Remembrance (The Mediator #7)(16)

I tried to look innocent, but it wasn’t easy. “They’re not related to me by blood.”

“Sometimes I find that very hard to believe,” Sister Ernestine said, and looked pointedly around the office at all the student reports and files scattered on the floor—as if the “earthquake” had been my fault. Which of course it had been, but she didn’t know that. “Please stay with Becca until her mother arrives.”

“Stepmother,” Becca quickly corrected her.

“Sorry, dear, of course.” Sister Ernestine gave her the kind of smile I’d never earned once from the nun in all the years I’d known her. “What a day for Father Dominic to be away,” she muttered as she exited the office.

As soon as the nun was gone, I whirled back to my computer, but it was no good. It had fritzed out, and I couldn’t get it to turn back on. Now I was going to have to call IT. Which at the Junípero Serra Mission Academy meant getting Sean Park, the most tech-savvy of the tenth graders, over to look at it, because there was no budget for an IT department.

I guess I must have verbally expressed my disappointment over losing the online auction for my kickass boots, since Becca said, “You sure do swear a lot.”

I shrugged and pointed at the swear jar. “I’m supposed to put a dollar in it every time I curse. But I don’t think I’m that bad.” I didn’t add that at the apartment my roommate, Gina, and I shared, she’d installed a swear jar, too.

“You’re that bad,” Becca said. “You said the F-word, like, five times in a row.”

I tried not to sound indignant. “Swearing is a proven stress reliever. You should try it instead of doing that to yourself.” I nodded toward her bandaged arm. “When I’m under a lot of stress, dropping a couple of f-bombs makes me feel a lot better.”

“What have you got to feel stressed about?” She looked around the office. “This doesn’t seem like such a hard job.”

“Oh, yeah? You don’t know the half of it.” My job wasn’t the problem. It was my personal life that was currently going down the toilet. “I’m not even getting paid for this.”

“What?” Becca came out of her daze a little, seeming genuinely surprised, but not enough to let go of the horse pendant. “How come?”

“Because there are, like, nine hundred applicants with way more experience than people my age for every job that comes available. We all have to work for free just to get some experience so we can put it on our résumés so we can maybe get a paying job someday, but there’s no guarantee we will. Oh, right. I forgot they don’t mention this in high school. You’re still brimming with hope and joie de vivre.” I looked at her. “Well, maybe not you, particularly.”

She didn’t seem to get my meaning.

“What did Sister mean by ‘the girls’? Do you have kids in this school?”

“No, I don’t have kids in this school.” I stared at her, horrified. “Seriously, how old do you think I am?”

“I don’t know. About thirty-sev—”

“Forget I asked. The kids are my brother Brad’s. Stepbrother’s, I mean.” Brad and I were actually the same age, but had always had vastly different tastes and attitudes. “He knocked up his girlfriend with triplets right after high school, and now their daughters are in kindergarten here. See what can happen if you don’t practice safe sex?”

I widened my eyes at Becca dramatically, but she didn’t look very scared. The truth is when you’re a girl who’s miserable enough to carve the word stupid in your arm with a compass, the idea of having three kids in kindergarten by the time you’re twenty-five probably seems like awesome sauce . . . or maybe so unimaginable, it’s not even in the realm of possibility.

I decided to change the subject.

“Do you have siblings, Becca?”

“No.”

I eyed the horse pendant she was clutching again. “None at all? Ever?”

“No.”

“Not even stepsisters? Half sisters? Adopted?”

She gave me a look that made it clear she thought I’d not only jumped aboard the train to Crazy Town, I was the engineer. “No. Why?”

This mediation might prove to be even tougher than the one that had ruined my boots. The problem with my job is that in reality—unlike on TV shows such as Ghost Mediator, which are completely scripted while purporting to be “reality”—if you simply come out and say, “Oh, hey, I’m in touch with the spirit world and your dead relative wants you to know such-and-such,” people do not really burst into tears of gratitude and thank you for setting their conscience at ease.

They run away, and then sometimes, if they’re of a litigious nature, they come back with a team of lawyers and sue you for causing them emotional distress.

“No reason. I notice you like horses—”

She instantly dropped the pendant, then tucked it away inside her shirt. “Not really.”

“Oh. I thought maybe you did because of that necklace. It’s pretty. Did someone important to you give it to you?”

She shrugged, looking away. “No. I saw it in a store in New York this one time. My mom moved there after . . . after she and my dad split up. I said I liked it, so she bought it for me.”