Dalhousie than Duncan.
Was she really interested in either?
There was one thing I was sure of, though: Ivy would get even with Beatrice somehow for catching her stealing from that gift box.
I closed the book. Suddenly it hit me. I was definitely seeing three people from this house – Beatrice, her grandmother, and now Duncan, even if it was only aquick blurred view. I wish I’d caught a glimpse of his face when he picked her up. It might have told me how he really felt about her.
What was happening to me?
I could feel the chill of the room on my shoulders and the smoothness of the sheets on my toes. I knew for certain I wasn’t sleeping. I could smell the scented oil from the leather diary on my fingertips, along with banana-strawberry sweetness from the empty yogurt tub. I had an 1856 journal resting in my hands. I put it down and watched it slowly fade away, then fell back on my pillows.
If Beatrice was really living in this house in 1856, why was the journal passing through time and appearing to me?
And if all of this was about ghosts, or time travel, or about seeing people from the past who weren’t alive anymore, why didn’t Mom come to see me? Where was she? Was she angry at me? Was she gone forever?
I hadn’t really cried for her yet – I was still too angry at the unfairness … the awfulness of it all. I longed for her, and yet I couldn’t think about her too often because the glass shard inside my chest would stab me again. When she was sick, I knew I was losing her bit by bit. But then, suddenly one night, she was gone, and I couldn’t say sorry.
After that, I had only Dad and Aunt Blair to lean on. And then Jean came and Blair left. And Dad let her go.
I didn’t choose to have Jean or her kid in my life. Yet here they were. They say you can’t choose your family, but you can choose your friends. I have news for you. Sometimes you can’t choose either.
I
hated
it here now. Every day, I got up. I went toschool. I came home. I lay in bed until dinner was called. Afterward, I did my homework and went back to bed. That was my life.
Was I becoming a ghost in my own house?
I stared into the darkness, too tired to think. The sun was just rising when the door opened and Jean entered with a tray. Tea, toast, jam.
“No coffee?” I asked.
“Your dad said lemon herbal tea. He made it.”
Dad walked in. “I’m off, girls.” He kissed my forehead, testing my temperature like Mom used to do. “Fever’s down. How’re ya doing?”
What should I say? My ears and throat feel a bit better, but my brain has strep, and it’s eating away at my brain cells and making me imagine all sort of weird things? And, oh yeah, I still hate your new wife?
“Better,” I muttered.
“Good.” He grinned. “Holidays start in less than a week. You’ll be fine by then. Man, I’m looking forward to the break.”
“Our first Christmas together, Jon,” Jean simpered. “The first of many.”
As they murmured to each other, I pretended to go to sleep. When the door shut behind them, I looked out the window. Great-Uncle Bart told us how the rapids once stretched a long way downriver, causing problems for the traders. After the locks were built, they flooded the rapids with so much water, they vanished. That’s how I felt. Flooded. Unable to see the surface.
I spent the day sleeping until the door opened and Daisy shouted, “You awake?”
“No.”
Someone plopped down on the foot of the bed, then bounced up and down. I kept my eyes closed. “Go away, you horrible child!”
A strange voice said, “News from the outside world has arrived.”
I pulled the cover over my head. “What are
you
doing here?” I croaked from inside my dark cave.
Martin Pelly laughed. “Greetings from Grand Rapids High. Your mom called the school, and, as I am your brand-new English partner, Mr. Bruin told me to bring you the assignment and two poetry books. It’s worth thirty percent of our final mark. Victorian poets –
Was she really interested in either?
There was one thing I was sure of, though: Ivy would get even with Beatrice somehow for catching her stealing from that gift box.
I closed the book. Suddenly it hit me. I was definitely seeing three people from this house – Beatrice, her grandmother, and now Duncan, even if it was only aquick blurred view. I wish I’d caught a glimpse of his face when he picked her up. It might have told me how he really felt about her.
What was happening to me?
I could feel the chill of the room on my shoulders and the smoothness of the sheets on my toes. I knew for certain I wasn’t sleeping. I could smell the scented oil from the leather diary on my fingertips, along with banana-strawberry sweetness from the empty yogurt tub. I had an 1856 journal resting in my hands. I put it down and watched it slowly fade away, then fell back on my pillows.
If Beatrice was really living in this house in 1856, why was the journal passing through time and appearing to me?
And if all of this was about ghosts, or time travel, or about seeing people from the past who weren’t alive anymore, why didn’t Mom come to see me? Where was she? Was she angry at me? Was she gone forever?
I hadn’t really cried for her yet – I was still too angry at the unfairness … the awfulness of it all. I longed for her, and yet I couldn’t think about her too often because the glass shard inside my chest would stab me again. When she was sick, I knew I was losing her bit by bit. But then, suddenly one night, she was gone, and I couldn’t say sorry.
After that, I had only Dad and Aunt Blair to lean on. And then Jean came and Blair left. And Dad let her go.
I didn’t choose to have Jean or her kid in my life. Yet here they were. They say you can’t choose your family, but you can choose your friends. I have news for you. Sometimes you can’t choose either.
I
hated
it here now. Every day, I got up. I went toschool. I came home. I lay in bed until dinner was called. Afterward, I did my homework and went back to bed. That was my life.
Was I becoming a ghost in my own house?
I stared into the darkness, too tired to think. The sun was just rising when the door opened and Jean entered with a tray. Tea, toast, jam.
“No coffee?” I asked.
“Your dad said lemon herbal tea. He made it.”
Dad walked in. “I’m off, girls.” He kissed my forehead, testing my temperature like Mom used to do. “Fever’s down. How’re ya doing?”
What should I say? My ears and throat feel a bit better, but my brain has strep, and it’s eating away at my brain cells and making me imagine all sort of weird things? And, oh yeah, I still hate your new wife?
“Better,” I muttered.
“Good.” He grinned. “Holidays start in less than a week. You’ll be fine by then. Man, I’m looking forward to the break.”
“Our first Christmas together, Jon,” Jean simpered. “The first of many.”
As they murmured to each other, I pretended to go to sleep. When the door shut behind them, I looked out the window. Great-Uncle Bart told us how the rapids once stretched a long way downriver, causing problems for the traders. After the locks were built, they flooded the rapids with so much water, they vanished. That’s how I felt. Flooded. Unable to see the surface.
I spent the day sleeping until the door opened and Daisy shouted, “You awake?”
“No.”
Someone plopped down on the foot of the bed, then bounced up and down. I kept my eyes closed. “Go away, you horrible child!”
A strange voice said, “News from the outside world has arrived.”
I pulled the cover over my head. “What are
you
doing here?” I croaked from inside my dark cave.
Martin Pelly laughed. “Greetings from Grand Rapids High. Your mom called the school, and, as I am your brand-new English partner, Mr. Bruin told me to bring you the assignment and two poetry books. It’s worth thirty percent of our final mark. Victorian poets –
Similar Books
