The Haunting of Sunshine Girl by Paige McKenzie Page A

finally.” She bends her head to sip from her coffee mug. Maybe it’s just my imagination, but from here it looks like the coffee is too hot for drinking. I don’t mean that it’s still steaming; I mean it looks like it’s bubbling, boiling.
    I shake my head as Mom swallows the coffee smoothly. I must be imagining things.
    â€œLook,” I try again, pointing to the photo in the center. The one where the shadow is most distinct. “Look at that .”
    Mom lifts the photo off the table and holds it up in front of her face. She narrows her eyes.
    â€œSunshine, your room is a mess,” she says finally.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œWhy are your games and toys scattered everywhere like that? I hope you put everything away.”
    I shake my head. “Don’t look at the toys. Look closer, at the center of the room.” I resist the urge to grab the photo and hold it up in front of her. Nolan didn’t need me to tell him tolook closer. He thought the shadow was every bit as obvious as I did.
    â€œWhat is it you want me to look at?” Mom asks, sighing impatiently. She lowers the photo out of her eye line.
    I pause before answering. Maybe I should wait until tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow Mom will have had a good night’s sleep and maybe the sun will be shining so that the light will be better in here and Mom will be able to see.
    A clap of thunder sounds in the distance, like maybe the universe is laughing at me for thinking that it might be sunny in the morning.
    â€œDon’t you see it?” I ask, surprised at how small my voice sounds. I sound about half my age. “Don’t you see the shadow in the center of the room?”
    Mom shakes her head. “I don’t see anything.”
    I swallow a gasp, wringing my hands like an old lady who’s worried about the weather. I mean, it was one thing all those nights when I heard footsteps and laughter and Mom said it was just the wind, just branches from the Douglas firs hitting the side of the house—that was Mom just being her skeptical self. But this isn’t just a little cynicism. It was scary enough when she didn’t remember what happened this morning, but right now she literally doesn’t see the same image that Nolan and I saw in the photograph that’s right in front of her.
    I look up at the ceiling, wondering what the ghost is doing up on our second floor, what kinds of tricks she’s played on my mother’s brain to blind her like this.
    â€œMom—” I start, but she cuts me off.
    â€œPlease tell me this isn’t more ghost nonsense.”
    â€œIt’s not nonsense,” I say, still in that small voice.
    â€œIt is nonsense, Sunshine, and I really wish you’d cut it out.” Unlike mine, Mom’s voice is anything but small. “I know you’re not crazy about Ridgemont, but I am getting sick and tired of your complaining.”
    â€œIt has nothing to do with whether I like Ridgemont or not,” I say, and now my voice sounds even more like a little kid’s, and in the worst possible way. I take a deep breath and try to control it. I need to sound calm, to make a compelling argument, using scientific evidence—the photos—the kind of argument that Mom will understand. “I just wanted to show you—”
    â€œShow me what?” Mom says almost shouting and she drops the photo. It flutters down to the floor and I pick it up frantically, scared she might step on it or something, relieved that at least she didn’t rip it in half before she let it go.
    â€œSunshine,” Mom says before I can answer. She’s not exactly yelling, but she still sounds angry. She puts her mug down on the counter with such a loud bang I’m surprised it doesn’t break into a thousand pieces. “I’ve had just about enough of this. Go to your room.”
    â€œGo to my room?” I echo. She’s literally never, not once, sent me to