A/N: Here's the next part. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of these characters – Meg Cabot, that wonderful writer we all love owns them. Well, okay, the only character I own is Barbra McEthlin. Why? Because I invented her. So don't STEAL her!!!! Thank you.

Ch. 2

Normal people can't see the dead. With that said, I'm not normal. I'm a mediator.

I see the dead, and usually, it's not for the better. But this old lady was just standing there, and, well, she seemed harmless enough.

"Oh, dear," she said, looking around, and seeing she was on top of roof of an old hotel where travelers came and stayed which is now converted into a house.

"Hello," I waved, to get her attention from down where I was sitting.

She smiled. "Hello, dear. Would you know what I'm doing here?"

"Oh." She seemed so nice. I didn't want to break the news to her very roughly. You know, that she was dead.

"Um," I said, having trouble with this particular case. I mean this lady I was supposed to help move on. "What do you last remember?"

She thought about it. "Well, I was in the hospital for about two weeks already. I was in ICU – Intensive Care Unit – at the time. The doctor started taking me into the emergency room. I was holding Roger's – he's my husband –hand, and they were saying something abut a stroke. And then..."

She fell silent.

"Ma'am," I said, putting my hand gently on her arm. "I'm sorry to say, but you died."

"Oh, dear," she said. And with a last remorseful comment being a quiet, "My poor kids," she went back to her normal, sort of springy way. She then looked up at me and said, "Oh! How rude of me! I'm sorry, I didn't even ask for you name."

I felt weird. No ghost – except for Jesse and stuff – has really asked for my name.

"Uh, Suze. Suze Simon," I said.

She gave me a nice, warm smile, and said, "My name is Barbra. Barbra McEthlin."

Wait a minute! I was supposed to be asking the questions! It was my job as a mediator, you know. Any way, I didn't want to appear to be unprofessional at my job.

"So..." I said after an awkward silence. "Uh, do you know what's keeping you here?" Because you know, ghosts usually have a hunch, or know why they're still here. But either the lady didn't hear me, or purposely ignored me, because she didn't respond. Instead, she continued to look around her.

"What a lovely house," she announced, finally, and said it as if 'that settled that.'

That wasn't normal. Usually the ghost would just sob on my arm, and talk about how unfair it was to die. Etc.

Not knowing what to say, and figuring I should I answer, I said lamely, "Thanks," even though she hadn't said it to be polite or whatever.

I looked about, but Jesse wasn't around to see that we had a spectral visitor. He was gone. Where does he go?

The elderly lady got my attention again. "Do you live here?

"Uh, yeah – I mean, yes."

I peered into the window, and looked in my room, to see if Jesse was still in there. The old lady was at my elbow, looking inside with me.

"Hum. Is there someone you're looking for?" she asked. I think she noticed the disappointed look on my face when I found that, yes: Jesse had indeed disappeared yet again. "Is something the matter, sweetheart?"

Don't ask me why I did what I did next. Maybe because it had been a long time since any one had called me, "sweetheart." Or maybe it was because she reminded me of my grandmother, who passed away so long ago. Either way, I felt like I wanted to tell her everything that had happened lately.

And I pretty much did.

I guess being unable to talk about Jesse to any one else, I was holding it all in. The only person who knows about Jesse is Father Dominic, a fellow mediator, and principal of my high school. And it's like I'm going up to him – and he's a priest – and discuss my romantic issues (and lack of thereof) with him. Not.

Well, Barbra took it very well, considering. Seriously, it's not every day where teenagers who see dead people talk to you about their romantic problems about being in love with a ghost of the cowboy who haunts her bedroom. She just sat, and listened attentively, nodding and all.

"... It's not only that Jesse is hot, but he saved my live more times that I can count.

"See, the thing is, even if he does like me – and I'm not even sure of that – well, he is, no offense," I looked at her. "Well, he's dead. So it's not like I could say, 'Oh Mom, meet my boyfriend, Jesse.' My social life is pretty sad as it is, but adding a dead boyfriend? I don't think it'll make me any more popular. Not that I care, but..."

If you ever cried on someone's shoulders, you know that it feels good. Basically I let it all come out: my thoughts, my musing, and mostly my hard concerns.

Barbra just sat there, listening – and so patiently, too – that I just felt sorry for her. This is her time to talk about her issues.

How bad does this look? I bet it looks even worse than the "I'm-not-helping-her;" because I was beginning to realize, that she was helping me.

So, I reluctantly pulled myself together and finished, "So that pretty much ends my list of problems. Pretty tragic..."

"Oh," she gave me that nice smile of hers. "Not so tragic," she said, like she knew something I didn't know. I knew I should get to work, but her comment confused me.

"It appears you have a nice young man who helps you, and is very kind – even if he isn't interested. But I highly doubt that." She got this twinkle in my eye. It's like she was laughing at an inside joke.

Okay... "How can you be so sure?" I asked.

"Sweetheart," she placed her hand on my arm. "When you've been around for over 95 years" (I whistled in amazement) "you catch on to a few things."

I nodded like I understood, where in fact, I was very confused.

"Believe me when I tell you, there's nothing there for you to worry about." She winked.

Barbra was just giving me all this advice, but I still hadn't helped her. I think I was bordering on rude, so I said, "that you so much, but, um, we still don't know why you're here."

"Oh, that," she laughed, and flipped her hand in the air, with a careless way. "It's just that," she leaned over, and whispered into my ear, "It's just that, in the fourth grade, I stole Cindy Brown's barrette, and hid it under the old tree. I never told any one." She smiled, and said, "thank you," before disappearing.

"Thank you," I whispered into the night.

A few minutes later Jesse popped by. I was still sitting like I was when Barbra was here – although my butt was rather sore for the pinecones.

I guess I didn't think about it the time, but I truly lucked out that Jesse wasn't here when I was taking to Barbara about, ahem. Him

But I did tell him about her –well, what part I could, any way.

He smiled when I gloated that I did it all on my own. "I'm not as incompetent as you think I am. Granted, she wasn't a homicidal ghost out to get me, but still."

Jesse smiled is heart-melting smile. "I do not think you're incompetent, Susannah."

We fell into a silence. It was comfortable, just Jesse and me, under the silent star, who, I believed, keep their lips sealed.

After a while, finally I knew it was time for bed, so I crept back inside, and said good night to Jess.

The End

A/N: Read and review, pretty please? Please????????