Free The Secret Life of Sparrow Delaney by Suzanne Harper

myself hold out my hand like a glad-handing businessman and heard myself say, “I’m Sparrow.”
    Jack looked down at my hand, then glanced up at me with an ironic smile. He took my hand and shook it solemnly.
    â€œYeah, I know. You sit one row over in history, remember? But it’s nice to meet you formally .”
    I blushed and pulled my hand away. “Yeah, me you too,” I muttered idiotically.
    Jack’s smile widened. “It’s okay. I don’t bite.”
    â€œWhat’s that mean?” I snapped defensively.
    â€œNothing. You just seem nervous, that’s all.”
    â€œI’m not nervous!” Even more defensive, even more snappish, and now I sounded shrill too. This was going so well .
    â€œMy mistake. You’re cool as a cucumber.” He seemed ready to change the subject. “Look, I thought we’d better get together and talk about our history project.“
    â€œYes, good idea,” I said, my entire being focused on nodding intelligently and looking bright and interested.
    I smelled autumn leaves and woodsmoke. Behind
    Jack’s left shoulder a shape flickered, then solidified into the ghost of room 12B. He winked. I frowned and pointedly turned my attention back to Jack . . .
    . . . Who had moved on to complaining about our history project. “We only have a few more days to get the topic approved, and then there’s all the research Grimes wants us to do,” he was saying. “Ten sources, footnotes, a bibliography! He must think his class is the only one we’re taking!”
    Behind his back the ghost was watching me intently. At least he wasn’t trying to talk to me. But somehow I found his steady, silent gaze even more unnerving. In fact he looked as if he were taking my measure in some way.
    â€œMmm,” I murmured, trying to sound suitably outraged while keeping my eyes firmly fixed on Jack’s face. “Well, I was thinking maybe we could research the Seneca. You know, the Indian tribe that used to live in this area . . .”
    My voice trailed off in the face of his disbelieving stare.
    â€œDon’t you think that’s a little, I don’t know, fourth grade?” he asked. “What are we going to do, make a diorama out of modeling clay and Popsicle sticks?”
    I clenched my hands, willing myself to remain unflustered. (This was especially hard because my mind had immediately flashed back to my own wobbly model of a Native American longhouse that I had, indeed, made in fourth grade.)
    He seemed to read my mind. “Don’t tell me.” He grinned.
    â€œIt was papier-mâché, not Popsicle sticks, and I got an A, for your information,” I said. He laughed. I bit my lip to keep from smiling, but it didn’t work.
    â€œOkay, scratch that idea. Maybe something with politics? I think there was a congressional debate held around here back in the 1800s, I’m not sure of the exact date, we could look it up—”
    â€œToo obscure.”
    Jack was still smiling. He seemed to be taking an evil delight in shooting down my ideas one by one. I should have just shut up. But one of my great personality flaws—according to Professor Trimble, who keeps a long and detailed list—is stubbornness.
    So instead I suggested, a bit wildly, “Well, in the nineteenth century, one of the main industries around here was textiles. That could be kind of interesting—”
    Even the ghost was shaking his head sadly at this.
    Jack looked at me for a long moment, his expression blank. Then he said just one word. “Textiles?”
    The delivery was so deadpan that I almost smiled again, but I caught myself in time. “Fine! You think of something then!”
    â€œI already have. I heard about this place—”
    The first bell rang. I glanced nervously at my watch. “We’d better get going.”
    â€œOh, yeah,” he said. “We wouldn’t want to be