drained the last of her water and packed up her books,
trying to suppress a smile. Let them all talk, she thought. She didn't even
care if it got back to Helena and Marianne. It would give them another reason
to dislike her, but that was OK. She didn't need them to like her. Soon it
would be Christmas; before too long after that it would be Easter. The end of
the school year would roll around, and she'd be out of New Orleans. They'd live
and die here.
97
***
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
***
By the next day, the weather had turned into something approaching
a New York November, cool and gusty. Wind blew leaves and litter across the
street, the giant oak trees rustling and whispering to each other. Rebecca
rushed home from school, pulling her blazer tight around her, glad that Aurelia
and Claire were staying late for choir practice so she wouldn't have to explain anything.
From the hook behind her bedroom door, Rebecca pulled out her pale
blue suede jacket; she tugged on a pair of jeans and the gray cashmere sweater
she bought at the last J.Crew sale. She stuffed her phone, keys, and a tight
bundle of cash into her jacket pockets, just in case: There was no need for a
bag. Maybe she could take some photos on her cell phone and send them to her
father or to her friends; maybe she could even take a picture of Anton. She had
to do something to keep in touch with her New York friends: After just a
couple of weeks away, Rebecca was only getting occasional texts and e-mails.
Everyone was busy with school, busy with their lives. She wasn't part of that
world anymore.
98
The wind blew the front door shut when she stepped onto the porch:
It was blowing up from the river, bringing with it that strange, dirty New
Orleans smell -- a little of garbage, a little of mold, a little of overripe
fruit or a blossom rotting on the ground, overlaid with the tang of grease and
sea. At this very moment, that wind was probably blowing Aunt Claudia's tarot
cards all over Jackson Square.
Out of habit, on her way past the cemetery's open gates, Rebecca
glanced in, just in case, hoping -- as ever -- to spot Lisette. It was usually
closed on weekday afternoons, but today the gates were wide-open, a City Parks
van parked on the central path.
And there she was, walking along the central pathway, her
back to Rebecca.
"Lisette!" It was so long since Rebecca had seen her.
Anton could wait: She had to talk to the ghost -- if that's what Lisette
really, truly was.
The torn tail of her skirt dragging along the ground, her long
black braid bobbing, Lisette turned off the path and disappeared behind a row
of towering white vaults. Maybe she was headed for the Bowman tomb, Rebecca
thought, jogging after her along a cracked concrete path. A small tour group
was wandering out through the Washington Avenue gate, pointing at the bold
striped awning of Commander's Palace restaurant. There was nobody else around,
apart from a groundsman wearing soundproof earmuffs and swinging a power
trimmer, oblivious to Lisette's presence, nodding at Rebecca as she passed.
Approaching the Bowman tomb, Rebecca - jumped over a
wizened tree root; she skidded to a halt on the worn grassy
99
path and stepped over the low rusted railings, looking for
Lisette. Her friend was huddled at the back of the tomb, just the shards of her
skirt visible from the pathway.
"I've been looking for you!" Rebecca exclaimed,
clambering around the vault. Untouched by the weak, late-afternoon sun, its
sheer sides were cold to the touch.
Lisette shrugged, and gazed down at her bare feet.
"I've been around," she said. She sounded listless,
Rebecca thought. It had to be quite boring, being a ghost. There was nothing to
do in the cemetery except maybe talk to other ghosts and hear the same tour
guides tell the same stories, day after day.
"Do you get sick of it?" Rebecca leaned against the side
of the tomb, arms folded, the wind licking her hair. "Sick of being a
ghost, I mean."
"Most of the time, not much
trying to suppress a smile. Let them all talk, she thought. She didn't even
care if it got back to Helena and Marianne. It would give them another reason
to dislike her, but that was OK. She didn't need them to like her. Soon it
would be Christmas; before too long after that it would be Easter. The end of
the school year would roll around, and she'd be out of New Orleans. They'd live
and die here.
97
***
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
***
By the next day, the weather had turned into something approaching
a New York November, cool and gusty. Wind blew leaves and litter across the
street, the giant oak trees rustling and whispering to each other. Rebecca
rushed home from school, pulling her blazer tight around her, glad that Aurelia
and Claire were staying late for choir practice so she wouldn't have to explain anything.
From the hook behind her bedroom door, Rebecca pulled out her pale
blue suede jacket; she tugged on a pair of jeans and the gray cashmere sweater
she bought at the last J.Crew sale. She stuffed her phone, keys, and a tight
bundle of cash into her jacket pockets, just in case: There was no need for a
bag. Maybe she could take some photos on her cell phone and send them to her
father or to her friends; maybe she could even take a picture of Anton. She had
to do something to keep in touch with her New York friends: After just a
couple of weeks away, Rebecca was only getting occasional texts and e-mails.
Everyone was busy with school, busy with their lives. She wasn't part of that
world anymore.
98
The wind blew the front door shut when she stepped onto the porch:
It was blowing up from the river, bringing with it that strange, dirty New
Orleans smell -- a little of garbage, a little of mold, a little of overripe
fruit or a blossom rotting on the ground, overlaid with the tang of grease and
sea. At this very moment, that wind was probably blowing Aunt Claudia's tarot
cards all over Jackson Square.
Out of habit, on her way past the cemetery's open gates, Rebecca
glanced in, just in case, hoping -- as ever -- to spot Lisette. It was usually
closed on weekday afternoons, but today the gates were wide-open, a City Parks
van parked on the central path.
And there she was, walking along the central pathway, her
back to Rebecca.
"Lisette!" It was so long since Rebecca had seen her.
Anton could wait: She had to talk to the ghost -- if that's what Lisette
really, truly was.
The torn tail of her skirt dragging along the ground, her long
black braid bobbing, Lisette turned off the path and disappeared behind a row
of towering white vaults. Maybe she was headed for the Bowman tomb, Rebecca
thought, jogging after her along a cracked concrete path. A small tour group
was wandering out through the Washington Avenue gate, pointing at the bold
striped awning of Commander's Palace restaurant. There was nobody else around,
apart from a groundsman wearing soundproof earmuffs and swinging a power
trimmer, oblivious to Lisette's presence, nodding at Rebecca as she passed.
Approaching the Bowman tomb, Rebecca - jumped over a
wizened tree root; she skidded to a halt on the worn grassy
99
path and stepped over the low rusted railings, looking for
Lisette. Her friend was huddled at the back of the tomb, just the shards of her
skirt visible from the pathway.
"I've been looking for you!" Rebecca exclaimed,
clambering around the vault. Untouched by the weak, late-afternoon sun, its
sheer sides were cold to the touch.
Lisette shrugged, and gazed down at her bare feet.
"I've been around," she said. She sounded listless,
Rebecca thought. It had to be quite boring, being a ghost. There was nothing to
do in the cemetery except maybe talk to other ghosts and hear the same tour
guides tell the same stories, day after day.
"Do you get sick of it?" Rebecca leaned against the side
of the tomb, arms folded, the wind licking her hair. "Sick of being a
ghost, I mean."
"Most of the time, not much
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