The Box in The Cuts: A Supernatural Mystery

by Debra Castaneda

  Madison is annoyed by all this. “I don't believe in sudden conversions,” she says. “Did you know it's a syndrome? I think it's almost intervention time. Seriously.”

  Chloe and I just let Madison rant. We've got bigger things to worry about. And besides, I can't remember a time when Destiny seemed more confident. Also, now that she's pulled off something as complicated as a “magical evocation” as she calls it, the Wirth Mansion seems to have lost its power over her. She's even taken her old bedroom back. Still, it's no reason to celebrate. One fear has just replaced another. She’s sure the image in the video of a ghostly figure rising behind her is a bad sign. She’s jumpy and is constantly looking over her shoulder.

  When I get home, Daniel is pulling into his driveway. His mother drives up seconds later. One long leg emerges, and then the rest of her. She's wearing a cream pantsuit and as usual, she looks stunning. Mitchell hops out, carrying yellow roses in a vase. When he spots me, he looks over at his mother, who smiles and nods.

  “These are for you!” he shouts across the street. Daniel stares, frozen.

  Mitchell looks both ways, then carefully crosses the street, followed by his mother and Daniel.

  Camille gives me a warm hug. “Congratulations, Sam! I thought we'd get you a little something to celebrate your big moment.”

  I take the vase from Mitchell, who throws his arms around my waist and squeezes. “Thank you,” I say. The confusion I'm feeling matches Daniel's expression.

  When Camille notices the blank look on my face, she laughs. “You have no idea what we're talking about, do you?”

  I shake my head. “Not really. No.”

  Camille pulls Mitchell away and gives him a little push to Daniel, who swings him onto his hip.

  “Let me fill you in then,” Camille says. “The Peninsula Journal wrote an editorial calling for the reinstatement of The Clarion at the next school board meeting. It's scathing. They're calling the principal's decision ‘outrageous’ and a violation of an education code that protects school papers. They said the principal should get acquainted with the First Amendment.” She claps her hands in delight.

  As I stare, blinking, trying to take this in, Daniel says, “Didn't you know about that code, Samantha?” His mother's warning glance in his direction does not escape me.

  I can feel a flush creeping across my face. If I grip the vase any harder the glass will shatter in my hands. “No. No, I didn't." A sudden gust of wind whips down our skinny, crooked street, cooling my burning cheeks.

  I should have known. The minute Buskin pulled the plug on our site I should have figured out whether there was anything we could do to stop him. Instead, I went down the bottomless hole of hurt feelings when Alfie and the others launched Not-the-Clarion without me.

  “That's what student advisors are for, Sam,” Camille says, her voice soothing. “The Journal calls her out, too, for not giving all of you the support you needed. And by the way, they reprinted your piece on censorship. It was amazing.”

  This is small comfort as I agonize over my epic fail. Reading the entire editorial, alone in my bedroom, makes me squirm even more.

  When I call Alfie, he scrambles to get to a computer to read the editorial for himself. He's just as surprised but accepts no blame. “Hey, that's on Sangler, not us.”

  “Yeah, but we're the editors of the paper, Alfie. The point is, we should have known.”

  As soon as we hang up, my phone rings. It's the editor of The Peninsula Journal who introduces herself as Jordie Masters. After I thank her for the editorial, she says, “You're both going to be there, right? You and Alfie Marquez? To make your case in front of the board. Because we plan on being there. In fact, we're encouraging the TV stations to cover it too.”

  “Umm, of course,” I say, after swallowing a lump the size of a golf ball.

  That's enough for Jordie Masters to launch into an advice session. I set my phone on speaker so I can take notes. My hands are so sweaty that the paper is damp when we finally hang up. Jordie made it clear that to make the most impact, both Alfie and I would need to speak at the meeting.

  In a state of panic, I rush across the street to the Moore's house and ring the bell. Camille answers, wearing a sweatshirt and leggings. She takes one look at my face and guides me into the kitchen where she gives me a mug of hot tea. When I explain the situation—that I'm a decent writer and editor but terrified of public speaking—she looks surprised, but then her eyebrows lift, and she snaps her fingers. “That, my dear, can be solved.”

  She excuses herself and sprints out of the room. When she returns, she's dragging Daniel by the sleeve of his shirt. “Meet my son, your media trainer. He's helped me with some of my younger clients and he's quite good at it, if I say so myself.”

  I look at Daniel uncertainly. He lifts his chin. “No problem. You write your speech. We practice it on camera. I coach you. It's as simple as that.” Then he grins. Not one of his stiff, awkward efforts, but a genuine smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes.

  An unfamiliar feeling starts as a flutter in my stomach, then moves up into my chest and spreads down my arms. I'm pretty sure it's the faint stirring of hope.

  Chapter 45

  Daniel is in full director mode. The first thing he says is we're going to meet every evening until the school board meeting.

  I look at him in disbelief. “You're kidding?”

  He looks up from my script of the speech I've prepared. “You want to do this, Samantha, or not? Because if you do, we're doing it my way.”

  I have no choice but to agree. Because this time I'm determined to get up in front of people and say what I have to say without freezing up and slinking away in defeat. Giving my speech without letting Alfie steal the show would also be nice.

  We're alone at the back of Daniel’s house in the same room where we watched the Wirth Mansion video. A gentle rain is falling outside. Usually October is warm and sunny, but not this year. It's been a strange and stormy season in more ways than one.

  Daniel sets up the camera and a few lights while I sit watching, getting more nervous with every second that passes. By the time I step in front of the camera my hands are shaking as I hold my script. Daniel looks up from the viewfinder. “Wow. You weren't exaggerating. That bad?”

  I take a wobbly breath and nod. “I feel like I'm going to pass out.”

  Daniel falls into the closest chair and studies me. “What's the problem? Exactly?”

  I clench my fists, my fingernails biting into my palms. “I told you! I hate talking in front of people. People watching me. Giving speeches. My mind goes completely blank. I can't help it. It just happens. Always has.”

  Daniel tilts back his head and laughs. “You did just fine with a freaky-as-hell supernatural experience, Samantha. I think you can handle talking in front of a few stiffs at the school board.”

  “But the media will be there,” I groan.

  He jumps to his feet and points at me. “You are the media, Samantha. Now let's see if we can get you out of your head where it's crazy land and into more positive territory, okay?”

  We start with some run-throughs with the camera off. We do so many and I'm so tired, that I hardly notice that he's switched the camera on. He invites Mitchell in, who sets up the Beanie Baby I gave him and some action figures on the couch. Daniel has me pretend they're the school board members I'm trying to convince to reinstate The Clarion. It's so ridiculous talking about the sanctity of free speech to a little kid and some toys that I forget to be nervous. Next up is Camille, who smiles and nods and claps, then suggests some tweaks to my script to punch it up.

  For our fourth session, Daniel asks me to come dressed in whatever I'm going to wear to the meeting, with my hair done and makeup. When I walk in, he raises an eyebrow. “You're going to wear that?”

  I look down at my white button-up blouse and black pants. “What's wrong with it?”

  “Geez, Samantha. You look like a waiter, that's what's wrong. Don't you
have a dress? And your makeup can use some help.”

  “Okay, now you sound like my mom.”

  “I'm sure my mom would tell you the same thing,” says Daniel. And to prove it, he calls in his mother.

  Camille stands there, making clucking sounds while she looks me up and down. “I think what Daniel is trying to say is that we're looking for a little extra sophistication and polish. You want to make a strong first impression. And wearing just the right outfit will make you feel more confident. Plus, you're such a beautiful girl, why not show off a bit?”

  Daniel squirms just as much as I do over this. Camille and I leave him to go over to my house and look through my closet. My mother is home and once Camille explains our mission, my mother scurries ahead and begins hauling out dresses she's bought, but I've never worn.

  I feel like my head is going to explode. Mary McKissick is dead, maybe at the hands of an evil spirit, and I'm about to get a makeover.

  Resisting my mom is one thing, but I'm powerless against Camille. After all, I did ask for her help and she does this sort of thing for a living. Together they decide on a dark blue wraparound dress that's at least comfortable. They don't like any of my shoes, so my mom loans me black heels. She runs some styling cream through my hair which manages to tame it, then Camille fixes my makeup.

  “That's better,” Daniel says when I finally reappear. The surprise in his voice is unmistakable.

  The day before the board meeting, Daniel sits me down and shows me a video he's put together. It starts with my first attempts at the speech. I looked terrified and I can hardly understand a word I'm saying because I'm rushing through it. Other clips follow. With each one, my performance improves. On my final take, wearing the blue dress and everything else, my shoulders are back, my chin is up, and I sound like I know what I'm talking about. And not only that, I sound convincing.

  “You can do this, Sam,” Daniel says as we get out of the car the next night. He's insisted on coming to the school board meeting and I didn't object. A part of me is glad that Gabe couldn't be there. His dad is in town. I also haven't told him about all the time I'd been spending with Daniel, although I'm not sure why. Both my parents are working late, so I don't have to worry about them watching me, either.

  The meeting is in downtown Hillside at the high school district office. It's a big room, and it's packed. Only one of the TV stations has showed up, but it's one camera too many and I begin breathing in and out through my nose.

  The entire Not-the-Clarion staff is already there, holding signs. Alfie is wearing his black-rimmed glasses and a gray suit. Suddenly I'm glad I'm wearing the blue dress. It looks nice, and it's not too tight. Alfie does a double take, looks down at my heels, then grins. He's about to say something when a woman in a red blazer and gray hair rushes up. It's Jordie Masters, the editor of the Peninsula Journal.

  “You guys have nothing to worry about,” she says, pumping our hands. “This is a no-brainer. And if it isn't, those people are idiots.” My kind of woman. Despite my nervousness, I manage to smile.

  Principal Buskin is sitting in the front row. His shoulders are high up around his neck and everything about the way he's holding himself screams that he's feeling tense. He doesn't turn around, not once, during the presentations about charter schools, salaries and all the other stuff that's on the agenda before the main attraction.

  When “Special Request to Reinstate Hillside Preparatory High Clarion” comes up, George Buskin is up first to explain his decision to take it offline. It's obvious he's fuming that anyone has dared question his choice. Mostly he talks about the special circumstances of Monica Goodman's death and calls our coverage “so sensational that it's only purpose was to spread fear.” Then he cites a recently passed school board policy that the school's publication is “not intended to be a public forum for students.”

  The room erupts in boos and jeers.

  Alfie and I look at each other, shocked. It's the first we've heard of it. And it's a game changer. It means The Clarion does not get the same First Amendment protections that other news publications do.

  Mrs. Sangler rushes past us and takes the microphone. “Hello, everyone. For those of you who don't know me, I'm an English teacher at Hillside High and a faculty adviser to The Clarion. I just want to say that I was not made aware of that new policy, or that it was being considered. Because if I had, I would certainly have made my views known. But I take full responsibility for not being as engaged as I should have been, and for that I apologize to the hard-working students who've given their time and effort to inform the student community during these trying times.

  “It says something powerful that these students didn't let us adults get in their way. When the official site was shut down, they felt such a responsibility to their peers that they started their own news site, on their own time and at their own expense. They kept information flowing, filling a very real need. They provided truthful reporting to a shocked and frightened student population, even when that truth was inconvenient for some of us in the administration. The commitment and determination of these student journalists should be an example for every one of us in this room.”

  The crowd whistles and applauds. Mrs. Sangler squeezes my shoulder as she passes.

  Jordie Marsh takes her turn and makes a short but strong statement in support of The Clarion. Then Alfie strides up to the mic. He's his usual, confident self, but as soon as he starts talking about The Clarion's shut-down keeping us from covering Mary McKissick's death as it should be covered, he stops. He looks around, bewildered, as if wondering if something out there caused the interruption. But I can guess what's happening. The memory of finding Mary has filled his head and now, that's all he can think of. I can see it in his eyes.

  Grabbing my script, I hurry to the podium, wishing I'd worn my cowboy boots and not heels.

  When I get there, Alfie gives me a grateful look and stammers through a few final words of conclusion.

  When I glance up, I see that Daniel has moved to the middle of the third row where I can't miss him. He's his usual serious self, but he gives me an encouraging thumbs up.

  I've practiced my script so many times in front of Daniel, seeing him there makes it seem like just another rehearsal. When I glance over at the serious faces of the five school board members, I imagine they're Mitchell's favorite toys. But it's when I look at the worried faces of Alfie, Raj, Destiny, Chloe, and the other Clarion journalists, I feel the full responsibility of what I'm about to do.

  I can't goof it up. Not again. I owe to them. And to every other student journalist with a principal who cares more about their reputation than the truth.

  So I begin. “Hard-hitting journalism is under attack for a variety of reasons around the country. It's no different for student journalists at my high school, where we've faced ongoing censorship and sometimes, demands to publish articles that are nothing but puff pieces. In such a stifling atmosphere, we have lost students interested in contributing their time and ideas to accurate reporting about our school. We desperately need an informed student body, and if we are to have one it is essential that we have an independent school publication that is free to print the truth.”

  I need to pause because it's impossible to be heard over the cheers and foot stomping. Sweat has gathered at the back of my neck, but I'm so relieved I've made it this far I hardly notice it. When things calm down, I continue.

  When I'm done, I walk weak-kneed back to my seat. I hear applause but it sounds like it's coming from someplace far away. Alfie rests his head on my shoulder and this small gesture makes me want to cry.

  I sit through the rest of the public comments in a daze. When the school board takes its vote, the reinstatement passes four to one.

  The Clarion is back. On our terms.

  Chapter 46

  San Francisco, May 21, 1868

  Dear Edward,

  I have received your letter and I must acknowledge that I am most grievously disappointed that you hav
e decided to continue your travels rather than come directly home. Yet, it is not without complete surprise that I read your letter. Our mother did drive you away, after all, as our father has rightly reminded me.

  Prepare yourself, brother, for I have more terrible news to impart.

  Following the tragic death of my dear Marguerite at the hands of our mother, I could hardly rouse myself from the grips of an oppressive melancholy for several days.

  What our mother did during the time I was confined to my rooms, I cannot say. But when I finally emerged, I was told by a distressed Mrs. Arundel that our mother had taken to wandering the deep woods in the back of the house, at all hours of the day and night. I had no wish to see the woman, so I did not seek her out.

  Our father insists that we tell no one the truth of Marguerite's death because of the scandal it would bring to our family and business. But already, whispers of our mother's dark deed are making the rounds in the neighborhoods of Hillside. Father has distributed payments to the servants to purchase their silence.

  Mrs. Arundel, always prone to being indisposed, is now so often ill and brooding that I thought it prudent to allow her time to recover from whatever ails her.

  Mrs. Lynch, the sensible Scottish lady, is proving herself well equipped to handle the challenges of this great house. Her new role has given her the confidence to speak her mind, so one evening while I drank perhaps more wine than is wise, she entered the library in hopes of a private conversation.

  “There is talk that Mrs. Wirth is a witch,” she began. When I did not reply, she continued. “Such tales are common in my home country and often, they are simply that. Tales. But if you permit me saying so, sir, these are strange days that we should not ignore.”