Paul plucked a pencil from a nearby desk and began swiftly and neatly to solve the problems on my worksheet. “I wonder. It doesn’t seem fair to me that we were just handed this mediator thing at birth without so much as a contract or list of employee benefits. I mean, I never signed up for this mediator thing. Did you?”

“Of course not,” I said, as if this was not something about which I complained, in almost those exact words, every time I saw Father Dominic.

“And how do you know what your job responsibilities even consist of?” Paul asked. “Yeah, you think you’re supposed to help the dead move on to their final destination, because once you do, they stop bugging you, and you can get on with your life again. But I’ve got a question for you. Who told you it was up to you? Who told you how it was done, even?”

I blinked at him. No one had told me that, actually. Well, my dad had, sort of. And later, a certain psychic my best friend, Gina, had taken me to back home. And then Father Dom, of course…

“Right,” Paul said, observing from my expression apparently that I didn’t have a real straightforward answer for him. “Nobody told you. But what if I said I knew? What if I told you I’d found something—something that dated back to the first days of actual written communication—that exactly described mediators, though that wasn’t what we were called back then, and their real purpose, not to mention techniques?”

I continued to blink at him. He sounded so…well, convincing. And he certainly looked sincere.

“If you really had something like that,” I said hesitantly, “I guess I’d say…show me.”

“Fine,” Paul said, looking pleased. “Come over to my place after school today, and I will.”

I was up and out of my chair so fast, I practically tipped it over.

“No,” I said, gathering up my books and clutching them in front of my wildly beating heart as if both to hide and protect it. “No way.”

Paul regarded me from where he sat, not seeming too surprised by my reaction.

“Hmmm,” he said. “I thought as much. You want to know but not enough to risk your reputation.”

“It isn’t my reputation I’m worried about,” I informed him, managing to make my tone more acid than shaken. “It’s my life. You tried to kill me once, remember?”

I said these words a little too loudly and noticed several people glance at me curiously over the tops of the computer monitors.

Paul, however, just looked bored.

“Not that again,” he said. “Listen, Suze, I told you…. Well, I guess it doesn’t matter what I told you. You’re going to believe what you want to believe. But, seriously, you could have gotten out of there any time you wanted to.”

“But Jesse couldn’t have,” I hissed at him. “Could he? Thanks to you.”

“Well,” Paul said with an uncomfortable shrug. “No. Not Jesse. But, really, Suze, don’t you think you’re overreacting? I mean, what’s the big deal? The guy’s already dead—”

“You,” I said, my trembling voice giving the statement somewhat iffy conviction, “are a pig.”

Then I started to stride away. I say started to because I didn’t get very far before Paul’s calm voice stopped me.

“Uh, Suze,” Paul said. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

I turned my head to glare at him. “Oh, you mean, did I forget to tell you not to speak to me again? Yes.”

“No,” Paul said with a wry smile. “Aren’t those your shoes under there?” He pointed down at my Jimmy Choos, without which I’d been about to stalk from the room. Like Sister Ernestine wouldn’t have had too big a coronary if she’d caught me wandering around school in my bare feet.

“Oh,” I said, mad that my dramatic exit had been spoiled. “Yeah.” I went back to my desk so I could jam my feet into my mules.

“Before you go, Cinderella,” Paul said, still smiling, “you might also want to take this.” He held out my trig homework. I could tell with a single glance that he’d finished it, neatly and, I could only assume, correctly.

“Thanks,” I said, taking the notebook from him, feeling more and more sheepish with every passing second. I mean, why, exactly, was I always flying off the handle with this guy? Yeah, he’d tried to kill me—and Jesse—once. At least, I thought he had. But he kept saying I was wrong. What if I was wrong? What if Paul wasn’t the monster I’d always thought him? What if he was…

What if he was just like me?

“About this Craig guy,” Paul added.

“Paul.” I sank down into the chair beside him. I had felt the gaze of Mrs. Tarentino, the teacher assigned to supervise the computer lab, boring into me. Popping in and out of your chair in the lab is not smiled upon, unless you are going back and forth from the printer.

But that wasn’t the only reason I sat down again. I’ll admit that. I was curious, too. Curious over what he’d say next. And that curiosity was almost stronger than my fear.

“Seriously,” I said. “Thanks. But I do not need your help.”

“I think you do,” Paul said. “What’s this Craig guy want, anyway?”

“He wants what all ghosts want,” I said tiredly. “To be alive again.”

“Well, of course,” Paul said. “I mean, what’s he want besides that?”

“I don’t know yet,” I said with a shrug. “He’s got this thing with his little brother…thinks he should have been the one to die, not him. Jesse thinks—” I stopped talking, suddenly aware that Jesse was the last person I wanted to bring up in front of Paul.

Paul looked only politely interested, however. “Jesse thinks what?”

It was, I saw, too late to keep Jesse out of it. I sighed and said, “Jesse thinks Craig’s going to try to kill his brother. You know. Out of revenge.”

“Which, will, of course,” Paul said, not looking in the least surprised, “get him exactly nowhere. When will they ever learn? Now, if he wanted to be his brother, that would be a different story.”

“Be his brother?” I looked at him curiously. “What do you mean?”

“You know,” Paul said with a shrug. “Soul transference. Take over his brother’s body.”