School Spirits - By Rachel Hawkins Page 0,45

doing?” I fired back. The same night I go to banish a ghost that may have been raised by magic, Dex, who may be Prodigium, shows up. That was a little too coincidental for me.

“I followed you,” he said, like that was every bit as normal as me and my salt. “I was on my way home from the store, and I saw you, so thought I’d see what the Illustrious Isolde Brannick was up to.”

With as much dignity as I could muster, I spread the little pile of salt over the dirt with the tip of my shoe. “You can’t just go around following people,” I told Dex as I tossed the empty salt carton into my backpack. “It’s creepy. And inappropriate.”

“Says the girl pouring salt onto graves.”

I glared at him. “This is…part of my religion.”

Smirking, Dex put his hands in his coat pockets. “Oh, so you belong to the Crazy Salt Freak Church?”

“It’s an Irish-Celtic thing,” I tried, but Dex just shook his head.

“I don’t know whether to be more insulted that you’re lying to me, or that you apparently think I’m some kind of idiot. Also, it hasn’t escaped my knowledge that this”—he nodded at the tombstone—“is the final resting place of one Mary Evans. The very same Mary Evans who Anderson wants to EMP, and Romy wants to Ouija.”

My mind raced, trying to come up with some plausible explanation. Unfortunately, all I could think was, What would Leslie do if Everton caught her pouring salt on graves? Since I was pretty sure the answer was cry prettily, I rejected that idea and decided to go for what Mom always said: When you’re caught in a lie, stick as close to the truth as you can.

“Ouija boards don’t work.”

Dex rocked back on his heels, still grinning. “That a fact?”

“I’m just saying, I don’t think that anything made by Milton Bradley is much good for contacting the dark side, that’s all.”

“Meanwhile, the Morton Salt girl is totally connected to the forces of evil. That would explain her coat.”

“Salt destroys evil spirits. I…I read it on the Internet this afternoon.”

Nudging the salt pile with his foot, Dex shrugged and said, “Okay. I can buy that. But then why come out here by yourself? Why not meet with us and let PMS get their Salt Warrior on?”

Ugh, was he secretly a member of the FBI? I had never met anyone who asked so many questions.

“I thought you guys would think it was dumb.”

At that, Dex threw his head back and gave a barking laugh. “For God’s sake, Izzy, we call ourselves PMS. And trust me, your salt theory is no dumber than the time Romy investigated a Civil War graveyard with tinfoil on her head.”

“That…actually happened?” I’d just assumed they were joking.

Dex nodded. “Or when Anderson spent every penny he made mowing lawns for two summers on a special tape recorder that was supposed to capture ghostly voices.” His eyes met mine. They were very blue and…twinkly. “Besides, your weirdness is why I like you so much.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, but luckily, he didn’t seem to need a reply. “So. You’ve made this lovely little salt pile. What can I do?”

“You can go home,” I told him, but he was already taking off his jacket—another peacoat, but this one was deep purple in the moonlight—and laying it gently over one of the angels’ outspread wings. Then he knelt down and started spreading the salt with his hands. He had pretty hands, I decided. Thin and long-fingered and delicate. Like a pianist. I’d never really thought about boys’ hands before, but looking at Dex’s made me feel warm and shivery all at the same time.

Grudgingly, I knelt down next to him and pulled the other canister of salt out of my backpack. “Just…keep doing that. You have to cover the entire grave with salt to confine the spirit.” Dex lifted his head, and I added, “I mean, that’s what the Internet said.”

Satisfied, Dex went back to the salt. After a while, he moved to the foot of the grave, pouring it there.

“This is fun,” he said. “Weird and disturbing and possibly illegal, but still fun.”

“Is it okay if we don’t tell Romy and Anderson about this?”

He grinned at me. “Absolutely. Now we’ve formed our own splinter cell of PMS.”

Leaning forward, he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “We’ve gone rogue.”

I made a sound almost like a giggle. Not that I did giggle. Brannicks aren’t gigglers. Dex