Eleven

by Lauren Myracle

  I could feel Gail’s eyes boring into the back of my head. “What’s wrong with your neck?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Amanda,” Gail said in a complaining kind of way, and I got the uneasy feeling that they had talked about me last night, just as Amanda and I had talked about Gail. Which was unfair, because even if I wanted to start fresh with Gail, Gail wasn’t letting me.

  Amanda bit her lip. “You’re not ... trying to be funny or something, are you?”

  “I’m not trying to be anything!” I said.

  “All right, kids,” the photographer called. “On the count of three. One, two—” She broke off, straightening up from the camera with a frown. “Excuse me. You in the turquoise? I need you to face forward.”

  I rotated my body as best I could.

  “All the way, please.”

  I turned so that my shoulders were even with everyone else’s, only now my head faced Gail instead of the lens.

  Gail pressed her lips together. “Stop it!” she said.

  “Winnie?” Mr. Hutchinson said. He walked to the end of our row. “What’s going on?”

  “I can’t,” I whispered.

  “Can’t what?”

  “Move my neck. It’s stuck.” Tears burned in my eyes, and I blinked hard to keep them back.

  “Mr. Hutchinson, she’s faking,” Gail said. “She’s trying to be funny and she’s ruining everything.”

  “Hold on now, Gail,” Mr. Hutchinson said. He handed me a Kleenex from his pocket. “Has this ever happened before?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it sounds like you’ve got a stiff muscle.” He held out his hand and helped me step down from the risers. “Come on. Let’s get you to the nurse.”

  I caught a glimpse of Dinah as we passed the front row. She lifted her hand halfway as if to wave, then changed her mind and gnawed on her thumbnail. Everyone else just stared.

  “Okay, kids, eyes on me,” the photographer said. “One, two, three—smile !”

  The nurse called Mom, who called Dr. Harper at the Youth Clinic, who told us to come on in. While Dr. Harper examined my neck, she told me a story about a kid who got his tongue stuck in a bottle of Welch’s grape juice.

  “Finally I told him we’d just have to smash it,” she said. “I asked the nurse to get a hammer, and his eyes about popped out of his head. He yanked his tongue right out of there, you better believe it!”

  I stared at her. Or rather, at the wall past her left shoulder, since that was the way my neck was turned. Did she think that story would cheer me up? I like Welch’s grape juice, and sometimes I pack a bottle in my school lunch. I could see it now: my tongue turning purple in the bottle while Gail Grayson tugged on the other end and called me a faker.

  “Here,” Dr. Harper said, scribbling a prescription and handing it to Mom. “Have her take one immediately, then again every six hours if the stiffness doesn’t go away.”

  “Muscle relaxers?” Mom said.

  “Half the normal adult dose. It won’t hurt her, although it might make her a little wobbly.” She helped me down from the table. “And you, Miss Winnie, need to stop worrying so much. It’s worrying that makes your muscles tense up.”

  Great, I thought, already dreading the walk back through the waiting room. How very helpful.

  We stopped by the drugstore on the way home, and the pharmacist gave me a cup of water so I could take my first capsule. By the time we got to the parking lot, I could barely keep my eyes open. Each time I put my foot down, I toppled sideways.

  “What’s wrong with her?” I heard a kid say as Mom helped me into the car. “Why can’t she walk right?”

  At home, Mom tucked me into bed and told me to call her if I needed anything. Just as I was drifting off, I heard the doorbell ring. I heard the squeak of the door, and then Mom’s voice saying, “She’s fine, Amanda, but I’m afraid she’s resting right now. Why don’t you—”

  “I’m awake!” I called. I shook the fuzziness from my head. “Amanda! Up here!”

  There was a pause as Mom said something I couldn’t make out. Her heels clicked to the foot of the stairs and she called, “Five minutes, Winnie. That’s all!”

  Amanda jogged up the stairs and came into my room. She sat on the side of my bed. “Can you move your neck yet?” she asked.

  “A little. Everything’s blurry, though.”

  “Huh?”

  “Your shirt.” I giggled. “It looks like it’s breathing.”

  Amanda looked at her chest.

  My giggles petered out. I fooled with the edge of my sheet. “Gail thought I was faking, but I wasn’t.”

  “I know.”

  “She’s such a jerk.” I said it like of course, like it was a fact that everyone knew, but under the covers my body felt sweaty. I checked Amanda’s expression.

  “Maybe,” she finally said, “but she didn’t mean to be. She thought you were making fun of her.” She gnawed on her cheek, then let her breath out in a whoosh. “I can have more than one friend, you know.”

  My stomach did a flip-flop thing. “Yeah,” I said. “Me and Chantelle.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I didn’t. For the millionth time today, I was afraid I was going to cry.

  “So,” she said, “will you be in school tomorrow?”

  I shrugged.

  “Well if you are, be sure to sit with me during lunch. Promise?”

  “Will Gail be there?”

  “Winnie ...”

  I closed my eyes. “My neck hurts pretty bad. The doctor said I should rest.”

  There was a pause, and then the bedsprings creaked as Amanda stood up. “We’re in sixth grade now, Winnie. We can’t just—”

  “Okay,” I said. “I mean, whatever. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “At lunch?”

  “Yeah. Sure. At lunch.”

  I squinted, watching her leave. Then I flopped my head back on my pillow, and everything went slippery around the edges. It didn’t surprise me. Muscle relaxer or no muscle relaxer, sometimes the world is a big, fuzzy blur.

  October

  BY HALLOWEEN, the weather had grown chilly. Leaves scuttled across the road when the wind blew, and the air tingled as if something was burning. I looked outside, spooked by the thought of real witches flying to real hurly-burlies, then turned back to the miniature pizzas lined in neat rows before me. I pressed one black olive into the middle of each and brought the tray over for Mom to see.

  “Eyeballs,” I said.

  “Beautiful,” she said, taking the tray and sliding it into the oven. Along with the pizza eyeballs, I’d helped her make witch-brew punch, jack-o’-lantern sugar cookies with orange-and-black frosting, and, my own invention, smushed-brain vegetable dip. Mom suggested we call it something else for the sake of the guests, but I said no. Smushed-brain vegetable dip was perfect for Halloween.

  Mom wiped her hands on her jeans and started cutting a block of Cheddar cheese into small cubes. “So have you thought any more about inviting Dinah?” she asked in a voice that was supposed to sound casual but didn’t. “She could help you serve the hors d’oeuvres.”

  I got a tight feeling inside. I picked at a smudge on the counter and said, “Mom, no. I already told you.”

  “It’s just that her father will be here, and—”

  “What, Mr. Devine’s going to fire Dad if Dinah isn’t invited?”

  “Of course not. But I hate to think of Dinah being alone on Halloween.”

  “Well, then maybe Mr. Devine should stay at home. He doesn’t have to come to the party, you know.”

  Mom arched her eyebrows. But even though I felt a little bad, I didn’t back down. I had planned on Amanda helping me pass around the hors d’oeuvres, not Dinah. We could have painted our faces green and told everyone we’d gotten food poisoning, then offered the platters of food and said, “You simply must try the cheese puffs. They’re to die for.”

  But Amanda was going
trick-or-treating with Gail at Gail’s condominium complex. I could have gone, too, but I’d promised Mom I’d help with the party. Anyway, who wanted to see Gail prancing about in her blue satin princess costume with the gold-sequined crown?

  Dinah is no princess, but she also isn’t the type to paint her face green, and if I told her I had food poisoning, she’d probably believe me. Which might be fun for a while, but not for the whole night.

  “Mom, Dinah’s not ... she’s just not a Halloween-y kind of person. Besides, do I have to invite her to every single party in the world?”

  Mom dumped the cubes of cheese into a plastic bowl and stuck the bowl in the microwave. “It’s your decision, Winnie.”

  “Good. Then it’s settled.” Outside, a branch scraped the kitchen window, giving my spine a chill. “Hey, do you believe in witches?” I asked, trying to get back my earlier excitement. “Real witches?”

  Mom looked at me in a way I didn’t much like.

  “Never mind,” I said. “Stupid question.”

  The timer beeped, a noise that was very unwitchy. I waited until Mom’s back was turned, then ducked out of the kitchen.

  By six-thirty, Mom and Dad were putting the finishing touches on their Sonny and Cher outfits. Downstairs, Sandra was taping a Honey Nut Cheerios box to Ty’s chest and a box of Product 19 to his back. Empty, of course. She planned to carry a kitchen knife in her hand and follow Ty from room to room. “I’ll be a cereal killer,” she told us during our dinner of crackers and cheese. “Get it?”

  I was the only one who wasn’t ready. I was going as a witch, of course, since that’s what I went as every year. But I couldn’t find the pointy hat to go with my long, black cape, and what good was a witch without a hat?

  I plowed once more through the clothes in my closet, then backed out and plopped down on my bed. Sweetie-Pie leapt up beside me, and I scratched her jaw. “Where is it, Sweetie-Pie?” I asked. “Huh?”

  Sweetie-Pie stepped on my thigh and rubbed harder against my hand.

  “You can be my familiar,” I told her. “If I can find that stupid hat.”

  I stood up, depositing Sweetie-Pie on the floor. Maybe Mom put the hat in the attic when she cleaned out my closet at the end of the summer. She’d bugged me for days to clean it out myself, but I never got around to it.

  Sweetie-Pie followed me to the attic door. She yowled when I pressed her back with my foot.

  “No, Sweetie-Pie,” I said. “Stay.” I wedged my body through the door, but Sweetie-Pie squirmed past me and bolted up the cluttered stairs.

  “Sweetie-Pie! Get back here!”

  “Winnie?” Mom called. “Is something wrong?”

  I glanced up the attic stairs, then back at the bright light of the hall. “Uh, everything’s fine! I’m just finishing getting ready!”

  “Don’t take too long,” Mom said. “It’s nearly seven!”

  I stepped over a bag of old board games and gingerly made my way up the stairs. A dead cockroach crunched under my shoe, and I sucked in my breath. Dead cockroaches meant live cockroaches, and I hated live cockroaches.

  “Sweetie-Pie!” I said. “Come here, Sweetie-Pie!”

  Sweetie-Pie mewed, and I moved farther into the attic. Lopsided stacks of boxes made spooky shapes against the walls, and the furnace hissed and popped. A chain dangled from a bare lightbulb, and I gave it a tug. Nothing.

  “Sweetie-Pie?” I said tentatively. I knew no one was up there with me, but I didn’t want to be any louder than I had to be. I stepped deeper into the darkness. “Come on, Sweetie-Pie. This isn’t funny.”

  My arm brushed against something furry—not Sweetie-Pie—and I gasped. It was only a spiderweb, but it was gross and sticky and it made me think of giant tarantulas. My heart whammed against my chest. “All right, Sweetie-Pie, I’m leaving. If you get stuck up here, it’s not my—”

  From the back of the attic came a scuffling sound, followed by a bump and a howl.

  “Sweetie-Pie?”

  More howls, each one louder and more frantic than the one before. I decided this was not something I could handle on my own, and I clumped down the attic stairs as fast as I could. “Mom! Dad!” I cried. I raced to their bedroom. “It’s Sweetie-Pie! I don’t know what happened, but—”

  “Winnie, slow down,” Dad said. “Something happened to Sweetie-Pie?”

  Sweetie-Pie howled again, only this time the sound came from behind Mom and Dad’s wall. All three of us jumped, and Mom said, “What in the ... is that Sweetie-Pie?”

  “She snuck into the attic!” I said. “And there was this big noise and I don’t know what happened and—”

  “Dad!” Sandra yelled from downstairs. “Get down here! There’s an animal trapped in the chimney!”

  “The chimney!” Mom said.

  We hurried to the den, where Sandra stood waving the poker at the fireplace. Ty clutched her leg and stared wide-eyed at the opening above the logs.

  “I think it’s a raccoon!” Sandra said. “Can you hear it?”

  I didn’t need to listen to know the answer. I stepped over the grate and stuck my head up the chimney. “Don’t worry, Sweetie-Pie! We’ll save you!”

  “Sweetie-Pie?” Sandra said. “What’s Sweetie-Pie doing in the fireplace?”

  “Sweetie-Pie!” Ty cried. He let go of Sandra and climbed over the grate. “I’m sorry, Sweetie-Pie! I didn’t know it was you!”

  “She’s not in the chimney,” Dad said. He strode to the wall and rapped it with his knuckles. Sweetie-Pie moaned. “Hear that?” he said. “She must have slipped down between the panels of Sheetrock.”

  “Joel, do something,” Mom said. “We can’t have Sweetie-Pie making those noises during the party.”

  “The party?” I said. “Who cares about the party?”

  Sweetie-Pie let out a whine that dipped up and down the scale. Mom pressed her hand to her mouth, but a giggle escaped through her fingers. “Oh, this is terrible. Everyone’ll think we’re animal torturers. Or worse.”

  I stomped my foot. “Mom!”

  “Just tell them you stuck her down there on purpose,” Sandra said. “It is a Halloween party.”

  “San-dra!”

  “What? You’re the one who let her into the attic.”

  Mom turned to Dad. “Can you get her out?”

  “I don’t know. I hope so.” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Come on, Winnie. Let’s see if we can rescue that cat of yours.”

  Armed with a flashlight apiece, we climbed the dusty attic stairs and picked our way toward the sound of Sweetie-Pie’s cries.

  “Be careful,” Dad said. “We don’t want you falling down a hole, too. Your mother would have a fit.”

  “Yeah, but only because I’d ruin the party.”

  Dad laughed. “A child in the wall—what would the neighbors think?”

  I wasn’t ready to joke. “I’m not a child.”

  We reached the far end of the attic. Crouching, we peered into the space between the walls.

  “Sweetie-Pie?” Dad said. Her howls, which had tapered off, started back full force. He moved his flashlight. “There she is. See her?”

  “Oh, poor Sweetie-Pie!” I said. She was at the bottom of a hole that stretched about a foot and a half across and maybe five feet down. Her eyes glowed in the beam of light, and she was covered with fluff and dust. She wailed and clawed at the siding.

  “Here, hold this,” Dad said, passing me his flashlight. With one arm braced on the floorboards, he leaned into the hole. “Okay, Sweetie-Pie, if you could just ... no, now, hold on—”

  He grunted and pushed himself up. “Can’t reach her. Not even close.” He brushed his hands on his jeans. “It’ll have to be you, Winnie.”

  “Dad. If you can’t reach her, there’s no way I can.”

  “I’ll hold on to your legs and lower you down,” he said.

  “What?!”

  “Just don’t tell your mother. She wouldn’t like it.”

  She wouldn’
t like it? What about me?

  On the other hand, if Dad thought I was brave enough to be lowered into the hole, then maybe I was. And I liked the part about not telling Mom—especially since I could tell Amanda and Chantelle and dumb old Gail Grayson. “Yeah,” I’d say, “my dad and I decided to keep it a secret. We didn’t want Mom to have a heart attack or anything.”

  I bet Gail has never been lowered headfirst into a gaping, pitch-black hole. A million dollars, that’s how much I’d bet.

  “Think you can do it?” Dad asked.

  I gazed down at Sweetie-Pie, who scrabbled again at the siding. “Hold on,” I told her. “I’m coming.”

  The first time we tried, I only managed to wiggle my head and outstretched arms into the hole. The Sheetrock dug into the skin beneath my armpits, and the air tasted like spiderwebs, which made me wonder what else had fallen into the hole over the years. I pushed the thought from my mind.

  “Can you reach her?” Dad said.

  “No. She’s still, like, a couple of feet away.”

  “Okay. I’m going to lower you a little more.” He shuffled forward, and I dipped deeper into the hole. My breath came fast in my chest.

  “Now?” Dad asked.

  I grazed Sweetie-Pie’s paw as she batted at my fingers, but I still couldn’t get hold of her.

  “No good,” I gasped. Something feathery brushed my lips, and I jerked away. “Pull me up!”

  “What?”

  “I said pull me up!”

  His hands tightened on my calves. “Let’s just try one more—”

  “Pull me up now!”

  He grunted and lifted me out of the hole, easing me onto the attic floor. I shuddered and brushed my hands over my legs, stomach, arms, and hair.

  “I think I swallowed a spider,” I said, pulling fuzz off my tongue with my fingers.

  Dad shone his flashlight back down at Sweetie-Pie, who howled as if she thought we were going to leave her. “Well, what now?” he said.

  I thought for several minutes. “Maybe we could lower a basket? You know, with some rope?”

  Dad looked dubious, but he didn’t say no. “You want to hunt one down?”