Limpy peered frantically under her desk for Chup, Podge and Tufts.
“Oh, uh, hey, Limphetta.” It was Emmanuel. The last time she’d spoken to him, he had been teasing her. She ignored him and searched the corners of class, beneath the teacher’s chair. “Sorry. ’Bout the library. And Arnie.”
The hurt came rushing back. She scowled at him and he blushed, sweeping black hair from his dark eyes.
“I didn’t know about the knife,” he said.
“Not about the knife,” Limpy said. “It’s about calling me names.”
He glanced to the back of the class, where Arnie was jabbing his finger into the side of a boy almost half his size.
“Why are you even friends with Arnie?” she asked, packing up her things. She had to find the creatures before they got her into trouble—more trouble.
“I . . . there’s nobody else,” he said. “No one my age in town.”
It was true. The school brought kids in from all over the county but, in town, only Arnie was the same age as Emmanuel. Unless you counted Limpy. “There’s me, and it doesn’t justify being mean,” she said. His flush deepened. He appeared shorter to Limpy even though he stood a full head taller.
“What was that all about in class?” Emmanuel asked.
“I dunno,” she replied. “We better hurry. We’re going to be late for History.” History was also taught by Ms. Summerfield, which in the past had been a good thing, but now Limpy wasn’t so sure.
When she picked up her knapsack, loose pencils fell out the bottom.
“Looks like you’ve got a hole,” Emmanuel said. “How’d you not notice a hole—” And then he shut up when she squinted at him. “Sorry, but it’s sad. Your bag’s so cool. It’s like art.”
Emmanuel liked her bag? Even with the little monsters loose, she lightened. Floated even, but then she remembered that she was still angry with him. “I know I have a hole,” she said. Luckily she always had something to stitch with and soon threaded the edges with twine and pulled it closed, neat and strong. “Let’s go.”
He followed after her to the school library where Ms. Summerfield had told them to meet. Along the way, Limpy kept peering into corners and hopping every so often to see on top of the lockers they passed, hoping to glimpse her missing friends. Emmanuel said nothing. She couldn’t stay mad at him long. After all, there really weren’t many other kids in town. And he liked her bag!
At the library they were supposed to be working on local history projects, but those who didn’t have computers at home all lined up to use one of the library’s two computers for a chance to search online. Limpy wouldn’t have the opportunity to search for a translation to her rubbing.
The beanbag chairs were already taken too, so Limpy went to the periodicals section where the old newspapers were kept, including those of the Flesherton Herald. Stacks of the paper filled the room. The same newspaper that plastered her bedroom walls. The publication had shut down thirteen years ago when circulation dropped below a hundred and the owner, Hal Smith, figured it was easier just to call everyone with the news. He never did.
The scraps of the Flesh family’s legacy lay buried in yellowed paper teetering before Limpy. She pulled a sheaf from the year 1925 and began to read. Emmanuel sat beside her.
The headline read, “John Hayden buys hundred acres to start pig farm.” Bart Hayden’s great-grandfather. Limpy thought it cool that the area had such history. Even Devo, the potato dodger, had known about the curse, and Limpy wondered if the Herald would have anything on it. Had her little buddies’ great-grandparents ever been sighted around here?
Crunch.
She hadn’t even felt Tufts land on her shoulder, but there it hunkered eating a potato chip. Fragments tumbled down her sweatshirt.
Crunch.
“You can’t eat in the library,” Emmanuel whispered from where he paged through a paper.
“I’m not—” But Tufts was gone, leaving the evidence of the crumbs on her.
Ms. Summerfield put her head into the room.
“Someone stole my snack,” Arnie said too loudly for the library. Ms. Summerfield whirled on him with a Shhhh. “But my chips . . .”
Emmanuel’s eyes widened and Limpy shook her head. Her face fell when he moved away as if not wanting be associated with a troublemaker.
Crunch!
Limpy searched for the source of the sound and spotted Tufts high on top of the book stacks and munching away.
“You get in here,” Limpy hissed and pointed at her knapsack.
She got to her feet and lunged, but Tufts skipped out of reach.
Crunch!
Tears began to blur her vision as she heard the familiar click of Ms. Summerfield’s heels. She stepped into the doorway. The teacher’s look wasn’t so much of anger, but disappointment, as if saying, I’ve done so much for you and this is how you repay me?
When Ms. Summerfield couldn’t find evidence of the chip bag, Limpy shrugged innocently.
“Limphetta, do you know what the goal of every teacher is?” Limpy shook her head. “It is to have an impact on our students. But we dream, too. Of someday making a big difference with a few. That is what I hope for you. What I had hoped for you.”
Ms. Summerfield wandered away to answer another student’s questions, leaving Limpy without a chance to explain. A new shadow replaced the teacher’s: Arnie.
“Should have known that potato girl would steal my chips,” he said.
Limpy shook her head, and Arnie seemed to swell, his meaty head and shoulders blocking the exit from the periodicals room.
Limpy said, “I didn’t, I swear.” And because she knew in some ways she had, Limpy flushed red and kept her voice low.
“I can tell. Open your mouth.”
When she did, he stepped forward and poked her hard in the stomach. It burned and made her feel a little sick. He jabbed again.
A book dropped from the shelves and smacked him on top of the head.
His face scrunched in fury and pain, but he didn’t cry out. He turned and stared up at the shelves.
Limpy bit her lip. He squinted back at her and went to poke her again when a second book, a thick encyclopedia, slipped from the shelves. Its corner hit his back. He fell forward, his face a shock of pain.
“You did that,” he gasped at her, but there was something else in his eyes. A quivering at their edges. Three more books jumped from the shelves one after the other and smacked into his astonished expression, before slamming onto the floor.
“What is—” Ms. Summerfield rushed into the room. Arnie cried on the ground, pointing at Limpy, who had a look of wonderment on her face. On the shelf, Chup gave Limpy what appeared to be a little paw fist-pump.
Limpy shook her head, and Chup disappeared from view.
“She did it,” Arnie said.
“They fell,” Limpy shouted. “Really. I didn’t do it.”
But the evidence was all around her, and Limpy couldn’t tell them the truth without telling them about the creatures. Tufts appeared and nudged the empty chip bag from the shelf so that it drifted to the floor.
“My chips!” Arnie yelled.
Ms. Summerfield leaned down and picked up Limpy’s knapsack. “Principal’s office,” she said.
Limpy took her bag, feeling the extra weight of at least two of the real troublemakers.
As she passed Arnie, he whispered, “I’m going to get you.”
The other students stared. Everyone except Emmanuel, who shuffled toward the door with her. “What’s going on? What’s wrong?” he asked.
She shrank away from him.
“Can I help?” he asked. “This isn’t like you.”
She covered her ears with her palms.
His face reddened. “Well, something’s up,” he said.
But she didn’t reply as she pushed past into the hallway. Out of sight, Limpy opened her knapsack. Tufts and Chup peered up with round innocence.
“Bad, bad . . . things,” she told
them and shut the pack.
Her main concern right now wasn’t how she’d explain it all to the principal. Or if she’d hurt Ms. Summerfield’s or Emmanuel’s feelings. No, what made her especially nervous was where Podge was and what it could have gotten into in the last hour. And then she saw it at the end of the hall, tracking black, muddy paw prints.
Podge stood covered head-to-toe in malodorous sludge. It was a stench that anyone from the town knew when the wind blew the wrong way.
Podge had visited Burt’s pig farm.
Chapter 14
Limpy glanced down the corridor to the principal’s office, and then down at the filthy Podge. Ms. Summerfield would have called to let the principal know of Limpy’s impending arrival. But the stench filled the hall. Podge sneezed, spraying mud over the floor.
She ran to it and, with both hands, held it as far away from her nose as possible. Muck oozed between her fingers. Podge stared mutely at its taloned feet. It was an expression she’d seen from Connor so many times, she knew what it meant.
“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s okay, it is.” She felt as though she had three little toddlers under her care. The girls’ washroom was around the corner. She backed through the door, plopped Podge in the sink, and ran the tap. Tarry goo matted the fur and soon slime coated her hands up to her elbows. After a couple of minutes Podge appeared no cleaner. She couldn’t bring the reeking animal into the office without getting caught. Nor could she wait any longer.
“Think, Limphetta,” she said.
Chup was smarter than any cat or dog. Far smarter. So she’d have to take a chance and hope it understood what she needed. When she untied her backpack, Chup stuck out its head. Tufts remained hidden.
“Chup,” she said and it shrank from her, placing paws over its eyes. “I’m not mad at you. Thank you for protecting me from Arnie. But stealing the chips was naughty. You’re lucky you’re so cute.” Its arms lowered and suddenly fur puffed out in all directions. She stifled a giggle despite the trouble she was in and it hooted back. “Now I need you to clean Podge. I’ll be back in five minutes. Do you understand?”
Chup didn’t nod, but it hopped into the sink with Podge and began using its claws to comb the guck from Podge’s fur. Podge leaned into the claws as if happy to have its back and belly scratched. Tufts popped out of the sack and made happy noises.
Limpy looked seriously at each of them. “Do . . . NOT . . . GO . . . ANYWHERE.”
Tufts stared blankly at her, and she wondered if they were all as smart as Chup. Someone . . . maybe Ghost . . . had rigged the conveyor to fire potato bags. Limpy wasn’t sure her father could have done that, maybe Dylan. Podge shuddered in the sink. Limpy turned on the hot water until Podge settled under a warm shower.
Before she left, Limpy scrubbed her hands clean of the sour goo and took a sheet of paper out of a binder. On it she scrawled: OUT OF ORDER, before sticking the sign to the washroom door. With any luck she’d be back before another student discovered the three little monsters taking a bath. Her footsteps clattered down the hall and she met the principal at the door to his office.
“Sorry, I was in the washroom,” she said between breaths, cheeks hot with exertion. “Girl stuff.”
He eyed her and without a word turned back into his office and sat in his chair. With his hands clasped on a desk of burnished oak, and his chin resting on his hands, he said, “Have a seat.”
Her chair was small, a kindergartner’s seat. When she sat, the principal towered above her.
“Ms. Summerfield called. You threw books at Arnie Lewis.”
Limpy shook her head. “No, sir, I didn’t. They fell off the shelf.”
“By themselves,” he said. Her head nodded like a jackhammer. Then he leaned back and said, “You stole his bag of chips and ate them in the library.” Before she could deny it he lifted his hand. “You had—you still have—chip crumbs on you, Limphetta. I’d be careful what you say.”
He paused. She kept her mouth shut.
Principal Dougald lifted an envelope. “Do you know what this is?” She remained silent. “It’s your reference letter for Hillcrest’s Scholarship Committee. I can’t lie. Do you understand me?”
She gulped. “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t disappointment me again,” he said.
A knot of sadness squeezed down her throat. “Yes, sir.”
“You’re excused.”
It was a warning. Anything more and the reference letter changed, and not for the better.
“Thank you, sir,” she managed.
She backed her way out, actually curtseying as she did so, garnering a raised bushy eyebrow. Outside of his office she sighed and leaned against the wall. At least no one had started screaming about monsters; that was a good sign. But even as she had the thought, a door closed around the corner and footsteps scuffed the floor as someone skipped down the hall. Toward the washroom.
Limpy jerked from the wall and ran. She spotted the student, a fourth grader called Bleeker with pink hair and freckles. Her father ran The Bar. She wasn’t considered the sharpest knife in the drawer. Her buck teeth were so pronounced she could eat a corncob through a picket fence. Bleeker’s clothing options were almost as bad as Limpy’s. Every day she had to wear one of the oversized bar shirts her father had purchased at a volume discount. The front read, “The Bar, it’s a place to drink.”
Bleeker reached for the washroom door handle.
“Bleeker,” Limpy said. The little girl’s lips moved as she sounded out the sign Limpy had written. “It says ‘out of order,’” Limpy added. “Don’t go in there.”
Bleeker did a little but-I-gotta-pee dance and was about to push open the door anyway when Limpy caught her wrist. “It’s . . . it’s a—”
But then Bleeker’s eyes widened and she jumped backward.
“Ewww . . .”
Water seeped around Limpy’s shoes. Her heart surged into her throat, but she waved Bleeker off down the hall. “Toilet flood, yeah, not nice,” Limpy said.
When Bleeker turned the corner Limpy squinched her eyes shut, took a breath, and entered the washroom. Water overflowed from the sink and Tufts, Chup and Podge were using the faucet as a diving platform. Podge leapt far higher than Limpy would have thought possible and cannon-balled into the sink, sending a wave over the edges and water slopping onto the floor.
Tears streamed down Limpy’s cheeks. All she could think was that she was adding to the problem with her crying. On the counter, Chup shook, sending up a cloud of spray.
“Bad, Chup!” she shouted. “Bad. All of you.”
Chup wilted like spinach in a frying pan. Tufts scurried for the safety of the sopping knapsack, and Podge ducked beneath the surface of the sink water. Toilet paper hung between the washroom stalls and the lights. All the pressure layered on Limpy—the scholarship, the chores, the impish, brat creatures—it suddenly burst from her.
“Ugh, I . . . I wish I never opened that box! I wish I never freed you,” she cried.
She wept and curled into a ball, the knees of her pants soaked through in the water.
As her breathing hitched with sobs, the taps turned off. She felt the weight of something climb her back and nuzzle into her neck. It was cold and smelled like wet dog, but still tickled. She brushed it from her shoulder and Podge landed to splurgle in a puddle.
“Oh, I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry,” she said to eyes the shape of teardrops. “It’s okay,” she whispered. “Maybe we can do this.”
She stood, and Chup leapt from the counter and caught a ribbon of toilet paper. Tufts copied and then Podge began rolling in puddles and wringing itself out in the now-draining sink.
They could do this. Limpy gathered the toilet paper, soaked what water she could and then dumped the clump into the waste can. When the bell rang a few minutes later, the washroom was cleaner than she’d ever seen it. She tore the Out of Order sign down as she left with three chastened monsters in her backpack and a lightness in her step.
As if tired from their mischief, Tufts, Podge and Chup slept soundly the remainder of the day. Arnie stayed well away from her. Limpy might have relaxed too, if not for Emmanuel. Emmanuel couldn’t keep his eyes off her bag.
Chapter 15
The sun dipped behind the farm’s stand of pines as Limpy’s bike skidded in the dirt. She’d passed Mr. Sotheby’s car on the way down the lane. It was parked well away from the barn and potential potato salvos. Her father stood pale and quaking in the middle of the yard. Mr. Sotheby and the woman he toured clapped their hands to their ears.
A harp played, breaking a thirteen-year silence—but the song twanged and twinged with sharp, jarring notes. It shifted the blackened timber of the stables. It ground at the knobbly hillocks that couldn’t be farmed. And it settled heavy and bitter on the yet-to-be harvested crop. Limpy struggled to keep her feet, suddenly overcome by vertigo. The harp rang out as if played by a tuneless phantom.
“What you thinking, O’Malley?” Mr. Sotheby shouted. “I’m onto your tricks. You can’t stop the sale of this place. The bank owns it.”
Limpy cringed with each strident plonk that came from the farmhouse. Connor and Dylan crept toward it, hands out, fingers outstretched trying to hold back the cacophony.
“What’s happening, Pops?” Limpy cried.
“Elsabeth.” Pops shook his head slowly. Limpy staggered to the windows of the music room and peered inside. Over the past thirteen years no one had been allowed into the music room. The windows were grimy with dirt and mold on the inside. No amount of rubbing on the outside cleared them. But a shadow leapt at the harp and swiped at its strings, producing the shrill chords.
“It’s Ghost,” she said, without thinking.
“It’s not a ghost,” Mr. Sotheby replied and turned to the woman. “They’re trying to scare you, they don’t want the farm to sell.”
But Limpy’s father saying his wife’s name seemed to be convincing the would-be buyer, who lifted her shoulders to her ears.
The shrieking of the harp ended when the silhouettes of Limpy’s brothers crept toward the music room doorway. Ghost was gone.
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