November 1, 2016
1:09 p.m.

Oh my gosh, it's November!

This month I have decided to participate in NaNoWriMo--that means National Novel Writing Month. I am still trying to figure out how to properly use their web site.

I've actually been working on this book for awhile, but a lot of the work has been research. Now it's time to crunch out the words!

I was planning to release a small sampling yesterday, in time for Halloween, but life in the Shablo family intervened, and so the exerpt is late.

Before reading, here's what you need to know: the main character, Emma, discovered as a small child that she was able to see and speak to her deceased family members. Most came to her to reveal family history or to clear up misunderstandings. Sometimes they came just to help. When Emma was twelve, she was a lonely child with few friends, Suddenly, a couple of popular girls befriend her and invie her to a Halloween party. Her mother makes her a lovely gypsy costume, and she goes tp her first Junior High party.

     Jack dropped her off at Cherry’s house at seven that evening; the party was supposed to end at eleven, the latest Emma had ever been out.

     Cherry’s mother met her at the door, and greeted her by name. “Everyone is waiting for you!” she told Emma excitedly. She waved at Jack, who was sitting in the car, and closed the door.

     “Waiting for me? Why?” Emma asked.

     “Don’t be silly, dear! You know!”

     “I—I do?”

     The woman laughed merrily and led Emma to a door that opened to the stairway to the basement. “You look fabulous, dear! Down you go, now!”

     So Emma went down the stairs. Twenty-one faces stared up at her as she descended. She held her tambourine in one hand, her crystal ball in the other; she felt, for the first time, an actual moment of precognition: she’d been set up.

     Cherry and Candy advanced on her, smiling brightly. “At last!” Cherry cried.

     Candy added, “She’s here! Now we can begin!”

     “Begin…what?” Emma asked, dreading the answer.

     “Gypsy fortune teller, Emma!” Candy announced, and all the kids applauded. “Here’s your table, Emma,” she added, leading her to a small, round table covered with a dark cloth and laden with fortune-telling paraphernalia: a deck of tarot cards, a crystal ball, a pair of dice, feathers and rune stones.

     “What is this?” Emma demanded.

     “It’s your table,” Candy repeated. “You’re the fortune teller—tell our fortunes!”

     “I’m not a fortune teller,” Emma protested. “I’m a gypsy.”

     “That’s what gypsies do,” Cherry explained. “It’s okay, Emma,” she added. “We all came prepared to pay, if you want us to.”

     “Pay for what?”

     “Our fortunes!” Cherry pointed to the table. “We set it all up for you; it’s our theme!” Gesturing grandly she intoned: “‘Talk to the dead and learn your fortune!’” She smiled winningly. “We just knew you’d love it; you can show off your power!”

     “This is your theme?” Emma cried.

     “Sure!” Candy smirked knowingly. “You’re always talking to someone—at least you say you are--”

     “So how about a little proof?” Cherry added.

     “We’ve been watching you do it since first grade—“

     “So do it now, for us!”

     “It doesn’t work that way,” Emma cried.

     “Fortune tellers just call the spirits,” Candy said. “So do it. We want to ask them questions.”

     “It doesn’t work that way!” Emma repeated.

     “Just sit down, Emma!” Cherry whispered viciously. “You’re ruining the party!”

     “Cherry, I can’t call the spirits,” Emma argued.

     “See?” Candy spat. “I told you it was all a fake, Cherry!”

     “So you don’t talk to dead people?” Cherry demanded.

     “Yes, I do, but—“

     “Then do it! It’s a party, Emma; just do it.”

     “Cherry—“

     “She’s a fake, just like I told you,” Candy said. “I always said she was just talking to herself, trying to get attention.”

     “Attention is the last thing I want!” Emma protested.

     “Look, Emma,” Candy sneered menacingly. “We went to a lot of trouble to set this up. No one believes in your power, but we told them all you’re the real deal. So don’t mess it up!”

     “Is she ready yet?” a boy named Martin piped up. “I want to talk to my Grandpa.”

     Emma whispered frantically, “Why didn’t you ask me first? I could have told you! It doesn’t work that way!”

     “You said you had powers,” Candy accused.

     “I never said I had powers,” Emma shot back. “I talk to my family. My family.”

     “You’re going to do this,” Cherry told her.

     “Oh, no I’m not!”

     “Oh yes you are! Or we’re telling everyone you’re a big fat faker!”

     “So what? You’ve all been calling me that for years!” Emma retorted. “You think that’s a threat?”

     “If you are nothing but a faker, anyway,” Candy reasoned, “then just fake it now. Who’s gonna know the difference?”

     “I will!” Emma cried.

     “Told ya,” Candy said to Cherry. “I told you she’s a fake; I told you she’d wimp out.”

     “You should have told me,” Emma said. “If I’d known, we could have—“

     “Could have what? Figured out how to fake it better?” Candy sneered.

     “Figured out a better theme,” Emma muttered.  

     “You’re wrecking the party, Emma!” Cherry said. “Is that what you want? To ruin the best party of the year?”

     “No, but—“

     “Then just sit at this table and tell fortunes. What’s it gonna hurt?”

     “Cherry,” Emma growled through gritted teeth, “I have no idea how to tell a fortune. I don’t get a choice when spirits visit me; they come when they want to, not when I want them to.”

     “Just fake it like you always do,” Candy prodded.

     “I don’t fake it!” Emma cried. “And even if someone came, they don’t tell fortunes. They talk about the past.”

     “She’s a fake,” Candy declared firmly. “I knew it.”

     “Hey!” Martin hollered. “Are we gonna do this, or what?”

     “Shut up, Marty!” Cherry yelled. “We have to get ready.”

     “I’m not doing this,” Emma said.

     “Yes you are,” Candy replied. “I don’t care how you do it; you do it. That’s the whole reason we invited you.”

     “That’s why? To humiliate me?”

     “Big word, Emma!” Candy applauded sarcastically. “You even used it right! Mr. McKenzie would be so proud!” She poked a finger at Emma’s chest, and Emma jerked away. “No, stupid! We invited you for you! Everyone says you’re a fake; we were trying to help you. So you could prove once and for all you have powers.”

     “I don’t have powers,” Emma hissed. “I have a damned curse is what I have. And I don’t have to prove a thing—not to them, not to you, not to anyone!”

     “Of course you don’t,” Cherry agreed soothingly. “But we invited you to the best party of the year, Emma! Do it for us! We did it for you!”

     “Cherry, I can’t just—“

     “Just pretend. Fortunes are just a game, anyway, right?”

     “Just sit in the chair and pretend you see stuff in the crystal ball,” Candy cajoled.

     “Don’t ruin our party,” Cherry begged.

     “We did it for you,” Candy added.

     “The hell you did,” Emma spat. “You did it for yourselves! Either way, you’re not the ones who end up looking bad!” But she sat down. She sifted through the things on the table top and shoved the tarot cards aside. “I’m not touching this crap,” she added.

     “I have a Ouija board,” Cherry offered.

     “Don’t even think about it!” Emma shuddered. “You guys are going to hell,” she added, muttering.

     “What?” Candy demanded.

     “If you missed that bus, you’ll have to wait for the next one,” Emma declared dismissively.

     “What?”

     “Slow.” Emma shook her head contemptuously. “I’ll use the crystal.” She glared at the girls. “You better hope this all stays fake,” she warned, narrowing her eyes menacingly.

     “You don’t scare us,” Candy said; but she looked worried, suddenly. She glanced at Cherry, now not so sure of herself.

     Emma was furious; she wanted nothing more than to stomp up the stairs and call her parents for a ride home. There was also a part of her that was so hurt she wanted to curl up in a corner and cry. And the most vindictive part of her hoped that a ghost would show up—one who could bang on walls, rattle chains, moan dramatically and move things; one who could pull Candy’s and Cherry’s hair and make them scream; they deserved it!

     That wasn’t likely; ghosts, in her experience, just sort of stood or sat there and told you stories.

     Still…one could dream. And if they wanted a fortune—well, by God, she’d give them a show, at least. If that made them really believe she was nothing but a fake, all for the better. She knew she wouldn’t be hanging out with them after tonight, anyway.

     She put her own crystal ball in her lap; the one on the table had an elaborate stand, and in spite of herself, she liked it. She sat her tambourine on the table, near her left hand.

     She took a deep breath and let it out. She repeated the action. Then she frowned up at her former friends. “If you’ve got snacks and drinks, you better bring them. Fake or not, this requires a lot of energy.”

     Candy stared at her for a moment, and then darted off to the other side of the room. “Is it?” Cherry asked.

     “Is it what?” Emma countered.

     “Fake.”

     Emma stared at her, not blinking. “No,” she said. “Or…is it?” She raised her eyebrows inquiringly.

     “Emma, I—“

     “Shut up, Cherry.”

     Emma stared out into the room, a long recreation room decorated with small card tables covered with Halloween-themed cloths. A stereo was playing eerie music. In one corner there was a large tin tub; presumably, they’d be bobbing for apples at some point. In the other corner, a long table was set with a punch bowl and glasses, rows of caramel apples and popcorn balls, bowls of chips and dip and wrapped candies.

     Emma took another deep breath. “Martin?” she called. “I guess you’re first.”

     Cherry hurried off to help Candy.

     Emma had a plate heaped with pumpkin muffins, chips and dip. Candy had filled a goodie bag with candy, a caramel apple and a popcorn ball. Cherry brought her a steaming cup of apple cider.

     Emma sipped her cider and waved the girls away. They backed off and sat with their guests.

     All eyes were on Emma. She was terrified; she was trapped.

     Where’s a good ghost when you need one? 

     Martin sat across from her. He looked as nervous as she felt. “So,” he said. “You’re a fortune teller, huh?”

     “I’m a gypsy,” Emma said.

     “Candy says you can tell fortunes,” Martin told her testily. “Can you?”

     “I guess we’ll find out,” Emma muttered.

     “I really need to talk to my grandfather.”

     “Why?”

     “What do you mean, why?”

     “I mean, why, Martin? Ghosts do not just show up; there has to be a reason, and it has to be important.” Emma was flying by the seat of her pants, but this was something she knew for certain; if the reason wasn’t compelling—and not to the living, but to the spirit involved—they had nothing to say.

     “How do you know?” Martin demanded.

     “My great grandmother came to me in the middle of a school day to let me know that my grandmother—her daughter—needed help right away,” Emma told him. She’d never explained her abrupt departure from school during a snowstorm to any of her classmates before; Emma was not compelled to explain anything to anyone outside her own family. Martin was not one of the classmates who had been there, but several of them were here—Candy and Cherry, for two—and were hanging on her every word. “It turned out she had a heart attack,” Emma continued. “We went back to Idaho for over a month while she got well. But if my great-grandmother hadn’t come to me, she would have died, because she was home alone when it happened.”

     There came a sound of many gasps in the room, but Emma ignored it. “Do you think your grandfather has something important to tell you?” she asked. “Or do you just want to say hi and make him prove something to you? Ghosts aren’t interested in proving to anyone that they exist.”

     “But they said—“

     “I don’t care what they said! All I care about is your reason for being here. Why do you want to talk to your grandfather, Martin?”

     Martin stared down at his lap, muttering.

     “What?”

     “I said, because I miss him!” Martin cried, and his face told the story of someone still in the midst of grief.

     Emma nodded. “It hasn’t been long since he passed,” she observed. “Less than a month, I’d say.”

     Martin looked impressed. “That’s right!” he cried.

     Emma studied him; she could make some guesses, but she felt badly for him and didn’t want to make him feel worse. She forced herself not to glare at Candy and Cherry, and continued to make eye contact with Martin. He looked by turns grief-stricken, defiant and hopeful. Emma wanted to cry.

     “He wasn’t sick,” Emma said. It wasn’t a question; Martin exhibited all the signs of one who’d been completely taken by surprise by death.

     “No.” Martin agreed. “He was the healthiest guy I knew!”

     “I don’t think he’ll talk to me, Martin,” Emma said. “He has to come to terms with his death first.”

     “What do you mean?”

     “Well,” Emma said, “sometimes, when it’s sudden, ghosts don’t really know what happened to them…” Emma was thinking about a train crash and a ghost who had yet to visit her himself.

     Martin smirked; it seemed self-protective, really; it made Emma sadder for him. “Then why did your great-grandmother come to you?” he demanded.

     “It was different,” Emma replied thoughtfully. “She had cancer. She was really sick for a long time; she knew she was going; she was ready to go. Once she did, it was all better for her.” Emma sighed. “She came to tell me so; so I could tell my family. They needed to know she was better off.”

     “Maybe I need to know that, too!” Martin cried.

     “You already do know that,” Emma said.

     “No I don’t! He shouldn’t have—it wasn’t—damn it!” Martin had tears in his eyes, and Emma felt awful.

     “Accidents happen, Emma.”

     Emma looked up; her great-grandmother was there! Emma stared at her, hopeful for the first time that night. “What kind of accident was it?” she asked.

     “Tragic,” her great-grandmother said.

     “Stupid,” Martin said.

     “That’s helpful,” Emma muttered.

     “This is not a good idea, Emmaline.”

     “I know, Grandma.”

     “What—your grandma comes, but not my grandpa?” Martin cried.

     “Martin—“

     “Tell him to always check the safety.”

     “Grandma—“

     “Tell him!”

     “Martin. Martin!”

     “What?”

     “Always check the safety.”

     Martin’s mouth fell open. “How did you--?”

     “Tell him it was an accident.”

     “It was an accident, Martin.”

     “Tell him to stop blaming his friend.”

     “Stop blaming your friend.”

     Martin started to cry. “He’s not my friend!” he moaned.

     “His grandfather’s friend,” the great-grandmother clarified.

     “He was your grandfather’s friend. It was an accident. Stop blaming him.”

     “He—“

     “Stop it, Martin!” Emma knew she could take it from here; her great-grandmother was gone, at any rate. “He already blames himself so much that your blame can never hurt him. It was an accident!” Fully aware that every eye was on them, she leaned closer to Martin. He leaned in closer to her and she whispered, “If you don’t let this go—if you don’t forgive this man and go on—you’re the one who will suffer. Holding a grudge is hard work, and never worth it, Marty. Your grandpa has moved on; he doesn’t hold a grudge; he knows his friend would never have done it on purpose. He wants you to do the same.”

     “I don’t know if I can!” Martin sobbed. “I love my grandpa!”

     “I know you do. He knows it, too.” Emma put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “And to honor him, you need to let it go.”

     “I’ll try,” Martin whispered. He got up, turned away from everyone and ran up the stairs.

     Emma stood up and faced her seated peers, who were staring at her with a mixture of awe and fear. She pointed at Candy and Cherry. “You!” she cried. “I hate you guys.”

     “But you did it!” Cherry argued. “You—“

     “She’s a witch!” one of the girls gasped. It was Muriel, one of the kids Emma had known since first grade.

     “Shut up, Muriel!” This came from a new girl, one Emma hadn’t met previously.

     Emma continued. “This was all your doing! Do you think that was fun for him?” She pointed at the stairway. “He’s suffered a loss, and you made a game of his pain!”

     “Who’s next?” a boy Emma didn’t know asked, oblivious.

     “No one’s next!” Emma shouted, furious. “I never should have done this in the first place!”

     “But, Emma!” Candy cried. “The party’s just getting started!”

     Emma stared at her, jaw slack. “Are…you…crazy?” she demanded. “Or just stupid?”

     “Hey!”

     “I’m not doing this,” Emma declared emphatically.

     “Yes, you are!” Cherry argued. “We’ll tell the whole school what a fake you are!”

     A few of the other kids nodded, and Emma heard several say “Yeah, we will,” and “Just wait and see,” but she didn’t care. She snatched up her crystal ball and her tambourine and stalked toward the stairs.

     “Get back here!” Candy cried. “You’re spoiling all the fun!”

     Emma whirled around and glared at her, furious. “If you think using me to make a game of someone’s grief is fun, Candy, you’re one sick puppy.”

     “I didn’t know—“

     “You knew enough!” Emma spat. She shook her head, filled with contempt. “You should have known better!” She started up the stairs. She was startled to find the new girl right next to her. “What?” she cried. “What do you want?”

     “I’m going with you,” the girl said. “I don’t want any part of this!

Or any of that…that…mess!” She opened the door at the top of the stairs.

     Cherry’s mother stood there, looking distraught as Martin sobbed on the phone. “What did you do to him?” she demanded when she saw Emma.

     “Ask your kid,” Emma snapped. She regretted her rudeness immediately, but offered no apology.

     Martin hung up the phone. “She didn’t do anything, ma’am,” he sniffed. To Emma he said, “My dad’s coming.” He shuffled his feet, and his face reddened. “Do you want a ride home?”

     Emma nodded, surprised. “Yes, please,” she replied.

     “We’ll take you, too, Sasha,” Martin offered.

     The new girl smiled. “Thanks, Marty.” She turned and offered Cherry’s mother her hand. “Thank you for having us,” she said.

     The woman, caught off guard, shook hands with her. “Wait,” she told them. “I’ll get your treats!”

     “That’s not—“

     She darted down the stairs.

     “—necessary,” Emma finished weakly.

     “We’ll be right outside,” Sasha called to the woman, and the three of them went out the front door. “Whew!” Sasha added. “That was—“

     “Hell on earth,” Emma said.

     “Good enough,” Sasha agreed. “Are you okay, Marty?”

     “I’m sorry, Emma,” Martin said. “I didn’t know…”

     “I’m the one who’s sorry,” Emma sighed. “I never should have let them talk me into that.”

     “Guilt you into it, more like,” Sasha said disdainfully. “I heard them; they went behind your back and then made you feel responsible for the success or failure of their ‘great’” (she mimed air quotation marks) “party. Hmph!”

     “And I just made things worse,” Martin added, “because I really wanted to talk to my grandpa.”

     Emma shrugged. “Everyone has someone they want to talk to,” she said. “But—“

     The door banged open. “Here are your bags!” Cherry’s mother thrust goodie-bags at them. The kids took them from her awkwardly. They were stuffed with muffins, candies, caramel apples and popcorn balls. The woman looked flushed and harried. “Enjoy! Thanks for coming!” And she slammed the door.

     The trio looked at each other, and wandered away from the porch to the sidewalk. “Well,” Sasha said. “I’m thinking things might not be too pleasant in there.” She nodded toward the house, eyebrows raised dramatically.

     “Wish you were a fly on the wall?” Martin asked.

     Emma toed the sidewalk. “Not really,” she said. “The rumors will be flying on Monday. I can wait til then to find out what a fake and phony I am.”

     Sasha shook her head. “You’re not,” she said.

     “No,” Martin agreed emphatically.

     “You wait,” Emma told them. “There are a lot of kids in there. They’ll find a way to make this my fault.”

     “Emma—“

     “You’ll see.”

     Martin’s father pulled up next to them then, and they all climbed into the car. “Party’s a bust?” he asked.

     “And how,” Martin agreed. He proceeded to tell his dad the whole story.

     Stopping for a traffic light, Martin’s father turned to look at Emma. “Well, well,” he said. “I know your dad; he never told me you were so special.”

     “I’m not,” Emma muttered.

     “Don’t worry.” The light turned green and they moved on. “Being special just means you understand the hurts of others well enough to be helpful.”

     “Wow,” Sasha breathed. “That’s profound.”

     “Your grandpa was a wonderful guy,” he told Martin. “He raised your mom right; that’s how she’s managed to be so great to us. Right?”

     “Yes,” Martin agreed.

     “Your friend is right; he would never want you holding on to this. Let it go, son. His friend needs to let it go, too, but so far he’s not listening to us. Maybe…”

     “I’ll call him tomorrow,” Martin said.

     Emma started to cry. “Accidents happen,” she whispered.

     “Yes,” Sasha agreed. “Yes, they do.” She put her arms around Emma and patted her awkwardly.

     True friendships really can be formed in an instant. The three of them formed their own circle that lasted throughout their school years. Emma had never since longed for a greater circle of friends; she had learned that if you have one or two who accept you and believe in you, it’s really all you need.

    So there's your Halloween treat. I hope you like it. Please let me know.

     Happy (late) Halloween.

     Bye bye.