Disclaimer: Beetlejuice and Co belong to Geffen. Alas that he did not choose to make further use of them.

Chapter 23: Cryptic

All of Lydia's pens were dry; even her favorite Zebra. Well beyond irritation and into annoyance now, she was using a stubby library pencil that she had found in a box on the ancient card catalog, sharpening it every few moments with fierce strokes from her exacto knife. All of her notebooks were filled, cover to cover, with her name, and three guesses as to who was responsible. Persuasive writing, indeed. After she covered both sides of the borrowed sheet of paper with incoherent notes, she became irritatingly conscious that she was going to have to go buy another notebook. Gathering her things, she stomped out of the library, drawing more curious glances than usual, still clutching the stubby little pencil in her hand. On her abandoned desk, the pencil shavings stirred and swirled about, finally settling sadly in an all too familiar pattern. Lydia.

A half an hour later, new notebook and several pens in hand, Lydia decided that the library might not be the best place for her. For one, she didn't want to be responsible for the further defacing of school property, and for two, she truly just wanted to be alone with her thoughts. Although he couldn't touch her, he could haunt her, and she didn't know which was more distracting. So she chose the one place she figured he would be least likely to follow her—out into the brilliant October sunlight.

Settling into the low branches of a beautiful old hornbeam, she opened her notebook to a fresh page and attempted to think of an opening paragraph to her persuasive paper. It was going to be on the defense of making historical landmarks of houses with well-documented hauntings. The fate of the Maitland's had been close to her heart, and she knew how important it was that their house stay intact for their time here. But she didn't know quite how to frame the argument without making claims that she knew ghosts and wanted them to be comfortable. A pretty problem.

When she finally looked down again, there was already writing on the page. Her eyes narrowed. The writing read, 'I like your hair like that.' Ah, the cryptic messages from the spirit world. She scowled and wrote underneath it, 'Don't you have anything better to do than follow me around?'

There was a slight pause, and then, the little stubby pencil drifted over the paper a little unsteadily, 'Nope. Outta rum.'

'B, please.'

'Lyds, look. I shant keep you long, m'dear. Jus concerned bout you, izzal.'

'Well, there's no need. I'm fine. I just need some time to think. And what's with the random handwriting?' Because his words wavered below and above the line like waves on the shore, and seemed a little more curly than normal.

'Eh? Whazzat? You got a new pen?'

'B, are you okay?'

"Never better. Lyddie. Lydia. Sweet, lovely Lydia."

"Are you drunk, Beetlejuice?"

"Duzznt count if ya write it, love." Lydia smiled despite herself. "Ah, I saw that! S'my girl."

At that, most of her hurt and confusion of the morning collapsed. "B, I'm sorry about this morning. Forgive me?"

"S'nuthin to forgive, love. Only natural to want to say my name. Handsome name, too. Sexy name." She giggled.

"So you aren't mad?"

"Um, no. Crazy, probably, but not mad. Not at you. Never." Lydia resisted the incredible strong urge to lean down and kiss the notebook. She took a deep breath.

"B, can I ask you a favor?"

"Sure, babes. Anything you want." These words were written more firmly, and she swallowed a rush of heat.

"Will you pick me up on Friday for the party? And give me the week to think over things?"

A long pause now. The pencil spun lazily above the page, tracing mesmerizing circles. Then finally, "A week?"

"Please, B?"

After another couple of circles, the pencil settled point down again. "Can't deny you anything. M'not a djinn, but I think I know what it mus be like. Yer wish is my command. And all that. M'lady." Lydia sighed softly, her cheeks burning, and stroked the paper where he had written those last words, smudging them a little.

"You make me rethink myself, B."

"Makes two of us." A pause, and then, "Don't tell Juno. Never let me live this down." And the pencil wandered in a broad circle before gently tucking itself behind her ear. She felt him go. But it was a very long time before she was able to focus back on her opening paragraph.