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“It’s not wasted. I get to watch kids like you develop your talent. Maybe someday your band will be famous and you’ll give me free tickets, and I’ll be able to tell everyone you were my student. That’s good enough for me.”
    â€œReally? That’s good enough?” I had my doubts. And when I asked, his smile receded a little. Just a little, but enough for me to see it.
    â€œAsk him about jet-black wig,” a woman’s voice said from across the room.
    There was no one there. How could there be? We were in a closed practice room.
    A sick feeling landed in my stomach. I had told the spirits to go away today, but here was a cheekyone, determined to talk to me. “No,” I said out loud, smoothing the hair down on my arms.
    â€œSorry, Lilah?”
    I looked back at Mr. Robertson. “Sorry, I was just thinking of something.”
    He frowned. “Are you okay? You seem a little, I don’t know, distant.”
    I shook my head. “No, I’m fine. I just thought I heard something.”
    He laughed. “Well, it’s a soundproof room, so I can’t see how.”
    â€œAsk him. Ask him about jet-black wig and you’ll find out that teaching isn’t enough for him.”
    The voice was like a finger, poking in my brain. Not letting go until I did as it demanded.
    I took a deep breath.
Here we go again
. “Mr. Robertson, do you believe in ghosts?”
    He blinked. “That’s kind of an odd question to ask your music teacher, isn’t it, Lilah?”
    â€œNot as weird as you think. You know how I got hit by lightning last weekend?”
    He nodded, still frowning. “Of course.”
    â€œWell, it seems that since then I have some sort of superpsychic powers.”
    He crossed his arms in front of his chest but didn’t say anything.
    â€œI hear voices.”
    â€œLilah, do you want me to ask the nurse to call one of your parents to come get you?”
    I shook my head. “No, I’m okay. Really, about the voices, I can prove it.”
    He arched his eyebrows, waiting.
    â€œThere is someone here in the room with us telling me to ask you about jet-black wigs, although I have no idea what that means.”
    Based on the way he dropped down onto the drum stool,
he
did.
    â€œHow could you know about that?”
    â€œI’m telling you, there’s someone here. A woman, telling me to ask you about jet-black wigs.”
    â€œJet Black Wig was the name of the band I was in a decade ago. We were just about to sign a record deal when our lead singer died.”
    â€œThat was me,” the voice said.
    â€œWhat was your lead singer’s name?” I asked.
    Mr. Robertson looked at me. “Her name was Serena.”
    â€œYup, that’s me.”
    â€œThat’s who’s here. Serena.”
    â€œLilah, you’re fooling with me,” Mr. Robertson said, suddenly not sounding so teacherlike. “You Googled me or something.”
    I shook my head. “Nope, I promise you I didn’t. How did she die?”
    â€œCancer,” Serena said.
    â€œCar accident,” Mr. Robertson said.
    I looked at my teacher, wondering why he was lying. “She said it was cancer.”
    And then as I stood there, my music teacher began to cry. He covered his eyes with his hands and just lost it. “Serena, are you really here?”
    â€œI’m here, Frankie,” Serena said.
    â€œShe says yes.” It felt kind of weird, watching him cry like that. I looked out the window into the main music room, but no one seemed to be paying any attention. Most of the kids were goofing off and talking instead of playing their instruments, but I wasn’t about to point that out to Mr. Robertson. Grabbing a tissue from the pack in my bag, I handed it to him.
    â€œSorry to dump this on you,” I said. “It seems spirits have figured out I can hear them, so they come to me, demanding to be