He lifted one shoulder up in a half shrug. "S'okay."

Time to get direct. I cleared my throat. "Colby." I put on my super-serious, big-sister face. "I need to know. For real. Are you making up the ghost girl thing?"

He peered up into my eyes and said softly, "No, she's real."

"Pinky swear?"

He held up his tiny finger in the most solemn of our oaths and wrapped it around mine. "I pinky swear she's real," he said. "But I don't want to play with her anymore."

I let go of his little finger. "Why?"

He crossed his arms tightly. "She's not nice."

A shiver coursed through my body. "I thought you said she couldn't talk."

"She tries, but I can't hear her. I can just sort of ... feel it. I think that makes her even angrier, when her mouth moves but I don't know what she's saying. She's gotten to be too mad all the time. I'm a little bit scared of her. So I told her to go away." He dropped his hands to the blanket again, rubbing his fingers back and forth over a seam.

"Has she?" I asked.

He shrugged his narrow shoulders, keeping his eyes down. "I don't know. It hasn't been long enough."

"When did you tell her to go away?"

He looked back up at me. "Right before you came into the room."

Last year, Dad and Marie took us to an amus.e.m.e.nt park. There was this ride there called the Twister. It's a giant cylinder and everyone stands with their backs to the wall. It starts to spin in a circle, faster and faster. And then the floor drops. There's this moment of panic. You're spinning a gazillion miles an hour, you can barely see, and your feet aren't touching ground. You think you're about to launch into the air, you wonder why you haven't fallen to your death yet. And then you realize ... gravity has stuck your body to the wall. But before you have a chance to really enjoy the fact that you're not going to die, the floor comes back up, the ride slows down, and then it's over.

In Colby's room, I felt like I'd just taken a ride on the Twister. I realized with absolute, panicked fear, that my little brother was telling the truth. The cold air I'd felt over my skin, blasting out of his room ... had been her. The glimmering girl. Kayla.

I couldn't deny it anymore. My house was haunted.

The room started spinning, my eyesight wavered, and I thought I felt the ground slipping from beneath me again. But Colby's worried voice brought me back.

"Do you think she's gone now?" he asked.

"I don't know, buddy." I tried my best not to let terror leak into my voice. "I hope so."

"Can you make her go away?"

My chest tightened. "I can try."

I left his room on legs made of rubber and sank into my desk chair. I remembered that Dad had left for another trip this morning.

I'd have to talk to Marie alone.

Things weren't always so strained between Marie and me. They'd started out great, actually. After a year of having no female influence in my life, Dad slowly introduced Marie into our day-to-day routines. Eventually Marie and I started doing stuff on our own, like movies and shopping. She took me for my first manicure. I liked her, even though she seemed to be trying almost too hard to win me over.

But then Dad announced that they were going to get married. That's when uncertainty crept into my belly and grew larger, day after day. Marie took over the house, became the person in charge, gave me ch.o.r.es, told me what to do. Instead of trying to be my friend, she was trying to replace my mother. I was hurt, confused, bitter, and angry.

I let her know it.

Not directly, but in small pa.s.sive-aggressive ways. Culminating in the day, a month after their wedding, when she sat me down and told me it was all right for me to call her Mom.

And I responded coldly, "I only have one Mom. She's dead."

Our relationship changed then. In that one moment. We both built our walls up, almost instantaneously. And the distance had remained ever since.

I only called her Mom in front of Colby, mainly to keep things simple for him. He knew my mother had been someone else and had died, but it wasn't something we talked about. Though Dad mentioned her in private now and then, I honestly couldn't remember the last time my mother ever came up in conversation in front of Colby or Marie. She was always there, though, hovering, in the cracks of conversations, in the corners of my thoughts. Never too far away.

Especially now. Finally accepting the idea that Kayla Sloane was haunting the house made me wonder ... why not Mom? Why hadn't I felt her presence in our old house? Smelled her jasmine perfume? Heard her voice in a whisper down the hall? Why Kayla and not her?

After dinner, I watched Marie as we collaborated on the dishes. When she'd first started dating Dad, she had long, black curly hair. I always wanted to touch it, to try to separate the curls with my fingers. Now it was shorter. She'd done the mom-cut thing after Colby was born. But she was still pretty.

Nowhere near as pretty as my mom had been, though. Or as smart. Or as nice. Or as anything.

In fact, the only thing she did better than my mom was cook, but I didn't even want to admit that. As if saying so, even only to myself, was cheating on my mother in a way.

"Done with that one?" Marie asked.

I refocused and nodded, handing her the rinsed-off plate to place in the dishwasher. We'd had baked ziti and garlic bread, one of my favorite meals. Colby was happily watching SpongeBob in the living room. Now was the time.

"Can I talk to you about something?" I asked, rinsing the last plate.

Marie took it from me, bent down to put it in the dishwasher, then straightened up again, wincing as she placed her hand on her lower back. She looked tired. I wondered if the new nursing job was harder on her than her old one had been.

"Sure, what is it?"

Now that the time was here, my throat felt like it'd been filled with sand. I fiddled with my hair, tucking it behind my ears. But stalling wouldn't make the words any easier to say.

"Colby told me that he sees a girl in the house. A girl who glimmers ..."

I told her every detail. About the cold rushes of air I'd felt. The pendant that had been placed on my clothing. How Colby talked to her and felt her emotions. How she was scaring him. How sure I was that this was the ghost of Kayla Sloane.

Marie was serious and somber throughout my entire monologue. Absorbing each word. Not interrupting me. I was glad. I'd expected hysterics since Colby was involved, but she seemed to be handling it seriously.

When I finished, I rubbed my sweaty hands on my jeans and waited for her to speak.

She stood staring at me for what seemed like an eternity, then said, "So this is your next tactic?"

My eyebrows lifted. "Excuse me?"

Marie tossed a dishrag on the counter. "I'm impressed, really. It's smart. We won't listen to you, so maybe we'll listen if Colby's in danger."

"Wait, what?"

"You don't want to live here. I get that. But trying to manipulate me by coming up with this story about my son is just low."

"That's not what I'm doing. It's not a story," I pleaded. "It's the truth. Talk to him."

Her face went rigid. "Oh, I'll talk to him all right."

I had an English paper due in a week on Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier. I sat at the desk in my bedroom and glanced over the a.s.signment in my hands.

a.n.a.lyze both the alienation of the main character and the perceptions of Rebecca.

I hadn't even cracked the spine of the book yet. I picked it up and tried to read it while waiting for Marie to put Colby to bed. Despite its wonderful opening line, I couldn't get past the first paragraph. I found my mind drifting and I have to start from the beginning again and again. I needed closure with Marie before I could concentrate on anything else.

Finally, I heard the soft click of Colby's door shutting and Marie's footsteps walking down the hallway toward my room. Then she came in and faced me.

I straightened in my chair, trying to read the emotion on her face and having trouble deciphering it.

"Did you talk to Colby?" I asked.

"Yes, I did." She paused. "My worst fear was confirmed."

I let out long breath. "So you believe me?"

Marie rushed forward, until she was only a foot away, towering over me in my desk chair. "You've been feeding this ghost talk to him, using him in your ploy to get us to move." She was whispering, though it seemed like she was yelling.

"What? No!" I shook my head vehemently. "He started talking about the ghost before you even told me about the girl who died here."

"Before we had our talk, yes, but perhaps after you already learned about it yourself at school."

"No, that's not it at all." I got up, hoping that standing face-to-face would help her see my sincerity. "Listen, Marie, this has nothing to do with how I'm uncomfortable living here. I'm truly concerned about Colby."

"Save it, Jade." She pointed a finger in my face. "Stop scaring my son with this ghost talk or you'll regret it."

I opened my mouth, but she interrupted. "I'm not going to tell your father. But if you speak one more word about this nonsense, I will have no choice but to let him know."

She stormed out of the room, and I flinched as the door slammed behind her. Marie already had her mind made up that I was a liar. So she'd gone in there, armed with questions, ready to manipulate Colby into answering the way she wanted. The truth never stood a chance.

I dropped my face into my hands. What could I do now? Tell Dad? Marie would manipulate him, too. Tell him I was making it all up and forcing it on Colby as part of my evil scheme.

No, I was on my own.

I booted up my old desktop, which ran about as well as my car. After seven minutes, it was finally up and running and connected to the Internet. Rebecca would have to wait another day. I had research to do.

Searching for "ghosts" and "hauntings" brought up too much information, most of it broad and useless. But I lost myself in it, continuing to read more and more, not even realizing how much time had pa.s.sed until a creak behind me pulled me out of my trance.

I looked behind me. Nothing was there. It was probably just one of those normal house noises, but it still made my heart race.

I turned back to the computer. The clock showed midnight. My eyes felt dry and scratchy from staring at the monitor for so long. I needed to go to bed, but I hadn't learned anything practical yet. I typed in the most specific query I could come up with: "Cause of haunting, why spirits stay, getting rid of ghosts"

The first link was a website for some ghost society in England. I clicked on it and was brought to their FAQ page.

Q. Why do some spirits linger in our world?

A. A spirit sticks around if he or she has unfinished business. Especially if the person has died a violent death.

The phrase "violent death" made me grimace, but it gave me another thought. That might have explained why my mother never came around. Her death was too early, but it was a natural one and she died with the peace of mind that Dad would take good care of me.

Kayla, however, may not have been so lucky. I continued to skim the questions until I came to: Q. Is it possible to get rid of a ghost?

A. Once spirits become attached to a place, it is nearly impossible to get rid of them. You can ask the spirit to stop bothering you. If she's an enlightened, positive spirit she might. But if you have a negative spirit in your home and the strange phenomena seem to be escalating, you're in trouble.

Q. What are the steps involved?

A. Do not show fear. In fact, try not to show any emotion at all. The spirits feed off strong human emotions and get energy from them. Tell the spirit to follow the light. The light is good. They should not be afraid of the light.

Q. What if I have a negative spirit?

A. Do not attempt to engage a negative spirit. We are the only ones who can help you with this. Our consultation price range begins at ten thousand - I shut down the computer with a groan. That whole society might be a scam, and I certainly didn't have money to pay them. I stretched out across my bed, physically and mentally exhausted.

I was going to feel quite stupid doing this, but I had to try. The instructions were simple enough. I kept my voice firm and unemotional.

"Please leave this place," I said, hopefully loud enough that Kayla would hear me, but not so loud that it would wake Marie. "You have pa.s.sed on and it's time to follow the light."

My neck blushed, even though no one was there to witness my embarra.s.sment. I felt silly, but I continued, "You are able to move beyond your earthly troubles. You will be happier if you do. Do not be scared of the light. It is a source of love and forgiveness."

I lay in silence, all my senses attuned, waiting for any response. The house made its usual creaks and groans, each one sending a shudder through me. But after a while my eyelids closed involuntarily. I was suddenly overwhelmingly tired. All I could do now was hope that my little speech worked. And that Kayla was a positive ent.i.ty. Because if she wasn't, all that was for nothing. And then I'd have to think about why she was sticking around.

What did she want?

And what would she do if she didn't get it?

So I was in the teachers' lounge, attempting to slip a mild laxative into the coffeemaker, when I heard footsteps and had to hide in a closet. And lo and behold, guess who two old hags were talking about? Yours truly. I only caught a snippet of conversation. They came in to grab something quickly and left. But here's what I heard.

"Kayla Sloane is aggressively ambitious and compet.i.tive, even socially."

Socially aggressive? Whatever.

And then the other Depends-wearing blue-hair clucked in agreement and added, "She's the worst bully in the school."

Really. A bully? Please. Bullies are stupid, powerless oafs who torture kids to make themselves feel better about being so dumb. Not me. I can be hard on others, but those are the rights handed to you when you're at the top.

It's funny. If 14, 12, or 16 all of a sudden stopped asking how high when I told them to jump, I'd actually have some respect for them for once. But I'd also be p.i.s.sed and probably ruin them.

And, yeah, I'm spoiled by my parents and, yeah, I'm used to getting what I want. But I work hard for it, too. Sure, some things are handed to me. But others take time and effort. The difference between me and losers is that I don't quit. That's why I usually end up getting my way.

But why am I mean? Simple.

Because I can be.

The next morning, my jewelry box was open and I could have sworn it was closed when I went to bed. But I didn't want to read too much into it. I slid my garnet pendant out and closed the lid. I even put a book on top of the box, though I didn't know what I expected to accomplish with that.

I rubbed my finger over the deep red stone, a deliberate choice for today since garnet was known to increase your energy when you were tired. One look in the mirror at the bags under my eyes told me it didn't have an instantaneous effect. I used the makeup tricks Faye had taught me to cover up both the bags and my fading bruise.

In school, my eyes constantly scanned for Donovan, hoping to catch a pa.s.sing glance in the hallway. Even though I knew he'd only be shuffling along, his head down, gliding through the halls of school like a ghost himself.