Texting the Underworld by Ellen Booraem

copied a map of fifth-century northern Ireland with all its tribe names, the spellings so weird it felt like one of his fantasy maps.
    Ashling must have lived—and died—around that time, speaking an early version of Irish.
How come we understand each other?
Conor wondered.
She must have a universal translator, like in StarQuest Galaxy.
    Somehow that wasn’t comforting.
    He wore his helmet on the way home, too. Javier sat three seats forward, talking loudly with James Johnson and Mohamed Ellis. Olivia was in the seat behind Javier and kept punching him in the shoulder.
    Conor got stuck sitting with Andy Watson’s best friend, Michael, who was so tall he had to keep his knees out in the aisle. But Andy had stayed after school and wasn’t there to incite violence, so Michael left Conor alone.
    Conor plastered himself to the window and watched South Boston slide by. Was this the last time he’d be on this smelly, noisy bus?
    Javier laughed at something.
Maybe I’m imagining things because I have a brain tumor,
Conor thought. He pictured himself having some kind of a fit and dying, right there on the bus.
They won’t be laughing then,
he thought.
    His blood went hot, and he was furious. Ashling had to know who was going to die—it made no sense that she didn’t. She was holding out on him, not playing fair.
If somebody’s going to croak, at least tell me who so we’ve got a fighting chance.
    He’d get it out of her. He didn’t know how. But he had to do it, or he really was going to go nuts.

Chapter Five
    Conor met his sister walking home. Her mouth was full of Fruity Foolers, a jelly bean she favored because it looked sweet and tasted so sour it almost sucked your cheeks down your throat. In response to the sugar ban at home, she kept a three-ounce pack of them in the waistband of her underpants at all times.
    Maybe it’s Glennie,
Conor thought.
Then
I’ll
be the one who’s not laughing.
“I love you, Glennie,” he said as they went up the front steps to their house.
    â€œMo-o-om.” Glennie dropped her backpack inside the door. “Conor’s freaking me o-o-out.”
    Their mother appeared at the top of the stairs, zipping up her jeans, still in the sweater she’d worn to the clinic. “Conor, stop freaking out your sister.”
    Conor took off his bicycle helmet and hung it on the banister. “I only told her that I love her.” What if his mom was the one, and she died mad at him? “I love you, too.”
    â€œPixie, are you feeling all right? Why did you wear your helmet to school?”
    â€œBecause he’s a dweeb,” Glennie said. “Do we have any cookies?” She asked this every day, even though she knew the answer.
    â€œHave a banana,” Mom said. “And don’t call your brother a dweeb.”
    â€œWhen I grow up, I’m eating cookies for
breakfast
.” Glennie stomped off to the kitchen, where she would dispose of her empty Fruity Foolers bag in the wastebasket, wrapped in a wet paper towel to escape detection.
    Conor hauled his backpack up the stairs. He evaded his mother’s attempt to feel his forehead and hesitated outside his bedroom door, waiting for her to go downstairs and gather up her stuff for nursing school. All was silent behind the door—maybe the banshee was gone. Maybe he’d imagined the whole thing. Maybe—
    He opened the door. Ashling was ensconced on the beanbag chair, his windbreaker on her lap, Trivial Pursuit cards scattered all over the floor. She was brimming with news.
    â€œMark this!” She ran the windbreaker’s zipper up and down, up and down. “It’s the silliest thing I ever saw. And hear this!” She scooped up a handful of Trivial Pursuit cards and waved them at him. “Alexander the Great’s hearse was pulled by sixty-four horses. Who was Alexander the Great?”
    â€œSome Greek guy.”
    Ashling