He Haint Heavy

By Maureen Hardegree

Can't a girl choose her own boyfriend without his kid brother haunting her?

Ghosts might not be heavy, but the guilt Heather's best friend, Xavier, is carrying around for his dead little brother weighs at least a ton. Of course, just as Heather's crush, Drew Blanton, shows some interest in her, Xavier's haintly brother Stevie shows up.

Ten-year-old Stevie has a simple request--he'll only move on if Heather goes out on a date with his brother. But as Heather knows, nothing involving ghosts is ever that simple, and Stevie is a determined troublemaker. With him interfering in Heather's love life, her Halloween may be more trick than treat.

Although Georgia author Maureen Hardegree concedes to having all the usual baggage of a middle child, she is NOT a ghost handler. She does, however, believe in connecting with her inner teenager and in feeding her active imagination--it likes Italian food and chocolate.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BelleBooks
• Release date: Jul 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781611944969

Book preview

Praise for Maureen Hardegree

Haint Misbehavin’:

Hilarious.

—Las Vegas Review-Journal

This book is laugh-out-loud funny . . . reminded me a lot of my favorite Judy Blume books.

—Petit Fours and Hot Tamales Blog

I really enjoyed HAINT MISBEHAVIN’ . . . The way the story is written really makes it sound like a teenager speaking and while the story seems light and fun, it touches on some deeper issues.

—TeensReadToo Blog

Hainted Love:

Heather is a great character who remains abashed by her new paranormal skill as everyone who matters to her believes she is fruitcake except for her aunt who everyone knows is a fruitcake; ergo Heather a chip off the nutty block. Young adult readers will enjoy the second Ghost Handler thriller due to the heroine who remains in deep trouble with her parents, sisters and others, and has a crush on an apparent dead guy.

—Harriet Klausner

Other Titles by Maureen Hardegree from BelleBooks and Bell Bridge Books

The Ghost Handler Series:

Haint Misbehavin’ – Book 1

Hainted Love – Book 2

Say it Hain’t So – Book 3

Haint She Sweet – Book 4

The Mossy Creek Series

Homecoming in Mossy Creek

Critters of Mossy Creek

At Home in Mossy Creek

A Day in Mossy Creek

The Sweet Tea Series

More Sweet Tea

He Haint Heavy

The Ghost Handlers Series -Book 5

by

Maureen Hardegree

Bell Bridge Books

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

Bell Bridge Books

PO BOX 300921

Memphis, TN 38130

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61194-496-9

Print ISBN: 978-1-61194-515-7

Bell Bridge Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.

Copyright © 2014 by Maureen Hardegree

Printed and bound in the United States of America.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

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Cover design: Debra Dixon

Interior design: Hank Smith

Photo/Art credits:

Girl © Lithian | Dreamstime.com

Kiss © Denis13 | Dreamstime.com

:Eahh:01:

Dedication

To the siblings and friends who lighten their brothers’ and sisters’ loads

Chapter One

TRUTH BE TOLD, Xavier Monroe’s house was haunted. And not just because it looked scarier with its shabby paint, off-kilter shutters, and unkempt yard than any of the other houses near it. This summer, after he’d tackled removing the unwanted pine saplings from their dogwood and azalea island, Xavier had tried to convince his parents to hire painters to fix the peeling white gloss, but they’d obviously found an excuse not to.

As the bus hummed in its idle mode, I, Heather Tildy, ghost handler and girl most likely to be labeled a freak, clenched my gut and tried not to breathe in too deeply as I prepared to argue my case with our bus driver Ms. Beadle. There was still a trace of David Butler’s b.o. hanging in the air despite one of those scented cardboard tree cutouts hanging off the door lever.

Rather than look at me, the fair-haired Ms. Beadle glanced out the school bus windshield toward my friend’s neglected brick home. Home, however, was a debatable word choice at this point because Xavier’s traditional colonial-style house inspired no warm fuzzies whatsoever. More like chills and creepy thrills in its current dilapidated state.

The Monroes’ house, in fact, appeared more in keeping with the upcoming Halloween holiday than even their neighbor’s across the street with all their Styrofoam grave markers, giant fake cobwebs attached to porch rails, and lights that would glow purple and orange once the sun set. There was good reason for that. Shortly after Xavier’s brother Stevie had taken up ghostly residence, Mr. and Mrs. Monroe’s home fell into neglect.

This isn’t your stop. No can do, Ms. Beadle twanged as I attempted the impossible while sweating like a pig thanks to the typical Atlanta autumn afternoon approaching summer highs.

She turned up the volume on the radio blaring Jason Mraz’s I Won’t Give Up.

Sit down, some boy yelled, then muttered, Stupid and another word that rhymes with itch.

Can you please make an exception? I asked, not budging. I need to check on Xavier. He wasn’t at school today. I gave her my best puppy dog eyes. Not gonna lie, I’ve got the pleading expression down. The song refrain about not giving up didn’t hurt my case either, or so I thought.

Her glance darted to the rearview mirror. Cars were backed up behind the bus and would probably start honking any minute. Check on him after I release you at your assigned stop.

But . . . I had nothing. You’d think my gray matter would conceive of some excuse that would sway her. He wasn’t at school today.

My bus driver did not pull the lever to open the door, which she had shut before I, at a safe distance, could follow David Butler, the freshman with legendary armpit stench who shared Xavier’s bus stop.

Really? the bus driver said. I had no idea.

Apparently, I’m not the only one on the bus with sarcasm in her arsenal, not that I was even attempting it with Ms. Beadle.

And, um, the one year anniversary of Xavier’s brother Stevie’s death is coming up. So I really need to make sure he’s okay. You know, emotionally. All right?

It’s not that I don’t believe you, Heather, or that I don’t care about Mr. Smarty Pants. It’s that I could lose my job for dropping kids off at the wrong stop. Sit down.

Foiled, I sat in the closest open seat. The bus lurched forward, and the seats squeaked and shook as we rolled along to the next stop.

Seriously, some of these rules were ridick. I guess this is one of those situations, which my dad always talks about, where people are afraid of being sued. I was not looking forward to trudging up the hill, hoodie in hand, in the hot afternoon sun. Yeah, that’s fall in Georgia—cold mornings that encourage you to layer with cozy sweaters, followed by sweltering afternoons that make you wish you were allowed to wear tank tops to school.

After Ms. Beadle dropped me off at the corner near my house, I trekked back toward Xavier’s. The neighbor at the corner was changing out her usual porch lanterns with plastic jack-o’-lanterns. She stopped to wave. Hi, Heather!

Hi, Mrs. Rollins, I called back.

I prayed Audrey and her car pool friends didn’t drive by and ask me what I was up to. I’d become upwardly mobile since Zac dated me, Randy befriended me, and my last ghost convinced me to start that better foods campaign, which had sort of gone by the wayside once I got her to move on because I had to pull up my dismal grades. I was sort of willing to risk being seen at Xavier’s, but part of me, an admittedly big part, was hoping I wouldn’t have to find out if a sighting at a known geek’s house would demote me. I knew it wasn’t very nice of me. But hey, I’m being honest.

My only joy came from stepping on the dried up fallen leaves which made a satisfying crunch under my Docksides. Oh, and thinking about the sort of costume I wanted to wear for Randy’s Halloween party also lifted my spirits as I trudged along. Of course, my parents hadn’t yet agreed that Audrey and I could go to this party because of what happened to Audrey over the summer at another party . . . which really wasn’t her or Randy’s fault.

I’d already texted Mom that I was checking on Xavier, which I hoped would score a few points with her. My parents really liked it when I acted like a responsible teenager. They also liked Xavier because he was super smart, had a pretty good sense of humor, and because he sometimes acted like my conscience—which for some reason they thought I needed.

I imagined myself in the costume I was hoping to borrow from Tina, who never wears the same one twice. It’s one of those sexy outfits with a short skirt and thigh-high stockings. A German beer girl or something like it. Only in my imagination, the risqué ensemble looked better than it would in reality because I had bigger boobs than the cherry tomatoes I currently sported. Go big or go home. Drew, the junior who made my heart beat faster and run to second period so I could see his gorgeousness in the hallway before Spanish class, would see me in the costume and like what he saw. Not that he’d done anything more than give me hope that he would one day ask me out. But things could change at this Halloween party.

All I needed was Mom to agree to buy me one of those padded push-up bras that add two cup sizes. If I wore one of those and that German beer babe costume, I was certain Drew wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off me. He’d look me over from carefully coifed head to pointy-toed stilettos. He’d be wearing something manly and hot like a pirate costume with an open collar revealing his gorgeous chest muscles and hinting at the rest. Those ice blue eyes of his would lock with mine. He’d smile and walk over toward me. I’d pretend that my heart wasn’t about to burst from my chest. He’d tell me I looked pretty, and he’d want to know if anyone had asked me to Homecoming yet and—

I stumbled on an uneven chunk of crumbling asphalt that I didn’t see and nearly landed on my hands and knees in the middle of the road. Flushing with the heat of embarrassment, I looked up and down the street to make sure no one had seen my close encounter with a pratfall. The street and yards bordering my near tumble were empty of human activity. Thank goodness none of the middle schooligans were out and about to see what I’d almost done. They’d no doubt harass me. Makes you thankful that high school gets out so early in the afternoon. The other advantage? If you get your homework done, you can watch all the prime time TV shows.

As I approached the Monroes’ house, I noticed the tall weeds sprouting throughout the browning Bermuda grass, which hadn’t been mowed recently. Red, orange, and tiny yellow oval leaves and a smattering of acorns littered the lawn, driveway, and curving sidewalk. Even the squirrels stayed away.

Xavier’s brother Stevie’s cool otherworldly presence materialized as I paused to adjust my backpack. The best way to describe this sensory experience is like when you smell food cooking, but you can’t taste it. He hadn’t ever appeared to me, so I kind of knew he didn’t want my help, which was too bad for him.

No lie, I’m pretty darn good at helping ghosts move on. Not that I was jonesing for a new job. Lunch Lady Ghost had really worn me out. And even though Postman Ghost who followed her was relatively easy in comparison, I was still in recovery mode. FYI: If ghosts don’t appear to me, I can’t help them. There’s a whole list of rules that I’ve gradually discovered. But I was here on a different mission than establishing contact with a ghost who supposedly wanted nothing to do with me. I had to make sure Xavier was okay. He’s not the type to miss school even when he’s sick.

If I were a different sort of person, I might be offended that Stevie didn’t want my help. But he was ten, and ten-year-old boys are still in that girl-hating mode. Or maybe he didn’t want to move on because he felt guilty about eating the candy that killed him instead of waiting until he got home for his parents to inspect it. Stevie had a peanut allergy.

Taking the shortest path to the front door, I crossed the yard and successfully avoided a hefty deposit left by someone’s dog, now attracting a few flies and one curious yellow jacket. The chill to my right that was Stevie stuck with me all the way to the doorbell. But he wouldn’t materialize or talk to me.

I pressed the button to ring the bell, which apparently didn’t work because I heard nothing. Great. I stepped back from the door and noticed all the blinds were drawn. The mud wasp nest in the top corner of the sidelight window was bigger than it had been in June when Xavier had squirted it with insecticide. I pressed the button again, to make sure it was broken, then knocked loudly against the hard wooden door, which kind of hurt my knuckles.

Maybe they weren’t home. I rapped again. I mean, I could understand that maybe they didn’t answer the door unless they knew someone was coming over, but I was Xavier’s friend, and he had to be home. It was Thursday. He was probably studying for all his Friday tests and didn’t want to be disturbed unless it was me.

Xavier, I called, it’s me. Heather.

He would have told me if they were going out-of-town or possibly to the doctor. He wasn’t above using a little sympathy to get me to agree to go out with him, which I hadn’t done yet.

I pressed my face to the glass to peer inside the darkened house. Are they home or not? I asked out loud, acknowledging the ghost literally chilling to my right.

Of course, Stevie didn’t respond. Or appear.

Where is Xavier? I asked him, turning toward the cool air.

Stevie remained silent and invisible.

You know they won’t ever be able to move on until you do, I said. Not that I was sure about that or anything, but he made me mad. And the way Xavier’s parents continued to mourn Stevie and neglect the one child they had left made me madder.

Too stubborn for your own good is what you are, I added. Not that Stevie cared.

Who are you talking to? Xavier asked, appearing on the other side of the glass sidelight, muffling his deep voice yet scaring the bejesus out of me.

My pulse sped, and I pointed to the door.

Xavier obliged, opening it and thankfully waving me into their way-too-dusty foyer, not that I’m a neat nut. Sunlight streaming through the door’s sidelight windows revealed a fine gray layer on the upholstered wingback chair’s armrests. Rather than ask what I really wanted to—how long has it been since anyone vacuumed—I attempted to explain what must have looked like me talking to myself. I was having a very one-sided conversation with your brother.

The fine dark hairs that were slowly filling in to form a mottled five o’clock shadow glinted as Xavier shook his head vehemently, then put his index finger over his lips to shush me. One of the few things Xavier and I didn’t really talk about was his brother. Today was no different.

Who’s there? his mom’s fragile voice called down the equally dusty carpeted stairs.

It’s just Heather, Xavier said as I sneezed.

Just Heather? I repeated, noting he still hadn’t bitten on my comment about trying to talk to his ghostly brother. Thanks.

Xavier groaned. I didn’t mean it that way. I meant she didn’t need to come down. She’s resting.

I took in his mussed hair, his long-sleeved gray tee shirt and blue plaid flannel pajama pants that were two inches too short, revealing his hairy ankles. Looks like your mom isn’t the only one who’s been resting.

What’s up? he asked, getting to the point quickly, which wasn’t like him. Normally, he’d be trying to find a way to extend our chat.

I came over to check on you since you weren’t in school.

He smiled, revealing that dimple that counterbalanced some of his other deficits in the looks department. You’re playing right into my hands. Resistance is futile.

Yeah, unfortunately, thanks to my geeky father who somehow thought he was no longer a geek, I understood the Star Trek reference, but I certainly wasn’t going to acknowledge it. So . . . why are you home and still in your pj’s?

Xavier shrugged. I got sick.

Funny, you don’t look sick. He wasn’t all pasty or coughing or anything.

Stomach bug—last night. He scratched his head, then his worried expression etched lines between his thick dark eyebrows. You know, I probably shouldn’t have let you in here. Don’t touch anything, and make sure you scrub your hands with soap and hot water through an entire chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’ when you get home. Trust me when I say you don’t want this.

You don’t have to lie to me, I said, certain that he was.

He crossed his arms over his chest. And why would I lie?

Because we’re getting close to the anniversary of, you know, Stevie—

Two weeks away, not today, he said, deep voice rising, his dark eyes glinting with hurt.

Yeah, I’d hit a nerve.

Maybe you should talk about it, I suggested. You know, to one of the counselors at school if not to me.

Right. Because talking has really helped my parents move on.

I reached out to give him a reassuring pat on the shoulder, and he shrugged me off, stepping back. What don’t you get about me harboring germs?

Stunned that he was rejecting my sympathy, I didn’t know what