Ghostgirl Read online

  Charlotte nodded her head nervously in agreement.

  “We can protect the house by scaring everybody away from it…,” Pam added as she nudged Charlotte. “Right, Charlotte?”

  “Yeah, why can’t we just, like she said…,” Simon said.

  “… scare the potential buyers away?” Simone finished.

  “I’ve got it! We can decorate the whole house in ‘Stuff by Duff!’ That should do it,” CoCo said as she shivered in fright.

  Charlotte started to improvise, starting to get what everyone else in the room already knew.

  “We are dead. Why not, you know, ‘work’ it?” she said to Prue, building confidence as she went along.

  “Is this your plan?” Prue asked, trying to break Charlotte.

  “I mean, it’s obvious, but it’s worth a try…,” Charlotte replied.

  “Well, we can’t actually haunt the house or it could backfire. It will either turn into a tourist attraction and a playground for drunk college kids or it will buy us a one-way ticket to becoming a parking-plex,” Prue snapped.

  “I think the best way to scare potential buyers away would be to make this place appear not up to code,” suggested Buzz Saw Bud, a kid who’d died from a horrible shop class accident and now sported table saw wounds and a partially amputated arm.

  “All right then, break up into scare squads!” Prue said, not really on board with Charlotte’s plan but more than willing to give her enough rope to hang herself.

  Charlotte immediately went to pair up with Pam, but just as she approached her, Prue grabbed Pam’s arm like an abusive elementary school teacher taking a disruptive student to a hallway time-out.

  “Pam, you’re with Silent Violet,” Prue ordered as she knocked Charlotte away and placed Pam with the eerie loner who had never, as far as any of the other kids in Dead Ed could remember, uttered a sound.

  “Suzy Scissorhands!” Prue ordered, “You’re with me.”

  Suzy tugged her sleeves over her hands and clenched them tightly as she walked over to Prue’s side. Charlotte was left standing alone, just like in Physics class.

  “Who am I supposed to be with?” Charlotte asked.

  “Ask somebody who cares, Butch,” Prue snapped, using a dig from class. “Maybe next time, you’ll get here on time and take this seriously.”

  Charlotte tried to explain, but her words only echoed against the walls of the empty room.

  She was alone again, but this time, not lonely. There was too much to take in. Charlotte trudged off to look for her bedroom, without the chitchat or the roommate that she had hoped for. No secret codes, no sneaking in after a night of unbridled adventure, no giggle fits, no guy talk, no pizza. It was just as well. The confrontation with Prue was exhausting, emotionally and otherwise. She’d never felt so despised, even in Life.

  She reached the next landing on the staircase, one flight up from the meeting room, and walked down to the first open door. It was wooden and heavy with carved moldings, like all the others at the Manor. She shoved it open, checking first so as not to intrude on anyone, and walked in.

  The room was empty and she instantly felt at home. She knew instinctively that this was her room. The walls were covered in delicate floral toile flock wallpaper, and Charlotte, who at first thought her eyes were playing tricks on her, noticed that some of the petals periodically fell off the flowers on the wallpaper, making for a surreal and dreamy effect. There was another chandelier, like a baby sister to the one in the foyer, that hung low from the beamed cathedral ceiling.

  Mahogany bookshelves lined the walls, and a massive vanity like Scarlet’s, which Charlotte loved, occupied the corner adjacent to her four-poster bed. She was so spent she could barely take it all in or muster up enough emotion to be sufficiently impressed. She walked over to the bed and plopped down.

  “Death is ruining my life,” she said as she wrapped herself away in a crushed velvet blanket.

  As her head hit the pillow for the first time, the drowsiness left her and her mind began to race. It was impossible for her to relax, and the thought of sleeping was suddenly frightening. As long as she remained awake, she reasoned, she was “alive,” maybe not technically, but she was conscious at least. Present. Who knew what sleep would bring?

  Then she remembered Deadhead Jerry falling asleep with his eyes open in Dead Ed, and the image of that freaked her out even more. Nightmare on Hawthorne Street. She frantically searched the room, looking for something that would keep her occupied and awake.

  The closest book to her was her Deadiquette book, so she started flipping through it. Maybe there were answers in the book. Maybe there was hope tucked away in its antique pages.

  As she flipped through, she noticed a chapter she hadn’t seen earlier in class. It read “Possession” at the top.

  Charlotte sat straight up in bed.

  “Possession!” she exclaimed.

  She thumbed through the ’50s-style illustrations of a guy simply entering a girl and soaked up every word of the captions.

  “Looks simple enough,” she said with an insane amount of confidence.

  Charlotte finished the chapter by the light of the moonbeams shining through her oversized windows, closed the book, and finally gave in to the exhaustion that had been chasing her all evening. She was no longer sad or afraid.

  “If he can’t see me to ask me to the dance, I’ll just possess the person he’s planning to go with…,” she muttered as slumber fell upon her.

  Charlotte took her hands and manually closed her eyes, just in case, while the light fall breeze blowing through the window flipped the pages of her book to the final page in the chapter—a page that she hadn’t read yet. It warned: “Use Extreme Caution!”

  9

  Behind the Wheel

  And I could purge my soul perhaps For the imminent collapse Oh yeah, I’ll tell you what we could do You be me for a while I’ll be you.

  —Paul Westerberg

  Attach here.

  An attachment to something or someone is holding on to the belief that a certain thing or person will fulfi ll you. Attachments keep us alive. They make us strive either to keep what we have or to pursue what we want. But sometimes they can also stick us in neutral, running in circles and getting nowhere. Charlotte was stuck, that much was sure.

  Petula and the Wendys sauntered into the bathroom as if they owned it. They made their usual tightly choreographed entrance, just in case someone was looking. It was their post–homeroom, pre–first period touch-up session, and the powders, brushes, and lip glosses were being pulled from every pocket and pouch of their ridiculously expensive handbags faster than the blink of a heavily coated RevitaLashed eye.

  Their access to the mirror was momentarily blocked by a clueless group of sleazy freshmen not yet schooled in mirror protocol. Wendy Anderson took charge silently, parting the gaggle with an icy stare and pointing sternly to the exit. The freshmen learned fast, filing out quickly, quietly, and without objection.

  “Wanna-MEs,” Wendy Anderson grumbled as the three of them assumed their rightful place in front of the mirror.

  Petula caught a glimpse of Wendy Thomas on the left side of her and got to thinking. She whipped out a stick of bronzer and drew a small line on the bridge of Wendy’s nose, like a junior Dr. 90210 doing a pre-op markup.

  “See, if you have this shaved down and then the tip lifted it will make a cute slope, just like mine,” Petula said as she stepped back and admired her work.

  “Ski?” Petula asked Wendy as she turned her to the mirror so that she could “see.”

  “Yeah, I ski,” Wendy Thomas said with a chuckle, noticing the little but very conspicuous mark.

  For Petula and the Wendys, this kind of brutal and shameless self-criticism was not so much a game as a hobby. And there was not an iota of embarrassment in them as they heard a rustling in the stall behind them.

  If they had bothered to look at anything other than their own reflections, they might have noticed th
e clunky pair of black biker boots visible beneath the stall door. The toilet flushed and Scarlet emerged, tugging her mustard-colored camisole and shifting her black tank and vintage chiffon skirt into position.

  Wendy Anderson, seeing in the reflection of the mirror that it was Scarlet, made a dismissive face, which only provoked Scarlet. Scarlet took the bronzer out of Wendy’s manicured grasp.

  “I’d go for the Marie Antoinette,” Scarlet said as she drew a dotted line across Wendy’s neck. “You need a total head removal.”

  “Shouldn’t you be somewhere feeling ostracized?” Wendy Anderson said condescendingly.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t speak whore,” Scarlet replied, heavy-tongued as she “signed” the sentence, ending with a thrust and extended middle finger much as Wendy had wagged her index finger at the lowly freshmen. Wendy got the message.

  Petula brushed by her sister, not acknowledging her in the slightest, and walked out the door just as the bell rang.

  Scarlet stayed behind, pondering how they could possibly be related. She instantly got an eerie feeling, looking around the empty room.

  “Charlotte?”

  No answer. Charlotte was outside the school, waiting for Petula and the Wendys to exit. She knew that the three of them had Driver’s Ed first period with Mr. Gonzalez, and she didn’t want to miss her opportunity.

  Charlotte took one last look at the Possession page in her book as the triumvirate walked out of the school. She was nervous, this being her first time, and tried to convince herself just to do what came naturally. Still, this was the big time. She was about to enter Petula Kensington. To see the world through her eyes, to feel with her fingers, to possibly kiss with her lips. To look down and see a perfect body with curves in all the right places.

  Maybe it was fashionable for beautiful news-show presenters to go slumming in fat suits to experience “prejudice,” but Charlotte was looking for the opposite—a chance to be accepted. Admired. Popular. Petula’s was a perfect suit, one with a perfect life and a perfect boyfriend, and it was all hers for the taking. For the first time ever, she was in a position to take control and make her dreams come true.

  Meanwhile, Petula had positioned herself in the driver’s seat of the car, adjusting her makeup in the side-view mirror as it idled. She left the door open so that anyone who wanted to see her could have a clear view before she left the school premises. She was really generous that way. Wendy Thomas and Wendy Anderson got in the back, leaving the passenger seat open for the teacher, who was chatting away with a colleague.

  Petula, bored waiting for Gonzalez to finish his dialogue, decided to begin the Driver’s Ed lesson without him. Only Petula could get away with taking a Driver’s Ed car off school property without a teacher and without a license.

  “In honor of Mr. Gonzalez, let’s hit Taco Hell,” Petula suggested to the Wendys, as if they had a choice.

  “Sounds cool,” they said in total agreement.

  “Of course it does; I said it.”

  Petula hit the gas and pulled away from the curb with a screech and with the passenger door still open.

  “Later, asswipe!” Wendy Thomas shouted out the window to the teacher.

  “Wendy, he’s also our Spanish teacher… en Español, por favor!” Wendy Anderson said with a smirk on her face.

  “Hasta la vista, Señor Assweep-a!” Wendy Thomas screamed.

  Mr. Gonzalez yelled to the wayward car, completely humiliated in front of his colleague, but then again, Petula was a pro at humiliating people, especially teachers.

  That instant, Charlotte put her head down and ran flat out toward the open passenger door, which Petula was reaching to close. She slammed directly into Petula, stopping half in and half out, like the shower curtain incident. Charlotte’s intrusion unexpectedly sparked a reflex reaction in Petula, like a midday bout of restless leg syndrome, and forced her foot against the gas pedal and brake.

  The car jerked spastically as Charlotte struggled to “carjack” Petula. It bucked so hard, in fact, that Charlotte was thrown from Petula and out of the driver’s side window.

  With Petula momentarily free of Charlotte, the car slowed and Petula felt for a second that she’d regained some control. From the backseat, the Wendys were loving the fact that Petula had just driven off without the teacher, but they were less enthused about all the stop-and-go action. Petula played it cool as she resumed the driver manual–recommended “ten and two” position on the steering wheel and picked up speed as she headed for the parking lot exit.

  Charlotte regrouped also, reaching through the windshield to grab Petula’s hands. Petula swerved wildly to the left and right. Charlotte’s legs passed through the hood into the driver’s compartment and into Petula’s legs. She was stuck to Petula like a used piece of gum on the bottom of a shoe.

  As the car careened further out of control, the momentum pulled Charlotte against the front windshield, face-to-face with Petula, both of their eyes wide with fear. Having never been so close to her idol, Charlotte felt herself starstruck, even in these dangerous circumstances.

  “I’m sorry, Petula,” she said with utter sincerity.

  Petula, oblivious, gritted her teeth, stared straight ahead, and tried not to hit anything. By now, the Wendys were starting to show signs of serious stress as they were tossed from side to side in the backseat.

  “Motor vehicle accidents are the leading cause of teen fatalities,” Wendy Thomas whimpered under her breath.

  “It’s because researchers have found that many teens have trouble regulating high-risk behavior because the area of the brain that controls impulsivity doesn’t fully mature until age twenty-five…,” Wendy Anderson babbled nervously, uncharacteristically imparting a factoid she’d accidentally absorbed from one of her magazines.

  Wendy Thomas and Petula sat in stunned silence at Wendy Anderson’s outburst. Even Charlotte was momentarily impressed. The high-speed weaving of the car snapped them all back into reality.

  “Petula, do you think you could slow…”

  Before Wendy Thomas could get the words out, Petula snapped.

  “Buckle up, bitches!” Petula screamed. “At least this is the most popular way to die.”

  Charlotte was hurt.

  Petula was acting typically snotty and fearless, but she absolutely did not have a death wish. She just had no idea what was going on and needed to instill confidence in the troops until she could stop the car. That was leadership.

  Petula was dressed to lead too. She always made sure to wear her cheerleading uniform to Driver’s Ed. She’d caught the teacher eyeing her, er, pom-poms once and figured that with every drop of pedophilic sweat that bubbled up under his comb-over during lessons, she was that much closer to being the first in her class to get her driver’s license.

  Charlotte slammed into Petula again, awkwardly and aggressively, forcing her foot to slam abruptly on the brake.

  The car came to a screeching halt and all the girls jerked forward and then back. Charlotte was once again thrown from Petula, this time headfirst, giving a whole new meaning to “going through the windshield.”

  “That better not leave a scar,” Wendy Anderson said as she snapped off her seatbelt, lifted up her cheerleading sweater, and inspected her chest for anything that resembled a mark.

  “Too late,” Charlotte chimed in, noticing the implant scar showing from beneath Wendy’s underwire bra. Charlotte pulled her head and shoulders back into the vehicle as Wendy pulled down her sweater.

  Petula exhaled and tried to make light of the situation.

  “I paid so much for these shoes, it’s no wonder they have a mind of their own,” she said, turning to the backseat passengers and referring to her self-designed Nike iDs.

  The Wendys, who were as petrified as dead frogs in formaldehyde, burst out in sycophant-like laughter at Petula’s joke as they approached the drive-through.

  “There should be a warning: ‘Do not operate heavy machinery while attempting possessio
n,’ ” Charlotte said in frustration. Thinking that the third time is always a charm, she hoisted herself high up against the passenger window as if she were Spider-Man and tried to get inside Petula once again, causing the car to lurch forward at the pickup window and onto the curb.

  “What is up with you?” Wendy Anderson asked, unable to ignore Petula’s odd behavior any longer.

  “I… don’t… know,” Petula answered, honestly confused by her actions.

  “I do,” Wendy Thomas announced somewhat spitefully. “I overheard Coach Burres say that if Damen didn’t get at least a C on his Physics test, he wasn’t going to let him go to the Fall Ball.”

  Hearing this news, Charlotte flew into a tailspin. She paused for a second and then panicked.

  “NO!!!” Charlotte cried as she tried to dig her way into Petula. The car sped off yet again, knocking the value meal order sign, and everything else in its way, to the ground.

  A horrifying, white-knuckle ride of near hits and misses commenced as they barreled back through the school parking lot, completely out of control. Charlotte’s final, desperate attempt at possession looked like some weird all-girl Ultimate Fighting match, with Charlotte and Petula’s arms, elbows, knees and feet—both visible and invisible—flying in all directions.

  As they headed back toward the school, the marching band was out front practicing their arrangement of Marilyn Manson’s “The Beautiful People,” that is until the car hurled through the cyclone fence and screeched across the practice field, scattering the band, crashing into the flag pole, and leaving the world’s biggest lawn job in their wake. A tuba that was knocked from the hands of its player collided with the car hood.

  “What the hell is that?” Petula asked with utter disgust.

  I think it’s a… a… tuba,” Wendy Anderson replied.

  “There is spit in those things!” Petula, a world-class germophobe, screamed. “Band-people spit!!!”

  Their priorities reestablished, they all rushed to exit the car as if it were on fire. They grabbed their gym clothes out of their bags and touched the car door handles using various articles of clothing as protection. As far as they were concerned, a group of men in hazmat suits should have showed up with truckloads of industrial-strength Purell to kill anything that might be growing on them.