Peeled

by Joan Bauer

  “No! I’m saying that—”

  Tanisha pressed in. “You’re saying that because of his power he gets to exploit kids without being challenged? Shouldn’t someone challenge him?”

  Pookie barked.

  I looked at the photo of Martin Luther King Jr. that hung on the wall. Tanisha’s grandfather marched with Dr. King during the civil rights demonstrations in the sixties. Dr. King had signed the photo To Edmer Bass, Who walked the miles for peace and justice.

  It’s hard to wimp out sitting in this kitchen.

  Tanisha and I were in town, standing by the offices of The Bee, trying to run into Pen Piedmont as though it was a random occurrence. Madame Zobek’s psychic studio was next door. I saw Jackie Jowrey, Elizabeth’s friend who was running for Homecoming Queen, come out the studio door. She looked at me and smiled nervously. A few more people walked inside.

  I looked at Tanisha, who was infused with purpose. “Tell me again why we’re doing this,” I insisted.

  “We’re facing down the bully, Hildy. We’re going to tell him we know that he’s lying. We’re going to draw our line in the sand.”

  “I’d rather write an article.”

  Pinky Sandusky marched up to The Bee’s office holding an envelope.

  “Hi, Mrs. Sandusky.”

  “Hello, yourself. I’m making my afternoon delivery. Piedmont’s not printing my letters to the editor, so I bring one to him every day. I have a right for my voice to be heard!”

  I smiled. “If you send me a copy of the letter, I’ll see if we can run it in The Core.”

  She nodded and pushed through the door.

  Then, Sheriff Metcalf walked by. He glanced at Madame Zobek’s studio. “What are you doing here, Hildy?”

  “Waiting for someone.”

  Tanisha pointed to the parking lot. “Let’s wait there.”

  We hurried across the street. It was easy to spot Piedmont’s black SUV because of the license plate.

  MYTPEN

  How mighty was his pen, anyway?

  Lev pulled up in his red VW.

  “Vant a ride, my dears?” He said it like Dracula. “My carriage is at your service.” He lowered his voice. “I could take you to my decaying castle.”

  Nooooooo.…

  Lev leaned out the window, flashing a brilliant smile. “Look, Hildy, you know homecoming’s coming up, and I’m a very good dancer.”

  Last year we won the dance contest at homecoming.

  “And I’d really like to go with you.” Lev, like Dracula, oozed charm.

  I felt this pent-up desire to say yes just to win the dance contest again.

  Thankfully, Tanisha cleared her throat and touched her red sweater. Red stood for “Danger.” That broke the spell.

  Only God knew how many times Lev had cheated on me, and God wasn’t telling.

  “I’m busy,” I croaked out.

  He adjusted his rearview mirror. “Too bad. I bid you farewell.” And off he drove.

  I grabbed Tanisha’s arm. “I almost cracked.”

  “But you didn’t.” She put on sunglasses. I did, too. We stood there.

  Next, Zack drove up. I’m telling you, it’s impossible to hide in Banesville.

  He looked at us, amused. “What are you guys doing?”

  “Waiting for Piedmont,” we said in unison.

  He parked his car and joined us.

  Zack stood close to me. I don’t know why, but I moved just a little closer. Our arms touched. Tanisha pointed to her black boots. Black stood for “What’s going on?”

  Nothing’s going on, I mouthed.

  “I’ve been doing some research on fake psychics,” Zack told us. “In this one town the bank teller called the sheriff because suddenly people were taking all this cash out of their accounts. Turns out they were giving it to this psychic who had five aliases.”

  I turned to Zack. “Really?”

  “Con artists know how to spot vulnerabilities very quickly in people,” he added. “That’s how they operate.”

  “Speak of the devil,” Tanisha said.

  Mighty Pen himself was walking toward the lot.

  “Look normal,” I whispered.

  “Too late for that,” Tanisha muttered.

  Piedmont walked more slowly as he saw us.

  “Hi, Mr. Piedmont,” we all said together.

  “Cute act you’ve got.” He pressed his key chain, unlocking the SUV.

  I took off my sunglasses. “That article on the girl seeing the ghost is really something,” I mentioned.

  No eye contact. “We’re proud of the reporting.”

  “I babysit for Missy Grimes,” I added.

  His neck muscles tensed. “Who?”

  “Missy Grimes,” I repeated. “The local girl who said she saw a ghost. I need to tell you, she’s got a wild imagination.”

  “We’re not releasing the identity of the girl. But I can assure you she’s been scared and our story is on the level.”

  “Mr. Piedmont, I don’t believe your story is accurate.”

  “My stories are always accurate!” Two women had stopped to listen. Seeing them, Piedmont went folksy. “The world needs stories. That’s how we learn. The news business is about finding those stories and bringing them to the people.”

  The two women nodded and walked to their car.

  He climbed into the SUV and drove off too fast.

  I shouted after him, “The news business is about reporting true stories—not making them up!”

  Chapter 12

  “It’s a big news day, you guys.” Darrell walked into Room 67B, waving a sheet of paper. “The coroner’s report is back on Lupo. You’re not going to believe this. He died of natural causes—a heart attack.”

  What?

  “How is that possible?” Elizabeth demanded.

  “He wasn’t choked, shot, poisoned, knifed, hit, run over, or beat up. The guy was overweight and out of shape. He had a heart attack.” Darrell leaned against the table. “And the other piece of news is that Houston Bule was released on bail.”

  “When?” I demanded.

  “This morning.”

  “So there wasn’t a murder?” Elizabeth asked.

  “No.” Darrell laughed. “Piedmont is going to have to change his story.”

  “He’s good at that, though,” T.R. said.

  “Get ready,” Baker warned, walking in the door. “Piedmont’s invested a lot of ink in a murder. He’s going to hit back hard.”

  Baker was right. The Bee came roaring into the newsstands.

  SCARED TO DEATH!

  The front-page article talked about how seeing a terrifying ghost could cause a heart attack in just about anybody. There was an “interview” with a cardiac specialist who said that he had seen several patients who’d had heart attacks due to paranormal sightings.

  Madame Zobek’s column took up all of page three.

  “I, myself,” she wrote, “have almost been propelled into shock by the things I have seen in the other world. It is only because of my experience and my ability to work with these dark forces that I am here with you today and able to offer my assistance. We must not look the other way, for there are those who do not understand the power of these close encounters. Clearly, the ghost of Clarence Ludlow is a dangerous presence…”

  That sent Baker Polton into orbit, which isn’t easy in a closet-sized room. He threw The Bee on the floor and hollered, “What are we about at this paper?”

  T.R., Lev, Tanisha, Elizabeth, and I looked to Darrell.

  “News?” Darrell replied hopefully.

  “For whom?” Baker yelled.

  “Um, the high school?”

  “Why?”

  “Well, because…” Darrell’s eyes darted around the windowless office. “We’re in high school?”

  “We’ve got a bozo who likes rubbing fear and lies in people’s faces. He’s the only media source in town except us. Who are we writing for?”

  Elizabeth waved her ha
nd emotionally. “The American people!”

  Baker clasped his brow. “Let’s narrow that.”

  Darrell stood. “We’re writing for the community.”

  “And they deserve the facts,” Baker warned. “Don’t ever forget it.”

  Late afternoon shadows crept across the Ludlow lawn. Several crows caw-cawed from a gnarled crab apple tree in the front yard. It had died long ago but still stood, leafless and hollow. In apple country, a dead, fruitless tree makes people nervous. We don’t want to look at a tree that can’t produce.

  Everything we work for comes under one heading: being fruitful.

  This house wasn’t producing much except fear.

  A squirrel crawled across the iron fence, looked at the house, and ran the other way.

  A strange assortment of stones, beer cans, and candles was piled on the Ludlow front porch.

  A few cars drove slowly down the street with their windows up.

  A woman in a long black dress stood by the Ludlow gate, swaying back and forth.

  “Hi.”

  I jumped.

  “Sorry, Hildy.” It was Zack. He was wearing a brown turtleneck and jeans. He looked good. I’d asked him to meet me there.

  “So,” he said, “what are we doing?”

  “I’m trying to figure something out and I thought you could help me. I want to know how a scientist would prove or deny all the stories surrounding this house.”

  He thought about that. “Well, like reporters, scientists ask questions. We call it scientific inquiry. So in this case the first question might be: Is there a ghost making the Ludlow house a dangerous place? If so, then how do we prove that?”

  “Eyewitnesses…,” I mentioned.

  “If they’re reliable and what they’ve seen can be proved.”

  The swaying woman by the gate was singing now. She didn’t shout reliable.

  Pinky Sandusky and two old women walked up to us wearing red sweatshirts that read ELDERS AGAINST EVIL. I tried not to laugh.

  “Keep talking, young man,” Pinky ordered.

  Zack hid a smile. “People can say they’ve seen all kinds of things—sixteen planets, flying pigs, you name it. But the basis of science is that the universe has an order to it. Scientists try to find patterns that will answer questions and confirm or deny a theory.”

  “And that means what for Farnsworth Road?” another of the Elders Against Evil demanded.

  Zack folded his arms. “It means there needs to be further observation and documentation for any claim about a ghost to be taken seriously.”

  “How do we get that?” Pinky demanded.

  “I guess someone needs to watch the house day and night and record what they see,” Zack explained.

  “That sounds like a big job,” Pinky observed.

  “It would be, yes.”

  “Not a job for a pushover,” Pinky added.

  “A pushover couldn’t begin to handle this,” Zack agreed.

  The Elders Against Evil folded their arms and nodded.

  Suddenly, the sky went dark and a strong wind blew down the street. A dead tree branch from the Ludlow yard crashed to the ground.

  The elders looked at each other. I grabbed Zack’s arm.

  “That’s a pattern,” Pinky told him. “Branches falling. What do you call that?”

  “Gravity,” Zack offered.

  She considered that, then pointed to the pile of rocks and candles on the porch. “We’ve got some visitors making this property their shrine. We’ve got ghost hunters prowling the street; that Zobek woman floating around like she’s a tour guide.” Pinky turned to the elders. “Well, girls, we’ve been looking for a community project.”

  “This beats the beans out of quilting,” another elder said.

  Pinky shouted, “Are we going to take this street back or what?”

  “Let’s do it!” They clapped their hands like football players leaving a huddle and headed toward her house, real slow.

  I watched the swaying woman get in her car and drive away. That left Zack and me alone.

  Honestly, I wanted to leave, too. I’ve never been a fan of dark, encroaching shadows.

  Finally Zack said, “Hildy, I need to tell you something.”

  “What?”

  He cleared his throat. “I’ve never said this to a girl before.”

  I bit my lip, waiting.

  “Well…” He looked down. “I’m not sure how to say this.” He took a deep breath and announced, “I really like fighting evil with you.”

  He went back to watching the house.

  A few crows squawked from the dead tree.

  “I like fighting evil with you, too,” I actually muttered.

  Chapter 13

  MURDEROUS GHOST WAITING

  FOR NEXT VICTIM

  GHOST SIGHTINGS UP 50%

  BANESVILLE ON RED ALERT

  Collectively, the staff of The Core was gagging at The Bee’s latest edition.

  Zack had come into room 67B while we were looking at Tanisha’s spooky photo of three weird people getting out of a van in front of the Ludlow house—the van had GHOST CHASERS painted on the side.

  “Have any of you seen a ghost?” Zack asked us.

  That didn’t seem like a question he’d ask, although trying to figure him out was a mystery.

  “Because if all the ghost sightings are real,” he continued, “don’t you think at least one of us would have seen one or known someone who did?”

  “Up fifty percent means half the town would have seen one,” Lev challenged.

  “The percentage makes it sound like that,” Zack agreed, “but you’ve got to ask, fifty percent up from what? If four people said they saw a ghost, a fifty-percent increase would mean only two more people saw one. That’s the trick. Fearmongers do it all the time.”

  Lev was silent as Baker wrote FEARMONGERS on the whiteboard.

  Elizabeth raised her hand. “What’s a monger?”

  “One who sells something,” Baker offered. “A fishmonger sells fish. A fearmonger—”

  “Sells fear,” Elizabeth whispered.

  Baker circled FEARMONGERS. “This is a big thing to fight.”

  “We need our own data,” Zack insisted.

  Baker pointed at him. “Keep talking.”

  “I think we need to test what they say.”

  “Do you know how to do that?” Darrell asked him.

  Hands in his pockets, Zack said, “Yeah.”

  Darrell thought about that. “Look, Zack, would you like to work on the paper? We could really use someone like you.”

  Zack shook his head. “I’m not a good writer.”

  “Neither am I, but they let me write,” Elizabeth offered.

  “You could be the research manager,” Baker suggested.

  “I think I’d rather just help,” Zack muttered. He looked at me when he said it.

  Darrell walked toward Zack and stuck out his hand. “It’s settled then. We need help. Welcome to The Core.”

  WHAT HAVE YOU SEEN?

  PLEASE TAKE PART IN

  A SPECIAL CORE SURVEY

  Posters went up all over the school. E-mail us, call us, stop us in the hall. It wasn’t easy coming up with the questions. Zack said we had to ask ones that would give us direct answers.

  Have you…

  Seen a ghost?

  Heard a ghost?

  Seen something spooky?

  Heard something spooky?

  Witnessed a crime?

  Committed a crime?

  Called the police or fire department?

  Wish you’d called (see above)?

  Don’t get what all the excitement is about—you haven’t seen or heard anything?

  Zack was in charge of tabulating the responses. Some responses were beyond tabulation. Those went into a box marked DISGUSTING AND DERANGED.

  “How long before we get the results?” I asked Zack.

  “A few days. I want to get back as many surveys as I can.”
>
  “How,” Baker Polton asked, “can you tell if a source is reliable?”

  Zack, Lev, T.R., Tanisha, Darrell, Elizabeth, and I looked at each other.

  We were sitting in the back room at Minska’s, at the big round table, feeling like prisoners who had been set free. Baker had made an executive decision. We were having a few staff lunches off-site, away from that room.

  “It’s someone who’s trustworthy?” I offered.

  Baker took a bite of his grilled panini sandwich. “But how do you know someone is trustworthy?”

  I glanced at Lev, who was checking his phone messages, not paying attention.

  “By what they do?” I asked.

  T.R. added, “By what they say?”

  Baker sat there chewing. “Are you with us, Radner, or would you like to leave?”

  “Sorry.” Lev put his phone away.

  “With any source, you have to ask yourself—would this person be making up a story to impress people?”

  I went through my list in my head. Missy was the only questionable one.

  “Now, how do you get your reliable sources to go on the record?”

  Elizabeth raised her hand. “We say how important it is for responsible people to come forward during this time when there’s so much happening that could be false.”

  Baker was impressed. “Very good. But what if that doesn’t work?”

  No one answered.

  Baker sipped his latte. “Always remember, people change. One day they might not talk, the next day they might. That’s why you keep going back, asking questions. I think a good approach could be to ask: What do you think of the article in The Bee? What do you wish people in town understood about what’s going on? If you get answers, your follow-up is what?”

  “‘It would help the town if you’d go on the record,’” I said.

  “Now you’re thinking.” He almost looked happy.

  Baker walked over to the wall and studied a picture of Pope John Paul II addressing the crowds in Poland.

  “I remember this day,” he told us. “I was just a kid. My mother’s family is half Polish. My grandmother told me the pope’s words sparked the revolution. You know what he said?” He read from the plaque. “‘The future of Poland will depend on how many people are mature enough to be nonconformists.’ Let me tell you something. The future of the world still rests on that.”