The only thing worse than being sixteen and smarter than everyone she knew, Jeanne reflected, would be being sixteen and as dumb as everyone else. That or, maybe, being called Jane. At least her mother had relented and had begun calling her Jeanne as she'd been christened. Now, if she could only persuade her stupid brother - a possibility which she consider roughly on par with watching pigs fly.

"Of course," she mused, "there's always recombinant DNA ... but retroactively? Besides, birds are bad enough." Jeanne shook her head, overwhelmed by the follies of mankind in general and her relatives and classmates in specific.

"So, smart girl," she addressed herself, "if you're so brainy ... what on earth are you doing at the mall and on a Sunday morning to boot? You wish you knew, right?" The problem was simple: she knew she needed to be there ... but she didn't have the vaguest idea why.

This wasn't something entirely new. Jeanne was used to knowing things without knowing how or why she knew ... but this was, definitely, stranger than usual.

When she was young - Jeanne wasn't certain exactly when it had started - and anyone had wondered where something was, she'd always been ready to point to the location ... and she'd always been right. Fortunately - or maybe otherwise - her parents had never paid much attention to their daughter's ability. Perhaps it had been that they rarely lost things or, when they did, they simply looked for them instead of asking.

Her older brother, however, was a different situation. Not only was he always losing things but, when Jeanne would tell him where he'd mislaid whatever it might happen to be, instead of gratitude or even simple acceptance, he treated her as a snoop.

Her talent had made her unpopular in other ways as well. Games such as hide-the-thimble or hide-and-seek were no challenge at all. If there was an Easter egg hunt, only her size prevented her from being the automatic champion. At birthday parties and at Christmas, she never missed the piņata. In short, until she learned the subtle art of dissembling, Jeanne was a thoroughly unpopular young lady.

Like most children who are too 'different', Jeanne learned to conceal both her ability and her intelligence. But, if she concealed her talents, she did not fail to use them. Instead, she was simply careful about when, what and how much she allowed to show.

And, as she grew older, both her talent and her intelligence had grown. In school, if she had wanted, she could have easily 'aced' multiple choice tests by the simple expedient of knowing which were the correct answers. Except that that would have been too easy.

The alternative - using her intelligence to decipher the questions and calculate the probable answers - was almost as accurate but offered more challenge. Besides, as she had learned early, knowing too many answers was dangerous. This way, she could depend on having enough wrong answers - usually - to avoid appearing too smart.

All of which did little - or nothing - to tell her why she was here at the mall. She'd been feeling - well, call it restlessness - for several days. This morning, the feeling had been stronger than before so she decided to see if a 'casting' - her term for something which she really couldn't put into words - would suggest anything.

Even if she couldn't explain what she did ... or how ... experience had taught her that vague objectives produced vague results and the better idea she had of what she was looking for, the better the results. For example, if she wanted to know where a friend was, as soon as she phrased the thought, she would have the answer - in general, as an image of the surroundings and a feeling for the approximate location ... or, at the very least, the relative direction.

On the other hand, if she wanted to know who else might be somewhere, well, the only way to find this out was to check the location of possible companions. If the locations matched, then she would know they were together. The results weren't infallible - locations could be easily confused - but, most of the time, she simply knew.

This morning, Jeanne's 'question' had been more general - where could she find an answer to what was bothering her. She'd half expected an image of the medicine cabinet in the bathroom ... or a shelf at the drug store ... figuring that this 'feeling' was simply part of puberty - after all, a lot of her friends complained of strange feelings and moods ... and they certainly acted weirdly enough.

Instead, her answer had been an image of the mall fountain.

She wasn't sure why - and it didn't matter - but he last thing Jeanne wanted today was to meet up with her 'friends' - and the odds were good, even without 'casting', that more than one or two of them would be at the mall.

Therefore, Jeanne's vantage point was on the upper level - between a 'Great Ladies' dress shop and a 'Big and Tall' shop selling men's suits. It was not a section of the mall where she would expect her friends to appear but it was a location where she could keep an eye on the fountain ... and this was where she spotted the kid - The Kid Who Stood Next To Himself. The capitals seemed to attach themselves to the phrase.

Walking past the fountain, The Kid Who Stood Next To Himself was dressed in bluejeans and a loose jacket and carrying a backpack - not particularly different from a hundred other kids - except that, to Jeanne, there were two of him. One of him appeared perfectly normal while the other was like a shadow or a haze - kind of like the image on a portable television with poor reception where everything appears twice, once clearly and once faint.

Except, Jeanne realized, the analogy was not precise. The fainter figure didn't quite match the clearer one, sometimes it even seemed to move away as if quite independent. Other times, the two figures virtually blended into one but without losing their separate identities.

Jeanne remained at her vantage point on the upper level, following the enigmatic pair as they wandered along the lower floor of the mall. He/They were headed for the East Pavilion, she decided (the sections of the mall had undoubtedly been named by a developer with delusions of grandeur) - probably the food court. Well, now that she'd seen him/them, she could certainly find them again. Jeanne stretched herself and walked past two storefronts before stepping into the third - an earring and costume jewelry shop where the clerk was a friend of Jeanne's mother.

"Hey, 'need a shortcut," Jeanne winked. "Okay if I slip out the back?"

"Are you chasing boys or running from them?" The woman smiled and waved toward the back.

"Weeell, he is kinda cute," Jeanne grinned, totally misleadingly.

"Have fun," the woman smiled. "I guess you're only young once."

"Right," Jeanne disappeared through the rear door, into the service corridor, before adding to herself, "'Least I sure hope so."

Where the mall was designed to slow shoppers, giving them a chance to see shops and storefront displays, the service corridors were stark, bare and efficient and, for Jeanne's purpose, the fastest and simplest way down to the food court.

* * *

Entering the food court through a service entrance, Jeanne had little difficulty locating her quarry - The Boy Who Stood Next To Himself was walking away from the Athenian Palace with a plate of something on a skewer - Rat on a Stick, Jeanne identified it to herself - a small dish of rough, rounded green things - Dog Droppings, Jeanne named them - and a foam plastic bowl partially filled with a thick, off-white liquid. This last item fazed even Jeanne's imagination and irreverence. The pita bread was the only item Jeanne was willing to even consider might be eatable.

"Even weirder than I thought," Jeanne remarked to herself while ordering a root-beer from the pizza vendor. With the drink for protective camouflage, she took a table with a view of her quarry, wondering if he was actually going to eat the stuff or what.

Unaware of his audience, Jeremy happily dug in. The souvlaki was a bit tough, rather mild, and definitely needed salt but hunger added its own spice. The dolmas - rice and spices wrapped in grape leaves, then marinated in oil and vinegar - needed more than hunger to make them good but Jeremy ate them anyway, wondering why such a simple dish was so badly prepared. The pita bread and tahini sauce - a blend of ground sesame, spices and yogurt - was delicious, as good as any Jeremy could remember. Finishing, Jeremy closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the snap of awnings at the souk, the cries of the vendors and the odors of camels, spices and charcoal braziers.

A wave of nostalgia washed through the boy, a feeling of homesickness for an adobe hut where the voices spoke a different tongue and where the world had been a simpler but fascinating place. For a moment, he almost thought that he could open his eyes and ...

"I want to talk to you, okay? Both of you." A girl's voice interrupted Jeremy's reverie.

Jeremy jumped as if he'd been goosed with a zap gun ... as did Danny, for that matter, although less visibly. "Wha'd you mean?" Jeremy gulped. "Both of me?"

"Look," Jeanne planted fists on her hips, "I see a kid standing next to himself, I get curious. Okay?"

"You ... you can see ..."

"I'm not blind." Jeanne peered closer. "Well, twins you aren't ... but strange you are ... least one of you is. What's the gig?" Jeanne circled the pair like a cat thinking about pouncing on a leaf.

"Uh, that's kind of a long story." Jeremy hesitated, then asked. "Hey, how come you can see Danny when I can't."

"Damn," Danny interjected. "I didn't think anyone could ... 'ceptin' cats."

"How come you can't? Huh? You knew he was there - I've seen you talking to him. Hey, how come ... You mean you can hear 'im but can't see 'im and I can see 'im but can't hear him? Bummer."

"Course I can hear 'im. How else would we talk? You really can't?"

"Oh, man, what is this? A formal introduction's required? Wouldn't Ms Manners love it!"

"Who's Ms Manners," Danny addressed her, then added, "Hey, homegirl, you keep you mouth shut about this, okay."

"Wow, hey, now I hear you."

"Well, so do I," Jeremy answered, then turned to Danny. "But I still can't see you."

"So how come I couldn't hear you before," Jeanne looked square at Danny.

"Maybe I wasn't talking to you," Danny snapped. "What's it to you, anyhow? Nobody 'vited you to butt in, no how."

"Well, excu-u-u-use me," she imitated, turning away. "I'm sure I'll just run along. I hope you two'll be very happy together."

"Hold on," Jeremy hastened. "Chill out, Danny. If you don't wanta talk to her, don't. Okay. But I've got a couple of questions. Like how come she can see you and I can't. Hey, what's Danny look like, anyway?"

Jeanne turned back to face the pair, then crossed one arm with the other raised to support her chin. "Kind of like a kid who isn't there," she judged. "Shorter 'n you, fuzzy hair, jeans, one of those homeboy shirts - you know, the checkerboard kind. Say, what ever your name is, you black?"

"What's it look like," Danny snapped. "Purple? I sure ain't no honky like you."

"Sorry," Jeanne apologized, "didn't mean to step on your toes but, like, you know, I can't really tell. You aren't exactly in color, you know? Er, any color ..."

"Long as I ain't whitey," Danny accepted her explanation. "Sorry, guess I can't see me too good either." He paused, then concluded, "least I'm a black spook." A short giggle was chopped off in mid tone.

"Hey, how 'bout we find a quieter spot" Jeremy looked around the food court. "Uh, aren't we kind of conspicuous standing here? "

"What's to see?" Jeanne asked. "You and me talking? If nobody else can see your friend and nobody can hear him ... huh? Still, you might be right." Jeanne turned away. "Come on, I know a place we can talk." She stalked toward the same service entrance she'd used earlier, then paused. "Unless, of course, you're stoned or into something wierd."

"Hey," Jeremy recovered, "what's weirder than walking around with a ghost?"

Jeanne's cool faltered momentarily before she responded. "Ri-i-i-ight ...!" She drew the word out before bursting in gasping laughter, both Jeremy and Danny joining her a split second later.

A minute later, as the service corridor neared an external exit and the trio began to recover a degree of control, Danny added, "You want weird, homegirl? What about being a spook ..."

* * *

For Jeremy, the rest of the morning and first part of the afternoon were an exercise in mixed relief and frustration. The fact that someone besides himself could hear Danny was relief - removing the last nagging vestige of doubt from Jeremy's mind. The fact that Jeanne could see Danny - even though Jeremy couldn't - was frustrating ... but was also encouraging.

On the other side of the coin, Jeremy was frustrated - jealous, if you prefer - at the idea of sharing Danny with someone else. At one point - after slipping back inside the mall to use a restroom and returning to find Jeanne and Danny still in the midst of a conversation, quite as if he had never left ... or never been there - Jeremy almost thought about simply leaving. After all, Jeremy reminded himself, he hadn't asked Danny to come along ... as a matter of fact, he hadn't asked Danny to do anything ... it was Danny who had been tagging along for his own reasons.

On the ... ah, third side of the coin? Could you count the edge for that purpose? Anyway, Jeanne was asking questions that hadn't occurred to Jeremy ... and the answers were fascinating.

"'Course there are other ghosts," Danny was explaining. "Just ... I don' know ... they don' seem to remember much. Last night, I met this dude who thinks it's way back - somethin' 'bout it bein' th' '40s an' there's a war goin' on. I don' know why."

"Hey, wait a minute," Jeremy jumped back into the conversation. "There must be ... uh ... thousands of ghosts ... maybe millions ... I mean, if everyone who dies ..."

"Uh, he's right, Danny," Jeanne agreed. "What about it? You're the only ghost I've ever seen."

"That's one more than me," Jeremy agreed sourly.

"Don' know," there was a shrug in Danny's voice. "Ma'be we get recycled or som'thin' ... How would that be. Y'know, like plastic bottles? Hey, think I could be a rich honky next time? Or look like Shaq?"

"Shine on, homeboy," Jeanne laughed. "Hey, dude. What you think? They ask the pop bottles if they want to be recycled as toy airplanes or as trash bags? Hey, seriously? You mean there aren't any scads of ghosts running around?"

"A few ... " Danny considered. "Uh, like I see more street folk than ghosts - lot more."

"Uh, maybe you can't see all of them," Jeremy suggested. "After all, I can't see you. Matter of fact, Jeanne's the only one who can see you. I mean, I know when you're there but I can't see you but I don't know if any other ghosts are there ... or aren't there ..."

"I think that's what's called a moot point," Jeanne pontificated. "If you can't see it ... or prove it ... then you might as well figure it isn't there."

"Well, maybe," Jeremy considered. "Except that you can see Danny. And we're both talking to him. And ..." He broke off, unwilling to mention another 'unprovable'.

"And some questions cause more questions than answers?" Jeanne wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. "I just don't know. Uh, Danny ... ? Danny ... ?"

"Uh, yeah, what."

"I ... you seemed awfully quiet."

"Uh, it's like I ... like I felt, uh, funny talking 'bout ... 'bout bein' recycled."

"Funny how," Jeremy prompted.

"Cold, kin'a ... 'cept I ... I don' feel things like ... like I did 'fore."

"You mean ... before you were killed?"

"Uh, yeah. I mean, shouldn' I feel mad 'cause th' Flash Boys did a hit on me? An' I ain't got no jones now. An' I hadn' been hungry or hot or cold or nothin' ... 'septin' just now."

The two mortals sat, considering. Finally, it was Jeremy who broke the silence. "Why ... why are you hanging around me, anyway. I mean, it's not like I mind. You're a nice friend even if you're ... ah ... well, different. It's just, well, why?"

No one spoke for a long minute. "Hey, bro. Y' won' get mad?"

"No," Jeremy promised. "Least wise, I'll try not to."

"Uh, well, uh ... you smelled good ..."

"Hey, wait a minute," Jeanne jumped on the words. "You mean that you can smell Jeremy?"

"Uh, not 'xactly ... but I don' know what t' call it."

"You mean you don't know the words?" Jeremy responded, startled.

"There aren't any words for it?" Jeanne's question stepped on Jeremy's.

In several ways, the discovery of a shared problem was like a glue for the trio. Each of them, for varying lengths of time, had been faced with the same frustration - that there were no words to describe something ... something very important ... which was central to their personal worlds.

Part of the problem - the three agreed - was that there weren't even words to describe the problem.

Danny - since his limitations had broached the problem - was faced with being quite unable to explain why he had sought Jeremy out in the first place, or how he had found him or why he felt - which was also the wrong word - better staying with Jeremy than being away from him.

Jeanne, in turn, couldn't explain how she was able to 'cast' things ... or even exactly how she knew where something was or even how she 'saw' Danny. Nor, for that matter, how either of them could hear him ... and him them.

Finally, Jeremy tried to explain what he had done - about how things 'changed' when he ... something.

While Jeanne was feeling less than totally skeptical - after all, how many days does one meet a ghost - Jeremy's claims were the only ones which produced any immediate, physical evidence. Thus, since Jeremy's talents could be demonstrated, Jeanne echoed the proverbial Missourian's demand, "Show me."

With some hesitation - the circumstances were less than suitable for starting a fire and, somehow, the boy suspected that Jeanne might be more irritated than impressed if her clothes disappeared - Jeremy suggested that they might find a better location than the lawn outside the mall.

"All right," Jeanne agreed. "Say, where are you staying? Relatives?"

"Uh, no place," Jeremy admitted.

"Hmmm," Jeanne considered. "You need a place to stay ... and a place where we can talk ... and where you can show me what you do ... Okay, come on."

"What do you mean?" Jeremy asked.

"I 'cast' for a place. It's this way." The girl started walking.

* * *

The location Jeanne 'cast' was some distance from the mall but not too far to walk. Thus, in a relatively brief time, the two mortals and the ghost found themselves in an older section of the city. Signs on the buildings suggested small manufacturing firms, an import company and a variety of repair shops dealing in electric motors, hydraulic equipment and industrial instruments. One building - according to the sign - specialized in 'industrial frictions' ... whatever those were.

Jeanne led the way down an alley to the rear of what looked like a warehouse but did not appear to be in very active use. In front, weeds grew from cracks in the pavement and the corners of the doors held wind-blown litter.

Around back, the air of general decrepitude was not improved. A stack of oil drums filled part of the available space while a collection of packing crates occupied much of what was left. A single metal door broke the otherwise solid expanse of the rear wall.

Jeanne looked at the crates with an appraising eye. "Not exactly the Presidential Suite," she suggested, "but I guess it's shelter. Funny, I was expecting better."

"What's wrong with the building? We could take a look around," Jeremy suggested.

"It's locked," Jeanne reminded him. "Didn't you see the padlocks?"

"Hey, hold on, bros" Danny interrupted. "Guess bein' a ghost has somethin' goin' for it. Stick tight while I look."

A moment later, Danny was back. "Hey, bro - got a really great pad inside. Upstairs, couch, all kinds a' stuff."

"It's still locked," Jeanne pointed out. "Unless you can walk though walls like Danny ... uh, you did walk, didn't you?"

"Uh, not 'xactly," Danny admitted, then fell silent for lack of an appropriate vocabulary.

Jeremy approached the door, examining the lock and the hasp mechanism. The hasp and staple were heavy, galvanized steel with the staple attached to the door frame while the hasp, folded like an L, covered both the staple and its own hinged attachment to the door. Jeremy looked at the mechanism for a moment, then took the padlock and pulled gently.

A soft, almost inaudible whirr accompanied the heavy screws as they rotated smoothly, withdrawing from the metal frame, leaving the lock and staple hanging from the hasp, screws protruding from the back of the staple's plate..

"Neat," Jeanne commented. "Telekinesis?"

"Huh," Jeremy looked surprised. "You mean ... uh, like in the comic books?"

"Something like that."

"I don't think so," Jeremy considered. "It'd be nice ..." he grinned at the thought. "Naw, I, uh, well, once the screws were slippery enough, they just turned when I pulled. Y'know - like an Archimedian screw in reverse?"

"What's an ark median," Danny queried.

"He just means the screw threads," Jeanne attempted an explanation. "Except, instead of turning the screw - like a gear - to make something happen ... uh ... look, I don't know how to explain ... I'll show you later, okay? There's a great gizmo over at the Nature Store that shows how they work. We'll go there later."

"What you did was kind of like ... uh ... when I first came looking for you," Danny suggested. "'Cept it didn' ...ah ... taste ... quite the same. Was it?"

"Yeah, kind of," Jeremy agreed. "I'm not sure how ... yeah, it's kind of the same ... just not so much so."

"Just a minute," Jeanne interrupted. "Danny, can you - uh - feel what Jeremy's doing?"

"Kin'a," the ghost admitted. "Hey, you've got th' door open - come on in. Le'me show you."

Danny took the lead, walking - or, at least, moving - though the door without waiting. Jeanne pushed the door open and followed with Jeremy bringing up the rear.

Inside, the warehouse was musty and badly lit. Fiberglass sections in the roof admitted some light but, in contrast to the bright southern California sun outside, the interior was dim and wan.

Most of the interior was empty. To the left of the door, a stack of cardboard cartons leaned against the rear wall. A couple of open barrels held waste paper, empty beer cans and a dusty pizza box. Further in, toward the center of the expanse, a stripped truck chassis leaned drunkenly, the right front wheel supported by cinderblocks while the left rear - sans tire or wheel - rested on the floor, Various parts removed from the vehicle lay scattered and ignored.

Toward the front, inside the huge sliding doors, a couple of wooden palettes completed the furnishings.

"Just like home," Jeanne commented, sarcastically.

"Not down here," Danny directed. "Upstairs."

On the other side of the cardboard boxes, a wooden stair did lead upwards, opening into a small office where, inside, a broad window looked out over the empty warehouse. Between the window and several fiberglass panels in the roof, the office was better lit than the warehouse as a whole but was still dim and gloomy. A few shelves, an overstuffed sofa in dark naugahyde, an office chair and a littered desk completed the furnishings.

A door opposite the stairs opened into a small bathroom where a dripping faucet announced that water, at least, was available. While the light switch clicked without result, the toilet flushed hollowly.

"It's not a total washout," Jeremy admitted.

"Could use a bit of work," Jeanne agreed. "Electricity would help ... hey, wasn't there a fuse box ..."

"By the door," Jeremy agreed. "Worth a try." Jeremy led the way back down.

Down below, the misnamed fuse box held a bank of breakers ... all of which were switched to 'Off'. Jeremy peered at the labels inside the cover, trying to read through the grime and smudges.

"Just try them," Jeanne reached across, flipping three of the breakers. Lights along the left side of the warehouse came to life along with a loud chugging from an overlooked air compressor.

"Well, try some more." She flipped the first ones back to off, then turned on all the remaining switches. The rest of the overhead lights came to life.

Jeremy looked up the stairs - the office remained dark.

"I guess not," Jeanne shrugged.

"Could be turned off upstairs," Jeremy suggested. "Or could be burnt out."

"That's possible ... okay, I'll go up and try." She climbed the stairs back to the office and clicked the switch inside the door several times. Nothing happened. "Hey, wait a minute," she remembered. "Try the first three ... no, the first one," she corrected herself.

Jeremy flipped all the switches back to 'Off', then switched the one Jeanne had tried first.

Another click from upstairs and the office was illuminated. "Bingo," the girl shouted, then, a moment later, "Look back in the corner where the noise was. Should be a broom there. Let's clean up this mess."

She was correct, the same corner where the air compressor sat produced a rather tattered broom as well as a mop which looked dirtier than the floor. Leaving the mop where it lay, Jeremy carried the broom upstairs.

"Well ... it is a broom," Jeanne admitted, looking at the scraggly bristles. "But I don't think it's going to do much good." She made a few tentative strokes with the tool, then shook her head in disgust. The decrepit broom was shedding bristles faster than it was moving the trash.

"Hey, wait a minute," Jeremy was struck by a thought. "We were looking for a place where I could show you ... Well, this is it. Watch ..." Jeremy moved to the desk and looked at the mess of papers, coffee cups and junk.

An instant later, the debris vanished, replaced by a brief breeze and a feeling of humid warmth. The desktop, if not spotless, was as clean as if it had been polished. Jeremy grinned, then walked to the couch and stared at the worn plastic fabric for a long moment.

Another soft breeze and the couch was cleaner than it had been in years. The fabric was still worn but at least it looked like something you might sit on, instead of someplace to toss trash. Jeremy moved through the room, repeating the performance until the floor and shelves were cleared, then continued in the bathroom.

"I'm impressed," Jeanne admitted. "You'd make a great housekeeper."

Jeremy looked around, regretting that there wasn't anything left. Something to throw would be totally appropriate right then.

Then Jeanne moved to the couch, lifting the cushions and laying them upside down on the floor. "You might finish the job with these," she suggested. "Then I'll help you move the couch - I think you missed a few spots."

Jeremy looked at the girl for a long moment.

"Hey, I'm sorry," she broke the silence. "Look ... hell ... I'm impressed, okay? Except that it's kind of scary too. I mean, a ghost isn't enough ... but you ..." She backed away until the couch caught her knees and made her sit heavily. "You ... you make things disappear ... and I believe it all ... and ..." She buried her head in her hands, sobbing. Her tri-color cock's comb bounced like a small boat caught by waves.

"Uh, hey, relax," Jeremy felt confused, not sure how he should respond.

"Hey, homegirl," Danny spoke up. "Come on. Wha' you 'spect anyhow? You got nothin' t' cry 'bout, homegirl. I's t' one that's dead."

"Beside," Jeremy reminded her, "I can't finish cleaning if you're sitting on it."

"Why not," she challenged, raising her head, tears streaking her cheeks. "You didn't have to see the screws ..."

"Uh, yeah, but if I missed ... uh, I mean ..."

Jeanne stared at the boy's reddening face, then collapsed again ... but this time with laughter. "Thanks," she gasped. "I think I needed that ..."

"Homegirl," Danny commented. "You one wierd chika."

* * *

Once the trio quit laughing, only an instant was needed for Jeremy's talents to finish cleaning the couch and floor - without moving the couch.

Jeanne's subsequent suggestion - that the walls could use paint - was greeted by derisive hoots from both boys.

"How about some food?" was Jeremy's counter-suggestion to which Jeanne agreed - with the provision that it was something real and not that wierd stuff she'd watched him eating earlier.

Danny, of course, wasn't interested and, while they ate, decided he'd go look in on his old neighborhood. "Wonder if'n they've buried me yet," he explained, then vanished.

On the way out, Jeremy 'repaired' the lock as easily as he'd removed it - except, of course, that the staple wasn't quite as firm as it had been. "Pity," he commented, "that I can't do that while I'm inside. Suppose somebody checks on the place?" Still, the lock appeared firm and the screws - if anyone tried - would now prove almost impossible to turn.

What none of the trio had noted that the lock was much newer than the hasp and staple. Or, if they had, perhaps they thought nothing particular of the fact.

* * *

Jeanne's idea of 'real' was a deli where she could get a submarine sandwich. Jeremy, glancing at the sign - 'Bangkok Deli' - grinned broadly as he followed.

Inside, Jeremy waited politely while the girl ordered. Then, as the owner turned a querying gaze to the young man, Jeremy waai'd - bowed - respectfully, happily greeting the older man in fluent Thai before requesting lop gai - a spicy chicken salad - and more Rat-On-A-Stick - this time calling it sate moo ... and asking that both be 'extra spicy' - all in a smoothly inflected northern-Thai accent.

The delicatessen owner, grinning like a Cheshire cat, responded in kind, busying himself behind the counter while exchanging pleasantries with the young man, treating the visitor far more with the respect due an honored guest than a mere customer.

* * *

Finally, when both orders graced the table - together with tall glasses of the dark and milky beverage which the Thai's call tea - Jeanne found the aromas enticing and, grudgingly, admitted that it did look less strange than the names suggested.

"So try some," Jeremy urged. "Worst that could happen is you might like it."

"Why not," the girl finally shrugged. "Things can't get any stranger than they are already."

The chicken met with instant rejection - "That would make a Chicano scream," Jeanne commented, after emptying half her tea and regaining her breath.

The Rat-On-A-Stick - which was strips of grilled pork - met with greater favor, particularly after Jeanne tasted the peanut sauce. The accompanying peppers and cucumbers, however, met with a flat refusal. "If you eat that," she predicted, "I'll have two ghosts on my hands."

She was wrong, of course. Contrary to her assertions, Jeremy finished his meal without turning red or purple or puffing smoke from his ears or showing anything except contentment and satisfaction. In actual fact, the only real effect of the spices was that Jeanne left her own sandwich half finished.

"You know," Jeanne offered thoughtfully. "It does get cold here at night. I don't suppose you have blankets or anything in that backpack, do you? Those chilis may be hot now but they won't keep you warm tonight."

Jeremy shrugged, scooping up the last of the rice and lop gai.

"Okay, here's my plan," she declared. "You go back to the warehouse and wait and I'll meet you there in about an hour. I can get Biff to drive me ... Anyway, I'll bring you a sleeping bag and some stuff so you can camp out there. Okay?"

Jeremy shrugged agreement.

"Fine then. Tomorrow, I'll borrow a car and drive you over to this office and you can convince that idiot to call your father. Sound good?"

"Uh, sure," Jeremy swallowed, then cleared his throat. "Uh, look, you don't have to. Besides, don't you have to be in school?"

"This is more fun," she declared. "Besides - they can't teach me what you're doing and that's what I want to know how."

"What about your parents?" Jeremy's concern was real enough. To his mind, cutting school was sure to bring a visit from the Vice Principal - at least, that was what he'd always heard.

"No sweat," Jeanne was confident. "I'll just call in sick. I'll tell 'em it was something I ate. My grades are fine anyway." Tests were the least of her worries and missing a day or two of classes ... well, it wasn't like she'd be missing anything important.

* * *

While Jeanne caught a bus home, Jeremy chatted - in mixed Thai / English - with the deli owner, then bought a few snacks and a pack of sodas to take back to his 'hideout'. The sun was already setting as he started back, prompting Jeremy to make a brief detour to a convenience store for a flashlight.

Back at the warehouse, Jeremy looked at the door and the padlock. Everything looked okay ... but he really hated the idea of leaving the hasp, lock and staple hanging loose anytime he wanted to go in.

Jeremy remembered his tilting door back home. This door was a single piece, metal and heavy - altering it wouldn't very practical.

Instead, he played the flashlight over the back wall. Structurally, the building was a simple frame construction using vertical metal channels instead of two-by-fours - about two foot apart, Jeremy remembered from inside. The skin was heavy ridged sheet metal, attached to the frame with locking screws. Inside, the walls were unfinished - except for the upstairs office.

"Maybe," he thought. "Just maybe ..."

The sheet metal skin sections were two-foot widths, running vertically, without seams, from the ground to the roof line. Jeremy moved along the back, skirting around the stacked drums until he reached what he estimated would be beyond the stairs inside. Too far and he'd run into the air compressor - which would be more obstacle than he wanted.

He studied the wall for a moment, then concentrated.

A popping sound started about eight foot off the ground and worked its way down as a series of screws released the tension they'd held for years. Each screw parted, leaving its head and a short stub of shaft sticking though the sheet metal, the body of the screw remaining in place in the vertical stud. Another series of soft pops across the bottom and at a height of four feet and the panel was free to bend.

The result wasn't as elaborate as his hinged panel on the root cellar door but it was enough to let Jeremy slip his pack and then himself through the opening. Once inside, the panel fell back into place. Another moment and the two surfaces stuck together, almost as if they'd been spot welded.

Jeremy had misjudged the position slightly, locating his entrance near enough to the stairs that he had to duck a bit but - overall - he was satisfied.

Upstairs, Jeremy turned the lights on and looked around his 'hide-out'. The couch wasn't as good as they'd had at home - the cushions showed a few rips and were a bit lumpy. The chair wasn't much better - besides, it squeaked when he sat down.

The bathroom could use paint - Jeanne had been right on that - but the toilet worked and there was water to wash up. Hot water would have been nice - and so would a shower - but Jeremy had lived without both before. He'd also forgotten to get any toilet paper.

Jeremy left the backpack tucked behind the couch. Then, having second thoughts, removed the book in its plastic wrap, and tucked the volume under his shirt.. Leaving the lights on, Jeremy went down and out through the bent panel.

From outside, the lights Jeremy had left on in the office didn't show. Satisfied, he walked down the drive between the two warehouses and turned toward a Circle-K convenience store a few blocks away.

As he walked, Jeremy made a mental list, adding paper towels to the toilet paper and then including a toothbrush ... toothpaste ... a comb ... soap ... shampoo - no, he could get by without the shampoo but he'd better get something for zits ... it was almost like being at home. He could use a change of clothes, too, but that would have to wait.

* * *

Back at the hide-out - Jeremy chuckled at the name - the sky was full dark but the lights inside still didn't show. Out front, Jeremy found a crack between the two big doors where he could see a glimmer inside but, from a foot or two away, whatever light escaped was washed out by the street lamps. Around back, even less was visible. From either position, the fiberglass skylight panels weren't visible ... or, at least, were indistinguishable from the rest of the roof.

Inside again, Jeremy put away his supplies, then stretched out on the couch. He'd been right, the cushions were lumpy ... but comfortable.

* * *

A loud thumping sound awakened Jeremy. For a moment, he wasn't sure where he was. Then he remembered where ... but couldn't think what ...

Jeremy rolled off the couch and peered through the door. He couldn't see anyone. And the pounding came from the door ...

"Jeanne," he realized, hurrying down the stairs. "Hey," he called through the door. "It's okay - you can quit pounding."

"Confound it," Jeanne's voice came back to him. "I know you're in there. But how'd you get the door closed again?"

"Would you believe 'like Danny'?" Jeremy grinned.

"No!" she answered. "Just a minute, I'll figure it out." She was silent for a minute or more. Then - "Here," she hollered, kicking the wall from a position under the stairs. "Now, how do I open it?"

"I didn't think of that," Jeremy answered. "Just a second." He felt his way into the shadows under the stairway, then released the panel, pushing it open. "Secret entrance," he explained, "but maybe I'd better figure a better way to keep it closed. Can't have you banging on the walls all the time - someone might notice."

"Can you do something like velcro?" Jeanne passed a package through the opening.

"I don't think so," Jeremy considered. "But I could always get some at a hardware store."

"Ri-i-i-ight," she looked at him through the gap. "So stupidly simple it's brilliant. Beautiful! Here, take the rest of this stuff." She wiggled through behind the bundle. "Come on, let's get this stuff upstairs. Hey, where's Danny?"

"Don't know." Jeremy shouldered the biggest bundle. "He hasn't come back yet."

Upstairs in the office, Jeanne unbundled the assortment she'd brought. "Some clothes," she explained. "Stuff that Biff outgrew - maybe some of it will fit. Sleeping bag - it gets cold some nights and I don't think there's any heat in here. I must have walked a mile with this stuff. I made Biff drop me off over near a friend's apartment - he thinks I'm loaning the sleeping bag to Terri. Then I had to hoof it over here. Damn, I wish I'd brought a cup - I'm thirsty."

Wordlessly, Jeremy held up a soda.

"Thanks - you're a lifesaver. Hey, you haven't spontaneously combusted yet from all those chilis? Gad, sorry I'm so hyper but ... it just struck me, I mean, there I was at home. Mom, Dad, Biff, the dinner table, everything so ... so ... so straight. And like I just couldn't tell anyone. I mean what we'd been talking about all afternoon and Danny and ... I just had to talk to someone but you and Danny are the only ones that would believe it anyway and ... oh ... it's just so ... so max ..." She finally stopped talking and took a drink, then looked at Jeremy, then around the room. "I'm talking too much, aren't I? ... Sorry ... I hate that ... I must have sounded like that silly twit Sandra Beemer ... Look, is it real? I mean ... you really did clean this place up and the lock and Danny I could see and ... Oh, God! I just want to scream!"

"Go ahead," Jeremy offered.

"Huh?"

"Go ahead and scream. Maybe it will make you feel better."

Jeanne looked at him for a long moment, then started laughing, trying to keep from spilling her soda. Jeremy reached for the can, then moved to the desk, out of the way. Freed, Jeanne wrapped her arms around her midriff and collapsed on the cushions.

"What's happen'n, homegirl," Danny's voice interrupted.

Jeremy just shook his head. "You don't want to know," he assured the spectral voice. "Hey, where've you been?"

"Uh, went home. Thought I'd see what was happen'n on the old turf."

"And?"

"An' nuttin. 'Partment's empty. Guess somebody found me - m'body wasn' there no mo' but ..."

"But what, Danny?" Jeanne had straightened up and was trying to smooth out her tri-color cock's comb with her fingers.

"There's a comb in the bathroom," Jeremy offered.

"Yeah, thanks, in a minute. But what, Danny?" she repeated the question. "What's bothering you?"

"I don' know," Danny's voice was almost a whisper. "It's just ..."

"Just what?" Jeremy picked up on the hurt in the ghost's voice.

"I wasn' there ... I mean, m' body wasn' there ... and Dad wasn' ... and I wandered 'round the hood ... but nobody even seem t' care." He was silent for a moment. "I mean I wasn' there but it didn matter."

"Oh, Danny," Jeanne and Jeremy echoed together, then exchanged glances. How do you comfort a ghost?

"It's okay," Danny continued. "I mean, it don' hurt or nuttin. 'Cept ..."

"Except what?" Jeremy asked.

"'Cept ... I guess ... I never done nuttin ... an' I'm dead ..."

"Sounds like a waste," Jeanne considered. "If you put it that way ... but, you're a ghost now. Doesn't that give you a second chance?"

"T'do what?"

"Don't know," Jeremy suggested. "But maybe it's a chance to find out?"

"Jeremy?" Danny's voice was barely audible.

"Huh?"

"You said that Huck wasn't educated."

"Right."

"So ... what did he do ...? While he was alive, I mean."

"Excuse me, guys. But, how did Huck get into this? You do mean Huckleberry Finn?"

"Uh, I was reading him on the bus. Danny, Huck's just a character in a book - he didn't really grow up or anything."

"Yeah, I know but ..."

"You know," Jeanne offered. "In a way, he did. Grow up, I mean. There was the story about the airship - you know, when Huck and Tom went abroad. Of course, Twain said that both Tom and Huck were modeled on boys he knew back in Hannibal - they grew up."

"And there's Life On The Mississippi," Jeremy added. "About how Twain grew up. Hey, you like him too?"

"Of course, silly. Who wouldn't? How about you, Danny?"

"Don' read books much," Danny answered. "But Huck - he didn' either but seems like he had more sense. Wish I'd known him ..."

"That's what reading's about," Jeremy told him. "That's how we get to know them. Hey, just because you're dead doesn't mean you can't learn. Does it?"

"Oh, wow," Jeanne laughed. "A school for ghosts, I love it! Hey, Danny, ..." She dissolved into giggles.

"And," Jeremy continued, "maybe some day you can even figure girls out. You could probably get a Nobel prize for that."

"I guess," Danny considered. "I can try it ... If I don' like it, sure be easy to cut classes."

"Ri-i-i-ight," the two mortals echoed together.