“Nobody’s gonna believe you,” she says, ruminating. “And your mom won’t be any help, no offense.” She gives me an apologetic smile. “I guess the first thing we have to do is see if he’s there again tonight.”

“And then what?” I wonder aloud.

Germ stares out the window, thinking. “On Los Angeles Pet Psychic they got rid of a bad spirit by burning something called a smudge stick all around the house. It had, like, oregano in it or something.”

I blink at her. Los Angeles Pet Psychic is one of her favorite shows. She’s always waiting for them to do a segment on an iguana, but it has never panned out. Still, I doubt how much burning oregano could help if I do end up seeing a ghost again.

Walking into the house, I see that half the groceries I ordered online earlier this week are scattered on the counter: eight of the same Swanson frozen dinners, four boxes of Pop-Tarts, four frozen pizzas, a box of spaghetti, eight cans of soup. There’s a whole bag full of candy—Twizzlers and caramels and all sorts of treats I order too because my mom doesn’t care.

Some of the bags have been unpacked, but it looks like Mom got halfway through and then forgot and moved on to something else. Even after all these years being friends with Germ, I flush with embarrassment. But Germ briskly crosses the kitchen and starts putting things away as if it’s the most normal thing in the world, and I help her, gratefully.

After we finish, we find Mom upstairs in her attic room, staring out the window at the sea, as she does for hours every evening. The pull to the ocean and this window view of it is so strong, she starts muttering nervously to herself whenever she has to leave the house, and we always have to hurry home.

“Hey, Mrs. Oaks,” Germ says, behind me in the doorway.

“He’s out there swimming,” Mom says automatically, her eyes on the sea.

“Yeah,” Germ says, turning a kind smile to me. “His legs must be tired.” Germ reaches out and gives my arm a squeeze. I know she feels bad for me, but she also tries to be funny about it. I think she understands that you only have the mom you have.

“Germ’s sleeping over,” I say. “And I have some progress reports I need you to sign.” My progress reports always have some variation of the same note at the bottom: Rosie is very bright but doesn’t speak very often. Rosie daydreams too much. I know my mom will sign them without reading them.

Mom gives a vague smile to both of us. “That’s nice,” she says, and then looks away from us in silence.