Meg Cabot: Ninth Key

Kelly Prescott was wrong. Bryce Martinsen was not the cutest guy in Carmel.

Jesse was.

And if I wasn't mean to him, I knew I'd find myself falling in love with him.

And the problem with that, you see, is that he's dead.

"If you're going to do this, Susannah," he said, in that silky voice, "don't do it halfway."

"Look, Jesse," I said. My voice wasn't a bit silky. It was hard as rock. Or that's what I told myself, anyway. "I've been doing this a long time without any help from you, okay?"

He said, "She was obviously in great emotional need, and you - "

"What about you?" I demanded. "You two live on the same astral plane, if I'm not mistaken. Why didn't you get her rank and serial number?"

He looked confused. On him, let me tell you, confused looks good. Everything looks good on Jesse.

"Rank and what?" he asked.

Sometimes I forget that Jesse died a hundred and fifty or so years ago. He's not exactly up on the lingo of the twenty-first century, if you know what I mean.

"Her name ," I translated. "Why didn't you get her name?"

He shook his head. "It doesn't work that way."

Jesse's always saying stuff like that. Cryptic stuff about the spirit world that I, not being a spirit, am still somehow expected to understand. I tell you, it burns me up. Between that and the Spanish - which I don't speak, and which he spouts occasionally, especially when he's mad - I have no idea what Jesse's saying about a third of the time.

Which is way irritating. I mean, I have to share my bedroom with the guy because it was in this room that he got shot, or whatever, in like 1850, back when the house had been a kind of hotel for prospectors and cowboys - or, as in Jesse's case, rich ranchers' sons who were supposed to be marrying their beautiful, rich cousins, but were tragically murdered on the way to the ceremony.

At least, that's what had happened to Jesse. Not that he's told me that, or anything. No, I had to figure that out on my own . . . though my stepbrother Doc helped. It isn't something, it turns out, that Jesse seems much interested in discussing. Which is sort of weird because in my experience, all the dead ever want to talk about is how they got that way.

Not Jesse, though. All he ever wants to talk about is how much I suck at being a mediator.

Maybe he had a point, though. I mean, according to Father Dominic, I was supposed to be serving as a spiritual conductor between the land of the living and the land of the dead. But mostly all I was doing was complaining because nobody was letting me get any sleep.

"Look," I said. "I fully intend to help that woman. Just not now, okay? Now, I need to get some sleep. I'm totally wrecked."

"Wrecked?" he echoed.

"Yeah. Wrecked." Sometimes I suspect Jesse doesn't understand a third of what I'm saying, either, though at least I'm speaking in English.

"Whacked," I translated. "Beat. All tuckered out. Tired."

"Oh," he said. He stood there for a minute, looking at me with those dark, sad eyes. Jesse has those kind of eyes some guys have, the kind of sad eyes that make you think you might want to try and make them not so sad.

That's why I have to make a point to be so mean to him. I'm pretty sure there's a rule against that. I mean, in Father Dom's mediation guidelines. About mediators and ghosts getting together, and trying to, um, cheer each other up.

If you know what I mean.

"Good night, then, Susannah," Jesse said, in that deep, silky voice of his.

"Good night," I said. My voice isn't deep or silky. Right then, in fact, it sounded kind of squeaky. It usually does that when I'm talking to Jesse. Nobody else. Just Jesse.

Which is great. The only time I want to sound sexy and sophisticated, and I come out sounding squeaky. Swell.

I rolled over, bringing the covers up over my face, which I could tell was blushing. When I peeked out from underneath them a minute or so later I saw that he was gone.

That's Jesse's M.O. He shows up when I least expect him to, and disappears when I least want him to. That's how ghosts operate.

Take my dad. He's been paying these totally random social calls on me since he died a decade ago. Does he show up when I really need him? Like when my mom moved me out here to a totally different coast and I didn't know anyone at first and I was totally lonely? Heck, no. No sign of good old Dad. He was always pretty irresponsible, but I'd really thought that the one time I'd need him …

I couldn't really accuse Jesse of being irresponsible, though. If anything, he was a little too responsible. He had even saved my life, not once, but twice. And I'd only known him a couple of weeks. I guess you could say I kind of owed him one.

So when Father Dominic asked me, back in his office, whether or not any ghost stuff had been going on, I sort of lied and said no. I guess it's a sin to lie, especially to a priest, but here's the thing:

I've never exactly told Father Dom about Jesse.

I just thought he might get upset, you know, being a priest and all, to hear there was this dead guy hanging out in my bedroom. And the fact is, Jesse had obviously been hanging around the place for as long as he had for a reason. Part of the mediator's job is to help ghosts figure out what that reason is. Usually, once the ghost knows, he can take care of whatever it is that's keeping him stuck in that midway point between life and death, and move on.

But sometimes - and I suspected it was this way in Jesse's case - the dead guy doesn't know why he's still sticking around. He doesn't have the slightest idea. That's when I have to use what Father Dom calls my intuitive skills.

The thing is, I think I got sort of shortchanged in this department because I'm not very good at intuiting. What I'm a lot better at is when they - the dead - know perfectly well why they are sticking around but they just don't want to get to where they're supposed to go because what they've got in store there probably isn't that great. These are the worst kinds of ghosts, the ones whose butts I have no choice but to kick.

They happen to be my specialty.

Father Dominic, of course, thinks we should treat all ghosts with dignity and respect, without use of fists.

I disagree. Some ghosts just deserve to have the snot knocked out of them. And I don't mind doing it a bit.

Not the lady who'd showed up in my room, though. She seemed like a decent sort, just sort of messed up. The reason I didn't tell Father Dom about her was that, truthfully, I was kind of ashamed of how I'd treated her. Jesse had been right to yell at me. I'd been a bitch to her, and knowing that he was right, I'd been a bitch to him, too.

So you see, I couldn't tell Father Dom about either Jesse or the lady Red hadn't killed. I figured the lady I'd take care of soon, anyway. And Jesse …

Well, Jesse, I didn't know what to do about. I was pretty much convinced there wasn't anything I could do about Jesse.

I was also kind of scared I felt this way because I didn't really want to do anything about Jesse. Much as it sucked having to change clothes in the bathroom instead of in my room - Jesse seemed to have an aversion to the bathroom, which was a new addition to the house since he'd lived there - and not being able to wear floaty negligees to bed, I sort of liked having Jesse around. And if I told Father Dom about him, Father Dom would get all hot and bothered and want to help him get to the other side.

But what good would that do me? Then I'd never get to see him again.

Was this selfish of me? I mean, I kind of figured if Jesse wanted to go to the other side, then he would have done something about it. He wasn't one of those help-me-I'm-lost kind of ghosts like the one who'd shown up with the message for Red. No way. Jesse was more one of those don't-mess-with-me-I'm-so-mysterious kind of ghosts. You know the ones. With the accent and the killer abs.