else do you knowabout her? Well, I know sheâs wearing a gymnastics outfit. And that might be a clue.
So this time I google âhigh school gymnast dead,â and thatâs when it pops up. An article about the Milford High gymnastics team, who all died in a bus accident earlier this year. They were on their way to a meet in Connecticut when the bus driver lost control of the bus and it went sliding off the road. I really should have remembered that. I know it sounds morbid, but usually I keep up with all the dead people around town. I have to. Itâs, like, job training.
I quickly find the Milford High online yearbook and Google âJen.â Of course there are, like, three million of them. I look for a picture of the gymnastics team, but when I find one, itâs too small and I canât read the names or see the faces very well. Sigh. It looks like Iâm going to have to make a trip to the high school after school.
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I have to lie to my dad again about where Iâm going, but I canât really be blamed for that. I mean, what choice do I have? Itâs not like I can just say, âOh, hi, Dad. I have to go to the high school because I have to find some girl named Jen, and by the way did I ever mention I can still see ghosts? No? Oh, well, I can. Later!â
Luckily, the high schoolâs within walking distance, so I donât have to take the bus again. I play with the end of one of my braids as I walk over there and think about Brandon.His smile. The way his hair glints in the sunlight. Well. Not that Iâve ever really seen his hair glint in the sunlight. But it does look like the kind of hair that totally would.
When I get to the high school, there are groups of kids milling around on the sidewalk and the lawn, dressed in cheerleader uniforms and soccer shorts. Great. So basically now I have to find a girl named Jen while knowing nothing about her, including her last name or what she looks like.
âHey!â Daniella yells, popping up next to me. I scream and drop the notebook Iâm holding. A couple of girls sitting on a bench near me turn to stare. âOh my God,â Daniella says. âThis is my school! I remember it!â She looks at me in awe. âGod, this is so weird.â
âYeah,â I say grumpily, brushing my notebook off. âAny chance you also remember Jenâs last name?â
She shrugs. Yeah. I didnât think so.
âSo what are we doing here?â she asks. I fill her in on what I found out earlier, about her team and the accident. âWow,â she says, her eyes wild. âThatâs, like, so dramatic.â
She stays quiet as I plow through the crowd and into the school. Once Iâm inside, I follow the sound of sneakers squeaking, figuring that since Daniella was a gymnast, itâs a safe bet that I can learn something if I go to the gym. Thereâs a boysâ basketball team in there practicing, but I barge right in.
âWhat are you doing?â Daniella asks. âYou canât just goââ
âYoo-hoo!â I yell. âExcuse me!â
Daniella starts flipping out. âStop!â she shrieks. She tries to bat my hands, but she just goes floating right through me. Itâs kind of funny, actually. âStop! You canât just go around and yell at boysâ basketball practice!â
Actually, sheâs wrong. Completely wrong. Iâve been on enough of these spy missions to realize that you have to go in and start yelling and getting your hands dirty, otherwise youâll never get anything done. Also, itâs always better to talk to boys when you need information. Girls get way too suspicious and start asking all kinds of questions.
True to form, a guy wanders off the court toward me. Heâs all sweaty and wearing a basketball uniform. Gross.
âOh my God,â Daniella says. âI remember him! Thatâs Mitch Huntsman.