The Secret Life of Sparrow Delaney by Suzanne Harper

talent or the intelligence?”
    He paused, as if he were really waiting for an answer.
    When I didn’t respond, he went on, “Or can’t as in I could if I wanted to, but I won’t?”
    â€œWell, since you ask. Won’t. It’s a matter of policy,” I explained.
    â€œThat sounds very official. But aren’t you being a little unreasonable? Considering that we just met?” He smiled in a way that I think was supposed to be winning. I scowled back. “You don’t even know my name.”
    I sat up a little straighter, folded my hands in my lap, and gave him a demure look.
    â€œYou’re absolutely right,” I said. “So. What’s your name?”
    â€œLuke.”
    â€œLuke. Very nice to meet you,” I said formally.
    He matched my tone. “Likewise, I’m sure.”
    â€œAnd how long have you been dead?” I continued, still using that ultrapolite voice that adults bring out when they talk to people they barely know.
    â€œAlmost a year now. See, we’re getting to know each other better all the time.”
    â€œNot to be rude or anything,” I said, “but I don’t want to know anything more about you. And I don’t want you to know anything at all about me.”
    He leaned back and squinted at me. “Oh, I already know a great deal about you.”
    â€œYou do?” That made me feel uneasy. “Like what?”
    â€œWell, your name, for one thing. And that you’re a sophomore in high school. It’s a new school, so you’re nervous. You want to make friends without revealing too much of yourself, a terrible plan, by the way. Doomed to failure. You worry too much about all the wrong things. Your best subject is English, your French is très misérable , you need to pay more attention in biology, and—let’s see, what else? Oh, yes, you’ve got a tremendous psychic gift, which you’re determined not to use. How am I doing so far?”
    After a long moment I said, “I’m doing just fine in biology.”
    â€œMmm. Well, you’re going to have a pop quiz next Friday,” he said. “So we’ll see.”
    My pulse jumped a little at this news.
    â€œBut enough about you. Let’s talk about me.”
    â€œOh, yes. Let’s,” I muttered sarcastically.
    â€œYou see,” he announced, “I have a mission.” He hummed a few bars of the Mission: Impossible theme song.
    â€œOf course you do,” I said, rather pleased with the way I had colored my voice with a bitter, knowing edge.
    Then I had a sudden, brilliant thought. “Why don’t you contact my mother? Or my sister Oriole? They would love to help you!”
    He tilted his head, considering this. “I could do that,” he said thoughtfully.
    I relaxed a tiny bit.
    â€œI’m sure they’d understand why you had to give me a referral, instead of using your gifts to help a poor lost wandering soul.” He smiled innocently at me. “Is that really what you want me to do?”
    I glared back. Somehow he knew that this was the last thing I wanted and that he had just got the upper hand. “Oh, forget it,” I snarled.
    â€œThen I guess we’re back to Plan A.” He added woodenly, “Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope.”
    I gave him a cool look. “That’s a terrible Princess Leia impression.”
    â€œThe worst in the tristate area, if not the entire eastern seaboard,” he said cheerfully. “Unfortunately doing bad impressions of pop culture icons is pretty much my only party trick. Although,” he added, “people did seem to like it when I flipped my eyelids inside out.” He demonstrated.
    I winced. “Yuck.”
    He shrugged and flipped his eyelids back to the position that most people consider both normal and desirable. Then he gave me a melting look (one that I’m sure worked on all the girls when he