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Don’t play Jenny Two Pennies. Marcy and I did, and now she’s dead. And I’m being haunted by the ghost of a cheerleader named Jenny, and she’s awful.
She insults me, my clothes, weight, haircut, room decor, everything. She wants me to acknowledge her. That’s her schtick. She can’t do anything unless I look at or talk to her. She’s stuck haunting me, and she’s a raging B about it.
It’s been a week since Marcy died, right after homecoming. Every year we crash at each other’s house after the football game, then spend Saturday preparing for the dance. This was our thing, and this year it was Marcy’s turn to host. I preferred her place since she had a bigger TV, plus her dad was a fellow licorice fiend and always kept a tub on hand that I’d raid late at night. I know I have a problem.
But lately, she’d gotten into weird stuff. Ghosts, UFOs, hocus pocus. It wasn’t my scene, but I’mwasn’t a supportive friend. Besides, Marcy kinda went off the deep end when her brother Blair disappeared from his school. He was into weird stuff, too.
He kept stacks of notebooks filled with stories about how weird our town is, which is how Marcy learned of Jenny Two Pennies.
According to Blair’s notebooks, Jenny was a cheerleader who loved to gossip, and one day, in science class, she got too involved in her whisper campaign and stopped paying attention to what she was doing, and melted her face off.
Bunsen burners are a menace.
Now she’s a goopy-faced ghost with a habit of eavesdropping.
The coppery glow of the bunsen burner, forever reflected in her sunken eyes, barely visible beneath her swollen flesh — that’s the Two Pennies part. I guess that adds a little flair. I mean, Two Pennies is better than Pizza Shit Face, or Jenny the Crispy Cheerleader.
You can’t hear her, but she’s screaming obscenities at the back of my head. She’s sensitive about her nickname.
Anyway, if you summon Jenny, she’ll answer whatever question you ask. That’s her gimmick, and Marcy figured this was her best shot to learn what happened to her brother, so I don’t blame her. However, I might have reconsidered had I known the price for breaking the rules of Jenny’s invocation.
After the football game, we went to Marcy’s house, which I assumed meant a night of merriment, so I brought my DVD of the American classic Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion. Great movie. Phenomenal. I recommend.
We didn’t get to watch it, and Marcy never will because she’s dead. Another of Jenny Fondue Face’s crimes against humanity.
Instead, we stood in Marcy’s bathroom facing the mirror with the lights off and a lit candle.
Now, I’m about to explain the rules to summon Jenny Two Pennies — for educational reasons. Like a More You Know type thing. An interesting fact, but you’ll never use the knowledge.
HOW TO PLAY JENNY TWO PENNIES:
Stand in the bathroom with the lights out, light a candle and say, “Jenny Two Pennies, Jenny Two Pennies — insert question here.” Then set your timer for five minutes, and stare into the eyes of your reflection.
If you do it right and keep eye contact with your reflection, your face will look weird, like seriously messed up. It’s gross, but don’t look away. Don’t break eye contact, smile, frown, or even twitch your lip, or Jenny will latch onto you and haunt your ass, and you don’t want that.
You must last the full five minutes.
We did not. Instead, the moment our reflection changed, we screamed. We screamed so loud; I’m sure they heard us two counties over and ran out of the bathroom. I couldn’t pee until it was light outside. My bladder still hasn’t recovered.
Nothing happened, and by morning, we were laughing about the whole thing. It wasn’t until the dance that we realized our situation was serious.
They held the Homecoming dance in our school’s cafeteria. A circular commons area bordered by lockers and vending machines on one side and massive floor-to-ceiling windows that look out onto the courtyard.
We were having fun. Marcy and I looked extra cute in our outfits, our ghostly adventure the farthest thing from my mind until the second song, when Marcy started screaming. Like song stopping, everyone turns to look at you type screaming. Hysterics.
I rushed her outside to the courtyard. It was October and the night air was colder than I expected. The mini skirt was a poor choice.
“I saw her. In the window’s reflection. I saw her,” Marcy said.
I wasn’t following, “Who?”
“Jenny. She was standing behind me.”
“What?”
“Standing behind me, cheerleader outfit and everything. I saw her face. It was all messed up.”
“You didn’t see nothing. It’s dark, and everyone’s cramped together and jumping around. Your mind’s playing tricks on you. Hell, Marcy, that dumb game scared you this bad?”
She leaned in and looked me in the eye. “I’m telling you, I saw her. Sure as shit, I saw her.”
Y’know that wide-eye, tiny-pupil look some crazy people have? Like, runaway bride crazy, or drive cross-country in a diaper to surprise marry an astronaut crazy? Marcy had that look.
I’m a high schooler, nowhere near capable of dealing with that. I didn’t know how to respond, so I shrugged, “Ok.”
“Ok?”
“Well, you saw a ghost. That’s cool, I guess.”
“No, you don’t understand. We messed up, and now she’s haunting us. Now she’ll kill us if we look or talk to her. It said so in Blair’s notebook, an — oh God, I looked right into her eyes.” Marcy leaned into my shoulder and sobbed.
Not going to lie; this messed me up a little. I tried to reassure her, but I’m not the best at comforting people or people-ing in general. I flat-out suck at it. “We should go home,” I said and got up, but Marcy stopped me.
“I can’t be alone tonight.”
“Ok, I’ll get the car.”
The car ride home was quiet. Marcy mentally checked out and spent the drive looking at her feet, refusing to make eye contact with any reflective surfaces.
On the drive home, I caught the vague shape of a girl in what might have been a yellow and blue cheerleading uniform on the side of the road. I wasn’t sure and was too afraid to check my rearview mirror. Marcy’s paranoia was infectious.
Her parent’s car sat in the driveway, so I parked next to the curb and helped Marcy out of the car, leading her across the lawn to the front door. She fumbled with the keys and let us inside.
The house was dark, and the sound of her parents, probably her dad, softly snoring echoed behind their bedroom door.
“Your parents have the right idea,” I said and led Marcy, still looking at her feet, to her bedroom, sitting with her until she fell asleep, which, thank God, didn’t take long. I was starving and raided the fridge for any remaining pizza.
The slice of pizza sizzled in the toaster oven, and I thought about the junk Marcy said at the dance, the cheerleader I thought I saw, and considered the possibility Jenny Two Pennies was after us.
The house was quiet, and my senses heightened from spooky thoughts, so I immediately noticed the sounds of what I thought were footsteps coming from the hall.
I looked down the hallway.
As Marcy’s door closed, I glimpsed the back of someone dressed in a blue and yellow outfit. The door clicked shut, and Marcy screamed.
I ran to her bedroom and tried the handle. The door opened, then slammed shut, throwing me backward. Her parents were awake now, joining me in the hallway and helping me to my feet.
Her mom and dad tried to force their way into her room. Their voices mixed with the sounds of a struggle, things breaking, and a strange girl’s voice yelling obscenities from inside her room. The door shook as something heavy struck it.
Marcy’s screams of pain rose above it all. Then it stopped.
The door opened.
Her mattress and bedframe slumped against the wall. The closet doors were open, with her clothes strewn across the floor. Splashes of what looked like black paint decorated her wall like a Pollock painting. Marcy lay in the middle of the room with her back bent the wrong way across the dresser and her broken legs resembling a W. Her head was upside down and propped up by an open drawer.
That was a week ago. Since then, Little Miss Sludge Face has been trying to trick me into looking at her. Sucks for her. I’m the queen of ignoring people.
I think she’s getting desperate, though. On my last visit to Marcy’s parent’s house, I snuck Blair’s notebooks out of Marcy’s room, and for a middle schooler, the kid kept detailed notes. Once I’m done dealing with Jenny, I’ve got a whole town’s worth of ghosts to exorcise. I’ll make sure no one else suffers like Marcy did.