by Micol Ostow
Ms. Beekman peered at me over those prim half-lens glasses women of her generation love to keep around their neck on a chain. “Well, sure, dear. But that’s just the problem.”
“Naming Day?” It was sure starting to seem like a problem for my friends and me.
She smiled. “No, sweetheart. That the paper—the Tribune—was a small periodical in an even smaller town. When it folded, so did any trace of its archives.”
That’s … unusual. Mind you, I was still a few years off from J-school, but the idea of a newspaper, no matter how small potatoes, simply ghosting into thin air couldn’t have been too commonplace.
“What about microfiche?” I asked, growing a little more desperate than I cared to admit. Most research had been digitized by now, thank God, but a few of my cases—not to mention, a few book reports here and there—had led me to the back room of the Horseshoe Bay library, where the reels and reels of microfiche gathered dust.
“Oh, yes,” Ms. Beekman said, nodding with surprising energy. “That would, of course, be the first place one would presumably think to look.”
“Of course.” I tried to match her energy. It was difficult and involved a lot of repression.
“But”—she sighed—“you’ll recall there was that terrible fire in 2010. We were very fortunate; firefighters were able to extinguish it before it reached the second floor. But much of our back room—including several of the microfiche catalogues—was destroyed beyond repair. Even if the fire hadn’t melted the materials, the smoke and water damage would have been … well.” She shuddered and pulled her cardigan tighter over her shoulders, as though the mere thought of such a thing was way too traumatic to bear. “We’re just lucky to have saved as much as we did.”
“So lucky,” I echoed, though the fact that they’d saved data that wasn’t useful to me right now didn’t exactly feel like a windfall for my purposes.
What now? “Can you think of any other place I might find old issues of the Tribune?” I asked—a hopeful Hail Mary.
“You might try online,” she said, starting to sound more than a little bored with this conversation. “The Internet?”
“Yes, I’ve heard of it,” I joked, softly enough that any barb in my tone went undetected. “I did look there,” I said, realizing that I was working harder, now, not to sound testy. Was it my imagination, or was Beekman being a little … resistant? I knew I could sometimes get a little bit … uh, laser-focused when on a trail, so maybe I was projecting or reading into random, harmless things, but it was starting to feel like this librarian was playing at what my father might call a hostile witness.
Then again, maybe she was still holding a grudge from last spring, when I’d uncovered that mystery of the spurned cheerleader who’d hacked into the school’s grading system and failed her cheating boyfriend out of calculus. The fact that the hacking had taken place in the school library apparently made Beekman look not-great, and it wouldn’t have exactly been shocking to learn that she was not exactly a Nancy Drew fangirl.
“It was so strange,” I went on, trying for a softer touch. “There was literally just the one hit. I mean, that never happens.”
“I suppose it is rare,” Ms. Beekman said, but her gaze was back to her desk, to her own keyboard, and she began tapping away, very obviously, over our conversation.
Her dwindling interest sparked something in me, made me want to rise to this weird, perceived challenged of maintaining her attention. “And then,” I went on, loud enough that a few students sitting at a nearby table, studying, shot me a look, “when I clicked the link, it was broken.”
“Hmm,” she said noncommittally. “Well, you know what they say.”
“Actually, Ms. Beekman, I’m not sure I do,” I said, frustrated.
Now she looked up from her computer at last. Her blue eyes were watery, slightly bloodshot from age. “Curiosity killed the cat,” she said.
Ouch.
Well, there was no mistaking that tone, at least. Whatever thinly veiled evasiveness she was practicing was no longer veiled. At all. And while that made this whole process that much harder …
It also made it more interesting. “Am I the cat in this scenario?” I asked.
She scooted her chair to one side so she could look more directly at me, which was more unnerving than I would have expected. “Darling, of course not,” she said, her tone softer now. “It’s only that … well, this is a small town. And like any small town, it has its traditions.”
“Like Naming Day.”
“Like Naming Day,” she agreed. “And other … well, you know. The stories.”
“Urban legends,” I said. “Like Dead Lucy.”
“Ghosts, yes. And other legends. The Naming Day curse is probably just another one of those. And, frankly, I guess I just don’t see why you’d want to go poking around in all of that nonsense. Nothing good can come of it.”
Well, she was wrong there. Poking around behind the scenes of just about anything or anywhere was pretty much my favorite. But it was slowly becoming clear to me: Beekman was hella superstitious. It made sense, and it wasn’t uncommon among older neighbors of Horseshoe Bay. My grandmother had been the same way. Never crossing under a ladder, always throwing some spilled salt over one shoulder … silly little talismans meant to protect against the horrors and uncertainties of everyday life.
It didn’t work, though. Salt over a shoulder didn’t do much good when my grandfather’s age caught up to him and his heart failed. Neither did prayer, though at the time I could tell that it gave my grandmother some comfort. And maybe that’s what Beekman’s superstitions were to her—comfort. An attempt to exert even the tiniest bit of control over a chaotic system.
The good news was that I could understand a little better where she was coming from, especially thinking back to how my grandmother used to literally cross the street when she saw a black cat, or how she believed certain numbers were “lucky” and some were dangerous. In that context, Beekman’s reluctance to help me dig in to this missing article made a little more sense.
The bad news was that just because I got it, didn’t mean I was going to go along with it. I don’t believe in superstitions, after all. Only facts.
I opened my mouth to push back, to ask, if nothing else, if she might have other ideas of places to check for backlogs of old town newspapers. City Hall was my first thought, but would they be more helpful—more forthcoming—than Beekman? I had to hope.
But I didn’t have a chance to ask anything. Because before I could get a word out, I heard a scream.
* * *
I know that scream.
It was all I could think as I ran through the hallways, my bag banging against one leg as insistently as my heart hammered against my rib cage. It was the same scream I’d heard in fifth grade, when Rosie Graham dared us all to watch Poltergeist at her slumber party and some of us were seriously not ready for that demons-in-the-TV situation. It was the scream I knew from last year’s school production of Sweeney Todd. It was the same scream I’d heard in seventh grade, after the Horseshoe Bay Hoedown, when Trevor Griffin got to second base with Allison Ayers. Even though we’d had it on good information that he’d been crushing on my friend.
Daisy.
That scream was Daisy, and it was coming from the direction of her locker, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d moved this quickly at school without a PE teacher’s whistle in the background, egging me on.
A small crowd had gathered around her locker by the time I arrived. Daisy was at the center of it, shaking, her mascara making streaky raccoon tracks around her eyes. Lena was at her side, one arm over Daisy’s shoulder in a gesture that was at once protective and comforting.
“What … ,” I started to ask, but immediately trailed off because the “what” that it was, was starkly, glaringly obvious now that I was here, alongside the crowd, taking in the tableau of Daisy’s locker with shock.
THE CURSE LIVES.
The words were brig
ht red, lurid, scrawled in harsh, crude lettering. The letters themselves dripped, tracing trails like bloodstains down Daisy’s locker door.
Another note, another mention of the curse. I caught Lena’s eye, and she nodded, imperceptible to anyone else, but unmistakable to me. Once was a prank, maybe. Twice? This was … calculated. We couldn’t have denied it if we’d wanted to.
There was no way Daisy still wanted to.
Was there?
Another quick glance at Lena told me everything I needed to know. Daisy wasn’t going to let go of the Naming Day reenactment unless Ghostface from Scream himself showed up at her door.
Maybe not even then.
I pushed through the small throng. “Guys, give her some space.” People hovered, morbidly curious. I turned to a few timid-looking freshmen. “Go get the janitor. And you”—I pointed to another cluster—“can maybe let the office know what happened?”
Reluctantly, the rubberneckers cleared away. Once the three of us were alone, I looked Daisy up and down. “Are you okay?”
Though teary and shaken, she nodded. She did look okay—physically. But clearly still coming to terms with whoever had done this, and why. “Just freaked out.” She sniffed.
“With good reason.” I looked at the writing, so dark and accusing. “That’s not—it isn’t blood, is it?”
Lena ran an index finger through it, leaving a deep smudge. “Lipstick. Tom Ford, actually. I used to wear the same shade. Whoever did this has relatively high-end taste and didn’t mind sparing the good stuff.”
I slapped her lightly. “Never touch a crime scene.” My friends knew better than that by now.
“It’s not a crime scene,” Daisy protested. “I mean, let’s not overreact.” She folded her arms over her chest and looked at me, pleading with me to see it her way.
Lena and I exchanged another look over Daisy’s head. If Lena had been Team Daisy after the raven incident—or at least willing to give the whole situation a little more time to play out—she wasn’t anymore.
“Babe,” Lena said, adopting her no-nonsense, come-to-Jesus tone that she saved for special occasions, “be reasonable. This totally is a crime scene. I mean, like, the literal definition of one. It’s vandalism, if nothing else, which maybe isn’t dangerous, but, like, I don’t think it’s great news.”
“So someone was trying to freak me out, so what? We talked about this yesterday, with the whole raven thing,” Daisy protested. “Pranks are just the usual around here. It’s super NBD.”
“Exactly. We talked about it yesterday, Dais,” I said gently. “It’s probably connected, and it’s escalating. Don’t you think that’s a little weird? The ‘whole raven thing’ was pretty insane in the first place, like, just on its own. But when you add this to it? Honestly, Lena’s right. It has to be more than just a harmless prank. It’s bad news.”
Daisy looked at me. “You think someone is trying to sabotage the reenactment?”
I gestured at the lipstick marks, so blaring and ugly. “What would you call that?”
“Amateur hour,” she said. “That’s what I’d call it. It’s not a threat. And even if it were, I’m not easily intimidated.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Clearly not.” I didn’t want to argue. But she was being unreasonable.
“Look, we know how excited you are about Naming Day,” Lena chimed in. “We were too. But someone out there is less than thrilled.”
“Maybe more than one someone,” I put in. Possibly Caroline. But she wasn’t a very strong candidate as a suspect. But that didn’t mean I wouldn’t keep her in mind. “And I think we have to pay attention to the message they’re sending.”
“They’re sending a message? So let them!” Daisy said shrilly. “You sent those kids to tell the office about what happened, right? I mean, it’s not a secret, the way—”
“—the way you asked us to keep the raven thing,” I finished for her. “Yeah, I offered to back off of that one—a little. But given this … new development,” I said, grasping for phrasing that would get my point across without making Daisy more upset than she already was, “I don’t think I can just pretend that something fishy isn’t going on. I wouldn’t be a good friend if I could!” I touched her arm, aiming for soothing, but she flinched and pulled back.
“Just let the office investigate it, then,” she said. She shrugged. “I mean, I know you legitimately can’t do that. Like, you’re physically incapable. I’m sure you weren’t going to just completely let the whole thing with the raven go totally untouched.” She arched an eyebrow, the effect all the more unnerving given her smeary eye makeup. She didn’t seem angry, just resigned to how well she knew me. “Were you?”
I flushed. “You asked me not to alert anyone. I didn’t alert anyone.” Except for Ms. Beekman, of course, in a roundabout way … but given how she hadn’t wanted to touch the topic with a ten-foot pole, I wasn’t all that worried about her further spilling the beans.
“I’m not not gonna participate in the reenactment,” Daisy said, jutting her chin at Lena and me, a defiant glint in her eye.
“And I’m not not gonna keep looking into this curse thing, and trying to keep you—and everyone else involved—safe,” I countered.
“Wonderful,” Lena said drily. “In the world of non-ideal scenarios, this is probably the best case I can think of.” She glared at Daisy. “Better would be you using an ounce of self-preservation and common sense rather than letting your thirst for theatrics win out.”
Daisy shot her a smug smile in return. “Never gonna happen. You know the prospect of my name in lights is going to triumph every time.”
“Drama queen,” I said, not without affection. Were we at an impasse or a détente? I wasn’t sure, but it was better than straight-up arguing. My main priority, as I said, was looking into the history of the Naming Day curse while also keeping Daisy—and whoever else may have been a target of these so-called pranks—safe. I didn’t mind if Daisy got annoyed with me in the process, but everything was certainly easier (and more fun, obviously) when we were getting along.
I gave her a quick squeeze that I hoped was reassuring. “We probably have a few minutes before anyone from the office comes to check this out. Or clean it up,” I said, taking a few pictures with my phone for good measure, being sure to zoom in and out to get every possible angle and detail. “So let’s go to the bathroom and splash some water on your face before they get here.”
“Sounds good,” Daisy said. She rubbed a finger under her eye and looked at the smudge of mascara that appeared. “I guess I need it.”
“You do,” Lena assured her. “A drama queen and a crybaby,” she teased, prompting Daisy to give her a playful shove. “You really are the total package. No wonder Coop’s so smitten.” The two dissolved into giggles, and for a second, I might have even been able to pretend that things were totally normal and my friends and I weren’t being stalked by freaks who thought dead birds and bloodred threats were high comedy.
But as we turned the corner to the girls’ bathroom, I realized something.
Not everyone had dispersed when Lena and I had sent them away.
One person in particular had managed to shuffle just down the hall, wedging himself against a wall of lockers in exactly the position a person would need to be in if they wanted to keep an eye on Daisy in the aftermath of the locker prank. One person had taken it all in, for reasons I could only guess at—but that I couldn’t imagine were good.
Theo.
And if he felt any guilt or self-consciousness as I passed him with my friends in the hallway, he didn’t show it.
In fact, as I strode past him, my own face surely a question mark, he was so still, so unresponsive, that I had to wonder.
Where did Theo—a self-proclaimed anarchist—fit into all this?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Things were better with Daisy by the end of the day, but not so much better that she was totally cool with me heading off to do my own thin
g after the final bell rang.
“What do you mean, you aren’t staying to work on the float?” she demanded as I did my best to say my good-byes and make a graceful exit in the student lounge.
“I think she means, she isn’t staying to work on the float,” Lena offered. “Did the lipstick fumes from that locker thing get to you?” I wanted to shoot her a grateful look, but her expression was totally inscrutable. Was she annoyed that I was bailing on our plans? Just one more unsolvable question.
Some mysteries were more fun than others. It was just part of the gig.
“I mean, that much I got,” Daisy said. “Though the closed captioning is always appreciated.”
It didn’t sound particularly appreciated, I had to say.
“But why?” Daisy glared at me. “We planned this days ago. We always do the float together. Last year was pirates.”
“I know,” I said. “Yo ho ho. Good times.” I tried to smile, but she wasn’t having it.
“And this year, the mermaid theme? I mean, Nancy—that was totally your idea!”
“Mind you, maybe a slightly obvious choice, but she’s not wrong,” Lena said. “It was all you, sister.”
“I know,” I repeated, testier now but working really, really hard not to show it.
“So what is it, then, that’s so important that you have to bail on the float today?” Daisy asked. She eyed me like she had an idea, but didn’t go so far as to actually accuse me of anything specific.
“I have an errand,” I hedged.
In my jacket pocket, my hand closed around my cell phone. What I had, more precisely, was a friend at city hall who owed me a favor—I’d found her lost cat years ago in one of my easier cases. And what she had was access to a wider database that would hopefully help me dig up the original article about the Naming Day curse from the Tribune.
She also had tipped me off that the records room employee had a habit of sneaking off early on weekdays, and I only had a small window before the building closed for the night. Hence, making the hard choices even though my two best friends were looking at me like I was an utter rat for cutting out on our plans.