How do you ignore a ghost? Sparrow Delaney absolutely, positively does not want to be a medium like her six older sisters, her mother, and her grandmother. She does not want to see, hear, smell, or talk to ghosts. If she sticks to her rules and doesn't let anyone know that she can do all those things—everywhere, all the time—Sparrow just might pass as a normal tenth grader at her new high school. She makes a new best friend and meets an irritatingly appealing guy in her history class. But when another boy catches her eye, all Sparrow's dreams of being ordinary go up in smoke. Because this boy is a dead one—a persistent, charming, infuriating ghost, who won't let her be until she agrees to help him Move On. [set star]“An unexpectedly poignant meditation on loss in a quick-moving plot about ghosts and the spiritual mediums who communicate with them.” - Publishers Weekly (starred review) How do you ignore a ghost? Sparrow Delaney absolutely, positively does not want to be a medium like her six older sisters, her mother, and her grandmother. She does not want to see, hear, smell, or talk to ghosts. If she sticks to her rules and doesn't let anyone know that she can do all those things—everywhere, all the time—Sparrow just might pass as a normal tenth grader at her new high school. She makes a new best friend and meets an irritatingly appealing guy in her history class. But when another boy catches her eye, all Sparrow's dreams of being ordinary go up in smoke. Because this boy is a dead one—a persistent, charming, infuriating ghost, who won't let her be until she agrees to help him Move On. Suzanne Harper grew up in Texas and lives in New York City. The Secret Life of Sparrow Delaney By Suzanne Harper HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. Copyright © 2008 Suzanne Harper All right reserved. ISBN: 9780061131608 Chapter One It was three minutes past midnight, and the dead wouldn't leave me alone. I pulled my pillow over my head to shut out the voices floating up from downstairs, but it didn't help. Tonight it was Grandma Bee, my mother, and my sister Oriole who were channeling messages from the Other Side. First I heard Grandma Bee. "I see an older woman. She's short, a little pudgy, her dentures don't fit well, and she's squinting. Looks like she has a migraine. Hmm. And maybe a touch of indigestion." Then the voice of my grandmother's visitor: "That's my great-aunt Agatha! That's her to a tee!" "Hmmph." Grandma Bee loathes being interrupted. I can just imagine the irate glare she's leveling at her visitor. It's been months since we've had enough money to get my grandmother's glasses fixed, so they sit askew on her nose, one side held together with a large safety pin. The thick lenses magnify her eyes and make them look rather wild. The crooked tilt of the frames make her look slightly mad. The combination—plus Grandma Bee's death-ray stare—usually silences . . . well, everybody. This woman, however, kept gushing. "I can't get over it! It's absolutely uncanny! You've described her perfectly!" I knew what Grandma Bee would like to say: Of course I've described her perfectly. I am after all a professional medium . And your great-aunt is standing right here in front of me . But it's not good business to snap at paying customers, so she contented herself with a louder hmmph and an irritable clack of her dentures before continuing. "Now I'm getting something else. . . . Oh, she says you're not using enough salt when you make her potato soup." A note of boredom entered Grandma Bee's voice. She hates it when ghosts talk about recipes; she only deigns to turn on the stove when she wants to brew some of her homemade weed killer. "And she says to add some bacon grease, for heaven's sake. A little fat won't kill you." "Oh, thank you!" The visitor sighed happily at this seasoning tip from beyond the grave. "Would it be all right if I asked just one more little question? It's about the number of onions she said to use. . . ." I threw my pillow on the floor and gave a huge, irritable yawn. Earlier in the evening I had sat at my bedroom window and peered down at tonight's visitors as they walked up our cracked front sidewalk. I counted five people, meaning that the reading should have lasted about two hours, but the spirits were very chatty tonight. We were closing in on three hours with no end in sight. Unfortunately, I have always found it impossible to fall asleep until every stranger, living or dead, has left our house. This has led to many late nights and cranky mornings because my grandmother and mother have been hosting psychic readings—or, as spiritualists say, serving Spirit—in our front parlor since before I was born. I closed my eyes and tried to relax, but it wasn't just the ghosts that were keeping me awake. Tomorrow was my fifteenth birthday—undoubtedly the begining of a new and brilliant future!—and right after that was the first day of school. And this year the start of school was