The Secret Life of Sparrow Delaney Read Free Page A

about what fulfilling my potential meant.
    â€œSo why are you doing all this?” I had asked. “It sounds like a lot of work. I thought the afterlife was supposed to be kind of, I don’t know . . . relaxing.”
    â€œAn excellent question, my dear Sparrow!” he had said with delight. “The answer is quite simple. Helping others enables us to advance to a higher spiritual level on the Other Side, just as it does here on Earth.”
    â€œReally? What’s the next level? Do you get promoted to angel or something if you do a good job?”
    But apparently even Prajeet couldn’t (or wouldn’t) reveal all the secrets of the universe at one go. He had just smiled a little and said, “Ah, well, the universe offers many mysteries to unravel—but not tonight, I think.” And I could never get him to utter another word on the subject after that.
    I rather liked having spirit guides, even if I did have to be careful to talk to them only when no one else was around. But shortly after that conversation I began seeing other ghosts, ghosts that definitely weren’t interested in achieving a lofty spiritual goal through unselfish assistance to others. No, they wanted me to help them . They would come up to me anytime, any place—in my bedroom, on the front porch, at the dinner table, in study hall, at the bus stop. The only place that seemed to be off limits, thank goodness, was the bathroom. I really didn’t want to have to deal with spirits in the shower.
    â€œThey’re everywhere!” I had complained. “Like flies at a picnic!”
    â€œMore like moths to a flame, honey,” Floyd had answered.
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œIt means,” Professor Trimble said, “that you have an extraordinary amount of psychic talent.”
    â€œThat’s ridiculous,” I’d said, uneasy. “If I’m so talented, why didn’t I show signs of it before now?”
    â€œThat was my doing,” Floyd had said, pleased with himself. “You remember when I first came to you? You were already demonstrating all four kinds of psychic ability, but you were such a little thing. I knew we had to take it slow, so I didn’t let other spirits approach until you were ready. It’s like baking a soufflé. You don’t want to overbeat the eggs, or it won’t rise. You don’t want to keep opening the oven door, or it will fall. You don’t want to—”
    â€œI have four kinds of psychic ability?” I had interrupted. Floyd’s baking metaphors tend to be long and elaborate. Plus they make me hungry.
    Prajeet held up one finger. “Clairvoyance. The ability to see spirits.” He held up another finger. “Clairaudience. The ability to hear spirits.” Two more fingers. “Clairsentience, the ability to feel or sense the presence of spirits. And clairgustance, the ability to sense smells or tastes associated with a spirit. Most mediums have only one such gift. It is quite rare indeed to possess all four.”
    â€œOh.” That did sound overwhelming.
    Professor Trimble had nodded austerely. “It will require discipline and work and many hours of study for you to learn to control your abilities.”
    That had sounded daunting.
    â€œFortunately,” she had added smoothly, “we are here to help you.”
    That had sounded terrifying.
    Now, as I listened to a reading that was heading into its fourth hour, I didn’t feel overwhelmed or daunted or even particularly terrified. I just felt very tired. As an experiment, I closed my eyes to see if I would miraculously fall into a dreamless sleep despite the ghosts in my bedroom and the people downstairs. . . .
    â€œSparrow! Wake up!” Professor Trimble snapped.
    I pretended to snore.
    â€œI know you’re awake. I want to talk to you,” she said. “I notice that you have once again turned down a perfect opportunity to begin