Polly
Rose was watching for me from her living room window after lunch. She waved at me to wait, and a minute later she was out on the street beside me, wrapped in her cloak.
“Here,” I said, handing her one of my mother’s striped cotton market bags with the wooden box tucked safely inside. “I gotta run, Rose, I’m late for school. No one was home so I had to make my own sandwich. I don’t know where my mother is. But she did make a chocolate cake this morning,” I added, grinning. “I put a big hunk of it in there for you too.”
Rose smiled. “Yes, Polly, I can see you had some chocolate cake. It’s all over your face.”
“Ooops!” I wiped my mouth with the back of my sleeve. “Meet me after school in my attic?”
Rose’s face fell. “I can’t, Polly. I can’t go in there again. Not after last night. Finding Winnie’s death notice, and that letter from the hospital—it was horrible. I couldn’t breathe—I couldn’t—”
“No problem, Rose,” I interrupted, hopping from one foot to the other in the cold. “We can meet at the library again. Bring the box. Gotta go!” and I ran down the street.
I dashed around the corner and then I had to slow to a walk. I was puffing like anything. Five minutes or ten minutes late, it didn’t matter now. I’d get a note to take home to Mum either way.
As I hurried along the deserted streets I started thinking about Winnie. It made sense that she wanted Rose to help. In so many of the ghost stories I had read, ghosts would get stuck in something when they died—anger, sorrow, fear—and they were trapped there until they found the way out. They all wanted to move on to the next stage, whatever that was. Heaven, I guess.
I looked up as I crossed the road and that’s when I saw them. My mother and Susie. They were on the opposite side. Mum was pushing Susie in the stroller. The basket underneath was stuffed with shopping bags.
I thought of nipping around the corner to hide. At least that would delay the lecture about being late for school.
It wasn’t necessary. They didn’t see me. Susie was babbling away and Mum was laughing and talking to her.
I stood on the corner and watched them pass down the street. Mum’s voice gradually faded as they got farther and farther away.
I had never felt so lonely in all my life.
Rose
I watched Polly run down the street and disappear around the corner. Even though it was freezing, I didn’t want to go back into the house. Kendrick kept watching me with her dark, suspicious eyes, as if I were going to turn into a witch and fly away on a broomstick.
I sat down on Polly’s front steps and put the bag down beside me. I peeked inside and drew out something wrapped in wax paper—an enormous piece of gooey chocolate cake. Two layers, with lots of thick icing in between and on top. I took a bite. It was really good. Mrs. Lacey’s chocolate cake was a lot better than Kendrick’s. I took another bite.
Then I just sat there, huddled in my cloak, absently eating the cake while I thought about my dilemma. No matter what Polly said, I didn’t see what difference it would make to look at a bunch of pictures of birds. I didn’t trust Winnie for a minute. I pushed the image of the boy on the bridge away. Why should I have to fix everything? Didn’t I have enough problems of my own, plagued by ghosts night and day? Although I hadn’t seen any recently, except for Winnie. I looked around nervously.
It was okay. I was alone. Except for a woman coming down the street, pushing a stroller. I watched her idly. Didn’t look like a ghost. She had a red coat on and glasses. She looked like—she looked an awful lot like Polly.
By the time I realized who she was and stood up to make my getaway, it was too late. She stopped the stroller in front of the house and looked up at me quizzically.
I tried to hide the bag under my cloak.
“Can I help you?” she said, approaching me. “Are you—?” She broke off, taking a closer look. “Oh,” she said. “You must be the Ghost Girl. The one the twins talk about.”
I didn’t say anything. I just stood there, looking at her. It was very weird. She looked so much like Polly. She was chubby and had the same brown hair and a kind of bounce to her and—just like Polly—her words seemed to tumble out of her mouth without her stopping to think what effect they might have.
Mrs. Lacey laughed. Polly’s laugh. “They shouldn’t call you that—I’m sorry if they’ve been teasing you. They’re awful boys, really. They’ll be the death of me. What’s your name?”
“Rose,” I croaked. She glanced at the striped shopping bags in the basket under the stroller and then looked back at me, frowning.
“Rose, is that one of my bags you have under your cloak?”
Great. Slowly I took it out.
“I didn’t steal it,” I said stiffly.
She reached for the bag and looked inside.
“What’s this?” she asked, pulling out the box.
I took it from her. “It’s mine. You can keep the bag.”
“Yes, I suppose I can. It’s my bag. I made it myself. How did you get a hold of it? Is this something to do with the twins?”
I didn’t want to get Polly in trouble.
“No. I … umm …”
The baby got tired of this and started yelling.
“Oh my goodness,” said Mrs. Lacey, lifting her out of the stroller.
I took the opportunity to head back to my house.
“I’ll be talking to your mother about this,” called Mrs. Lacey as I ducked through my door.