The Ghost School: Marn Magical Academy, #1

By Stacey Keystone

Amy Laurendeau is just an ordinary orphan. Or so she thinks, until she finds, among her mother's things, an advert for a magical Academy. An Academy she can only attend in a ghost form.

In the Academy, she will make a friend, find her family's secrets, and face the grave danger her mother had run away from. If Martinus Novak, her rich, but snobbish rival allows her to do it.

Book 1 of the Marn Magical Academy series, which will take you through Amy's adventures as she finds love and friendship.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stacey Keystone
• Release date: Sep 8, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393227755

Book preview

1

The best thing about working in Jemma's Waffle House was the free food. I could feel the smell of freshly fried waffles and the tingling of crispy fried bacon rashers as I was bussing tables. I looked forward to the meal I would get at the end of my shift. Jemma is generous with the food for staff, so I could always get extra. A group of teenage girls stood up, leaving a table that was an absolute mess. It's incredible what a mess teenage girls can make (teenage boys never surprise me). I looked at the table as I piled the plates to clear it up. They'd nibbled on most of the food, but I could see they left some bits untouched. I looked around.

The restaurant was full, as it usually is on Saturday mornings, but nobody was looking. I ate some of the untouched bits and resumed the clean-up.

I tried to clean as quickly as I could, since customers come constantly on days like this one. Some drunks come to get a bit of food before they get to sleep; some come hungover after they find their fridge empty and no desire to cook. Jemma's Waffle House is family friendly, though. We sit all the less pleasant customers further away from the window and terrace area, where families come to have a nice, peaceful breakfast before going out for a stroll.

The tray, which I filled with the plates, was heavy. My hands had gotten greasy with the plates (they made a mess of the table), so I quickly carried the tray to the kitchen. Collecting some of the sponges and soap we use for the bigger messes, I went back to the table and quickly cleaned it. There will be new customers soon. We get a non-stop flow of people on Saturday mornings. People come for breakfast until lunchtime.

It was a sunny day. I could feel the bright rays of sun from the more interior part of the waffle house, almost blinding me. It's the kind of day sunglasses are made for. I could see quite a few of the customers who are sitting on the terrace are wearing them. We had some inside, too, but those are the hungover ones.

I wasn't supposed to be on this shift, but Melanie called yesterday, as I was settling in bed. She was going out, and she asked me to take her shift. I never say no to extra shifts, so I came. The tips are decent on Saturdays, especially from the still-drunk crowd. Teenage girls aren't the best tippers, but families also give decent tips (although they give a lot of trouble, and always create a mess to clean).

However, I am assigned to the inside part of the restaurant. So I have to hope I get as many of the still-drunk customers as I can since the hungover ones aren't that generous.

Here comes another customer. Jessica, who was in charge of the terrace, also arranged the seating, making sure she got the best customers. This one, a young, professional man (I'd give him 30+), she gave the teenage girls' table. While he could be a potentially generous tipper, single men don't make big orders, so the tip would be small, even if generous percentage wise. But people like that rarely give me much trouble. I took a menu, smiled, and approached the man.

Good morning, sir, I said, giving him the menu. What would you like to eat?

He didn't even look at the menu.

Bacon and scrambled eggs, he said, and espresso.

We usually serve that dish with waffles, I said. They're included. Would you like them?

No, the man said, staring at my chest area a fixed, slightly scary stare.

Was he staring at my boobs or trying to read my nameplate?

I'm Amy, I said. Amy Laurendeau. It's pronounced Loh-ren-do.

He looked up, now looking at my face.

Well, Amy Loh-ren-do, he said, are you bringing me my order or not?

So he was going to be one of those customers that did create trouble. I smiled.

Sure, I said. It will take ten to fifteen minutes since the kitchen is busy. Would you like the espresso now or together with the food?

Bring me the coffee first, the man said.

After bringing him the espresso I brewed, I kept taking orders from the new customers and bringing the orders to the rest. Finally, that man's order was ready. I didn't tell the kitchen stuff to exclude the waffle. I looked around swiftly and slid the waffle into my pocket. I then put the plate on the tray and brought it to him.

Here's your breakfast, sir, I said, smiling.

Took your time, Miss Loh-ren-do, he said, making emphasis on my name.

Enjoy your meal, sir, I said, not taking the bait.

I didn't expect any tip from this man, so why waste my time?

So, when I came to clear the table after he paid and left, I was surprised to see a twenty-dollar bill on the table. A twenty-dollar bill for an order of less than that! Well, that made me feel better than the stolen waffle.

After I finished my shift, I got to eat breakfast in the kitchen. Despite nibbling food here and there and getting some bites at the beginning of the shift, I was ravished again.

Hello, Amy, said Gary, the head chef, when I entered the kitchen. The plump, short man shared my love of waffles and food, so he always treated me with affection. Most of the female waiters ate the salads we only had in our menu for people in big groups (who goes to a waffle house to eat a salad?). Gary liked those who appreciated his food, and he hated salad. He slid me a generous pile of waffles with cream and chocolate, with a side plate of bacon and scrambled eggs.

If I didn't see you eat, I'd assumed you eat the same diet as Jessica, Gary observed, mixing the batter for a new order of waffles. How do you do that? My wife keeps insisting I keep this, he patted his big belly, in check.

I do a lot of exercise, I lied, like always.

There is nothing fellow women hate more than a girl who eats a lot and stays thin. I always had an enormous appetite. I devoured amounts of food that would fit a rather large adult, even as a small child. My mother, who worked as a sales clerk at a clothing store, had to scramble every month to feed my outsized appetite. She had taken me to many doctors, and none of them could detect anything wrong with me. In a fit of desperation, she even tried to feed me less, giving me the amount of food more appropriate to a person my size and age. It didn't go well. Not only did I go on angry tantrums, but I also started to faint and lose weight. When veins became visible on my arms after just a week of the diet, my mother gave up, returning me to a diet of calorie-rich food.

I guess your outsized metabolism is not that bad, she said once, while I was devouring a 16-inch pizza all by myself. At least you'll always be thin.

It would be nice if it wasn't this expensive, I agreed.

My mother had been struggling with cancer, and the need to spend money on the ginormous amounts of food I needed just to keep my energy stretched our budget. Even with supposed free medical attention on Medicaid, the fuel, the parking fees, the rent, and the utilities were way too much for a household where the only earner was a teenage girl. Mother couldn't work much, although she did what she could; I had to manage our budget, working extra jobs, and scrimping as much as I could on everything. All the food we ate was cooked from scratch; I bought the clothes in yard sales, and we rented a tiny apartment over a club, for the lowest rent you could get in town.

Mother sometimes considered going to Social Services to get help. But just the idea that they could take me away from her, for my own good, made me wake up with cold sweat at night. I never encouraged her, so she gave up on those intentions, as she was too weak to do anything on her own.

She insisted I study for my GED, though.

You didn't ask me when you quit high school, she said then. And I can't force you to go back. But you must get a GED. You're a smart girl; you should be able to get it on your eighteenth birthday. Promise me you'll do that.

Promise, I said, to ease her mind. It's not like the exam is that hard; mother was right, I had been a good student before all this. I bought the textbooks at a yard sale, and studied them every evening, going over some things with her.

I kept my promise, even though I couldn't show her my degree. She died of the metastasized breast cancer that had been slowly killing her.

What kind of exercise? Gary asked, taking me out of the flashback. Maybe I should start doing that, too, if it works that well.

I run ultramarathons, I said the usual lie.

Actually, I could barely run. When I was still going to school, PE requirements would sap all the energy out of me, making me hungry almost immediately. But I said I ran ultramarathons since nobody would consider asking me to join in that. Who wants to run over 26 miles in a morning?

Not me, that's for sure.

Ah, Gary said, deflating. I can't do that. The wife will have to live with the belly.

Or she could keep nagging you, I said.

That she would, Gary observed, sadly contemplating his marital life.

I finished the plates and put them on the pile of dirty dishes.

Thanks, Gary, I said. I'll be going home now, I guess. This shift was exhausting.

Tell me about it, Gary said. I still have a couple of hours left, before Mark comes.

Have a nice day, I said, waving, as I went towards the exit.

When I arrived home, I took out the GED diploma. I kept my promise to mother.

It was time to visit her.

---

Despite the sunny summer day, the cemetery at our local church was quiet. Nobody liked to visit it unless it was for necessity.

I put my GED and a pot of white gardenias on mother's grave. The wind was weak, but the thin, weightless piece of paper almost flew away. I put the flowerpot on top of the diploma.

Here, Mama, I said. My GED. I promised I'd get it, right? Didn't even have to study that much. Which is a good thing, since I couldn't do it without you.

I could see my mothers' smile, smell the faint smell of her favorite peach perfume, and her hand patting my arm.

I don't even know what to do anymore, I said, as I felt my voice cracking. I don't know what to do about a future without you. Alone.

The tears I was trying to keep inside me were released, and, as the first drop landed on my GED diploma, I felt the torrent of grief I'd been bottling inside me bubble up.

I stayed like that, crouching, crying over a flowerpot and a diploma, when I suddenly heard a voice behind me.

Now you need to get a use out of your GED, the voice said. I felt a hand on my arm. Go to community college. Or do an apprenticeship. Move on; that's what your mother would have wanted.

I turned around, the tears still running down my face.

Pastor Mark? I whispered in a croaky voice.

He handed me a box of tissues, which I used to sneeze and dry my face.

I haven't seen you since your mother's funeral, he said, with a hint of disappointment in his voice.

I wasn't religious, and, despite mother's attempts to convert me, I only went with her to mass to give her company.

How long have you been listening? I asked the pastor.

Since I saw you coming, the pastor said. Didn't want to bother you, though. So I waited. But it seemed to me you needed some guidance, so I came to talk to you.

I didn't like him butting into my business, but I was quite used to the small-town nosiness by now.

I'd like to continue talking with Mama, I said, if you don't mind, pastor.

Of course, he said, directing his palm at me. Take your time. But I'd like you to drop by the rectory when you're done. Your mother left me a few things for you.

OK, I said.

I turned back on him, kneeling on the ground in front of the grave. The grass hadn't grown yet, so the wet soil would ruin my jeans. I didn't care. I just hoped to talk with mother alone.

I think I heard the pastor leaving. I stared at mother's grey tombstone for a while, before I stood up, and shook the jeans at my knees, getting rid of the soil. I was curious about what mother had left me.

2

When I arrived at the rectory, Pastor Mark was waiting for me, with a steaming teapot, and a big tray of scones his wife had just baked. I greeted her and sat on the armchair in front of the coffee table in the pastor's living room.

Pastor Mark knew about my appetite. Mother had taken me to him several times, trying to exorcise the sin of gluttony out of me. The pastor, after observing the disastrous results of the brief attempt at dieting, advised her to let things run in their natural course. Besides, they didn't do exorcisms since they weren't protestant.

God makes us different for a reason, he told my mother, gently, as I devoured a tray of doughnuts. In your daughter's case, it's not gluttony that pushes her, but a need for nourishment. That her needs differ from others is just an example of God's mysterious ways.

After that, mother stopped trying to reign in my appetite. It made me like the pastor a lot more.

So he gave me a tray with 10 scones, while he only took one. He also gave me a big jar of jam to spread it onto the scones.

Eat, my child, he said. For grief takes a big toll on all of us.

I poured him a cup out of the teapot before I served myself. I always made half-tea: half cream, half tea, and a tablespoon of sugar. I felt how the warm drink warmed me on the inside, relaxing.

After I finished the tea and scones, the pastor took out a big folder, so full of stuff that it was exploding on its seals.

Your mother frequently talked to me about you, he said. And what she thought would happen after she died. She wanted you to have a better life than she did, so she told me to give you this when you're ready.

I took the folder, my hands shaking. The first thing I saw was a photo of mother in her youth, with a man embracing her shoulder. I took it out, examining mother's carefree and young face. Why did she leave it here? I looked at the pastor.

She told me that is your father, the pastor said.

Mother had never told me who my father was. She always told me he was dead, or away, or traveling, or something. I looked at the man. His black hair, aquiline nose, olive tone skin, dark, penetrating gaze, high cheekbones, and heavy jaw. It seemed like I got almost nothing from him, inheriting my mother's softer, lighter eye color, her snub nose, and narrow face.

Do you know his name? I asked the pastor.

He shook his head.

Your mother told me he introduced himself as Matt, but not his full name. She never knew much about him; he disappeared after you were conceived.

Mother got pregnant by a stranger? My church-going, pious, and puritan mother? I stared at the pastor in incomprehension.

Margaret was a bit of a wild spirit when she was in college, the pastor said. She converted when she came here. I still remember when she joined the church, full of questions and skepticism. But she has followed an unwaveringly Christian life since she joined.

I put the photo aside and checked the next document.