by Susan Vaught
“Abused and neglected?” Lavender asked. “Max? You have to be kidding.”
The trooper looked at Lavender, her expression clearly conveying that humor did not exist in her behavioral repertoire. Lavender cleared her throat and decided to examine her purple and gold fingernails.
“I’m not abused or neglected,” I told Captain Coker. “I even get home health check-ups once every month to be sure I’m not getting any pressure sores, and that I don’t have any new medical needs, and Toppy takes me to Vanderbilt to the Spinal Center twice a year—and more often if I need it.”
She took this in without comment. Then she pulled a pen and a small notebook out of her pocket and started writing. “When you’ve done something wrong,” her eyes moved to Lavender, “like setting something on fire, how does your grandfather discipline you?”
I wanted to explain the whole fire thing so badly, but figured I should play it like court on TV—just answer the question. “Toppy makes me watch awful sappy movies and write book reports about the plots. I mean, really sappy. From the Sentimental Flicks Channel, you know? No aliens, no werewolves, no superheroes—just princes and puppies, and everybody’s in love, and it’s so stupid—”
I made myself breathe.
Shut up, Max. Just answer the question, then SHUT UP.
Captain Coker’s rock face cracked at the edges, and her mouth twitched. “I see. Well. That’s . . . creative.”
“It’s terrible,” I said, then rushed to add, “but it’s not abuse or anything, right?”
“I guess that depends on your cinematic preferences,” the trooper said, eyes on her notebook.
Did she just crack a joke? I forced another breath into my lungs.
“What happens when your grandfather gets really angry?” Captain Coker looked up suddenly, eyes locking with mine. “What else does he do?”
“Well, he doesn’t take away my iPad because he says it’s like my wheelchair, something I need to get things done, so that’d be like taking away a body part, and he’d never do that.” I was trying not to babble, trying so hard. “He hollers sometimes, but only if I do something really ignorant that scares him. Usually he just gives me a look that makes me wish he’d ground me for a thousand years instead of making that face, and then he lectures me. I don’t think lecturing is abuse. Do you? I mean, no matter what your lecturing preferences are, lecturing just really stinks and makes me feel horrible. But lecturing isn’t abuse. I know it’s not.”
Captain Coker kept her pen poised but stopped writing. “I’m not sure my grandchildren would agree with you, but I understand. Now, if I were to go to your home—which I’m going to have to do—would there be food in your refrigerator?”
“What? I mean, yes, ma’am. Of course we have food.” This was getting seriously weird. I couldn’t figure out why anybody would report we didn’t have food.
“Can you tell me what you have to eat in your house right now?” Captain Coker asked.
I closed my eyes and took a deeper breath, slowly growing more aware of the shop smells again. The spicy air actually helped me calm down enough to tell the trooper, “Butter, milk, eggs, sour cream—we have a lot of that for nachos and baked potatoes and stuff. And Swiss cheese for Toppy and provolone for me, because I think Swiss cheese is ooky.”
I opened my eyes.
“Swiss cheese is ooky,” Captain Coker said, making a note. “Got it.”
“There’s salad dressing and a bag of lettuce that might be a little old because we should have had it last night but we had a roast instead because Toppy said he was hungrier than rabbit food. Oh! We have rabbit food, too. I mean, carrots and cucumbers, and there’s lunch meat—smoked turkey because we both like that, though I guess that doesn’t count as rabbit food because I don’t think rabbits eat turkey. There’s biscuits in those tubes that go pow when you open them, and some spicy sausage because Toppy and I both like the hot stuff, and apple juice, and leftover tortilla soup, and I’m pretty sure we have bacon bits and pepperoni and pizza dough we haven’t used yet. And cherry preserves, and—”
The trooper held up her hand.
“Please don’t make her list the contents of the cabinets and pantry,” Lavender said before Captain Coker could ask another question. “That would take a week. Toppy believes in having two of everything.”
“The house is very well-stocked with food,” Ms. Springfield agreed. “Chief Brennan teaches a community college weekend course in disaster preparedness, and he really practices what he preaches. He also has emergency kits and propane in his workshop, and an extra fridge and freezer, and a storage cabinet full of dried and canned goods. He and Max will probably be the sole survivors of Armageddon or the zombie apocalypse.”
“I—” Captain Coker began. “Zombie what?”
“Was the caller a man or a woman?” Lavender asked.
The trooper’s face went stony again, and I thought about smacking my best friend on the head, then wondered if I could get arrested for that.
“I’m not at liberty to give out that information,” she said, voice cold as the air outside.
Lavender looked annoyed. “I’m only asking because Chief Brennan and Mayor Chandler are being cyberattacked, and I’m wondering if the same person who’s hacking them made the call about Max being abused and starved or whatever.”
When the trooper looked surprised, Lavender added, “The chief and the mayor, they’re over at the police station right now, searching through all of Chief Brennan’s files with half the department, trying to figure out which of the people he arrested just got out of jail and might be trying to get even. I thought that knowing whoever made this bogus report was male or female might speed things up for them.”
Ms. Springfield gave Lavender a gentle elbow to the side, and Lavender hiccupped and hushed.
“We weren’t aware Chief Brennan was being harassed,” Captain Coker said. “He hasn’t reached out to State yet.”
“It just started last night,” I said.
“Well, State might be able to help if they want to ask us.” Captain Coker made another note. “After I see your home, that is. We need to head over there now, Miss—well, Max.”
“I’ll drive,” Ms. Springfield said.
The trooper looked up, frowning. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll take the child with me. That’s policy.”
“You have a wheelchair-accessible van?” I patted the arms of my electric chair, then honked my clown-nose. “This doesn’t fold, and it weighs over one hundred pounds. More with me in it.”
Captain Coker’s mouth came open. She looked at my chair as if really seeing it for the first time. “I—er—”
Ms. Springfield put her hand on the table, and her voice got almost as cold as the trooper’s. “Please don’t suggest taking Max without the chair and leaving her helpless. No policy should ever mandate anything like that, and if it does, it’s barbaric.”
“Well, no,” Captain Coker said. “Of course not.”
“I take Max home a lot,” Ms. Springfield said. “I’ll just go swap my car for Chief Brennan’s wheelchair van. You can follow us.”
The trooper stood, looking chastised. She picked up her hat. “That will be fine. Thank you.”
She hustled out of Something Wicked like she was seriously embarrassed. When the door chimes jingled, Ms. Springfield got to her feet. “I’m going to get the van and tell Chief Brennan what’s happening. Meet me out front.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Lavender and I said at the same time.
As she left to go across Town Square, I pulled on my coat.
“Okay,” Lavender said, adjusting her dance leggings. “This is a hot mess.”
“Yeah,” I said, remembering my earlier conversation with Mayor Chandler. “I think we’re officially past ‘just words’ now.”
• • •
Later that night, after Captain Coker had inspected our house, complimented Toppy’s housekeeping, ogled his workshop tools, scrutinized the contents
of our military-precise, alphabetized, and overstocked pantry, left one card for Toppy and another for me, and made her departure, Toppy sat on the edge of my bed. He had come to tuck me in like I was little again, just in case I was upset. Which I was. But I didn’t really want to tell him that.
He was wearing his flannel pj’s and bunny slippers, but he still smelled a little like a pine tree from where he cologned up for Mayor Chandler. I didn’t say anything about that, either, as he adjusted the covers on my shoulders.
“I’m sorry about all this, Max.” He patted my hand.
“It’s not your fault.”
His smile looked sad in the low light of my bedside lamp. “Kinda feels like it is.”
“Nope,” I told him. “You always tell me when bad guys do bad things, it’s their fault, not anybody else’s.”
“I do say that, don’t I?” The phone rang, and he glanced at the desk unit next to my lamp. “That’s probably your mother. You know, if this sorry scoundrel wants to make more trouble, he’s likely going to pull her into it. I need to tell her about all this, and then she’ll want to talk to you that much more.”
My sigh was automatic. The phone kept ringing and I kept ignoring it. I didn’t feel mad, just tired, and sort of trapped, which I hated more than anything. “Fine. Tomorrow. Or the next day.”
“She is who she is, Max.” Toppy’s smile was definitely sad now. “If you could love her for herself instead of who you want her to be, you might be happier, and that temper of yours—”
“Is a lot better.” My fingers dug into my covers on both sides.
“It is. I’d just like to see things with your mom get easier for you.”
“I am who I am, too,” I said, trying to ignore the words flashing through my mind. Impulsive . . . quick to anger . . . tramples feelings. I really was better with those things now. Wasn’t I?
“I know I have to be respectful to Mom,” I said, making sure my voice stayed calm. “But I don’t have to like her.”
“No, you don’t.” Toppy leaned over and kissed the top of my head. “But I want you to tell me one thing.”
I grimaced, dreading the question.
“Were rainbow-farting dragons necessary?” He gestured toward my painted wheel covers.
My mouth twitched. “Totally. Eating unicorns gave them psychedelic gas.”
He thought about this, then nodded. “I guess that’s better than the psychedelic eyes that made your school counselor tell me you needed a psychiatrist.”
“They were Cyclops glasses,” I said. “I can’t help it if that woman never read an X-Men comic.”
After he left, I lay in the darkness, staring across the field, watching Thornwood Manor and imagining giant owl-supervillains wielding huge thorn spears winging through the dark hallways. When I couldn’t sleep after an hour, I pulled my iPad off my bedside table, flicked open my Paper app, and used my finger to draw pages full of stick-me’s and sloppy alien owls with big bloodshot eyes, dueling to the bitter end. I was so intent on sketching a green and purple owl with full feather armor and an evil curved thorn dagger that I almost didn’t notice the light.
I stopped moving my hand on the iPad. Slowly, I lifted my head, then reached up and turned off the screen.
The light was on the bottom floor of Thornwood Manor, and this time, it wasn’t moving. It flickered in the center window, as if somebody stood just out of sight, holding a candle.
My skin prickled.
Had the light from my iPad been bright enough that whoever was in Thornwood could see me? I laid the iPad on my table and squinted at the window.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I was sure somebody was in there, looking right at me. Only now they couldn’t see me, because I had turned off the iPad.
As if hearing my thoughts, the light danced once and went out, as if snuffed by an angry hand.
6
DECEMBER 4
You’re lying,” Jace Alton insisted, but his blue eyes burned with curiosity. “Thornwood’s, like, condemned now, right?”
I grinned at him from across our classroom table as I sketched in Saskatchewan on the map of Canada we had to finish before the bell, and made sure I didn’t write “Sasquatch” by mistake. “Nope. Well, not really. It’s closed, but Lavender’s mom still has a key.”
I labeled the province with a 1905, to indicate when it joined Canada. Jace screwed up his face and stared at a blob on his page that was supposed to be Russia.
“Just put ‘REVOLUTION’ in big letters,” Cindy Morath told him. “It doesn’t have to be perfect.”
We were almost up to 1920, illustrating what was happening in the rest of the world while the Industrial Revolution was happening in the United States. Mr. Rager, our Social Studies teacher, was a project and paper fanatic, even about seriously boring stuff like the Industrial Revolution. Jace, Cindy, and the other kids in my group had been falling asleep until I mentioned going to Thornwood.
Now everybody was wide awake, and they all seemed hugely impressed. From two tables away, Lavender gave me a SHUT-UP glare, no doubt calculating the number of requests her mom would get for illegal tours of the haunted house.
“I’ve been wanting to see the inside of that place since I moved here,” I said. “It’ll be fun.”
“Sure,” Cindy agreed. “If a ghost doesn’t eat you. And that’s if you don’t freeze to death. It’s frigid outside.”
“I know there’s a ramp to the front door,” Jace said. “But what about the inside? Is there an elevator to the other floors?”
“No,” I said. “I’ll be stuck on the ground floor, probably—but there’s a lot of cool rooms on that level.”
Jace grinned. “And a giant hole in the floor. If you fall in, I’m gonna laugh.”
“Ha, ha,” I told him.
“Post pictures,” Cindy instructed.
“Yep,” I said, turning almost completely around in my chair seat to avoid Lavender’s death stare.
• • •
Monday afternoon, it was so cold I thought I could see frost on the top of Toppy’s bald head.
The five of us stood outside Thornwood, staring at the front of the house as our breath made clouds in the air above us. Toppy zipped his checkered hunting coat, while Mayor Chandler stuck her hands in the pockets of her bomber jacket. Lavender and her mom had bundled up like matching purple Cookie Monsters in wool scarves, leggings, and sweaters. As for me, I had on my black No Whining sweatshirt and a black and gold Vanderbilt Commodores blanket over my legs, so I was handling the cold okay.
“Let’s get this over with,” Toppy said, gesturing to the ramp on the left for me, then leading everyone else up the front steps. The whirring of my chair’s motor couldn’t block out the fierce creaks and pops as he and Mayor Chandler and Lavender and Ms. Springfield climbed the stairs. By the time I looped around the long ramp and came back across the porch, Toppy was stomping boards in front of me, testing the wood to be sure it would hold me.
“I really think the floor is stable, except for the room where it collapsed,” Ms. Springfield said. She was working to get a key into the main lock with her left hand and holding her right hand over a keypad to push in a code. “This key sticks sometimes.”
As she fussed with the lock, I stared at the front doors I had seen on the Internet so many times. They were solid wood, and a dark, dark brown that reminded me of dried blood. The bottoms were carved like the branches of trees, while the tops had matching Thornwood Owls gripping their menacing brambles. I couldn’t help focusing on the owls’ eyes, which seemed to be inlaid with something black and shiny, like onyx.
“If this were a spooky movie,” Mayor Chandler said, “those eyes would move whenever we stopped paying attention.”
“I’m paying attention,” Lavender said right away.
“Me, too,” I agreed. I used my iPad to take a photo of the owls, then popped a caption of THORNWOOD CREEPINESS on it before I posted it to my Facebook page.
; “We’re here to look for any evidence of Max’s light in the nighttime,” Toppy grumbled, “not to make some kind of social media event.” Then he griped to himself about the Internet and Saturday morning cartoons and Dracula flicks melting people’s brains. Mayor Chandler nudged his arm with her elbow and he hushed.
I squinted at the owls and trees carved in the door, realizing words were woven through the branches like a banner. I had only rolled up to the front of Thornwood a few times, and never this close. None of the websites focused on the panels, so I had never noticed the carved words before.
“Is that Latin on the doors?” I asked Ms. Springfield.
“Pecuniate obediunt omni,” she said as she worked the key in the stubborn lock. “It translates to ‘All things obey money.’ ” The door gave a loud click. “And I got it.” She tapped in the code, grabbed the handle on the right, and pushed open Thornwood’s front doors.
They moved so slow, I wondered if somebody on the other side might be pushing back, and the loud, high-pitched creak sent chills crawling up my spine. My heart started to beat faster.
Toppy waited a few seconds, then strode in front of all of us, shaking his head. “Warmer inside than out,” he said.
“Until we hit the cold spots,” Lavender pointed out.
“You watch too many ghost hunter shows,” my grandfather snapped back as we piled into the foyer. I rolled over an ornate brass grate in the floor, and it gave a mighty creak. I saw something that looked like wires poking up from one corner, and immediately worried I just tore up something, or set off a security alarm.
No sirens or bells or beeps sounded.
Phew.
I took a picture of the grate and posted it.
Lavender’s mom pulled the front door shut, and it settled with a thunk so loud I jumped against the back of my chair. Trapped! my chicken-brain screamed. The door probably locked itself. And the lock would stick. And here’s where something with fangs and claws would come charging at us, and—