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doorknob and the chilly hinges.
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    Mom and Cousin Hepzibah were sitting at the kitchen table peeling potatoes. “Hi, sweetie. How was school?” asked Mom.
    â€œOkay,” I answered, as always. Even when things were bad, I never told Mom. But in fact, aside from Cole Farley’s unexpected visit on the bus that morning, my day had been pretty uneventful. Nobody bothered me at lunch, and I’d gotten a 93 on last week’s math quiz. It felt odd having such a normal day at school when everything at home was completely new and strange.
    â€œDo you have everything you need in your room?” asked Cousin Hepzibah.
    â€œYes, thanks . . . or, actually, where’s the vacuum cleaner? I want to try to get some of the dust out of the curtains.”
    â€œOurs is still packed,” said Mom. “Hepzibah, do you have one?”
    Cousin Hepzibah shook her head. “Not for years. It washard getting it up and down the stairs, so I didn’t replace it when it broke.”
    â€œI’ll unpack ours first thing tomorrow, then,” said Mom.
    â€œOh, that reminds me. . . .” I spotted the broom in the corner behind the door and brought it over to Cousin Hepzibah. “What’s the story with this?” I asked her. “Everybody kept wanting to buy it.”
    Cousin Hepzibah put down her potato and her knife and held out her hand. “Oh, my. This takes me back,” she said with a faraway smile. “Where did you find it?”
    â€œIn the attic. I was using it to sweep out the truck, and then at the flea market, people kept wanting to buy it. You wouldn’t sell it, would you?”
    â€œSell it? No, no. Not that broom. But of course it’s up to you. It’s yours now.”
    â€œMine?”
    â€œOh, yes. I’m far too old to be running around with a thing like that.” She smiled and put the broom back in my hand, closing my hand around the broomstick and patting it. “It’s time for you to have it.”
    â€œI . . . Thank you, Cousin Hepzibah.”
    â€œMost of the things here will be yours, sooner or later,” said Hepzibah.
    â€œMuch, much later, I hope,” said Mom.
    â€œI rather hope so too.” Cousin Hepzibah picked up her potato and started paring again, the peel falling away in one long, narrow, curving ribbon.
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    That night, the ghost in my room was Kitty. She threw herselfon my bed, sending up puffs of dust from the curtains. I know ghosts aren’t supposed to have bodies, and Kitty didn’t exactly—if you tried to hug her, your arms went right through her. But she could move things. She was particularly good with cold drafts and liquids; for weeks after that conversation about me living in a haunted house, Keisha kept shivering in the hallways and Ava Frank’s milk spilled all over her lunch, over and over. Kitty did worse things too, sometimes; I was pretty sure when Ava’s friend Ellie tripped and sprained her ankle after dropping my backpack in a slush puddle, it wasn’t an accident.
    One thing Kitty didn’t do, though, was talk. That was okay. I knew her well enough to understand her anyway.
    I was right: She had been listening to what Cole Farley said on the bus, and she didn’t like it one little bit. I could feel the anger coming off her in waves. It was like standing too close to a barbecue on a windy day.
    â€œI know he’s a jerk, Kitty, but please leave him alone,” I begged. “He’s already calling me spooky. If you mess with him, it’ll make things worse.”
    I could tell Kitty wouldn’t mind teaching Cole a lesson, or his friends, either, but she reluctantly agreed not to bother them—for now. There were other things worrying her. She didn’t think Mom should have left me alone at the flea market, and she didn’t think I should talk to strangers there,