"I thought - " My mother was peering at me curiously. "Honey, I thought I heard you say, um. Well. I thought I heard you talking to - Did you say the word dad?"

I chewed. I was totally used to this kind of thing. "I said bad. The milk in the fridge. I think it's gone bad."

My mother looked immensely relieved. The thing is, she's caught me talking to Dad more times than I can count. She probably thinks I'm a mental case. Back in New York she used to send me to her therapist, who told her I wasn't a mental case, just a teenager. Boy, did I pull one over on old Doc Mendelsohn, let me tell you.

But I had to feel sorry for my mom, in a way. I mean, she's a nice lady and doesn't deserve to have a mediator for a daughter. I know I've always been a bit of a disappointment to her. When I turned fourteen, she got me my own phone line, thinking so many boys would be calling me, her friends would never be able to get through. You can imagine how disappointed she was when nobody except my best friend Gina ever called me on my private line, and then it was usually only to tell me about the dates she'd been on. The boys in my old neighborhood were never much interested in asking me out.

"Well," my mom said, brightly. "If the milk's bad, I guess you have no choice but to try one of Andy's quesadillas."

"Great," I groaned. "Mom, you do understand that around here, it's swimsuit season all year round. We can't just pig out in the winter like we used to back home."

My mom sighed sort of sadly. "Do you really hate it here that much, honey?"

I looked at her like she was the crazy one, for a change. "What do you mean? What makes you think I hate it here?"

"You. You just referred to Brooklyn as 'back home.' "

"Well," I said, embarrassed. "That doesn't mean I hate it here. It just isn't home yet."

"What do you need to make it feel that way?" My mom pushed some of my hair from my eyes. "What can I do to make this feel like home to you?"

"God, Mom," I said, ducking out from beneath her fingers. "Nothing, okay. I'll get used to it. Just give me a chance."

My mom wasn't buying it, though. "You miss Gina, don't you? You haven't made any really close friends here, I've noticed. Not like Gina. Would you like it if she came for a visit?"

I couldn't imagine Gina, with her leather pants, pierced tongue, and extension braids, in Carmel, California, where wearing khakis and a sweater set is practically enforced by law.

I said, "I guess that would be nice."

It didn't seem very likely, though. Gina's parents don't have very much money, so it wasn't as if they could just send her off to California like it was nothing. I would have liked to see Gina taking on Kelly Prescott, though. Hair extensions, I was quite certain, were going to fly.

Later, after dinner, kick-boxing, and homework, a quesadilla congealing in my stomach, I decided, despite my dad's warning, to tackle the Red problem one last time before bed. I had gotten Tad Beaumont's home phone number - which was unlisted, of course - in the most devious way possible: from Kelly Prescott's cell phone, which I had borrowed during our student council meeting on the pretense of calling for an update on the repairs of Father Serra's statue. Kelly's cell phone, I'd noticed at the time, had an address book function, and I'd snagged Tad's phone number from it before handing it back to her.

Hey, it's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it.

I had forgotten to take into account, of course, the fact that Tad, and not his father, might be the one to pick up the phone. Which he did after the second ring.

"Hello?" he said.

I recognized his voice instantly. It was the same soft voice that had stroked my cheek at the pool party.

Okay, I'll admit it. I panicked. I did what any red-blooded American girl would do under similar circumstances.

I hung up.

Of course, I didn't realize he had caller ID. So when the phone rang a few seconds later, I assumed it was Cee Cee, who'd promised to call with the answers to our Geometry homework - I'd fallen a little behind, what with all the mediating I'd been doing . . . not that that was the excuse I'd given Cee Cee, of course - and so I picked up.

"Hello?" that same, soft voice said into my ear. "Did you just call me?"

I said a bunch of swear words real fast in my head. Aloud, I only said, "Uh. Maybe. By mistake, though. Sorry."

"Wait." I don't know how he'd known I'd been about to hang up. "You sound familiar. Do I know you? My name is Tad. Tad Beaumont."

"Nope," I said. "Doesn't ring a bell. Gotta go, sorry."

I hung up and said a bunch more swear words, this time out loud. Why, when I'd had him on the phone, hadn't I asked to speak to his father? Why was I such a loser? Father Dom was right. I was a failure as a mediator. A big-time failure. I could exorcize evil spirits, no problem. But when it came to dealing with the living, I was the world's biggest flop.

This fact was drilled into my head even harder when, about four hours later, I was wakened once again by a blood-curdling shriek.

CHAPTER 5

I sat up, fully awake at once.

She was back.

She was even more upset than she'd been the night before. I had to wait a real long time before she calmed down enough to talk to me.

"Why?" she asked, when she'd stopped screaming. "Why didn't you tell him?"

"Look," I said, trying to use a soothing voice, the way Father Dom would have wanted me to. "I tried, okay? The guy's not the easiest person to get hold of. I'll get him tomorrow, I promise."

She had kind of slumped down onto her knees. "He blames himself," she said. "He blames himself for my death. But it wasn't his fault. You've got to tell him. Please."

Her voice cracked horribly on the word please. She was a wreck. I mean, I've seen some messed up ghosts in my time, but this one took the cake, let me tell you. I swear, it was like having Meryl Streep put on that big crying scene from Sophie’s Choice live on your bedroom carpet.

"Look, lady," I said. Soothing, I reminded myself. Soothing.

There isn't anything real soothing about calling somebody lady, though. So, remembering how Jesse had been kind of mad at me before for not getting her name, I went, "Hey. What's your name, anyway?"

Sniffling, she just went, "Please. You've got to tell him."

"I said I'd do it." Jeez, what'd she think I was running here? Some kind of amateur operation? "Give me a chance, will you? These things are kind of delicate, you know. I can't just go blurting it out. Do you want that?"

"Oh, God, no," she said, lifting a knuckle to her mouth, and chewing on it. "No, please."

"Okay, then. Chill out a little. Now tell me - "

But she was already gone.

A split second later, though, Jesse showed up. He was applauding softly as if he were at the theater.

"Now that," he said, putting his hands down, "was your finest performance yet. You seemed caring, yet disgusted."

I glared at him. "Don't you," I asked, grumpily, "have some chains you're supposed to be rattling somewhere?"

He sauntered over to my bed and sat down on it. I had to jerk my feet over to keep him from squashing them.

"Don't you," he countered, "have something you want to tell me?"

I shook my head. "No. It's two o'clock in the morning, Jesse. The only thing I've got on my mind right now is sleep. You remember sleep, right?"

Jesse ignored me. He does that a lot. "I had a visitor of my own not too long ago. I believe you know him. A Mr. Peter Simon."

"Oh," I said.

And then - I don't know why - I flopped back down and pulled a pillow over my head.

"I don't want to hear about it," I said, my voice muffled beneath the pillow.

The next thing I knew, the pillow had flown out of my hands - even though I'd been clenching it pretty tightly - and slammed down to the floor. As hard as a pillow can slam, anyway, which isn't very hard.

I lay where I was, blinking in the darkness. Jesse hadn't moved an inch. That's the thing about ghosts, see. They can move stuff - pretty much anything they want - without lifting a finger. They do it with their minds. It's pretty creepy.

"What?" I demanded, my voice squeakier than ever.

"I want to know why you told your father that there's a man living in your bedroom."

Jesse looked mad. For a ghost, he's actually pretty even tempered, so when he gets mad, it's really obvious. For one thing, things around him start shaking. For another, the scar in his right eyebrow turns white.

Things weren't shaking right then, but the scar was practically glowing in the dark.

"Uh," I said. "Actually, Jesse, there is a guy living in my bedroom, remember?"

"Yes, but - " Jesse got up off the bed and started pacing around. "But I'm not really living here."

"Well," I said. "Only because technically, Jesse, you're dead."

"I know that." Jesse ran a hand through his hair in a frustrated sort of way. Have I mentioned that Jesse has really nice hair? It's black and short and looks sort of crisp, if you know what I mean. "What I don't understand is why you told him about me. I didn't know it bothered you that much, my being here."

The truth is, it doesn't. Bother me, I mean. It used to, but that was before Jesse had saved my life a couple of times. After that, I sort of got over it.

Except it does bother me when he borrows my CDs and doesn't put them back in the right order when he's done with them.

"It doesn't," I said.

"It doesn't what?"

"It doesn't bother me that you live here." I winced. Poor choice of words. "Well, not that you live here, since … I mean, it doesn't bother me that you stay here. It's just that - "

"It's just that what?"

I said, all in a rush, before I could chicken out, "It's just that I can't help wondering why."

"Why what?"

"Why you've stayed here so long."

He just looked at me. Jesse has never told me anything about his death. He's never told me anything, really, about his life before his death, either. Jesse isn't what you'd call real communicative, even for a guy. I mean, if you take into consideration that he was born a hundred and fifty years before Oprah, and doesn't know squat about the advantages of sharing his feelings, how not keeping things bottled up inside is actually good for you, this sort of makes sense.

On the other hand, I couldn't help suspecting that Jesse was perfectly in touch with his emotions, and that he just didn't feel like letting me in on them. What little I had found out about him - like his full name, for instance - had been from an old book Doc had scrounged up on the history of northern California. I had never really had the guts to ask Jesse about it. You know, about how he was supposed to marry his cousin, who it turned out loved someone else, and how Jesse had mysteriously disappeared on the way to the wedding ceremony…

It's just not the kind of thing you can really bring up.

"Of course," I said, after a short silence, during which it became clear that Jesse wasn't going to tell me jack, "if you don't want to discuss it, that's okay. I would have hoped that we could have, you know, an open and honest relationship, but if that's too much to ask - "

"What about you, Susannah?" he fired back at me. "Have you been open and honest with me? I don't think so. Otherwise, why would your father come after me like he did?"

Shocked, I sat up a little straighter. "My dad came after you?"

Jesse said, sounding irritated, "Nom de Dios, Susannah, what did you expect him to do? What kind of father would he be if he didn't try to get rid of me?"

"Oh, my God," I said, completely mortified. "Jesse, I never said a word to him about you. I swear. He's the one who brought you up. I guess he's been spying on me, or something." This was a humiliating thing to have to admit. "So . . . what'd you do? When he came after you?"

Jesse shrugged. "What could I do? I tried to explain myself as best I could. After all, it's not as if my intentions are dishonorable."

Damn! Wait a minute, though - "You have intentions?"

I know it's pathetic, but at this point in my life, even hearing that the ghost of a guy might have intentions - even of the not dishonorable sort - was kind of cool. Well, what do you expect? I'm sixteen and no one's ever asked me out. Give me a break, okay?