by Barrie Summy
We slip on our necklaces and march back to the bus stop. On to our second field trip. The dangerous one.
chapter
twenty-five
Buren Middle School. Where The Ruler used to teach. Where she had problems. Where a principal died.
After about a fifteen-minute ride, Junie and I exit the bus and gaze around, getting our bearings. First time either one of us has been to Buren. They don’t have a robotics team. Or a pool.
“Should we start at the skateboard park?” Junie points across the street.
I nod. Because skateboard parks are always a hotbed of gossip. Seriously. If you’re, like, in France or somewhere foreign and you need the scoop on a middle grader, go immediately to the nearest skate park.
We walk over and peer through the chain-link fence. Two guys are in there, totally decked out in padding and helmets. One has a white helmet with black skulls and crimson eyes. Very fake-o tough. The other guy’s helmet is solid blue. Very Wal-Mart.
They’re really into their boards, flipping and turning and riding the rail. Impressive moves.
These are fanatical skateboarders who probably have lousy grades and a reputation for ditching class a bunch and only wearing name-brand skate clothes. We have them at my school too. I’ve heard they don’t make reliable boyfriends.
Probably seconds before major dehydration sets in, they break for water.
“Junie, this is our chance.” We race around to the gate. Once inside, I call out, “Hi, guys. That’s some seriously cool skating you’ve got going.”
“Yeah, duuude,” Skull Helmet says.
“Yeah, duuude,” Blue Helmet echoes.
If that’s the extent of their chattiness, getting info from them is going to be like finding happy students at school during standardized testing week.
“We’re doing an article on middle-school principals,” Junie says.
“And their skateboarding students.” I ad-lib that in at the last minute.
“Past and present principals,” Junie adds.
“Are ya gonna take pictures of us in our skate gear?” Skull Helmet asks.
Blue Helmet adjusts his knee and elbow pads.
“Natch.” I pull out my cell phone.
They both smile like baboons.
“Awesome.” I snap a photo. “Who was the last principal at your school?”
“Mr. Haggarty, dude,” Skull Helmet says. “He died around the same time my big brother graduated. So, like, a couple of years ago.”
Chu-chu-ching! Pay dirt! Someone with a connection to the story.
“Does the name ‘Ms. Paulson’ ring a bell with you?” Junie asks.
“Skinny math teacher with posture? Crazy wanted to start a robotics club here?” Skull Helmet says. “Yeah, her name rings a bell. She was my brother’s teacher. My mom loved her. Even had her over to the house for dinner a few times.”
Chu-chu-ching! More pay dirt! “But wait, you don’t have a robotics club,” I say.
“Jerky Mr. Haggarty wouldn’t go for it,” Skull Helmet says.
Blue Helmet’s bobbing his head, his mouth slightly open. I wonder if maybe he only recently started wearing a helmet. Like after severely knocking his noggin on a skate ramp.
“Was there animosity between Ms. Paulson and the principal?” Junie asks, pulling out a notebook and fake-reportering it.
“Ani-what?” Skull Helmet twirls the wheels on his board. “Like Japanese cartoons?”
Blue Helmet stops bobbing his head. “Ms. Paulson and Mr. Haggarty were, like, total friction.”
He speaks. I witnessed a miracle at the park.
“Yeah, dude, that’s so true,” Skull Helmet says. “But the parents loved Ms. Paulson. They were, like, majorly bummed when she left. The PTA got a gazillion signatures on a petition to get her back and get rid of him.”
“No way,” I say. This could seriously annoy a principal.
“Yes, way,” Skull Helmet says. “My mom still says Ms. Paulson was the only middle-school teacher who could actually teach math. And how that idiot Mr. Haggarty chased her off.”
“How’d he die?” Junie asks.
“Was Ms. Paulson involved?” I ask.
Skull Helmet looks at me like I just said something totally off the wall. Along the lines of, do you eat five servings of fruits and veggies every day? “Heart attack. In his office after school.”
“Ya wanna hear about the principal we have now?” Skull Helmet asks.
“Maybe some other time,” I say.
I barely get the sentence out, before both guys throw down their boards and take a running jump at them.
The gate creaks open behind us. “Hi, Junie. Hi, Sherry.”
I spin around.
Nerdy Nick!
He strides toward us, hands in his pants pockets. “How’s the article for the school paper going?”
Only one other person in the whole entire world knew of my brilliant plan to pose as school reporters doing a story on Buren. And that one person is blushing the deepest, darkest red any middle schooler has ever blushed.
But what is Nerdy Nick doing here? Why would he take time from his busy study schedule for a fake-o interview at Buren?
And then I know. And then I’m annoyed. At Junie. And at myself.
Have I been living under a rock?
chapter
twenty-six
With bent elbows and tight fists, I’m speedwalking outta that skate park. I’d run, but my feet haven’t totally healed from my trek across the desert.
Junie’s scrambling behind me. “Sherry”—she huffs like a breaking-down DustBuster—“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
“Yeah, well, there are secrets you don’t keep from your best friend!” I yell over my shoulder because she’s so far behind. “Even if she should figure them out herself because she’s a detective. You should be up-front and tell her. Sharing about boyfriends is an important part of teen friendship.” I get to the bus stop way before her and stand there, arms crossed, fuming.
Eventually, Junie arrives, all splotchy-faced.
I turn my back. “Where is Nick, anyway?”
“His mom’s picking him up.” She sucks in a few noisy breaths. “Look, Sherry—”
“Why didn’t you just tell me about you two?” I face Junie.
“I wasn’t sure how to tell you”—she pushes hair off her sweaty forehead—“without it ending up in a big, messy scene like this.”
I cross my arms tighter.
“You’re going to get over this, Sherry,” Junie says, “so we can double-date.”
Zing.
She got me on my weak spot. Because I’ve been dying to double-date for years and years. Ever since I played Barbies.
“And it’s not like he’s in on the mystery or anything. He thinks we went to Buren so you could learn more about The Ruler now that she’s in your family.” Junie holds up her fingers in the sign of a promise. “I’ll never ever tell him about your mom and the Academy.”
I uncross my arms.
“And I’m not a romance expert like you. I’ll need lots of advice,” Junie continues.
When she puts it that way, I can see how it’s pretty much my duty as a BFF to accept Nick as Junie’s squeeze. “Fine, fine. Let’s hit Drinks & Stuff, split a strawberry smoothie and get down to the nitty-gritty about guys.”
We hug, then clamber on yet another bus. While it’s chugging along, we figure out the next step in identifying the stalker. A step that involves Amber.
Back at the mall, we’re off to the makeup section at the department store. Amber’s working the first counter. Standing next to a woman with blue hair, she’s mixing a couple of colors of eye shadow together. She’s your basic beauty genius.
“Amber,” Junie says. “Can I order you something from Drinks and Stuff?”
Amber looks up. “The usual. My break’s in ten minutes.”
Drinks & Stuff is in the food court and sells, well, drinks and snacky and sandwichy
stuff. Junie and I order, then plunk down on swivel chairs.
“So, Junie.” I lean over the table and slurp some of our smoothie. “Let’s talk boyfriend business.”
She sticks her straw in our cup. “Give me the scoop on kissing.”
“Whoa there, missy. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” How can someone who does quadratic equations in her sleep not know about breaking things down into little steps? Because there is an order to romance. I start prying. “Have you guys held hands?”
“Yes.” Junie sips. “I like holding hands with Nick.”
“Really? ’cause his hands look kind of dry.”
Junie rolls her eyes. “Nick’s hands are not dry. The hand holding is way cool.”
I’m nodding like a guidance counselor. “Yeah, I get where you’re coming from. I’d be blissfully happy if I did nothing all day except hold hands with Josh.” I consider the logistics of this for a sec. “Well, except when I’m hungry. For some foods, like a double burger, you just need two hands or it’s messy.”
Junie looks kind of surprised, like she hasn’t thought this through. Then she nods. “Gotcha.”
“How about hugging? Done that yet?”
Lips turned down, Junie says, “Almost, but we had bad timing. Our arms were out, then my parents walked in.”
“Hugging is so sick,” I say. “It’s like the 3-D Star Wars puzzle you have. Where everything just fits together. Of course, there’s also the warmth factor. All that body heat.”
“I can’t wait.” With her straw, Junie stirs swirls in our smoothie.
Only I’m not sure it’ll be such an excellent experience for Junie. Nick is basically bony with a caved-in chest.
“How tough is it to get the kissing right?” Junie leans forward, not wanting to miss even one syllable of my important message.
I give a little secret smile. I remember back when I worried about such stuff. “With the right person, like Josh is for me, kissing just happens perfectly. No teeth crashing. No cut lips. No bad-breath issues.” I don’t say it, but I can’t imagine things will go so easily for Nick and Junie.
“What’s it like?” If she leans any closer to me, her amethyst will dip into our drink.
“It’s like all the things you, Junie Carter of Phoenix, Arizona, love: ice cream with sprinkles, quadratic equations, Latin club, dumb practical jokes. It’s those things all rolled together in a big rubber-band ball that’s bouncing around inside you with each kiss. And even when the kiss is over, the ball is still bouncing. Maybe for minutes. Maybe for hours.”
“Wow.” Junie’s got the same look on her face she gets when she’s gaping around the computer store at the mall.
“Hey, kiddos.” Amber sashays into Drinks & Stuff.
Every guy stares.
She poufs up her shoulder-length blond hair. “Where’s my latte?”
I push back my chair. “It’s probably ready.” Junie’s better at talking Amber into stuff.
I grab her coffee, a straw and a java jacket. Amber has sensitive fingers. I hang back, holding on to her order, while she and Junie discuss. Amber pulls out her cell and texts. More discussion.
After several minutes, Junie gives me the nod to let me know they’ve finished with business. I meander over.
Amber reaches for the cup. “Thanks. Light on the whipped, right?”
“Yuppers.” I know the drill.
“Cool.” She flashes me a pearly white smile.
“Amber, any tips on making my lips thicker?” I ask.
She regards me, one emerald eye closed. “There’s this new lip liner from Paris. Pricey, but it has a plumping factor.”
As she’s walking away, her hips swaying like a hula hoop, she turns and says, “Not that you really need it, Sherry. Your lips are good.”
I can’t hold back a full-lipped grin. Then, I say to Junie, “So?”
“Ghost hunting. Tonight. Late. And Zane even said he’d bring his brand-new gaussmeter.”
chapter
twenty-seven
It’s dusk. The Ruler’s in the kitchen whipping up a special organic birthday dinner, involving cabbage casserole. Sam’s in the office, zoned out on the computer.
In other words, they’re both überoccupied with activities they love and that will keep them busy and away from me. I zip outside to the pear tree and start waving around espresso beans.
I’m thinking Mom thoughts and windmilling my arms like I’m a little Dutch girl when suddenly it smells like the coffee aisle at the grocery store. My branch rattles. Grandpa glides in on Mom’s java breeze and lands next to me.
He beak-pokes at my pocket. I pull out a few sunflower seeds mixed with dust and lint, and he settles in for some palm pecking.
“Hi, Sherry,” Mom says. “Lots to catch up on.”
“Seriously,” I say, then spill about the meanie dead principal who didn’t get along with The Ruler. “He could easily be a ghost with an agenda. Tonight, we’re going with Zane, Amber’s new, ghost-hunting boyfriend, back to Buren to see if the principal’s there. Zane says unhappy ghosts usually hang out where they died.”
“True,” she says.
“Can you watch The Ruler tonight? No way you’re going to Buren with all that ghost-hunting equipment. Right, Mom?” I shiver at the memory of the psychic fair when the meter tracked her.
“Right.” The branch shakes; she’s probably shuddering at the thought too. “And I see you’ve got a new necklace.” The stone sways as Mom checks it out. “That’s quite the amethyst. You couldn’t find anything less gaudy?”
Gaudy? Am I the only person in Phoenix with a sense of jewelry fashion? “It’s gorgeous, Mom. And, before you ask, yes, The Ruler will wear it.”
“Wilhelm, can you take tonight’s shift?” Mom asks. “I want to finish up the ‘About Ghosts Who Don’t Move On’ tutorial.”
Grandpa croaks out a yes.
“The tutorial.” I slap my forehead. “Did you learn a bunch?”
“I did.” And she pauses. Really pauses. Which means totally bad news for me. “Uh, Sherry … the silver box is very light and about the size of a box of Band-Aids. I’m glad about that. I was worried it would be big and heavy.”
Grandpa squawks, “It’s here,” and flies to the knothole above my head.
“I guess Mrs. Howard delivered it earlier today,” Mom says.
My eyes are glued to Grandpa’s jiggling tail feathers; the rest of him is inside the knothole. Then he completely disappears into the trunk. He’s squawking and cawing, all echoey.
I’m about to see and touch a powerful magic box, built for imprisoning an evil ghost. Yikes.
Finally, Grandpa scoots out backward, his yellow feet dangling, his wings bent and crooked. In his beak, he’s grasping a slim dull-metal rectangular box.
I pick it up carefully. One side is kind of smushed in. As I turn it over in my palm, it begins to glimmer and gleam, like someone’s polishing it. And it’s warming up, the way Play-Doh does when you squeeze it.
My index finger traces the curlicue pattern that squiggles over both sides. The box isn’t completely flat, but slightly curved across the middle.
And the strange thing is, I feel good and comfortable touching it. I’ve never seen the silver box before, but it somehow feels familiar and friendly, like an old stuffed animal from my childhood.
“Look, Wilhelm,” Mom whispers. “The box is shining.”
Grandpa hops up my leg and onto my shoulder.
It is shining more and more, almost looking brand-new. “I can’t find a latch anywhere. How do you open it?”
“You don’t,” Mom whispers again. “It opens itself when the time comes.”
A tremor snakes up my spine. “You mean, you just sort of wave the box around the stalker and it sucks him in?”
“No,” Mom says super slowly. “There are several conditions. First, it must happen at midnight. Second, in a cemetery. Third, and this is the one I don’t understand, the ghost and the Keeper of th
e Box and the box meet and somehow a connection is forged among all three. The Keeper reaches an understanding of why the ghost won’t move on. Then he or she helps the ghost reach an understanding of why it’s time to move on. At this exact instant, the box opens, and the ghost, willingly, flies in.”
My mom doesn’t get it. But on a deep gut level, it feels right to me. The box lifts half an inch off my palm and just hovers there.
Grandpa’s little beady eyes ogle the box’s movement. “Mrs. Howard.”
“She was right about Sherry,” Mom says in a hushed voice.
I tune them both out. I’m totally focused on the box, which is humming faintly, high-pitched like an all-boys church choir. It’s as though a strong invisible fishing line links me with the box, and it’s reeling me in ever so slowly and gently, letting me know that I’m the one.
I’m the one it’ll team up with.
I’m the one it’ll work with.
We’re lopsided right now, with only two out of the three of us present.
But when the ghost-stalker arrives, my role will be Keeper of the Box.
chapter
twenty-eight
Mom and Grandpa leave. I slide the box in my pocket, where it fits perfectly like it’s meant to be there.
Ack. Eek. Ike.
I so do not want that responsibility. I so do not want to talk a scary, mean ghost-stalker into a box. It should be my mother’s job. Or even Grandpa’s. Ghosts should take care of their own problems. Not be dragging innocent teenagers into their business.
I’m getting ready to climb down when the back door opens. It’s The Ruler. She’s wearing her gardening apron with the big pockets. She’s toting her little gardening kneeling pad and her little bucket of tools and plant vitamins.
Hidden by leaves, I watch, my eyes all squinty to make out what she’s doing. She drops her foam kneeling pad on the grass and sets the bucket next to it. She takes a spray bottle from one of the front apron pockets and drenches her precious tomato plants. I don’t even need to be close to recognize the bottle’s contents: dish soap and water. The Ruler’s method for encouraging pests to leave her tomatoes alone. She won’t use insecticide because she’s all about nature and being natural.