Spookygirl - Paranormal Investigator by Jill Baguchinsky Page B

books a few times, and once I proved that I understood the Dewey Decimal System—it’s not that complicated!—she adored me.
    Pep rallies were always held during the last period of the day, so it was easy for me and Tim to sneak away together after drawing class. Technically, attendance at pep rallies was mandatory for the entire student body; when Miss Walters saw me, though, she waved me inside.
    “Sit near the back so Mr. Stoltz won’t see you if he peeks in,” she said. Mr. Stoltz, the troll-like vice principal and dean of discipline, loved ferreting out anyone who dared to default on his or her school spirit.
    Tim and I sat at a small study table, the view of which was blocked from the library’s entrance by a couple of bookshelves.
    “So have you decided yet?” he asked.
    I was too distracted to figure out what he was asking. Earlier that day, Ms. Geller had assigned our midterm English project—a descriptive essay about our most vivid childhood memory—and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. She was giving us plenty of time, she said, because she wanted us to put a lot of thought into our essays and turn in something meaningful and full of concrete detail. Her expectations were high, and the essay would count for a quarter of our semester grade.
    Great. My most vivid childhood memory was the night my mom died. No way was I writing about that. Finishing Mom’s Riley Island file was one thing, but I wasn’t about to yack about her death in an English essay. That night wasno one else’s business, and the thought of putting it down on paper for my teacher to read was enough to make me moody. I’d think of another memory. Or I’d make one up.
    Tim gave me a look, and I realized he was still waiting for an answer.
    “Sorry. Decided what?”
    “How you’re going to do the ghost hunt. The investigation.”
    “Not yet. I need to get in while the locker room’s empty, and I can’t risk just sneaking in again. Coach Frucile keeps an eye on me now.” Ever since I’d shown Tim the equipment I’d unearthed, he’d been dying to know when I was going to investigate the presence—and he wanted to help. However, I didn’t know how to get myself, let alone a boy, into the girls’ locker room when I wasn’t supposed to be there. My inhaler excuse had gone stale.
    “Fake an injury during gym.”
    “Like I need to fake them.” We’d moved on to the track unit by then, and track was nearly as unlucky for me as volleyball. I had already skinned my knee at the end of one class, and…Something wiggled in my mind. “The first aid kit.” The one on the wall near Coach Frucile’s office. She’d gone into the locker room to get me a bandage while I hovered outside. “Wait, that might work.”
    “What about the first aid kit?” Tim was practically bouncing in his chair. He had bleached a white streak inhis hair the week before, then dyed it with lime Kool-Aid. It was now a sickly swamp green, and it flopped over his forehead when he moved.
    “You know those cold packs you activate by bending?” I said. “There are a few of those in the kit. If I pretend to twist my ankle or something during class, maybe she’d let me hobble to the locker room to get one.”
    “Wouldn’t she just send someone else to get it for you?”
    “Oh.” Shoot. “I guess.”
    Tim’s eyebrows arched up evilly. “You need someone else to fall. Then you could be the one running for the first aid kit.”
    “Hmm. Wouldn’t it be a shame if that happened?” Not that I really wanted anyone to get hurt, but sometimes a good investigation requires a little sacrifice. I tented my fingers under my chin and began to consider the candidates.
    And so it was that the next morning, while several of my classmates prepped for a four-lap relay race, I
accidentally
nudged my foot over the painted line and into the first lane of the track. Gosh, how careless of me. Christy Palmer’s toes caught on the edge of my sensible white gym sneaker,