The Summer of Bad Ideas

by Kiera Stewart

  But what if ghosts are real? And what if Petunia is one of them? If she was, I tell myself, she probably wouldn’t be the haunting type. She’d probably be whooping it up with Robin Williams, or dancing with Michael Jackson and Prince. Maybe even flying around with Amelia Earhart. The thought makes me feel a little better.

  “Come on,” Rae says. She sweeps her arms out and says, in a commanding voice, “‘Let us step out into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure!’”

  I smile. This is one quote I know. “Dumbledore.”

  She grabs my hand, and we start to run through the grass. And somehow, just being connected to her makes me feel a little more fearless too. Maybe it’s just that if we do come across something truly dangerous, I have a feeling she’ll know what to do, the same way she knows coffee and cinematic masterpieces and witty banter. Fear starts to fade a little—just a little—into the background, second to the exhilaration of running through the tall grass, late at night, attached to my cousin.

  One flickering streetlight illuminates the cracked asphalt lot surrounding the big abandoned building, which looks particularly frightening at night. We may be at the Hurricane, but there’s no hint of “dancing up a storm” here. If anything, it looks like a storm has passed through—an actual natural disaster. The air smells dank and sour, like the smell of an old skunk.

  There’s a NO TRESPASSING sign hanging sideways off the door of the building, which is locked tightly with a chain. Neither the sign nor the security measure seems necessary—no one in their right mind would want to get into this building. Well, no one except Rae, who is trying her hardest to pry open a window.

  As much as I try to channel the New Edie, this is feeling less like a fear-conquering adventure and more like a criminal act. “Um, Rae, what if there’s an alarm system?”

  “There’s no alarm system,” she says, so certain.

  A pair of headlights beams in our direction, from down the road. “Oh, no! Run!” I say, and duck around the corner of the building.

  “Edie!” she whisper-scolds.

  The car passes by. “Next time, don’t panic, Edie. If you stay still, no one’s going to see us. Just relax.”

  I don’t point out that it’s impossible to relax when you’re crouched beside a decaying building in the middle of the night, and your heart is beating so hard and fast that you can feel it in your toenails. In fact, it’s amazing that the whole town can’t hear it.

  Rae walks over to another window and surveys it with her flashlight. The glass is slightly crooked, so there’s a small gap under one edge. “Awesome,” she says. But it looks a little high to reach easily. “Give me a boost.”

  “Rae? I’m not sure this is such a good idea anymore.”

  “We made it this far. I’m not about to just go home now.”

  I guess I don’t look too convinced, because she adds, “Come on, Edie. I thought you had a sense of adventure!”

  Which I do. I do! I DO! And I’m determined to prove it!

  I crouch down on a knee in the sandy dirt and lace my fingers together to make a place for her foot. Rae steps into it and I boost her up. I hear her grunting and feel her tugging away as she tries to pry the window open. Just before my palms are ready to give way, she says, “Push me higher!”

  I try to summon a surge of energy, but my hands collapse in pain, and she lands back on the sandy ground with me.

  “Sorry,” I say, shaking my hands out. I look up at the window, which she’s managed to open just a few more inches. “But I’m not sure we’re going to be able to squeeze through there.”

  “You’re not chickening out, are you?”

  “No!” I stand up, dusting myself off, determined not to let this item from Petunia’s list slip away. I need a checkmark! “I’m saying maybe we need to find another way.”

  Despite the stubborn urge to run in the opposite direction, I start toward the back of the building with Rae. A rear door there is chained shut, like the front entrance, but looser. Rae pulls at it. “There’s some slack in this chain,” she says. “I bet we can get in if we suck in our breath.”

  I make myself smile. “After you.”

  She draws in a deep breath and starts to wiggle sideways into the building. “Holy crap, it’s dark in there,” she says, halfway in. But it doesn’t stop her. She continues to shimmy through. Once she’s in, she says, “Hurry up! It’s kind of creepy in here without you.”

  Without you. Her words are like fuel. I pull in my stomach and squeeze and scrape though the small opening. I meet her just inside the door, under the red glow of the exit light, and we grab hands and both laugh nervously. Even though this place feels dead—dark, still, and eerily quiet—I feel incredibly alive. I’m aware of every nerve in my body, every beat of my heart, every hair on the back of my neck.

  Despite our flashlights, it’s too dark to see much inside the building. Then I get an idea. “If the exit light works, there must still be electricity in the building.” I beam my flashlight across the walls and spot a switch panel, just behind us. I start flipping switches until the lights come on, exposing a vast empty space. The floors are dark and dusty. Wood beams cross just below the peaked ceiling. In the center of the room, a large crystal chandelier lights up with a soft glow.

  Rae looks pleased. She hands me her phone. “Now for a photo opp.”

  She stands under the chandelier, smiles, and poses, hand on a hip.

  “Do the hip-bump thing,” I say. “Like you do with that chicken in the commercial.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” she says. But she makes a goofy face and sweeps her arms to the left and her hips to the right. I snap a photo and hand the phone back to her.

  She looks at it and laughs. “Oh, my god. I look like such an idiot. Redo! We definitely need a beat.” She finds some music on her phone, a vaguely familiar song with a catchy, thumping bass line. “Okay, Edie, here’s how dancing in the hurricane is done.”

  She closes her eyes and starts to move to the electronic pulse, first bobbing her head from side to side. She bites her bottom lip under her front teeth and then starts sidestepping with wide strides, her hips and arms drawing wobbly circles. It doesn’t exactly look coordinated.

  I really don’t think she’d want me to snap a picture of that.

  Her eyes flip open, and she notices I’m standing still. Watching her.

  “Come on, Edie. Dance! Dance!”

  “Oh, but your photo—”

  “Don’t worry about that now. Just dance!”

  “I’m the world’s worst dancer,” I tell her.

  She starts doing some sort of wide-stance crouching move. And then she’s jumping, punching the air.

  “You can’t be,” Rae says.

  And she’s right. Because with her moves, my cousin, my perfect cousin, could easily be mistaken for an all-out dork. And she doesn’t seem to care. Not a single bit.

  She laughs and dances—well, flails—a little closer to me. “Edie! Dance!” She is moving like some sort of rusted machine. “See what I mean? It’s me. I’m the world’s worst dancer.”

  I promise to start dancing the minute I can. But it’s hard to move when I’m laughing this hard—I’m gasping for air! She is twirling, strutting, and not even caring under the glow of the grand chandelier, to the thump of the music. She is thrashing, spinning, basking in the swirl of red party lights.

  Hold on. A swirl of red party lights?

  My gaze jerks toward the back door, and a blast of cold panic streaks through my body. My laugh gets gargled in my throat. The chain hangs, the door is completely ajar. A bright light is aimed right at us. Rae suddenly stops dancing. We frantically reach for each other and squeeze ourselves together tight.

  Just outside the door, a dark figure stands watching.

  Chapter 10

  Storm Warning

  Just outside the back door of the Hurricane, the figure steps closer.

  I hear a shrill sound before I recognize it as my
own scream. I am yanked away from the door, pulled toward the inched-open window, by Rae’s strong grip.

  “Don’t be scared,” a man’s drawly voice says.

  Which is, of course, what any serial killer might say to his prey. It just makes us scramble faster. The two of us frantically try to pry open the window, our one hope for escape.

  “Friends—”

  I hear a burst of static, followed by a woman’s voice breaking through. “E-twenty-two, copy detail.”

  “E-twenty-two, present. Hello, Nora.”

  This dark figure is a policeman, not a killer! I feel a flood of relief. But it doesn’t have the same effect on Rae.

  “A cop! We gotta get out of here! Now!” Rae almost shouts. But the window’s still not budging.

  “E-twenty-two, we have a three-nine-three off the three-eleven.”

  His radio crackles again, and the voice says, “You said a three-nine-three?”

  “Sure did. Off the three-eleven.”

  “Well, I’m onsite now. More of a one-eleven here.” He chuckles.

  “Step back, Edie. I’m going to break it!”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Don’t want to have to give you a vandalism charge on top of breaking and entering,” the policeman says. “Now, I need you both to turn around and face me.”

  Rae and I look at each other. She looks as defeated as I feel. We turn around slowly, joining hands again.

  “Officer George Elwayne, officer of the peace,” he says. Now that I can see him better, I see he’s a short, gray-haired older man with a ponytail. Still, I’m terrified—now about how much trouble we’re in. “So, friends, who, may I ask, are you?”

  We both hesitate to answer.

  The staticky voice breaks back in. “You need any backup?”

  He looks at us. “Girls? You about to tell me who you are, or do I need to ask for backup?”

  “Rae Posey,” she answers in a sullen tone.

  “Edith Posey-Preston,” I answer.

  “Of the Petunia Poseys?” he asks.

  We nod.

  “That might explain it.”

  “Elwayne?” the static voice says.

  “No backup—I got it,” he says into his button. To us, he says, “Just what are you girls doing in here?”

  “We were just . . . looking around,” Rae says.

  “Unless you’re looking for trouble, I’d say you’re in the wrong place.” He sighs and shakes his head. “Now, into the patrol car.”

  “The police car? Why?” Rae asks.

  His head wobbles a little. “Because, well . . . you girls know what condemned means?”

  Oh my god! Condemned! Sentenced to punishment! What have we done? Petunia’s list really is a list of bad ideas! My eyes start to sting. “What exactly are we—” I swallow. I try to be brave and face it. “What exactly are we . . . condemned to?”

  “Now, Edith, is it?”

  “Edie,” I say, although I don’t feel so Edie-like at the moment.

  “Well, Edie, I’m taking you girls home to your parents. It’s the building that’s condemned. That means it’s unsafe. You could get hurt in here.”

  Oh. That kind of condemned. Still this is the last thing my mom needs to hear!

  “Can you please not tell our parents? Please?” I beg.

  He sighs. “Look, friends. Let’s all take a deep breath together, okay? Three counts in, four counts out.”

  We look at him.

  “Come on, all together!” he commands, circling his hand in front of him. It feels strange to do it, but we try to breathe along with him. It takes great effort.

  After a not-so-relaxing exhale, I say, “We were really just exploring. We didn’t mean to break the law! We’re really sorry, and—”

  “It won’t happen again,” Rae says.

  “Glad to hear,” he says, though it doesn’t seem to make a difference. “Now . . .” He sweeps his arms in the direction of the patrol car. “Into the car, both of you.”

  We trudge outside, and Rae and I slide into the backseat of Officer Elwayne’s patrol car. I feel like I’m on the brink of tears.

  “Well, Houston, we have a problem,” Rae says quietly.

  For a second, I’m a little lost. Houston?

  “Apollo 13, Edie. The movie?” She shakes her head. “I just mean this sucks.”

  “I know,” I say, thinking about what my mom will do.

  Rae continues. “I mean, we never got any great shots in there. And just look at this one—I look like such a dweeb!” She shows me her phone screen—the photo I took of her inside the Hurricane.

  That’s her biggest concern?

  “Aren’t you worried about what our parents are going to do?” I ask.

  “I don’t care about missing dessert for a week.”

  “Missing dessert for a week? That’s all your dad will do?”

  “Okay, maybe two weeks. Why?”

  I look at her. “Because I’m going to be grounded for the rest of the summer.”

  She smirks.

  “I’m not joking.”

  Officer Elwayne gets into the driver’s seat and turns off the swirling lights. “So,” he says. “Awful sorry about your grandmother.”

  “Thanks,” we both say.

  “Now, Rae and Edie, right? Which one of you’s Hannah’s girl?”

  “I am,” I say.

  He glances at me in the rearview mirror. “Well, well,” he says with a soft laugh. “My old friend Hannah.”

  “You know her?” I ask.

  “Yep. Used to.”

  We pull up in front of the house. It looks so quiet, so convincingly peaceful, it almost feels believable that Officer Elwayne would just give us a little wink and tell us that, on second thought, he’d rather not wake anyone up and alarm them.

  But no such luck.

  We’re in the parlor—Rae and me, and our parents. Mercifully, when Officer Elwayne delivered us to them, he kindly left off the whole breaking-and-entering part of this evening, but our parents are all still reeling over the fact that we were found wandering outside in the middle of the night. They are also blatantly disregarding Officer Elwayne’s advice to “center” themselves and calm down with deep breaths (three counts in, four counts out).

  Rae and I are huddled on the couch as my mom paces in front of us. Her robe is cinched tight; her face has a matching expression.

  “What on earth has come over you, Edith?”

  I shrug.

  My dad scratches his head. “Well, there must be some reason you were sneaking out at night.”

  “Yes, Edith. It just doesn’t seem like you. Do you care to offer any explanation?”

  Even though I feel a quick stab of guilt, I don’t really want to tell her about the list. She’d rule it out for us, on the basis that it violates several rules of sensibility, practicality, and safety. Which it does, gloriously so.

  Uncle A.J. looks as serious as I’ve ever seen him. “Was this your idea, Rae?”

  “No!”

  “Well, I don’t know what’s going on, but I think there should be some real consequences,” my mom says, the creases in her forehead deepening.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Uncle A.J. says. “Rae, you’re not leaving this house tomorrow.”

  Rae makes a face at her dad.

  “Tomorrow?” My mom scoffs. “Well, Edith is grounded indefinitely. No more leaving the house without a parent, period.”

  “You know what, Rae?” Uncle A.J. says. “I hope you enjoyed your outing, because you’re grounded indefinitely too!”

  “Dad! That’s ridiculous!”

  He seems to hesitate, but my mom places her hand on his shoulder and sends us upstairs.

  We’re finally in our beds.

  “I’m sorry about my mom,” I say to Rae. “Sorry we’re grounded.”

  “I know,” she says.

  “She can be so annoying,” I say.

  “Edie, I’m sooo tired.”

 
“Oh. Yeah, me too.”

  “So, talk tomorrow, okay?”

  “All right.” I adjust my pillow. I try to close my eyes. Even though I am tired, they keep trying to pop open.

  “But Rae?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Thanks for doing that with me. Even though we got in trouble, I had fun.”

  “Yeah. And even though I didn’t get a good picture to post, it was pretty awesome,” she says.

  I start to smile. I might not have actually danced in the Hurricane, but . . . I laugh. “I can’t believe we snuck out.”

  “We totally did.”

  “And we really broke into an abandoned building?”

  “The dynamic duo can do anything!” Rae says, meaning me and her. Her and me. Us.

  “And we survived it all!” I beam.

  “Seriously!” Rae laughs. “Tonight was epic.”

  She yawns loudly, and I yawn too. I don’t remember being so exhausted—ever. But even though my body wants to shut down, my brain won’t cooperate. It’s filling up with thoughts, marinating in feelings. Guilt. Thrill. Pride. And mostly excitement. Because when Taylor calls me on visiting day, two weeks from now, I can tell her all about it. Take that, Sophi Angelo!

  And I realize that even though I’m practically grounded forever, I’m starting to feel a little free.

  Chapter 11

  Likes

  As added punishment to being grounded, our workload has increased tenfold over the last couple days. Today we’re sentenced to weeding the garden. My mother has given us gloves, sunscreen, water, some old beach towels to lay under our knees, and lots and lots of safety instructions. The air is hot and sticky, the sun is searing, and I have a feeling that time is stuck like an ant in a drop of glue.

  We’re moving in slow motion. Rae grabs a handful of something and pulls it out of the ground. “Is this a plant or a weed?” she asks, holding it up.

  “Plant. I think?” Although it’s too late for this one.

  I wipe the sweat off my forehead, and Rae groans and flops down. “Being grounded sucks.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “But it was worth it.”

  “Speaking of . . .” She pulls her phone out of her pocket. “Oh my god, Edie! In just two days I’m up to two hundred and forty-nine likes on that dorky photo at the Hurricane! I honestly can’t believe it!” She smiles big. “Yeah, I guess it was pretty worth it!”