You Can’t Pick Your Ghosts

By Leslie Hayertz

What do an American middle school, a castle in Spain and a golf course on the Oregon Coast have in common? The answer: ghosts.
In the title story, "You Can’t Pick Your Ghosts," sixth-grader Annie is haunted by Vice-principal McCormack, a real stickler for following rules. How can she convince him that 1.) she’s already paid her library fine, and 2.) he’s been replaced by someone who’s, well, alive.
The second story, "The Haunted Alcazar," is about a ruin of a castle in Spain and the little girl ghost who has, for centuries, clung to its safe and familiar walls. One summer a shepherd boy happens upon the castle with his sheep, and Rima is inspired to venture forth from her safe, but lonely, castle.
Finally, "In Ghost House on the Green," 12-year-old Ryan dreams of discovering new places, but feels his annoying little brother, Tommy, is holding him back. When they spend a weekend at the beach, Ryan discovers not a new place, but a very old one he never could have imagined. Along the way he learns some unexpected things about local history and about being a brother.
The moral of these stories? You can't pick your ghosts—they pick you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leslie Hayertz
• Release date: Oct 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9780999771846

Leslie Hayertz

Leslie Hayertz was born in Washington State. She earned a BA ed. at Central Washington University, and an MA in Spanish at Middlebury College. She teaches Spanish in the Portland Metro area.

Book preview

March 1997

My mom and dad used to always tell me there was no such thing as ghosts, and I used to think, too bad. There are some people it would be cool to see, like my hero, Madame Curie, who won two Nobel Prizes in science; and my Grandma Mitchy.

My opinion on ghosts is different now.

My Aunt Judy always says, You can pick your nose, and you can pick your friends, but you can’t pick your family. My mom gets mad and says, Judy, don’t be gross! Then Aunt Judy and I pretend to pick each other’s noses, and my mom pretends not to see.

It’s OK with me that you can’t pick your family—my family is pretty cool—but last November I found out you can’t pick your ghosts either, and that can be a problem.

2

The Bus

One afternoon last November, I was riding home on the school bus from middle school. It was pretty typical. The bus was stuffy, the driver was grumpy, the gears were grinding and the engine groaning.

I was sitting next to Sammy Bevans, who was writing down everything she wanted for her birthday. The list was so long, I told her she should put it in alphabetical order.

Or better yet, I said, put the things you really want last, and the things you really, really, really want first.

But Annie, I really, really, really, really want all of it, she said.

Erin B. and Erin M. were sitting in front of us talking too loud—this time about the spaghetti in the school cafeteria. Nate and his twin brother Zach were behind us. Nate was kicking the back of my seat. Like I said, it was pretty typical.

I turned around to yell at him, but I didn’t. I didn’t because I saw something—this white, misty thing in the aisle. It hovered there behind Nate. I sat twisted in my seat with my mouth open, looking past him at it.

Nate looked over his shoulder and then back at me.

What’s the matter with you, Elephant-Breath? he said.

I looked at his face, closed my mouth and looked back over his shoulder. There was nothing there. The aisle was empty.

3

My Imagination

I figured since the aisle was empty now, the white mist must have been my imagination, or my eyes were unfocused or something, so I forgot about it.

But, the next afternoon on the bus, I looked up from my game of tic-tac-toe with Sammy. I don’t know why, but I did. And there it was again. I saw it towards the front of the bus this time—the same white, misty thing.

This time it had more-defined edges—more-defined for a mist, that is. It was vaguely person-shaped. I looked around at the other kids’ faces. Nobody else seemed to see it.

I closed my eyes so hard I could feel my heartbeat throbbing in my eyelids. When I opened my eyes, the thingamabobber was gone.

Whew! I figured it was my imagination, again. My eyes were unfocused or something, again. And I forgot about it—until the next day.

4

A Blob in the Fog

The next afternoon when the bus stopped at my street, Erin B. and Erin M. got off first. Then I dropped down the long step from the bus to the grass. Sammy was behind me.

The usual November morning fog had decided to stay put for the whole day. The shapes of houses and trees seemed to melt into the soft, white sky. They looked like big, pale blobs.

I stepped onto the sidewalk and turned to face Sammy. She was right there, but something shimmered right behind her. I knew it was more than fog. It was a different kind of white, and it was much, much thicker.

There it is, I shouted, pointing over Sammy’s right shoulder.

It had more shape than when I had seen it on the bus. This time I could make out shoulders. As I pointed, it faded away.

5

Haunted

Sammy’s eyes widened. She spun around. What? What? she said.

A ghost! I yelled A ghost!

I don’t know why ghost popped out of my mouth like that; maybe because it’s easier to say than white, misty, thingamabobber that’s sort of human-shaped.

Sammy turned, but saw only Nate and Zach behind her.

Very funny, Annie, she said.

The bus door plopped shut and its stop sign creaked as it folded back against the bus. The engine harrumphed as the bus pulled away from the curb.

Nate pointed at his head and made circles with his finger.

Should I try to convince them? Should I try to convince me? I had to decide, quick.

Just kidding, I said.

As I walked up to my house, I thought, I should tell my parents. But tell them what? Mom, Dad, take me to an eye doctor, or Mom, Dad, I’m going nuts, or Mom, Dad, I’m being haunted?

Haunted? I didn’t think Mom and Dad would go for that.

If I saw the thing one more time, I told myself, then I’d tell them. Then, I figured, I’d have to tell them.

6

Am I Scared?

I hesitated at the front door. I just stood there with my hand on the door knob. My parents always told me, Observe and describe, observe and describe. Good scientists know how to observe and describe—objectively, dispassionately.

So, I asked myself, just what am I feeling here? The answer: scared.

I looked over my shoulder.

Whew, nothing there. I used my key to let myself in. I locked the door behind me and leaned against it.

What am I scared of, I asked myself. Answer: I’m scared I’m going nuts or blind. I’m scared it might be a real ghost. I’m scared Mom and Dad won’t believe me.

Second question: Apart from being scared of going nuts or blind, is the misty thingamabobber scary in and of itself?

That was a good question. I thought about it. I tried to separate the first being scared from a second being scared. Nope, no secondary scared. The ghost/misty-thing was not a scary ghost/misty-thingy.

If it was not scary, did it make me feel anything? I tried to peek under the blanket of queasiness inside me. Was anything else under there? What else did I feel? Answer: irritated. Definitely irritated. It was an irritating ghost/misty-thingy.

Question: Why was it irritating? Answer: I don’t know, but there was something faintly familiar and something definitely irritating about it.

7

Home

That settled, I felt a little better. The house was chilly, so I turned up the thermostat. Mom would get home around 5:30.

I went into the kitchen and ate some pretzels and washed them down with chocolate milk. Sitting in our crisp, white kitchen, with the refrigerator gurgling and the furnace humming, with an empty glass of chocolate milk and a bowl of pretzel salt and crumbs in front of me, I felt pretty normal again, pretty down to earth.

I did homework and forgot all about what I had seen or had not seen. I felt fine, except for math problems No. 8 and No. 11, which I did not get.

The sun touched down on the horizon, and it got colder all of a sudden. It wasn’t dark yet. I curled up on the couch and pulled the throw blanket over me. My nose was cold, so I pulled the blanket up over my head. My breath was moist and warm under the blanket, and as soon as my nose warmed up, I fell asleep.

8

It

When I opened my eyes, the house was silent—not a single sound, not even the hum of the refrigerator. I peaked out from the blanket. There were no lights on, and the room was dark now. But something, someone was there, in the doorway.

Mom? I whispered, hopefully.

Do I look like your mother, Aaronson? it said.

I gasped. I recognized that voice.

Mr. McCormack? My voice creaked. He was the only one who used Aaronson like it was my first name instead of my last.

Speak up, Aaronson, he said.

Is that you? Sir? I asked.

Of course it’s me. Don’t ask asinine questions.

But, I said, you’re wearing a fringed leather jacket. And, is that a ponytail?

I wasn’t always a middle-school vice principal, you know, he said.

9

Mr. McCormack

You’re probably wondering what was happening. I know I was. My mind was trying to observe and describe like crazy, but it wasn’t helping. You see, Mr. McCormack, whose hair