Lindsey squealed. Celeste looked like she might be about to pee her pants, and I wished I was the one who had drowned in the lake.

  Was that what he kept trying to do? Come back for his kiss?

  I balled a fist. I'd have liked to give him something at that moment, but that wasn't it.

  "Did she kiss the ghost?" Lindsey asked.

  Logan held up his hands. "I don't know. Even ghosts don't kiss and tell."

  Celeste groaned.

  I sat back on my hands. I didn't know whether to be happy or annoyed. Logan couldn't stop mocking me for two seconds in a row to pay attention to Celeste. My setup had been doomed even before I'd given up on it.

  It only took Lindsey a moment to recover and start writing again. "I like that story. He forgave her because he loved her."

  Logan shrugged. "Maybe not love. But she was cute."

  I couldn't keep the sarcasm out of my voice. "So her life was spared by cuteness. How precious."

  Lindsey sighed. "But it's not very scary."

  Logan shook his head. "You have no idea."

  I folded my legs under me. Maybe that's what this was about. Logan searched for a scary story, and his first thought was the terrifying thing that had happened to him. There was no message for me. I was just reading into it.

  Except the part about kissing.

  In the way that we'd almost kissed.

  Who was I kidding? His story was a freaking billboard. It was impossible not to read into it.

  I couldn't take it anymore. "Enough stories," I said. "Let's contact these ghosts and get it over with."

  Lindsey shoved her notebook behind her. "Oh spirits," she said. "Speak to us." She grabbed the deck of cards. "Show us your omens!"

  I wasn't totally sure she was using the word omens right, but I scooted closer to the glowsticks.

  Logan reached out to the deck of cards and held up a card with a hot vampire on it. He looked over at me. "Tell me these are yours."

  I rolled my eyes at him.

  "Mine," Celeste said, snatching it out of his hand. "They're collectable. Don't judge."

  Lindsey flipped three cards off the top of the deck. A four of hearts, a nine of clubs, and a king of spades.

  She shrieked.

  "What?" I said. "Is that good?"

  "Well," she said, pointing to the four. "That's us."

  "Because there's four of us," Celeste said.

  Lindsey nodded furiously. "Right!"

  I wouldn't admit it aloud, but if that four represented us, then the hearts were appropriately ironic. "What else?" I said.

  "This," Lindsey said, pointing to the nine, "is me. Because I'm nine!"

  Celeste and Logan both looked at me. "Okay," I said. "And the king?"

  I was afraid she was going to proclaim Logan our benevolent monarch, but instead she looked around us. "That's him," she said. "Our ghost. He's here."

  And though I knew it was stupid, a chill ran down my arms, and I couldn't help sniffing for a biffy smell. All I smelled was a faint whiff of the pizza we'd had for dinner, though.

  Maybe the ghost had been a pizza delivery person.

  "Hold hands," Lindsey said, and she stretched out her arms to Celeste and to me.

  I was sitting farther away from the others, so I had to stretch my arm to meet Lindsey's hand. Celeste's hand was already in Logan's. It had gotten there so lightning fast that I hadn't even seen it happen.

  Logan's other hand hesitated on his knee. I waited for Lindsey to complain that the circle was broken, but she already had her eyes closed, humming. I shifted my legs to keep my feet from falling asleep.

  Celeste closed her eyes, humming along with Lindsey.

  And then Logan looked up at me, and reached out for my hand.

  I swallowed, hard. The stupid part of me screamed take it! so loudly I was surprised the rest of them couldn't hear. So I laced my fingers through his. My whole hand tingled, like it had fallen comfortably asleep.

  No biggie, I told myself. But my heart pounded and pounded, so hard I was sure he had to be able to feel it through my palm. I didn't dare look at Logan, or at our hands, but I did notice that while his fingers were fully entangled with my own, he was barely pinching Celeste's between his fingers and thumb, like they were some limp thing he didn't quite want to grasp.

  And the fact that this made me relieved meant I really was the worst friend ever. I hummed along with Lindsey, if only to keep my breathing even.

  His thumb shifted, rubbing the side of mine.

  I stopped humming. I stopped breathing. Celeste and Lindsey still hummed, but Logan and I sat perfectly still.

  "Oh!" Lindsey shouted.

  I jumped, and Logan squeezed my hand. I couldn't help but squeeze back. All I wanted to do was hold onto him.

  But Lindsey was paying no attention to us. Her eyes snapped open. "Did you hear that?"

  I listened over the roaring of blood in my ears. "Hear what?"

  She closed her eyes again, making a show of listening. "The wheels," she said. "The bicycle chain."

  Oh.

  Crap.

  Logan looked confused. "The ghost," Logan said, "is riding a bicycle?"

  A slow smile spread over Lindsey's face, but my heart dropped into my guts. Lindsey's father died on a bicycle, during some mountain biking accident.

  I'd thought she wanted to contact the biffy ghost. But this. This was what we were here for all along.

  "He's here," she said. "I can hear him. He's here."

  The king.

  Crap.

  I shook Lindsey's arm. "Hey," I said. "That isn't funny."

  Her eyes stared at nothing. "He's here! I know he's here!"

  I shook her harder. "Snap out of it! We're done."

  Lindsey did her best to stare blankly, but I saw her lips quiver down in disappointment.

  Celeste took her hand out of Logan's, looking at me like she wasn't sure what was going on. She must not know the details about Lindsey's parents.

  I did, so I was the one who should have prevented this.

  Logan held up a hand for us to stop. "Hey," he said. "I think I do hear something."

  He shouldn't be playing along with her. "That's not funny," I said.

  Logan shook his head at me. "No. I'm serious."

  We were all perfectly still. And then I heard it, too. Not a bicycle, but footsteps. Outside on the concrete.

  I dropped Logan's hand.

  Celeste grabbed the end of my sleeping bag and pushed the glowsticks into it, vase and all. We all sat perfectly still, like Lindsey had during the tense part of Logan's story. I could hear all of us breathing, and the wind rustling through the trees outside.

  "It's him," Lindsey hissed, and we all three shushed her at once.

  Celeste got up and stood on her tiptoes, looking out the windows, through the trees in that direction.

  Then she dove for her sleeping bag. "Evergreen," she said.

  Logan and I both swore under our breath. If she caught us here, I was gone. I'd never see him again.

  Ever.

  I took Lindsey by the arm. "Let's go," I said. I scooped my sleeping bag into my arms and shoved the playing cards and the rest of Lindsey's props into it. Logan rolled off of my bag. Celeste grabbed Lindsey's and shoved it inside her own. "Get your book," she whispered to Lindsey, and then all four of us ran to the far side of the mess hall, to the door I'd stormed out of the night Logan showed me the picture of Madison.

  I cracked open the door, slowly, quietly, and we all slipped out of it. Logan, the only one of us with empty hands, pointed in the direction where Celeste had seen Evergreen. "I'm going this way," he breathed. "I'll pretend that I went for a walk, and intercept her. You guys get back to your cabin."

  "Done," I said. And, sleeping bags gathered in our arms, we slipped through the trees in that direction.

  Lindsey was utterly silent as we moved through the undergrowth, staying away from the clearings and roads. I followed after her, watching her closely. She didn't seem shaken, and she certainly wasn't in any kind of ghost-possessed trance.

  What had she been thinking, pretending to contact her father? All the ghost talk might be creepy, but that was downright morbid. We pressed through the woods, not even watching for poison oak; I hoped we wouldn't all have rashes in the morning. When we reached our cabin, we slipped inside, closing the door behind us without turning on the lantern.

  When I set down my sleeping bag, the vase of glow sticks fell out, and we all jumped. Celeste threw her own bag over it, and we all stood in the dark, breathing.

  "Oh my gosh, Bryn," Celeste said. "Why didn't you tell me he was so into you?"

  I clamped my teeth together. "Get changed," I said. "We need to look like we've been sleeping, in case she comes by."

  Celeste grabbed me by the arm. "Seriously. He—"

  "Shut up!" I said. "Change your clothes. Careful when you take off your pants and shoes, in case we walked through something." I groped in the dark, finding my sweats to sleep in. I heard zippers and scuffling as Celeste and Lindsey did the same.

  We all lay silently on our mattresses, glowsticks shoved into the bottom of my bag where they wouldn't show.

  "Seriously, Bryn," Celeste said. "The way that boy looks at you . . ."

  Lindsey gave a little gasp.

  I shot her a death glare in the darkness. I wasn't sure if she could see it, but either way, she didn't blab.

  "You're the relationship expert," I said to Celeste. "Work your magic. Make him forget about me."

  Celeste hesitated. "I don't think—"

  Lindsey held back a giggle. I had to give her credit—the girl could keep her mouth shut when she wanted to. She was probably hoping that if she was quiet enough, we'd forget about her trying to contact her father.

  But I wouldn't.

  A few minutes later, I heard footsteps outside. I put a hand on Lindsey's arm, before she could start squealing about a ghost. "Stay still," I said.

  I closed my eyes as the door to our cabin crept open. Stay still, I thought at Lindsey. Stay still.

  I waited for a light to shine on us, for someone to speak. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then I heard the door begin to creak closed.

  I opened my eyes just a crack, and I caught the slightest glimpse of Evergreen, as she closed the door before walking away.

  I let out a long breath. She hadn't caught us, so she wouldn't fire me.

  Yet.

  I looked down at Lindsey. "No more séances," I said.

  And I wasn't sure, but I hoped I saw her nod in the dark.

  Seventeen

  On Monday morning, I expected Celeste to grill me about Logan, but she seemed content instead to shake her head at me knowingly. I was pretty sure she was waiting for me to bring him up, which I didn't.

  I was spared from long hours of watching her sigh in my direction when she reported to kitchen duty in preparation for the girls' arrival. I tiptoed around camp for the next few days, trying to avoid Evergreen while simultaneously looking to flag down Lindsey. She'd run down to the buses on Monday morning to meet her group, and instantly hit it off with a group of girls her age. They all appeared to be happily making up their own ghost stories.

  Good for her, but I still needed to talk to her about the séance. Collecting ghost stories was one thing, but trying to summon her father? That was going to devolve into tears. Fast.

  I saw Lindsey during art sessions and at meals, but she was so wrapped up with the girls in her group that it wasn't until Thursday that I caught her alone. She knocked on the door of the art shack while I was holed up inside, reading tin cans of blue and red waxes to do dipping candles with the tenners.

  "Hey," I said when the door opened. "I've been trying to catch you."

  Lindsey wrapped a lock of hair around and around her finger. "I know."

  I looked at her, but she didn't continue. Great. So she'd been intentionally dodging me. Maybe she already knew what I was going to say.

  "Do you want to help me melt wax?" I asked. This was my compromise to the slow-drying clay—sculpting with the older girls right after tie dye, alternating candles and sketching later in the week. Dipping candles wasn't the most artistic project, but the girls loved it. They would all line up in a circle around the cans and dip wicks into the wax for half an hour, into this tin, out again, then into the next one. Layer after layer of wax would build up on the wick, creating lumpy, uneven candles. We'd hang them up by their wicks to cool and harden, and they'd be done much sooner than the clay.

  The ones I'd made yesterday with the eleveners were still on the cooling rack behind the shack. That had gone well, until one of the girls knocked a can of wax over on her leg, and pulled it off to reveal a perfect casting of her knee, follicles and all. Her knee was red, but no worse than a mild sunburn, and after that all the girls wanted to do was dip their fingers in the wax to make castings of their knuckles and nails.

  If the news of this had spread, this was going to be a long day.

  "So, about the séance," I said.

  Lindsey had wrapped her hair around her finger all the way up to her scalp. Her hand hung there limply. "I know," she said. "I almost got you in trouble."

  "Um," I said. "No. We almost got ourselves in trouble. But I wanted to talk about before that, when you said you heard—"

  "My group went horseback riding," Lindsey said. "I hate horses. That's why I'm here."

  I looked into the cans, filled with broken pieces of old crayons and chunks of paraffin. I already knew she hated horses, and she already knew what I was going to say, but that didn't change that it had to be said.

  I sighed. Clearly if I wanted to talk without her interrupting me, I needed to get her focused on something else. If she'd been here five minutes earlier, that something could have been crayon sorting, but I was done with that. All that was left was the melting. "I've got half an hour," I said. "Let's go sketching."

  Lindsey fidgeted. "Can we go up the mountain?"

  "No," I said. "Just into the brush behind the shack." The ferns back there had begun to recover. "I still need to come back in time to get this melted."

  "Okay," Lindsey said. "But there better be something cool back there."

  I rolled my eyes when Lindsey turned away. If she was starting to get bored with my sketching sessions, I didn't know what I was going to do with her for the rest of the summer. Encouraging her interest in ghost stories didn't seem like the right answer anymore.

  I held apart the bushes behind the shack, letting Lindsey climb through. "Watch out for the poison oak," I told her, pointing to the leafy plant growing to the side of the shack. When I'd had the little girls back here, I'd put a circle of red yarn around it so they'd stay away, but that had long since blown away, or been stolen by birds.

  Lindsey considered the plants. "If I rolled in it, do you think I'd die?"

  I gripped my sketchbook. "Is that what you want?"

  She looked at me like I was crazy. "No," she said. "I was just wondering."

  Sure. Like she was just randomly hearing ghosts on bicycles. Lindsey's shoulders hunched defensively, so I figured I'd better give her some time to sketch and let her guard down.

  Lindsey found a log, sat down on it, and started shading the dark dirt behind a patch of redwood sorrel. I stared at the patch, remembering Logan with the stem between his teeth. I half wished he'd interrupt us now so he could help me talk to Lindsey, but this was probably the sort of thing I was supposed to do solo, since I was responsible for her and all.

  I joined her on the log and opened my own sketchbook to the picture I'd drawn of Logan. It was half done, so he looked disjointed—some parts of his face well defined, and others still blank. I could draw in some sharp lines at angles and claim I was channeling Picasso.

  Instead, I tried to shade his eyes from memory, focused the way they'd been when he stared at the fern. What I drew was a poor likeness; I couldn't capture the subtlety without a photograph to work from. I tried to finish his forehead and chin, but the angles were either too sharp or too broad, and the paper at the sides of his face was turning into a gray mess from my erasings.

  I looked up at Lindsey. She was scribbling with intensity. I knew she didn't care about drawing that much.

  She was waiting for what I was going to say. Might as well put us both out of our misery. "So," I said to Lindsey, "did you really hear a ghost on a bicycle?"

  Lindsey's pencil ground darker on the paper. "I don't know." She focused even more intently on the sorrel.

  I sighed. "Lindsey," I said. "I don't think your dad is haunting the camp."

  Lindsey's pencil stopped. She looked up at me. "How do you know?" she said.

  I bit my lip. I had the sense that my answer had to be perfect or she'd stop listening again. "Because," I said. "Because he died a long way from here, didn't he? And in all the stories, don't people haunt the places where they died?"

  Lindsey's mouth set into a thin line. "Sometimes," she said. "Sometimes it's not a place, though. Sometimes it's a person."

  I stared at her. Was it wrong to tell her that her father wasn't haunting her? If she wanted to hold onto the idea of his ghost following her as a comfort, should I really take that away from her?

  "Let's just not have any more séances," I said. "Okay?"

  Lindsey paused, and then nodded. "Okay," she said.

  Her tone didn't exactly inspire confidence. "Do you mean that?" I asked.

  "Duh," Lindsey said. "That's why I said it." She shrugged, like there was nothing left to talk about.

  I still didn't believe her, but if I pushed it, she'd think I didn't trust her.

  Which I didn't.

  Lindsey hunched over to scribble on her sorrel sketch again, and then glanced over at my sketch of Logan.

  I turned the sketchpad away, but it was too late.

  Lindsey relaxed, and gave me a sly smile. "You like him," she said simply, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

  I shook my head, looking down at my sketch. "Nah. He's just kind of funny looking. I was more interested in the shapes of his face than anything."

  Lindsey crinkled her eyes at me, like that didn't even make sense.

  And it didn't.

 

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