Haint Misbehavin' Read online

  A Note From Me, Heather

  You might be like me—not a complete loser, but kids at school target you for things like your raspy voice and pimply skin, which, by the way, can’t be cured with medication or a little nip and tuck. When I thought my freaky life couldn’t get any worse, it did. My DNA gifted me with another characteristic I can’t undo—seeing ghosts. And, yes, it is genetic. My Aunt Geneva, known far and wide for being weird, not only sees them, she’s apparently having a relationship with one.

  The good news is . . . there is no good news. Ha ha. Seriously, though, I’ve heard some freaks like me grow up to lead a happy life without lasting scars. At least that’s what my dad always tells me, and I keep hoping he’s right. He thinks he grew out of his teenage geekiness, which he did, but unfortunately his genes matured him into an almost as gooberish adult. Come to think of it, I’m not sure he’s the best example to offer you. Sorry.

  Anyway, I’m going to tell you about some of my other adventures with haints, which is Southern-talk for ghosts. For the record, I do not get off on being a ghost handler. If you have the same kind of problem as me, you may want to check out my blog at www.maureenhardegree.com/heathersblog.

  Yeah, Maureen lets me blog on her website. What can I say? She likes my weirdness. Maybe you will, too. Because like me, you know they’re out there. Ghosts, I mean. Tell me about it.

  —Heather

  The Ghost Handler Series

  Stay tuned for lots more adventures with Heather and her ghost-friends.

  Coming Next: Hainted Love

  Haint Misbehavin’

  Book One

  The Ghost Handler Series

  Maureen Hardegree

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead,) events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Bell Bridge Books

  PO BOX 300921

  Memphis, TN 38130

  ISBN: 978-1-935661-93-1

  Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

  Copyright © 2010 by Maureen Hardegree

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  We at BelleBooks enjoy hearing from readers. You can contact us at the address above or at [email protected]

  Visit our websites – www.BelleBooks.com and www.BellBridgeBooks.com.

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  Cover design: Debra Dixon

  Interior design: Hank Smith

  Art credits: Girl's face © Fallenangel | Dreamstime.com

  :Ma:01:

  Dedication

  To my sweet Cynthia, this book is for you.

  Chapter One

  It was now or never. Today, the first official day of summer vacation and my campaign to somehow, some way, make my sister Audrey find my presence in this world a positive rather than a negative.

  Okay, so it’s not like I thought I could go from major irritation to pal in a matter of two months, or just because I’d turned fourteen on my last birthday. But deep down, I knew I could be normal enough that she wouldn’t automatically leave when I entered a room—especially now that we shared something in common other than our genetics. We could have a real moment here—if she was willing to help me with the one little problem that surpassed the outbreak of bacne I’d spent most of last night worrying about.

  I padded down the hall of our suburban Atlanta house, listening for Audrey’s voice, much like mine minus the rasp. Her snort of laughter rose up the second story foyer, then trailed off into the blare of the TV.

  “Audrey?” I called out as I came down the stairs. No answer.

  I snuck a peek into the den.

  Audrey’s pudgy friend Karen, who might actually hate me more than my sister did, sprawled on the couch in the family room in what Grandma would say was an unladylike fashion. Karen had spent the night, and I’d successfully avoided her for most of her visit by staying in my room.

  Taking a deep breath, I skirted through the dining room and into the kitchen, where I found Audrey dipping her finger into a large bowl of yellow batter studded with shiny semi-sweet chips. A half dozen, super-sized muffins cooled on the rack on the granite-topped island, tantalizing me with their chocolaty scent. Compliments were usually welcome. I’d give it a shot. “Smells good,” I said.

  Audrey’s long face scrunched into a scowl. “What do you want?”

  “Um, I don’t know how to . . . ” I glanced back toward the den, where Karen still appeared to be engrossed in some reality show. But one could never tell. “Look. Mom isn’t here, so I need your help with . . . something.”

  Audrey pushed her scraggly brown bangs out of her eyes. “Fine. What is it?”

  Undoubtedly sensing the potential to heap psychological damage upon me, Karen scurried into the kitchen. “What’s what?”

  “It’s nothing. Forget about it,” I said, glancing over at the digital clock on the oven, which had to be flashing the wrong time. Unless I overslept—again.

  “Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of Karen,” Audrey assured me in a half-irritated tone.

  “No, I can’t.”

  Hey, I knew my response might throw Audrey into full-fledged aggravation, but I had to risk it. You don’t share some things in front of people who hate you more than David Butler’s armpit stench. Karen couldn’t know what my problem was. She’d text it all over Pecan Hills.

  “No, I can’t,” Karen taunted, mimicking my husky voice, only making it sound far worse than it was.

  My face burned, never a good thing for someone like me with hypersensitive skin. At least I wasn’t itching . . . yet. I went to the fridge and grabbed a bottled water, hoping they’d forget I’d ever said anything about needing Audrey’s help. I’d figure out my problem on my own.

  As I tried to escape, heading toward the back staircase, Karen blocked me. She stood there examining me as if I was some freak sideshow at the circus and I wasn’t living up to the hype. “Aren’t you going to scratch yourself?”

  No ‘hey, don’t pick on my sister,’ issued from Audrey’s lips. No ‘Heather can’t help having weird skin.’ No channeling of Marcia Brady, Denise Huxtable, or D.J. Tanner, all excellent TVLand examples of how older sisters should act.

  “No, she isn’t!” Audrey hollered for me, not that she could control my skin. Not even I could control my skin. Audrey bit into one of her hoarded muffins, then waved her hand in front of her mouth, waiting for it to cool down enough to chew.

  I should have enjoyed karma burning her, yet it barely tickled me. My sister wasn’t making even a half-hearted attempt to protect me.

  “Are your feelings too hurt to answer, Heather?” Karen asked, her voice dripping fake sympathy as thick as cane syrup. “You’re not going to cry, are you?”

  Not in front of her, I wasn’t. I don’t know why I let her get to me. I hated it. I hated her.

  I twisted off the cap and took a swig of my water, attempting to swallow the growing lump in my throat. “Thanks a lot, Audrey,” I said, despising how even I could hear the tears in my voice. I bolted around Karen and out of the kitchen.

  “Heather!” Audrey yelled as I ran up the stairs two at a time. “Heather, come on.”

  Doomed to solve my dilemma on my own, I made a beeline for the bathroom, then shut the door and stared at the paper-wrapped tube, hardly bigger than a highlighter, lying on the counter.
It seemed harmless, but to me it was the scariest, yet most exciting object in the house. I eyed the pink box that had been sitting between the tower of Dove soap and the plastic sack of ultra-thin maxi pads inside the linen closet. The sheet of instructions lay unfolded across the sink, clearly written, yet impossible to follow.

  Pounding rattled the bathroom door in its frame. Probably Karen come to harass me some more.

  “Come on, Heather,” Audrey groaned. She turned the doorknob back and forth. “I know you’re in there.”

  Hope filled my heart. Audrey did care. She was looking for me out of concern.

  She pounded again. “I’ve gotta go. Let me in.”

  Deflated, I padded across the cool tile to unlock the door. “All right. Geez.”

  “What’s your problem anyway?” she asked.

  Sure, I knew it was a rhetorical question, but she was here. I might as well give it a shot. “If you must know, my problem is that I don’t know how to put a tampon in.”

  And with the pool beckoning, I had to learn fast. No way was I showing up in street clothes. I wanted to impress hot lifeguard Drew Blanton, not stick out as the lone dweeb, sitting on the side, dipping my legs in the water while everyone else swam.

  “God, it’s no big deal.” Audrey slapped the tampon into my hand, shoved the instructions under my arm, pushed me out of the bathroom, and slammed the door in my face. “The directions are on the paper. Duh!”

  Not sure if I was more hurt or angry, I stared at the bathroom door. “Where’s the welcome into the sisterhood of menstruating women?”

  A snort was her only response. You’d think we’d at least be able to bond over that. Especially since my period had taken forever to get here. I was going into ninth grade in the fall, and I’d only been waiting for this milestone since reading Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret at age ten. I really wanted the whole monthly cycle; I welcomed anything that would make me more rather than less normal, which in turn would make Audrey like me. Or so I thought.

  I straightened out the instructions and studied the diagram as I plodded down the narrow hallway to my room.

  Maybe I’d put the tampon experiment off until tomorrow. If I didn’t show up at the pool today, Drew might wonder if I was sick. Maybe he’d call the house to check on me . . . which was pretty much impossible since he didn’t know my name. “Why today?” I whined.

  “Why what today?” my younger sister Claire asked. She was standing in the doorway of her room, next to mine, and smelled faintly of Coppertone. She’s the good sister. With her Hawaiian print tankini and the front of her light brown bob clipped to the side with a barrette, she looked ready for a day at the pool . . . and adorable. I swear I don’t hate her for it.

  “I’ve officially entered womanhood,” I announced, grabbing hold of her sunscreen- moistened arms. Then I squealed. I couldn’t help it.

  She squealed back in a higher pitch, and we hugged and jumped up and down, doing our happy dance, kind of like a bad polka, in the middle of the hall.

  Audrey came out of the bathroom and stopped to stare at us, her long face pinched in disgust. “You’re too weird.” Her “you” meant me, not Claire. She liked Claire just fine.

  I wanted to stick my tongue out at the queen of poopiness but that wouldn’t exactly make her like me, so I stifled the urge. Barely.

  And I’m not that weird. Sure, I cut the tags out of my clothes. And, yes, I can’t sleep on bed linens lower than a 400 thread count. I even admit to training myself not to focus on the toe seams in my socks. Okay, so I’m a little weird, but I’m definitely not weird with a capital “W” like Mom’s sister Geneva. She claims she has a ghost for a friend.

  Under the scraggly fringe of her overgrown bangs, Audrey narrowed her beady brown eyes. “Don’t you have something you have to do, Heather?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Then I guess you weren’t paying attention last night at dinner when Dad said he was taking a half-day.” She paused for dramatic effect. “Oh, and he’s going to want the body count.”

  Crappola. I was toast.

  The body count is for Japanese beetles, not people, so don’t get all freaked out. Beyond the regular dishwashing, table-setting, and laundry-folding rotation, Audrey, Claire and I, his home-grown pest-control labor, fill big Mason jars of soapy water with beetles we pick from Dad’s grapevines.

  Yeah, it seems cruel, and, sure, beetles have to live. But they eat the wide, deep green leaves on Dad’s scuppernongs, turning them to a lace that affects the fruit. The fruit is all-important to my Dad. He makes wine . . . in our basement. You’d think they don’t sell it at Kroger.

  Claire smiled sheepishly from the doorway. “I got up at nine. I already posted mine.”

  “Excuse me, but you’re supposed to be the nice sister!” I yelled as I ran for the stairs. “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Yeah, right.

  She followed, hurling her excuses at my back. “You went to bed late. I figured you were tired.”

  I continued on my way, tripping over the tennis shoes someone left on the bottom step.

  “Or that you’d edge me out of the competition,” I said, slamming into Karen, who was blocking my path to the back door.

  “Did I hear correctly? Have you at long last become a woman, Heather?”

  Leaving her nastiness and the comfort of air conditioning behind, I pushed Karen out of my way, headed out the back door and slammed it behind me. I grabbed the broad straw hat I’d left on one of the rocking chairs in the breezeway and placed its scratchy brim on my head. I was already sweating.

  Just to clarify that I’m not some kind of competitive nut, the daughter with the highest body count at the end of beetle season gets fifty downloads for her iPod.

  Oh, and when I say my dad has grapevines, I don’t mean one or two along the fence line. I mean pretty much the whole backyard is terraced, like one of those valleys in California in miniature.

  I’d made my way through one third of the yard, sighting only a few beetles, when I heard frenzied barking. Not more than a few seconds later, Roquefort, our stinky beagle, who hates hats for some unknown reason, ran in circles around me, carrying on as if I was some stranger.

  To calm her, I frisbeed my hat to the ground. Even if the sun blistered the top of my head, it had to be better than having my dog bark incessantly. “See, girl, it’s just me.”

  Roquefort added nosing to the barking.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I couldn’t get my beetle killing done and more importantly come up with an excuse for my Dad with that insane beagle trying to herd me down the row.

  Being tired wouldn’t cut it. Wait. The whole period thing might work to my advantage. Especially if I lied and said I had cramps. Perfect.

  If you want to be treated like an adult, you have to start acting like one. My mother’s most recent lecture rang in my head like she was standing next to me blathering on about responsibility. I guess an adult wouldn’t lie about why she didn’t get out of bed at a reasonable hour to euthanize Japanese beetles.

  A cloud scuttled across the sun, bringing me a much-needed break from its scorch. At almost the same moment, the air brushing my right shoulder grew unusually cool. My skin pebbled, which was really odd. As hypersensitive as I was, that had never happened before.

  Roquefort stared at something to the right of me, like cats do to freak out their owners. Whining, she backed up as if some creature was advancing upon her. Only there was nothing there.

  The chill bumps on my right arm spread down to my hand.

  That’s when I saw a girl dressed like Laura Ingalls from Little House on the Prairie, complete with wheat-colored braids and a stark white pinafore over a blue calico dress. She stood at the end of the row, smiling, exposing the gap between her front teeth.

  “God, you scared me,” I said, then breathed. I hadn’t heard the hinges on the gate squeak. “How’d you get back here?”

  Ro
quefort growled, her head lowered.

  “Stop it!” I yelled.

  Our dog liked most hatless people and usually rolled onto her back, begging for a belly rub when she had the chance to make a new acquaintance or reconnect with an old one. I didn’t get why Roquefort didn’t like this little girl.

  The cloud moved, and the sun returned to blind me.

  I blinked against the glare, dark spots floating before my eyes. Great. Now I was going to have cataracts from sun damage by the time I was thirty. Thanks, Dad.

  I raised my hand to shade my eyes and looked for the girl, who’d suddenly vanished. If she was lurking in any of the rows on either side of the one I was in, she surely wasn’t standing.

  Still holding my Mason jar of soapy dead beetles, I knelt down on the hard-packed clay and scanned the hot earth under the rows next to me. Nothing.

  I rose to my feet, and the girl popped up between the vines two rows away.

  Roquefort bayed as if the moon was up and she was tracking a fat possum. The girl disappeared again.

  “I’m not playing Hide-n-Seek, little girl,” I said, in case that’s what she thought we were doing. I had to get on to my Drew watching at the pool. I didn’t really want to know why she was wearing a Halloween costume in June, either. I didn’t need the aggravation, especially when I was about to have a sunstroke.

  And yet, a sunstroke might not be the end of the world. If I fainted in the vines, which seemed very likely at the moment, Dad would find me collapsed on the ground. He’d feel guilty for making me go on beetle patrol. With tears choking his throat, he’d call 9-1-1 and beg me to stay alive. Hunky EMTs would arrive, and Karen would be jealous. Audrey’d tell everyone she worked with at the neighborhood pool that I’d had a heatstroke. Drew might send me a bouquet of “get well” roses . . . if only he knew who I was.

  A rush of wind rustled the grape leaves near me, bringing me back to reality. The kid was back.

  “Hide and Go Seek, come on, let’s play,” she drawled in what I’d call a hillbilly accent. You know, the kind they give southern people on TV and in the movies ‘cause they haven’t figured out we don’t usually sound so country anymore, at least not in the suburbs of Atlanta.