Intrinsical - Lani Woodland [6]
I glanced at the carpet and found the floor dry and the footprints gone. The light had returned to normal, the chlorine smelled had vanished, and even my hand didn’t hurt anymore. Everything was completely normal. Everything but me. Pulling my robe even tighter around me, I dropped into my desk chair, my leg shaking.
I couldn’t deny it; that was definitely a spirit. My second encounter with a ghost. No one had warned me it would be so terrifying. I was on the verge of telling Cherie everything when my hand traced the scar above my left eye. I’d gotten it in second grade, courtesy of a rock thrown by a classmate who insisted Vovó, my grandma hadn’t seen his mother’s spirit. It had been the first in a long line of similar encounters, but it was the only one that had left a physical scar. As for emotional scars, there were too many to count.
I knew Cherie would believe me, but still I hesitated. Everything hinged on this choice, whether or not to admit I could see ghosts like Vovó. Names I’d heard her called still echoed in my ears: crazy, witch, insane. So did all the useless arguments I had used to defend her, until one day I finally stopped, realizing they never fixed anything.
In Brazil, her gift of seeing and talking to ghosts was accepted-appreciated, even. There, she was a respected woman, revered for her knowledge of herbs and spirit lore. But here in the United States, in my neighborhood, she had become a community joke. She stayed with us every summer and each time I had to endure the looks and insults slung at her. They didn’t bother her, but they bothered me. I didn’t want that to be my future.
I didn’t want to be an Acordera, a Waker, someone who could communicate with ghosts. All I wanted to be was a normal sixteen year old. My fingernails dug into the palms of my hands as I stared at the smudge of my handprint on the window’s glass, and realized
that I could never be that now.
Cherie looked at me for a moment. “Are you okay?”
“No,” I admitted honestly. “Something really strange . . .” I trailed off, trying to decide if I wanted to reveal what had just happened. I still hadn’t even told her about the mist I had seen attack Brent. If I made this confession, everything would change; there would be no going back.
“The weirdest thing . . .” I started again, but then my courage failed.
Cherie watched expectantly, waiting for me to finish the sentence I had left hanging there like a pair of long johns on a clothesline.
Finally, she tried to tactfully change the conversation. “Speaking of strange and weird, did you see our P.E. clothes? I’m thinking they might be the embodiment of the Pendrell Curse, like their entire purpose is to . . .”
I nodded, not really paying attention to her, concentrating instead on my own troubled thoughts.
“Yara, are you listening to me?” I looked at Cherie and mumbled an apology, having missed most of what she had said. “I’m eager for a ghost hunt,” Cherie said. My stomach lurched. “I have some plans to get things rolling for tomorrow. Are you game?”
“Aren’t I always?” I asked, trying to unclench my fists. Cherie had spent time over the years talking with my grandma and had picked up what she considered to be hot tips about finding out if a place was really haunted. It has always been fun to be part of her paranormal adventures, to get swept up in her enthusiasm, but now— well, everything was different.
“You almost look scared,” Cherie said, noting the frown on my face.
I didn’t want to admit that I was.
****
While I blow-dried and curled my hair, Cherie headed for the shower. I flipped the radio on to a jazz station and let the silky tones flood the room. Humming and scat-singing along, I slid on my favorite pair of jeans and my plum-colored silk tank top, then topped it off with my new jean jacket. After clasping on the necklace my grandma had given me before I started school, I examined myself in the