Free School of the Dead by Avi

backpack was in his lap, and it looked like he was putting something into it
.
    â€œHey!” I shouted. “Don’t touch that!”
    Next second Mr. Batalie walked in.
    When he did, the boy vanished, and
my backpack fell to the floor.
    â€œDid you forget something?” asked Mr. Batalie.
    â€œBackpack,” I managed to say.
    â€œHave a nice weekend,” he called as I ran out.
    I got into the hallway and opened my bag. On top of my school junk was a piece of paper on which was scrawled
Please talk to me.
    I was unable to deny what was going on: I was being stalked by a ghost.
    I rushed back down to the street, determined to ask the first kid from my class I saw if they wanted to do something together that weekend. But when I reached the sidewalk, everyone was gone.
    By the time I got home, I knew I absolutely had to talk to Jessica. She seemed to be the only person who could give me advice about the ghost. I could have called her right then, but I decided it would be better to speak in person. I wanted—needed—to see her reaction.
    On Monday, I’d tell her everything.
    Over the weekend, my parents and I did what Mom kept urging us to do: take in the sights of San Francisco.
    Saturday, a sunny day, we rode a cable car, took a boat ride around the bay, visited Alcatraz, walked across the Golden Gate Bridge, and ate at a Chinese restaurant. As we strolled about, we passed a men’s clothing store with ties in the windows. I got my folks to get me a black one.
    Sunday, after sleeping in, I did homework. In the afternoon, we went to Golden Gate Park and the Legion of Honor art museum.
    â€œI love being in this city,” exclaimed Mom as we returned to our apartment after a Brazilian dinner. “Don’t you think it’s full of life?” she asked.
    That was what Uncle Charlie had said about the Penda School. All I said was, “It’s okay.”
    â€œSourpuss,” said Mom, smiling.
    Sunday night I walked my slackline but kept falling. I knew the answer too. I was worried about the Penda Boy.
    At about nine, my cell phone rang. It was the first time that had happened since I moved to San Francisco.
    It was Jessica. “Hey, you going to join the club or not?”
    â€œI was going to talk to you tomorrow.”
    â€œYou know where to find me.” She hung up.
    I lay on my bed, thinking:
Jessica wants me to be part of the club. She said the club tries to find out school secrets. I want answers about the ghost. About Austin.
    I wanted friends too. Did I want her as a friend? I had been cautioned about her. By who? Riley Fadden. Ms. Foxton. People I didn’t like. Okay. I’d be friends with Jessica. Join the Weird History Club. Hopefully, she would help me decide what to do about the ghost. I had to get him out of my head, the same way I had gotten rid of Uncle Charlie.
    When I woke Monday morning, it was dark outside. For a moment, I thought I had gotten up too early. Then I realized: it was the famous San Francisco fog.
    During breakfast, Mom said, “Remember how Uncle Charlie liked to recite that poem, ‘The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.’ No idea who he was quoting.”
    â€œCarl Sandburg,” said Dad. “Writing about Chicago.”
    I shook my head clear. Having Uncle Charlie in my head would
not
help. This was the day I was going to talk to Jessica about the ghost.
    Together, my parents and I stepped out of the apartment into thick, swirling fog. What sounded like heavy groaning filled the air. “What’s that?” I asked.
    Dad said, “It’s the angel Gabriel atop your school announcing the end of the world.” In a mock low voice he added, “The dead will soon rise.”
    I stared at him.
    â€œDon’t be morbid,” snapped Mom. To me, she said, “Just foghorns from the bay.” She peered into my already damp face.