I So Don't Do Famous Read Online Free

sighs. He’s probably imagining a bowl mounded high with French vanilla ice cream.
    The couch cushions breathe out as my dad and The Ruler settle in. Their heads bobble like they have spring necks.
    Dad stretches out an arm with the remote, and Céline Dion’s vocals soar through the living room. My dad has a love affair going with that singer. If she ever knocked at our front door, he’d follow her through the streets of Phoenix like she was the Pied Piper.
    â€œWhat’s going on with Sherry?” My dad spaces each word apart, like he’s expecting bad news.
    The Ruler says something.
    I cup my ear.
    My dad responds. Something.
    Ack. I cannot hear. Like a cat sneaking up on a mouse, I slowly scoot down a couple of steps. I press my cheek against the cool metal railing, my ear jutting through the bars. What are these people saying about me?
    â€œYou really think I should go?” Dad crosses, then uncrosses his feet at the ankles, then finally rests them side by side on the coffee table.
    â€œIt’d be great bonding time for you two. Also, I can’t miss the robotics meeting,” The Ruler says. “And it’d be really good for Sherry to leave town, attend the awards ceremony and get some distance between her and this breakup.”
    The Ruler’s sending Dad to Hollywood with Junie and me?
    â€œI have a few clients in Los Angeles I could see while I’m out there,” my dad says.
    â€œSure.” The Ruler bends forward to gather up her knitting. “The magazine pays for the tickets, but you need to talk with Sherry about exact dates. And to let her know you’re going, of course.”
    My dad’s feet hit the floor.
    â€œI’m sure she’s already asleep, Bob. She always dozes off reading
Rebecca.
” The Ruler’s needles clickrhythmically. “Talk to her tomorrow, then we’ll touch base with Junie’s parents.”
    I crab-walk backward. Across the carpeted landing, into my bedroom, grazing my shoulder on the doorjamb.
    There’s someone else I need to invite on the trip. My mom.
    My mom was a cop with the Phoenix Police Department. She died in the line of duty a couple of years ago. After her death, she enrolled in the Academy of Spirits, an organization that trains ghosts to protect humans. At first, she was totally flunking her classes. To boost her dismal grades, she recruited me as her partner in mystery solving. Now she’s acing school and was recently loaned out to a foreign Academy for a few months.
    I wait until my house is the kind of calm and quiet you get when everyone’s in bed. Then I scrounge in my desk drawer for a Ziploc bag of coffee beans, toss on a sweatshirt and tiptoe downstairs and through the kitchen. A bright moon lights up our backyard. I tramp across the lawn to the ornamental pear tree in the corner of the yard. My mom planted this tree when I was born, and it’s where I have the best luck getting in touch with her.
    I throw a leg over the lowest branch and hoist myself up. Once I’m sitting, my back scrunched againstthe trunk, I open the Ziploc bag and let the smell of coffee waft through the night air. I close my eyes and think mom thoughts.
    I wait.
    The night is still. Crickets chirp. An owl hoots off in the distance.
    I wait some more. Calling a ghost can take patience.
    Lately, my mother and I have been in contact way less frequently because her work with the foreign Academy doesn’t include me.
    All of a sudden, the leaves shudder in a whoosh of java-scented air. Ghosts smell like something important from their mortal life. My mother was a coffee fanatic. The branch bobs as she settles next to me.
    â€œHi, Sherry,” she says brightly. “How are you? I’ve missed you.”
    At the sound of her voice, a lump clogs my throat. “Josh and I broke up.” My eyes spill over with tears.
    â€œOh, pumpkin, I’m so sorry.” There’s a feathery touch