The Secret Life of Sparrow Delaney Read Free

discussing the polyester content of his socks! I was about to bury my head under my pillow in utter despair when I smelled smoky incense and heard a voice say, “I would not dismiss your mother’s observations so cavalierly if I were you. You can learn much about a person from the cut of his jib.”
    I sat up and saw the ghost of Prajeet Singh sitting in the lotus position on the rug. As always, he was nattily dressed in black pants, navy sweater, and starched white shirt. He’s Indian—not as in Native American, but as in from the teeming subcontinent of India. He passed over in 1903, when he was only twenty-two years old, the unfortunate victim of a vicious monkey bite.
    â€œI’m not dismissing it. I’m just begging that we postpone it to another day.” I protested, but I was smiling.
    Prajeet’s quite a dreamboat, with dark eyes, floppy brown hair, and a kind, flashing white smile. He showed up five years after Floyd came to visit. By that time I was quite good at hiding Floyd from my family, so I just added Prajeet to the list of secrets I had to keep.
    He cocked his head to listen as my mother’s voice floated up through the vent. She had finally exhausted her fashion commentary and was passing on messages from the spiffy dresser with the palm tree tie.
    â€œHe’s smiling and happy—”
    â€œAnd he wants you to know he’s all right,” I chanted wearily. “Now if he would just go be all right someplace else and let the rest of us get some sleep—”
    â€œNot a very gracious attitude, I must say, Sparrow,” a new voice said tartly. Professor Edna Trimble was shimmering at the end of my bed, accompanied, as always, by the brisk scent of liniment. She had been in her eighties when she Passed On and long retired from her career terrorizing students at an academically rigorous women’s college. However, she still dressed in a tweedy, professorial way and wore her gray hair in a severe bun. Her wintry blue eyes eyed me sternly over silver-framed bifocals. “I really expect better of you.”
    â€œI’m too tired to be gracious.”
    She gave a disapproving sniff. “Even when utterly exhausted, one should always demonstrate common courtesy to others.”
    I fell back on my pillows, knowing better than to argue. Professor Trimble appeared about a year after Prajeet and immediately began nagging me about my homework (sloppy), my posture (bad), my manners (careless), and my general attitude (poor). After her first alarming appearance I asked Prajeet, with some trepidation, if my bedroom would soon be crowded with ghosts, offering unwanted advice and commenting on whether I had made the bed.
    â€œNo, no, do not worry,” he had said. “You see, we three are your spirit guides. You have heard of such beings, have you not?”
    I had, of course. Unlike friends or relatives who Cross Over and then come back with specific messages for their loved ones, spirit guides are assigned to watch over people here on Earth for longer periods of time. I had always found the concept comforting, although I began to revise that opinion after meeting Professor Trimble.
    â€œSo you’re here to help me, right?” I had asked, just to be sure.
    â€œYes, indeed,” Prajeet had said. “Guidance, support, a helping hand, they are all part of our brief. We each have our little specialties, of course. Floyd, for example, is your gatekeeper, who has watched over you since birth. I have a certain humble talent for explaining metaphysical concepts. And Professor Trimble is here to, er . . .”—he had paused, his eyes sparkling with mischief, then continued diplomatically—“I suppose I should say she is here to make sure you fulfill your potential.”
    â€œOh.” I’m sure I sounded rather gloomy at this news. Even then I had sensed that Professor Trimble and I were going to have very different ideas