The Name of the Star - Maureen Johnson [63]
“The more solid, the longer it takes and the harder it is. The ones who are more like air, they can do that more easily, but they’re not as physically strong. It’s harder for them to move things. But all ghosts are people, and you just respect them, no matter what they’re like, yeah?”
Alistair seemed mollified by this ghosts’ rights speech.
“Rory is needed for the investigation, see?” Boo said. “And she’s just found out what she can do, and it takes some time to adjust to that. She has this assignment to do, and obviously, she can’t do it. So, I was thinking, maybe you could help?”
Alistair didn’t, to my surprise, walk away or simply evaporate in disgust (because, for all I knew, he could do that).
“What is it?” he asked.
“Six to eight pages on the major themes of The Diary of Samuel Pepys,” I said automatically.
“The Diary of Samuel Pepys is massive,” Alistair replied.
“Oh . . . I mean, just the part about the fire.”
“The major theme of the part about the fire is the fire.”
“Also . . . rhetorical technique, or something.”
“Could you help us with that?” Boo asked. She had an alarmingly huge smile. “I mean, you’re obviously clever, and we have a murderer to stop. Can you type, or—”
“I don’t type.”
“Or write,” she said quickly. “Can you hold a pen?”
“I haven’t practiced in a while,” he replied. “I used to be able to do it. When do you need it?”
“Tomorrow morning?” I replied.
Alistair tapped his mouth with his fisted hand and thought for a moment.
“I want music,” he said.
“Music!” Boo nodded. “We can get you music! What music do you want?”
“I want Strangeways, Here We Come by the Smiths and Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me by the Cure—”
“Wait, wait . . .”
Boo hurried off. I heard her making her way down the steps. While she was gone, I just stared at Alistair and he stared back at me.
“Pen,” she said as she returned. She held up a pen as proof. “Say those again.”
Alistair repeated his album choices, and Boo wrote them down on her palm.
“And London Calling,” he added, leaning over to make sure she was getting the names right. “I want London Calling by the Clash.”
“I’ll get you these albums tonight,” she said, holding out her hand so he could see what she had written. “And something to play them on. Deal?”
“I suppose,” he said. “Wait . . . I also want The Queen Is Dead. Also by the Smiths.”
“Four albums,” she said, holding up her palm to show him. “One paper. Deal?”
“Deal,” he said.
“See that?” Boo asked when we were outside. “Not scary, is he? And your paper is sorted.”
There was something in what she was saying. Alistair hadn’t scared me. There was really nothing weird about the conversation at all, if you discounted the fact that we had discussed an article about his death.
“Are there any other ghosts around here?” I asked.
“Not that I’ve seen, but sometimes they’re shy. A lot of them love attics, basements, underground areas. People scare them. Funny, isn’t it? People are scared of ghosts, ghosts are scared of people, when there’s no reason for any of it.”
“Except that the Ripper is a ghost,” I said. “There is no humanly possible way for me not to worry about that. And Jerome thinks I’m insane.”
“Oh.” Boo waved her hand dismissively. “He’ll forget.”
“I don’t think he will.”
“Course he will. And it’s only Jerome.”
My silence intrigued her.
“You?” she said. “And Jerome?”
I remained silent.
“Seriously? You and Jerome?”
“It’s not . . . It’s not a—”
“Oh,” she said, smiling hugely. “Then don’t worry. I’ll fix it.”
22
JEROME DIDN’T FORGET. OF COURSE HE DIDN’T FORGET. I saw an invisible woman and ran away from class. No one forgets that. And then I’d hidden myself away for the rest of the day, which didn’t help.
When I walked into breakfast the next morning, I saw him sitting with Andrew. He raised his head when he saw me come in and nodded. Boo and I got into line. She filled up a plate with a full English—eggs, bacon, fried bread, mushrooms, tomatoes. Like me, she could put it away. That morning, though, I had no appetite. I took some