As Simple as It Seems by Sarah Weeks Page A

him.
    â€œYes, I do,” he said. “You’re Tracy Allen. The girl who drowned in the lake.”
    I was so surprised, my mouth dropped open like the metal flap on the end of a mailbox.
    â€œ Tracy Allen? How could I be Tracy Allen? Don’t you know what drowned means?”
    â€œI know what it means,” he said.
    â€œThen how could I be her? What do you think I am, a ghost or something?”
    â€œWell,” he said, looking up at me, “aren’t you?”
    I laughed.
    â€œDo I look like a ghost?” I asked.
    â€œAll except for the glasses,” he said. “I didn’t know ghosts wore glasses. And I thought you’d be more see-through. I can’t believe I’m standing here talking to you. This is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.”
    I didn’t know if it was my true nature rearing its ugly head again or if I was justifiably mad becausehe’d snuck up on me and his mother had thrown a stone at my dog, but whatever the reason, I decided to have a little fun.
    â€œYou’re right,” I told him. “I am the ghost of Tracy Allen.”
    And he believed me.

CHAPTER NINE
You Can’t Be True
    â€œThe most fun part about being a ghost is flying and the hardest part is walking through walls—it’s not as easy as it looks.”
    I was perched on a rock, my knees tucked up under my nightgown, and Pooch was sitting on the ground at my feet hanging on every word.
    â€œDo you know any other ghosts?” he asked.
    He had taken off his necktie and stuffed it into his back pocket.
    â€œTons,” I told him. “We all get together and have tea parties. Ghosts love tea parties.”
    â€œWhere are all these other ghosts?” he asked, nervously looking around.
    â€œThere are three sitting in that tree over there,” I said, pointing. “And don’t look now, but there’s a big fat one standing right behind you.”
    He jumped up and spun around, and I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
    â€œWhere?” he whispered. “I don’t see anything,”
    â€œThat’s ’cause ghosts are invisible, “I told him. “Everybody knows that.”
    Pooch looked at me and squinched up his eyebrows.
    â€œHow come you’re not invisible?” he asked.
    I was having a ball. I’d never met anybody so gullible.
    â€œThe reason I’m not invisible is because I’m tired today,” I said, faking a big yawn. “Invisibility wears off when you’re sleepy.”
    It felt a little bit like being in a play, except there was only one person in the audience and instead of having to memorize lines, I could make things up as I went along.
    â€œDo you know why ghosts moan?” I asked.
    Pooch thought about it for a second. “To scare people?” he said.
    â€œNope. We moan because we’re hungry.”
    I grabbed my stomach and moaned loudly to demonstrate.
    â€œI’ve got a granola bar,” he said, quickly reachinginto one of his many pockets. “It’s a little smushed, but you can have it if you want.”
    I hadn’t had much acting experience. In fact, I had been in a play only once, the year before, in fourth grade. I got nervous when I had to speak in public, but after years of being on the costume committee and painting scenery for our class plays, Annie had convinced me that we ought to try out together for the parts of two Native American sisters in a play our teacher had chosen called Lenape Drums . Annie and a tall, dark-haired girl named Danielle ended up being cast as the sisters, and I was given the role of Crow Tongue, the town gossip. It wasn’t a big part, but I did have one important scene, where I had to deliver a speech over the deathbed of my husband, who was being played by a boy in my class named Harris Kohler. I can still remember the lines I spoke:
    My beloved,
    As the moon grows pale and slips from the night