Four Boys in a Band

prologue

"Psst."

Jacob was already awake when he heard the insistent hiss in his ear just after Lights Out. It was the first night of camp, and the first night was always the hardest for Jacob to get to sleep. He was laying in his bunk, the last top bunk that had been available in the whole cabin when he'd arrived this morning. Now, as Jacob turned his head to follow the sound of the hiss, he saw his bunkmate, Calvin.

Calvin Schoefield had a mop of blonde 2010-Justin Bieber-style hair, as though no one had told him it was not in style anymore. But, somehow, he was a chick magnet. Since meeting Calvin that morning, Jacob had observed him flirting with no less than fourteen different girls. Maybe it was his firm biceps; maybe it was the way he practically oozed confidence; maybe it was because he always introduced himself as "Calvin--as in Calvin Klein." Whatever it was, all the ladies loved Calvin--Bieber hair and all.

Calvin stared creepily at Jacob through the rails of the bunkbed. "Are you awake?" he whispered.

"No," Jacob said contrarily, his voice hoarse.

"But your eyes are open."

"Sleeping with my eyes open is my party trick."

"You must not get out much, then," Calvin said bluntly.

"Rolling over now," Jacob informed him, before doing just that.

Moments later, Calvin appeared on the other side of the bed. "You're a runner, right?"

Jacob snorted half-heartedly at the inadequate description. He was more than just "a runner." At his high school, Jacob Winston was the youngest guy on the cross-country team, but he was also the fastest. Since joining the team, his fame had spread throughout the tri-state area. Most of his teammates called him "the Wildfire" because when his reddish-brownish hair hit the light and he was running, he looked like a wildfire streaking down the track. Not streaking like streaking, but . . . never mind.

"What's it to you?" Jacob said to Calvin defensively.

"I need your help."

*

Wes Burke was halfway through a nice dream combining cupcakes and basketball when he was rudely awakened by a shake on his shoulder. He looked up from his bottom bunk to see two vaguely familiar people blinking down at him out of the dark. Wes furrowed his brow and was about to speak, but the two guys standing next to his bottom bunk beat him to it.

"We need you," they said in unison.

Suddenly Wes remembered rumors he had heard earlier that day about this cabin being haunted. Were these dudes two ghosts trying to get him to come to the Other Side?!

"Listen, ghosts," Wes said carefully, so he didn't upset or disturb the specters in any way, "I'm not ready to go yet. I mean, I'm only sixteen, for Pete's sake. I have a whole life to live. I have things I want to do. I want to skydive into a tidal wave; I want to play a guitar duet with Slash; I want to kiss a girl; I--"

"Bro," interrupted one of the ghosts. "We're not ghosts."

"You've never kissed a girl?" asked the other ghost.

Wes's face warmed at the realization that his dramatic rant had been for nothing, and now he had just revealed his rather embarrassing bucketlist to two total strangers. "Well, if you're not ghosts, then--"

"Am I really that pale?" asked the first ghost, turning to the second.

"No. That is, unless you consider the Pillsbury doughboy pale."

The first ghost bristled. "Are you comparing me to the Pillsbury doughboy?"

"Hey, Wes was the one who mistook you for a ghost!"