Free The Secret Life of Sparrow Delaney by Suzanne Harper Page B

snapped his fingers in the air. I jumped and blurted out, “Yeah, sure. That sounds fine.”
    The ghost nodded encouragingly just as Sergeant Grimes exclaimed, “Delaney! Dawson! Class is now in session!”
    Jack slumped back in his chair and closed his eyes.
    I blushed and turned to face the front of the room, but not before one last glance at the ghost. He gave me a wink and disappeared.

Chapter 8
    â€œYou know, Sparrow, tonight is the last message service of the season,” my mother said to me a few days later. It was Saturday; I was having lunch with my mother, Wren, Lark, and Linnet and considering what I wanted to do with the day. Usually I lounged around, maybe went on a bike ride, and thought vaguely about getting an early start on my homework without, of course, actually doing anything of the sort. Today, however, all I could think about was next Saturday, when I would be meeting Jack at the museum.
    And now my mother, who was not a wheedler by nature, had decided to start wheedling about going to a message service. I quickly took a big bite of my grilled cheese sandwich to avoid answering. “Mmm,” I said instead.
    â€œIt would be so lovely if you would come with us.” My mother’s vague gaze drifted off to the far corner of the kitchen. “Dear, please don’t sniff the red wine. You know it gives you headaches.”
    I glanced over and saw the prune-colored image of a woman wearing a hoop skirt, a sunbonnet, and a sour expression lurking between the sink and the stove.
    â€œIs Mrs. Witherspoon manifesting again?” Lark asked. She used her spoon to slingshot a cherry tomato in the direction of my mother’s gaze.
    â€œLark!” my mother said. “Manners!”
    â€œSorry,” Lark said blandly as Linnet giggled. “It just got away from me.”
    Mrs. Witherspoon, who Crossed Over right after the Civil War, is not a family favorite, to put it mildly. Even my mother has come close to losing patience with her. Perhaps because of the many, many travails she suffered on Earth, Mrs. Witherspoon used to take a nip now and then when she was alive. Now she just inhales the fumes from any wine bottles that happen to be around and then comments disapprovingly to my mother about the behavior of “young ladies these days,” meaning, of course, my sisters and me.
    My mother cocked her head to one side and listened for a moment. Then she turned to us and said, “Mrs. Witherspoon says that you should use your napkins a little more and try to smack your lips a little less—”
    A chorus of boos greeted this etiquette tip from Beyond.
    â€œIt’s just food for thought, darlings, all just food for thought.” Then she turned back to me. “About tonight’s message service—”
    â€œNo,” I said. “Of course not. No.”
    The first time I went to a message service, I was horrified to discover that ghosts had no qualms about standing right next to my seat, leaning forward so that their faces were only inches from mine, and yelling over one another to get my attention. I finally told my mother that I’d developed a migraine (which turned out unfortunately to be true) and ran from the auditorium.
    Gradually I got better at ignoring the spirits, but I never became truly comfortable. For one thing, it’s exhausting to maintain the illusion that I don’t see anything out of the ordinary . And then there are the physical symptoms I get from spending too much time around too many ghosts. My chest starts to feel tight, I begin to shiver uncontrollably, my nerves feel as jangled as if I’d drunk a pot of coffee. And I always end up with a killer headache.
    So I quit going. My mother thought that I was disheartened by my lack of psychic success, so she kept coaxing me to “just try one more time, darling, I’m sure you’ll get a message tonight!”
    I had been steadfastly refusing for so long