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as if she were far away.
    â€œI think so,” Bobbi replied. “You?”
    â€œYeah. My wrist—I think it’s sprained. That’s all.”
    They pulled themselves out, smiled at each other, buoyed by the fresh air, the cool wetness, of being alive. Then standing on the overturned side that was now the roof, they leaned down into the windows to help other girls escape.
    Time seemed to stand still.
    Corky joined her sister, slid to the ground, stretched and yawned as if emerging from a long sleep.
    The bus headlights, one on top of the other, cut through the air, casting twin spotlights on the jagged tombstones poking up through tall weeds.
    Tombstones? Weeds?
    Bobbi lowered herself to the ground, her sneakers sinking into the wet grass. Gripping Corky’s ice-cold hand, she turned back toward the street.
    Behind them, a tilted street sign read: FEAR ST.
    â€œOh.” She let go of Corky’s hand. “Look.”
    The bus had careened off the road and slid over the grass of the Fear Street cemetery. A thick yellow mist, catching the light from the headlights, lingered between the old gravestones, which rose up like arms and legs from the twisting, bending weeds.
    â€œWe’re . . . in the cemetery,” Corky said, her voice a whisper, her expression stunned. “How?”
    â€œWe’re only a block from home,” Bobbi said.
    â€œIs everybody out?” Simmons called. He came toward them, taking long strides, his jeans stained at the knees, a bandanna wrapped tightly around a bleeding cut on his arm. “You okay?” he asked the two sisters.
    â€œYeah,” Bobbi told him.
    â€œEveryone got out,” Simmons said. “No one’s hurt too bad.”
    Then Bobbi and Corky cried out at the same time: “Jennifer!”
    Where was Jennifer?
    In the horror of the crash, in the noise and tilting darkness of it, they had forgotten about her.
    Jennifer. Bobbi saw her again. Saw her arms jerk up as she flew out the open bus door—almost as if being pulled out.
    â€œJennifer?” Corky began calling, cupping her hands over her mouth. “Has anyone seen Jennifer?”
    â€œJennifer. Jennifer.”
    The word buzzed through the group of dazed, frightened girls as they huddled together, squinting against the bright headlights, trying to turn things right side up in their minds.
    Trying to make sense of everything.
    Trying to convince themselves that they were okay. That everything was going to be fine.
    â€œJennifer. Jennifer.”
    And then Corky saw her.
    From behind.
    Saw her body sprawled facedown, her head resting on the earth in front of an old tombstone, her arms stretched above her head as if she were hugging the stone.
    â€œJennifer!” Bobbi shouted.
    A sudden gust of wind made Jennifer’s skirt ruffle. But Jennifer didn’t look up, didn’t raise her head.
    Corky and Bobbi reached her before the others. Bobbi grabbed her shoulders to roll her onto her back.
    â€œDon’t move her!” someone yelled.
    â€œDon’t touch her! It isn’t safe!”
    Bobbi looked up to see Simmons standing beside her, staring down at Jennifer sprawled so awkwardly across the old grave site.
    â€œLet’s carefully roll her over and get her face out of the mud,” he said quietly.
    They tugged her gently by the shoulders.
    As they turned Jennifer over, the words etched on the old grave marker came into Bobbi’s view: SARAH FEAR. The dates beneath the name had been worn away nearly beyond recognition: 1875-1899.
    They laid Jennifer gently onto her back.
    â€œCall an ambulance!” Heather was screaming. “Somebody—call for help!”
    Bobbi leaned over Jennifer’s unmoving form. “It’s too late,” she said, choking out the words. “She’s dead.”

Chapter 6

“It’s Your Fault!”
    â€œN o!”
    Corky’s anguished cry cut through the air. She dropped to the