Notes from Ghost Town by Kate Ellison Page B

hand, grab a crushed soda can, and hurl it at the back of his head.
“Dicks,”
I scream. The four of them take off running, laughing.
    I’m still standing there, staring after them, trying to catch my breath, when Medusa hobbles over to me. She stretches a clenched palm toward me and says, “tu
mano
,” in her deep, cigarette-ash voice, pointing to my hand with shaking ash-colored fingers.
    “What do you want me to do?” I ask, confused, cringing slightly at the rotten smell of her.
    “
Abrete
,” she says. “Open.” I open my hand to her and she drops a small, dirty coin in my palm; it has a small hole poked through the top, like something that has oncebeen worn on a necklace. “Tank you.” She cups her palm over mine and smiles, walking slowly back toward her trash can, where she resumes her digging, undisturbed.
    I turn the coin over in my fingers again, trying to make out the design on the front—it looks engraved, but I can’t make out the initials beneath the crust of dirt—before slipping it into the pocket of my shorts and racing through the park gates, just as the storm redoubles its force, and the skies open up like they’re bleeding.

nine
    B
uzzzzzz
. The secretary (wo)manning the lobby of Carol Kohl’s office peers through the glass at me, and I see her hand feeling for a switch beneath her wooden desk. I’ve had that same
watched
feeling ever since I left the park. Maybe it’s residual ghost-sensitivity. I expect to find Stern, secreted away in every molecule of air, and at every turn. The lock to the door clicks, and I push through into a shocking wave of air-conditioning, my still-damp cutoff shorts sticking to my thighs.
    The walls are a drab gray, lighter than the carpet, darker than the secretary’s pinned-back hair and lipstick. The furniture in the waiting area is ultra-modern, expensive-looking. All right angles, sharp-looking edges. A small plastic sign next to the secretary’s computer says
Jeanette
; a giant Monet reproduction—smeary, blurry grays—decorates the wall behind her desk.
    “Hi. I’m looking for Carol Kohl?” I try not to fidget too much with my hands, but, momentarily overcome with self-consciousness at how wet and raggedy I must look inthis neat, gleaming office, I try and stealthily smooth out the wrinkles in my wet tank top and reconfigure my ratty ponytail into a smooth(ish) bun.
    Without looking up,
Jeanette
jiggles the mouse along the mouse pad, peering at the computer screen. “I see a four-fifteen …” She consults the clock, frowns, and glances up at me. “Was she expecting you?”
    “No. Well, I don’t know. But it’s urgent.” I tug at the bottom of my tank top, tighten the rubber band around my ponytail, feel the words start to pool beneath my tongue. Her eyes are warm. She wants to listen. “My mom’s hearing is coming up really soon …” I trail off, shaking my head. “I just really need to see her. Mrs. Kohl. I’ll wait all night, I don’t care.”
    “Let me see what we can do,” she says softly. The flesh of her arms jiggles as she picks up the phone and presses a square button on the console. She examines her long, tricked-out fingernails as she speaks, low, into the phone. “Someone here to see you. Olivia Tithe …?” She looks to me for confirmation. I nod. She writes something down on a notepad, nibbles on the pen cap after; her molars carve new shadows into the plastic. “Yes. Well, okay. Uh-huh. And did you want me to move your—No. Okay then.” She hangs up, stands from her chair and crosses behind her desk to the edge of the hallway. “Come on,
bonita
,” she says, cocking her head toward the offices. “Let’s go.”
    I follow her, my rain-drenched shoes squishing noisily in the quiet of the building. At the end of the hall, Jeanettedirects me to
turn left at the dolphin sculpture
. When I do, I find myself standing in front of a wide glass-paneled room.
    I peer quickly inside and see Carol perched at her desk,