by Pat Cummings
“That’ll do, Mr. Pagano,” Mrs. Weaver said, coming to her feet so suddenly that Lou jumped. “Your team went over the time limit and we must be fair.”
Trace glanced at the clock again and silently thanked Lou.
With only seven minutes left on the clock, Trace relaxed. As Mrs. Weaver reminded the class that the reports would continue on Monday, he pulled out his phone, sliding it under his desk to check his messages. He kept it on mute in class, but he could see the beginning of a text message from Auntie Lea before he even punched in his unlock code: Read this toot sweet: BEFORE you leave school.
Auntie Lea never texted him. Trace closed his eyes. What now?
17
Trace made a point of arriving at the media center before the others. He’d be there. He’d listen. He’d try to talk to Ty. He knew that this impromptu after-school meeting had been called just to give him an update on how their presentation would go on Monday. If things had been normal, Trace would have let Ty know that Presley had already filled him in. If things had been normal, he and Ty would be headed for the subway now, cracking jokes about Lou’s presentation and dodging all the little sugar-crazed gnomes and skeletons heading home from their school parties. If things had been normal, he would have been excited about Auntie Lea’s message.
“Hey, Trace, how’d your report go?” Ms. Levy asked. Not surprisingly for a Friday afternoon, the media center was empty. The librarian stopped shelving her overloaded cart of books and was smiling at Trace as though she was happy to have company.
“Oh, hey, Ms. Levy. We only made it as far as the fifties today,” he said, grinning. “I’m safe till Monday.”
“Hah,” she snorted. “‘Safe’ is overrated, my man.” Ms. Levy turned back to the shelves and continued filing books. “Did you ever find out anything about that child who was killed in the draft riot fire?” she asked, throwing the question over her shoulder like a curveball. Like a missile. Trace swallowed. This had to stop. How was it that just a simple question could make his skin go all cold and damp? Why was that lump forming in his throat? His knees felt all rickety suddenly. When would he stop seeing that little boy’s wet red eyes? He let out a raspy cough, trying to shake off the clammy, suffocating, thick air he felt gathering around him as he reached for the back of the nearest chair. There was a sudden clattering at the library door, followed by a few exasperated grunts. “H . . . h . . . hello, Ms. Levy,” Ty called out as the door opened a crack, closed on him, and then opened again. A bright-red skateboard had hit the floor and was rolling slowly toward Trace.
Ty juggled his book bag, gym bag, and a juice box with one arm and cradled an overstuffed notebook in the other as he maneuvered the door with his elbow. “Uh, no, Ms. Levy,” Trace managed to answer the librarian. “No new news.” He went to hold the door for Ty. “Thanks,” Ty said, dumping everything he had onto the nearest table. Trace noticed tufts of gray hair poking out of the gym bag and could only hope that it was part of Ty’s Alexander Graham Bell costume. He could wear an orange wig, flip-flops, and a tuxedo and Trace doubted that anyone here knew enough or cared enough to question whether or not he had nailed the Alexander Graham Bell look. “Okay if we meet at this table?” Ty asked.
Trace just nodded, surprised that he was even being spoken to. “So, since you were, like, sick Wednesday or whatever,” Ty said dismissively, “we just need to check and make sure you actually are ready. We all know what we’re doing,” he added pointedly.
Trace breathed in slowly, anchoring himself on the back of a chair and trying to swallow the lump in his throat. The clamminess was fading. Across the table, Ty frowned up at him, arms crossed, trying to look hard and in charge. Ms. Levy had rolled her cart to the far side of the media room and was gathering up piles of books that had been scattered across tables there.
“Look, Ty,” Trace began, “I wanted to explain to you about what happened at the . . . at the library.” He didn’t wait for Ty to shut him down. “I was there, you know. In fact, I got there early. But I ran into a problem and these library guards, like, arrested me practically.” Ty punched a straw into his juice box and chewed on it, his eyes losing some of their steel. He was listening.
“They took my phone so I couldn’t even call you,” Trace continued. Ty’s head nodded slowly as Trace described being interrogated by the guards and about Auntie Lea being called.
“They called your aunt?” Ty looked confused. “That’s harsh, man. But why? Why’d they grab you? I mean, what did you do to get on their radar in the first place?”
Trace chewed on his lip. With world-class stupidity, he had led himself right back to that kid. Before he could answer, though, the media center door burst open and Abe Lincoln clattered in, lugging nearly as many bundles as Ty had. Behind her came a silent, scowling, and empty-handed Kali.
“Let’s do this,” Kali said, dropping into a seat next to Ty and looking at no one. “I have places to be.”
Presley dropped her book bag on the floor, hung a shopping bag on the back of a chair, and gently propped what looked like a pyramid made out of pipe cleaners and newspaper on the table. “Kirlian photography experiment,” she announced, beaming with pride. No one asked.
“All right, just so we’re all on the same page,” Ty said authoritatively. Without pausing, he went over the order in which they would speak on Monday, asking each of them to tick off the topics they would cover. “Have you timed your presentation?” he asked, turning to Trace. Kali drummed her multicolored fingernails on the tabletop loudly.
Trace nodded, but Ty had moved on. “We don’t need to rehearse since those of us who were here did that on Wednesday, but make sure you can do yours in three minutes, okay?”
Trace leaned back in the chair he had taken across from Ty, his hand resting on the rattle in his pocket. “I’m good,” was all he said. He was very good. If he showed the toy to them, they would be surprised, probably impressed, even if it would kill them to admit it. This was a genuine Civil War artifact. But no way would he give Kali a chance to dig up something over the weekend that might top it.
“Okay, then.” Ty looked around the table at everyone and nodded. “We’re ready. Anything else?” Ty had clearly taken charge of the team. Kali pushed her chair back with a screech, flipped her braids away from her shoulder, and stood.
“Oh yeah,” Trace said. If not friendly, Ty seemed less hostile now, and Auntie Lea would surely question Trace when he got home—so why not? “My aunt asked me to invite you guys to a, um, Halloween party tomorrow night.” That had sounded pretty corny, but Trace had decided that he couldn’t care less if they came or not. “She said you can bring someone if you want and—”
“Gee, whiz! Will there be candy, and maybe we can paint our faces? Ooooooh, golly, that sounds like super fun!” Kali gushed, batting her eyelashes. “When I was six, maybe,” she added. Pushing in her chair, Kali zipped up her jacket and gave Trace an overly sweet smile. “Monday, guys,” she said flatly, heading for the door.
“—and she says that group the Vacationers is coming,” Trace finished, looking from Ty to Presley. “Either of you guys wanna come?”
Presley’s face blossomed into a smile so broad that it threatened to dislodge her eyebrows, which had taken a beating during the day. “Definitely. Assuredly. Indubitably. Affirmative!” she chirped.
“Wait a minute,” Kali said, whipping around. “THE Vacationers? What are you talking about? The Vacationer Vacationers, as in ‘Rocket’ and ‘Gotta Drop It’ Vacationers? No way!” She was back in a flash, both hands flat on the table, leaning toward Trace and studying him with narrowed eyes.
Well, well, well. Isn’t this sweet? Trace thought. “So, whaddya think, Ty?” he asked, ignoring Kali. “Auntie Lea said to invite you and Presley and anyone else I liked.” He knew that last bit was mean, but Kali deserved it. She had pulled out a chair and was sitting down now, staring at him.
“How would someone like you even know those guys?” she asked suspiciou
sly. “They’re like . . .” She shook her head. “Like major. I couldn’t even get tickets to their concert next month; they were totally sold out.”
“Excuse me, guys,” Ms. Levy interrupted, leaning over Trace’s shoulder. “I’m closing up in five minutes, okay? Anyway, shouldn’t you all be in a hurry to get outta here on a Friday? For cryin’ out loud, quit working!”
“Sure thing, Ms. Levy,” Trace said too merrily. Kali’s someone like you had stung, and having something she really wanted, something he could dangle in front of her nose, felt pretty good. He wondered how long he could make her squirm. Ignoring her completely, he turned his full attention on Ty and Presley. “You guys know where I live, so maybe like seven p.m.? And Auntie Lea said she’ll make sure you get home safely.”
“A Halloween dance party?” Presley’s eyes were huge and Ty looked like he was trying hard not to grin. “Let me get this straight: The Vacationers are coming to your place for Halloween?” Kali said. “For real?”
Trace turned to look at her. Even with suspicion and disbelief written all over it, her face was breathtaking when he looked at her straight on. After everything she had done to make him feel small, to make it clear that he wasn’t worth a moment of her time, he was surprised to see that she looked worried too. Worried that he might not include her in the invitation.
“Yes,” he said finally. “The real Vacationers. Tomorrow. My house. What? Did you want to come?”
Trace was surprised, and then again, he wasn’t, to see a witch chained to the iron fence in front of 810 Vanderbilt Avenue. Up close, he could see streaks in the lime-green paint on the mannequin’s face and he recognized the moth-eaten shawl around her neck as one from a bag that lived by the front door, eternally destined for the Salvation Army. Auntie Lea’s blue plastic-wrapped bike chain was around the witch’s waist. She might be tacky, she was certainly hideous, but this was Brooklyn, and someone would haul her off if she weren’t locked down.
He took the stairs two at a time. Inside, the hallway was bathed in a deep-orange glow. Auntie Lea had been busy. Strains of “Thriller” streamed from the kitchen as Michael Jackson’s voice crooned, “Something evil’s lurking in the dark. Under the moonlight . . .” Something smelled very pumpkin-y. Trace smiled. He quietly hung his coat in the hall and waited patiently until Jackson reached the line “You hear the door slam . . .” And he slammed the door shut. That was a good one. But there was no reaction.
The kitchen was empty. A timer was ticking away on the stove and Trace opened the oven door to a fragrant blast of cinnamon rising off a still doughy pumpkin pie. Dropping his book bag on the table, he grabbed a banana and took in the transformation that the kitchen had undergone since he had left for school that morning.
Strings of pumpkin lights outlined the two tall windows that overlooked the backyard. A wooden bowl sat in the center of the dark-green table, loaded with mini gourds resting on autumn leaves. Trace flicked a brick-red maple leaf lightly to see if it was real. It wasn’t. Stacked up next to the bowl were a column of paper cups, a pack of paper plates covered with pictures of candy corn, and enough orange and black napkins to last for ten Halloweens.
Trace tossed the banana skin in the trash and checked the timer. The pie had nine minutes to go. If he didn’t see Auntie Lea upstairs, he would come back down and pull it out after he dumped his book bag in his room. Turning to go, he noticed the board. As big as it was, he could not imagine how he had missed it. Vesper and his aunt had been busy: names and dates, notes, and even newspaper clippings had sprouted up across the diagram, which looked more like a hanging shoe rack than a family tree. Here and there, photographs had been added. Trace drew closer to study the chart. At the very top was a sepia-toned picture of a woman with her hair pulled into two thick braids. Her dress looked like it had been crisp and white, and a black shawl with tassels was draped around her shoulders. Even in the faded photo, the contrast between the high, lacy collar and her dark, serious face was striking. The long fingers of her strong hands clutched the edges of the shawl. Melissa (Sissy) May Ransom, Trace read. Born 1856, died 1955. Auntie Lea must have taken the picture from one of the crumbly photo albums in Aunt Frenchy’s basket.
Trace suddenly became aware of the timer, ticking away. No doubt Auntie Lea would be eager to fill him in on their whole family history, but he could meet all these far-flung relatives later, like tomorrow or . . . Trace froze. There they were. Of course they would be there. Savannah Raymond Cumberbatch. Robsen Carter. His parents, smiling, looked down at him from the board.
Everything he had expected, everything he had feared, the reason the box of photos in his closet had gone untouched, the guilt and the bottomless ocean of pain that he knew was waiting for him if he dared to look at their pictures—none of that happened. There was only sunlight: translucent, fleeting, late October sunlight that slanted through the windows, its honey-colored liquid filling his eyes. For an instant Trace saw everything, felt everything, understood everything. His hand was in his dad’s hand, he was five, walking to school. A warmth spread over him and he was ten, letting his mom tuck a chenille scarf around his neck. He was seven at the beach, seagulls crying overhead, then twelve, last year, wriggling away from their embarrassing hugs to board a bus for the class trip to DC.
Far away, a buzzer buzzed. He heard his aunt; she was there in the kitchen now, and she was talking to him, he knew. Her voice, the music, the oven door and pans banging, all sound was muffled. Trace realized his eyes had filled with warm, honey-colored water. And he felt himself surrounded, immersed in the light and . . . held. They would always be there with him, wherever he was. Always. And wherever they were, he knew he would always be with them. Trace closed his eyes.
18
The good news was: he had had the best dream ever. It had been a flying dream, like the ones he used to have. The where and the why he had taken to the air melted away the minute Trace opened his eyes, but that wistful certainty that he had always known how to fly remained. Plus, he had slept straight through the night. That was definitely good news.
The bad news was: he had a date with a ghost today.
All hope that Dallas Houston had forgotten about it evaporated as Auntie Lea had gushed, over a slapdash dinner of veggie burgers and kale chips last night, that she was “deeeeelighted” that Dallas was giving him a private tour of the library’s woodworking shop. She had looked so pleased, so clearly hopeful that the two of them would have a bonding moment, that Trace had stifled his urge to shout, “What kind of lunatic, grown-up nutcase goes poking into shadows looking for ghosts?” It was Halloween, for crying out loud.
But at the time, Auntie Lea had been balancing precariously on a stepladder, hanging a handful of hideously hairy plush bats from the sprinkler pipes overhead, so a sudden outburst was not a good idea. He would just let her believe the man. Let her trust a deranged meat eater who she was happy to let drag her only nephew into the dark and haunted, moldy book graveyard.
Trace pulled on an extra sweater and dug through the pile of clean clothes that Auntie Lea had stacked on his dresser until he found a pair of thick socks. It would be chilly today, and he imagined the library stacks would be downright icy. Just thinking about the endless shelves, how they had disappeared into shadows, made him shiver. He climbed the ladder to make up his bed, tugged the covers across it, and fought off a strong urge to crawl back underneath them. Tonight, he thought, by tonight it would all be over, he would be back here, feet on the ceiling, chilling out in his bed. It was all just a question of time, exactly like Dr. Proctor had said.
“Good morning, starshine! The earth says hello,” Auntie Lea sang as he entered the kitchen. Trace recognized the soundtrack of Hair, an old hippie musical she had seen on Broadway, as it surged from the kitchen speakers. “Morning,” he mumbled, faking a smile. It occurred to Trace that he had never once seen his aunt cook without backup singers handy.
Cupcake tins half filled with batter, charred cookie sheets, and
a dusty collection of candleholders covered the table. Trace grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl on the counter and watched as his aunt spooned granola over the cupcake batter. “My own invention,” she said, giving him a wink. “When they’re done, I’ll turn ’em upside down and voilà! Mini gravestones. The granola’ll be, like, the dirt and gravel underneath them. Cool, huh?” She beamed proudly.
“Extremely cool,” Trace agreed, dropping two pieces of bread into the toaster. Next to it were several boxes of tall, tapered, black-and-orange-striped candles. Auntie Lea entertained at the pro level. “I’ll help you out when I get home, promise,” he told her. Auntie Lea just nodded along with the music.
“Semmi gond, my man, semmi gond,” she said in a husky voice.
Trace waited for it.
“Zat eeees, how you are zaying? ‘No prrrroblem’”—she winked—“eeeen Hungarian.” Auntie Lea shrugged her shoulders. “Hey. That’s as close as I could find to Transylvanian. I gotta set the mood for tonight.” Finished prepping the cupcakes, she swept a handful of candleholders gently into the sink and began rinsing them in warm water, scraping off any traces of old wax. Trace buttered his toast. Auntie Lea had a lot of candles. Hopefully, those fire sprinklers were in good working order.
Dr. Proctor’s office might not have been a popular stop on the Clinton Hill trick-or-treat map, but she did have a bowl of candy by the door just the same. Trace hung up his jacket, pulling off his gloves and shoving them into a pocket. Sifting through the doctor’s bowl, he polished off three caramels and was tearing into a bag of candy corn when she called his name.
“Great costume, Theo,” the doctor said as Trace stretched out on the leather couch. “I almost didn’t recognize you.”
It took Trace a moment to realize that the doctor was joking.
“Yeah, this is my ‘pass for a normal kid’ disguise.” He laughed. But as quickly as he said it, he realized that it was not really funny. “I mean—”
