“I can’t let myself consider it. I’ll go insane—and then die. In that order.” Mira turned to her side and hugged her knees. Then she released a resounding fart.

Rosemary threw a pillow at her. “I really, really despise you!”

Mira cackled. Then just as suddenly, she grew grave. “Can I tell you something? It concerns both of our fates.”

“What? What?”

“I read somewhere that girls between the ages of thirteen and sixteen are especially prone to paranormal visitations. Especially poltergeists.”

Rosemary kicked her sister, and stood up.

“It’s true!” Mira insisted. “It’s to do with hormones, girls our age! We have too much estrogen.”

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.” Rosemary stormed off.

“I’ve been thinking about this. We could harness our rage, together! We could summon up a spirit. We could even summon up Dad, and he’ll help us against—”

Rosemary slammed her bedroom door.

“Who make a big noise?” Mrs. Park came shuffling in from the kitchen.

Mira closed her eyes, crossed her chest with her arms and became an exquisite corpse.

Rosemary pulled out the slip of paper with Mr. Z’s phone number. Would it be too weird to call him? Technically it wasn’t late at all—a little past seven-thirty, but it was well past school hours and it was dark out.

Although she’d been instructed to conserve her minutes, she used her cell so there’d be no risk her mother might pick up the extension and hear her with some man.

Her fingers were ice-cold as she punched in Mr. Z’s number. She actually didn’t need the paper—she’d already memorized the digits like a mystic PIN—but his handwriting was talismanic. He crossed his sevens. She sat by her open window, as far from her door as possible in case Mira was eavesdropping. Ringtones. Once, twice, three times. She prepared to hang up before his voicemail clicked on.

Then she heard his voice, “Hello, Rose,” on the other end. She tingled all over when she realized he’d seen her name on his caller ID.

“I hope I’m not bothering you.” Her voice was small and tight.

“You’ll never bother me, Rose,” he said. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

Raymond’s agent, Lena Ozova, was in town from New York. Five years had passed since he’d sat with the scrawny Pole, and he was curious to see if her facelift had held up. They went to Musso’s in Hollywood where they split a bottle of Albariño and shared a chef’s salad which she picked at as if eating an extra leaf might send her to Canyon Ranch. He had the calf’s liver. She was careworn and brittle—her vertebrae had not been kind—but her face looked youthful.