The Hero Next Door

by The Hero Next Door (retail) (epub)

  Elora skillfully shuffled the deck. “We take turns picking cards. Any card. Just one. If you pick a diamond, then you have to tell us something that you wish for—as many wishes as the number on the card. Pick the four of diamonds, tell us four wishes. They can be silly wishes. But if it’s a heart, you have to tell us about something that you really need. A club is a weapon, so share something that you’ll fight for—or tell us about somebody that you want to fight against. And spades mean secrets. We’ll bury those between us and promise to never, ever tell anyone else.”

  “I don’t get this game,” Colt said slowly.

  “I get it,” Avery said, “but I don’t think I like it. What do face cards do?”

  “Queens and kings can command somebody else to answer,” Elora explained. “If you draw a queen, then you get to skip your turn and pass to the left. If you draw a king, then you pass to the right. The next player has to answer for you. If Colt drew the king of diamonds, then I would have to share a wish.”

  “And jacks?” Avery asked.

  “Jacks are tricky,” Elora said. “If you draw a jack, then you get to give a hint instead of a straight answer.”

  “I still don’t get this game,” said Colt.

  “I’ll go first,” Elora said in a reassuring sort of way. “Avery next. You’ll understand by the time it’s your turn.” She flipped over the top card. “Ace of spades. I need to share a secret.”

  “Just one,” Avery said. “That’s easy.”

  “Secrets are still the most difficult suit.” Elora thought for a moment. She looked up in the direction of the ceiling, but she wasn’t really looking at the ghosts, who looked back down at her. “Okay. Here’s one. I was mad at my older sister, Ana Maria. I don’t remember why I was mad at her, but I do remember what I did about it: I switched the salt and the sugar in the kitchen. She put salt in her coffee. It tasted terrible. The ghost who haunts the bottom of that mug liked the taste, though, or else it just thought that my sister’s spit-take was hilarious. Now every single drink it holds tastes salty, no matter what kind of drink it is. We only ever use that mug to gargle salt water when we get sore throats. And I’ve never, ever told Ana Maria that I was the one who switched the salt. It was her favorite mug. And that’s my secret.” She passed the deck to Avery. “Your turn.”

  Avery turned over the ten of clubs.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” they said. “Ten?”

  Elora smiled. “Ten. Tell us ten things you’ll fight for. Take your time. They can be big epic fights, or petty little fights, or anything in between.”

  “I’d fight to never have to play this game again,” they said.

  “That’s one! You’d lose, though. Sleepsuits is my favorite. Now tell us nine more.”

  Avery tried to think of nine more fights, but they didn’t have to. Loud thumping noises interrupted the game. Ghosts scattered. Loose dirt rained down from the ceiling.

  Colt jumped to his feet. “What is that?”

  “It’s coming from up above,” Avery said. “Let’s check it out.”

  “You’re just trying to hide from the ten of clubs,” Elora complained.

  “I’m also trying to hide from the ten of clubs. Come on.”

  They all hurried upstairs and peeked through the wavy glass window.

  The statue in the center of the cemetery had walked away from its pedestal. Now it stomped around in solid bronze boots and swung its cavalry sword at the pigeons. Poor Mr. Armstrong was trying to appease the haunted thing, but he couldn’t even get its attention.

  “Ouch,” Colt whispered as the dull sword ended a pigeon.

  * * *

  —

  The statue was still causing a disturbance when the three neighbors met on the following night.

  Avery sat crisscrossed on the floor with a heavy book in their lap. “I went to the library today,” they said. “The statue is of somebody named Beauregard Errington Grizzle. His ghost is probably the one haunting it. I found his biography, and it turns out that he was a ridiculously bad person. Listen to this: General Grizzle had the curious habit of dueling with swans and geese at dawn every morning. He would wade into the river shallows where a large flock of the birds were wont to sleep. Once startled, the pugnacious fowl would arch their necks and flap their wings in a fearfully intimidating manner, at which point the general would laugh with delight and then cut off as many heads as he could reach. ‘The graceful shape of their necks is an invitation to a beheading, one that I am simply unable to refuse,’ he once wrote in a letter to his mother.”

  “Ew,” Elora said. “And he’s still at it. Still killing birds. He’s also tearing up the cemetery, knocking over grave markers and chasing all the pigeons around, even though they don’t have such long and beheadable necks.” All this enraged her. She had two pet parakeets at home.

  “Why did he get a statue?” Colt asked. “If he was so terrible, why did anybody want to build him one?”

  Avery flipped through the pages. “Beats me. If General Grizzle ever did anything righteous or good, this book doesn’t mention it.”

  Bronze boots stomped overhead. Agitated ghosts dropped from the ceiling and shifted their shapes all over the floor. Colt took up handfuls of the haunted dirt and tried to soothe them by singing quiet lullabies.

  “Ignore that tantruming statue,” Elora said. “We have a game to play. Avery, it’s still your turn. You can even draw a new card. Try not to get another ten.”

  Avery drew the queen of diamonds, which clearly delighted them. “I get to pass! Colt, tell us a wish. Just one.”

  Colt stopped singing. The ghost in his hand had settled into a single, lumpy shape.

  “I wish I had new sneakers,” he said. “Mine are too tight and my toes get scrunched up. It hurts.”

  “Have you told your parents?” Elora asked.

  “No,” Colt said. “I keep forgetting. So I also wish I had some string. I’d tie a piece around my toe to remind it that it doesn’t like to get scrunched, and then maybe I’d remember to say that I need new shoes.”

  “I’ll bring some string tomorrow,” Elora told him. “My turn.” She reached for the deck, but she paused when loud shouting noises came through the stairwell.

  “Is that the statue?” Colt asked. “Doesn’t sound like the statue. Sounds like a huge crowd of people.”

  It turned out to be two huge crowds of people.

  Colt, Elora, and Avery crept up the stairs and peeked through the crypt window. They saw grown-ups gathered into two shouting groups. The noise disturbed dozens of cemetery ghosts, who swirled around in circles and threw pebbles at each other. Mr. Armstrong, the specialist, also ran in circles. He frantically pleaded with the ghosts. A pebble whacked his nose.

  The haunted statue had returned to his pedestal, but didn’t stand in his old heroic posture. Instead he sat with his back to the arguing crowds. A pigeon landed on top of his big bronze hat. The statue tried and failed to shoo it away.

  “What are they arguing about?” Colt whispered.

  * * *

  —

  The next day Elora grilled her parents about the cemetery protests, and that night she told the others what she had learned. She also remembered to bring some string and gave it to Colt. He tied it around his toe.

  “Some people want to remove the statue,” Elora said. “They say it never should have been built in the first place. But it’s hard to remove a haunted statue. They would need to catch it first and coax the ghost somewhere else. That’s some tricky appeasement. Mr. Armstrong probably can’t manage it.”

  “What about the other group of marching, shouting people?” Avery wanted to know.

  Elora’s face took on a blank and neutral expression, which was odd. Her feelings were usually obvious. “The other group won’t let Mr. Armstrong even try to bring the statue d
own. They say that we must continue to honor General Beauregard Errington Grizzle because he is a part of our history and heritage.”

  Her quiet tone of voice still made it absolutely clear what she thought of the second group.

  “He’s a pretty icky part of history,” Avery said while furiously knitting a scarf.

  “Do you have any sevens?” Colt asked. He didn’t want to talk about this anymore. He just wanted to play cards.

  Avery stopped knitting and handed over a seven.

  “Do you have any sevens?” Colt asked Elora.

  “No,” said Elora. “Go fish.”

  They had already tried to play Psychic Lemur, but none of them could concentrate on complicated games with protests and counterprotests still shouting overhead. Sleepsuits was out of the question. Elora was still annoyed that they hadn’t even finished a single round.

  The ghosts of the catacombs began to panic. Those who had no voices made silent, wailing mouths, collapsed into mounds of loose dirt, and then remade themselves to wail silently again.

  Elora stood.

  “That’s it,” she said. “I’ve had enough. Colt, you’ve obviously got the most sensitive ears. Tell me where the statue is stomping right now.”

  Colt listened. He pointed. “There.”

  “Okay. Good.” Elora shooed her two neighbors away from that spot. “The ghosts in the dirt listen to you. Especially when you sing lullabies. Sing them a song now. Ask them to all move away from this place. Avery, you like trees. Talk to the roots. Try to get them to move, too.”

  “How do you know how much I like trees?” Avery asked. None of their Sleepsuits confessions had been about trees.

  “Because you draw trees in your comic, and because you’re knitting a tree pattern into your scarf right now. So talk to them.”

  Avery talked to the tree roots in a low whisper.

  Colt sang to all the haunting ghosts who roiled through the cemetery dirt.

  Root and soil moved aside. They shifted old coffins out of the way. A gaping hole opened in the ceiling of the catacombs, and the surprised statue of Beauregard Errington Grizzle came tumbling through it.

  Soil and root knitted back together, closing up the hole.

  * * *

  —

  The two shouting crowds didn’t even notice when the subject of their disagreement suddenly disappeared. Mr. Armstrong, the bewildered specialist, saw it happen, but he never told anyone else what he had seen.

  Avery, Colt, and Elora all felt very proud of what they had just accomplished. They also instantly regretted bringing an unstable and swan-slaughtering metal swordsman into their secret clubhouse.

  Elora swallowed the taste of fear and bile before she stepped forward to address the statue.

  “I wish that my hometown had known better than to ever build you in the first place,” she said. “But we didn’t know better. We built you anyway. Now we need you gone. Your fights are over. All of them. Including the one you keep picking with birds. Now, stay here. Stay secret. Stay buried for the next hundred years at least. Go stand in the corner and think hard about what you’ve done.”

  The statue lowered his sword.

  “Thank you,” said a booming bronze voice. “In life I thought everyone else was a ghost, and I myself the only truly living man in all the world. I was the only one capable of action, the only one deserving of worthy consideration. I exulted in that. In death I was rewarded with the same solitude, set high above all others and venerated for my own delusional cruelty. This town is proud of me, though I was the worst of its sons. I could not convince them that their pride had been misplaced. Thank you for delivering me from this high regard. And from the pigeons. Every day those birds left goopy waste all over my shoulders and hat.”

  Elora nodded as though she had never doubted that the statue would listen to her.

  “Good,” she said. “You’ll be safe here from pigeon poop.”

  The statue lumbered into the farthest corner of the room and stood perfectly still.

  Elora sat, collected all the scattered cards, and started to shuffle them.

  “Do you think he’ll really stay put?” Avery whispered.

  “Yes,” Elora said. “If he doesn’t, we can just call down more dirt to bury him completely.” She slapped the deck of cards on the ground between them and then drew the ace of spades again. “The statue is our secret. Your turn, Avery. We’re going to finally finish this game.”

  About the Authors

  William Alexander writes science fiction and fantasy for middle-grade audiences. His novels include Goblin Secrets, Ghoulish Song, Ambassador, Nomad, A Properly Unhaunted Place, and A Festival of Ghosts. Honors include the National Book Award, the Eleanor Cameron Award, two Junior Library Guild selections, an International Latino Book Award finalist, and the Earphones Award for audiobook narration. Will studied theater and folklore at Oberlin College, English at the University of Vermont, and creative writing at the Clarion Workshop. He teaches at the Vermont College of Fine Arts program in Writing for Children and Young Adults. Visit goblinsecrets.com for more.

  Joseph Bruchac is a writer and traditional storyteller who lives in the Adirondack Mountains region of northern New York. Much of his work is inspired by his Native American (Abenaki) ancestry. He is the author of over 130 books for young readers and adults. His experiences include running a college program in a maximum security prison, teaching in West Africa, and doing wildlife rehabilitation with his wife, Nicola Marae Allain. His most recent novels are Two Roads and Sasquatch and the Muckleshoot. A former varsity wrestler at Cornell University, he received his black belt in Brazilian jiu-jitsu in 2018.

  Anna Dobbin grew up reading stories written by her awesome mom (and now coauthor), Linda Sue Park. After college, Anna worked in the children’s division of a major publishing company. Now she is a freelance copy editor and gets to work on all different types of projects, from young adult fiction to cookbooks to graphic novels. When she isn’t writing or editing, Anna loves to travel, make (and eat) baked goods, and Instagram photos of her dog. She lives in Connecticut.

  Lamar Giles writes novels and short stories for teens and adults. He is the author of the Edgar Award nominees Fake ID and Endangered, Overturned, and Spin, as well as the middle-grade fantasy The Last, Last Day of Summer. He is a founding member of We Need Diverse Books and a faculty member in the Spalding University MFA program. He resides in Virginia with his wife, Adrienne. Check him out online at lamargiles.com, or follow @LRGiles on Twitter.

  Mike Jung is the author of Geeks, Girls, and Secret Identities; Unidentified Suburban Object; and The Boys in the Back Row. He’s also contributed essays to the anthologies Dear Teen Me, Break These Rules, 59 Reasons to Write, and (Don’t) Call Me Crazy. His books have been honored by the Bank Street College of Education, the Children’s Book Council Reading Beyond List, the Cooperative Children’s Book Center, the Georgia Children’s Book Awards, the Iowa Children’s Choice Awards, the Kansas State Reading Circle, the National Parenting Product Awards, the Parents’ Choice Foundation, and the Texas Bluebonnet Awards. Mike is a founding member of We Need Diverse Books and lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with his family.

  Hena Khan grew up with her nose in a book. The stories she connected with as a child left a huge impression on her, and she still thinks of the characters, feelings, and random tidbits that she absorbed years ago. That’s why she loves writing for kids—in the hopes that they’ll read something she wrote more than once, and let it become part of who they are. Hena enjoys writing for all ages and exploring her Pakistani American culture, along with space, spies, and other topics. Amina’s Voice, her recent middle-grade novel, was named a Best Book of the Year by the Washington Post, NPR, Kirkus Reviews, and others. She also wrote the Zayd Saleem: Chasing the Dream series: Power Forward, On Point, and Bounce Back, and several picture
books, including Golden Domes and Silver Lanterns, Night of the Moon, It’s Ramadan, Curious George, Crescent Moons and Pointed Minarets, and Under My Hijab.

  Juana Medina was born and raised in Bogotá, Colombia. She is the author and illustrator of the Pura Belpré Award–winning chapter book Juana & Lucas. Juana is also the author and illustrator of Juana & Lucas: Big Problemas, 1 Big Salad, ABC Pasta, and Sweet Shapes. She illustrated Smick! by Doreen Cronin, Lena’s Shoes Are Nervous by Keith Calabrese, and I’m a Baked Potato! by Elise Primavera. Juana has been lucky to earn recognitions from the Colombian Presidency, the National Cartoonists Society, the National Headliner Awards, the International Latino Book Awards, and even the Ridgway Award—which is quite impressive for someone who was a less-than-stellar student and who often got in trouble for drawing cartoons of her teachers. Despite all the trouble caused, Juana studied and taught at the Rhode Island School of Design (RISD) and the Corcoran School of the Arts and Design (where students had plenty of chances to draw cartoons of her). She lives with her wife, their twin sons, and their dog, Rosita. Visit her at juanamedina.com.

  Ellen Oh is CEO of We Need Diverse Books (WNDB), a nonprofit organization dedicated to increasing diversity in children’s literature. A former adjunct college instructor and corporate attorney, she is the author of the middle-grade novels Spirit Hunters and Spirit Hunters: The Island of Monsters, and the Prophecy young adult (YA) fantasy trilogy. She is the editor of WNDB’s middle-grade anthology Flying Lessons and Other Stories and the YA anthology A Thousand Beginnings and Endings. Ellen lives with her husband and three children. You can visit her online at ellenoh.com.

  R. J. Palacio is the daughter of Colombian immigrants and is a first-generation American. She is also the author of the #1 New York Times bestselling middle-grade novel Wonder, as well as the other titles in the Wonder universe, including 365 Days of Wonder: Mr. Browne’s Book of Precepts, Auggie & Me, and We’re All Wonders. Her first graphic novel, White Bird, A Wonder Story, which she both wrote and illustrated, will be published in 2019. She lives in Brooklyn, New York, with her husband, two sons, and their two dogs. You can find her online at wonderthebook.com.