The next day, as we were standing in line for gym class, Henry leaned forward and whispered in my ear. His breath tickled, and his voice was so low that I couldn’t understand a word he was saying. I shrugged at him and made a What? face, so he tried again.
“That thing I told you yesterday,” he said. “Forget it.”
“Oh,” I said, probably louder than I should have. Henry glared at me, so I started again, more quietly. “You mean about your gho—good friend?”
“Yes,” said Henry. “Can you just pretend I never mentioned it?”
Well, that would be impossible. As soon as I realized that Henry was dealing with a ghost, I knew we had to do something. But Henry wasn’t too excited about my plan.
“Henry,” I said. “You can trust me. We’re friends. And I know what I’m doing.”
Henry still looked skeptical, so I added, “It’ll be fun. You’ll see.”
None of that was exactly, technically true. I had no idea what I was doing, and he had no reason to trust me. Henry and I didn’t even know each other all that well. We were friendly, sure. We sat next to each other all day. And I had gone over to his house once after school, but I’d pretty much invited myself. Still, I did know enough about Henry to understand why he wasn’t excited about my idea. Henry didn’t even like to talk to live people that much, so why would he want to speak to a dead one? But here’s the thing about me. Once I think I have the answer to something, nothing can stop me.
Getting the Ouija board was easy. I knew there was one in my cousin Monica’s closet underneath a big pile of games like Candy Land that none of us played anymore. And Monica doesn’t care what you take from her closet as long as it isn’t her clothes. (She has made it very clear that I don’t get to borrow those—even though I know for a fact that some of them would fit, and most of them would look great on me.) The only hard part of holding our séance, or Ouija board thing, actually, was dealing with Alice—Henry’s younger sister. She’s a pain.
Alice wants to be a ballerina. She goes around all the time in one of those tiny little ballerina buns; it’s like a little blond knob at the top of her head. Henry says she takes lessons twice a week, and she even has this tiny toy mouse with a tutu that she calls Miss Nibbles. It’s a big emergency every time she loses the thing, which, according to Henry, happens pretty often.
Okay. I’ll admit that the first time I was over there, we straight-out hid it from the kid. It wasn’t right, but it was hilarious. Miss Nibbles hanging halfway out the window. Miss Nibbles dangling over a pot of chili.
“Henry,” Sophie said. “Have you seen your sister’s mouse?”
“No,” Henry answered. Straight face. Not even a hint of a smile. I was so proud of him.
“Well, could you at least look?”
I’m pretty sure the little stuffed rodent was in Henry’s pocket the whole time while we went around the house calling, “Miss Nibbles! Miss Nibbles!”
Sophie glared at Henry.
“What?” he asked. “You wanted us to help. We’re helping.”
Henry’s always really polite to everyone else. I guess his stepmother just doesn’t bring out the best in him.
Of course, I wanted to use the Ouija board the second I got it, but because of Alice (whose favorite sentence is “I’m telling!”), Henry and I had to wait a couple of days. Until Alice had a ballet lesson. Those were the only days Henry had the house to himself—for a little while—until Sophie got home from work.
I never had the house to myself because that’s what happens when your dad works from home some days and your baby sister is an actual baby. All you can do is put a KEEP OUT sign on your bedroom door and hope for a few minutes’ peace when everyone falls asleep—Rachel in her crib, and Mom and Dad on the couch in front of the news. That’s when I get the rest of the pizza to myself and a bit of privacy. Henry didn’t know how lucky he was. So, while Alice was off learning how to put her feet in second position, we went to Henry’s house.
As soon as we got there, I started to set things up.
“We have exactly one hour to finish. One hour until Sophie gets home from work.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “I understand.”
“If we were at my mom’s house, it would be different, but Sophie just…”
“It’s all right, Henry,” I said. “What’s your mom doing in England, anyway?”
“Studying Shakespeare,” Henry said. “Uncle Marty told me she’s writing about ghosts.”
His answer surprised me so much that I just stared at him for a second. Then I said, “We’d better hurry.”
Henry had no idea what to do with a Ouija board, so he really should have been more cooperative.
“What are you doing?” he asked me as I closed the living room curtains.
“Making it darker.”
“How are we supposed to see the board?” Henry complained.
“Have you got any candles?” Honestly, sometimes he has no imagination.
“We don’t need any candles. Just leave the stupid curtains open.”
“Henry,” I said. “Do you want this to work or not?”
“Fine. But at least leave them open a crack.”
It ruined the whole mood, but it was hard to refuse him. If you could have seen how nervous he looked, you’d understand.
We put the Ouija board in the center of the coffee table and sat crisscross applesauce on the living room floor.
“Spirits, are you here?” I asked. “Make yourselves known!”
“What’s wrong with your voice?” Henry asked.
“That’s how you do it!” I said.
“Says who? Your Ouija board teacher?”
“Do you want to do it?” I asked him.
“No,” Henry said. “I want you to do it. In your regular voice.”
“Stop wasting time,” I said. “Put your fingers on the edge of the planchette.”
“The planchette?” he asked.
“Yes. That’s what it’s called. And don’t push it! You just touch it lightly. Spirits, are you—” But I never finished because we both felt it: the disk lurched toward the corner of the board, to the small circle that said YES.
“Who are you?” Henry demanded.
And it happened again. Five times, to be exact. Once for each letter: E-D-G-A-R.
And just like that, Henry’s ghost had a name.