Our house has the perfect place for eavesdropping—the landing at the top of the stairs. I’m crouched there now in the dark.
While The Ruler and my dad were loading the dishwasher I overheard her say quietly, “We need to talk about Sherry.”
Say what? At dinner, everyone was thrilled over my win and sad about my breakup. What could The Ruler and my dad possibly have to talk about concerning me?
Sam’s been in bed for a while. Supposedly, I’m safely tucked away in my room, reading Rebecca, my summer English assignment. Every few days, I pull the book out of my desk drawer and dog-ear a couple of pages. I’ll check out SparkNotes right before school starts.
Below me and down the hall, the kitchen light switches off. The fluorescent hall light flickers on and warms up to a dull, environmentally friendly blue. Dad and Paula are moving to the living room, their chatting ground.
I shift slightly, fading into the shadowy stripe of the banister. I peer through the rails.
The Ruler leads the way, taking small steps in her Naturalizer slippers while balancing a mug of calming chamomile tea. My dad pads along behind her in bare feet, a can of diet soda in his hand. He stops and sips, then sighs. He’s probably imagining a bowl mounded high with French vanilla ice cream.
The couch cushions breathe out as my dad and The Ruler settle in. Their heads bobble like they have spring necks.
Dad stretches out an arm with the remote, and Céline Dion’s vocals soar through the living room. My dad has a love affair going with that singer. If she ever knocked at our front door, he’d follow her through the streets of Phoenix like she was the Pied Piper.
“What’s going on with Sherry?” My dad spaces each word apart, like he’s expecting bad news.
I cup my ear.
My dad responds. Something.
Ack. I cannot hear. Like a cat sneaking up on a mouse, I slowly scoot down a couple of steps. I press my cheek against the cool metal railing, my ear jutting through the bars. What are these people saying about me?
“You really think I should go?” Dad crosses, then uncrosses his feet at the ankles, then finally rests them side by side on the coffee table.
“It’d be great bonding time for you two. Also, I can’t miss the robotics meeting,” The Ruler says. “And it’d be really good for Sherry to leave town, attend the awards ceremony and get some distance between her and this breakup.”
The Ruler’s sending Dad to Hollywood with Junie and me?
“I have a few clients in Los Angeles I could see while I’m out there,” my dad says.
“Sure.” The Ruler bends forward to gather up her knitting. “The magazine pays for the tickets, but you need to talk with Sherry about exact dates. And to let her know you’re going, of course.”
My dad’s feet hit the floor.
“I’m sure she’s already asleep, Bob. She always dozes off reading Rebecca.” The Ruler’s needles click rhythmically. “Talk to her tomorrow, then we’ll touch base with Junie’s parents.”
I crab-walk backward. Across the carpeted landing, into my bedroom, grazing my shoulder on the doorjamb.
There’s someone else I need to invite on the trip. My mom.
My mom was a cop with the Phoenix Police Department. She died in the line of duty a couple of years ago. After her death, she enrolled in the Academy of Spirits, an organization that trains ghosts to protect humans. At first, she was totally flunking her classes. To boost her dismal grades, she recruited me as her partner in mystery solving. Now she’s acing school and was recently loaned out to a foreign Academy for a few months.
I wait until my house is the kind of calm and quiet you get when everyone’s in bed. Then I scrounge in my desk drawer for a Ziploc bag of coffee beans, toss on a sweatshirt and tiptoe downstairs and through the kitchen. A bright moon lights up our backyard. I tramp across the lawn to the ornamental pear tree in the corner of the yard. My mom planted this tree when I was born, and it’s where I have the best luck getting in touch with her.
I throw a leg over the lowest branch and hoist myself up. Once I’m sitting, my back scrunched against the trunk, I open the Ziploc bag and let the smell of coffee waft through the night air. I close my eyes and think mom thoughts.
I wait.
The night is still. Crickets chirp. An owl hoots off in the distance.
I wait some more. Calling a ghost can take patience.
Lately, my mother and I have been in contact way less frequently because her work with the foreign Academy doesn’t include me.
All of a sudden, the leaves shudder in a whoosh of java-scented air. Ghosts smell like something important from their mortal life. My mother was a coffee fanatic. The branch bobs as she settles next to me.
“Hi, Sherry,” she says brightly. “How are you? I’ve missed you.”
At the sound of her voice, a lump clogs my throat. “Josh and I broke up.” My eyes spill over with tears.
“Oh, pumpkin, I’m so sorry.” There’s a feathery touch where she’s smoothing my forehead.
I would give anything for a hug. Or even a few minutes of Real Time, where I can actually see her and be with her.
“When did it happen?” she asks gently.
I choke out the story. Then I add, “I’m not walking around like a zombie or whatever. I have chunks of time when I’m pretty much fine and not even thinking about the breakup. But then, sometimes I have pain with every heartbeat. With every breath. With every song on the radio. My emotions are totally whacked out.”
“Sounds normal. The sadness comes and goes in waves,” my mom says. “But I’m sorry you’re having to go through it.”
Caw. Caw. A cactus wren flaps in and wraps his yellow feet around the branch directly above us. The cactus wren—our state bird and my grandfather. Grandpa died of a heart attack a few years ago. He opted to take on the shape of a wren and the position of mascot for the Academy of Spirits. He’s tough to understand, but has a solid sense of direction and really comes through when we’re hot on the trail of a clue.
“Hi, Grandpa.” I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand.
“Sherry and Josh broke up,” my mom tells him.
He clucks sympathetically.
“How’s Grandma?” I ask.
“Good,” he croaks. “Still recovering.”
“What’s happened to Grandma?” my mom asks, concerned.
“Hip surgery,” Grandpa says.
“Grandpa’s hanging out with her a bunch,” I say. “Still hoping she’ll make the connection that he’s no ordinary wren.”
Grandpa shakes his little balding head to indicate that no, Grandma hasn’t figured out his true identity. My grandmother is all New Agey, with herbs and crystals and auras, but she can’t see Grandpa for who he really is.
“I didn’t realize she was having surgery.” My mother sighs. “Some days life moves too quickly, and I feel that I’m missing out. Especially right now while I’m working for the foreign Academy.” Our branch jiggles. I bet my mom is sitting in her favorite position, one leg crossed over the other, her foot swinging back and forth. “Sherry, can you stay busy? With Junie? And try to keep your mind off Josh? Wallowing is not healthy.”
I smack my forehead. I think this breakup is affecting my memory. “I have huge news. Huge California news!” I spill.
“I am so proud of you!” my mom says, all enthusiastic.
Grandpa’s beak opens, and out pours a long string of Russian-sounding syllables.
I shrug. From the way his dark birdy eyes are flashing, I’m sure he said something enthusiastic too.
“Grandpa believes that he and your grandmother helped you win because they’re an excellent example of true love,” Mom translates. “Obviously, true love is in your genes.”
Nice to know, because at the moment it feels more like failed love is in my genes. I grimace inside.
Grandpa flutters above me. He briefly places a tattered wing across his tiny feathered chest. “Back to Grandma.”
I wave as he becomes a dark speck against the white moon.
I turn to the space next to me. “Mom, guess where I’ll be staying? Three clues.” I extend a finger. “The year is 1929.” I hold up a second finger. “The address is 7000 Hollywood Boulevard.” I waggle a third finger. “The event is the Academy Awards.”
“The Roosevelt Hotel!” My mother gasps. “What if your awards dinner is held in the Blossom Ballroom? My baby getting an award in the same room where the first Oscar was given out!” The branch shakes more. Her leg must be bouncing a mile a minute. “I have to be there.”
“I want you to be there.” And now that I’ve said it aloud, I realize just how much I do want my mom to come to Hollywood. Some of my best memories are of watching the Academy Awards together. The two of us on the couch with a giant bowl of buttered popcorn, the TV blaring, our guesses written down in sealed envelopes on the coffee table.
My hand clenches in excited anticipation.
“And Marilyn Monroe’s ghost shows up in a mirror at the Roosevelt,” she says. “You know how long I’ve been fascinated by the mystery surrounding her death.”
“I’m sure the foreign Academy would love to tie up the loose ends on that case. Any academy would,” Mom says. “What if I approached the administration about working the Marilyn Monroe mystery? It wouldn’t exactly be a vacation for me, but I could attend your awards ceremony. We could hang out and do some touristy things together in Hollywood.”
“Yes, yes, yes!” I punch the air with a victory fist.