Christina's Ghost by Betty Ren Wright

1.
“Tears Won’t Help!”
    â€œChrissy’s going to throw up again!” Jenny shrieked the news.
    The back of Uncle Ralph’s thin neck turned red. He swung the car off the road and braked at the edge of a steep slope. Chris hurtled out of the car. Halfway down the hill, she knelt and waited for the waves of sickness to overwhelm her.
    Nothing happened. A breeze cooled her forehead. The air was sweet after the pizza-and-oranges smell of Uncle Ralph’s old Chevy. At the bottom of the hill, a stream glittered in the sun.
    Neat
, Chris thought. She wished she could stay right there. She wished she could walk to Grandma’s house in Oakleigh. Or fly! She was sure that if she got backin the car, she’d be sick again.
    â€œHow about it, Christina? We haven’t got forever.”
    Chris looked up and saw Uncle Ralph and Jenny peering down at her. Uncle Ralph sounded annoyed, as usual. He sometimes called Jenny “old girl,” and he called other people “sport” or “Buster.” But he always called Christina Christina.
    â€œYou look sort of green,” Jenny said when they were back in the car. “Sort of green and sort of gray. Very yucky.”
    â€œThat’s how I feel,” Chris told her. “Open the window on your side, okay? And don’t eat any more oranges.”
    For the next hour Chris kept her face turned to the open window and tried to think good thoughts. Going to Grandma’s was okay to think about. If she had to be away from home, she’d rather be out in the country with Grandma than anywhere else. Thinking about home, even for a second, was a mistake. Every time she pictured her house standing empty, she began to feel sick again. By now her parents were in Seattle, on their way to five weeks of conference-and-vacation in Alaska.
No, don’t think about that
.
    Think about sleeping in a sleeping bag out under the trees. Grandma let her do that, as often as she wanted. Think about fishing in the little river a quarter-mileaway. Think about exploring the old barn, or climbing to the very top of the oak in Grandma’s front yard. Last summer she’d scrambled two-thirds of the way to the top before Jenny saw her and tattled.
    The wind blew Uncle Ralph’s visored cap from the back-window shelf onto Chris’s lap. She slicked her dark hair behind her ears and put on the cap, tilting it to one side. Then she leaned over the seat and twisted the rear-view mirror so she could see herself.
    â€œWill you cut that out?” Uncle Ralph pushed the mirror back into position. His long, narrow face glowered at her. “And take off my hat. If you please.”
    Jenny giggled. Chris took off the hat.
    â€œYou don’t like me,” she said softly, but of course Uncle Ralph heard.
    â€œI do like you,” he said. “It’s just that you always get things in a muddle, Christina. You don’t think. I’m a past-middle-aged man, and I suppose I have past-middle-aged opinions. I happen to believe a girl should . . . should act like a lady. And dress like one,” he added.
    Chris considered throwing the cap at him and decided she’d better not. She glanced down at herself and then at Jenny. Her sister’s jeans looked brand-new; Chris’s were worn almost to whiteness, the way she liked them. Jenny wore a crisp red-and-white plaidshirt, and Chris wore a T-shirt with a Spider-Man picture on the front and a hole under one arm. Even though Jenny was only eight, two years younger than Chris, she insisted on blow-drying her pale brown hair so that it fell in waves around her face. Chris didn’t care how her own hair looked, as long as it didn’t get in her way.
    â€œChrissy is a tomboy,” Jenny commented. “She can’t help the way she is.”
    Chris threw the cap at her.
    â€œCan we just forget it?” Uncle Ralph said. “Tomboys are okay. You’re fine,