money or enough sketching paper, all of it—would be worth something.

  “Olivia?” Henry whispered. “You okay?”

  “It’s a story,” I said. My voice sounded strong, confident. The ghosts perked up. So did Henry. That made me feel even stronger. I struggled to my feet, the memories of Pearl’s life turning solid in my head. “Pearl’s anchor is a story. About two dozen pages long. The title is The Resolute Steed.”

  Each ghost was assigned to one of our zones, from the map we’d made for Frederick. Everyone helped search, so things would go faster—ghosts in the walls, ghosts in the basement, ghosts skipping through ceiling panels. It took us three days to find The Resolute Steed, buried in a tin box in the walking park outside. Once she had her anchor, Pearl Branson sat curled up in one of the ceiling rafters and finished her story.

  Then she was gone. The pages of her completed book fluttered to the Hall floor like wings.

  Henry checked off Pearl’s name on his spreadsheet. “One down, fifty to go.”

  Resolute: seeing something through to the end. And that’s exactly what I was going to do. Even if our ghosts, our first ghosts, didn’t have the guts to do the same.

  IT WASN’T UNTIL three ghosts in—Pearl Branson, Sue Han (heart attack), Reggie Black (tuberculosis)—that things started to fall apart.

  Right before Thanksgiving week, we were supposed to turn in these essays to Mrs. Farrity. An expository essay, to help prepare us for the end-of-the-year tests everyone in the state had to take.

  I’d completely forgotten about mine.

  When Mrs. Farrity stood by my desk, the other kids’ essays stacked neatly in her hands, I just stared at her. Every time I blinked, my eyelids scratched together like sandpaper. It had been a long couple of weeks. I was amazed I wasn’t puking my guts out in the restroom, much less at school or even awake. How in the world were we supposed to get through forty-eight more ghosts? That’s all I could think about. Had we ta
ken on too much? Were Henry and I insane for trying this?

  And our ghosts—would they ever come back? Not only was I exhausted from sharing with the ghosts, but I’d also stayed up late every night after Nonnie fell asleep, the old séance materials surrounding me and Igor in my lap. I whispered to my ghosts, asking them to come back. Begging them to come back.

  So far, they hadn’t listened.

  I blinked up at Mrs. Farrity, my brain whirling with everything in the world but my essay.

  Mrs. Farrity drew her lips tight. “See me after class, Olivia.”

  When the bell rang, I trudged up to her desk, trailing my hand along the top of each chair I passed. I hoped it looked casual. Really, I was just trying to stay upright.

  “Forget something, Stellatella?” Mark Everett whispered as he shoved past. “Or did you just spend all your time drawing instead? Idiot.”

  One thing exhaustion does to you is dull your control center. Like, the part of your brain that tells you you should or shouldn’t do something.

  That’s why I punched Mark Everett.

  Or tried to, anyway.

  At the last second, right before my fist connected with that stupid face of his, Joan grabbed my arm and pulled me away. I teetered back on my heels and almost fell over.

  Mark ran out the door, laughing.

  I yanked my arm from her. “Why’d you do that?”

  “Because he’s not worth it,” Joan said calmly, shaking back her hair. “He’s a lesser being. And you’re welcome.”

  Then she left, and it was just me and Mrs. Farrity. Who stared at me like she was trying to dissect me with her brain.

  “I’m worried about you, Olivia.” If her lips got any thinner, they would have sucked her face inside out. “You’ve always been somewhat distractible, but you usually at least do the assignments.”

  I nodded. Coming up with words was so hard when all I wanted to do was keel over. Or hunt down Mark Everett and sic some ghosts on him. “Yeah. I know. I’ve just been . . . busy.”

  Mrs. Farrity eyed my gloves. “You’ve started wearing gloves a lot. Why is that?”

  “I like them. They keep germs away.”

  Then she eyed my arm, the one with the burn. “And you’re always wearing jackets these days. Even inside.”

  I shrugged. “Fashion.”

  Mrs. Farrity stacked some papers on her desk, straightened her pencils, cleared her throat, and looked right at me. “I’ve heard about the orchestra, Olivia. Things aren’t going well, are they?”

  “Things aren’t going well for most people right now. With The Economy and all.”

  Something went out of Mrs. Farrity then, like someone had popped her. “I know. And I hate that for you kids. It’s always the kids who suffer the most.” She sighed and rubbed her eyes. “If you turn in your essay before Thanksgiving break, I’ll just dock you a few late points. Okay? How’s that?”

  “Yeah. That’s great, Mrs. Farrity. Thanks.”

  “And, Olivia, you know that the staff here is always available, if you need someone to talk to. Right?”

  Now, that would be funny, to sit Principal Cooper and Mrs. Farrity down and tell them about my ghost problem. I pictured their faces and couldn’t contain a snort, which I think hurt Mrs. Farrity’s feelings, so I mumbled “Sorry,” and thanked her, and left.

  The next day, I tried to do some cleaning after getting home from The Happy Place. Backstage had turned into even more of a pigsty since the new ghosts came because I spent all my time sharing and searching for anchors and trying to sleep. But sleep didn’t come so easy. I kept dreaming about the lives of the ghosts I’d helped, like their memories had latched onto my brain and wouldn’t let go.

  Nonnie watched me as I swept the kitchen. “So dim these days, ombralina,” she whispered, rocking in her chair, weaving scarves into a braid. “You are darker than ever.”

  I tried not to pay attention to the ghost eyes I could feel watching from the doorway, waiting for me to join them. Waiting for me to save them.

  “I don’t know, Nonnie. I’m just tired, okay?”

  Nonnie cupped her hands around her mouth and whispered, “Is it the ghosts? Are they bothering you?”

  Yes. They’re taking over my brain, they’re taking over my sleep. “No. Just school and stuff, you know? And work. I worry about money.”

  “I worry too. Always worrying.” Nonnie’s lips twisted. “I worry about you every minute, ombralina, every day.”

  I dropped the broom and grabbed Nonnie’s hands. They were cold as a ghost, and it terrified me. I rubbed them to warm them up.

  “Don’t worry about me, Nonnie. Okay? Worrying wears you out.”

  “You should have . . .” Nonnie looked around, spread out her arms. They were shaking and draped with scarves. “More. More than this.”

  “Yeah. And so should you.”

  The Maestro was out that night, uptown at some dinner party for orchestra donors. When I got to his room, I whacked the broom across his floor, knocking over stacks of music and heaps of garbage. It didn’t make me feel much better.

  Then I found the pile of mail shoved underneath his dresser, like he’d just walked in, dropped it to the floor, and kicked it out of his way, day after day after day.

  I sorted through it. Bills and junk mail, mostly. Part of me hoped I’d find a letter from Mom. It was all a joke! it would say. I’m coming home tomorrow! Surprise!

  No such luck. I did find some letters from school, though. Four of them. All unopened, all from Counselor Davis’s office.

  I opened the most recent one. As I read it, my stomach dropped to my feet.

  According to her teachers, the letter read, Olivia rarely pays attention in class and is easily distracted. She is consistently rude to other students and has even neared physical assault on multiple occasions. She lacks focus, and her schoolwork is suffering. She seems to have few friends, and we worry that the students she does associate with will follow her poor example. We are deeply concerned about Olivia’s future. We are also concerned that our previous letters have gone unanswered, and urge you to call the counselors’ offices and make an appointment for both you and Olivia before more severe action is taken. We suggest . . .

  I sank down against the wall, hugging the broom. So everyone at school, even the teachers, thought I was stupid, lazy, violent. Without a future. And friendless, too. And they were right. Well, mostly. I had Henry, but that was about it.

  I didn’t think ghosts counted.

  “I have a future, though,” I whispered. No one heard me but Igor, who slid in through the open door. “I have my drawings. I can . . . I can draw things, I can go to art school someday, maybe. I can figure out a way.”

  Igor wound himself around my ankles. Oh? How?

  “The Barskys say my drawings are good.” I could barely hear myself. The words kept getting stuck in my chest. But the Barskys are just as crazy as I am. “I’m not stupid.” But I don’t make good grades; Henry’s made the honor roll three years straight. “I’m not lazy.” But I never pay attention in class.

  I hauled Igor into my lap and stared at him, nose to nose. “Well, of course I don’t pay attention in class. I have to draw. My drawings are . . .”

  Igor licked the tip of my nose. Are what?

  Mom had always told me it was important to dream, to lie in my bedsheet fort and do nothing but stare at the paper stars over my head and make origami swans and let my imagination run wild across my sketchpad. My drawings were my dreaming, my secret thing that made my heart expand and scrubbed away the bad thoughts. And they reminded me of Mom.

  But with that letter in my hands, the thought occurred to me for the first time: Maybe dreaming isn’t enough.

  The Monday before Thanksgiving, I went to Counselor Davis’s office at lunch instead of to the cafeteria. I didn’t know what “more severe action” meant, and I didn’t want anyone showing up at the Hall, looking for the Maestro. They would see how we lived, and they might take me
away—away from the ghosts, away from Nonnie.

  So I turned myself in.

  I walked right past Counselor Davis’s assistant and into his office and set the four letters on his desk. “So, hi. Sorry I never answered these. Or showed them to my—to the Maestro. It’s just, I was embarrassed. You know? But I’m doing the right thing now.”

  Counselor Davis leaned back in his green cushioned chair and stared at me, his fingers steepled. His office was a million shades of green. I’d heard somewhere green was supposed to be soothing, but not, like, an explosion of green.

  I clutched the ends of my jacket. “So. Let’s do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Whatever counseling you think I need.”

  “But, Olivia, what about your father?”

  I was afraid this would happen. “What about him?”

  “I think it will be much more effective if your father is here for these sessions. Don’t you?” Counselor Davis reached for a big binder behind his desk. “Why don’t we give him a call while I have you here?”

  “No!” I slammed my hand down on the phone. It was just a reflex. Not like the Maestro would pick up the phone anyway. But someone in the Hall offices might.

  Counselor Davis watched me calmly. “Why don’t you want to call him?”

  Because I just want to get this over with.

  Because he would have let the mail pile up until I got suspended.

  Because . . .

  “Because I want to just talk to you by myself first,” I said. “It’s less embarrassing.”

  Counselor Davis smiled. “That makes sense.” He put the binder back. “How do you feel about your father, Olivia?”

  I hate him. He made Mom leave, and now he won’t stop crying. Now he’s crazy and sees things that aren’t there. He loves the orchestra more than me. I wish he had left instead of her. That’s what danced between my teeth, waiting to be spit out. But I didn’t let it.