Charlotte and the Twelve

Chapter 1

1

W

hen my eyes flashed open from a blink, I was no longer staring at the snow falling outside our front door. Instead, I was inside a sagging building with huge windows. The snow was still falling, but now it didn’t matter if we had school or not. Now, I had to figure out what adventure the universe, God, a ghost, whoever had taken me on. I never could quite explain what had happened the last time I’d mysteriously appeared somewhere, and so why would I be able to do it now.

Here’s what I know:

If it’s happened once, it can happen again.

People say that kind of stuff about bad boyfriends and shoplifters, but it’s true of the good stuff, too . . . like, say, the way a girl might get transported, teleported, reassembled in a place that she hadn’t been a second before.

Ah, but I’m being cryptic. I wonder where that expression came from—cryptic as intentionally vague . . . does it come from “crypt,” like a grave? If so, is my experience with graves going to haunt my language forever now?

Also, sorry for the haunting pun. My ghost experiences have shaped me, I guess.

So here I was in a big room—I’m terrible with sizes, but let’s say the size of a Tastee Freez dining room—and there were two huge windows in front of me. Even on this early January morning, I could see well within the room because of these windows.

I stood still a while to get my bearings AND because I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t fall through the floor if I took a step. The prime days of this room were long gone, and I could see over in the corner that water had made its way down the walls for a long while now.

Kitty-corner to the water stain, I saw a big jumble of wood and metal that looked kind of like those old desks I’ve seen in the big houses around here, the ones that are used as decorations in a front hall. I eased my way over, testing every step as I went. It was winter, so I knew I didn’t have to worry about snakes if I put my foot through the floor, but I didn’t really want to have shards of wood piercing my teddy bear PJ pants.

As I got closer, I found that these were, indeed, desks. Old desks. Dusty for sure, but also filmed with the grime of years and use. I bent low and put my hand against the seat back in front of me to steady myself as I got a closer look.

That’s when I saw her.

My last experience with a ghost had been wonderful and not at all scary. But still, having the figure of a young girl in a white dress appear right by your side—that’ll take out anyone’s breath.

I jumped back and stared. Yep, there she was—a tiny slip of a girl—probably about six, with a halo of brown hair framing a thin face that ended in a softly-pointed chin.

She looked absolutely terrified.

I knelt down a couple of feet in front of her and said, “My name’s Mary. What’s your name?”

She stared at me with her wide, soft eyes for a minute longer. “Henrietta Lovely Jones.” Her voice was almost a whisper. It sounded like a kitten’s mew.

“It’s nice to meet you, Henrietta Lovely Jones. Do you live around here?” Now, in the past couple of months, I had done some reading about ghosts, and Henrietta Lovely Jones was definitely a ghost. When you can see a person and also see through them, it’s a pretty clear sign.

The tiny girl began to cry, and so I moved closer and sat down. “Oh, sweetie, what is it? Sit down here with me and tell me about it.”

January in the Virginia mountains is cold, and I was wearing a t-shirt I caught at a UVA basketball game about three years ago and those cotton teddy bear PJs I mentioned. Henrietta was in this white dress with fine lace around the collars and sleeves, and her arms and legs were unclothed; and while I had on sheepskin slippers—a gift from Mom this past Christmas—her feet were bare. Yet, I was shivering like the dickens, and she seemed to give off that perfect gentle heat that children do. I wanted to hold her—as comfort for her and warmth for me.

Henrietta plopped down on the wide, wooden planks beside me and leaned her shoulder against mine. She wasn’t actually warm, but the gesture was sweet anyway. I glanced down at the space where my pinkish, white skin met her golden brown elbow and leaned in.

“I live here, I guess,” she said. “But I used to live just up the road a ways. I haven’t been able to go home for a long, long time.” Her face broke open with the sorrow only a child has not yet learned to hide. She wailed long, shuddering sobs that wound around my heart and squeezed.

I wrapped my arm around her and pulled her into my lap. “Oh, Miss Henrietta, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. Maybe I can help?”

This quieted her a bit, and she looked up into my face with eyes so wide I thought I’d be able to see the moon behind them.

“Are you here by yourself?” I said quietly.

She shook her head over and over again.

“Okay, who is here with you?” I wasn’t scared of ghosts, but the idea of a group of them made my voice a little shaky.

“All us kids is still here. Miss Braxton is here, too.”

I looked around, but I didn’t see anyone . . . not yet. I set Henrietta on the ground so I could stand, then scooped her against my hip. She weighed little more than a gallon of milk.

I walked over and placed my hands on every desk in that little pile. As I watched, a dozen children—girls in simple calico dresses and boys in cotton pants and shirts with buttons— appeared around me, each of their faces turned toward mine with wonder and fear.

Then, I saw her, a regal woman in a blue-flowered dress. She was at the back of the room, and she didn’t look happy to see me.

I smiled because that’s what I do when I’m nervous or scared or unsure. I smile . . . not a bright, wide-open at the eyes smile, but that one that’s tight in the corners of my mouth, like that emoji with the clenched teeth. I mean to appear harmless, but I fear I may look more like I’ve just had some pretty awful dental work.

The woman did not smile back.

I studied her face—unlined and smooth, the color of a sparrow’s wings, and eyes deep brown and wary, not harsh or threatening—fearful, not protective. I took a step forward, and the children moved toward her, gathering around her hips like chicks under their mother’s wings.

“My name is Mary,” I said from where I stood.

“That’s Miss Braxton,” Henrietta whispered up at me. I looked down and realized I was still holding the child against my hip. I let her slip gently to the floor, and she scampered over to Miss Braxton’s side.

As the woman bent to look the tiny girl in the face, I studied her. She was thin and quite tall, six feet maybe, and she carried herself with the posture Mom always wished I had. Her dress wasn’t fancy, but I could tell it was well cared for because the pleats at her waist were pressed flat. I’d never had a piece of clothing with that fresh a crease, but that may be because I hate to even look at an iron.

Miss Braxton stood and walked toward me. I took a step back and felt the back of my knee connect with the pile of desks. I was going over, but then Miss Braxton’s firm hand gripped my arm and pulled me upright. We were standing face to face, well, more like face to shoulder, since I was almost six inches shorter than her.

She stared at me and then said in a firm, clear voice, “Why are you here, Miss?”

Good question, I thought. A few months ago, when I’d mysteriously appeared in that old cemetery, I’d asked Moses—another ghost—that very thing, and it took us months to figure out the answer.

“I’m not really sure, Miss Braxton. Actually, I’m not even sure where I am. Maybe you can help with that.”

“You’re in the Shady Run Rosenwald School, ma’am. My school.” I didn’t miss the emphasis.

“Oh.” I walked over to the big window past Miss Braxton and looked out. Just to the right and off a ways, I saw the familiar outline of a flat ridgeline—House Mountain. Then to the left, I could see the rest of that Blue Ridge peeling away. Yep, I was still in Terra Linda, but I didn’t know this place, didn’t recognize it at all. “Where in Terra Linda are we, then?”

Miss Braxton studied my face. “You’re in Bliss Hollow. Up above the river, ma’am. But I expect you’ve never been up this way before.”

She was right. I had no idea where Bliss Hollow was, but given that this woman and these children were clearly not from 2015, I wasn’t sure that I would even call this place by the same name. For all I knew, it would be Taco Truck Road now.

The children had begun to spread out. Two boys had marbles in the corner, each one taking a turn at flicking a marble into another. I wondered if that hurt their fingers—sure looked like it did. A group of girls, including Henrietta, were tucked into a corner, a doll on one child’s lap, and in the universal language of young children, I knew they were playing school.

Miss Braxton studied them and then gestured to me, a gentle wave of her hand, and led me to the corner of the room by a door that clearly went into the backyard of this building. “Miss, I don’t mean to be rude,” she said in a voice solid despite its whisper, “but I’m quite confused by your presence here.” She paused and tilted her head to look at me. “You don’t seem that puzzled at all, though.”

Oh, I was puzzled alright, but not that I was here. I knew that part would sort itself. I was more confused about just where here was. “Oh, well, you see, this happens to me sometimes, I just show up places and meet the folks who still live there.”

She squinted a bit and waited. It was this waiting that confirmed what I suspected—this woman was a teacher. Only a teacher knows that if you wait long enough someone will give you more information.

I didn’t disappoint. “I mean, I know you are all ghosts.”

She pulled her head back quickly.

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not scared, and I’m not going to go tell anyone. I just know, is all.”

With a gentle tug down on the skirt of her dress, Miss Braxton took a few steps away toward the window behind her. She watched the trees outside as her hand worried the seam of her right sleeve.

It was my turn to wait, so I leaned my shoulder against the wall by the window and studied the floor, while I considered what I knew. Clearly this was a school, a school for black children. These people had been alive a long time back but not so long as Moses in the graveyard because their clothes were more like mine than his had been, although still none of the girls nor Miss Braxton wore pants.

“Yes, miss. Yes, we’re ghosts. We’ve been here sixty years, if I’m counting the autumns right.”

I pulled my shoulder from the door and looked into her eyes.

“Why are you here? All of you? Why here in this school?”

“Well, Miss, that’s a long story. A long, long story.”

She turned back to the window.