Betrayal - By Lee Nichols Page 0,43

Sara left, we dressed in our whites and entered the gym. We ran through the warm-ups and watched Coach critique some other girls, then Kylee pummeled me for a while.

When we took a break, I sat at the bottom of the bleachers and looked at the ghost jocks. I hadn’t seen them since the mausoleum, and I hated to admit it, but I needed to thank them. They’d done their best to protect us.

I guess it’s time I learned your names, I said, if you’re going to fight wraiths with us, and all. Okay, so that wasn’t exactly a thank-you, but it was a start.

I’m Neil, said the darker-haired one. And this is Lick.

Neil and Lick? I said.

Our balls!!! they both yelled, and burst out laughing.

Grrrrr. I swished my foil in the air. Forget it! I just wanted to thank you, that’s all.

Ah, sorry, man, the light-haired one said. That’s cool.

Yeah, his friend said. You’re a bangin’ ghostkeeper.

Bangin’? I guess that meant they’d died in the eighties.

Whenever you and the hot chick need backup, the light-haired one said, nodding toward Natalie, just call and we’ll be there.

Thanks! So maybe now we can be friends? I said hopefully. Because friends don’t heckle friends from the bleachers.

That’s not gonna happen, the dark-haired one said.

No, the other agreed.

Well, at least tell me your real names, I said.

Sure, the dark one said. I’m Craven.

Moorehead, said the other.

Ick. Never mind!

I’d never understand why boys were so gross.

The next few days weren’t much better; then it was Thanksgiving.

My first Thanksgiving without my family.

Maybe that’s why I finally acted on my plan to contact them. During Simon’s lessons, he’d mentioned that ghostkeeping powers were changing. Or, at least, reemerging. Summoners weren’t only able to make ghosts appear, but also disappear. Readers were learning to “write” their impressions and memories onto objects. Simon was beginning to think that dispellers could heal ghosts, too, and that compellers could free them.

So I’d been wondering what was possible for someone who could use all the ghostkeeping powers. I needed to find out. If Max was right about the siren, if he was right about finding Neos’s grave and some “final rite” to unleash the full power of the amulet, I needed to hear what else he and my parents knew.

Thanksgiving morning, I locked my bedroom door and grabbed the red cashmere hoodie of my mother’s. I could still smell her perfume in the knit, but faintly—more faintly every day. I sat on the bed and focused my “reading” attention on the sweater, trying to tap into her memories.

I found one at last, of her standing in the kitchen in the San Francisco apartment, wearing this sweater, while watching my father chop carrots for soup. I smiled at the sight of them, suddenly homesick and distracted from my plan—then I shook myself and concentrated.

I scrolled the image forward, like a movie advancing one frame at a time, as my mother crossed the kitchen toward him. She grabbed a bell pepper and he turned and touched her arm.

There. A handprint on the left sleeve. I placed my hand on that spot, and found a pinprick of my father’s residual power. I focused on his power, magnifying it in my mind, then I opened myself to the Beyond.

When I summoned a ghost, I let the power flow in waves around me until I felt an actual presence. This time, instead of trying to draw something from the Beyond, I pushed something into it.

I sent a little pulse of power into the mist, a guided Dad-seeking missile with a tiny message inside: I need you. Please come.

Then I pulled my power back into myself, having no idea if it would work. But I felt better for trying.

Downstairs, I found Anatole in the kitchen making apple pie while Celeste wiped down china that had probably been in storage. The day was gray, as usual, yet the kitchen was cozy and inviting, and the scent of a huge savory meal filled the air.

You made turkey? I beamed. Real turkey, not tofurkey?

Mais oui, said Anatole. And ze dressing and my creamed onionz.

I adore stuffing. Which was more than I could say about creamed onions. Can I help you make the pie?

Non! This iz not proper.

But I wheedled for ten minutes, until he grudgingly allowed me a crack at the crust. Under his tyrannical gaze, I gently rolled the dough flat and laid it in the enormous glass pie dish, then trimmed the sides. I felt like a kid