The Phamtomime

Chapter 10

Every day, I used lunch hour to search the school library and my computer time to search the internet—anything rather than visit the Ghost in the Gods. Despite all that voluntary learning, I had no more idea of how to make ghosts visible than when I began. On top of that, my research gave me nightmares. Ghosts sounded terrifying.

"What have you learned, Miss Malone?" asked Cresswell, when I arrived on Friday afternoon. He'd asked me the same thing every time he'd seen me for the past week. The thought of a real audience had given the ghosts one-track minds.

"You are a ghost. If anyone could figure it out, it'd be you. I already found out ghosts are real, that's a pretty big discovery for a human."

He puffed out his chest and his mustache stood to attention, signaling the beginning of a lecture. "I am in no position to access research materials. As you are an honorary member of this troupe, it is your responsibility to act as one of us, and—"

I'd been flattered by the 'honorary member' bit the first six times he used it. But, now the lecture that went with it twanged my nerves like a string on a badly tuned banjo.

"Cresswell." I had to shout to hear myself over his monologue.

"—that means that you must put the troupe first—"

"Cresswell," I repeated, when he failed to notice me.

"—an ambassador of sorts. We—"

I channeled Mom for my final try. "Cress-WELL."

Like a miracle, his mouth paused mid-word. He looked down at me from the stage. "Yes?"

"Macbeth," I said.

Cresswell's mustache unfurled and his eyes widened until I thought they might fall out and roll across the stage. You never quite knew with him.

Will clamped his hand over a giggle. Megan and the only other girl in the troupe, Janette, peeked out from backstage. Their expressions swung between delight and fear for my life.

"You—what—what did you say?" Cresswell demanded. Every part of his body froze, except his mouth and his mustache—the hardest parts of him to silence.

"She named the Scottish Play," shouted Barry, from the wings. Then he poked his head out to add, "Sorry Poppy."

"It's okay, Barry. I understand. I said Macbeth, Cresswell."

"Ouuuuuuuuuuut." He actually sounded like a freaky ghost for once, instead of an actor in an old movie. He stamped his foot so hard that the whole stage shuddered under him. "Out, and repent."

A fine mist of ghost spit sprayed over me as he yelled. I wiped my face, because for all I knew, ghost spit might carry ghost amoebas.

By now, Will had his arms wrapped around his middle, roaring with laughter. "I wish I'd thought to try that."

Cresswell pointed at the door, as if I might have forgotten where it was. I waved cheerily and hurried out before he changed his mind. Spinning in circles and chanting were better than a Cresswell rant, any day.

Outside, the sun shone like freedom, even though the wind blew cold. Proud of my clever escape, I sucked in a lungful of fresh, fall air.

"You need to do the incantation," Will said.

I hadn't heard him arrive, of course, but it didn't surprise me that he'd followed.

"Nah. It's a glorious day and Cresswell needs time to forget what he was saying."