The Secret Life of Sparrow Delaney (18 page)

Chapter 22

I
was taking my history book out of my locker the next morning when a hand shot over my shoulder and slammed the door shut. I whirled around to see Jack Dawson facing me.

“What the hell did you think you were doing?” he yelled.

I stared at him, openmouthed. “What—” “I told you he's been sneaking around, trying to get dirt on us.”

“Who? What?” I was so taken aback I couldn't even form a complete, coherent sentence. “I have no idea what you're talking about!”

Jack glanced around and saw that half a dozen students had stopped to listen to this impromptu drama with every appearance of enjoyment. He leaned closer to me and said, in a much quieter voice, “Detective Calhoun. I saw you yesterday at the bus stop, talking to him!”

I blushed. Unfortunately, this is my default reaction. I blush when I'm embarrassed, angry, nervous, or uncomfortable. But Jack doesn't know that, so of course I just looked guilty.

“I can't believe you would talk to him about my brother,” he said with utter contempt. Then he started to walk away.

“Wait!” I finally found my voice. “Jack, I didn't say anything to him.”

He kept walking. I hurried after him. “I would never tell anyone something private, especially not that detective!” Jack didn't slow down. I took a deep breath and tried again, even though I was getting a little annoyed at talking to his back. “He asked me questions, but I just told him that you thought Luke had gone out West. That's it, I swear!”

He finally stopped and turned to face me. “Yeah, right.”

“Please believe me.” My voice was less than a whisper. “Please.”

He looked at me, then down at the floor for a long moment. Then he nodded to himself and slumped back against the wall of lockers. “Okay,” he said, not looking at me.

“I'm not sure why he even talked to me,” I said, relieved.

“He wanted evidence.”

“Evidence?” I was baffled. “What kind of evidence?”

“Any kind that will prove his theory. He thinks my father killed Luke.”

We skipped homeroom. I had never skipped class in my life, but this didn't seem like a moment to worry about breaking the rules.

Jack, of course, was an old pro at rule breaking. I followed him through a door clearly marked “Emergency Exit,” up three flights of stairs that looked as if they were meant for maintenance workers, and through a door labeled “Authorized Personnel Only.” We ended up on the roof, where I'm about 100 percent positive we weren't supposed to be. There were ventilation pipes sticking up into the air and a panoramic view of the brand-new football stadium to the west. Jack slipped the lock off the door of a small cinder-block hut and ducked inside.

After a moment he stuck his head back out the door. “Well, come on,” he said. “Someone might see you standing out there.”

I followed him inside. There were mops, brooms, and various metal tools that looked heavy and dangerous. A couple of folding chairs, a well-used pack of cards, and a wooden crate that could serve as a table indicated that it was a place of leisure, as well as work, for the school's janitorial staff.

I perched gingerly on the chair, which had seen better days. Jack was sitting with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

“Nice spot,” I said in an effort to break the silence. “Very homey.”

“Yeah. I like to have a place where I can be alone.”

His words echoed Luke's so closely that I shivered.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

“No, not at all.” I crossed my arms. Then I thought that made me look too stern, so I uncrossed them and tried to look open and encouraging. “So why does Detective Calhoun think that your dad . . . that he's a suspect?”

He pressed his hands over his eyes. “It's so stupid. Luke and Dad weren't getting along that well last year. They were arguing a lot.”

“About what?”

“Not anything big, just”—he waved one hand vaguely—“stuff.”

“Like—?”

He shrugged impatiently. “Like . . . wearing his army jacket all the time. It's the jacket that Luke's dad wore in Vietnam, so you'd think Dad would understand why Luke wanted to wear it, but Dad still hated it.” He smiled slightly and rolled his eyes. “Dad's kind of a hippie. Well, he would say
former
hippie, but you know. He still wears tie-dyed T-shirts.”

“That doesn't seem like a big deal,” I said. “Wearing an army jacket, I mean.”

“Exactly. All their fights were about stupid stuff like that. Staying out past curfew, playing too many video games. And then Luke started getting all moody about something. He'd go off on his own all the time.”

He rubbed his eyes again. “One time he got a little turned around on the mountain and it got dark and he had to make a temporary camp overnight. Once it was light, he was able to find the trail again, no problem, and he got home by lunchtime. He was totally fine, he's
always
totally fine, but my parents went ballistic.”

“Still,” I said, “murder.”

“Yeah. I think Detective Calhoun has been watching too many episodes of
Unsolved Mysteries
,” Jack said, the sardonic note back in his voice. “It can't be that Luke just had enough of the fighting and took off. No, it's got to be some big made-for-TV special.”

“Did he actually accuse your father of murder?” I asked.

“Well, not
premeditated
.” Jack lifted one eyebrow to underscore the slight distinction being made here. “His theory is that Dad and Luke got into a big fight and Dad hit Luke in the heat of anger and it was all an accident. Which, of course, is
way
better than planning it out ahead of time.”

“But if there's no evidence—”

“There's no evidence
yet
,” Jack corrected me. “That's why Calhoun keeps sniffing around. When we lived back in Collins, he came up to me at soccer practice and started asking me questions about Dad. You know, how we got along, if he ever hit me.”

“You're kidding.”

“I punched him in the face,” Jack said proudly. “Broke his nose.”

“Wow. Really?”

“Well, I made it bleed anyway.” His grin faded. “You know what's worse than being accused of murder? Not being accused but having everyone think you did it anyway.”

Later, in my bedroom, I paced the floor, lying in wait for the most sneaky, duplicitous, manipulative ghost in the afterworld.

I felt a gust of freezing air behind me and wheeled around to see him sitting in his usual spot, the window seat.

For once he wasn't smiling.

I yelled, “When were you planning on telling me?”

For once I didn't care if anyone heard me.

“Telling you what? And don't you think you should keep your voice down?” He looked at the door as if expecting a police raid. “If your sisters hear you—”

“The police think your father killed you!”

“Oh, that.”

“Yes, that. Kind of a big secret to be hiding.” I couldn't remember ever feeling so furious.

“I did tell you there was a terrible wrong to be righted,” he pointed out.

I sat on the edge of my bed and put my head in my hands. “What am I going to do?”

“Tell my family what happened,” he answered in a matter-of-fact tone. “Tell them where my body is. Go to the funeral, maybe say a few heartfelt words—”

I shot him a disbelieving look.

“Okay, maybe not. But the rest of it . . . it's all perfectly simple, really.”

“I can't.”

“Sparrow.” He seemed to be feeling his way. “If someone could tell you where your father was—”

“Stop it!”

“I'm sorry.” He held his hands up in surrender. “That wasn't fair.”

I opened the window and crawled out onto the roof. I lay back, staring at the stars. Luke manifested a few careful feet away.

“If I pass on your message,” I said slowly, “you'll be able to move on to . . . wherever.”

“That is the plan,” he said equably. “I realize of course what a sacrifice you'll be making.”

I glanced at him sharply.

“You won't be able to hide anymore,” he reminded me, as if I needed to be reminded. “You'll have to let the world know who you are.”

“Hmmph.”

“Although I can assure you, the world will like the real Sparrow Delaney,” he added. “Very much, in fact.”

I took a second to absorb that. Downstairs a series of crashes and raised voices indicated that most of my family was home and engaged in what passed for quality time.

“But if I pass on your message,” I said again, even more slowly, “you will move on.”

There was a long pause. His outline began to fade.

“Yes,” he said finally.

Then he vanished, so my response was whispered to the air. “Then how can I help you?”

Chapter 23

“There
is quite a sense of expectation tonight!” Prajeet peered at the dozens of people who were finding their seats in the auditorium and talking excitedly to one another. “Quite an anticipatory buzz, I must say! Don't you feel that?”

“Actually, I feel sick,” I answered.

I was lurking behind the lattice screen. The temperature had dropped steadily during the day, so all the auditorium windows were closed. A rising wind whistled through the trees and rattled the shutters— unnecessary extra drama, in my opinion. I was already tense and jittery with nerves.

“In fact,” I added thoughtfully, “I may throw up.”

“Breathe, Sparrow,” he said calmly. “Breathe.”

“Yeah, right,” I muttered, but I did. I breathed.

A few breaths later I felt calm enough to peer through the screen and scan the audience. I saw Miss Canterville, who would be leading this evening's service, standing ramrod straight next to the stage. I saw Fiona's mother next to her, double-checking her makeup in a pocket mirror as her cameraman fiddled intently with lenses and lights. I saw Fiona bouncing with anticipation in her seat. I saw every Lily Dale medium, as well as psychics from other nearby towns, sitting throughout the auditorium, bright-eyed and alert, ready to jump up if called by Spirit. I saw ghosts lining the walls, hovering on either side of the stage, and standing in the aisles. Their faces looked as expectant as everyone else's.

But I didn't see the one particular ghost I was looking for.

The front row where my family usually sat had been reserved with a bright pink ribbon, but the seats were still empty. Although my family had been supplanted from the first row, Grandma Bee had commandeered the second. She sat dead center, clutching a cracked leather purse on her lap. In honor of the occasion she had actually tried putting on some makeup: a slash of red across her lips, two spots of blazing pink blush high on her cheeks, and a thick powdery coating of turquoise eyeshadow, which seemed to be giving her problems. She squinted into the middle distance, blinking.

Raven was muttering darkly to herself, as if preparing to bully any spirit that showed up into talking to her. Dove looked serene and unworried, while Wren seemed to be mentally calculating how many bills were still unpaid. Oriole freshened her lip gloss, as Lark and Linnet giggled and poked each other, completely ignoring the sense of occasion. My mother glanced casually around the room, as if looking for someone. After surveying every corner, I could see her shoulders droop, and I knew that she had been looking for me.

I felt a twinge of guilt, but not enough to join them.

The smell of baking cookies, overlaid with the medicinal odor of liniment . . . I turned my head and smiled weakly at my spirit guides.

“It looks like there's room to squeeze in there if you want to,” Floyd said in my ear.

“I think I'll sit this one out.”

He nodded benignly. “Well, we're here if you need us, honey.”

“We always are, you know,” Prajeet added.

Professor Trimble nodded in agreement, then said to the others, “We should take our places.”

They wafted over to sit in the reserved section. They took up only half the bench, and that was good, because just then Jack and his parents arrived and walked down the aisle to the front row. Every head swiveled to gape at them. Mr. Dawson looked wary and grim. Mrs. Dawson looked hopeful and worried. Jack's face was blank.

The Dawsons sat down, with Jack sitting closest to my guides. I saw him shiver and frown a little as he edged away from them. “And
that
,” I whispered with satisfaction, “is your proof that ghosts exist.”

“I think Jack will need a little more evidence than that,” said a voice behind me. “You know how skeptical he is.” Luke was leaning on the wall, one ankle crossed over the other. He seemed totally at ease, if not for the fact that he was, for the first time since I'd known him, biting his lip. He moved over to stand next to me and peer through the lattice screen at the growing audience.

“Looks like quite a crowd,” he said. He sat down abruptly, frowning and tapping his foot. After five taps he jumped up and walked back over to the screen. “My dad doesn't look like he wants to be here.”

I raised one eyebrow. “Feeling a little nervous, are we?”

“Never.” He winked at me, but it was a worried wink.

“Uh-huh,” I said.

The audience hushed as Miss Canterville moved to the front of the room.

“Good evening,” she called out.

“Good evening!” everyone in the audience responded.

Luke straightened his shoulders and even ran one hand through his hair, as if anyone but me could see him. “I think that's my cue,” he said softly. “See you out there.”

“No, you won't,” I whispered. I watched as he strolled to the front of the room as if he had all the time in the world. He edged past the cameraman, who shuddered a bit, looked nervously over his shoulder, and moved a few steps away.

Miss Canterville said, “Is anyone receiving any messages?”

It felt as if the whole world were holding its breath.

And nothing happened.

After thirty seconds of silence Miss Canterville's eyes started shifting around the room. After a minute Raven whispered something to my mother. Grandma Bee turned around to see if perhaps something astonishing was happening in another part of the auditorium. Mr. Dawson shifted impatiently in his seat, and his wife put a hand on his arm, patting it gently. My gaze shifted to Luke, who was looking back at me expectantly.

“Come on in,” Luke called to me. “The water's fine.”

Scowling, I shook my head.

“I'm counting on you, Sparrow,” he said. “Don't let me down.”

My heart jumped a bit at that, but I shook my head again, even more emphatically. Just in case he hadn't gotten the message, I mouthed the words
Leave . . . me . . . alone.

He held my look for a long moment, then nodded as if accepting a challenge.

He walked over to the front row, where his mother was now whispering urgently in her husband's ear. Jack was slumped down in his chair, his arms crossed, but I could see his leg jiggling nervously. Luke stood just far enough away so that Jack and his parents wouldn't feel his chill. He watched them for a minute with an expression of utter love and utter sadness.

Then he glanced over at me and gave me a friendly, conspiratorial smile. I gritted my teeth and clenched my hands and repeated over and over in my head the mantra that I had been using for years: “Go away. I will not help you. Find somebody else.”

Then he leaned over to touch his mother's face, gently, just like that.

“Oh, unfair,” I whispered.

And without willing it, without meaning it, without wanting to do it
at all
, I found myself walking out into the open, out to the front of the room, and saying to the Dawsons, “May I come to you?”