Jimmy Stone's Ghost Town by Scott Neumyer Page B

don't
understand," I said quickly and looked around to Gasp, David, and
Trex. "If you and the rest of the Elders all sat down to discuss
these letters, how could no one figure out what was going on in them?"
    "We didn't understand because we didn't know
who to turn to."
    "What do you mean? There's no one here in
Ghost Town who could come to your rescue?"
    "There is now," Gasp said. "There has been
since you and your friends arrived."
    Now I was confused. Why me? Why David
and Trex? And how the hell were we going to help a bunch of
ghosts?
    "But why us?" I asked. "Why do you need
me?"
    Gasp stared me straight in the eye and bent
down to get even closer to my face, just to make sure I understood
what he was about to tell me.
    "Every single letter," Gasp said, "was
addressed to Jimmy Stone."
    My mouth fell open and, if I had been
standing at the time, I'm sure I would have fallen to my knees.
    "Now, Jimmy, do you understand why it's your
help we need?"
     

Chapter Twenty One
     
     
    Responsibility is never
something I ever needed to handle. At least not until we found out
that my almost-sister wouldn't be living with us, and then my
mother left. When those two things happened, everything
changed. Everything .
    Not only did I end up getting Trex, and then
having to take care of basically everything that Trex needed, but I
also started to get a lot more responsibility at home.
    Dad wasn't dad anymore after Mom left and
everything kind of went to shit. Yeah, I said shit. Deal with
it.
    Before everything happened, Mom used to make
my lunch for school. Every single night, she'd come into my room
and ask what I wanted to eat for lunch the next day.
    "How about a bologna sandwich tomorrow,
Jimmy?" she'd say and smile at me. "I was thinking you haven't had
bologna in a few weeks so you might be in the mood for some."
    "Sounds great, Mom! Thanks!"
    "You got it, Jimmy. Bologna on white bread
with just a little bit of mayo."
    "That's how I like it!"
    "I know it is, Jimmy." Then she'd cross the
room and kiss me on the forehead before leaving. I remember
thinking that I was getting a little too old for those kisses right
before everything happened with Charlotte. I was thinking about
maybe talking to her about not kissing me anymore. It was just
starting to feel a little weird and I didn't think any of the other
boys in school had their mom kissing them on the foreheads so
much.
    "You know your mom always knows how you like
your sandwiches." She'd smile again and ask me if I wanted the door
closed.
    "Just leave it a little cracked," I'd always
say. I liked to hear the sounds of the house. I liked to hear her
and Dad chatting in the kitchen while she made my lunch.
    What I wouldn't give now for another one of
those forehead kisses. What I wouldn't give for a bologna sandwich
made by my mother. And what I wouldn't give to hear the sounds of
my mom and dad chatting in the kitchen.
    Every once in a while I'd open up my brown
paper bag, filled with the lunch my mom had prepared the night
before, and inside would be a little piece of paper. Yes, my mom
would leave me notes in my lunches. Not everyday, but every few
weeks or so, I'd open that bag and try to hide the little piece of
paper while I unfolded it in my lap.
    "I love you, Jimmy," it would say. "I hope
you enjoy your lunch. It was made with lots o' love!"
    At the time, I thought it
was so corny. I
thought I might be getting too old for that too. I always prayed
that none of the other guys (just imagine if I'd known those damn
Coogan Boys back then and they'd found it) would see my note. If
they did, I'd probably never hear the end of it. I mean, corny or
not, I definitely still liked getting them.
    But now - today with her
gone - I wish I
could get another one of those notes. Every single time I open my
own little brown bag, holding the lunch that I had to prepare the night before
while Dad laid on the couch sucking down green bottles and watching
infomercials, I secretly hope there will