HEY LADIES!

You know what I've discovered? I REALLY LOVE DEAD MANS CHEST.

No, not 'I love THE dead mans chest', instead I'm talking about the second Pirates of the Caribbean movie, 'dead mans chest.'

Yeah, I went just to ogle Davy Jones . . . NO. CAPTAIN Jack Sparrow, all the way.

Just thought I'd get that off my chest.

Ha . . .

Shutting up.

Sorry I haven't updated in a while peeps. I was BUSY. As in BURIED busy. But, I was not busy enough to change my name. Never fear, i'm usually something to do with Disney. Dunno why that is really. It just STUCK.

But I'd like to say thank you to every single one of you reading this, and I promise you, THE GOOD STUFF IS COMING. PROBABLY NEXT CHAPTER.

Buy knowing my luck, it'll probably suck and I'll get flamed and loose all my readers.

THAT WOULD NOT BE FUNNY.

But anyway, I decided to put the personalised thankyou's at the bottom this time, so for now, I'm pleased to present you with another chapter of The Daughter Of.

Note To Self,

If I have to hear ONE MORE version of 99 bottles of beer on the wall then I will SCREAM! And not only will I SCREAM, but I will NOT be held accountable for my actions! I'm apologising in advance here. Who would have thought that a carload of 17yr olds would still pick 99 bottles of beer on the wall as their road trip song choice?

And you know what I've found out? I really HATE that song.

Although, I will own up to not liking ANY song with 99 versions being sung by a bunch of over-enthusiastic, off key, wannabes. And WHO WOULD HAVE GUESSED 99 BOTTLES OF BEER WAS A SONG THAT YOU COULD SING OUT OF TUNE?

I suppose I could understand the off key thing if it was, I don't know, say Romeo and Juliet at the Opera, BUT ITS NOT! And these empty headed … BITS ON THE SIDE, have actually managed to screw up 99 BOTTLES OF BEER.

You see something amazing in every day life.

I suppose; it's only actually Scott and Todd who are off key. But they're really loud. Is that what sport does to you? Physical exertion destroys your creative ear and cultivated appreciation?

Although, I don't know if 99 bottles of beer on the wall is a very good example of cultural magnificence.

Let this be a lesson a lesson to us all. American Idol would agree with me! IF YOU CAN'T SING, JUST STOP TRYING! It would save us all some pain!

See Arabia? This is what you get! If you want to invite STUPID people to your RESORT-held-seventeenth party, expect a whole lot of STUPID entertainment! I suppose that's not fair. They're not exactly STUPID. Just . . . challenged.

Note To Self: NEVER AGAIN.

I tried – futilely- to shift my legs to a better position, but Porsche's really aren't designed to hold a bunch of over excited adolescents. I was SQUASHED. And it didn't help that while my outfit was very pretty—Trelise Cooper white fashion sunglasses, a Green satin dress/wrap with a purple tie and Purple heels—It wasn't exactly practical, but what is the point I being practical if you don't look good? None at all, I told myself.

Even if I was slightly cold since we left Carmel early this morning. Ok, more than slightly.

BUT I LOOK GOOD!1

Then I had to go and ruin it by returning to dwell on my forthcoming weekend. I had to admit, I was not looking forward to this. At all. I dunno what gave me away, I used to have a certain talent for keeping the truth hidden—VERY handy—but completely out of the blue, or so I thought, Arabia reached over, with complete disregard for the other road users (She was driving, which is a risky business at best) to put her hand on my knee and say, "Melinda? Are you OK honey? You've been a little spaced since we left Carmel."

Over three hours of pure, undulated HELL in a Porsche. Jesus Christ, it was remarkable that I was still DRAWING BREATH.

"I'm fine," I said, with a smile that showed enough white teeth that I would have rivalled any toothpaste commercial, "Don't worry about me, you have a bigt three days to look forward to!"

I sighed, just knowing that all my future held for me was a long life as a bitter old cat lady. Personally, I might have to put in a good word to the big fella/fella's/female's upstairs on behalf of this ghost if he manages to off me.

Cats, carpet slippers and mobilised scooters, here I come. Well I'm almost there already, aren't I? Except, I'm only 17. Well, they do say you're only as old as you feel. And I feel like they should be nailing my coffin shut.

Huh. Morbid. But I'm just cranky because . . . actually, I dunno . . . P.M.S? Yeah. Blame it on the P.M.S, as usual.

:Flashback:

"He's ok, right? I mean, how do you know seeing me might not trigger one of his, you know. Episodes . . ." Sue me for asking. It's in my best interest to know.

"Oh darling," Grandma patted my shoulder. "You know, when Suzie tells you that Brad suffers from fits of insanity, she doesn't really mean it literally . . . she's just teasing you."

I WANT to believe you Grandma. I thought as I just rolled my eyes in response, In fact, I'd believe you whole-heartedly if it weren't for seeing the PROOF of his insanity with my own eyes.

THE GUYS STILL LIVES WITH HIS MOM AND DAD FOR CHRIST'S SAKE.

AND HE'S THIRTY-NINE YEARS OLD!

Seriously, Brad – or Dopey, as mom calls him, and I have to say, the term is quite catchy – is pushing forty and living with his mom and dad. Like that alone isn't enough proof of lunacy?

Well whatever. Its not brads fault he's a whack job. And spending time in his company is a small price to pay in return for spending time at Grandma and Granddad's. I love it here, the house is so big and beautiful, and I love Grandma and granddad. They're so lovely. And even thought Andy's not my grandfather by blood, he's who I know as my grandad. My only granddad. Hey. I BELIEVED my dad when he said his entire family died in a fire. How was I to know that technically HE was the one who died in a fire? Well, the first time he died he was murdered, but meh, isn't it all in the detail? Either way, its still not something I can share. Too bad as well, it would be the most terrific war story. "Hi this is my dad, he's died twice, once he was murdered, and the second time he jumped out of a burning building, but then, my mom, who jumped too, shifted them back from about the 1800's. So yeah . . . any questions?"

Unfortunately, not going to happen.

Where was I? Oh yeah. Granddads. I wish I could have met my real granddad, but it was not to be. Can you miss someone you never knew? I think you can.

AND, when I stay here I can see as much of MAX as I like. I love MAX, the old family dog. He's so COOL! No dogs at home for Melinda. Nooooo, just because dad wasn't quick enough on his feet once . . . and mom thinks his scar is hot . . .pah.

I'm only here for a few days though, dad's on a business trip in New York, and mom wanted to catch up with Aunt Gina, so I got dumped here. But it's OK! Because according to Slater's little theory, this ghost is 'shy' and that's why he hasn't made any public moves. Apparently, he's latched onto tormenting me, but has an issue with going public. So I was supposedly 'safe' with Grandma and Grandad.

Privately I think that's bullshit. Like safety isn't only an illusion. Take the blankets they give children with nightmares. "This is a security blankets darling. If you hold this blanket up, the monster can't get you." So what if little Tommy starts getting bullied at school, a blanket isn't going to stop a bully from hurting him. INSTEAD, take Tommy's blanket off him and take him to Karate. THAT will stop the bully better than a piece of dyed cloth.

Ha. Wonder if Brad had a security blankie. BET he did. Everyone has a weird relative hidden away somewhere. Mine just thinks he's a wrestler, that's all. It not better than thinking you're a snowman.

Well, maybe the snowman is a little better . . . no lycra.

But Dave and Jake are awesome, and so are Jake's wife Imajane and their kids. And David and Shannon are so sweet together.

The real issues started when Grandma told me I'd have to stay in mom's old room because Shannon – Dave's fiancée—was staying in the guest room. THAT was fine; in fact, it was ALL fine, until I opened the bedroom door.

I was struck immediately by how PINK it was. I mean, I've been in there before, but it just gets brighter! I don't know what happened there. Either mom went through this weird phase that she's neglected to tell anyone about, or SOMEONE – Grandma, I'm looking at YOU – got a little pink-happy.

But the pinkness wasn't the problem. It was what I could FEEL. I FELT its history. From the moment I walked in there, I knew something was different.

Maybe that's what Slater was banging on about. Maybe I have the great ability to see house history.

Now THERE'S a special talent.

Yeah, and Pamela Andersons boobs are real.

LIKE HELL THEY ARE.

But in mom's room, I could swear I saw them.

Dad was sitting in the window seat with Spike—and a copy of Abbie Hoffman's Steal this Book—Then door opened and mom came in the room. "You're awake," he said from the window seat.

"Um," Mom said, edging over to the bed, "Yes I am."

"How do you feel?" Dad asked.

"Me?' Mom asked, slightly stupidly.

Dad set the book own and looked at mom with an expressionless look on his face, "Yes you," he said, "How do you feel?"

"Fine," mom replied as she made it to the bed, she sat down and quickly thrust something under the pillow. "I feel great," she said, relaxing.

"Good." Said dad. "We need to talk."

Mom paled as she jumped to her feet, suddenly looking way more panicked than she was a few moments ago. "You know what?" she said, very fast, "I don't want to talk. Is that OK? I really, really, don't want to talk. I am all talked out."

Dad lifted Spike off his lap and stood up, and mom just sucked in a huge breath and started rambling. "I'm just—Look" She said as dad took a step towards her, "I'm just going to give Cee Cee a call and maybe we can hit the beach or something because I really . . . I just need a day off."

Dad took another step towards mom. Now he was right in front of her.

"Especially," mom said significantly, "From talking. That's what I need time off from. Talking."

"Fine," Said dad, reaching up and cupping moms face in his hands, "we don't have to talk."

And then he leaned over and—

HEY! There is NO WAY I can stay in this room now!

I slammed the door and sped down to the kitchen to see if Grandma would mind me staying in another room. I thundered down the stairs, nearly knocking max clean out of my way – I figure I'll apologise later, tore into the living room and started spilling my guts to grandma, who looked kind of alarmed at seeing her granddaughter come careening down the stairs then start babbling out a story, all at like, 90 mph.

Of course, when I say 'spilling my guts' I mean the abbreviated version of course. Because, the ghost thing? So not happening.

"Why, what's wrong with Suzie's one sweetie?" she said, all concerned. I felt so mean then. It was like telling her the room wasn't good enough! Which, including all its pink glory – I like pink! —It SO is!

Hee. Suzie . . .

Keeping on track here, how EXACTLY do I tell grandma I now have a fair idea of why mom spent so much time in her room? especially since she's looking at me all concerned. Yeah, how would that go? ' Hey grandma! Mom spent all her time making out with a dead guy!'

Again, Not going to happen.

"Oh, its not the room! I love the room! it's just, uh . . . I'm allergic to, um, its just . . . The window! I'm scared I'll fall out the window!"

She just stared blankly at me. And really, can you blame her?

"Yes!" I babble on, "You know, ever since mom, er, fell – " God it kills me to say that. Its like he WON " – Out of my window, I've had a – a – PHOBIA Of windows." I smile and hope she just takes it for granted that I'm a bit of a fruit loop.

"Oh, well of course!" she said, not sounding at all like she thought me a fruit loop, which, I must say, is somewhat reassuring.

Did you know, having your grandma think you've lost your marbles is really depressing? No . . . you probably don't.

"You poor thing! Of course we can shift you honey. Jake's room and David's are free, and well, if you really want to stay in Brad's – " she said, wrinkling her nose, "I'm sure we can figure something out-"

"NO! I mean, I'm fine, would I be able to stay in Dave's?"

I figure, and no offence Dave, I love you to pieces, but as cute as your year book pictures were, I got the impression that Jake got a lot more action in high school than you did, so I think your room's safer.

"David's? Of course, I'll get Andy to give you a hand shifting your stuff. Although, he might be a bit difficult about how many bags you have . . ." she said teasingly, "So why don't I just do it myself?"

"Grandma. Three bags. Three! I can manage them . . . although—" what can I say? I like being fussed over by my grandma; I'm not that FEAKISH. "—Can I just have you for the conversation."

But then again, I mused as I discovered a whole lot of science journals under Doc's bed, it could be worse. I was expecting Porn. Then again. Dave's engaged. To a girl he's been seeing since high school. AM I SAFE NOWHERE?

Then Arabia Called. About her birthday. To remind me. As if I'd forgotten. Which I hadn't.

"For the last time Arabia, NO, I don't have a clue. I told you, I'm not even at home. I'm at grandma's." Arguing with Arabia when she's excited is really pretty futile you know. Put plainly, she just doesn't care what you have to say when its not what she want's to hear. She gets that from her dad.

It's true. Her – Arabic – mother died when Arabia was young, and her dads one of those people who make SO MUCH MONEY You wonder why they haven't got hit men after them already, but the guts of it is, he doesn't have a whole lot of spare time.

Harsh? Me? These are Arabia's words.

So there I sat, on Doc's bed, my cell phone to my ear, idly flicking through one of the science journals, and I don't think I have to add that I couldn't make head or tail of it.

"WELL? Come on! I want to know! The Pink or the Green?" Arabia herself yelled in my ear.

Oh my GOD Arabia. I DON'T CARE. I mean to say, ARE THE RAINFORESTS GOING TO BENEFIT FROM THIS DECISION?

NO.

ARE THE ENDANGERED WHALES GOING TO BENEFIT?

NO.

ARE THE THIRD WORLD COUNTRIES GOING TO BENEFIT?

NO.

Note to self: Sponsor a child. Save some whales. And SAVE THE TREES!

I would tell her all these things that her billion-dollar daddy would be better off putting his money towards, if I wasn't scared of their maid. Truly. She shouldn't have been a maid; she should have been a sumo wrestler. If my head case uncle can do it . . .

Ok, for Arabia's seventeenth, her dad's hired and ENTIRE RESORT for her for THREE WHOLE DAYS.

—Oh my GOD. What the hell is EXTRA CELLULAR DIGESTION? JESUS! IT SOUNDS LIKE A FORM OF ALIEN FEEDING!

Time to stop reading the science journal. But one last thing . . . Who knew there were such things as NOBLE GAS'S? Not me, that's for sure.

Anyway. I've come to a conclusion about Arabia's dad. HE IS OFF HIS ROCKER. Well, I suppose there is some logic in it. Like, what HOUSE is going to hold Arabia on a birthday high? So, problem solved, her dad is PAYING the resort staff to look after everyone. And just to add; the staff have strict instructions on sex, drugs and alcohol. How do I know this? Arabia called and asked, pretending to be her father's secretary. Which actually worked, because she claimed her computer crashed and she lost all information. Including details about "Mr Lawrence's daughter's birthday celebration." Etc.

But you have to imagine this being said in a REALLY nasal voice, courtesy of Arabia's years at Drama school. It was hilarious. Funnier even than that video I saw one time of a dog skidding on wet lino, and let me tell you, THAT was funny.

But Arabia was touched that her dad found the time to completely – which he did, right down to details – organise her birthday and then not tell her until a couple of days ago, as a surprise. Although, that may have actually been because he forgot, but why look a gift horse in the mouth?

Anyway. Pays to be informed about these sorts of things. According to Arabia, how are you supposed to break the rules if you don't know them? Not that she has any plans for sex, drugs or alcohol. For one, she'll hire the entire STATE when she wants to do the nasty. I don't know about Scott though. Personally, I think he'd be happy in a wardrobe. Any wardrobe.

Note to self: Never let Scott near my wardrobe.

And secondly, Arabia would FLIP if she caught anyone with Drugs or alcohol. It's a personal thing. Her Mother . . . car crash . . . other driver drunk . . .

You figure it out.

Compassion. It's compassion. I think everyone understands Arabia well enough to know it would be more than their ass's worth to bring alcohol or drugs.

But cutting to the chase, I haven't packed yet.

Note to self: get on that.

I haven't actually clued mom and dad in on the whole thing yet, but I gave them a rough outline so . . . that'll do. Not my fault. They're away. I'm still here. You don't have to know what extra cellular digestion is to figure it out.

I wish I could take Fee with me to the resort, though. I miss Fee already, and I've been here for what? A few days? I asked grandma if I could bring her—Fee—but she said it might not be good for max. At his age, all the excitement, you know?

I miss Fee. I almost miss SPIKE. And Spike doesn't even like me very much. And he DEFINITELY does not appreciate my attempts to bond with him, because I could count on one hand the amount of times spike's actually let me near him without taking a swipe at me, and still have plenty of fingers left. And most of the times Spike's left me alone would have been when he's asleep. Or dozy with anaesthetic. (That was the first time Spike's ever come off worse in a fight. And it was with the – swinging – cat door. Spike just doesn't understand the concept of swinging cat doors.) And if theirs one thing Fee and I have learnt, its: DON'T TRY AND MOVE SPIKE. If he wants to sit in front of the fire, for gods' sake, LET HIM. If he wants to jump on the counter, call for reinforcements! (Dad.) DO NOT ATTEMPT TO REMOVE HIM YOURSELF! Fee and myself now consider ourselves quite educated in the ways of our house hierarchy. SPIKE IS AT THE TOP.

NO EXCEPTIONS.

Moving on. You can't really tell someone the reason that your not all that excited about their party, (And whether they choose the pink swimsuit or the green) Is because you don't actually want to go to their party. Because that's just rude. And mean. And, and that would make me a BAD FRIEND.

And I don't want to be a BAD FRIEND. I love Arabia, I truly do. I don't really know what it is.

But I do know that it was my anti BAD FRIEND side that prompted me to say, "I think the pink would be great Arabia. It's a nicer cut."

Oh, if the whales could see me now!

Note to self: Pack blue swimsuit.

"Oh, your right! I knew I could count on you . . . eventually. Tell me, what's up? You sounded . . . strained."

Oh really? As in 'I don't really want to go to your party – strained' or 'I just swallowed a rice cracker whole - Strained'

"Nothing Arabia," I said, hoping I didn't sound too fake, "I was choking on a rice cracker."

"EWW. Moving on. I'm really glad both you and Alanna can come. I was begging to think Alanna's parents were never going to give."

"I know. But its only because they love her."

"Its totally sweet. If mom were here she'd be having thoughts about even letting me have this party. Anyway." Arabia continued. "I've got to go. I promised Alanna she could borrow my Stefan handbag."

'The Black one? Arabia, that's not a handbag." I said with a laugh. "That's a body bag."

"Its NOT!" she said, outraged. "I've explained this time and time again, just because its BIG and BLACK doesn't mean it's a body bag!"

"How do you know? Before Stefan was a designer he might have worked at a morgue. Giselle what's-her-name--You know, the one who was in TAXI and had the gun and the really short skirt—anyway, she's a MODEL and was discovered at McDONALDS. How do you know Stefan's not a—"

She hung up.

Leaving me way more cheerful than when I picked up the phone. Who knew Arabia's guest list? Maybe she wouldn't invite EVERONE. Maybe she'd conveniently forget about N—

No one.

And we're moving on now.

Speaking of moving on, I haven't heard from either of my ghosts lately. Not that I'm too torn up over not seeing the ghost I know as 'FAT, OLD AND BALD', but Stacy? Haven't heard from her in a while. I wonder if she even knows I'm here.

And its not like I have a tracker on her. That would be . . . weird. I really have no way of talking to her when I want to. I can't even be all—

And then who materialised in front of me wearing the biggest scowl I've ever seen and tapping her foot impatiently?

Merlin.

No, Stacy.

"Jesus!" I yelled, dropping my phone on the ground as I jumped in to the air. Well, its not like I haven't dropped it before. I've actually lost count. "What the hell's going on here?"

"Well, YOU called ME, so I don't think I'm the right person to ask."

You might have thought it impossible for someone in batgirl boots to be a snob. You've obviously never met Stacy, dead or alive.

You lucky, lucky person.

"I didn't call you! I didn't even speak. I just thought of—"

"Well I'm here now!"

"NO! I didn't notice!" I snapped back, "OBVIOUSLY I can see that!"

Once again, she'd been away too long. I'd forgotten who I was talking to. You forget once, and that's ALL the space she needs. Even when she was alive. If you didn't snap back she'd just walk all over you when she was in a mood.

And I think being dead out her in a permanent mood.

"Stacy, stop being a bitch." I said, getting off the bed and looking her straight in the eye. "God, SUCK IT UP ALREADY."

She looked quite affronted, but I didn't give her a chance to respond because I continued with "I understand you've got a chip on your shoulder over the whole 'being dead' thing, But what do you want me to do? Wave my magic wand and chant 'Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo'? NEWSFLASH, it's NOT going to happen!."

And to my surprise, she laughed. A real LAUGH. I sat down on the bed again, wondering what the hell was going on. "Melinda," she smiled, "Get off your high horse. I'm not still pissed about being dead, like SOME others I could mention—"

Dying must be a great way to meet people.

Who knew?

"—I was just in the middle of something."

"Oh yeah?" I said, with a smirk, "Who is he? I know your idea of 'something.' You just can't leave them alone, even when you kick the bucket."

"Ha ha, No." She replied, settling herself down on the floor. "This one's yours."

"Mine?" I said, confused. "Whose mine?"

"The GUY." She rolled her eyes, always something made much more impressive by the eye makeup she always wore. Truly. It's definitely enough to keep the little kids away. FAR, FAR AWAY. "Nick." She rolled her eyes, again. "I was chatting to Nick. He's not to bad actually—"

I swallowed and tried to look like I wasn't pissed.

Which was . . . difficult.

As in trying to swallow rice crackers WHOLE difficult.

Note to self: give up on the rice crackers already.

Why was I even pissed? NOT because I like him. No way. That is SO not it . . . it must be because instead of talking to me, one of her so called best friends, she goes and talks to someone who she routinely ignored when she was alive.

Must be.

"You went and talked to him?" . . . Rice cracker style difficult . . . "Why?"

"No, he talked to me. Just about my – the night I – when I died."

"And did you each any earth shattering conclusions that you hadn't already figured out?"

And there goes that marvellous thing called tact . . .

"Not really. But I don't know what you have against him. He's not as bad as we used to think."

"Whatever. Don't tell me about Nick Slater. I know all I will ever want to. And then a bit more."

"Oh no." She said, waggling her finger. "I'd love to fill you in on a few things, but you wouldn't believe me anyway. But trust me. The answers right in front of you. Just stop trying to turn it into something else."

"Cut the cryptic crap." I said and lay back on the bed. All this was giving me SUCH a headache. "Can you just tell me?

"No I can't. But I'm really proud of you Melinda. All this stuff . . . you weren't ready for any of it. And yet, you always fight your way through."

I was moved. Truly moved. Well, literally, I was still on the bed. But figuratively? I was like . . . over by the window.

I'm so funny.

"I mean," Stacy continued, "You've had so much thrown on you, so quickly. Then there was all that with Brian . . . "

I didn't even bother asking how she knew about that, I just closed my eyes and figured I'd just blame it on the ghost grapevine.

Stupid Ghost Grapevine

"And your mom . . . I felt so bad about that. I loved your mom. Maybe even more than I loved my own." She trailed off slowly, lost in thought.

Well, we all have our moments, I thought to myself. But then again, Stacy and Her mom never really got on.

"Stace?" I said gently, sitting up and actually opening my eyes, "What is it?"

"I. . . I don't know. It's just a feeling. I truly don't know." She said honestly. "Something's just nagging at me. But that might not have anything to do with mom. That's the thing about being dead. You don't get full stories about things. You just get feelings and hushed whispers . . . Then all the whispers and feelings get mixed up and you get confused." She looked up at me with a sad smile. "So I guess that while you see things you never saw alive, you miss other things as well . . . So while your perspective gets clearer in some ways. . . It gets cloudier in others . . . Auugh! I don't know! Am I making any sense whatsoever?"

I just nodded, lost in thought.

"Its like in art! Remember when we had to throw paint at canvas then sit and stare for hours trying to make a picture out of out paint splodges. It's like that. And I just can't see the PICTURE . . . Anyway." She shook her head, "I'm rambling. Funny. Nick was trying to get me to loosen up and tell him things like this for hours, and then I talk to you for a few moments and it all comes rushing out. There's something about you Melinda."

"Yeah well . . . Don't worry Stace." I said, deciding to go for a joke. "It's just the usual psychological instabilities."

Wait . . . that's no joke.

That's true.

"That's something else I didn't sort out until after I died." Stacy persevered, "YOU. Now myy old impression of you suddenly has all these fresh insights, and I don't know how to sort them all out to get that clear picture. That's what led me to Slater. He said he could help me. Like all these things I can do now . . . "

Dave's door unexpectedly opened and started shuddering on its hinges, like it was trying to rip free. Faster and faster—

"That'll do thanks!" I said hurriedly. "I don't need another demo. Your last was good enough! I remember the mirror episode quite clearly thanks."

"Yeah . . . How are they dealing?"

By 'they' I assume she meant Arabia and Alanna. "They're good. Well, Arabia's better than that, she's over the moon."

"Figures. Birthday bash, right?"

"On the money."

It's been ages since Stacy and I had a decent gossip. It was great. We chatted for what seemed like minutes, although it was more like hours. It was almost like pre-murder days.

Almost. But not quite.

THEN, not long after Stacy had left, I got another call. I'm telling you. Grand Central Station. . . through my mobile.

I dived for the cell phone in question, completely knocking ALL the gibberish journals in the process of my dive for my phone. I tell you, I could SO be an athletic superstar.

"Hello, Melinda here." I answered, still marvelling at my great long jump.

"Hey Melinda." drawled a deep voice right in my ear. I was given such a fright, I almost dropped the phone. Again.

But, completely off topic, Nick does have a really nice voice. It's really deep and rough.

The word 'seductive' is not too far from mind either.

"Umm . . . hi."

This was about the time I started to remember the last time I heard Nick's voice. It was something like me screaming at him about how I could take care of myself, them him rebutting all the times I HADN'T managed to take care of myself, then I started making an ass of myself about how I felt about Brian . . .

Yeah. Something like that.

"You've already said hello." Nick said, sounding like he was finding something really funny about our situation.

I dunno what he had to laugh about, I was actually mortified! I never thought I'd be in the situation where I'd be considering apologising to nick. And yet HERE I AM.

"Infierno sangriento." (A/N: "Bloody Hell.")

"Yes . . ." Nick said smoothly, "I have a theory about that. You usually start off in another language when you're flustered. So what is that's making tyou so flusterd at the moment? Little old me?"

I didn't say anything. Really, what COULD I have said?

"Now Melinda," he continued, "Why are you so quiet? What have you got to say that you're not telling me?"

"You'd be surprised." I said without thinking.

DAMN! What happened to THINKING before opening your MOUTH Melinda?

I should truly just stop talking, but he just PROVOKES me into answering. Asshole.

"Really?" he said, sounding way more interested in my little slip of tongue than I would have liked. "Go on."

I have to admit. I liked hearing his voice. Just the way he SOUNDS on the phone. All husky, and yes, SEDUCTIVE.

Oh god. Well I've admitted it now. Might as well keep digging myself a hole. He's actually making my skin feel all tight and tickly, like I can recall other times when he was speaking this close to my ear, only then his breath was tickling my neck as well.

And that was JUST HIS VOICE!

IMAGINE WHAT—

WHOA. Note to self: RENEW PRESCRIPTION.

"Uh, no, I'm all right thanks."

"I'll leave it for another day then, shall I?" said the voice.

Well I'm already in deep now. I practically just admitted Nick has a sexy voice, and in the past I've DEFINITELY admitted that Nick has a sexy body, and I'll admit right now that some of the things Nick says are UNDENIABLY sexy . . .

I'VE JUST COMPLETELY ADMITTED THAT I THINK NICK IS SEXY.

Jeez. I'm really going for broke today.

"Melinda? Are you still there?"

"Uhhhh . . ."

I'VE LOST THE ABILITY TO SAY ANYTHING OTHER THAN 'uhhh . . .' or 'ummm', or 'er'.

God, I SUCK.

"Aw, Melinda. Is the sound of my voice making you nervous?"

"How did you—" . . . Oops.

Note to self: just SHUT UP.

"Busted. I AM making you nervous."

Yeah, among other things. But he doesn't need to know that.

"Anyway." he said smoothly, "I'll get right down to it shall I? Oh, wait. I'll give you a moment to contemplate all dirty jokes . . ."

Oh my god. Will he just stop it? He KNOWS he's won. He KNOWS he's making me uncomfortable.

And I think he knows I think he's sexy. But then, that's a pretty safe bet. Every girl at the mission academy still pauses when he walks past. Not including the Nuns. Hang on, now that I think of it . . .

Eww.

"Get on with it." I managed to say, twisting the phone cord so tightly around my finger my circulation was starting to suffer.

I wish I could hate Nick's voice. But I can't. Believe me. I tried. So I've had to settle for hating him. And at time's like this . . . I can't even remember why I DO hate him.

He laughed. A deep, throaty sound. "Ok. It's simple really. I wanted to know if you were going to Arabia's resort thing?"

"Yes." Guess whose been reduced to single syllable answers because she can't choke out anything more?

Too easy. You're not getting a prize if you guess right.

"Oh? What did your mommy and daddy say, since you currently seem to be number one on the ghost most wanted list."

True . . . just another reason for me to leave them clueless.

"You know Nick," I said, suddenly finding myself capable of speech if I get to take a stab at Nick in the process, "I seem to always be saying this, but I CAN take care of myself. Why is that so hard to believe?"

"Is this the part where I bring up the time I had to pull you out of the way of a speeding car when you were just walking to school? Or the part where—"

"Ok, that was just bad luck." I admitted reluctantly.

"Yeah. And you ATTRACT it."

I'm guessing that has nothing to do with how short my skirt is. Because I also know I manage to attract trouble when I make THAT particular mistake. Yes Nick. I noticed where YOUR eyes were on THAT 'special' day. If I remember correctly, that was your first day at the Mission Academy. And you were assigned to be shown around by a girl in a micro mini. Aka: Me. And would you also remember the part where I told you could take your pick-up lines and cram them up your ass.

Ah, good times, good times.

"Yeah? Nick I seem to attract a lot of things, most of them unwanted." HA! BURN! "Now, it was nice talking to you," I said frostily, "But if you don't mind . . ."

"Such a sweet little pussy cat . . ." he teased.

"Huh?"

Really. Huh? All I could think of to explain that was that time he told me I looked like that chick from the Pussycat dolls. Was that supposed to be a COMPLIMENT? Has he NOTICED that one of them looks like a man? Well, a few actually . . . that red head . . . yeah, I'd be watching her. And did you know that they were all originally strippers? They were. I wonder if Nick knows that?

"Nick, if this is another reference to my ass . . ."

"Well now that you mention it," he said slyly. "I did have another few remarks . . . but experience has taught me you wouldn't like them much."

I was contemplating telling him to say them anyway, but I decided that might just be tempting fate. And I'm never one to tempt fate.

Yeah. Right. And Little Bo Peep was a stoner.

"Right . . . well, uh, I guess . . ."

"I'll see you this weekend Melinda." He said, and then click.

Which meant he'd hung up. A meaning I wasn't sure of was the 'I'll see you this weekend.' How would he see me this weekend? I was going to Arabia's. Unless . . .

He's NOT going to Arabia's too?

Shit. I cannot believe I wasn't smart enough to see what Nick was REALLY getting at.

He beat me AGAIN. ¡MALDIGALO! (A/N: 'Damn!)

:End Flashback:

No-one can say MY weekend was boring. But then again, I see dead people on regular basis, so its not like I'm ever going to have a BORING week.

It's so unfair.

Where's MY boring weekend, eh God?

Eh, Goddess?

Is this the part where I get all Emo/gothic depressive and start moping and going on about 'is anyone out there?'

And start cutting my wrists.

Oh, I'm sorry. That was mean.

Sorry Emo's. Sorry Goths. But you know what, I'm NOT sorry to the Emoths. They're the one's that are WANNABE Goths/Emo's.

EMOTHS are the ones who just start flicking at their wrists with a blunt craft knifed and then accidentally-on purpose show everybody their so called slashes that are really only scratches.

Oh my god. I'm so sorry. I truly don't know what is with me today!

Just as I was thinking this, Arabia pipes up with "Hey. Melinda. What is with you today gurl?"

"Yeah." Scott is quick to add. "Who peed in your cornflakes baby?"

Dork. "That would be funny," I snapped, "If I hadn't a SAID IT FIRST! Yeah, Scott, I COINED THAT PHRASE, 'BABY'! If you weren't such a dim-witted TROLL you would KNOW THAT!"

All of a sudden the singing of 99 BOTTLES OF BEER ON THE WALL stopped. So I knew the shit was about to ht the fan.

"Oh my god, Scott!" I sad quickly, twisting around in my seat to grab his hand, "I'm so sorry! It just came out. I didn't mean it! Truly! I don't think you're thick!" and then I had to go and put my foot in my mouth COMPLETELY, "I mean, I like you, I really do! I actually like you a lot!"

. . . Aww crap.

I dropped his hand.

"Hold on. Arabia, I didn't mean that. Honestly. You know I'm not trying to steal Scott. That would be ridiculous. So ridiculous, it would be funny! . . . ha ha?"

Blank faces.

"Okay . . . I'm going to crawl into a hole now . . ." I said, and hid my face in my hands, shrinking as far towards the door as possible. And yes, I absolutely DID consider bailing.

They still stared at me. I mean, I was riding shotgun, so it was kind of hard to move into a more inconspicuous seat.

"Melinda." Arabia said flatly. "What is WITH you?"

"Now that is a good question." I mumbled. "Anyone know the answer?"

I think I heard Scott mumble "Cornflakes" but I decide to let it slide.

"Because," I continued flatly, "I don't even know the answer. I know who blame though. Nick. Nick. Its always freaking NICK." At this, the people in the back who had been eagerly leaning forward no doubt to hear all the details of why I was loosing it, leaned forward even further, probably hoping for the inside scoop.

"Yeah." I muttered. "Yeah. It's always his fault, isn't it? I bet, if I asked all of you in this car about him, HALF of you would—you know what? I don't even know why I'm saying this. I'm sorry. Carry on singing. Whatever. I don't care. Did you hear me!" I said, getting slightly hysterical, "KEEP SINGING!"

A carload of teens sat and stared at me. Still. Staring. Just . . . staring.

Pathetic. I was practically BEGGING for more butchered rendition's of 99 bottles of beer on the wall.

I couldn't even begin to fathom why I was letting all these people in on the stuff that was bothering me. I liked to think of myself as a closed book. WHAT HAPPENED TO THE CLOSED BOOK Melinda?

I spared a thought for these people. Why are they so interested? So their own existence's SUCK so much they have to leech the life from mine? What the hell is with that? Why am I the most written about person in our school papers gossip column? Its not like that's a title I WANT!

Well, I'm not the sole topic. Nick Slater's name was also mentioned more times than I could count. Usually featured with his latest bed-buddy.

Jerk.

Tearing myself away from my thoughts – and trying to avoid the stares I was getting – I happened to look out the window in time to see us puling up. So this must be the hellhole I was supposed to waste three whole days of my life at. And it's not like I have days to spare, seeing as I have a ghost who would really LOVE to spill my blood personally, I think my number is pretty much UP!

And you know what? This place—Ferndale—looked pretty gorgeous for a hellhole.

But the most beautiful is always the most dangerous.

The Daughter Of.

Thanks for reading guys. I do it for you. What's that? You'd like to repay me? Why it's simple! Click the purple review button and leave me a lovely review!

Now, for the people who did for my last chapter. Possibly the crappiest chapter ever written on fan

But knowing me, I'll probably take my own crown. Joy.

Now, for my stalker wall of fame.

Dearest Booklover777 Thankyou! I like all Gods, Tamora Pierce just names some of them for me. Lol. I really love the gods in her books, and also the names. I constantly pich names from those books. Eg, Pauls girlfriend and the raka cook in 'Tricksters Queen'. But anyway, Stay tuned!

The Salad is Dressing oh, how I love your name!

Darling aYmIn, You may put the heavy stuiff you are pron to chucking at me DOWN, I have an update! And I actually had to research shifters the other day. It was HARD WORK. Y'all better love me. And yeah, Nick was jealous. And yeah. Melinda will figure that out once she stops thinking about herself. And I bet her mommy was the type to teach her to "attack where it hurts, go for the balls darling!" lol. THANKS HEAPS FOR REVOOING.

Thank you Catty Rose, I'm so glad you managed to stop freaking out over the whole ARRANGED MARRIDGE thing. heart Rate back to normal darling? Well, it won't be for very long, I have some lovely Fluff planned! Hehehehehe.

Oh Mary, How silly of me, I should have known where the winged rabid monkeys came from. Your fan club, of course! Derf is great. I LIKE IT. And, YAY FOR MARY RULER OF ALL . . . CHOCOLATE! Lol. And I loved "peace out my homie slice dog G dizzle fo sho. update and you get yo props. word." NOICE.

Thank you Sevvy! You reveiwd even though you'r computer was BROKE. That's so Nice! I'm tearing up . . . Lol. Thank you, so much.

AND LASTLY:

YOU ROCK Oh-great-aunty-who-is-currently-nameless-because-we-never-did-get-around-to-naming-you, Thanks for reading. I will admit, It sometimes does get weird you reading this then throwing random bits back at me the next ay, but I love you for it. You rock Girlfrind, thanks for keeping this story alive!

Thanks ladies!

Love and kisses;

Mariah

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