Shallow Grave

by Alex van Tol

  Shallow Grave

  Alex Van Tol

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  Copyright © 2012 Alex Van Tol

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Van Tol, Alex

  Shallow grave [electronic resource] / Alex Van Tol.

  (Orca soundings)

  Electronic monograph.

  Issued also in print format.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0204-9 (PDF).--ISBN 978-1-4598-0205-6 (EPUB)

  I. Title. Ii. Series: Orca soundings (Online)

  PS8643.A63S43 2012 jC813’.6 C2012-902578-X

  First published in the United States, 2012

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012938213

  Summary: Elliot and Shannon call forth a restless spirit when they are forced to clean up an old boathouse as punishment for a school prank gone wrong.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Cover photography by Dreamstime.com

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO Box 5626, Stn. B

  Victoria, BC Canada

  V8R 6S4 ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO Box 468

  Custer, WA USA

  98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  15 14 13 12 • 4 3 2 1

  For Mrs. Finch.

  Your presence makes our lives

  interesting.

  You can check out any time you like,

  but you can never leave.

  —The Eagles,

  “Hotel California,” 1976

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter One

  “This is awesome,” I say. “Hard-core manual labor is exactly how I planned to spend my Friday after school.”

  With a loser goth weirdo in tow, I think. But I don’t say that part.

  “Well, it’s not like I want to be cleaning up the boathouse either,” Shannon shoots back. She claps her mittened hands together as we walk along the gravel road leading away from the school.

  I grunt. Who wears mitts anyway? What is she, five?

  I wonder if her palms are pierced too, or if it’s just her cheek, nose, eyebrow, lip and tongue. And god knows what else.

  I shudder at the thought.

  “And anyway, I wouldn’t exactly call it hard-core manual labor,” she continues.

  “So sorting through piles of old life jackets and busted paddles sounds like fun to you?”

  She shakes her head. “Not fun. But not hard-core either. Hard-core is hiding the principal’s Smart Car in the woods.”

  “No, that’s what they call stupid,” I say. The late October wind sneaks under the bottom of my hoodie and around my collar, making me shiver.

  “It wasn’t stupid. At least, it wouldn’t have been if those idiots hadn’t rolled it onto my foot. It would’ve been funny.”

  “Funny for you, maybe,” I say. “Not so much fun for Mr. Harrison. And not funny for me. You should think twice before pulling dumb pranks that get innocent bystanders in trouble.”

  I can feel Shannon looking at me, but I don’t return her gaze.

  “Holy,” she laughs. “Ease down there, Mr. Perfect. I already said I was sorry you got caught up in it. It’s not like I planned for them to roll the car onto my foot. And anyway, I never asked you to come crashing through the bushes to save me, scholar boy.”

  “Scholar boy?”

  Shannon ignores me. “You were in the wrong place at the wrong time,” she says. “And you got in trouble. What’s the big deal?”

  I look at her in disbelief. “Ever heard the term ‘miscarriage of justice’?”

  She shrugs. “Life’s unfair,” she says. Then she gives me a sly smile. “Must be a hard pill to swallow for a rule follower like yourself.”

  “Since when is following rules a bad thing? Just because they’re rules?”

  “Depends on your reasons for following,” she says. “I think you’re one of those people who does what they’re told because they’ve been brainwashed by the establishment.”

  I stop. “Excuse me?” I’m almost certain I didn’t ask to have my character assaulted. Especially by a freak with purple hair and multiple puncture wounds whose crime I’m about to serve time for.

  Besides. She doesn’t even know me.

  “Never mind.” Shannon waves a hand dismissively. She keeps walking.

  I don’t move.

  She turns and looks at me, then sighs. “I apologize, okay? For the millionth time.” Her ultrawhite face and red lipstick look stark against the flat gray sky. She’s dressed in a long black coat. A thick gray scarf winds around her neck. Docs on her feet. Those ugly boots are the only thing that saved her foot. She walked away instead of crawling.

  Maybe I should’ve let her crawl.

  “Honestly, Elliot,” she says, “you’re making a huge deal out of this. All we have to do is clean up the boathouse.”

  “Yeah, and who’s going to clean up my record?” I ask. “I just started at this school two months ago, and already I got a rap.”

  As soon as I say it, I wish I hadn’t. She’ll just chalk it up to me wanting to impress the authorities. I try a different tack.

  “Besides, why should those other jerks go free? They ran their little emo asses off when Harrison came. Beat a chickenshit retreat and left you stuck under the car.” I shake my head. “Who does that? They should be here cleaning up too.”

  “Don’t worry about them,” Shannon says. “Karma’s watching. They’ll get what they deserve somewhere down the line.” She tucks a strand of purple behind her ear. “Besides, you should be glad. You collected lots of positive karmic points for trying to help.” She grins. “Especially someone who obviously doesn’t fit on your spectrum of…social acceptability.”

  I can’t argue with that.

  “How could I not stop and help?” I say. “You were screaming like someone was tearing your heart out of your chest.”

  “My hero, Elliot the A-student jock superstar.” She clasps her hands under her chin and flutters her eyelashes.

  Girl’s got a chip on her shoulder a mile wide.

  I bite my tongue. Take a deep breath and release it very, very slowly. I count to ten, like that buck-toothed psychiatrist taught me how to do back when my parents split and I was beating the crap out of everything within arm’s reach.

  This could be a long afternoon.

  Chapter Two

  If it weren’t for this stupid situation, Shannon and I would never have had any reason to cross paths. We don’t run with the same crowds. Not that I have such an established crowd after only seven weeks at Wildwood, but there are some good people in it.

  Smart people. People who work hard. People who want to do well in school so they can do well in the world. />
  I’m not so sure I could say the same about her crowd.

  In the last seven days since Mr. Harrison walked in on us in the bushes, I’ve learned how different Shannon and I are as people. “Like chalk and cheese,” my grandmother would say.

  I swim for the national team. Shannon writes mouthy articles for the school newspaper.

  I work hard and apply myself so my mom’s not wasting her money sending me to a school like this. Shannon breaks the rules no matter who’s paying.

  I like to look respectable and approachable. Shannon likes to shock people.

  I am black. Shannon is white.

  End of story.

  When I pulled in last Friday morning after my doctor’s appointment—a long needle in my foot for another plantar wart from a dirty pool deck—I’d seen the principal, Mr. Harrison, leaving the building. My mom wanted me to ask him about missing some school. There was a big tri-state meet in November, and I was going to have to miss a couple of days on either side of the weekend. This seemed to be as good an opportunity as any to speak with him.

  I parked and grabbed my bag.

  Once I was out of the car, though, I couldn’t exactly ignore the shrieks coming from the bushes at the edge of the parking lot.

  I forgot about talking to Mr. Harrison and went over to investigate.

  Okay, I ran over with my heart in my throat. I thought someone was being assaulted.

  One glance told me all I needed to know. There was this purple-haired girl with her foot stuck under the tire of one of those little Smart Cars. Swearing a blue streak. Two skinny weak types were yelling at each other. A third guy dressed head to toe in black was hissing at the girl to keep it down. Four or five other people were pelting down a forest trail, away from the scene.

  Holy crap. They actually rolled a car into the bushes.

  Purple Girl was shrieking. “Don’t tell me to shut up, Ramone. Just get this goddamn thing off my foot!”

  I cleared my throat. Heads whipped in my direction. They seemed shocked to see me. Like it never occurred to them that hysterical screams coming from the forest might attract attention.

  “Uh,” I said. “Is this Mr. Harrison’s car? ’Cause he’s on his way over.” I nodded over my shoulder, toward the parking lot. “I just saw him leaving the school.”

  It wasn’t going to take him long to notice that his car was gone. I’m sure he’d already heard the screams and was wondering what the hell was going on in the bushes.

  The other guys all looked at each other. “Shit,” said the Ramone guy. “Harrison.”

  I bent to brace my shoulder against the back of the car.

  Purple Girl threw me a grateful look. “Thank god,” she said. “Someone who has half a brain.”

  I didn’t even know her name then.

  “You guys going to help or what?” I asked, looking up.

  It was like my words broke them out of their spell. They took off, leaving the girl and me behind. I had to push the Smart Car off her foot by myself.

  Which wasn’t that hard, really.

  What was hard was getting treated like a criminal for trying to be a nice guy.

  Mr. Harrison didn’t care that I wasn’t in on the plan. He’s a dick like that, I discovered. All that matters is his own view of things. Smash through bushes. See two kids standing next to car. Car in wrong spot. One kid looks like he’s maybe the wrong color. Must punish. Hard. I guess it didn’t help that I’m new this year and he doesn’t know me. He had his own conclusions to jump to.

  I can see why you’d want to hide his car. The guy’s a jerk.

  That was a week ago. And now here we are.

  Shannon didn’t rat out the other nerds who were in on the prank, even though she had every right. I guess that’s respectable in some circles.

  But it doesn’t make me any less pissed off.

  Chapter Three

  The faded red boathouse looms up in front of us, eerie in the dying daylight. A padlock hangs from the ring on the door.

  Low-grade anger simmers in my gut as my cold fingers fumble with the keys. Mr. Harrison handed them to me with a little sneer when I reported to the office after school today.

  “Let’s see if you’re as good at cleaning as you are at messing with private property, Owens.”

  I didn’t trust myself to try and explain it to him. Again.

  I just took the keys, looked him in the eye and gave him a nod. Let him figure out in time how mistaken he’s been.

  I select a key that looks like it’ll fit the big padlock. But before I can slide it in, the shackle swings open. Not even locked.

  I pocket the key and pull the door open.

  That old-wooden-building smell hits me.

  “Watch your step,” I say over my shoulder. The boathouse is raised on concrete blocks. I point to the space separating the floor from the ground so Shannon doesn’t trip on her way in. I don’t want to have to carry her out of here if she falls and breaks something.

  “Lights?” Shannon asks. She’s standing beside me in the doorway.

  I fumble around for a switch. “I don’t think there are any,” I say.

  “That’s weird,” she says. Our eyes adjust to the darkness. “It’s creepy in here.”

  “Nah,” I say. But I don’t mean it. I just want to disagree with her, even though she’s right. The place is creepy as hell.

  What’s left of the daylight streams in through a high window. I set the heavy padlock down on a shelf. Something scuttles across the roof. Our heads turn toward the sound.

  “Squirrels?” Shannon asks.

  “Maybe. Or rats.”

  “Rats?” Her voice comes out small.

  I nod. “They’ve probably made nests in the eaves.”

  She shivers. I wouldn’t have thought a punk like her could be nervous. She seems so sure of herself.

  Maybe she’s afraid of nature. Sometimes people like that are. It’s easier to feel rebellious in the city. You can fool yourself into thinking you’re strong when you’re surrounded by concrete and skyscrapers.

  I decide to ask her what I’ve been wondering. “What did Harrison do, anyway, that made you guys want to take off with his car?”

  She shoots me a look. “He’s a prick. You’ve seen that for yourself.”

  That’s the truth.

  “And he muzzles free speech. It sucks.” Her voice is hard. “I get it all the time with the newspaper. The guy doesn’t know how to have any fun.”

  I nod. “He’s having fun now, thinking about us cleaning out this dump on a Friday afternoon.”

  Shannon laughs. The sound surprises a smile out of me. I look away.

  My eyes make out a glint of glass at the rear of the boathouse. I head toward the back, where a series of glass hurricane lamps line a shelf.

  Shannon follows behind. “Oh goody!” She claps her hands, still in their mittens.

  “We can work by candlelight.”

  Oh goody.

  We feel around on the shelf beside the lanterns.

  “Hah?” Shannon holds up a box of Redbird wooden matches. “Am I good or what?”

  A dozen smart comebacks march through my mind, but I say nothing.

  I pick up one of the lanterns and tip it. Kerosene splashes up the inside wall of the glass reservoir at the bottom. Lots of fuel. I take the chimney off the top and roll the wick down to wet it.

  Shannon lights a match and holds it to the wick. She’s wearing that weird nail polish that looks all smashed, like her nails have been hit with a hammer. Black, of course.

  We light three more lanterns, placing them in different spots in the old building. As I place the last one, I catch sight of the overhead light. It’s a naked bulb in the center of the ceiling. A thin cord of string hangs down a few inches. I missed it in the dark, thinking the switch would be on the wall. But, of course, the boathouse is old and so is the wiring.

  I pull on the string. A dim light floods the interior.

  Shannon l
ooks up. “Ah!” she exclaims, then laughs again. “All that trouble!” Then she looks around at the kerosene lanterns. “But I kind of like the lamps too. Let’s leave them burning.”

  “Whatever turns your crank,” I say. Even with the light from the lanterns and overhead bulb, the place is dark.

  “Will you write me a poem by the firelight, oh handsome one?” she teases. I guess she’s forgotten to be angry with me for being a rule follower.

  Or maybe it was only me who was angry.

  “I’m an athlete,” I say. “Not one of your fairy-art friends.” The words come out harsher than I had meant. But whatever.

  Shannon blinks.

  God, let’s just get this job over with.

  Behind us, the door bangs against the frame. I jump, and Shannon lets out a little squeak. We look at each other. She laughs nervously.

  I prop the door open with a big brick, and we look around.

  It smells musty in here, like dust and old damp things. Rope. Mildew. Wooden things. Boatish things. Our eyes travel the room, taking in the surroundings. There’s stuff everywhere—in piles, in boxes, on shelves, on the floor.

  Shannon puts words to my thoughts.

  “This is going to take us awhile.”

  Chapter Four

  “So what’s the plan of attack?” Shannon slings her bag into a corner. Two hard-cover books slide out onto the floor. A science text and some big silver book. A tube of lip stuff clatters out and comes to rest against the spine of the silver book. Two metal bracelets roll away under a shelf. Shannon sighs but doesn’t move to pick stuff up.

  I turn my head a bit so I can read the writing on the silver book. Wildwood Composite 2011–2012. The new yearbook.

  I look up to see Shannon standing with her hands on her hips, all business like. I sigh. “We go through everything,” I say. “Keep the things that still work. Paddles, PFDs, spray-skirts. Toss stuff that’s old or busted.”

  “Like this?” Shannon holds up a broken plastic bucket.