I So Don't Do Mysteries Read Free

than I bargained for.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI’m stuck in the beginner Prevent a Crime class. Everyone else passed.
It’s very embarrassing, given my background in law enforcement.”
    â€œYou always rocked at work stuff. What’s the deal?”
    â€œI’m having a tough time with basic ghost skills such as flying and
hanging on to a location once I get there. Also, a lot of areas that were difficult for me in life are next to
impossible now.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œWell”—Mom pauses—“I’ve always had a
poor sense of direction, right?”
    â€œDefinitely dismal.” I nod. “I was pretty much your personal
MapQuest.”
    â€œNow I can’t even find point A,” she says, “never mind
get from A to B. The Academy is only on the other side of town. Under Dairy Queen. But it took me
months to find my way here and even longer to make contact with you.”
    Weird, weird, weird. Next she’ll be telling me she’s going on a field trip
to Hogwarts. “And the Academy is what, exactly?”
    â€œAn organization that trains ghosts to protect the living. To enroll, you need
prior experience in a field such as law enforcement, firefighting or PI work. And to advance through the
various levels, you have to conquer your weak areas. For example, I’m currently targeting my
sense of direction.”
    I rub my forehead, thinking how a Blizzard will never be the same for me.
    â€œSherry?” Mom’s voice goes soft and gooey and sweet, like
fresh bubble gum. “I’ve been watching you, and it looks as though you’ve
gotten even more fearful of challenges since I’ve been gone.”
    â€œMom, I’m fine. Really.” Except for the fact that I totally freeze
up in tough situations. Like a Popsicle. As in frozen solid.
    â€œI did some research at the Academy library and found an interesting loophole
in their rules.” She pauses. “A loophole that would allow us to work
together.”
    â€œLike . . . partners?” I picture Mom’s partner—well,
ex-partner—Stefanie, with her cute haircut and cool blue uniform. I smile. Then I picture a bunch
of bad guys with guns and scars. I frown.
    â€œIt would be completely safe,” Mom says, reading my frown.
“You’d just be helping me with a little mystery solving. It would build up your
self-confidence.”
    It feels like an undigested carnitas burrito with guac and sour cream is sitting in my
stomach.
    â€œI don’t do mysteries, Mom. In case you haven’t noticed,
I’m not Nancy Drew.” I fluff my dark hair for emphasis. “Do I look like a
strawberry-blond-haired teenage detective?”
    â€œSherry—”
    â€œYou know me,” I say. “You know I’ll
choke.”
    I can make myself sweat with memories of my many mistakes. I always flunk pop
quizzes; I was held back in beginner swimming five times; I’m the star of miles of videotape of
school shows where I just stand there like a moron. And the lame list goes on.
    â€œYou wouldn’t be operating alone. I’d be very
involved.”
    â€œNo, no, no.” I’m shaking my head so fast, the front of my
brain has probably Jell-O-jiggled all the way to the back and vice versa.
    â€œYou can do this,” Mom says gently. “You’ve
overcome challenges before.”
    There’s a long pause where I can imagine her twirling her dark, curly hair into a
ratty knot around her index finger just like I’m doing. Same hair, same habit. In fact, with my
wild shoulder-length hair and large brown eyes, people often say I take after my mom. Maybe just to be
nice. But still.
    Finally, she sighs. “Sherry, I need to be a little more up-front. I didn’t
want to put this pressure on you, but—”
    â€œWhat? What?” I say. “What’s going on?”
    â€œThe