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nice for them—to give them something—anything at all?
    I did know and I felt like a heel. But I wasn’t about to tell him that. “What do you want, Ricky?”
    We covered that yesterday.
    “I’m not a cop. I don’t know how you expect me to help you.”
    You can start by getting out of bed. It’s not even five o’clock and you act like you’re in for the night.
    “That’s because I am.”
    That’s crazy. If I could, do you know what I’d be doing right now?
    I don’t know but I’m sure he’s going to tell me. Just a small part of me is curious. Who was Ricky Watson? Before he died, I mean. Who were his friends? What did he do in his spare time? Did he have a girlfriend?
    That last question comes out of nowhere and I feel my cheeks flush. Glad I didn’t say it aloud.
    It’s Friday so I’d probably shoot some hoops after school till around seven or eight. Then I’d run home, catch a shower and change, hit the streets for the night.
    “Hit the streets? And do what?”
    He shrugs. Maybe go to a club or catch a new movie. Or if I have a hottie on hand, I’d hook up with her.
    My heart plunges, taking a fall so steep I almost lose my breath. A “hottie”? He’d be with a “hottie.” I shake my head, waving my hand in his direction. What do I care if he’s with a “hottie” or not?
    “TMI. TMI.”
    He chuckles. No, that’s not too much information. I didn’t say what I’d do with the hottie when I hooked up with her.
    I turn my head away because instantly looking at him is making my chest hurt more. Why is that? I just met him. It’s not like we’re having some grand love affair. Not like he’s my first love. I’ve never even had a boyfriend. I’ve never been kissed—French or American. Then again, all this is nonsense, he’s some kind of poltergeist, remember?
    Look at you blushing, he teases. I’ll bet you’ve never even kissed a boy, have you, Krystal?
    I jump up off the bed, wondering if his kind can read minds. “Now that is definitely TMI!”
    He shrugs. You can tell me. I mean, who am I going to tell if you did? Did you let him get more than a kiss?
    I stalk across the room, my back to him, my head starting to ache slightly at the nerve he has to talk to me like this. Or is it the truth in those words that has my heart pounding?
    The truth shall set you free, I hear echoing from a distance in my head.
    “Look, I don’t care what you would have been doing if you hadn’t been shot up! All I know is you’re here now and it’s pissing me off.”
    He is quiet. So quiet that I might have thought he’d left but I can still feel him. It is funny how this spirit communication works. Then again, I’ve never really opened myself up to this troublesome quirk I seem to have. So I really have nothing to compare this incident with. And nobody to ask about it.
    Isn’t that the story of my life?
    Questions. Issues. Problems to solve. But nobody to talk to, nobody to give me advice or help me find the answers. Sometimes life just sucks.
    If you turn on your computer I can show you when I died and what they said about me.
    “I don’t care,” I say quickly. Too quickly and it sounds really rude.
    I need you to care, Krystal. You’re the only one who can help me.
    “Why?” I whirl around then, so fast I almost fall onto the floor. But I’m standing near my desk so I grab hold of the end to keep myself upright. “You’re the ghost. Why can’t you just fly around or vanish and reappear or whatever you do and haunt the people who did this to you? Make them tell the truth or something.”
    It doesn’t work that way.
    “Then what way does it work?” My voice grows higher and I know I need to calm down before Janet comes upstairs. She’s in the den, where she always is, either readinga book or staring out the window like the answer to her problems is out there. I guess we’re searching for the same thing, mother and daughter. We need answers. Or do we need help? Maybe we need both.
    I