The Matchmaker Medium

By

Laurel King

Chapter One

The first time I talked to a ghost, I was five.

Of course, at the time, I didn’t realize she was a ghost. I thought she was just another girl in the bathroom, washing her hands. She looked normal to me, in her little jean shorts and pink t-shirt with a big flower on the front. Her pigtails were braided and really long, hanging down her back, the way I wished my hair would. My stupid hair was all poufy and curly, never laid down flat or looked right. I hated my hair.

I saw her when I opened the stall door to walk out into the main bathroom, as she leaned over the open hand-washing thing that always had water coming out of it. I loved that washing fountain thing.

“Hey,” I said, doing my best to be polite but not too weird. It was only my second week in school, so I was still pretty shy and didn’t know what to say or do most of the time.

She didn’t answer, just kept washing her hands, like she didn’t even hear me.

Rude.

“I said, hey,” I insisted, “you’re supposed to answer back.” Then I touched her on the arm.

She squiggled a little. Not like a squirmy kid that won’t hold still. More like a show on the TV when there’s a storm outside and it’s about to cut off. Like she was the TV show.

I froze. Even at the age of five, I knew something wasn’t right.

She stopped with the hand washing, settled back on her heels, her soapy-wet hands dangling at her sides, dripping all over the floor and her shoes. I mean, I saw the drops of water falling, and the floor was wet.

Her mouth opened a little, like she was about to talk—then she squiggled again, and closed it. She slowly lowered her head, looking real sad, her lip all pouty like someone told her she couldn’t have any of the yummy ice cream in her bowl.

That’s when I looked closer at her face, making my eyes a little squinty because I forgot my glasses again. I hated my stupid, gross glasses.

Wait a second, I thought, is that her?

“Isabella?” I said, my voice echoing.

She jerked her head up, fast, like I poked her with a sharp stick. Her eyes got really wide, and her shoulders rose as she took a really big breath to…

Her scream didn’t make any sounds. I could see her screaming but I couldn’t hear anything. Goosebumps jumped onto my arms and legs and everywhere, while she just screamed and screamed for—practically ever. When she finally stopped, we both just stood there looking at each other.

After a while, my goosebumps finally went away, and she just looked around the bathroom like she forgot something. That’s when I decided to help her.

“They’re looking for you, y’know.”

She looked at me so sad, shrugged her shoulders a little, nodded.

“Guess I should tell them you’re in here.”

She shook her head real, real slow, staring at me the whole time.

“Why not?”

A raised eyebrow, bratty little smile, like she was telling me ‘duh’.

Hmm.

The principal had talked to all of us in the cafeteria that morning, using the microphone so everybody in the school could hear. He was really tall and really dark brown with this really big poof of hair on his head, so I liked him on the first day because we both had stupid hair. He shook my hand when I walked up to the school so he was one of those ‘okay’ grownups that aren’t too weird. But when he talked in the microphone about Isabella, he sounded kind of sleepy or babyish or something, like he swallowed a bug and he was trying not to barf.

“Children, one of our friends has been—lost. There is nothing to be scared of, we just need your—help. If you see Isabella, you are to run and find the nearest grownup—a teacher, or playground aide, or even Mr. Morris when he’s helping keep our school beautiful. No matter what, you grab the nearest adult helper, and tell them!” His voice sort of did a hiccup-thing when he said the last part. I guess he was pretty excited and sleepy at the same time.

“But Principal Davis said if anyone saw you, we had to run and tell a grownup.”

Shaking her head again, picking at a Band-Aid on her hand with little pink hearts on it.

She knows they won’t believe me. I started huffing and puffing, breathing faster, squishing my hands to fists, getting madder and madder. Grownups never listen to kids. They tell us all this stuff, but then they never listen when we talk. I hate it!

“I’m gonna make them believe me!” I yelled, stomping my foot on the ground, splashing water onto my legs. “Just wait!”

Really mad now, I stormed out of the bathroom, slamming the door wide open. I ran-walked down the hall, trying to go fast without getting in trouble for running. Looking up and down the hall, into the little windows on the classroom doors.

Of course there’s never a stupid grownup around when you need one! They’re always there to boss everyone, but you can never find them when you want to. Stupid grownups.

“Amber?”

I spun around to see who it was, feeling like steam was coming out of my head, like Donald Duck in the cartoons. It was my teacher, Miss Melody. She was super young so she told us to use her first name, but nobody would because she was a grownup and it was just—wrong.

“Miss Melody!” Anger suddenly forgotten, I ran into her arms, bawling like a stupid sissy baby, “Isabella! I saw her! She’s—she’s down there!” Pointing back the way I came, towards the bathroom, my whole body shaking and snot running out of my nose, my eyes blurry.

“What? Oh, my God! You saw her? Where? Where is she, Amber?” Sounding hyper, her eyes really big, she was looking all over the place, like she forgot I was totally squished into her belly, wiping tears and snot everywhere.

“There! In the bathroom!” I yelled, pointing at the door.

“Come on, let’s make sure she’s all right, Amber!” she dragged me by my hand, practically running to the bathroom. If I wasn’t so scared, I would’ve laughed at how funny she looked running to the bathroom, like she had to pee really bad.

She slowed down right when we got to the door, putting her hand on it really slow.

“Isabella?” she asked. Nothing.

“Are you sure she’s in there?” she asked me.

I nodded, wiping my face with my sleeve.

She turned back toward the door, slowly pushing it open, looking up and down and around, but really sneaky-like.

Like she’s playing hide-and-seek, I thought. My goosebumps were back.

When we were both finally all the way in the bathroom, I realized it was empty. I mean, sure, Isabella could’ve been hiding in one of the stalls, but I knew she wasn’t.

“Isabella? Sweetie, you can come out now, it’s okay. I know you’re scared but we just want to let your mommy know you’re all right.” She opened each stall door, looking underneath each one first.

Is Miss Melody scared of something? I squished her hand even harder. When grownups are scared, it means something really bad is happening.

She finally looked in the last stall and found—nothing. Turning to look at me, her eyebrows smooshed down all mad, like my dad does when he catches my brother in his tools.

“Amber—is there something you want to tell me?” letting go of my hand, crossing her arms in front of her.

“About what?” I asked.

“About Isabella.”

“She was just here. Maybe she left?”

“To go where, exactly?” Miss Melody sure wasn’t very happy, now.

“Well, I don’t know,” I said, starting to get a little mad, myself.

She stood there squinting her eyes at me, started tapping her foot, looking around and thinking.

“Okay, Amber, time to go back to class.”

She grabbed my hand, yanked open the door, and dragged me back down the hall to the office.

“Hey, Lisa, could you tell Mr. Davis I need to see him real quick?”

The secretary was a mean fat lady, who always wore clothes that were way too tight.

“He’s on the phone. Maybe you should come back later, Melody.”

“I appreciate that he’s a busy man, but this is a bit of a situation.”

“Oh, all right,” she said. Getting out of her chair ended up being a lot harder than even I thought it would be. She squished and swiveled, turned and pushed, then finally grunted really loud as she popped out like the dough in one of those twisty-biscuit cans in the grocery fridge section.

“You just tell Mr. Davis the truth, now, Amber,” Miss Melody said really quiet, just as he walked out of his office.

“Miss Anderson, what can I do for you and…Amber, isn’t it?” he looked right at me, smiling big. I nodded my head and looked away, feeling guilty but not sure why.

“Yes, well, Principal Davis, we have a problem. Amber, here, told me she saw Isabella in the bathroom.”

His smile disappeared in a flash, replaced by a super-serious, grownup look.

“You did?” he looked into my eyes, surprised but—hoping.

I nodded my headed really fast, so he would know it was true.

“And was she there?”

Miss Melody shook her head.

“Hmm,” he said, rubbing his chin with his hand and looking kind of sad. “You didn’t see her at all?”

“No, Mr. Davis,” Miss Melody said, shifting her eyes to me for a second, then back to him.

“Well, that’s a problem. A real problem,” he said. “Are you sure you saw her, Amber?”

“Yes!” I said, way too loud. All the grownups were staring at me now, even the mean secretary who was about to shove a piece of chocolate in her mouth. Gross.

“I see,” he said, “Lisa, would you get the police department on the phone, please? Chief Bennett should do.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, dropping the chocolate back into the box on her desk.

* * *

“So, you were the only one who saw her?”

Chief Bennett looked at me with his nice grandpa eyes while I crunched on my lollipop.

“Yep.” Swinging my legs, wondering why everyone was just standing around instead of looking for Isabella.

He closed the little notebook in his hand, put his pen back in the pocket of his police shirt, and stood up. “Thanks for your help, Amber. It’s always important to tell grownups the truth.”

I watched as he went over to Principal Davis. They whisper-talked in the corner for a few minutes, pointing this way and that way, looking at me a couple of times. Miss Melody was talking to another police officer, who was writing stuff in his own little notebook.

“Amber Lynn Green, how many times have I told you to stop that lying!”

Crud, I thought, mama.

My mother came busting into the office with her perfect hair shining, her dress the brightest blue I’d ever seen, high heels click-clacking on the floor.

“Mrs. Green, thank you for coming,” Principal Davis said, holding his hand out to shake. Mama ignored it; she said principals and secretaries were ‘the help’ and wouldn’t touch them.

“Mama, I saw the girl—“

“Hush!” she yelled, rushing over to put her white-gloved hand over my mouth.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Davis, this girl just doesn’t know when to be quiet,” she said, trying to pull me up off the chair and push me out the door at the same time.

“Not to worry, ma’am, we have the police looking into things, but we thought it might be better for everyone if she just went home for the rest of the day,” he said, trying to smile a little.

“I totally agree,” mama said.

Great, I’m in big trouble, now, I thought, watching her as she glared at me in her meanest look ever. She snatched the lollipop out of my hand and dropped it into the metal trash can on the way out the door with a loud clang!

“You are in so much hot water when we get home, young lady!” she whisper-yelled at me, crunching my hand in hers as she waved and said nice-sounding things on the way out of the school.

When we got out to the car, she wouldn’t even look at me, slamming the door and throwing her pocket book into the back seat, shoving the keys in and starting the engine with a loud vroom!

She turned and looked at me, her face red and kind of sweaty, “Lying is bad enough, but lying about this is just pure evil, Amber Lynn.”

I couldn’t move. She never talked to me like that. Sure, she got mad at me for making a mess or lying about how many cookies I ate, but never this kind of mad.

She pulled the stick shift, stomped her foot on the gas, and the tires made a squealing sound on the way out of the parking lot. I watched the trees and houses passing by my window, forehead pressed against the glass.

Grownups are stupid, I thought for the millionth time.

After a while, I started feeling sleepy. I turned to settle onto the cool leather of the long back seat, when I saw her. Isabella was sitting across from me in the back seat, by the opposite window, watching stuff just like I was.

That’s when I knew. Isabella didn’t leave the bathroom, she disappeared from the bathroom.

“Are you—”

She turned, lifted her pointer finger to her lips, and told me one of the oldest kid secrets of all time: Shhhhhhh.

I looked at her shushing me with no sound, then looked at mama sitting in the driver’s seat with her mad face, and made up my mind.

I’m never telling anyone I can talk to ghosts, ever again.

If only I had kept my own promise.

Chapter Two

“Wow, that’s one funky story, white girl,” Jamal said, in his best pimp voice.

“Shut up, Jamal. At least I finally told you about my first time.” I drained the last few drops from my coffee cup and glanced at the digital clock on my desk: 8:59 p.m. Quitting time.

For a spirit guide, Jamal was pretty annoying. Sure, he was funny and smart, and even helpful most of the time. But when he got in this super-pimp mode, it was all I could do to keep from strangling him. Not that it would’ve mattered much; he was already dead.

“Come on, girl, don’t be such a drag. You know I meant a different kind of first time,” he said, strolling across the room in his classic pimp-walk style. Even though he had been my spirit guide for almost five years, I never got tired of looking at him in his hundreds of different ‘pimp outfits’. Butterfly collars, in zebra print or plaid, colored in every shade of brown or one of his too-bright reds, greens, and blues. He even wore tall platform shoes, wide-brimmed hats, huge sunglasses, and used a shiny cane now and again. No matter how dead he was, Jamal was always dressed to impress.

“Knock it off already,” I said, walking around my tiny office/front room, turning off lamps and locking doors and windows along the way. Although I had only opened my little ‘psychic matchmaker’ shop a little over a year ago, I was already settled into a nice routine. After growing up with a neurotic military officer’s wife for a mother, routine was a blessing I never took for granted.

“You know, I think you should go out tonight. Get you a piece of the ack-shun,” he said, swiveling his hips and moving his feet in some pretty decent dance moves. Well, decent for the seventies, anyway. Poor guy died during the height of the disco craze, so he was sort of stuck in Saturday Night Fever for all eternity.

“Nah, I’m more of a homebody now,” I said, gathering my purse and the current library book I was devouring. Yeah, I’m one of those people: the ones who know the library hours by heart, and the staff on a first-name basis.

I walked out the back door, pushed it shut and locked both locks. There had been a recent rash of break-ins, so I was a little more careful than normal, testing each one, pulling and twisting for good measure.

“I think you got it locked down tight, foxy mama,” he said, as he materialized through the back wall.

“Show off,” I said.

“Jealous,” he shot back. It’s kind of our thing; one of those inside-joke things.

I was walking to my car, keys in hand, trying to decide what the hell to do with my life, when my cell phone rang, the sounds of Miles Davis’ Blue in Green wailing across the parking lot.

“I’m never gonna get hip to that thing,” he said, shaking his head and walking far enough away that he could pretend it didn’t exist. Jamal was still not too keen about some of the ‘modern day’ conveniences. I can’t keep track of all the times he told me to go find a pay phone and ‘drop a dime’ in the past few years. Pretty hilarious, considering pay phones are almost non-existent and the few that do exist cost at least seventy-five cents.

“Hello?”

“Is this, um, Amber? Amber Green?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On who you are.”

Silence.

“Are you still there?” I snapped. No one was supposed to call me after 9 P.M. for business reasons, so I was already irritated.

“Yes, I’m here,” the voice had lowered to a whisper. The woman sounded like she was trying to decide something.

“How did you get this number?” I asked, mentally running through a short checklist of people who I would be yelling at, as soon as this call was over.

“From a friend. Your friend. Well, my friend who said they’re your friend.”

Well, great. This lady’s either crazy, or dumb, or—both. Just what I need in my life, more crazy.

“Exactly who are we talking about?”

“I’m sorry, you’re right, I probably sound like a nut job right now. Let me start over. My name is Victoria, I got your name and number from Marcus.”

Shit.

Marcus was a name I had spent the last few years trying to forget. Of course, being a medium, I had no hope of avoiding his murdered 7-year-old brother, Trevor. That sweet kid had followed me ever since the day I got him killed. Occupational hazards and all that, I suppose.

“Okay, I’m listening,” I said. As she spoke, I unlocked my car door, dumped my purse into the passenger seat, and plopped down to listen.

“Well, about a week ago, I was in this car accident.”

“Did anyone die?”

“What? Oh. No, no one died.”

“Okay, that makes things easier,” I said, turning the keys in the ignition so I could crank up the air conditioner. Here in Charlotte, hot and humid go together like ribs and barbecue sauce. It’s just the way it’s always been; or so they keep telling me.

“Anyway, it wasn’t a bad accident or anything, just crunched up the front of my car, so I had to get it towed to the body shop.”

“Okay,” I said, starting to feel boredom itching around the edges of my mind. Which is precisely when Jamal decided to make himself comfortable next to me, right on top of my purse. Well, not really on top of it, since he’s a ghost. But, still.

“Well, ever since it got towed there, my grandmother keeps coming to me at night.”

“Is that annoying?” Like you are to me right now… I thought, fiddling with the temperature controls on the dashboard.

“No, it’s just—after she died, she used to come to me every night. But lately she was only coming a couple times a year. I mean, it’s been a decade, now.”

“I see. So you’re upset about her coming more often, again?”

“Yes! That’s exactly right! You really are a psychic, aren’t you?”

Here we go again.

“No, I’m not a ‘psychic’. I’m actually a medium. Didn’t Marcus explain?”

“Well, sure, but I wasn’t really listening to all of it. He was going on and on about stuff, but when I heard that you could figure out things the rest of us don’t understand, I just knew I had to talk to you.”

“I appreciate the confidence,” I said, “but it’s a little more complicated than that.”

“Good! When can I come to your office? Are you open tonight?”

“Actually, I just closed up shop.”

Jamal started waving his arms around, shaking his head as if to say, No, no! Stop!

“Oh,” Victoria said, sounding like a teenager who just got un-invited to the coolest party of the year.

I watched Jamal flailing around for a few more seconds, trying not to laugh. Evidently, he had forgotten he was a ghost and no one could hear him but me, because he was still using hand motions and mouthing words to get my attention.

“But I could squeeze you in tomorrow afternoon.”

Jamal finally stopped, slumping down into himself with relief. I had to give him credit; the guy was hilarious when he wasn’t trying.

“Fantastic! I knew it would be soon.”

“So, I’ll see you tomorrow around, say, 1 p.m.?”

“Great. See you then!”

I ended the call and put the cell phone in my purse.

“What is wrong with you?” I asked.

“What do you mean?” he responded, doing his best impression of super-innocent.

“I mee-eaan why didn’t you just say whatever it was you wanted to say? I’m the only one who can hear you, for crying out loud.”

He chuckled, a deep, slow chuckle that made my stomach feel strange.

“Baby girl, I think sometimes I start to forget I’m—you know.”

We sat there in silence, the AC blasting my hair in a million directions and not affecting him at all.

“Yeah. Well, that was a stupid call. So why were you losing your mind?”

He looked out the window, at his hands resting on his knees, over at me.

“Just think you should take this gig. That’s all.”

Yeah, right. Jamal never talked about any of my clients unless there was something in it for him. Each time he helped another ghost—or spirit, or whatever people like to call them nowadays—he earned some kind of ‘brownie points’. After he helped enough of them, he told me he would get a kind of promotion. Honestly, I didn’t really understand it at all, but he was pretty serious about it. I thought it was kind of sweet.

“All right, all right, she’s coming tomorrow afternoon, so just drop it, okay?”

“I’m hip to the groove, baby!” he put his hand up for a high-five. I just stared at him.

“Oh, right,” he slowly lowered his hand, shaking his head, “guess it’s time for me to make like a tree and….”

The next time I blinked, he was gone.

“Good night, Jamal.” I shifted the car into reverse, turned the volume knob on my stereo up to almost full blast, and pulled out of the parking lot with Earth, Wind, and Fire pounding in my ears.

Chapter Three

“How’s it hangin’?”

I looked up from staring into my orange-colored beer, and saw the juiciest, shiniest, pink and pouty lips I had ever seen on a guy, surrounded by a perfectly-trimmed goatee. And just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, he smiled. Perfect, white, beautiful teeth between those lips.

God help me, I thought, suddenly feeling a little too desperate and a lot too drunk.

“Cat got your tongue?” he asked, looking at all the empty chairs next to me. “Did your friends leave you here all by yourself? Or are they just late?”

Finally, I found my voice, “Neither.”

Motioning to the chairs, he asked, “Mind if I sit here?”

I snorted in disgust, “Be my guest. No one else will.”

He took a few minutes to sit, readjusting his shiny suit coat, taking off his hat and carefully placing it on the table. I used that time to grab a few cocktail napkins and wipe my face off. Sure, I was on the short road to divorce now, but I didn’t have to look like a total loser-mess in the process.

“So, if no one left you here, and you’re not waiting for anyone, why are you sitting alone?

I shrugged, decided now would be the perfect time to get totally blotto, and starting guzzling my orange beer.

“Hey, hey, slow down, there,” he said, reaching across the table and gently pulling the huge beer mug out of my hand.

“Sorry,” I said, swiping the back of my hand across my mouth.

“Uh-oh,” he said, pointing to the stack of napkins. “You got a little bit of something right about—here.” He pointed at his own face, making a big circle around his mouth area.

Oh, god, I forgot about my makeup! I thought, about five seconds too late. I had decided this year I should dress like a witch, so there was a bunch of green makeup all over my face, and black lipstick on my mouth. By my own calculations, that meant right now I probably looked like a toad on a quick trip through the blender.

Nice. I thought. How can this night get any worse?

“Ha. Thanks. I forgot about the makeup.” Grabbing a napkin, I unzipped my purse and frantically searched for my compact. “Stupid purse. Always filled with a bunch of junk I don’t even use, which means I can never find the two things I actually do need when I want to.”

“That’s what the ladies do, sweet thing,” he said, leaning towards me. He smelled incredible, like some crazy mix of incense and coconut.

No wonder he’s wearing a pimp costume, I thought, he’s a perfect shoo-in.

“I guess,” I answered. I was always saying lame things in front of guys like him.

“Tell me what’s goin’ on, girl.”

I found my compact, opened it and nearly dropped it on the floor when I saw myself. Green and black makeup were smeared all around my mouth, and there were tear-tracks running down the middle of my cheeks.

Perfectly matches the way I feel on the inside, I thought, trying to minimize the damage by using the napkin, but failing miserably.

“Going on? I’ll tell you what’s going on. My husband’s an asshole—sorry, almost-ex-husband—and I’m alone on Halloween night dressed in a witch costume with makeup smeared all over my face, guzzling orange beer. That’s what’s ‘going on’.”

He laughed softly, shaking his head, still looking right into my eyes. Even though I knew I looked terrible, I was starting to feel a warm sensation down below that I hadn’t felt in months.

Is this guy actually a real pimp? I thought, studying him a little closer. He had a really nice-looking afro, his skin a warm mocha color, and his clothes were so authentic I was starting to wonder if his costume was one of those super-expensive rentals from the theater district store a couple of blocks down.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked, gesturing toward my almost-empty beer mug. “Not that stuff, a real drink.”

“Sure, why not,” I said, finally giving up on my makeup. “Do you work here or something?”

“What makes you ask that?”

“Well, that costume is pretty expensive-looking. I mean, I haven’t seen 70’s clothes look that real since the last time I watched a rerun of That ‘70s Show.”

“Watched what?” he asked, turning his head to the side and lifting an eyebrow.

“You know, that show with Topher Grace and Ashton Kutcher, the kids always in the basement hanging out, set in the 70s?”

“I, uh, must have missed that one.”

“How could you miss it? It was on for almost 10 years.”

What’s up with this guy? Has he been hiding under a rock?

“I don’t really catch a lot of shows on TV.”

“Oh.”

The waitress finally came over, dressed in a bumblebee costume, complete with bouncy little flowers on a headband. She cleared my orange beer mug away, looked pityingly at my obviously-terrible makeup and asked, “You want me to close out your tab?”

“No, I think I’ll have a—”

I looked at him; he just shrugged his shoulders and pointed at me.

“Okay, then, I’ll take a margarita on the rocks, with salt, easy on the ice.”

“Add it to your tab?”

“Actually, I think someone else is paying for it.” I gestured toward the drop-dead gorgeous guy sitting across from me, but she didn’t even look at him.

“Um, sure, okay, whatever.” She left without a second glance, switching her butt as she walked so the foam ‘stinger’ hooked to her black tights would wiggle. Sexy bumblebee costumes for toddlers; it’s all the rage! I thought.

“So, tell me what’s happenin’. What’s good?” he asked, leaning toward me.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you told me your soon-to-be-ex-husband’s an asshole. Tell me why?”

“He cheated on me.”

“That ain’t cool.”

“Ha. That’s an understatement.”

“A lot?”

“What?”

“Did he cheat on you a lot? Or just once or twice?”

“Are you serious?”

He looked at me for a few seconds, genuinely confused. “Yeah. Dead serious. Why? Do people tease you about this or something?”

“No, no, it just seems strange for you to ask ‘once or twice’ like that’s okay.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

Great, I’m already pushing this guy away and it hasn’t even been five minutes. I was pretty famous for annoying people in the first ten minutes of meeting. In fact, I had a bit of a ‘reputation’ for that in my circle of friends. Our circle of friends. Well, his circle of friends. Whatever.

“Sorry, I get a little touchy about the subject of cheating, now that it’s the main focus of my pathetic life.”

“You don’t need to apologize, he should be the one apologizing.”

“I guess so.”

The waitress came bouncing over with my margarita, in a humongous glass.

“Here you go!” she chirped, “Let me know if you need anything else!”

I looked over at him, eyebrows raised, Want anything?

He shook his head, hands up, Nah, nothing for me.

“Nope, we’re good.”

She looked at me quizzically, creased her eyebrows, frowned a little, then turned and walked away.

“What’s her problem?” I asked, using the little umbrella in my drink to stir the tequila into the sweet and sour mix, for easier gulping.

“Maybe she’s not used to seeing people who talk to ghosts.”

I stopped stirring.

“What did you just say?” I asked.

“Ghosts. Maybe she isn’t used to seeing people talk to ghosts on Halloween, at a fancy club in the middle of K Street.”

I’m pretty sure my mouth was hanging open. No, I’m positive my mouth was hanging open.

You gotta be kidding me, I thought, not again.

“Are you telling me you’re a ghost?” I dropped the stupid umbrella back in the drink, planted my hands on the table, readying myself for a physical battle. With who, I’m not sure, because if this guy was a ghost, who was I trying to fight?

“See? Now you’re hip to the groove, baby.”

A ghost. Again. Only, this time, I was grown, about to be divorced, and wearing a stupid costume in the middle of a nightclub in D.C.

“Why are you here? Why me?”

“Well, first of all, I died, not too far from here. And, second of all, why not you?”

“How did you die?”

“Long story, pretty lady. The important thing is: now I have someone to talk to. You.”

“No, no, no. I talked to ghosts before, and it always turns out bad for me. Either someone doesn’t believe me, or the ghost is all belligerent, or something. I’m done with it. For good.”

“Hmm. Maybe. Let’s just see what happens. Maybe it’ll be different this time around.” He leaned even closer, staring right into me with his big, golden-sparkly, shining eyes. Oh, my god, I’m getting turned on by a pimp-ghost.

“Are you really a pimp?”

He laughed out loud, a rumbling, warm sound from deep inside his chest. “Well, I was a ladies’ man back in my day. I s’pose you could call it that.”

“I thought so. Only a pimp would act that way with a total stranger. Especially me.”

“Now, don’t sell yourself short, foxy mama. Any man would be a fool to just let you sit here by your lonely self, staring at that god-awful orange drink.”

“Really? That’s funny, cuz I’ve been sitting here doing just that for about two hours, now. And no ‘man’ came over to talk to me.”

“That’s a real shame,” he said, shaking his head like it was the biggest tragedy since the fall of Rome. “No beautiful woman should be sittin’ by herself, on a night like tonight. Men these days forgot the art of gettin’ a brick house like you back to the crib.”

“A what?”

“Brick house. To the crib. Which thing don’t you get?”

I laughed, loud and hard, for a few minutes. He watched me, curious. After some hiccups and hitching my breath a time or three, I finally calmed down, dabbing at the corner of my eyes with another napkin.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

“You. Us. I mean, here I am, talking to a ghost-pimp from the disco days—which, by the way, was only a few decades ago—and it’s like we’re speaking Spanish and Italian at the same time. Some stuff gets through, but a lot of it is ‘lost in translation’.”

He laughed too. It was nice to laugh with a guy, after weeks of fighting with one. Too bad this one was a ghost. Leave it to me to hit it off with the only dead guy in the room, haha.

“I guess we got a lot to work on, if we’re ever gonna get anything done, huh?” he asked, fiddling with his shirt collar.

“Wait, what?”

“We have to work out our differences—”

“No, not that part, the part about getting anything done. What is that supposed to mean?” I asked, worried that I already sort of knew where this was going. “I don’t want to get anything ‘done’ with you.”

“Look, Amber,” he said, “I picked you for a reason. There’s some things we need to get done around here, and you’re the first one who can relate to my kind that doesn’t scare the livin’ hell out of me.”

No. No, no, no. No way. This will be a disaster.

“No!”

“Too late.”

Ugh.

Maybe I could just—

“Don’t bother.”

I looked at him, eyes widening.

“Did you just read my mind?”

“Not exactly, but it’s the same idea.”

Crap. That means the whole time we’ve been talking—

“—I knew what you were thinking. Yep.”

I sat there, frozen in fear.

“Don’t be afraid, Amber. I don’t want to do anything bad to you. Besides, it’ll be fun working with a lovely lady such as yourself, who thinks I’m a stone-cold fox with juicy lips.”

Good grief. Being embarrassed is one thing, but this was starting to feel like one of those ‘at school with no clothes on’ dreams.

“Yeah, I hate those. Unless there’s nothin’ but females in the room, then I’m a little more ‘up for the occasion’ if you know what I mean.” He winked at me, made a click sound with the side of his mouth, and smiled really, really big.

“Stop that!”

“What?” he grinned even bigger, teeth almost glowing in the dark they were so bright. “What’d I do?”

“Get out of my head you big jerk!” I swung to smack him, and caught nothing but air.

He laughed hugely, slapping his leg, tears glistening in his eyes, getting a really good hardy-har-har going, at my expense.

Which is the exact moment the stupid waitress showed up. Staring at me like I was totally insane. To be fair, seeing me yell at—and try to smack—the nobody sitting across from me probably made her think I was just the tiniest bit of crazy.

“Uh, here’s your check, whenever you’re ready. But—no hurry, okay, just, um, take your time, ma’am.” She slid the bill towards me, very slowly, as if—at any second—I might suddenly lunge and devour her eyeballs in a couple of quick bites. As soon as the paper was out of her reach, she snatched her hand back and did a lightning-fast about face to book it out of there.

“Great, now the wait staff here thinks I’m totally bonkers.”

He was still laughing, trying to calm himself down.

“Sorry, sorry, little mama, I’m trying!” He wasn’t really trying.

“No, no, by all means, go ahead and make yourself sick laughing at me. Obviously, I’ve got nothing better to do than sit here being ridiculed by a dead guy.”

That did it.

He instantly stopped laughing and composed himself, glaring at me the whole time he straightened his shirt and leisure suit, smoothed his goatee, and patted his ‘fro.

“So let’s get down to business, then,” he said, totally serious, now.

“We don’t have any business, Mr. — ”

“Jamal. Jamal Turner; hail from right here in good ol’ D.C., southeast.”

“Oh.” That’s not exactly Mr. Roger’s neighborhood, it’s pretty rough.

“Don’t I know it.”

Now it was my turn to glare.

“Sorry, sorry. I spend so much time listening to people’s thoughts, it’s hard to shut it off.”

“Seriously? What are you, some kind of disco-ghost-spy?”

“Nah, nothin’ that serious. Just comes with the whole ‘being dead’ thing.”

I looked at the check sitting on the table in front of me.

“I don’t suppose the dead have credit cards, do they?”

“Credit cards? Who uses those things?”

“Only every person in this century, that’s who.”

“Oh. Well, no, we don’t have that stuff on this side. No need, y’know?” That smile, again.

“How typical. Guy offers to buy me a drink, but doesn’t have any money to pay for it. Why did I expect anything different?”

“Sorry.”

“Whatever.” I grabbed my purse, shuffled through it again, muttering under my breath. Finally, I grabbed my credit card holder, randomly picked one, did a little ‘air math’ and smacked it down on the table next to the bill. “This should be good for an amusing minute or two over at the register.”

I signaled for the waitress, who saw me then turned her head really fast to pretend like she hadn’t.

“Okay, Jamal, what kind of work is it that you want ‘us’ to do together?”

“Now we’re talkin’,” he said, rubbing his hands together in pleasure. “How about we go to your place and talk about it, without all these people thinking you’re crazy for talking to no one?”

“Good idea.”

“Tell you what—you wait for the bee girl, and I’ll meet you outside.”

“Okay,” I said, looking around for the bumblebee toddler.

He gathered his things, and stood to leave. But, instead of walking to the huge front door, he walked right through a whole crowd of people—and the wall they were standing in front of—without the slightest hesitation.

“Holy crap,” I whispered, “what a show off.”

He poked his head back through the wall, and mouthed the words I heard in my head: What are you, jealous?

With that, he winked, and walked back through the wall all over again.

Chapter Four

“Is it okay if I come in?” asked a muffled voice, through the inner office door.

“Yeah! Just push the door open!” I yelled, trying to be heard over the sound of the TV. Jamal was watching another one of his reality TV shows, at full volume. This time, it was Hell’s Kitchen, with Chef Gordon Ramsay yelling at some ‘stupid cow’ who had made the tragic mistake of handing him barely-cooked pork.

Grabbing the remote, I pushed the volume down button at least 10 times, until Chef Ramsay’s screaming was only a small roar, “Aw, come on, you bleep muppets! Do you really expect me to serve this bleep garbage?” The guy cussed so much, I was starting to wonder why they even bothered putting the show on regular network TV, if you missed half of it from all the bleeping.

“Hi, Amber! I’m Victoria!”

A very chunky woman came barging into the room, hips swinging back and forth in a dizzying wave, as she crossed the room with her hand out. I shook it.

“You’re welcome. Have a seat.”

She turned and looked at the two rickety, second-hand chairs next to her. Immediately dismissing them as choices, she looked over at the lopsided thrift store couch against the wall. Bingo. Hefting her jiggling body on short legs that looked like they might collapse at any second, she huffed and puffed and finally dumped her colossal self onto the threadbare fabric with a resounding thud! I watched her for a few seconds, mostly to make sure the couch didn’t cave in, then sat back down.

“What can I do for you, Victoria?”

She was messing with an inhaler. Shake-shake, cap off, into her mouth, push it down, and swish. Inhale quickly, hold he breath for a few seconds. She held up a pudgy, sausage-fat index finger, waiting. At least a hundred hours went ticking by, as we both sat there doing and saying nothing, Chef Ramsay’s yell-bleeping in the background.

A huge hooooo as she let the air back out.

“Sorry ‘bout that, doggone az-mer makes me crazy.”

Az-mer. Nice, I thought. Just one more thing to add to the list of “Carolin-isms” I need to learn.

“My grandmamma came to me again last night, just like I thought she would.”

“Yeah? What did she have to say?”

“Nothin’. It’s the darndest thing. Even when I was younger, she never said a word. Always usin’ her hands and mouthin’ words, trying to get me to do this or do that. I could hardly figure it out.”

Being quite familiar with the fact most ghosts don’t make any noise, I could empathize.

“Well, what did it seem like she was trying to tell you?”

“Y’know, I’m not sure this time. She made her hands like she was drivin’ a steering wheel, and then a big crash thing, so I think she was talking about the car accident. But, besides that, I couldn’t make head nor tails of what she wanted me to do.”

“Maybe it would help if you tell me the whole story of the car accident. That’s when she started coming to you every night, right? After the accident?”

“Yep.”

“Well, let’s start there, okay?”

“All right, well, I guess the best thing to do is start from the beginning.”

“Good, I’ll just turn on my digital recorder and take a few notes while we talk.”

“Fine by me,” she said, readjusting herself and finally settling in.

I pushed start on my handheld digital recorder, grabbed a pen and flipped to a new page in my notebook.

“All right, go ahead,” I told her.

“It all started about 30 years ago, when I was just a little thing.”

Lord help me.

“I’m sorry, I meant for you to just start with the accident, Victoria.”

“Oh. Well, why didn’t you just say so, then?”

I groaned internally, saw Jamal chuckling in my peripheral vision. Jerk, I thought, making sure to glare at him with my hateful, evil face on. He stopped laughing, smoothed his ‘fro, and tried to act serious.

“Go ahead, Victoria.”

“So, the other day I was coming out of the Food Lion, I had just done my shopping for Mother’s Day. I got some ribs, some barbecue sauce, some ‘taters for the ‘tater salad, a big jug of sweet tea—”

“Got all your food for a Mother’s Day cookout, I got it.”

“Yeah. So, I have all the food in the trunk, and I’m trying to drive slow, so’s not to smash the cake or anything. I’m bein’ real careful, obeyin’ the speed signs and all, when all of a sudden, this big ol’ truck comes up outta nowhere and just plows right into me!”

Starting to sweat already, she pulls a small handkerchief from a secret spot just under her shirt, probably in her bra. Watching as she dabs at her forehead and upper lip, and wipes underneath her double chins, I remember I need to get back to the gym tonight.

“Which direction?

“What?”

“Which direction did the truck hit you from?”

“From the passenger side. ‘Bout scared me to death!” she said, starting to get herself all worked up.

“Did you stop and get out?”

“Well, I was already stopped, after getting’ smashed by a truck.”

“Fair enough.”

“I just pullt my car over to th’ side, and put her in park. Then I got my cellular out, and got the police on the horn. Officer James came right on over, he knows me real good, been friends since we were kids. That terrible man didn’t even have in-shurnse.”

I looked up from my notes, confused.

“What?”

“Which part, what?”

“Who didn’t have the—“

“The other driver, that terrible man. Didn’t even have the common decency to have in-shurnse on his car. Now I have to put it all through mine. Hope it doesn’t make my rates go up.”

Oh. In-sur-ance. Gotta love the south.

“Did the police—did Officer James—give you a ticket?”

“’Course not! It wasn’t my fault!” Victoria yelled, sitting forward on the obviously-sagging couch. I actually felt kind of sorry for the couch, now. Poor thing; never hurt anyone, just wanted me to bring it home from the thrift store.

“Who was the other driver?”

“I don’t know. Richard somethin’ or other. It doesn’t really matter, does it?”

Only to the in-shurnse company, I thought. Jamal started chuckling again, in my peripheral vision. When I turned and looked, though, he quit.

“So you went home after that?”

“After the tow truck come, I had to get Officer James to carry me home with my groceries. By then, the cake wasn’t lookin’ too good, but I didn’t feel like messin’ with returning it and all that nonsense. So I got the groceries put away and right when I picked up my kitchen phone to call Ruby—she’s my best friend since kindy-garden—my grandmamma showed up. Right there, next to the old stove she used to cook at.”

Finally, we get to the point, only five hours later. I drew a line under my other scratchings, and wrote: Grandma’s ghost in kitchen.

“So, that was about what time?”

“It was exactly 10:31 a.m. on my stove clock. I know, cause I was lookin’ right at it, when her ghost sort of blurred it out.”

I stopped taking notes and put my pen down. Hmm. I wonder if she really can see ghosts?

Looking over at Jamal by the TV, I asked her, “Victoria, do you see your grandmamma in here right now?”

She sat up a little on the poor couch, looking around the room, really slowly. I watched as her eyes went to—and then past—Jamal.

“Nope,” she said, settling back into the cushions with a muffled squeak.

So, maybe she can see her grandmother’s spirit, but not all ghosts in general.

“Or she’s crazy as a loony bird,” Jamal offered, from his spot by the TV.

Ignoring him, I asked, “Victoria, have you ever seen any other spirits? Or just your grandmamma?”

“Lemme think,” she said, looking up to the ceiling while she tapped her chin with a forefinger. “No, I guess not. I thought I did once, but it was just a dream.”

“A dream?”

“Yep. I was small, and it was just after granddaddy died, he was a mean ol’ bugger. I thought I saw him starin’ at me while I slept, but that was just a dream. Well, more like a nightmare, I guess.”

Jamal got up and walked over to Victoria, stood the side of her, leaning over to see her better. For such a tall guy to get that low was almost comical, like he was folding himself in half.

He squinted his eyes, pulled his head back a little, and lifted his nose in the air like he was smelling her. I watched him go through this strange ritual, fascinated and horrified at the same time.

Does he do that to me? I wondered. He glanced over at me and shook his head: No.

Finally, he stood up, unfolding himself back to full height. He walked over to me and whispered in my ear, “She’s got it.”

It. She’s got it. What I have. What only a few other people I’ve been around have. The Spirit Mark. At least, that’s what I call it. There’s no real name for it, and there’s certainly no diagnosis or cure for it. I only call it that, because those of us who have it seemed to be singled out; special, in a way. Usually, we get ‘marked’ when we’re very young, and it stays with us throughout our lives, either constantly or only popping up now and then. She seemed to have the latter. Too bad she didn’t know how lucky she really was.

“Were you scared when you had the—nightmare about your grandfather?”

“Scared?” she seemed to contemplate this for a time, chewing on her bottom lip. “I guess I was a little scared. That’s why I say it was a nightmare, instead of a dream. But he was mean in reg’lar life, too, so maybe I was just scared that he came back and would start cursin’ and yellin’ things at me again. He had the old-timer’s disease, always forgettin’ who everybody was. Most of the time, I just felt bad for him, but when he got to hollerin’, it was hard to feel anything for him but mad.”

I knew, firsthand, how bad Alzheimer’s could be. My own great uncle had it when I was a teenager. Even during that rebellious, you-can’t-make-me phase of my life, I was instantly brought to tears by his raging, senseless rantings. The few times I saw him, I wished with every fiber of my soul that he would die so I would only have to see him in his ‘muted’ version—motions and actions, with no sounds. I shuddered at the memory, a physical response I wasn’t expecting.

Jamal bent toward my line of vision, his head sideways, trying to make me laugh. It didn’t work.

“Okay, so…you’re in the kitchen, it’s 10:31 a.m. and your grandmother’s just standing there. Is she trying to tell—I mean, show—you anything?”

“Not at first. She was just standin’ there. That’s why I thought she was just doing her normal thing, checkin’ in on me or what have you.”

“Is that what she usually did?”

“Yeah. Just lookin’ at me, smilin’ a little, like she was glad I was doin’ all right.”

“Is that what she did while she was still alive?”

“Pretty much. She was a quiet lady, real nice and all. Granddaddy was the one who talked a lot, tellin’ all these stories all the time. I don’t think I take after granddaddy’s side of the family at all. They never know when to shut up.”

Jamal suddenly plopped down into one of the chairs, he was laughing so hard. I couldn’t help but smile a little, with his deep laughter echoing in my ears. Victoria wasn’t as amused, though.

“Is something funny?” she asked, her giant face turning an interesting shade of maroon.

“What? Oh, no, no. Sorry. I was thinking about my great uncle, who talked all the time.”

She seemed to calm a little, her face slowly returning to its original, splotchy white-and-pink color.

“Well, that’s about it for the first day, I guess,” she said, dabbing at her forehead again.

“She didn’t come back that night?”

“Nope. Just stood there for a few minutes while I was puttin’ the groceries away, then she was gone the next time I looked up. I didn’t see her again till the next night.”

“And then she—”

“That’s when she started the whole ridiculous charades game.”

“What does she do when she ‘plays charades’?”

“Like I said before, she acted like she had the steerin’ wheel in her hands, then a big crash thing.”

“I thought you said she only did that last night?”

“Did I?” she asked, looking genuinely confused. “Well, maybe I was wrong. Could be, she maybe started doin’ it that second night after the accident. I’m not rightly sure, now.”

This is like digging for treasure in swampland, I thought. How do I always end up in these situations?

“Does she ever come to you anywhere else? Or just the kitchen?”

“Oh, lord, yes. She comes to me in my room, or out on the porch, even in the laundry room, one time. She ain’t shy about where she shows up. Just shy about sayin’ anything. Or maybe she can’t say anything? I never thought of that before. Whatta you think, Amber?” She started to get off the couch, but couldn’t quite seem to get the energy or momentum. After a few tries, flailing her arms a little in the process, she finally gave up and leaned back into the cushions. I am really going to the gym tonight, now. No matter what else happens. Ugh.

“I think you’re right. She probably can’t talk or make any noise. Most of the spirits I see can’t, either. Only a few special spirits can be heard.”

Of course, Jamal picked this moment in time to wander closer, excitedly pointing to himself, as if to say, Me! Me! I’m special!

“You can actually hear them?” Victoria asked, totally amazed by the concept.

“Yep.”

“Well, what do they say to you?”

I shrugged, “It’s different every time. Some of them want me to help them, but others are trying to help me. It just depends, I guess.”

“Are there any spirits…here?” she asked, motioning to the room, her eyes wide with anticipation.

I looked over at Jamal, who was suddenly very adamant that he was not in the room. Now you want to be invisible? I asked him silently. He nodded, big up-and-down bobbing movements, almost cartoonish. Oh, fine, I thought. He sighed in relief.

“No, not right now.”

“Oh.” Her disappointment was palpable, and almost a little funny, in a sad-funny kind of way. Not ‘haha’ funny, but ‘aww’ funny.

“So what’s next?” she asked.

“For what?”

“Like, do we hold a séance or something? Ask my grandmamma to come and talk to you?”

“No, I don’t need to do a séance. If she were here, I could just talk to her like you and I are talking right now.”

“And you’re sure she’s not here? She didn’t, maybe, follow me?”

I chuckled a little. “No, she’s not here. And, yes, I’m sure.”

“Well, can you look for her? Can you ask her to come here? I need to know what she’s trying to tell me. She looked so worried! D’you think she’s trying to warn me about something? Oh, lord, what if it’s the dia-beetis? Or the big C? Oh, lord, oh, Jesus!”

“Calm down, Victoria. If it were that serious, she’d be here right now, trying to get my attention. Since she’s not here, it must not be too important.”

She sighed loudly, visibly relieved.

“Maybe you could just go home and rest, and call me if she appears to you again tonight?”

“I s’pose that would be all right. But first, I have to call the body shop and see if my car’s fixed yet. I can’t have the taxi totin’ me all over the place, and I’m not payin’ for no danged renter car, neither!”

Jamal stood and walked to Victoria, looking at her with new interest.

“Which shop?” he asked, pointing from me to Victoria, Ask her.

Rolling my eyes, I asked, “Which shop is your car at, Victoria?”

“Oh, it’s over to that Spanish fella’s place, down 49. Y’know, that one where it has the big sign about replacing your window-shield for free? I used ‘em once, when I got a e-normous crack in mine, from a rock spit out by a semi. They just called my in-shurnse and I didn’t have to pay one red cent!”

Jamal said, “She needs to tell you more.”

What? Why?

“Just keep her talking.”

I’m gonna kill you for this, I thought. Wait. I mean—hell, you know what I mean.

He just laughed again. Glad I’m keeping you entertained, Jamal.

He gave me the thumbs-up signal. Jerk.

“How long did they say it would be?”

“Hmm? Oh, they said it should be done today, but I already stopped there before I came here, and it wasn’t ready, yet. So rude when folks tell you a time, then don’t stick to it. I tell ya, it’s the times we’re livin’ in, that’s what it is. Ever-body livin’ in sin, and nobody takin’ responsibility, that’s what it is.

“Who’s your mechanic?”

“Some fella—Eric, Elmer, Ennis—no, wait! Esteban! That’s it.”

Jamal froze. “Who did she say?”

Esteban, I thought, what are you, deaf?

“No way,” he whispered, his mouth dropping open at the end. What the hell?

“He’s the same fella did my window-shield. He’s a Yankee, from up New York way.”

Haha. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to hearing one of us northerners referred to as a ‘Yankee’.

“All right, well, I’ll be goin’ now,” she said, starting the arduous process of heaving herself over, up, and off the couch. It was kind of like watching a whale un-beach itself; revolting and mesmerizing, all at once. I was tempted to help her, or even offer to help her, but I could easily imagine how that conversation would turn out.

Instead, I said, “Let me walk you out.”

“No, no, I can find the door on my own. Just need to call that dern taxi fella, again. He’s reliable, but he’s slow as molasses in the winter.” Finally freed of the couch cushions, she straightened her shirt and pants, smoothed her hair flat, dabbed at her upper lip again. “I’ll call ya if grandmamma comes tonight. You want I should call you right after? Or should I wait till mornin’?”

If you call me in the middle of the night, I think I just might take a short walk off the nearest cliff.

“No, you can just wait till tomorrow.”

“All right, then. Thanks again, Amber,” she said, pushing some buttons on her ‘cellular’. As I shut the door behind her, I could hear her yelling into the phone, “Hello? Hello? Rod-ree-go? I’m ready for ya, now!” God bless poor Rod-ree-go, I thought, trying not to laugh again.

I walked back into the room, almost plopped onto the couch, then stopped myself when I saw the huge sweat stains where Victoria had been sitting.

“Gross! It looks like she took a bath and sat here to dry off!” I yelled, pointing at the couch, just in case Jamal hadn’t seen the whole thing.

“That’s one big lady,” he replied. “How you think she gets herself clean?”

I shuddered. “Thanks a lot for the visual.”

“Sorry.”

I walked over to the coffee pot, saw it was empty, looked at my coffee cup and saw it looked the same.

“Is the coffee evaporating?”

“Seriously? Girl, you know you drink it all. Who else do you think it was? Me?” he asked, giggling at his own joke.

“Ha-ha, very funny, you’re such a comedian,” I said, grabbing the empty coffee decanter and walking to the sink. “What was all that about, anyway? Why did you want to know more about the mechanic?”

“Esteban. He’s someone who….came up, before.”

“Really? How did he come up?”

“Others told me about him.”

“Why? Is he a killer or something?”

“You always think someone’s a killer. You know that’s warped, right?”

“Jamal, the world has changed a bit since your time. We all watch crime shows, cop shows, investigation shows, hell, the average person watching TV knows more about solving crimes than some of the cops did back in your day.”

“You know, ‘my day’ wasn’t that long ago.”

I snorted, “Ha! Okay, tell yourself whatever you need to.” I brought the water-filled decanter back to the machine, poured it in, and spilled about half of it all over my papers. “Dang it!”

I set the pot back in its cradle, grabbed some paper towels, and tried to clean up the mess. Mostly, I just made it worse.

“You could offer to help, you know.”

“Why offer? We both know I can’t actually do anything to help you with it.”

“Because. It’s common courtesy, that’s why.”

“You ladies are a riot!” He walked away, shaking his head.

After I finished cleaning up, I sat back at my desk, twirling my pen. “Do I need to talk to Esteban to help Victoria’s grandmother go away?”

“Maybe.”

That’s specific.

“I wasn’t trying to be,” he said.

“Get out of my head!” I yelled, throwing the pen across the room at him. As usual, it went right through him.

“You missed,” he said, and winked.

Chapter Five

As I walked up to the garage, I could hear the rat-tat-tat of pneumatic tools at work. For some reason, that sound always made me feel like a kid at my Uncle Leonard’s shop. He was the best uncle in the world, in my humble opinion. Always had a piece of candy in his pocket, a warm smile, and a big hug for me. He was a man’s man, always talking about fishing, hunting, and football, and forever teasing me about my hair.

I only saw him a handful of times—thanks to my military brat upbringing—but I cherished the memory of every single one of those times. Just the smell of this place was making me all teary-eyed.

“Que paso?” I heard, from right behind me. I turned look at the owner of the voice, and my whole body went numb.

The man was drop-dead, call the undertaker, pick out a coffin, and start writing the obituary gorgeous. He was tall, but not too tall; just tall enough that I had to look up at his eyes. And his eyes—they were a medium-light brown, almost glowing with reflected sunlight. He was wiping his big, greasy hands on one of those blue shop towels, his Giants ball cap pushed way back on a shiny-bald head.

Dark, expressive eyebrows seemed to move on their own as he turned his head a little this way, a little that way, trying to figure me out. With his sleeves rolled up above his elbows, I could see his massive biceps pop and twitch with every movement, covered in warm-brown skin the color of my morning coffee-and-cream. I was so stunned by his beauty—yeah, that’s right, that’s the word, beauty—that I almost forgot my own name.

“Uh, I, um, it’s—”

“Are you okay?” he asked, reaching out to grab me by my elbow. He steadied me with his powerful grip, which practically made me faint, it was so stimulating. What the hell is wrong with me? I managed to think, just before Jamal stepped into view.

Oops.

He looked like a disapproving father, arms crossed on his chest, eyebrow lifted, mouth scrunched into a smirk-frown.

What? I managed to think, trying to play innocent. He wasn’t buying it. Just kept standing there, shaking his head.

“Ma’am?”

Huh? What? Who, me?

I cleared my throat, trying to hide my nervousness. “Yes?”

“Are you all right? You looked like you were about to fall over.”

“I’m fine, I think I’m just dehydrated from this heat.”

“Come inside, let me get you some cold water. It’s nothing fancy, but it’ll work.”

I just stood there like a moron, staring at the name sewn on his shirt over the breast pocket: Esteban.

He gave me a little bump, trying to get me moving. I complied, letting him steer me toward the shop door, still holding my elbow. Then he put his other hand on the small of my back. Oh, God, I really might fall over, I thought. What is happening to me?

Jamal finally gave up the ‘disapproving daddy’ role, and walked through the wall, to the shop on the other side.

Show off, I thought, automatically.

“Jealous,” I heard him say, faintly, from inside the building.

We walked into a shop that was old—but more well-kept than most brand new office buildings. The tools and equipment weren’t the newest things off the assembly line, but they were taken care of. I was instantly impressed. From experience, I had learned it isn’t having the most money that counts—it’s taking care of what you have. Anyone can just go out and buy new stuff. It takes a special kind of person to care for things long enough for them to have a history.

“Have a seat, miss.”

He directed me to an overstuffed chair in the corner of his office, past the shop area. I sat, trying to look like a believable ‘damsel in distress.’

“I’ll be right back with the water, okay?”

“Thank you,” I said, as he walked out. And, boy, how he walked out, too. I almost fell out of the chair, trying to watch his tight butt in those Dickies pants—

“Hello,” Jamal said, directly in front of my face.

I jumped back in shock, my hand to my neck, like a really distressed damsel. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack? What the hell is your problem, Jamal?”

“My problem? I’m not the one just got busted staring at someone’s ass. A stranger’s ass.”

Now he was acting more like a jealous brother, instead of disapproving daddy. Not really an improvement.

“Go away.”

He frowned at me. I looked away, pretending to check out the wall calendar. When I looked back, he was gone. Good riddance.

“Here you go,” said Esteban, handing me a little paper cup of water. “It’s not much, but it’s cold, and it’s clean. We have it delivered by those guys who wear uniforms like ours. Pretty funny, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said, suddenly very interested in my cup of water. I guzzled it and handed the empty cup back to him.

“Wow,” he said. “Were you thirsty?”

“Yeah,” I said. Evidently, that’s all I knew how to say, now.

“Feeling better?”

“Yeah.” Oh, for crying out loud.

“Good. Can’t have beautiful ladies falling in my parking lot. Bad for business.” He winked at me, and my heart slammed into my stomach.

“Haha,” I managed to squeak out. Ugh.

“So—what brings you here, on this beautiful 200-degree day?”

“Oh. Well, I’m here to talk to you about Victoria.”

“Victoria. Oh, the big—I mean, the nice lady who was in the accident?”

I giggled, in spite of myself. “Yeah, her.”

“She already picked up her car, a little while ago.”

“Oh. I didn’t know it was done.”

“Yep. We try not to take longer than we have to. Especially with, uh, certain types of people.”

“You mean, people who make you crazy if you don’t finish at the exact minute you said you would? Those types of people?”

He chuckled, “Yeah. That’s the type.”

“Well, I didn’t want to talk to you about her car. Not just her car, anyway.”

“All right. What did you want to talk to me about? Besides the car, I mean.”

“Well. I’m not sure how to ask this…”

“Let me give you a hint: think of the question, then say it out loud. Does that help?”

“Ah, a fellow smartass. I love it.”

He smiled, his goatee framing his pinkish-brown lips that were so soft looking I wanted to reach out and—

“Is there something on my face?” he asked, touching his mouth and cheeks with his dirty fingers.

“No, oh, crap, now you have grease all over yourself.” I reached around him, grabbed one of the clean shop towels on a shelf next to his desk, and started wiping his face. I was doing a pretty good job, too, until I noticed his expression: uncomfortable shock.

Well, that’s just great; now he knows I’m a total nut-job.

“Sorry about that,” I muttered, instantly dropping my hands to my sides. I looked at the ground, kicking my foot a little, twisting the shop towel and seriously contemplating making a break for it. Instead, being the chicken I really am, I just stood there wishing I could evaporate into the air.

“It’s okay.” He walked over to a mirror hanging on the wall, “Mind if I use that?”

I looked at the towel in my hands like it was a snake that somehow slithered in when I wasn’t looking. I tossed it to him fast, like it was on fire. He caught it easily, in his big, strong hand with those long fingers –

There I go again.

“Whatta you think?” he asked, turning from the mirror and motioning toward his now-clean face. “Better?”

“Yeah.” Jeez. I hope there won’t be permanent brain damage from whatever this is.

“So, now that you’ve had plenty of time to think of your question, are you ready to ask it?” he teased.

“Yes.”

“Great. Fire away.”

“All right, so, she came to me and told me her grandmother’s spirit—“

“Oh, is that all? You want to ask me about her abuela’s spirit appearing every night since her accident?”

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. Not bad. Not bad at all.

“Sure, that’s what I wanted to ask you about.”

“In my family, they say things like that are ‘messages from the next life’. Nothing to be scared of, just—a news story, delivered by a reporter from the other side.”

Nicely put.

“So your family has it?”

“Has what?”

“It. The Spirit Mark.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh, sorry. That’s what I call it. It’s kind of like a gift—or a curse, depending on your perspective—where you can talk to spirits. You know, ghosts.”

“My mother had it. And her mother, before her, my abuela. It’s pretty common in our culture, talking to spirits. We don’t see it as shameful or ‘crazy’, like most of you do.”

“That’s refreshing.”

“Do you have it? The—what did you call it?—Spirit Marker.”

“Spirit Mark. And yes, I have it.”

“You don’t seem very happy about it.”

“Well, it’s been more of a curse than a blessing for me.”

“Why’s that?”

“Kind of a long story. I don’t want to bore you.”

“How long is long?”

“Um, it’s been with me my whole life, as far back as I can remember. More than 30 years’ worth, anyway.”

“You don’t look old enough to say that.”

I blushed. Which I never do. “I’m old enough.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

We looked at each other for a moment too long.

“Hey, boss?”

Esteban’s head twitched, like someone who abruptly woke from a daydream.

“What?”

“Sorry to interrupt, but we need some help on the Ford out here. The pickup?”

“Sure, sure, okay, I’ll be right there.” He waved the guy out of the room, looking distracted.

“I can just come back another time, if you’re busy.”

“I have a better idea: Go to dinner with me.”

I actually felt my mouth drop open.

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to, I just thought maybe we could talk about that mark thing—“

“Sure, I’d love to.”

He clapped his hands together, the sound echoing in the tiny office. “Great! What time should I pick you up? And where do you live?”

“I guess, maybe, seven-ish? Or eight, if that’s too early.”

“No, seven-ish is perfect. Not seven, because that’s too early. But seven-ish is exactly the time I had in mind when I asked.”

Yep. A fellow smartass. This should be amusing, if nothing else.

“Okay. Well, let me give you my address.”

“Just text it to me. Here, give me your cell phone,” he said, reaching for it. I handed it over, a little too willingly, and it slipped out of my hand.

“Whoops,” he said, expertly saving it from certain destruction on the floor.

“You have good hands,” I said, then froze. Wow, that was a Freudian slip if there ever was one, I thought, terrified he might catch it.

“That’s what they tell me,” he answered, winking at me. Yep, he caught it. Damn.

“Okay, so, seven-ish o’clock? I’ll text you the address.”

“Sounds great.” He walked me to the door and waved as I drove away.

“I guess it went better than you thought it would,” Jamal said from the back seat.

“No thanks to you,” I snapped.

“Hey! Don’t blame that mess on me!” he said, “If I was running the show, it would’ve gone a lot smoother than that, foxy lady.”

“Well, I got a date out of it.”

“I know. And in the words of Jimmie Walker, that’s dy-no-MITE!”

“Careful, Jamal, you’re dating yourself.”

“Someone needs to. Can’t seem to find any foxy ladies to boogie down with me on this side of things.”

“I meant—just, never mind. I need a new dress. Wanna go shopping?”

“Like you need to ask.”

Chapter Six

“Come on in!” I yelled down the stairs.

“You sure?” Esteban yelled back.

“Yes! I’m almost ready, just finishing my hair!”

“Okay!” I heard the screen door open and slam closed. I made the ten-thousandth mental note to myself to get the spring fixed on that stupid door, so it wouldn’t slam anymore.

“Why so much makeup?” Jamal asked, looking at me in the mirror. It was creepy, the way I could see him, but the mirror didn’t reflect him. Like something out of an old B-movie vampire flick from the late 50s.

“Because I don’t want him to see my bad skin,” I said, scowling at him.

“I can dig it. No need to get all those wrinkles pushed together.”

I swung my hand to smack his arm, and got nothing but air.

“You’re lucky I can’t hit you. Pig.”

He laughed at my insult, and proceeded to look me up and down, like one of his ‘girls’ back in the day.

“Do I pass inspection, sergeant?”

He snapped to attention, saluted me, and said, “Sir, no sir!”

“That’s ma’am to you, private.” I stuck my tongue out at him, for good measure.

“You look like a million dollars, baby.” He winked and walked away.

“Where are you going?”

He stuck his head back in, “To check out your new man. Where else would I be going?”

“Hey! You leave him alone. He’s a nice guy.”

“Yeah, okay, white girl. Let me handle The Man, you don’t know what you’re gettin’ yo’self into. Can you dig it?” He wiggled his butt, shuffled his feet, and did a little move with his hands.

“Just go. I’ll be down in a few.”

He disappeared through the wall, even though the open doorway was six inches to the left.

“Show off,” I whispered.

Jealous, he answered in my head.

I smiled, accidentally burning myself in the process. “Ouch!” I stuck my burned finger in my mouth, trying to ease the sting.

* * *

“Would you like a wine list, sir?”

“Not me. Do you want any wine?” Esteban asked.

“No, thanks. It just makes me dizzy and sleepy.”

“Very well,” the waiter said, sliding the wine list back into his apron-pocket. “Would you like any appetizers?”

“Uh, maybe you could just let us look at the menu,” I said, looking at Esteban for backup.

“Yeah, we need a few more minutes to decide,” he said, winking at me. The waiter looked at us like we were naked wedding crashers and stormed off in a huff.

“Moody much?” I asked, pointing a finger at the waiter.

“I already know what I want, but I think it’s kind of fun screwing around with the waiters,” he said, leaning toward me like we had a really big secret.

“Whatever makes you happy,” I teased.

“So, now that we’re alone—well, sort of alone—can you tell me about your mark?”

“Oh, that?” I waved my hand like it was the silliest thing I ever heard. “You don’t wanna hear about that, it’s boring.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

“Okay, what do you want to know?”

“For starters, when did you know you had it? Was it, like, a special birthmark or something?”

“Uh, no. There was no physical mark. Actually, the first time I knew I had it was the first time I saw a ghost.”

“Well, that’s one way to get going. How old were you? Fifteen, sixteen?”

“Ha! I wish. Try five.”

“Five? You were only five years old the first time you saw a ghost?”

“Yep.”

“That’s crazy.”

“I thought you said your culture didn’t see it as crazy.”

“Well, being able to speak to the spirits isn’t crazy, but having to do such an adult thing at the age of five? That’s a little crazy.”

I scanned the menu one more time, running my finger down the laminated page. “Okay, I know what I want. Where’s that annoying waiter?” Of course, because I wanted to find him, the waiter was nowhere to be found.

“You know how it goes, they disappear right when you want them around, then get right in your face when you don’t. Like dogs.”

“I guess so. I don’t have any dogs. Do you have any dogs?”

“Yep—a Rottweiler and a beagle/dachshund mix. Both females.”

“That’s a strange combination.”

“My friend gave me the Rotty before he deployed to Afghanistan. My kids picked the little one.”

Kids?

“Don’t look so surprised,” he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest.

“What? Oh, I didn’t mean anything by it, I just didn’t realize you had any—dogs.”

“Ha-ha, very funny. You’re not surprised by the dogs, you’re surprised by the kids, and you know it.” He was mock-angry with me, pushing his eyebrows down into a frightening Jack Nicholson-in-The-Shining type of look.

“Wow. Don’t make that face too often. Unless you want to scare off every woman within a five mile radius.”

He laughed a rich, hearty, belly laugh, just as the mysteriously-reappeared waiter spoke.

“Are we ready now?” he asked, whipping out his fancy pen and the standard order notepad.

“Yes—we are ready now,” Esteban said, winking at me again.

This guy isn’t just a smartass, he’s a smartass with an evil sense of humor. I totally love it, I thought, studying him as he ordered. He cleaned up pretty well, his mocha skin shining in the warm restaurant lighting, bald head gleaming. And he smelled so good I wanted to order him for dinner.

“And for the lady?” the waiter asked, turning to me.

“Oh, um, I’ll have the…” I snapped the menu back open, my mind suddenly blank, “the prime rib.”

“Excellent choice,” he said. He finished scribbling in his notepad and slid the menus out of our hands. “Your appetizers and salads will be out shortly.” He sauntered away, waved and smiled at someone across the room, and disappeared into the kitchen with a flair.

“Some people like their jobs way too much,” I said.

“Agreed.”

“So, where was I?”

“You were telling me about the first time you saw a ghost.”

“Oh, that. Well, I saw a little girl in the bathroom at school.”

He sat there, waiting for more. Finally, he asked, “That’s it?”

“Yep.”

“How did she die?”

“She was murdered.” I started messing with the rolls in the basket, squishing my finger into one and pulling it apart.

“Oh, that’s all.”

“Well, she disappeared a few days before I saw her. At the time, we thought she was just lost or something.”

“Obviously. Because little girls usually wander off, lost, for days at a time.”

“Look, I was just a little kid, myself. I didn’t know any better.”

“I know, I know,” he said, reaching for my hand, which I dodged by shoving a piece of bread in my mouth. He pulled his hand back and let it rest in his lap. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

I shook my head, exasperated. “It’s okay. I just hate talking about it. Isabella was really sweet; she didn’t deserve what happened.”

“I’m sorry.”

“When I saw her in the bathroom, I told my teacher. She looked for her, but Isabella had disappeared. Besides, Miss Melody wouldn’t have been able to see her, anyway. She didn’t have the mark.”

“What happened when she couldn’t find Isabella?”

“She dragged me to the principal, who called the police and my mother. I could handle the other grownups not believing me, but my mother? She ripped into me something fierce, when she found out I was ‘lying’ about seeing Isabella.”

“Did you tell her the truth?”

“No way. One thing you couldn’t tell my mother was the truth. Why waste the energy?”

“Sounds like a great lady.”

A server brought our salads and appetizers to the table. We busied ourselves with reorganizing the table so we had enough room for everything, then got down to serious eating. I watched his strong hands moving the fork from plate to mouth, and wished to Santa, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy that I could be a fork. Just for one night.

“—in the end?” he finished. Crap, what did he just say?

“Sorry, I was thinking about something else. What did you say?”

He stopped eating, tilted his head to one side, and peered closely at my face.

“Are you always this distracted?”

“Who, me? Distracted?” I asked in my best mock-insulted voice. He laughed.

“Fair enough,” he said, laughing. “What I asked was ‘did you find out what happened to her in the end?’”

“Oh, yeah, it’s a sad story. Somebody took her and killed her. A stranger. They still don’t know why he did it. I don’t think he knows why he did it.”

“He’s still in prison?”

“Prison for the mentally insane. The guy was a patient at the county mental hospital; got dumped out on the streets a few days before he took Isabella.”

“Don’t tell me. Lack of funding?”

“Well, if you don’t want me to tell you...”

“You didn’t, you know, um….see it, did you?”

“No, it doesn’t work that way for me. I just see the ghosts, they talk to me and tell me their story, that kind of thing. Sometimes, they can’t talk, so we have to play the ‘guess what I’m trying to tell you’ game.”

“So, he was wandering around, homeless, insane. Then he saw a little girl and took her?”

“Unfortunately, yeah. It was that random and simple.”

“That pisses me off and scares the hell out of me, all at the same time. My daughter is seven right now, and all I can think about is her playing in the yard and some creepy crazy guy snatching her and hurting her.” He put his fork down, pushed his plate away. “I guess I’m done with this.”

“Now it’s my turn to apologize, Esteban. I didn’t mean to freak you out and ruin your dinner. This always happens to me. I don’t know why I don’t just keep my big mouth shut.”

“It’s not your fault, Amber. I’m the one who kept pushing you to talk about it. You don’t have to apologize.” He looked so sweet and vulnerable; I wanted to walk over to him and give him a ‘big ol’ squash-hug’ (as my grandma used to call it). I wish grandma was here, I thought for the millionth time. She always knew how to smooth over an awkward situation. This definitely qualified.

“So—what do you do now?” he asked, changing the subject. I wanted to hug him even more.

“Well, now I help find ‘matches’ for those who are unlucky in love.”

He stared at me, his mouth open a little.

“What?” I asked, in my fake-confused voice.

“You’re a matchmaker?” the look on his face was wavering between surprised and bemused.

“Sure. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing. Just that my best friend’s mom was a gypsy fortune teller slash matchmaker back when I was a kid, in the Bronx. And she was crazy, let me tell ya.”

“We’re not all crazy, you know.”

“What made you choose matchmaking as a career?”

“Could you stop saying it like it’s some kind of Disneyland job?”

He chuckled, reaching for the bread. Evidently, making fun of my career does wonders for restoring the appetite.

“Only if you promise to not try and make a ‘match’ for me.”

“Oh, I can guaran-tee that’s not gonna happen. You can take that to the bank.”

He looked up, finally aware that he had ticked me off.

“My bad,” he said, reaching out to me, so I could slip my hands in his. Jerk.

“I’m hungry. Where’s our food?” I said, pretending to be overly-busy looking for the world’s greatest disappearing waiter. He got the hint and pulled his hands back. Again.

Several minutes passed, while I picked at my salad and he fiddled with his napkin.

Awkward much? I thought, wishing I had just stayed home.

“Truce?” he asked, ducking his head just under my chin so I had to look down just to see him.

I giggled, in spite of myself.

“Whew!” he said, wiping his napkin across his forehead. “I almost blew it!”

“Yeah, well, don’t be too sure you’re out of the woods just yet, Mister Mouthy.” I tried to make an angry face, but it came off pretty lame and funny.

The waiter finally brought our main courses, steaming plates of delicious gourmet food easily solving our problems.

“Let’s eat!” he said, digging into a massive steak.

Chapter Seven

We pulled up to his place in separate cars, thanks to my ‘progressive feminine independence’ (his words). It might seem dumb to him, but I had found myself in more than one uncomfortable situation where a guy refused to take me home because he was mad that I wouldn’t ‘put out’. Talk about the opposite of progressive.

I turned off my noisy engine, which was immediately replaced by the sound of barking dogs. Enter Dog 1 and Dog 2, stage left.

Grabbing my purse and cell phone, I killed the headlights and looked at his cute little house. It wasn’t fancy, but it was just like his shop: older and well-kept. The grass was neatly trimmed, along with the bushes and plants at the edge of the yard. The paint wasn’t new, but it was recent; probably touched up within the last few months. He even had a couple of potted plants hanging from hooks above the porch, and a little rubber mat in front of the door that said ‘Welcome’ facing one direction and ‘Farewell’ facing the other. If I smell freshly-baked cookies when we walk in, I’m outta here.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he called from the other room, as I walked inside, “I need to let the dogs out.” I heard a door slide open and shut, the barking moving from inside the house to the back yard.

I looked at the comfortable but worn furniture and minimal decorations on the wall, finally realizing this was a long-term bachelor’s house. Although he’s a clean bachelor, which is a big plus. Walking around the tiny room, I picked up a framed photograph of a very young, sweet-looking girl and slightly older, football-holding boy. They were beaming at the camera, their arms wrapped around a huge black-and-brown dog, whose face nearly took up the whole picture. The Rotty.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Esteban yelled from the kitchen.

“No thanks, I’m stuffed!” I yelled back.

Finally exhausted from a long day, I plopped down into a soft brown La-Z-Boy chair, yanked the handle, and settled back into the cushions, closing my eyes.

“I see you found a place to sit?”

I popped my eyes open and saw his gorgeous face was hovering only inches above mine. Suddenly, it felt way too warm in the room.

“Uh, yep! Great chair!” I said, way too loud. He must have sensed my nervousness, because he smiled and backed away to sit on the other side of the room. I almost sighed out loud, I was so relieved. Why does he make me so damn nervous?

“Cute kids,” I said.

“Thanks. I tried. Maybe the third one will be cuter.”

“You’re a pretty funny guy.”

“I aims ta pleaz, ma’am,” he said, in his best house-slave-imitation voice. Smartass.

“Why you always callin’ me names, white girl?” Jamal said, right behind me. I almost jumped out of the chair, he scared me so bad. What is wrong with you? Why do you do that?

“Somebody has to keep you on your toes. Ain’t gonna be this knucklehead, here,” he said, gesturing towards Esteban. Great. Disapproving Daddy makes another appearance.

“Now that we’re away from that stupid waiter, can we talk about your matchmaking thing?”

I jumped a little at the sound of Esteban’s voice. Juggling conversations with these two was not going to be easy.

“I guess so. Just try to remember I’m not the gypsy queen from the Bronx, okay?”

“Got it.”

“Uh, okay, so…where to start? Hmm…I guess the best place to start is what happened after Isabella.”

* * *

When you’re ten years old, it seems like the whole world exists just for you. Even though we were broke as a joke, it didn’t really matter, because in 1983 a dollar could buy at least two of everything I wanted from the candy section.

“Quit hogging all the green ones!” I yelled, grabbing for the bag.

“You said I could have some. You didn’t say what color!” Chris yelled, raising the bag higher, out of my reach. In the world of kids, if you’re older or taller or stronger, you win. He was all of the above.

“I’m telling mo-om!”

“Go ahead, you big baby, tell mom everything. You know what she’s gonna say. Then you’ll be in big trouble for sure, you stupid tattletale.” One of the worst kid insults of all time. Being a tattletale was the most awful thing a kid could be, so punishment was harsh. Tortures for the crime were Indian burns, purple nurples, swirlies or mega-wedgies. Sometimes you got all of them.

“I hate you!” I yelled back, stomping over to my bike. I spend my tooth fairy money on candy, and Chris takes it all. Brothers suck.

I swiped my foot at the kick stand, ran next to the bike for a few steps, then swung my leg over the side in one motion. Sure, it took a bunch of tries (and a lot of falls) but I could finally get on my bike just like Chris and his friends. Once I got my bike going, I turned around to stick my tongue out at Chris, but he was too busy pawing through all the candy in the bag—my candy, in my bag—to pay attention. Refusing to waste the energy, I turned back around and almost crashed into a kid who was straddling his bike right in front of me.

I slammed my feet down on my pedals so hard my back tire skidded, making a crunching-squealing sound on the gravelly road. “Hey!” After my tires finally stopped sliding, I stood with my legs straddling my own bike and tried to catch my breath. My heart was pounding so hard and so fast I thought it would pop right out of my chest and keeping going down the road. “Watch where you’re going, dummy!”

The kid just stood there, not moving, hands on the handlebars, feet planted on either side of the bike. He was about my age, wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans, with one of those cloth bags slung over his shoulder. It was filled with rolled up newspapers.

“Aren’t you kinda late delivering those?” I asked, pointing at the bundles. Everybody knew you were supposed to get the papers on the doorsteps before school. But here he was, standing right in front of me, with all those papers not on the doorsteps. Either he was too late for today, or way too early for tomorrow.

He didn’t say a word. Just stared at me, barely blinking. His hands gripped the handlebars of his BMX, duct tape where the rubber handgrips should’ve been. Boys were always jumping ramps on their bikes, falling, and scraping the handgrips off. Chris had already gone through two pairs, before mom said he had to earn the money for the next ones.

“Hey, kid? What’s your name?”

No answer. Just staring at me, with big, brown eyes. They even looked kinda like he wanted to cry—or his eyes were watery from riding into the cold wind. That happened to me all the time, especially now, right before Halloween.

I turned around to see where Chris was. Still back there digging in my bag of candy. Jerk-off.

I turned back, but the kid was gone. I looked around, confused, and finally saw him down the street. How’d get down there so fast? I thought, looking at where he used to be—right in front of me—then over to where he ended up. Now, his bike was turned away from me, one foot up on the pedal, like he was about to ride off somewhere.

“Hey! Where are you going?” I yelled.

“What?” Chris yelled back, behind me.

“Not you, you big jerk!” I shouted, turning to see him crumple-rolling the bag of candy. He jammed it into his back pocket, and started pedaling toward me.

“Don’t call me a jerk you weirdo! I’m not the one talking to myself, Amber!”

Uh-oh, I thought. Not again.

I turned back around, slowly, hoping the kid wouldn’t be there. He was. Just waiting there, one foot on the pedal, like he wanted me to follow him somewhere. Ah, crap.

Chris pulled up next to me, straddled his bike, yanked the candy bag out of his pocket, and presented it to me like a sword to the newest knight of the round table.

“Here ya go, ya big baby.”

I didn’t move a muscle, just kept staring at that kid, hoping he would go away. He was starting to creep me out.

Chris looked at me, followed my eyes to see what I was staring at down the street—then turned back to look at me, frowning.

“What’re you lookin’ at, Amber?”

“That kid,” I said.

He looked all around: back where he just came from, down the street, on both sides. Nothing.

“What kid?”

“That one,” I said, lifting my finger to point at the kid who was slowly shaking his head, now. “Don’t you see him?”

“There’s nobody over there, Stinky.” He called me that because I earned the nickname when I was a baby. My first day home from the hospital, mom put me in his lap; he smiled, and kissed me on the forehead, and I pooped all over him.

“Yeah, there is.”

Chris mulled this over for a minute. Then asked, “Well, what’s he doin?”

“He’s getting ready to ride away on his bike, but he’s just waiting.”

“Maybe he’s waiting for you to follow him?”

“I don’t wanna.”

“Amber, if there’s some invisible kid trying to get you to go somewhere, you should go. If you don’t, he’s just gonna keep following you till you do. Don’t you ever read anything?”

“Excuse me for not reading a million stupid comic books a day, like you do!” I yelled, “Some of us actually have a life you big jerk-off!”

“Hey! Don’t get mad at me just because you’re scared of some invisible kid.”

“I’m not scared,” I said, quiet.

“No? Well, maybe you’re ‘terry-fied’?” he laughed for a while at that one.

“It’s not my fault I didn’t know how to say it.”

A few months ago, Chris and I were in the library summer reading contest. For each book you read, they gave you a star or planet sticker, to put on this poster of space with little empty spots all over it. When your poster had all the empty spots filled in, you got a gift certificate for $10 at Kmart. Chris got bored when he found out you had to spend the gift certificate on books, but I wanted to win it really bad. So I checked out a whole pile of books, mostly Nancy Drew and Encyclopedia Brown.

One book I checked out was different, though, these short stories by some guy named Edgar with three names. I liked the scary black bird on the front, so I decided to give it a try. There was one story, “The Black Cat” about this guy who has to kill a mean cat that won’t die. It was hard to read, with all these big words in it, and ‘terrified’ was right near the beginning. When I asked Chris what it meant, he laughed right in my face, then started running around the house yell-singing, “Terry-fied, terry-fied, Amber Green is terry-fied!!!” Jerk.

“Will you come with me?” I asked, trying not to sound like a scared babyish sissy.

“I guess,” he said, rolling his eyes. “But if we’re late for dinner, I’m telling mom I had to chase after you cuz you ran away.”

“Fine,” I said.

I turned back to look at the kid, who was still waiting there. Finally, I made up my mind and started pedaling down the street. Chris followed behind me, whistling. As I watched, the kid started pedaling away from us, heading deeper into the neighborhoods.

Where the heck are we going?

We rode like that for a few minutes, me following the invisible paper boy and Chris following behind me, whistling like we were going to the arcade or somewhere fun. Maybe we were? Who knew.

Finally, after winding around through streets and cul-de-sacs, we turned a corner and the kid slowed down so much my bike almost tipped over. I looked at the house he was heading towards, and almost fell off my bike.

“Hey, Chris? Isn’t this your scout leader’s house?”

Chris stopped, straddled his bike, turned his head to the side in thought, and said, “Yeah. What are we doin’ here, Stinky?”

“I dunno,” I said. The kid stopped, laid his bike down on the ground with no sound and stood there, looking at me. I dropped my own bike down, making a terrific crash! Chris did the same, and came over by me, chomping on some more of my candy.

“Gimme that!” I whisper-yelled, finally snatching the crumpled bag out of his hands.

“God, you’re such a brat,” he said, popping the last piece of a mini candy bar in his mouth, and wiping his hands on his pants. Every time he did that, mom yelled at him for it, but he just kept doing it, over and over.

The kid motioned with his head, like he was saying: This way.

“He wants us to follow him,” I said, not sounding very brave or grown up.

“Why?”

“I don’t know, Chris. Stop asking me stupid questions!” I whisper-yelled.

The house sat by itself, at the end of a little dirt road. It was two stories tall, with one of those porch-swing things moving a little in the wind. A long time ago, it was probably white, but now it just looked like a peeling grayish-yellow color. The windows were dark and spooky-looking, like empty places where the eyes and teeth should be on a skeleton face.

There were a few jack-o-lanterns on the porch, but they were already starting to look sunk-in, like they’d been out there way too long. Usually, our jack-o-lanterns didn’t look like that till a week after Halloween. Then again, most of the jack-o-lanterns in the neighborhood were smashed the morning after Halloween, by the older kids who got all ‘beered up’ and threw toilet paper and eggs all over the place. Seemed kinda stupid to me.

The kid walked toward the house a few steps, but then he turned like he wanted to go in a big circle around the house, first. I followed him, but my legs suddenly felt all shaky, like when I ride my bike up a big hill for too long. Chris plodded along next to me, like he was bored.

“Why are we walking in a big circle?”

“Shh,” I said, “Just wait and see.”

We walked like that for a while, the kid leading and us following. It was starting to get a little darker, and the air was getting that bitey feeling to it. I wish I had my gloves, I thought, blowing warm breath into my cupped hands, then rubbing them together.

Slam! Somebody’s old screen door opened or closed, back where our bikes lay on the ground. I instantly froze, and Chris bumped into me. My heart pounded in my ears so loud I could barely hear Chris snickering at me, covering his mouth with his hand. Looking around to make sure we weren’t about to be chopped up by some crazy killer in a hockey mask, I managed to get my feet going again.

That’s the last time I sneak to the drive-in and watch a scary movie, I thought, for the gazillionth time. Even without the sound, it scared the living daylights out of me. They were showing Halloween I, II, and III at the drive-in, so teenagers could kiss and wrestle in their cars while some crazy killer on the screen chopped everyone to pieces. Chris thought it was hilarious, and I spent the whole week waking up sweaty from nightmares. And I’m never sneaking out with Chris at night again, either.

The kid turned to look at me like he was annoyed. Actually, I was starting to get a little annoyed, too. The nerve of this kid! Invisible and impatient? What a load of crap.

Shaking my head, I kept walking, and the kid continued to the back yard. As we got closer, I saw a big stand of trees still dropping leaves all over the ground. Now I knew why every step we took was announced by a loud crunch-crunch.

Stupid trees, always dropping their dumb leaves all over the place. So messy.

The kid walked over to a shed, back behind the stand of trees. It was a mini-house, built the same exact way as the main house, up front. If I wasn’t so freaked out, I would probably be trying to get in there and explore it. Ever since I was five, I wanted my own clubhouse, and this shed looked perfect. It was painted the same peeling, grayish-yellow color as the house, with dark windows and a fake little second-story section on it. The kid was just standing there on the fake-porch of the shed, staring at the shed with his hands shoved in his pockets, like he was waiting for the school bus.

“Cool,” Chris whispered behind me, reaching for the door handle.

“Wait,” I said. I looked at the kid, who was suddenly acting really weird. He kept looking back and forth, from the main house to the shed, like he was nervous. Then I heard it.

A car was rumbling up the road, toward the house.

Crap.

“I think someone’s home,” Chris said, looking toward the main house.

“Do you want me to go in the shed?” I asked the kid. He nodded his head, like he was real serious about it, over and over.

“Maybe we should just go, and come back later?”

“No, Chris, we have to get in there, now. Something’s wrong.”

The kid yanked his hands out of his pockets, and put them up to the sides of his eyes, like he was trying to look into something. The shed windows.

I put my hands up like his, then pushed my face to the little window on the shed. Darkness.

“Chris, you still got that Zippo you stole from dad?”

“What? What Zippo? I never stole anything from dad!” he answered, trying really hard to sound convincing.

“Yeah, you did. I saw you playing with it the other day. Give it to me right now, or I’m telling dad you took it.”

“Okay, okay, you’re such a tattletale,” he said, scrounging in his pocket for it. He finally fished it out, and showed it to me. “Here it is. But I’m using it, not you. You’ll just burn the whole place down.”

He flipped the top open by snapping his hand back, with a metallic ting! Then he flicked his thumb down the circle-flint thing and a huge flame appeared. It flickered in the wind a little, but it held.

“Zippos are the best,” he said, “they’re the only lighters that stay lit in the wind. The army guys used ‘em in the war. Dad told me all about it.”

“That’s so great I forgot to care,” I said, grabbing it out of his hand.

“Hey!” he said, “Give it back!”

“Shh! Just let me look in there and shut up!” I said, holding the flame up to the window.

I could only see a few inches into the shed, mostly just handles of things all over the place, like shovels and rakes. And maybe a table or something.

“We gotta go in there,” I said, “I can’t see anything.”

“Okay,” Chris said, reaching for the handle.

Slam! A car door closing.

“Hurry up!” I whispered, my shaky hand making the flame jump around, thanks to my heart racing in my chest again.

“I am!” he turned the old knob a little bit, but then it stopped. “It’s locked!”

“Well, look for something to open it!”

He wandered around the side of the shed, finding nothing but a bunch of dry sticks that broke when he tried to pry the door open. I looked at the kid, who was pointing at the other side of the shed.

“Look over there!” I whisper-yelled, pointing the same way the kid had.

Chris looked around for a few seconds, then almost tripped on something. He reached down and picked it up, “Yes!” He showed me a long screwdriver that looked as rusty as the shed’s doorknob.

He put the screwdriver into wood between the door and the shed, pushing and cussing a little under his breath, until I heard a wood-splitting craaaack. “Finally!” he said, pulling the door open.

Chris stepped into the shed, with me right behind him, holding the Zippo so we could see inside, since the sun was almost down. It was even bigger inside than it looked from the outside, almost big enough for a small car. There were about a million rusty-dusty tools all over the walls, hanging from the ceiling, and piled on the workbench by the window. Leaning against the walls were a bunch of rakes and shovels and even an ancient push-mower like my next door neighbor used.

“Just some crappy tools and yard stuff,” Chris said, “gimme the lighter.” I handed it to him, and he walked further into the shed. That’s when the kid’s face popped right in front of mine, nearly scaring me to death.

“Aaah!” I scream-whispered.

“What?” Chris asked, turning around.

“Nothing,” I answered. The kid pointed to the back corner of the shed, where it was super dark. “Look over there.” I pointed the same place the kid was pointing.

Chris walked to the back corner of the shed, shoving stuff with his foot, “Better not step on any rusty nails, or we’ll get test-nuss and Doctor Lindworth will give me a shot. I hate getting—holy crap.”

“What? What is it?” I asked.

“Don’t come over here, Amber.”

“What? Why?”

“Just don’t.” I never heard him sound so grown up and serious before. My arms got a little goose bumpy from it.

I heard scraping and rustling, like he was moving something. “Here, hold the Zippo. But don’t look,” he said, handing the lighter to me. I took it from him, held it out, and glanced at the kid. He was really sad, now, looking down at the ground, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.

That’s when I knew.

I turned away from the kid, really slow, pushed the lighter down toward Chris’s feet, and looked.

There he was. The kid who brought me here, who was just standing there crying a second ago, was crumpled on the ground. His newspaper bag was on the floor next to him, his eyes staring at nothing, his mouth hanging open a little bit. I dropped the lighter, and the shed went dark. The rest happened really fast.

I screamed, and Chris fell backward into me. Scrambling around for the lighter, he yelled some cuss words, both of us tangled arms and legs on the floor. Then a man’s voice yelled something from somewhere by the house, and Chris grabbed my arm like he was either really mad or really scared.

“We gotta get outta here!” he whispered. I couldn’t really see him, since the light coming in through the window and shed door was almost gone, the sun finally setting.

“How?”

“Come on!” he said, grabbing my hand, and dragging me toward the shed door. He crawled with me, then poked his head out. “Hurry!”

He sprung out of the shed like one of those guys in the Olympics, yanking my hand so hard I felt my shoulder pop. Then we were running like crazy, crashing through thick weeds and tall grass, crunching through big piles of leaves. A branch smacked me in the face as we smashed through some bushes, but I kept running, hearing the man’s voice getting closer. We ran and ran, Chris right in front of me, the man’s voice muffled but yelling when he got to the shed and saw the door.

We got to our bikes, snatched them off the ground, flipped around and ran, pushing them for a few feet then swinging our legs over them like a cowboy jumping on a horse that’s galloping away. I pedaled faster than I ever had before, wind flying into my face and eyes, tears streaming down my cheeks, not daring to look back. Chris weaved through the streets, curving and turning, jumping the curb and taking a few shortcuts. Finally, we zoomed up the driveway to our house, both of us throwing our bikes to the ground so hard it sounded like a car wreck, racing up the stairs and rushing to Chris’s room. He slammed the door and locked it, and we both crammed into the tent-fort he built for practicing his Army stuff, as mom called up the stairs, “What in the blue blazes are you two up to? I told you not to throw those bikes! If you break them, I’m not buying you a new one, y’hear?”

We just huddled in the fort, me with knees to my chin and my arms wrapped around my legs, Chris sitting there staring at nothing. Sitting like that for a few minutes, we listened to mom go back in the kitchen, banging and clanging dishes and cupboard doors, mumbling to herself about what awful kids we were.

“What do we do now, Chris?” I asked him.

He looked over at me like I was just invented. “Huh?”

“We have to tell somebody,” I said.

“Okay. Who?” he asked, looking at me with dead eyes. “Who’s gonna believe we just saw a dead kid in my scout leader’s shed?”

“I—I dunno, Chris, but we have to tell somebody. We can’t just let the kid stay there.”

“Was that—did the dead kid look like your invisible kid?”

I didn’t answer. Just nodded my head.

He thought about that for a second, then tilted his head down, chin touching his chest.

“Okay,” he said, “let’s call Chief Bennett.”

My eyes got really big, when I thought about the last time I saw Chief Bennett. “No way, Chris! He’ll never believe me! Mom told him I was a liar back in Kindergarten when I saw Isabella in the bathroom!”

“Crap, I forgot all about that,” he said. Then he lifted his head and looked at me really funny, like he just saw me for the first time in his life. “Can you see ghosts, Stinky?”

I lowered my head and nodded, tears filling my eyes.

“No way,” he whispered, shocked. We sat like that for a while, him quiet, me crying. Then, “Okay, we’ll call Chief Bennett, but we won’t say who it is.”

He reached his hand out to me, tilted his head a little, and cracked a half-smile. “C’mon, Stinky, stop bein’ such a cry baby.”

I took his hand and he pulled me to my feet, real quick, like he always did. He pulled the door open, and led me down the stairs, out the front door, and into the garage, where dad’s “private line” was.

He pulled the grease-stained phone off its wall cradle, pushed “0” for operator, and waited.

“Don’t worry, Amber, I’ll keep your secret,” he said, then asked the operator for the number to the police station.

Chapter Eight

“Wow, that’s some story, Amber,” Esteban said.

“I know, it’s insane, right?” I asked, feeling more self-conscious than I wanted to admit.

“No, not insane, just—unreal, I guess. I mean, you really must have some kind of serious connection with ghosts, to keep seeing all these dead kids.”

“Well, I think I saw them because they were around my age. I don’t know for sure, but now that I’m a grown woman, I get the sense that older ghosts wouldn’t come to me when I was that young because there wasn’t really much I could do for them. You know, to fix whatever situation they had going on at the time.”

“I guess that makes sense,” he said, rising slowly from the couch. I was still sitting in the recliner, tilted back a ways, trying to look comfortable but not quite pulling it off, somehow.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked, standing just in front of my feet, kicked up on the foot rest.

“Um, I guess some sweet tea, if you have any.”

He laughed, “We’re in the south; of course I have sweet tea. That’s like being in Puerto Rico and asking if someone has rum in the cupboard.” He laughed again, a rich, full-sounding ha-ha-ha! She hated to admit it, but she was really starting to like the sound of his laugh.

I decided to sit up, instead of half-laying there on the recliner like some awkward couch potato in the middle of his living room. Hearing him clink, clank and bang in the kitchen, I figured it was safe to move. Struggling to sit up, I flopped and squirmed, but ended up doing nothing more than flailing my arms and legs, trying to grab for the handle at the side of the chair, finding nothing.

“It’s on the inside,” he said, his deep voice rumbling just behind me, as he slid his hand down the outside of my thigh. I thought my heart would literally explode when his hand met my skin, electric shockwaves of desire shooting up and down my body, my groin throbbing in anticipation.

He pulled his hand upwards, the chair righting itself as I heard a metallic clunk!

“There you go; good as new.”

I turned to look up at him, this tall, shining, golden drink of sexual maleness, as he met me with his own lustful gaze, the glasses of sweet tea in his hands suddenly forgotten. He leaned down, hands with tea glasses out to the sides like he was doing a very fancy curtsy for the queen, and kissed me. His breath was sweet, tasting of sugar and lemon-flavored tea, his lips slightly cold from the ice. I shivered with pleasure as he ran his tongue over my bottom lip, then softly plunged his tongue in to find mine. I responded with a quiet moan, powerless to keep it from escaping, my body moving closer to feel his touch.

He fumbled the glasses onto the coffee table, refusing to break the connection, some ice tinkling onto the floor as it sloshed out. Finally freed of the glasses, he gently pulled me out of the chair, taking me in his arms as he explored my face, neck, and collarbone with his lips. I could hear his breath quicken, smell his cologne and soap on freshly-shaved skin, as he pulled me over to the couch. Slowly, he lowered me onto the soft fabric, his powerful arms and hands stopping her just above the surface, pressing his body onto mine as I sank into the cushions.

He pushed his hands under me until his arms were encircling my body, as I reached up and touched his shoulders, chest, back, pulling at his clothes, trying to free him from the material. He obliged, slipping his head down, so the shirt would slide free of his head. I tossed the shirt to the floor, and stared at his body: a newly-exposed, soft layer of dark, curly chest hair over powerfully-toned muscles, earned during thousands of hours working with wrenches and heavy engine parts.

“You’re beautiful,” I said, my amber eyes wide and shining. He responded with a deep, passionate kiss, cupping my face in one hand as he slid the other one under my blouse. I felt my heart skip, felt a pleasant pounding in my neck, as blood rushed to more sensitive spots. He ran his fingers through my hair, then unbuttoned my blouse with his free hand, still kissing and licking me, dipping his head to my cleavage and lightly darting his tongue in and out.

I sat up slightly, reaching behind me with one hand, popping my bra strap apart in one liquid movement, releasing my breasts for him. He gasped, an automatic response, his lips moist as he bent to take my nipples in his mouth, one by one. I moaned, pulling his head closer, as he ran his tongue over the sensitive skin, teasing with his teeth.

Finally, he reached for my pants, and I scrambled to undo his belt. Suddenly, he was picking me up—like I weighed nothing—carrying me down the hall, as he quickly tore at a condom wrapper with his teeth, pulled out the slippery rubber circle and put it on, before we even made it to the bedroom. Just before he gently slid me to the bed, he slid himself inside of me, rock hard to my warm softness, and I felt the comforting memory of thoughtless physical ecstasy envelope me in its forgiving embrace.

* * *

“Okay, confess, where did you learn that nifty trick with the condom wrapper?” I asked, trailing a finger down the middle of his soft-fur chest hairs.

“Hmm?” he asked, in fake-confusion.

I smacked him lightly on his chest, “You know what I mean, you big faker. Which saucy coed taught you that in college?”

“Ha. No college, mechanics’ school. And the sauciest classmate there was this big, fat hairy guy who always had Big Mac sauce stuck on his beard.”

“Eww,” I said, scrunching my nose in disgust, “thanks for the terrifying visual.”

“Trust me, seeing it is much worse.”

“Okay, so where, then?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

He looked at me in mock disappointment, shaking his head. “All right. You asked for it. I learned it from my cousin, Raul.”

I pushed back from him in shock, pulling the sheet over my naked breasts on the way.

“What the hell?” I said, trying to swim backwards on the mattress.

Laughing, he said, “I told you—and it’s not what you think.”

“Well, thank God for that!” I said, still a little freaked out by the thought of Esteban and his cousin doing…oh, never mind, for God’s sake.

“He told me his trick for getting a condom on without the chick having a chance to stop it. He learned it from his dad, my uncle. We’re pretty damn fertile, the men in our family. So, it’s a good trick to know to protect against any women with, let’s say, ‘other motives’ in mind.”

“Hmm. Good to know. So, note to self: remember to take my birth control pill and don’t be offended by male cousins teaching my lover superfast, sneaky ways to put on condoms.”

Chuckling again, he slid his feet off the bed, completely naked and unconcerned about it. Well, look at him for Christ’s sake, no wonder—he’s gorgeous with clothes and without. Hell, he makes clothes seem like a ridiculous luxury for fat losers.

“I guess that means you’re ready to take off running out of the house, as soon as I got to the bathroom?”

It was my turn to chuckle. “Not if that means I have to run out of here naked. Unlike some people—no names mentioned—I feel a little self-conscious when I’m in the buff.”

“Why do they call it that?”

“What?”

“Why do they say ‘in the buff’? I mean, that doesn’t even make sense, does it?”

I started searching the floor for my clothes. What is it with sex and throwing clothes all over the place? Ah! There we go…

Pulling my pants and underwear off the floor—I hated even thinking the word ‘panties’, it always seemed so weird, like ‘5-year-old girl dressed like a princess’ kind of weird—I was already regretting taking the top half of my clothes off in the living room. Great, now I just get to parade around here like some cocky lifeguard dude?

“In the buff? Uh, I really don’t know why the hell they call it that. For some reason, I think it’s a color or something.”

“Well, that makes sense. Maybe we should Google it.”

“Ha-ha, very funny. Google it. Five years ago if someone said that to me, I’d be accusing them of sexual harassment.”

“It does sound kind of nasty, doesn’t it?” he shook his head, chuckling. And, thank goodness, he was finally pulling clothes on, a pair of basketball shorts and a tank top. Yum, I thought, he even makes the nickname ‘wife beater’ seem like it’s almost okay, with his golden skin and soft, curly chest hair against that white cotton.

Trying to distract myself, I crouched on the floor, like I was looking for a sock, hoping he would just go in the other room, already. When I heard the toilet flush, I breathed easier, clutching my clothes and scurrying back out to the living room.

“So, are you gonna tell me about this Marcus guy, or what?” he called to me from the bathroom.

Scrambling to refasten my bra before he came back out, I yelled, “Yeah, sure!” Finally managing to hook it, I turned the bra around on my chest, slid my arms in and repositioned my ‘girls’ back in the cups, moving my arms to make sure it felt right. Satisfied, I reached for my shirt, and heard, “Need some help?”

Shit. How’d he get out here so fast?

He slowly pulled the shirt from my hand, helping me ease my arms back into it, one at a time. Then he pulled the panels together, sliding each button into its respective hole, with his strong hands working just under my chin.

“Thank you,” I said, feeling my pulse quicken again.

“You’re very welcome,” he murmured, kissing me again. I felt my body go from barely-warm embers to raging inferno in just a few seconds. My skin was tingling, mind racing, as I remembered the feel of his muscled back under my hands, as he moved on top of me, in me. Finally, a few agonizingly sensual minutes later, he pulled back again, smoothing my shirt until it was flat.

I cleared my throat, raked my fingers through my hair, and tucked my blouse into my pants as he picked up the tea glasses.

“Whoops,” he said, looking at the little puddle on the floor. “I’ll get a towel. You still thirsty?”

“Yeah,” I said, snatching one shoe off the floor, while visually searching for the other one. There! Under the recliner, where it all started…

Chapter Nine

It was a punishingly cold December in northern Virginia, almost a year since I met Jamal in that club on K Street, and six months since my divorce from Don was final. At first, he had acted like he was ready for some big, messy showdown—the new lawyer trying out his litigation skills, maybe—but in the end, he just signed the papers and gave me what I asked for.

Not that I had asked for much, anyway. All I really wanted was the furniture, the paid-off car, and my name back. The rest he took with him: the overpriced electronics I didn’t want or even know how to work, the artwork I hated, the real china dish set he had inherited from his grandmother, and his life-size John Wayne dummy.

That thing always creeped me out, standing in the living room with its fake hands planted on its fake hips, a fake smile under a big cowboy hat. I always hated westerns, and he thought they were the greatest thing to hit the silver screen. No wonder our marriage never worked. Some opposites just shouldn’t attract, I thought, slamming the door to my car as I rushed through the frigid air and hard-packed snow.

It hadn’t dropped fresh powder in a week, so the snow I was crunching through in my huge mukluk boots was that gross kind of snow: dirty, ugly, and concrete-like, with all the moisture sucked out of it. Nothing uglier than dirty, old snow in the middle of the city.

I unlocked my door, fumbling the keys a little and almost dropping them, when Jamal said, “Somebody’s here, foxy lady.” He had appeared out of nowhere, with no warning, yet again, nearly scaring me to death.

“I told you to knock that off!” I whisper-yelled, looking around to see who was there. The parking lot of my crappy apartment complex was empty, as always. Some days I swore I was the only one who lived there, and all the other cars and porch junk of the 100-plus apartments around me was just part of some elaborate movie set, tended by hundreds of invisible people, who changed things just a little now and then so it would be more realistic.

“He ain’t right here, but he’s here.”

“Ugh. Like that’s not cryptic, Jamal.” I growled a little, as I pushed against the door and forced it open. It tended to stick in the winter, with the difference between the warmth inside her apartment and the almost-zero temperature outside. Yet one more annoying thing to call the maintenance line about, leaving a message on some ancient machine that—based upon the arrival of exactly no one to fix any of my stuff—was checked all of never.

“Whatever. Just gimme a break, would ya? I need to get out of these clothes, I feel like I’m suffocating in all this wool—“

“Excuse me?”

I snapped around, startled by the sound of the not-Jamal voice. It came from a very young-looking black guy, his ebony skin shining with moisture, under a ridiculous-looking ski hat with multi-colored points all over it, like a jester’s hat. Completing the ensemble was a poufy navy down-feather winter coat, a Georgetown bull dog emblazoned on it, which made him look like he was about 6 foot 70 and weighed at least 1,100 pounds.

“Uh, yes? Can I help you with—“

“One of my friends gave me your number, but I left a bunch of messages and you never called back. So I asked him for your address, and he finally coughed it up, so here I am.”

“I see. Here you are.”

Jamal walked around in front of the guy, checking him out and sizing him up, like he either wanted fight him or try on his clothes. I waved my hand at him, like I was telling the leader of the band, That’s enough music! Stop playing!

“Look, lady, I’m not gonna try anything funny, I need your help. My little brother’s missing.”

Aw, crap. Not another one.

“Come in, sorry about my manners, it’s been a crappy day.”

“Well, no offense, but I don’t think your day could be worse than mine.”

I shuffled him in, shoved the warped door closed behind him, and started peeling my own layers off. “You’re right, I’m sorry. Again.”

“Okay.”

I yanked my scarf, gloves, hat, and coat off, then plopped down on the couch for my daily struggle with the mukluks. I had bought them in Alaska one summer, when Don and I went on one of our ‘discover the world’ trips. What a sad, pathetic joke that turned out to be.

Finally freed of the boots, I dumped them over by the front door, turning on a small space heater I kept nearby, so the boots and winter gear would actually dry instead of just stink up the place.

“Can I take your stuff?” I asked, motioning to his hat and coat.

“Oh, yeah,” he said, removing his coat to reveal the truth: it wasn’t the coat that made him look like a small giant. It was him.

“Do you play football or something?” I asked absentmindedly, as I tried to figure out where to hang his Shaquille-O’Neal-worthy monstrosity.

“Yeah. Offensive line. Who’s your team?”

“Oh, um, the bulldogs, like you,” I said, feeling rather proud of myself for figuring out who his favorite team was.

He laughed, a booming thunderous sound, and clutched his stomach. In my peripheral vision, I could see Jamal literally rolling on the floor, barely making any sounds because he was laughing so hard.

“What?” I looked back and forth from Jamal to this gigantic kid, completely confused.

“You really—you really don’t know?” still laughing so hard that tears were shining in his eyes.

“Know what?”

After a few minutes, the kid wiped his face and took a few deep breaths, reigning the laughter in so it was just a few hiccups and snorts.

“They’re the Georgetown Hoyas not the bulldogs. And their football team sucks. Just so ya know.” He pulled his hat off, handing it to me, with a little smirk on his face.

“Oh, whatever,” I said, smiling in spite of myself. At least I got the giant kid-man to laugh. Maybe now he won’t break me in half and throw me around like a puppet. Ha-ha.

“You want me to put my boots by the door?”

“Yeah, just sit them next to mine.”

He shuffled over to the growing pile of clothes and boots, unceremoniously dumping his on the floor. His stocking feet made a ‘swish-swish’ sound as he scooted back across the room, trying to decide where to sit.

“Try the recliner, it might hold you.”

He turned and looked at me funny, like he couldn’t tell if I was serious or not, then somehow folded himself into the leather seat. I settled back into the couch, trying to relax, narrowing my eyes a little as Jamal finally stopped laughing and walked over toward the kid again.

“So you said something about your brother missing, um, what was your name again?”

He instantly got serious. “Marcus. Yeah, my brother’s been missing for a couple of days, now. He’s only seven, and I’m worried about him.”

“Seven? Wow; that is young.”

“I know. He’s never gone missing before, never even wandered off at the store or anything. Trevor’s one of those good kids, almost a mama’s boy, but not a punk or anything. If he gets hurt he doesn’t act like a pussy—I mean, uh, a sissy.”

I tilted my head to the side, like I was trying to figure him out, but I was really waiting for Jamal to lean over and say something. He had back up, away from the recliner, tilting his head back one way, then the other, looking at Marcus with his eyebrows furrowed.

Not getting any help from Jamal, I asked, “Where was he the last time you saw him?”

“Mama saw him two days ago; he was watchin’ cartoons on Nickelodeon while she went to the shower. She wasn’t gone but ten, fifteen minutes, same as damn near every day. She hates to take a shower at night cuz then her hair stays wet in the pillow, and—“

“Okay, I got it. So, what time of day was it?”

“Let’s see, I just left for school, I’m a senior this year, so I have a late start class three days a week. Would’ve been around 10.”

“And there was no sign of anyone coming in? Nothing knocked over?”

“Nope. Like he just disappeared right out of the living room, vanished. Didn’t even take his boots or coat or anything.”

“And what did your mother do when she got out of the shower?”

“She freaked. I mean, I guess she looked around for a few minutes and all, but she said when she saw his coat was still there and the TV was on and the door was unlocked—“

“The door was unlocked?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. We taught him to keep it locked and chained from the inside, and not to answer the door unless a grown up is around,” he put his head down, started fidgeting with his hands. “Guess that didn’t sink in too good, huh.”

“So she saw the TV still on, the winter clothes still there, and the door was unlocked. Anything else?” I snuck a peek at Jamal, who had his eyes closed, his hands up to his temples, like one of those commercials where the guy has a “really bad migraine, right across here”.

“That’s about it. The phone never rang, she didn’t hear any loud noises, nothing was knocked over or stolen, Trevor just—up and disappeared.”

He raised his head, looking at me with big, shining, brown eyes, looking like an overgrown, scared little kid, instead of the almost-man colossus he really was.

“That’s not a lot of information to go on,” I said, turning to Jamal and clearing my throat. Finally, he seemed to snap out of it, rushing over to my side and whispering frantically into my ear. As he spoke, I repeated what he said, nearly word for word:

‘Your brother is still alive. But someone took him out of the house. Someone stronger than him. A stranger to you.’

I stopped, pulled my head back and asked Jamal, “Are you sure? That’s what you want me to say? ‘A stranger to you’?”

Jamal didn’t even answer, just pointed at Marcus, as if to say, Tell him!

“All right, all right,” I said, shaking my head at his strangely cryptic words.

“Who are you talking to?” Marcus asked, looking at me like I was an escaped mental patient.

“Didn’t your friend tell you how things work?” I asked, feeling annoyed.

“Sort of. He said you know stuff that other people don’t know. Like, how to find missing things and people.”

“That’s part of it. The other part is where I get the information from. To put it bluntly: I get it from a ghost. My ghost. Marcus, meet Jamal.” I gestured from Marcus to Jamal, like they were finally being properly introduced. Marcus lifted his eyebrows and looked like he might want to run outside without bothering to find his boots and coat. Jamal did a formal little bow, smiled, and turned to see how I would handle this one.

“Just trust me. Jamal here is from D.C. and he’s pretty good at figuring things out for people.”

“Oh, well, okay, then. As long as he’s one of them good ghosts, not the kind that want to steal your soul or anything.”

Jamal grimaced, shrugged, and threw his hands up in disgust, “Too many of those stupid horror flicks! They never get it right!”

Well, they almost never get right, I thought, eyeing my pimp-ghost friend as he paced around the living room, totally annoyed by the inability of ‘the living’ to understand ‘the dead’. Actually, from what I had seen, a lot of the ‘horror flicks’ had gotten it right on the money, in a lot of different ways. I mean, here I was, watching a pretty ticked-off ghost who couldn’t be seen by anyone else—so far—ranting about how stupid ‘living’ people were. I giggled at that, trying to cover it up with a little cough.

“No, he doesn’t want to steal anything. But let me see if I can figure out what else he knows.” I motioned towards Jamal, who refused at first, stubbornly shaking his head with his arms crossed in front of his chest. Luckily, he gave in after only a few seconds, leaning over to whisper in my ear again:

“Trevor is in a basement, with the stronger one. He won’t let Trevor out. He’s crying and scared; he thinks no one will find him. He’s calling for his mama—“

“That’s enough.”

I nodded, aware that they had touched a raw nerve in the young man. Jamal stepped away, turned his back and disappeared through the wall, to the outside. Not for the first time—or the last—I desperately wished I could disappear, too.

Marcus’ tears ran freely, spilling down his soft-skinned cheeks, stopping at his neatly-trimmed, barely-peach-fuzz moustache, then detouring down his chin and neck. He swiped at them with the heel of his hands, like he was angry that he couldn’t stop such an embarrassing and inconvenient thing.

“I gotta go tell the police all this stuff, so they can rescue him.”

“Okay,” I said, rising to help him gather his winter gear.

“No, it’s okay, I got it,” he said, waving off my help.

“I’m sorry, Marcus, I know it’s got to be devastating to—“

“Look, no offense, lady, but you don’t know anything about how I feel. My little brother barely knows how to ride a bike, cuz I taught him a few months ago. Now he’s in some basement, crying and scared, thinks no one’s comin’ for him.”

I hung my head, shamed into silence.

He finished dressing, pulling his stocking cap over his head, as I reached around him to the doorknob. But he touched my hand and asked, “You don’t know where he is?”

I felt tears filling my own eyes, and I bit my lip, trying to will them away. “No, Jamal didn’t tell me, which means even he doesn’t know.”

“All right, then,” he said, moving my hand away, turning the knob easily in his huge hand, and popping the stuck door open like it was a piece of paper. “I’ll call you when we find him.”

“Okay,” I said, watching him walk away, his huge frame bent as he carried the weight of the universe with him, down the crumbled-splotchy concrete walk.

He didn’t call me.

* * *

About a week later, I was watching the news on a huge flat-screen monitor in the bank, as I waited in line to get a money order for my rent. Stupid landlord, stuck in the damn 20th century, asking for money orders to pay rent. Every month I had to do it, I complained and bitched about it. But, as I stood there in line with four or five other people, wondering the same old thing I always wondered when I was in a situation like this—What the hell happened to ‘customer service’? It’s like no one cares if the customer is happy anymore, even when we’re the only reason they have a job at all—something familiar caught my eye.

As usual, the TV volume was on ‘mute’ and I had to read the subtitles for closed captioning—which I always hated, because they missed words or spelled everything wrong—when a picture popped up on the screen. The kid looked like a miniature version of Marcus.

Oh, no.

I yelled to the bank teller, “Turn it up! Please, turn it up!” To which, the teller did nothing at all, except look up long enough to give me a dirty look, then go back to what she was doing—leafing through a magazine or catalog.

Desperate to know what they were saying, I rushed over and manually touched the volume buttons, holding the ‘plus’ until it was so loud dead people from Iowa should’ve been sitting up to pay attention.

“Hey! You can’t touch that!” the lackadaisical teller said. So that’s how you get their attention. Touch their precious TV buttons. Good to know.

I flipped her the bird, then turned to the monitor:

“—police got the information from an anonymous tipster, whose identity has not been revealed. But for little Trevor, the information came too late. Despite the close proximity to Trevor’s house, the kidnapper was able to conceal his activities long enough to elude police and cause the death of this young boy. The investigation is ongoing, with police interviewing the young man who allegedly committed the crimes, later today. In other news—“

Horrified and numb with shock, I turned away from the TV just as some tie-wearing ‘manager’ type came over to confront me. But, one look at my face shut him up quicker than any words could have. As I mechanically pushed the door open and walked out to my car, the customers and employees gossiped long enough to agree: that woman looked like I had just seen a ghost.

Chapter Ten

“No wonder you won’t do real medium work anymore,” Esteban said, his tea sweating on the coffee table, ice melted long ago.

“Yeah.”

I chugged the last of my tea, handing him the glass.

“Wow. I guess it’s thirsty work telling about that stuff,” he said, raising his eyebrows and shrugging a little.

“What’s happenin’, little mama?” Jamal whispered in my ear, as Esteban walked into the kitchen.

“Jamal! What are you doing here?” I asked, suddenly terrified: How long has he been here?

“Only a few minutes, don’t worry. I didn’t wanna see you two whities doin the horizontal mambo.”

“He is not white, Jamal. He’s Puerto Rican.”

“Ha! Well, excu-uuse me, white girl!” he said, slapping his leg and faking a smile. Then immediately switching to his Super Serious face. “Now that you’re done getting’ your freaky-deaky on, we got a problem.”

“A problem? With what?”

“You mean who.”

“Okay, a problem with who?”

He opened his eyes really wide, tilted his head toward the kitchen, and gave me a half-smirk, half-smile.

“Esteban?”

“One and the same.”

“No, way.”

“Yes, way.”

“What’s the problem?”

“Can’t talk here, he’ll think you’re crazy.”

“What’d you say?” Esteban called from the kitchen.

“Oh, nothing! Just talking to myself!” I yelled, hoping he wouldn’t come rushing into the living room.

“Come on, give the square an excuse so we can split,” Jamal said, settling the argument.

“Oh, all right, fine then,” I said, already feeling irritable.

I slammed her hand on the couch, jumped up, and stormed into the kitchen, fuming.

“I have to go now, Esteban,” I said, rage thickening my voice.

“Whoa, whoa, what’s wrong?” he asked, holding his soapy hands up like a man surrendering to the bank robber.

Staring at him, I felt my anger already melting away, much like the soap suds falling from his hands onto the floor with a mighty plop!

“Oops,” he said, sheepishly.

He looked at the floor, then I looked, then we both looked back up at each other simultaneously, and started roaring with laughter. Esteban came over and swiped my face with some of the soapy suds, smearing them down my face and onto my blouse.

“Oh, darn, look at that,” he said, in mock-shame. “Now I have to take that pesky shirt back off, and put it in the dryer.” He stopped laughing, kissing me again, unbuttoning my shirt.

My last thought was, God, please let Jamal be gone already.

Standing just outside the kitchen, watching as Esteban leaned closer into Amber, kissing her and taking off her clothes, Jamal felt an old feeling building inside of him, boiling and scalding him with its overwhelming power: jealous, blind rage.

* * *

A few hours later, I was in my car, while the sun was thinking about making its way up from the horizon. At first, I had been relieved that Jamal was nowhere to be found. Especially while Esteban and I had our ‘alone time’. But now, hours later, I was starting to worry. For him to tell me there was something wrong, then disappear for hours on end, was completely out of character. If he was alive, I’d probably be making a few phone calls to hospitals and police stations by now. But, as things stood now, I couldn’t very well call anyone.

Who ya gonna call? I thought, in the sing-songy version from the movie Ghostbusters. Embarrassed by my own dorkiness, I shuddered and brushed the thought out of my head. Then I felt mad again.

“Jamal, wherever you are, I hope you know what a complete jerk you’re being, just taking off and not coming back for hours!” I yelled to the empty car, starting to worry about my own sanity. “God!” I slammed my hand onto the steering wheel so hard, the horn button pushed down a little, making the car emit a wounded-cow sound. Surprised, I accidentally pulled the steering wheel to the left a little, swerving into oncoming traffic.

“Watch it!”

The steering wheel jerked to back to the right, just enough to pull me out of the path of an oncoming semi-truck, barreling down the hazy highway, horn blaring in disapproval.

I slowed and pulled to the soft shoulder, gravel crunching under the tires, brakes groaning as I came to a full stop. My heart was pounding a thousand miles a minute, and I felt the iced tea trying to come back up. I put my head down on the steering wheel, trying to slow my breathing, in through my nose, out through my mouth, like that personal trainer taught me in D.C. all those years ago. He was a terrible trainer—spent most of our session staring at himself in the mirror—but at least that breathing technique stuck in my head.

“Sorry, lil’ mama,” Jamal said softly, in the seat next to me.

I lifted her head and glared at him. “I hope you’re happy you big loser,” I said, folding my arms across my chest, and leaning back into my seat, “you almost got me killed.”

“How was I supposed to know you were gonna act all crazy and slam the horn?”

“I didn’t—oh, just forget it!” I said, turning my head away so I wouldn’t have to look at him.

“That’s funny,” he said, chuckling a little bit, “you don’t really think I’ll go away if you can’t see me, do you?”

“No, but at least I won’t have to look at your stupid smiling face!”

He chuckle-snorted for a few minutes, as my anger slowly dissolved. Eventually, I gave in, when my adrenaline had run its course. Yawning, I reached for the keys to turn the car back on, until –

“Wait a minute,” I said, turning to Jamal, “did you move the steering wheel back?”

He just stared at me for a second, with that cliché deer-in-the-headlights look.

“Jamal…” I said, like a mother who caught her first-grader in the cookies before dinner.

“Well,” he said, pretending to have something very important going on outside the passenger’s window.

“Look at me, Jamal,” I said, wishing for the millionth time I could physically touch him.

He kept staring out the window.

“When did you figure it out?”

“Couple of weeks ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He just shrugged his shoulder, still looking out the window.

I sighed. Loudly.

“All right, let’s go.” I turned the key in the ignition, the engine rumbling as it warmed up. Slowly pulling away, I said, “Next time don’t hide things from me.”

He didn’t answer, his back still turned to me.

* * *

I dropped my keys and purse on the table, just as the sun peeked its way above the horizon. As I kicked my shoes off, winding my way past all my secondhand furniture, I felt exhaustion taking hold. Great sex—twice—plus the rush of nearly being smashed to death by a semi, equals too much adrenaline and a huge crash.

“Jamal, if you have something to tell me, you better hurry up, or I’ll be asleep before you can get a word in edgewise.”

He was nowhere to be found.”

She yawned again, a glamorously overdone yawn, feeling like a huge lion in the Serengeti.

“All right, big guy, goin’ once—goin’ twice—“

“I know why Victoria’s grandmama kept showin’ up.” I couldn’t see him, but he was nearby.

“Okay—why?”

“Trevor.”

I froze in mid-yawn, dropped my arms to my sides, adrenaline suddenly kicking in again.

“What about—him?” I still felt bad saying his name. Even thinking his name made me feel terrible all over again, like it was just yesterday.

“Y’know that kid that killed him?”

Of course I did. After that day in the bank, I followed the case through the newspapers, online, even called the police station and the courthouse for updates a few times, posing as a reporter. Although I never set foot in the courtroom, I knew more about the proceedings than some of the detectives on the case. That’s the beauty of modern technology: spectators seem to know more about crimes and their subsequent legal proceedings than those catching and prosecuting the criminals.

“Sure.”

“Well, he ain’t a kid no more.”

I felt goosebumps forming on her arms, spreading to her legs and the back of her neck.

Why did he say something was wrong with Esteban and then start talking about the kid who murdered Trevor?

“Don’t worry, girl, it ain’t Esteban,” Jamal said, finally strolling into view. He paced a little, back and forth in front of me, rubbing his goatee in thought. I watched for a while, until I felt like I would pop.

“Okay, then what?” I asked, antsy and jumpy from everything, but especially the idea that my new love interest might be somehow connected to a child’s kidnapping and murder.

“You know that shop of his?”

“Yep.”

“Well, that kid—the one who killed Trevor—he works there.”

Time stopped.

Well, not really, but it felt like it.

I could have passed a lie detector test with flying colors, when the question of time stoppage came up, in the moments after Jamal told me that horrific truth. Why, yes, Mr. Officer Sir, time did, in fact, stop when he told me the kid who killed Trevor worked at my new lover’s mechanic shop.

“Please tell me you’re just messing with me, Jamal.”

“Nope. No jokes or playin’ around this time, girl. It’s a total drag, but I knew I had to tell you before the fuzz starts pokin’ around and you find out on your own.”

“Why would the police be involved?”

He just looked at her.

“Who told you about this?”

“The grandmama.”

Wait, what?

“Why would Victoria’s grandmother want to tell her to—ohhh.” I caught herself in mid-sentence, when I realized Victoria’s son could be in very real danger, if he—

“Oh, my God! I have to tell Esteban! What if his son—“

“Now you see what we’re workin’ with,” Jamal said, walking quickly toward her purse on the front table. “Go on, get that sale-phoning thing and call him up. Tell him to get The Man over there and cart him away.”

“It’s a cell phone, Jamal. How many times do I have to explain it to you?”

“Till I get it right. Which is probably gonna be never. So don’t get yourself all worked up, foxy thang.”

I scrambled through her purse (so much crap in here) and finally managed to grab onto my phone. Dialing the number, I sent up a silent prayer that he wouldn’t yet be asleep from all his ‘exertions’.

“Nah, he’s still up. Get him hip to the groove, so we can make it right.”

“Hey, there, Esteban. Long time no talk to,” I said, when he answered with a sleepy-sounding ‘hello’.

“Hey, you. Do you miss me already? Wanna make it round three?”

“That would be great, but I have something else to tell you.”

“Oh, this sounds kind of serious. Okay, let me get serious with you,” he cleared his throat, scratched his face across the phone a couple of times, then finally came back on the line. “Ready.”

Oh, Lord, give me strength.

“Remember that story about Marcus?”

“Oh, yeah, I remember. Sad.”

“Right. Well, there’s a little, um, problem.”

“With what?”

“With you.”

“Me.”

“Well, not exactly you, but—God, this is all wrong. Okay, remember Victoria?”

“Yeah, the chunky southern lady with the wrecked car?”

“Her, yeah. Well, remember the whole ‘the ghost of her grandma keeps showing up’ thing?”

“Oh, yeah. You never did tell me why that was happening.”

“Because I didn’t know. But now I do.”

“Good, cuz that was gonna keep me up all night.”

Smartass, I thought, smiling to myself.

“Ha-ha. Anyway, her grandma’s ghost kept trying to warn her because—well, the kid who killed Trevor is working at your shop.”

Silence.

“Hello?” I asked, after a few minutes.

“Oh, I was waiting for the rest of the joke,” he said.

“Esteban, it’s not a joke. It’s the truth.”

“I don’t have any killer kids working at my shop. Just a bunch of hard-workin’ stiffs who are trying to make a living.”

“Well, he’s not a kid anymore, I guess he’d be about—“I looked at Jamal, who answered with upturned hands and a shrug. No help there. I counted on my fingers: let’s see, 2009, so about 4 years ago—“maybe 18 or 19 years old.”

He was silent again. Hopefully, trying to figure out which guy it was, so we could call in the feds or something.

“Where was this guy from, again?”

“The D.C. area; Trevor and his family lived in Northeast, and this kid was their neighbor, so, yeah. Not a great neighborhood.”

“What did he look like?”

“I don’t know. He was a minor, so they never showed his face or picture or anything. They never even released his name.”

“Then how the hell—you know what, maybe this isn’t a good time to have this conversation, Amber.”

I felt a cold shiver creeping its way up my spine, around to my stomach, into my upper chest. Like an icicle flowing through my veins, slowly making its way to my heart.

“Are you mad at me?” I asked, terrified of the answer.

“Not mad, really, just annoyed, I guess. I mean, how do you know this killer kid guy is working in my shop? You don’t even know what he looks like, or what his real name is.”

The icicle had reached my heart, and a splinter had broken off to wend its way higher, to my throat.

“I, but, you know about my gift—“

“Sure, but you just tell people their love match and crap like that, right?”

Seriously?

Now, I felt the pleasant burn of my best friend—anger—arrive just in time to melt the iciness trying to take over my body.

“No, that’s not all I do. Which is a damn good thing, because I obviously don’t even know how to choose my own love match, do I.” The fiery warmth of my rising fury was nice, compared to the fear of dealing with some new guy’s issues.

“Whoa, look at you, all hostile again.”

We said nothing for a few minutes, each lost in our own thoughts, fears, and insecurities. Finally, he broke the silence.

“Well, that about wraps it up for the day, huh?”

“Sure does,” I said, pushing the ‘end’ button. I sure do miss the physical satisfaction of slamming a phone down when I hang up on a douche like that.

“Now you know how great it was back in my day,” Jamal said, with a new shit-eating grin plastered all over his face.

“Why are you so happy? That idiot doesn’t believe me, so now we have a child murderer at the local repair shop. It’s like a bonus service that people will want—never.”

I tossed the phone in my purse, purposely listening to the buzz-buzz of an incoming call, until it stopped.

“Was that a call?”

“Yeah, so what?” I said, stomping down the hall to the bathroom. “I’m going to take a shower and wash this stink off me. So stay out you big perv!” I slammed the bathroom door.

Jamal smiled really, really big, and did one of his signature disco-dance moves.

“It’s dyno-MIIIITE!” he shouted, hands to the air like a religious man.

Today is turning out to be pretty damn good, he thought, settling himself onto the couch, waiting for his sexy mama to get out of the shower.

Chapter Eleven

Fresh out of the shower, in clean clothes and completely lotioned, body spritzed, deodorized, hair sprayed, and brushed, I felt much better.

“Hoo-wee! Look at you, shinin’ all over the place!” Jamal was waiting in the living room, one arm draped on the top of the couch. He patted the cushion with his free hand, “Come sit next to me, pretty lady.”

I frowned a little, trying not to think anything.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his smile fading a little.

“Why are you acting so weird?” I asked, sitting on the love seat, instead.

He got up and walked over to join me.

“You can stand.”

“Why?”

“Until you tell me what the heck is going on with you. Moving things, hiding stuff, being all happy when I have to break it off with my new lover.” I saw him wince a little at the last word. “See? That’s what I mean. Why does that bother you?”

“What?”

“You know what I’m talking about, stop playing stupid. The word ‘lover’. Why did it make you cringe like that?”

He walked away from me, towards the kitchen.

Why do I suddenly feel like I’m in a soap opera? I thought.

“Maybe because you’re acting like a whore.”

What the—

“What did you just say to me?” I jumped up off the love seat, looking for something to throw it him, until I remembered he was a ghost and that wouldn’t do anything.

“Look, girl, you and I both know you were diggin’ me till this—this—Ricky Ricardo fool came along.”

“Ricky Ricardo is a fake guy on a black-and-white sitcom in the fifties, who was from Cuba, you dope.”

“That’s just geography, baby,” he said, coming around to meet me. “Come on, you don’t need that man draggin’ you down, just be cool with it. We could do so much together.”

“Oh? Oh, really? And what could we actually do together, Jamal? In case you forgot, you’re dead!” I screamed, jabbing my finger into the thin air that should’ve been his face.

“That don’t matter, does it? I mean, one of us could just cross over to the other side, then we could be together.”

“Cross over? Wait, you’re already a ghost, and I’m alive, so you think I’m supposed to—are you completely insane?”

“I know you might be scared right now, but what else do you have to live for? Being a matchmaker for miserable people? Spending all your time talking to the dead, instead of living your life?”

I felt betrayed, shocked, appalled. He really thinks I’m supposed to die for him?

“Well, yeah,” he said, holding his hand out to me, in a ‘come with me’ move straight out of the soaps. Good lord, so cliché.

“I wouldn’t be with you, even if you were alive, or I was already dead. Face it, Jamal. The only thing you’re good for is being a dead—pimp—ghost.” I shoved my finger into what would’ve been his chest on each of the last three words, and I might be crazy, but it seemed like he actually flinched each time I did it.

His smile dropped, making his face look a little saggy and kind of old-ish. Then it turned into a sneering, lips pulled back, rage-filled mask of hate.

“What the hell did you just say, you bitch?”

Uh-oh. Shit.

I darted away from him, running around the furniture like a kid playing freeze tag, weaving in and out of the familiar layout. After a few minutes, I felt my sleepless night fall onto me like a tangible weight, huge in its effect. Wait, he can’t hurt me, he’s a ghost, for cryin’ out loud. With that, I stopped.

Breath heaving in and out, I silently vowed to get back in shape (yeah, right), bending over, hands on my knees, trying to get more oxygen into my lungs.

“Not so fast, white girl.”

I heard a scraping-sliding sound, just behind me, quickly developing into a huge rumble. Turning around, I saw the huge dark cherry wood entertainment center coming after me.

“What the hell?” I blurted, then took off running, again.

Oh my God, he really can move things. How long has he been doing this?

“Couple of years,” he boasted, smiling with pride, as the couch joined in the pursuit.

“Would you knock it off, already? How do expect to win me over? By assault with deadly furniture?” I yelled, trying to maneuver around the love seat, while simultaneously expecting it to jump up and run after me.

“Nah, I just figured I’ll crush you to death, then you can join me over on my side. Hang out in my crib for a minute.”

Oh, my God, he’s serious.

I raced around to the front table, desperately trying to get to my phone, but it floated out of my purse, hung there for a second or two, then flew across the room and crashed into the wall, falling to the floor in a bunch of tiny pieces.

Well, that’s gonna kill my replacement deductible, I thought automatically.

“Your what?” he asked, confused.

“Never you mind, you big seventies dummy!”

Knock-knock.

“Amber? Is everything okay in there?”

Esteban!

“No! Come in! Help me!”

Banging on the door, rattling the knob.

“I can’t, it’s locked!”

I didn’t lock the door.

“I did,” Jamal said, casually strolling over to the door, turning to look at her, then disappearing through it to the outside.

“Showoff!” I yelled at the top of my lungs.

The furniture dropped back to the floor, no longer the sorcerer’s apprentice-type of possessed furniture out to kill me.

“NOW!” I shouted, hoping Esteban would understand.

He did.

The door cracked and splintered as he burst into the house, the door knob still in his hand. He looked down at it, surprised, and tossed it to the floor, running over to me.

I grabbed him, clutching at him with all of my strength, terrified to let go.

“What happened? What’s going on?”

Where the hell is Jamal?

“He trapped me in here! He was trying to kill me so I would, you know, be his chick forever!”

“What? Who? Did you hit your head?” he was looking all around the room, while trying to scan my face for scrapes or bruises.

“No, I didn’t hit my head. The story I told you about Marcus—I left something out.”

“Yeah, what?”

“The ghost that helped me, Jamal?”

“Yeah?”

“He’s still here.”

Esteban pushed away from me, protectively shoving me behind him, looking desperately around the room to see where the threat might be coming from.

“You won’t be able to see him, Esteban.”

“So, this ghost-guy, Jamal, has been around since the Marcus thing? For almost four years?”

“Um, well, it might be a little longer than that, even.”

“How much longer?”

“Since October 2008.”

“Almost half a decade?”

“Yep.”

“Talk about leaving out the important details,” he said, walking around the room, looking under and behind stuff, like he might find Jamal hiding there. “Were you rearranging your furniture or something?”

She laughed, in spite of the fear and worry. “No, Jamal was actually making the furniture chase me.”

He turned to look at me, incredulous doubt written all over his face, “Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously. I know it sounds uber-retarded, but—“

“No, no, I get it. One of those obsessive-love ghost things. I’m down with it.”

I giggled. Then I remembered Jamal was still missing.

“I don’t know where he went. I don’t trust it.”

“I’m right here, girl.”

He was standing right behind me, whispering into my ear. I considered my options, without forming an actual thought, then started crying.

Obviously, Jamal didn’t expect that, because he jumped right into my line of sight and asked, “Hey, what’s wrong? I didn’t mean to make you cry, stop that.”

I instantly shut off the waterworks, cut my eyes to Esteban as if to say ‘move back’, and yanked an old talisman hanging on a thin string around my neck out of my blouse.

“Go back to the other side, Jamal!” I yelled, holding it directly in front of his face.

At first, he just looked at me. Then he started laughing.

“What’s that? Some junk jewelry from the mall? You gotta be kidding!” he roared with laughter, ghost-tears shining on his cheeks.

I kept holding it, smiling a sweet, secret smile. Like I was waiting for something.

“Are you all right, Amber?” Esteban asked, standing over by the front door.

“I will be in a minute,” I answered, my voice steady and confident.

What Jamal didn’t know, and I purposely expelled from my mind, was the ancient secret of those with the ‘gift’ (or the mark, or whatever name it had): ghosts don’t actually belong on earth. So, presenting them with something that exists inside and outside of this earth—simultaneously—forces their stubborn soul to go where it belongs.

Suddenly, Jamal began to shiver and look a little fuzzy. He instantly stopped laughing, wiping the tears from his face, his eyes widening with the horrific realization of what was happening.

“No, Amber, wait, I was just playin’ with ya, we can keep things the way they are!”

He pleaded with me, as he faded, sputtering and crackling like eggs frying on a hot pan, until finally—he was gone.

Sighing, I lowered my hand, letting the talisman fall back down onto my chest. Then I started crying, for my lost friend.

Chapter Twelve

Months later, I was in the kitchen burning another batch of fried chicken, desperately praying the smoke alarms wouldn’t go off this time. I turned the heat down a little, hoping it would keep the popping sizzling grease from burning my arms, looking out of Esteban’s kitchen window. He was out there, in his golden-skinned perfectness, playing Frisbee with his kids, while trying to keep the dogs from grabbing it. Mostly, the dogs were running off with the plastic disc between their teeth, romping all over the grass, as Esteban chased after them and the kids rolled on the ground, clutching their guts from laughing so hard.

I smiled, feeling content for the first time in a very long time.

Too bad I can’t figure out how to cook the chicken without causing a wildfire, though.

“Yeah, you know how those things are once they get going.”

I froze, metal tongs poised above the spitting grease, little tiny burn-making drops trying to make their way to my arm hair.

“Jamal?” I whispered, that icy terror shooting into my veins for the first time in almost a year.

Turning around slowly, I expected the refrigerator to be rushing toward me. Nope, just Jamal. And some chick.

“I wanted you to meet my new fox lady. Now, try not to get too jealous, I know she’s a lot younger than you. And I know how ‘lady-freaked’ you get about that whole age thing.” He laughed, as the woman—girl?—smiled and put her fingers up in a peace sign.

Great, the hippies meet the disco days.

“Hi, I’m Amber.”

I stuck out my hand, but the tongs were still there.

“Oops,” I said, embarrassed by my faux pas.

“Groovy, chick. Amber. I’m feelin’ it, J.”

“Yeah, Daisy Chain here is from the 60s.”

Ya don’t say?

“That sounds fun. You two enjoy yourselves, now. Go have a couple of ghost babies, maybe buy a ghost house, just don’t get that stupid ghost-ARM rate, you know how it spikes after the first few years. Murder on the budget.”

“Damn, girl, you ain’t changed a lick,” Jamal said, shaking his head and smiling. “I see you and your man are doin’ good, with his kids and all?”

“Yeah, they’re great kids. I’m terrible at the whole babysitting, cooking, disciplining thing, but we’ll make it work.”

“Groovy,” Daisy Chain said, kind of waving her head a little bit. Her long dark hair was straight as a board, held back by—you guessed it—a chain of daisies woven into a headband.

“She says that a lot, doesn’t she?”

Jamal just smiled, shaking his head.

“So, you in town for a while, or just passing through?” I asked, raising an eyebrow to Jamal.

“Funny you asked,” he said, walking towards me. “You see, Daisy Chain and me were kinda talking the other day, and we thought maybe we could help you—help other people—by helping the ghosts.”

“Wow, Jamal, there’s a lot of helping in that sentence.”

“Yeah, well, that’s my new thang, girl!” he said, turning in a circle, like James Brown was famous for doing onstage.

Work with these two twits, helping people with real problems?

“Yeah, why not? I don’t know what a twit is, but I’m pretty sure we could be that for ya, too, little foxy lady.”

You already are, Jamal. You just don’t know it.

I thought about it for a while, looking at the kids and Esteban romping all over the yard with the dogs. Happiness. Sheer happiness.

“Okay,” I said, picking up the pan of now-burnt chicken and unceremoniously dumping it in the sink. “When do we start?”

Content

The Matchmaker Medium
By
Laurel King

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve