"Just be careful with the matches." Her voice is distant, troubled. She doesn't believe that I don't know what was making the noise. Would she believe me if I tried to explain it? I don't know, but I'm not ready to tell everything and have it rejected yet.

"We're okay," I say. "If you two have to work late, maybe you should go on to bed. I'll keep Court up until midnight. That's when she can go to sleep, right?"

Aunt Lisa nods, then says, "Yes. Midnight. You sure?"

"Yeah. Go on. Whatever the noise was has stopped. No more mice, either."

"You're a good boy, Alan," Aunt Lisa says, and now her voice is a little more relaxed. "Your mama raised you right."

"I guess," I say, and offer a weak grin. "I think me and Court are going to hang out in here for a while. Maybe unpack some of my stuff."

Mom says, "Don't stay up past midnight. You both have school tomorrow."

"We won't," I say. They leave, and I turn back to Courtney. "You okay?"

"No."

"You will be."

She shudders. "I don't think so. He'll come back."

Courtney makes me start another incense cone before she falls asleep. When she does, she's sitting propped up against the headboard of my bed, my stained and stinky University of Oklahoma cap still on her head. She looks more peaceful than I've seen her since we arrived in Maine.

"What have you done, cousin?" I whisper as I pull her into a more reclined position and put a blanket over her. "Did you invite this thing?" I look at the sudden acne on her face. Thanks to the magical informational powers of Google and Wikipedia, I now know that there are four stages to possession. The first is invitation. Obviously, something has been invited. At least, it's obvious to everyone who isn't over thirty and working in a paper mill.

The second stage is infestation and usually involves poltergeist activity. I glance at my dresser, where the broken picture frame lies. Third is obsession, and there's usually some kind of bodily change at that stage. Like sores. The last stage ... full possession.

That's the Christian version. The Navajo call the whole thing Ghost Sickness.

Call it whatever you want, I think Courtney has it.

* 11 *

AIMEE.

I push away from my dad, cross to the stove in two strides, and grab the knife by the handle. Storming to the dishwasher, I shove the knife into the utensil rack, then slam the door shut.

We don't speak. Dad motions for me to sit down, but I don't because I'm way too freaked out. His face looks horrified. "Aimee!"

For a second I can't breathe. I'm too shocked. "What?"

"How did you do that?"

"You think I made the knife twirl?" The dishwasher stays shut. I check; even in my anger, I check.

His face blanks out. "That's the only logical explanation."

"Dad!" Every inch of my skin hardens up with hurt. He thinks I did that? He thinks I'm so crazy, such a liar, that I'd make a knife spin? I somehow manage not to swear at him, not to give him the finger, and instead stomp upstairs to my room.

"Honey, I'm sorry, but if it wasn't you-it-it-I can't-" He's calling after me, but I don't go back. I can only be the peacemaker so much, you know?

Later, I get a text on my phone. It's from Blake: I AM SO SORRY. PLEASE DON'T THROW US AWAY.

I don't know how to respond to that, so I spend most of the night painting. I know this isn't normal. Paint thinner wafts through the entire house with its clean, sharp smell, but n.o.body wakes up. n.o.body comes to my room to see if I'm okay. I would like to pretend this doesn't bother me, but it does. I would look out the window at the river, but I'm afraid of what I might see. That's why I don't sleep. I'm afraid of what I'll dream. But at 3:10, I give in. I close my eyes and lean back against my bed, sitting up, like that will keep the dreams away.

It doesn't.

I am below water. There's a canoe on the surface, and someone swimming. The water freezes against my skin. A seal floats by, sad eyes warning me, as I try to break toward the surface, and then ... hands clutch my legs, pulling me down, down. My lungs are about to burst. My limbs are slow moving, stretching, twisting. Then I see who it is holding me: a man with eyes of water and a mouth that smiles, smiles, smiles ...

You are mine ...

I must be so wiped out from the nightmare that I actually sleep like I'm dead the rest of the night. No dreams. No fears. In the morning I go down to breakfast. I do not go kayaking. I can't trust the river, not today.

We all sit at the table, all four of us. If we put a dress on Gramps we'd almost look like a perfect family. We've all got cereal and orange juice. It's strange.

"Dad doesn't think the house is haunted," Benji announces.

We all look at him. We all look at Gramps, whose spoon dangles from his fingers. "Your father doesn't believe in ghosts." He ducks the spoon into the milk.

Benji leans up in his seat, arching forward, eyebrows down and ready for a fight. "How can he not believe it? There were footsteps upstairs and n.o.body was there!"

"I didn't witness it," Dad says with his mouth full. He never talks with his mouth full.

n.o.body says anything. Last night he said he can't believe in these things. I think it would hurt him too much, make him feel like he couldn't protect us like he couldn't protect Mom, and that makes me hurt for him so I try to break the silence. "Well, how's the Cheeto auction going?"

"We're at $850," Gramps announces. His eyes are proud. Benji whoops and Dad chokes on his orange juice.

"You're kidding," I say. "$850?"

Gramps raises his right hand. "Scout's honor."

"When were you going to tell me?" Benji demands. He pours extra sugar on his cereal. Dad reaches out and takes the sugar away.

"When you stopped being so cranky," Gramps says. He slurps more cereal, his eyes twinkling. He loves the running I'm-cranky-no-you're-cranky joke he and Benji have going.

Benji's mouth drops open and he points at his chest. "Me? I'm not the cranky one!"

"You two and your crankies," Dad says, and somehow the way he says it makes the conversation stop.

I try to think of something to say. I can't. I glance at my dad and wonder if he's thinking about the spinning knife, too.

"No river today, Aimee?" Gramps asks. "Kayaking's good for you. Good exercise, calms the mind."

"Nah." I shudder. "Not today."

"You need to sleep better. You're going to wear yourself out," he announces. "I found her wandering around last night. Had to tuck her into bed."

Dad's hand leaves his juice gla.s.s and clutches his coffee mug instead. "Really?"

My head feels like it's twisting around. "I don't remember that."

"Of course you don't," Gramps says into the awkwardness. "You were asleep."

Great. More ammunition for my father's "Aimee is crazy" theory. Dad changes the topic again. "The ER has been incredibly busy lately. The number of a.s.saults is way up ..."

I stop paying attention when he starts talking about the capital campaign for a new emergency room. Benji mouths, "Blah, blah, blah ...," which makes me giggle.

Dad's still there when Alan's truck pulls in.

"That him? Courtney's cousin?" he asks, shrugging on his suit coat and staring out the window.

"Yeah." I tug at his elbow. "Come away from the window, Dad."

"That's not much of a truck," he complains.

"It's fine."

"He's getting out. Blake never gets out."

"He's getting out?" I run to the window and look. He is. He's actually getting out of the truck and striding toward the door. Oh, wow-he's so tall and he's almost smiling. My heart does some weird fluttery thing but I do not become completely ridiculous and put my hand over it or anything. "Guys don't get out of the car when they pick you up for school."

"They do if they want to get all kissy-faced," Benji pipes up. He's peeking out the window, too. "Man, he's huge. You'd have to stand on a chair to make out with him."

"Benji!"

"She's turning red," Benji gloats. "Girls only turn red when they like a boy, right? It's like all the hotness goes right to their cheeks. Gramps told me that."

My dad turns and looks at me. His eyes widen. "He's got a lot of hair there."

"It's nice."

"He'll never get a job with hair like that."

"Dad, shut up. Stop being such a suit." I grab my bag and rush to the door. I yank it open before Alan can ring the bell. His arm's upraised and his finger is ready to push. Everything inside of me sort of sighs out just seeing him. I touch the bulge the medicine bag makes on his chest. I can't help myself.

"Hi," I manage, blushing harder. I can't believe I just touched him like that.

He smiles. "Hi."

Benji materializes behind me. "Dad. They've said 'hi.' They've taken the first step, but like most teenagers, they're failing to make any other words. They are dumbstruck by love. Dumbstruck! Dumbstruck!"

I whirl around and my backpack slams into the door frame. "Benji! Stop! You sound like Gramps!"

He grins devilishly.

I turn back to Alan, trying to apologize. "That's my little brother."

"I figured that by the whole height thing and the teasing and the fact that you're both in the same house in the morning. It was either that or you just rent kids to seem more wholesome. I go for wholesome."

"Funny. BYE!" I yell and shut the door behind me. We walk down the porch together. My hip b.u.mps into his leg.

He opens the door of the truck for me.

"How's Courtney?" I ask before he closes the door.

"Better ..." He looks back at my house. "She's better right now, at least. I think. Her mom is taking her to school. She insisted." We get in the truck. It already smells like him, deodorant and earth and good. "I'm glad you're okay."

"You thought I wasn't okay?"

"I worried about you all night," he admits, and puts the truck in reverse so he can get us out of the driveway. The truck kind of moans. "I couldn't get you on your cell."

"I forgot to charge it. Sorry."

For a second neither of us says anything. I try to ignore the heebie-jeebie feeling creeping up on me. On the ride in he tells me what he's learned from looking up possession last night. I tell him about my knife experience and how my dad thinks I'm somehow behind all the stuff that's happening in our house.

"But you think it's your mother?" he asks as he parks the truck.

We sit there for a moment. I must look scared or like I need comfort or something because he grabs my hand and says, "It's okay, Red."

Swallowing hard, I nod. "I don't want to be crazy."

"You aren't." He smiles, and I look away from his mouth to where our fingers touch as he says, "If you are, then so am I."

"That's not very convincing," I try to tease.

He laughs and says, "We should get going."

Just like that he lets go of my hand and we hop out of the truck. He doesn't lock his truck like Blake always locks his car. Not that I'm comparing them. Oh my gosh, we held hands. It was only for a second. Maybe Oklahoma people always hold hands. It doesn't mean anything. It can't mean anything. Blake would kill him if it meant anything.

During my free period I head to the library instead of the art room. I flip open my laptop and connect. The sweet librarian lady, Mrs. Hessler, smiles at me. She leans over the table, but she's careful not to look at my screen. She tries so hard to give us privacy.

"Let me know if you need any help, Aimee," she says. Her frog earrings dangle and sway against the bottom curls of her dark brown cropped haircut.

"Thanks," I say, and smile.

"You have such a beautiful smile." She straightens up. "Just like your mom."

She nods as if satisfied with her statement and turns away. I google "hex counter" and get all this c.r.a.p about decimal counters.

"Great," I mutter. Meanwhile, I check out the Cheeto bids on eBay. The picture Gramps took makes it really look like Marilyn Monroe. It's kind of freaky. I click back to the search engine and type: "protect from evil."

Bingo. The first site is some sort of healing medieval chapel based in the United Kingdom. It says that people vulnerable to psychic attacks are already nasty and already busy manipulating other people. But it also says there's a whole other category of people who are vulnerable, and those are people who have healer personalities. They are the kind of people who are ultra caring and compa.s.sionate and kind of absorb all the emotions of the people around them.

"We have workshops!" it says. "Sign up now."

"England is a little far," I mutter, and scroll down the page to where there's a special section about techniques to prevent psychic attacks. One of them is creating a protective field of energy, like a white light.

"Ha!" It's like what I do when I try to heal people.