The Secret Life of Sparrow Delaney by Suzanne Harper Page A

was alive, one that I’m sure he used to practice in the mirror every night). “I’m serious, Sparrow. I need your help.”
    I propped my book on my lap and put my hands over my years. “Doing homework,” I said in a singsong voice. “Ignoring you.”
    â€œHanging around,” he said, mimicking my singsong exactly. “Still haunting you.”
    I stared furiously down at the page, trying not to smile. “I’m only going to say this one more time,” I said as clearly and distinctly as I could. “I . . . will . . . not . . . help . . . you. Now, go away .”
    â€œOh, right.” He snapped his fingers, as if suddenly remembering something. “That reminds me of another thing I know about you. You’re incredibly stubborn.”
    â€œYes, I am,” I said proudly.
    He nodded, as if pleased. “Good. So am I.”
    As he shimmered out of sight, I heard him say, “This should be fun.”

Chapter 10
    The next morning I found myself looking over my shoulder, wondering when and where Luke would pop up next. I felt jumpy and paranoid, like a spy who knows her cover has been blown and is just waiting to be taken in for questioning. But when several days went by and nothing happened, I decided that he had found some other psychic. Someone more agreeable. Someone more helpful. Someone altogether more charming and friendly and fun.
    Which was a good thing, I kept telling myself. Because that, after all, was exactly what I wanted.
    Then one morning I woke up to find every chair and table in my bedroom upside down. The battered cigar box that held my makeup, the chipped vase that occasionally held flowers, the plaster pig that was a souvenir of a long-ago trip to the county fair—all the little knickknacks that I kept on my dresser were also upended. The few pictures I had hung in my room now faced the wall. All my books had been turned around so that their spines were toward the back of the bookshelf.
    I jumped out of bed and glared at the mess. “Very funny. But if you think this is going to make me change my mind,” I informed the air, “you are completely wrong.”
    I pulled a sweater and some sweatpants from my dresser, then stomped over to the closet, muttering, to grab my sneakers. I shoved my right foot into the shoe. My toes encountered a thick, gooey substance. I pulled my foot out and saw what looked like blood dripping to the floor. For a single shocked moment, I thought it was blood. Then I smelled a sweet fragrance that brought to mind crisp toast and melting butter and my brain finally figured out what my toes already knew: The sneaker was filled with raspberry jam.
    â€œAhhhh!”
    Ten seconds later Dove was at my door. She opened it a crack and peered in at me with a worried expression on her round face.
    â€œSparrow? Are you all right?”
    â€œFine,” I growled as I wiped the goo off my foot. She started to inch her way inside. I hopped to the door, holding my sticky right foot in the air.
    â€œHalt,” I commanded.
    She blinked, her gray eyes brimming with owlish sympathy behind her glasses. “I thought you might need some help,” she said. “I just wanted to give you a hand.”
    She sounded hurt, but I held firm. This room was my sanctuary. No one was allowed inside.
    I put one hand on the doorknob to balance myself. “I don’t need any help, but thanks anyway.”
    She leaned on the door a little more. “Are you sure? You look a little . . . frazzled .”
    â€œI just, um, have a big test today. And I don’t have anything to wear. And doesn’t everyone scream when they’re feeling totally frustrated?”
    She paused to consider this. “Well,” she said slowly, “ I usually have a good cry.”
    â€œNo kidding,” I said, deadpan. Dove has a good cry about three times a week, because someone spoke sharply to her, or she read a really, really