Title: Kaleidoscope
Summary: Once upon a time, there lived a girl who loved a ghost, and they lived happily ever after. This is not (quite) that story. Ghost!Suze, Human!Jesse. AU. JS.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never mine, and I promise to put them back when I'm done.

AN – I am home from uni for Christmas and there is snow and my dog keeps trying to sit on me, even though she's WAY too big. All of these things make me happy.

Chapter 4 - The Pleasure to Have Known

The Junipero Serra Catholic Academy, grades K-12, was made co-educational in the eighties, and had, much to my relief, recently dropped its strict uniform policy. I tend to go through clothes with alarming speed, and having to repeatedly replace a school uniform due to any number of ghost-related rips and stains was just more trouble than it was worth. Fortunately however, the uniforms had been so unpopular that they, like the boys-only rule, had been abandoned, and though the pupils still couldn't wear jeans, they could wear just about anything else they wanted. Which suited me fine.

The Catholic thing, though, was going to be a problem. Not really a problem so much as an inconvenience. My mother never really bothered to raise me in any particular religion. My father's family had been Catholic, but religion had never played an important part in either of my parents' lives, and, needless to say, it had only served to confuse me. I mean, you would think I'd have a better grasp on religion than anybody, but the truth is, I haven't the slightest idea what happens to the ghosts I send off to wherever it is they're supposed to go after they die. All I know is, once I send them there, they do not come back. Not ever. The end.

So when my mother and I showed up at the Mission School's administrative office the Monday after my arrival in sunny California, I was more than a little taken aback to be confronted with a six foot Jesus hanging on a crucifix behind the secretary's desk.

I shouldn't have been surprised, though. My mom had pointed out the school from my room the previous evening, lit up by floodlights so that it was easily visible above the other lights of Carmel.

"That's the Mission dome," she'd said. "The dome covers the chapel."

Sarah happened to be hanging around – I'd noticed she did that a lot – and she launched into another one of her descriptions, this time of the Franciscans, who were members of a Roman Catholic religious order that followed the rule of St. Francis, approved in 1209. Father Junipero Serra, a Franciscan monk, was, according to Sarah, a tragically misunderstood historical figure. A controversial hero in the Catholic church, he had been considered for sainthood at one time, but, she explained, Native Americans questioned this move as "a general endorsement of the exploitative colonization tactics of the Spanish." Though Junipero Serra was known to have argued on behalf of the property rights and economic entitlement of converted Native Americans, he consistently advocated against their right to self-governance, and was a staunch supporter of corporal punishment, appealing to the Spanish government for the right to flog Indians.

When Sarah had finished this particular lecture, I just looked at her with one eyebrow raised and asked, "Photographic memory?"

She looked embarrassed. "Well," she said. "It's good to know the history of the place where you're living."

I filed this away for future reference. Sarah might be just the person I would need if Susannah showed up again.

Now, standing in the cool office of the ancient building Junipero Serra had constructed for the betterment of the natives in the area, I wondered how many ghosts I was going to encounter. That Serra guy had to have a bunch of Native Americans mad at him – particularly considering that corporal punishment thing – and I hadn't any doubt I was going to encounter all of them.

And yet, when my mom and I walked through the school's wide front archway into the courtyard around which the Mission had been constructed, I didn't see a single person who looked as if he or she didn't belong there. There were a few tourists snapping pictures of the impressive fountain, a gardener working diligently at the base of a palm tree – even at my new school there were palm trees – a priest walking in silent contemplation down the airy breezeway. It was a beautiful, restful place – especially for a building that was so old, and had to have seen so much death.

I couldn't understand it. Where were all the ghosts?

Maybe they were afraid to hang around the place. I mean, they had some pretty creepy artwork around. I've got nothing against religious art, but was it really necessary to portray the crucifixion so realistically?

Apparently, I was not alone in thinking so, since a boy who was slumped on a couch across from the one where my mom and I had been instructed to wait noticed the direction of my gaze and said, "He's supposed to weep tears of blood if any girl ever graduates from here a virgin."

I couldn't help letting out a little bark of laughter. My mother glared at me. The secretary, a plump middle-aged woman who looked as if something like that ought to have offended her deeply only rolled her eyes, and said, tiredly, "Oh, Adam."

Adam, who seemed to be about my age, looked at me with a perfectly serious face. "It's true," he said, gravely. "It happened last year. My sister." He dropped his voice conspiratorially. "She's adopted."

I laughed again, and my mother frowned at me. She had spent most of yesterday explaining to me that it had been really, really hard to convince the school to take me, especially since she couldn't produce any proof that I'd ever been baptized. In the end, they'd only let me in because of Andy, since all three of his girls went there. I imagine a sizeable donation had also played a part in my admittance, but my mother wouldn't tell me that. All she said was that I had better behave myself, and not hurl anything out of any

windows – even though I reminded her that that particular incident hadn't been my fault. I'd been fighting with a particularly violent young ghost who'd refused to quit haunting the locker rooms at my old school. Throwing him through that window had certainly gotten his attention, and convinced him to tread the path of righteousness ever after.

Of course, I'd told my mother that I'd been practicing my tennis swing indoors, and the racket had slipped from my hands – an especially unbelievable story, since a racket was never found.

It was as I was reliving this painful memory that a heavy wooden door opened, and a priest came out and said, "Mrs. Ackerman, what a pleasure to see you again. And this must be Jesse. Come in, won't you?" He ushered us into his office, then paused, and said to the boy on the couch, "Oh, no, Mr. McTavish. Not on the first day of a brand new year."

Adam shrugged. "What can I say? The broad hates me."

"Kindly do not refer to Sister Ernestine as a broad, Mr. McTavish. I will see to you in a moment."

We went in, and the principal, Father Dominic – that was his name – sat and chatted with us for a while, asking me how I liked California so far. I said I liked it fine, especially the ocean. Father Dominic expressed his sincere hope that I'd be happy at the Mission Academy, and went on to explain that even though I wasn't Catholic, I shouldn't feel unwelcome at Mass. There were, of course, Holy Days of Obligation, when the Catholic students would be required to leave their lessons behind and go to church. I could either join them, or stay behind in the empty classroom, whatever I chose.

I thought this was kind of funny, for some reason, but I managed to keep from laughing. I don't know many priests, but I thought this one might be all right – especially since he hadn't come down hard on the boy in the outer office who'd called that nun a broad – and I didn't want to offend him.

After Father Dominic had described the various offenses I could get expelled for – skipping class too many times, dealing drugs on campus, the usual stuff – he asked me if I had any questions. I didn't. Then he asked my mother if she had any questions. She didn't. So then Father Dominic stood up and said, "Fine then. I'll say goodbye to you, and Jesse can get started with his classes."

My mom waved me good-bye, and reminded me to find Georgie at three, since she was in charge of driving me home - once again, a woeful lack of public transportation meant that I had to bum rides to and from school with my stepsisters. Then she was gone, and Father Dominic was introducing me to Adam again, who was apparently going to show me to my first class with the solemn promise to return immediately for his reprimand.

"He's alright, really, Father Dominic," the brown-haired boy explained as we crossed the courtyard. It was another glorious day, the early morning mist already burnt away by the sun. I'd left the windows open last night, only to find that they'd been gently shut again when I woke up this morning, which I thought was sweet of my mom, looking out for me like that.

At least, I hope it was my mom. Now that I think about it … but no, I hadn't seen Susannah since yesterday afternoon. It had definitely been my mom who'd shut my windows.

"I mean, he's a bit, you know, religious, but he's no where near as bad as some of the others round here. Where're you from, anyway? Jesse, wasn't it?"

"New York." I said with a nod.

"Never been. Anything I'm missing out on?"

"Not really," I said with a laugh. I liked Adam already; he was easy going, with a good sense of humor. I hoped I'd have a few classes with him.

He stopped in front of a partially open door, tapped smartly on it and then, without waiting for an answer, stepped inside.

"New student, Mr. Walden." he announced. "And I gotta go back to the Father's office."

A large, heavily bearded man appeared behind Adam in the doorway. "Off you go, then, McTavish." he chived, and Adam disappeared back the way we had come with a final friendly wave.

"DeSilva, is it?" my new teacher inquired.

"That's right sir. Jesse DeSilva."

"Nice to have you with us," he said, in his big, booming voice.

I stuck out one hand, which was promptly engulfed. Mr. Walden didn't look much like a teacher - more like a lumberjack, with the largest hands I had ever seen. He practically had to flatten himself against the wall to give me room to slip past him into his classroom.

He introduced me to the class, and made me tell them where I came from. I told them, and they all stared at me blankly. I began to feel sweat pricking the back of my neck. I have to tell you, sometimes I prefer the company of the undead to the company of my

peers. But Mr. Walden was a good guy. He only made me stand there a minute, under all those stares, and then he told me to take a seat.

This sounds like a simple thing, right? Just go and take a seat. But you see, there were two seats. One was next to this really pretty tanned girl, with thick, curly honey-blond hair. The other was way in the back, next to a girl with hair so white, and skin so pink, she could only be an albino.

No, I am not kidding. An albino.

Two things influenced my decision. One was that when I saw the seat in the back, I also happened to see that the windows, directly behind that seat, looked out across the school parking lot. Okay, not such an inspiring view, you might say. But beyond the parking lot was the sea. I am not kidding. This school, my new school, had a view of the Pacific that was even better than the one in my bedroom since the school as so much closer to the beach. You could actually see the waves from my homeroom's windows. I wanted to sit as close to the window as possible.

The second reason I sat there was simple: I didn't want to take the seat by the tan girl and have the albino girl think I'd done it because I didn't want to sit near anyone as weird looking as she was. Stupid, right? Like she'd even care what I did. But I didn't even hesitate. I saw the sea, I saw the albino, and I went for it.

As soon as I sat down, a girl a few seats away turned to stare at me, looking completely confused, and said, under her breath but perfectly audibly, "Why'd he go and sit by the freak?"

"I'm sorry," I said, not bothering to keep my voice down at all, "I didn't quite hear you. What did you say?"

She flushed, evidently unaware that I'd overheard.

"Nothing," she muttered, not meeting my gaze.

"I know slang terms out here are different to the ones I'm used to. I assume freak hasn't the same derogatory connotations to you that I associate with it?" I asked with an air of polite confusion.

Mr. Walden had turned around to write something on the board, but the sound of my voice stopped him. Everyone was looking at me now, their expressions ranging from incredulous to amused.

"What?" blinked the girl. I'm not sure she understood half the words I'd used. Which was, of course, why I'd used them. Around us, peaople were whisphering and staring openly, and the albino's scalp – which was plainly visible beneath the white of her hair – had turned a deep magenta. Mr. Walden had to call everyone to order, and when people ignored him, he slammed his fist down on his desk and told us that if we had so damned much to say, we could say it in a thousand word essay on the battle at Bladensburg during the War of 1812, double-spaced, and due on his desk first thing tomorrow morning.

Oh well. Good thing I wasn't in school to make friends.

And yet I did. Make friends, I mean.

I didn't try to. I didn't even really want to. I mean, I've not really had friends since I was thirteen. Haven't needed them. And it wasn't like I didn't come without baggage. I really didn't think anybody here was going to like me, anyway, not after having been assigned a thousand word essay because of what happened when I sat down, and especially not after what happened when we were informed that it was time for second period – there was no bell system at the Mission School, we changed class on the hour, and had five minutes to get to where we were going. No sooner had Mr. Walden dismissed us than the albino girl turned around in her seat and asked, her purple eyes glowing furiously behind the tinted lenses of her glasses, "Am I supposed to be grateful to you, or something, for what you did to Debbie?"

"You," I said, standing up, "aren't supposed to be anything, as far as I'm concerned."

She stood up, too. "But that's why you did it, right? Defended the albino? Because you felt sorry for me?"

"Of course not," I said, picking up my bag. Debbie had swept up her books and practically run for the door the minute Mr. Walden had dismissed us. She and a bunch of other girls, including the pretty tanned one who'd had the empty seat next to her, were whispering amongst themselves and casting me surreptitious, confused looks.

The albino girl said, fiercely, "I can fight my own battles, you know. I don't need you to help me, New York."

I shrugged. "Fine with me, Carmel."

She couldn't help smiling then. When she did, she revealed a mouthful of braces that winked as brightly as the sea outside the window. "It's CeeCee," she said.

"What's CeeCee?"

"My name. I'm CeeCee." She stuck out a milky-white hand, the nails of which were painted a violent orange. "Welcome to the Mission Academy."

At nine o'clock, Mr. Walden had dismissed us. By nine-oh-two, CeeCee had introduced me to twenty other people, most of whom trotted after me as we moved to our next class, mostly staring in silent awe. It was kinda uncomfortable. Only CeeCee, who appeared to be the leader of their little pack, seemed unphased by my presence. Editor of the school paper, the Mission News, which she called "more of a literary review than an actual newspaper," CeeCee had been in earnest when she'd informed me she did not need me to fight her battles for her. She had plenty of ammunition of her own, including a pretty packed arsenal of verbal zingers and an extremely serious work ethic. Practically the first thing she asked me – after she got over being mad at me – was if I'd be interested in writing a piece for her paper.

"Nothing fancy," she said, airily. "Maybe just an essay comparing East Coast and West Coast teen culture. I'm sure you must see a lot of differences between us and your friends back in New York. Whaddaya say? My readers would be plenty interested – especially girls like Kelly and Debbie. Maybe you could slip in something about how on the East Coast being tan is like a faux pas."

Then she laughed, not sounding evil, exactly, but definitely not innocent, either. But that, I soon realized, was CeeCee, all bright smiles – made brighter by those wicked looking braces – and bouncy good humor. She was as famous, apparently, for her wise-cracking as for her big horselaugh, which sometimes bubbled out of her when she couldn't control it, and rang out with unabashed joy, and was inevitably hushed by the prissy novices who acted as hall monitors, keeping us from bothering the tourists who came to snap pictures of Junipero Serra being fawned over by those poor bronze Indian women.

The rest of the morning was uneventful. CeeCee appeared to be in all my classes, and led me round like an extremely talkative guide dog, filling me in on the life story of everybody we passed. When we were dismissed for lunch, she practically leapt out of her seat and began to chivvy me towards the door.

"Come on, come on, hurry up. There's someone I want you to meet."

I didn't think much of that, since CeeCee appeared to be desperate for me to meet every person in the school before three thirty, until we were outside approaching a wooden picnic bench and I caught sight of a familiar face standing beside it, scanning the crowds.

"Is it true?" he exclaimed the moment we were within earshot. "Is what they are saying really true? That a few mere words and you had Debbie Mancuso practically in tears? Sir, this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

"Shut up, Adam." said CeeCee with a laugh, whacking him playfully over the head and leading us to a patch of grass to sit and eat lunch. "What did I tell you about not scaring people when you first meet them?"

"Oh, Jesse and I are old friends," Adam assured her with an easy grin, flopping down onto the grass beside her. "Or did your stunning journalistic skills fail to notice it was I who escorted him to your homeroom this morning?"

CeeCee frowned; evidently, she had failed to remember this point, and she was not pleased. CeeCee was the sort of person who liked to remember everything.

I sat next to them, enjoying listening to their easy banter but not really joining in. My attention was more focused on the reemergence of my stepsisters. Conflicting schedules meant I apparently didn't share any classes with Mel, who was also a junior, something I couldn't help but be slightly relieved about. Especially when I saw her surrounded by a crowd of tanned, shiny-haired girls that included Debbie. Though I couldn't help but feel a twinge of guilt; if they were friends, perhaps I ought to have been a bit more polite.

Georgie and Sarah shared my lunch period, too. It was interesting to observe them in their native environment. I was pleased to see that I had been correct in my estimation of their characters. Sarah sat with a small group of extremely nerdy-looking kids, most of whom wore glasses, and all of whom were watching their football tossing peers with great wariness. Mel and her shiny-haired friends were crowded round a picnic bench with a bunch of jocks.

Georgie was the most interesting, if only because I had struggled most to pin her character down. She sat with a group of seven or eight other seniors, who ranged from a tall guy wearing a football jacket with his arm round a shy looking, slightly plump brown-haired girl to a geeky, pale girl with thick glasses and frizzy hair.

"Oh, they're a funny lot, your sister's friends." said CeeCee when she saw where I was looking. "Caused outrage in the social order when they first started, you know, hanging out publicly together. Cal – he's the guy in the football jacket – started going out with Molly about eighteen months ago. The jock and the nerdy girl. It was like our own High School Musical."

"How does Georgie fit in?" I asked, curious. CeeCee shrugged.

"I dunno. She and Molly have been friends for years, I guess. Jamie, the blonde haired guy, he's Cal's best friend. The tiny girl is Ellie, and the guy next to her is Mark. She's our resident star, you know, leads in all the plays, phenomenal voice, the works. Mark's your average eighteen year old goof."

"Hey!" interrupted Adam. "I object to your tone of voice! I happen to be an average goof."

"What about the other girl?" I asked quickly, before CeeCee could be distracted into another argument.

"The nerdy, miserable looking one?" said Adam. "That's Abigail."

"It's quite sad, really," continued CeeCee in her matter-of-fact tone. "Her little sister died during the summer. Hannah, I think her name was. She was a freshman. I don't think they were that close, but still, you know?"

"How'd she die?" I asked, despite myself.

"Car crash." said Adam around a large mouthful of sandwich. "Driver was drunk. He died too."

"Huh." I said, trying to appear nonchalant as I gazed across to where Abigail was now staring at the floor, fiddling with an empty crisp packet. Suddenly, she looked up and straight across to where I was openly staring. I smiled weakly and ducked my head, embarrassed. Next time I chanced a glance across, she had her back to us and appeared deep in conversation with the guy CeeCee had named as Jamie.

I turned back to CeeCee and Adam, trying to look like I was paying attention to their conversation. Inside, however, my mind was a hundred miles away.

Maybe Abigail's little sister had been happy. Maybe she'd died with nothing left undone, and moved on readily to whatever came next.

Yeah. I should be so lucky.

To be continued…

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