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Fenton was guarding two seats on the Elmore bus like a man defending the last slice of cafeteria pizza. Then Carrie floated aboard.
He jumped up to hug her—forgot she was intangible—and passed straight through her like a confused pigeon… and landed directly on Carmen.
Carmen—the cactus.
Carmen shrieked. Fenton shrieked louder. The entire bus shrieked loudest, in sympathy. Alan bonked him on the head like a disappointed balloon dad. Carrie folded over laughing so hard she nearly destabilized her ectoplasm.
Fenton retreated back across the aisle, still plucking cactus spines out of his shirt.
He held out a hand. Carrie took it—then phased through him to steal the window seat.
“Not funny,” he muttered.
“Last day of school fried your brain,” she said, wiping a tear.
Fenton’s brain, however, was already in Carrie’s room imagining the “ghost-juice experiments” she’d been hyping up all week.
-
Fenton stubbed his toe on her porch chair and whispered a curse that would’ve made Principal Brown faint.
Carrie, ghostly, drifted through her front door without opening it. Fenton—mortal, unable to follow her through a closed door--glared at the skull shaped knocker.
“HELLOOO, spooky emo girl! Your mortal boyfriend is stranded outside!”
He knocked. Loudly. Pettily.
Inside, Carrie shouted something—and a man answered.
The door--while closed--was not locked. Fenton bolted in.
Carrie was hugging a bedraggled, white bearded ghost in an old mariner’s coat. The guy hovered like gravity was a suggestion.
“My girl!” the ghost boomed.
Carrie’s dad.
Fenton froze, shirtless from cactus damage, wearing only his dignity and a few stubborn spines.
The ghost dad sniffed the air. “Who’s this wickt?”
Carrie’s eye twitched. “Dad! You can’t call mortals that!”
Ghost Dad squinted at Fenton. “Daughter, aren’t you little old for boyfriends?”
Carrie’s hands went to her hips. “You didn’t complain about Darwin!”
“Fishie didn’t have no harpoon,” Dad grumbled.
Carrie dragged him upstairs before he could escalate into full Flying Dutchman mode.
Upstairs, Carrie unleashed three centuries of daughter rage. Dad countered with three centuries of confused ghost dad excuses.
Vlad complained she’d never answered his calls, and produced his phone—
A rotary phone appeared. It still had the cord.
Carrie nearly evaporated trying to picture how long it would take to catch him up, with him just-released from three centuries of black-magic confinement.
Meanwhile, downstairs, Fenton—now wearing the couch’s floral dust cover like a cape—strummed a weird sea-salt-smelling guitar he found by the sofa.
Carrie returned, snorting at his “Fenton and the Dust Bunnies!” superhero pose.
She was about to kiss him when her dad poofed back in.
“YOUNG MORTAL FOOL!”
Carrie blushed so hard she nearly clipped through the floor.
Dad interrogated Fenton about jobs, rent, and “trade.” Fenton offered him an old amp. Dad was not impressed.
Then Dad tried to do a scary ghost roar.
It was… not good.
Carrie told him so.
"Fenton—don’t go. He's menacing you just because he’s afraid you're going to break my heart and leave me a jittery mess."
Fenton chuckled. "He's afraid I'll leave you a satisfied mess—quivering like Jell-O."
Dad grit his teeth. Steam came out of his ears.
Then another ghost arrived—Carrie’s mom
--regal, dramatic, and wearing a hat large enough to colonize a small nation. She’d just dropped in to nose around Carrie’s after possessing someone for high tea.
Mum sniffed the air. “Dearie, your house smells like livestock.”
Carrie died inside. Again.
Mum’s gaze fixed on Fenton. She eyed Fenton like a rotten peach.
“Dearie”—she beckoned Carrie near, as private as could be got—“Be stingy with your crumpet.”
Carrie screamed “MOM!”
But the ghostly matriarch just vanished to go haunt someone’s silver service.
Dad suddenly recognized Mum--remembered a makeout session in their youth, 300 years past. He clutched his chest like he’d been hit by a spectral freight train.
With Dad distracted, Carrie tried to kiss Fenton—only to recoil.
“Dude. You reek of garlic.”
“YOU made me eat the lunch pizza while you possessed me!”
“Still. Ew.”
Fenton begged for a toothbrush. Carrie reminded him ghosts don’t have dental hygiene. Or plumbing.
He stormed out to wash up at home. Carrie wilted at the window, watching him go.
Later that night, at Shreddy Freddy’s, Fenton tried to play his gig while lead-singer Zane poked him with a mic like an overcaffeinated toddler.
Carrie slipped into the crowd. Fenton almost grinned—but then he remembered her dad might be haunting her house permanently. That killed his mood.
A cowboy in the front row leaned in to kiss his date at the exact moment Carrie floated past.
Carrie looked, startled--
He kissed Carrie instead.
Carrie froze in horror.
For a second Fenton’s chest went hollow, the music thinning to a distant hum; all he could hear was his own heartbeat, loud and accusing.
Fenton lunged at the cowboy and landed a solid right. Chaos erupted—ten punches flew, Zane slammed into the bass drum, and Fenton's guitar split under a boot. The keyboard girl fell off the stage and was cushioned by Alan--who nudged into Carmen, and went pop.
Bassman Rocky drove Fenton and Carrie back to her house.
Fenton lay on the couch with a black eye while Carrie tried to “ghost heal” him with the confidence of someone who had watched one (1) medical drama.
“You could’ve stayed possessing that cowboy’s head!” Fenton complained.
“You tried to club him with your guitar!” Carrie shot back.
“My band—”
“Your band was already dying to punch Zane.”
“My gig—”
“Honestly? Best show I’ve ever seen.”
“My Fendler Gnat—”
“Okay, yeah, that part sucked.” They observed a moment of silence, grieving Fenton’s cherished guitar.
Fenton groaned. “Your dad is going to haunt here forever--we’re doomed.”
Carrie froze.
“You’re breaking up with me?”
Her grandfather clock struck thirteen.
Fenton panicked. “Not—like—right now. I just—your dad—tomorrow—next week—”
Carrie’s fists clenched. “After you left, I talked Dad into leaving ! Then I fought jerks for you! And you break up with me at witching hour?!”
She steamed toward the stairs.
“Wait—your dad left?”
“Well DUH!” Her fringe-hidden eye popped.
Fenton blinked. “…So… any chance we could still… you know… the ghost juice…?”
“It’s upstairs,” she said coolly.
She hovered at the first step.
“Too bad we broke up. Goodnight.”
Fenton stared.
He couldn’t read her expression through the back of her ghostly head.
But he could feel the grin.
“Carrie—you are so kidding !”
Glancing back, Carrie giggled—a very un Carrie giggle—and shot up her stairs like a pale emo rocket.
Fenton sprinted after her.
Fenton tripped, kicked off his shoes, and bolted after her.
The narrator tried to follow them into the bedroom.
The door slammed, blocking any view of them and the “ghost juice” Carrie had been teasing her mortal with.
The narrator gave up.