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I shrugged. "I'll go in." It's not like I had anything better to do.

  Her nostrils flared, and that's when I saw myself as she did: the wiggy black hair, the baggy T-shirt. I was fifteen years old and my mother was ashamed to be seen with me. Talk about ironic.

  The store called the next day (still raining: day three of my

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  captivity) to offer my mother a job as Floral Shoppe Assistant. They'd been impressed with her experience arranging centerpieces for charity league luncheons and PTA fund-raisers. Also, they were surprised that she knew what a hydrangea was.

  "Did you tell them it was just for the summer?" I asked.

  She didn't answer. But then, she was busy making dinner, so maybe she just didn't hear me.

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  9.

  On Friday I woke to sunny skies . Well, I woke to clear skies. The sun was hardly even up. In the past week, I'd been going to bed earlier and earlier because there was nothing to do at night. The problem was now I couldn't sleep past six or seven.

  Early morning at Home Suite Home meant rattling pipes, screaming children, blaring televisions, and yapping dogs. You'd think I'd get used to the sounds, but they kept changing. There were new trucks in need of mufflers, new children with higher pitched screams, new dogs howling at the moon. Small dogs were noisier than big ones and young children whinier than old.

  There was another new sound today: my parents getting ready for work, my mother showering, my father drinking his coffee in front of the television. My dad was going to be doing "hands-on labor" on an expensive new house. He did his best to sound enthusiastic.

  "A block from the beach, two stories high--you'll be able to see the ocean from the master bedroom. Three thousand square

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  feet, and I know that doesn't sound that big, but it almost fills the entire lot. But before construction, we gotta bury phone and power lines; we gotta dig trenches by hand to protect the existing trees."

  From the way he talked, you'd think he was building the house for us.

  I hung around for about an hour after my parents left. It was nice to be alone, but after being stuck inside for so many days, I was dying to get out of that place. In the bathroom I pulled my black shorts and black-and-pink tee off the towel rack. They were still damp and kind of stretched out. Even worse, they smelled like mildew. But it was that or the orange T-shirt/board shorts combo, and I'd come to hate Dennis of Dennis's Building Supply almost as much as I hated Sandyland--though not as much as I hated my parents for ruining my summer in the first place.

  When I glanced at the mirror, I jumped at the stranger looking back. I'd completely forgotten about my black hair. A good night's sleep--well, a bad night's sleep (have I mentioned how much I despised the couch?)--had done nothing to improve my new look.

  On the plus side, with hair so breathtakingly hideous, maybe no one would notice that my clothes smelled.

  As I walked to the main street, the sun popped above the horizon and spread a golden light over everything. Just as I thought, It's pretty here, a foul-tempered cloud took over and turned the world back to gray. So much for taking pictures.

  Downtown Sandyland was quiet. Most shops--and all

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  "shoppes"--were closed. An open door led to an Internet cafe. Entering, I took in the intoxicating aroma of coffee and the raindrop rhythm of tapping keys. For an Internet cafe, it was a little short on computers, but there were plenty of tables and chairs, all mismatched and painted bright colors. A glass bakery case displayed muffins, scones, and pastries.

  I bought a vanilla latte and a half hour of Internet time. It put a pretty good-sized dent into my life savings, but you only live once--if you're lucky, that is. The past week felt like a second life, and so far it wasn't working out so well.

  First, I went to Google and typed in, "ghosts in photos." After that, I tried "spirits in photos" and "unexplained figures in photos."

  There were tons of hits. I pored over the photos of shadowy figures looming in the distance, translucent bodies hovering at the edge. None of the ghostly figures were half as clear as the lady in the pink bathrobe. They looked more like fog or smoke. Most of the photos were really old, taken with black-and-white film. Any idiot could see that the "ghosts" weren't real--just some obvious double exposures or tricks of the light.

  I tried a new search: "ghosts in digital pictures." I found a few ghost hunter sites debating the merits of digital photography-- but, again, the few pictures I turned up showed misty white figures that looked nothing like my shots.

  This was ridiculous. The lady in my photo didn't look like the pictures online for a simple reason: ghosts aren't real.

  As I logged on to my MySpace account, I felt almost normal. There was my profile name (Mad Girl) and my profile picture, which showed Lexie and me with our identical haircuts, hers

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  blond, mine its old natural brown. We were laughing at something absolutely hysterical. (What was it? It bothered me that I couldn't remember.)

  There was my profile song, my list of favorite television shows, books, and movies. In the Top Friends box, familiar faces smiled back at me.

  Naturally I'd posted a lot of photos on my page. I stared at them like a stalker. Some were of my friends goofing around. A couple showed me smiling, with no idea what lay ahead. There were scenes of Amerige: arty photos of flower gardens and windows, stop signs and benches.

  There were no ghosts anywhere.

  On the bottom right, a bunch of people from school had left me comments. My first reaction was relief: nothing from Kyle Ziegenfuss!

  And then I started reading.

  hey mad, howz yr summer? did u go on yr cruise

  yet? i am sooo jealous, text me if u get this.

  whassup madison? where u been hiding? yr cell

  sayz its disconnected, u got a new #?

  I'd have to post a bulletin or something to tell everyone that I was spending the whole summer at the beach. They didn't have to know why. At least I'd have a good tan when I went back to school in September.

  hi madison, so weird! i walked by yr house yesterday

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  & there were all thez ppl out front, were you having a yd sale or sumthing? ur not moving

  r u???? maybe I got the wrong house but I think it was yrs.

  Huh? That was strange. Maybe my parents were having work done on our house while we were gone. But that didn't make any sense. Why would they spend the money there if we were here because they don't have any? Besides, my dad had been sitting around for months. If something needed painting or fixing, he would have done it himself.

  yo mad! whas goin' on? weirdest thing--ppl keep

  saying yr moving, that yr house is for sale & u don't

  even live there anymore.

  My palms began to sweat. What was going on? My parents wouldn't sell the house without telling me. Would they?

  No--there's no way my mother would leave that house. She'd made my father paint the living room four times just to get the perfect shade of yellow. She'd hired a cabinetmaker to build custom shelving in The Library and a seamstress to sew curtains for all of the windows.

  There must be some mistake.

  In addition to the comments, there were new messages. I was almost afraid to read them, but I had eight minutes of Internet time left, and I couldn't let them go to waste.

  Two messages were from Melissa Raffman, editor of The Buzz- The first was from a couple days ago.

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  Madison,

  I'm really excited that you'll be joining us on the newspaper staff. Your photos will be an excellent contribution.

  As I mentioned, I'm planning to host a staff get-together at my house in the next couple of weeks. I'll call you when the details are finalized. Can you give me your cell number? The number I had on file didn't work.

  Thanks,

  Melissa

  Melissa's second message had just been posted.

  Madison,
>
  Someone mentioned that your house was being sold. Can I assume you are moving to another house in town? I've tried to reach you on your home phone, but it has been disconnected. If you are not going to be attending Amerige High in the fall, please let me know as soon as possible so I can offer the photography position to someone else.

  Melissa

  My home phone was disconnected? Panic spread through my chest for just a moment before I figured it out. My parents hadn't paid the bill. The phone company had cut off our service. This was seriously embarrassing. Suddenly, my virtual world sucked al

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  most as much as my real world. At least the virtual me still had good hair.

  Hi Melissa,

  I'm out of town for the summer (my parents rented a place at the beach), but I'll be back before school starts. Hate to miss the party. Tell everyone I said hi!

  Can't wait to start work on the paper. Thanks for picking me.

  Madison

  P.S. Don't know what's going on with the phone, but there's been some construction on our street, and sometimes that messes things up.

  My last new message was from Lexie. I read it fast because time was ticking away and I didn't want to surrender any future latte funds.

  mad cow,

  1. the lake sux. brooke got bit by a fly & it got infected & my dad had to take her to the e.r. & now I'm stuck w/kenzie in my room cuz brooke is supposedly moaning & crying in her sleep, such a faker, u r so lucky 2 b an only child.

  2. i got the inside scoop about celia & rolf. 2 many details k here, but she dumped him & then changed her mind but he wouldn't take her back, now she is crying 2 everyone about how she LUVS him. she is

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  so gross.

  3. got a weird message from melissa on my cell. she wanted 2 know if u had moved, i called & said

  no (dun), u shd probably call her.

  luv from your bff & the prisoner of the lake, lex-mex

  I dashed off a quick note to Lexie, trying to ignore the fear that pricked the back of my neck.

  lex-mex,

  1. no sympathy, none, the parental units have decided to extend our va-cay 0 the lamest beach on earth.

  2. celia will die alone, does rolf like anyone now?

  3. weird, melissa must have called the wrong #. i just sent her a message so all is good.

  luv from yr bff & prisoner of the beach, mad cow

  As if on cue, when my Internet time ran out, the sun popped above the clouds, and I rushed to the beach. The sun was like a magic spotlight, its beams gold with just the slightest hint of pink. Everything it touched turned beautiful. Even the trash cans were striking, as long as you thought of them as simple shapes: three green cylinders standing in a row, perfectly spaced, a wooden fence running in parallel lines behind them.

  Snap.

  "You cutting in on my territory?" Delilah stood to one side,

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  a plastic grocery bag in each hand, smiling. She was wearing a yellow cotton dress with short, puffy sleeves and a row of buttons down the front.

  "Hey," I said. My face flushed at the thought of my black hair--which, even now, wasn't as weird as Delilah's, but still. Seeing her plastic bags, I remembered what she'd said about scavenging materials for her art. "You find anything good?"

  She peered inside. "Styrofoam, mostly: coffee cups and some of those take-out containers. I'll wash them with bleach when I get home so they don't smell. I'm speaking from experience."

  "Are you going to add them to the piece you were working on the other day?"

  She shook her striped head. "Nah, the lollipop field is almost done. This is raw material for my next piece, which I plan to call landfill. Last week, I found a busted boogie board on the beach; that'll be my canvas. I'll use the Styrofoam to build a series of hills, which I'll cover with different things: aluminum foil, hamburger wrappers, whatever I can find." She paused. "I haven't figured it out beyond that. But it'll make some kind of an environmental statement."

  She pointed at my head. "I like your hair."

  That was a bit like having a blind person compliment my photography, but whatever. "Thanks."

  "Your camera working okay?" she asked.

  "Yeah. I still can't figure out how that old woman turned up in a shot, though. Anyway, I haven't been able to take many pictures because of the rain."

  She motioned down the beach. "You might want to come back tomorrow. Saturdays, the town rents kayaks--over there, by that

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  little gray house. They're all different colors, and I always thought they looked cool lined up on the sand. I mean, not as cool as the trash cans, but--you know."

  I checked her face to see if she was making fun of me, but she meant it about the trash cans. The girl liked her trash. I looked down the beach and tried to imagine the kayaks. It would be fun to play around with the shapes, the colors.

  "Thanks for the tip," I said. "I'll check it out."

  "And also tomorrow..." She looked down shyly. "There's this excellent thrift store downtown. I get most of my clothes there." That explained a lot.

  "It's only open on Saturdays," she said. "I was planning on going tomorrow--it opens at nine--so if you want to meet me there..."

  Used clothes? Yuck. I went to the Salvation Army a couple of years ago when I needed a costume for the school play, and everything just smelled...weird. Like dust mixed with perfume mixed with death. I didn't want to offend Delilah, but that whole "vintage" thing was way overrated.

  "Saturday...hmm," I said, as if trying to recall the details of my busy schedule. The breeze blew my hair in front of my face. It felt like a cobweb. I reached up to tuck the hair behind my ear and that's when I caught the smell, almost beachlike but not quite. It was the mildew from my still-damp clothes. Humiliation washed over me.

  "My parents forgot to put my suitcase in the car," I said. "That's why I'm always wearing the same thing. But I've got lots of other stuff at home."

  "Of course!" she said. "I didn't mean...what I meant was

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  ...you know. There's not a lot going on around here, so it's just something to do."

  The breeze blew again, releasing an even stronger mildew aroma. I wanted to rip my clothes off and throw them in the ocean. Next week my dad would go to Amerige and bring back my suitcase. Next week sounded far away.

  "The thrift shop sounds...fun," I said.

  We walked down the beach, gazing at the ground, finding treasures everywhere. A yellow shovel. A button. An empty sun-tan lotion bottle. Delilah ignored a damp magazine but snatched up the National Enquirer. "The headlines are like gold," she said. "Look at this: 'Worst Beach Bodies.' I could glue the headline on a board and then stick some Barbie dolls next to it. Wish I'd saved the headless one...."

  I snapped pictures of the yellow shovel, of a volleyball net, a lone beach chair. After each shot I paused to check my display, but there was nothing out of place, no old woman hovering at the edge.

  The sun rose higher in the sky; the light became harsh. I put my camera away. The kids in the red bathing suits began to appear, alone and in groups. A tall blond guy, Hollywood gorgeous with a perfect jock body, walked by and smiled. "Hey, Delilah." He carried a surfboard under his arm and wore a whistle around his neck. He looked like he was on his way to a Hollister photo shoot.

  "Hi, Nate," she said casually. When he was out of earshot, she whispered, "You can't beat the scenery on the beach."

  When we got back to the sandy parking lot, all the spots were filled with minivans and SUVs. The sun was high in the sky, the

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  air getting hotter by the minute. Delilah's pale skin flushed pink.

  "Yo, Dee!" Leonardo and Duncan sat on a green bench, skateboards at their feet, both of them eating. Leonardo's pants were red today. His T-shirt was bright blue. His hair was still the natural, crazy orange. Still, it looked better than my hair. I wished I'd worn a hat. I wished I owned a hat.

  "Hey, guys." Deli
lah strode over. "Leo, you got some food for me?"

  Across the parking lot, a line snaked away from the snack shack's take-out window. The smell of fried food tortured my hungry nose.

  Cheeseburger clutched securely in his other hand, Leonardo held out a Styrofoam container filled with fries. "Don't take too many."

  Delilah took a monster fistful and skittered away. "Hey!" Leonardo said.

  She laughed. "I have to share with Madison." She looked at me. "Want some?"

  I wasn't sure what to do. It seemed kind of rude to eat Leo's food; I barely even knew him. But I'd had nothing but the vanilla latte all day, and I was starving. Besides, I liked having Delilah treat me like a friend. I couldn't imagine hanging out with her in real life, but she was perfect for an arty summer companion.

  I accepted a fry from her outstretched hand, trying not to think of how recently that hand had been in a garbage can.

  "You can have some of mine," Duncan said, holding out his overflowing Styrofoam shell. He wore long khaki shorts and a white T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, revealing lean, muscled arms.

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  "No, thanks." I knew Duncan even less well than I knew Leo.

  "Have a fry." He leaned forward. His gold earrings glinted in the sunlight. "C'mon, Goth Girl; you know you want one."

  "Goth Girl?" I stared at him, mouth open. Okay, sure--with the hair, shirt, and shorts I was a little over the top on the black, but I had not crossed the line into Gothic. And Duncan, with his wild hair bleached white at the tips, was hardly one to talk.

  A family walked by, hauling enough beach toys for fifty children.

  "Or how about I just call you G.G.?" Duncan said. "The black hair is totally working for you, by the way."

  At my stunned expression he cracked up. His laugh was infectious--like a series of hiccups, almost.

  I started laughing and couldn't stop. It was the first time I'd laughed in almost a week, and I poured everything into it: my fear, my anxiety, and a moment's relief and release. Delilah and Leonardo joined in, probably amused by my overreaction more than anything, and I laughed even harder, tears forming in my eyes.

  Finally, I composed myself and plopped down on the bench next to Duncan, entirely forgetting about my smelly clothes. "Scoot over." He slid closer to Leo. I peered at his food. "Screw the fries," I said, nicking my black hair behind my ears. "I want some of your burger."