Peeled

by Joan Bauer

  Maybe I should say deceased?

  Maybe instead of standing at this mirror, I should just call him again.

  This time I got him.

  “Sheriff, I want to write an article about what’s happening at the Ludlow house, and I don’t want to exaggerate anything.”

  “That would be refreshing.”

  I took a big breath. “I need to ask you about the dead guy.”

  “The death is being investigated. The coroner’s report won’t be out for a couple of weeks.” He said it like he’d been saying those lines all day long.

  “Was the dead man Donny Lupo of D&B Security?”

  “Good Lord, Hildy, where are you getting your information?”

  “I was at the courthouse on Friday.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Sheriff, all I want to do is get the facts straight.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “Then get them straight. There were no marks on the body and no apparent struggle. Quote my office as giving you the information.”

  I wrote that down. “Thank you! Was the dead guy Donny Lupo?”

  “The dead man has been identified as Donald Lupo, co-owner of D&B Security in Boston.”

  “Yes!” I shrieked, writing it all down. “I mean, thank you.” I hung up before he took it all back.

  In my room, typing. No fact escapes my grasp.

  The body of Donald Lupo, co-owner of D&B Security in Boston, was found dead in the grove of apple trees on the Ludlow property early Friday evening. “There were no marks on the body and no apparent struggle,” said the sheriff’s office, squashing rumors that the man had been viciously attacked. Earlier that morning, Houston Bule, a part-time security employee of D&B Security, was arrested on the Ludlow property, trying to break into the abandoned house…

  I cut in the rest of my article about the break-in. Read it, reread it, fixed the tense, ran a spell check.

  I jumped up, did a little dance.

  In mid-shimmy, I had a thought. Should that be squashing rumors or quashing rumors?

  I checked my dictionary.

  Quashing…

  I fixed my copy, sent the article to Darrell, felt a major rush of accomplishment.

  Getting the words right is right up there with dancing.

  Chapter 7

  A mob of students wound around Joseph P. Buzz, correctional officer (aka prison guard). He was holding forth on “the worst dregs of humanity behind bars, and you can thank God that’s where they are and they’re being watched.”

  “Have you ever been scared in your line of work?” I asked him.

  “Nah…” His chest enlarged. Tanisha took a photo of that.

  “Wow,” I said. “I’d sure be afraid in a job like that. How do you handle it?”

  He hesitated. “You learn to deal with it.”

  “How do you do that?”

  “Gun helps,” some kid said, and the others snickered.

  “No,” Buzz insisted. “That’s not it.” He pointed to his head. “It’s up here. I can’t spend time thinking about fear. I got a job to do.” For just a second his face softened. “I tell myself those guys are more scared than me. I tell myself that every day.”

  I wrote that down. “Thank you, Mr. Buzz.”

  I walked to the next table over. Elizabeth was interviewing a professional dancer. “I’ve always wanted to know what happens to a dancer’s feet. I mean, do you have foot problems?”

  The dancer groaned and took off her shoes—her feet were covered with Band-Aids. “That’s the part people don’t see,” she said. Tanisha swept in and took several photos up close and personal.

  T.R. was asking a plumbing contractor what was the thing he liked most about his work.

  He laughed. “It’s when I hear the suck in the drain and I know I got the blockage.”

  Darrell muttered happily, “Now, that’s an inside story!” He grabbed my arm and pointed to a man who had just sat down at the table in front of a hand-printed sign that read JOURNALIST. “Do you know who that is, Hildy?” We watched as Mr. Grasso walked over to the man and slapped him on the back.

  “That’s Baker Polton,” Darrell explained. “He used to be managing editor of The Albany Dispatch. He’s the cousin Mr. Grasso was talking about.”

  “The one who takes some getting used to?” Baker Polton looked like he’d slept in his clothes.

  Darrell pushed me forward. “Get something really good.”

  “I didn’t know he was coming.”

  “Nobody did.”

  I took a deep breath; walked over. Mr. Grasso said, “Baker Polton, meet Hildy Biddle. Hildy’s our top writer.”

  I smiled. “Thanks. Mr. Polton, I’d love to know about your career in journalism.”

  “In what respect?”

  “Well, I guess, how did you—”

  “You guess? Or do you have a real question?”

  Mr. Grasso grimaced.

  “I have several real questions, sir.”

  “Shoot.”

  My mind raced to find some. “What’s the toughest story you’ve ever worked on?”

  “Sarasota, Florida. Brutal double murder. I was one of the first on the crime scene. Blood everywhere. Couldn’t get it out of my mind. The killer got off.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  I bit my lip. “Why did the killer get off?”

  “Because he was rich, famous, and had a fancy-talking lawyer who derailed the jury.”

  I wrote that down. “How did you get into journalism, Mr. Polton?”

  He leaned forward. “Don’t you want to know who the guy was? Don’t you want any of the details?”

  “Well…”

  Mr. Grasso closed his eyes.

  Baker Polton pointed his finger at me. “Let me tell you something. Whether you’re on a school paper or a top city daily, you don’t shortchange an interview. You ask all the follow-up questions you can. You never know what might come out.”

  I nodded, feeling like a moron.

  “And keep good eye contact. That shows confidence. Nobody opens up to someone who gets easily thrown.” He leaned back. “‘So, Baker,’” he said. “‘Who was this murderer? What were the charges? Where was the trial? When did this happen? Why did it happen? How did you write it? How did it affect the way you see your trade? What are you doing sitting at this stupid table?’” He scratched his day-old beard.

  I’m not the idiot you think, mister!

  I asked him the questions, got the facts on the murderer.

  “Spelling,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Jon Graves. How did you spell it?”

  “J-O-H-N—”

  “Wrong. J-O-N.”

  I felt my face flame red. I knew better. “Why are you sitting at this table?” I asked him.

  Baker Polton rose slowly. “I’m standing up for truth.”

  I was in the high school library, trying to get over the complete humiliation of having Baker Polton take me down a few notches. There are three kinds of people in the world: the ones who want to help you, the ones who ignore you, and the ones who love to see you squirm. Polton ruled in the last category.

  I’d researched him online and discovered he was a semi-big shot in midsize dailies, meaning he’d had some important jobs at daily papers in cities like St. Louis, Albany, Stamford, Springfield, and Tampa.

  I wished I’d seemed more professional when I interviewed him.

  Deep humiliation always comes with a soundtrack—over and over I could hear him saying, No one opens up to someone who gets easily thrown.

  In my pocket was Baker Polton’s e-mail address. Mr. Grasso had given it to me. “Just so you know, Hildy,” he’d told me, “Baker’s staying at my house for a while until he gets…situated. You might want to contact him. He knows a lot.”

  Contacting Baker Polton seemed right up there with approaching a rabid dog.

  A chair moved next to me. The new guy, Zack, sat down.


  “I thought you handled that Polton guy well in there.”

  There was a witness to my shame! Couldn’t the floor just open up and—

  “You stayed with him,” Zack insisted. “You got some interesting stories out of him.”

  “He spooned them into my mouth,” I said.

  “No one will know that when they read it, Hildy.”

  That was a decent thought. Zack had quite a strong profile, actually.

  He smiled warmly.

  I did, too.

  Tanisha walked by and pointed to her black sweater. Black meant “What’s going on?”

  Oh, please. Absolutely nothing.

  Zack opened a book and Lev came over to our table. “There’s been a P.A. sighting at the Ludlow place,” Lev whispered.

  “P.A.?” I asked.

  “Possible apparition,” Lev explained. “Sallie Miner’s ghost, I heard.”

  “They should burn that place down,” said Ryan Gallagher from the table behind us.

  “Or blow it up,” another kid suggested.

  “That’s kind of extreme,” Zack said quietly.

  “Look, man,” Lev snapped, “we’ve got a problem here.”

  “I know,” Zack answered.

  “What do you know about it?” Lev demanded.

  Zack was quiet for a minute. “Well, reports like this tend to build on themselves. Someone sees something a little weird, and the first thing that comes to mind is eerie. Then the rumors start growing, and people get scared. Just like now.”

  “That house has been a problem for years!” Lev insisted. “We’ve got weird people hanging out there day and night.”

  “I heard.”

  Lev snarled, “Maybe you’ve also heard that people have died on that property.”

  “I’ve heard that, too. Unfortunately, people die lots of places.”

  Mr. Nordstrom, the librarian, rapped his shut-up-or-leave pencil.

  Lev stood there sputtering.

  Zack smiled and went back to reading his book.

  Quiet strength goes a long way with me.

  Midnight.

  I get courage at midnight. I think it’s because it’s the end of things and the beginning of things.

  Dear Mr. Polton,

  Hildy Biddle here. I’m sure you’re busy, but

  Don’t cower. I deleted that.

  Mr. Polton—

  I enjoyed meeting you at Career Day and

  Don’t lie. I hated every minute of it. DELETE.

  Hey, Baker—

  Your attitude is awesome and

  Big DELETE.

  Mr. Polton—

  I learned a lot from you at Career Day.

  Not bad.

  And because of that, I need to ask you a question. Would you consider helping us on our school paper? I’m not sure if you would even be interested or if you have the time. What I am sure about is this—I want to be the best journalist I can be and I could use your help.

  Thank you for considering this.

  Hildy Biddle

  I didn’t send it right away.

  I circled the computer, reread the e-mail again and again.

  I pressed SEND.

  Sleep wouldn’t come.

  The hall light cast a thin strip across my bedroom floor. My rug had geometric patterns, but at night in a dark room, it seemed like a crazy maze that I was trying to get through. I could hear MacIntosh sleeping by the bed.

  How do you get around that dark room, Hildy?

  That was a big question I had to figure out after Dad died. His death was so shocking, so sudden, it made me feel like anything bad could happen—the earth could explode, the ocean could evaporate, the stars could melt in the sky.

  Mom found a therapist for me to see. Her name was Gwen. I didn’t want to go at first because I don’t talk about my troubles with just anybody. I’d sit in Gwen’s soft navy blue swivel chair and face the wall. It was easier to talk to a wall in the beginning.

  “How are you feeling today, Hildy?”

  “Awful.”

  “Are you feeling scared today?”

  I was scared a lot that eighth-grade year.

  “Can you describe the fear, Hildy?”

  “No.”

  “Because sometimes when I’m scared,” Gwen said in her soothing voice, “I feel a little like I’m in a dark room with all the lights out. Have you ever felt like that?”

  I turned halfway toward her and nodded.

  “And what do you do?” she asked.

  “I guess I try to find the wall.”

  “That’s right.”

  “I try to find the things I know are there and get to the bed.”

  “You look for things that are familiar,” Gwen said. “And you know, that’s what you’ve got to do now.”

  It took a while to find the real touch points of my life again. But when I started looking, I realized they were everywhere—the orchard, my school, my friends, my family, my dog.

  I got out of bed, touched MacIntosh’s head. “Good dog.”

  I turned on the bed lamp and walked to my desk.

  My laptop beckoned.

  I checked my e-mail; spam, actually.

  Thin thighs in thirty minutes

  Delete.

  If I don’t get one thousand dollars by Thursday, I

  will die. Can you help me?

  Delete.

  Are you naughty?

  Nope. But you are. Delete.

  Your request

  I was about to zap it, then I saw the sender.

  Baker Polton! He’d responded already.

  I took a deep breath. This could be my big break. I clicked on the message excitedly, up it popped:

  Can’t do it. I’m swamped.

  B. Polton

  I sat there looking at the screen.

  Chapter 8

  On Friday morning The Core was published. My Ludlow house story was front and center, too. No typos, either, but there was some unfortunate wording in a classified ad:

  DOG FOR SALE—Eats anything and is particularly fond of children.

  I got ready for the onslaught of kids congratulating me on getting the facts right in my article.

  That didn’t exactly happen.

  I walked through the hallways holding the paper as a visual aid, hoping someone would comment on it.

  That didn’t happen, either.

  In biology lab, The Core was used to wrap up dissected frog carcasses.

  Jerry Sizer used his Core to wipe mud off his boots.

  It’s best for journalists not to focus on the alternative uses for their work.

  Didn’t anyone care about the truth?

  I walked to my locker, saw Zack rush by. “Great article!” he shouted on his way to class.

  Finally! Too bad he couldn’t stop and go into more detail.

  I headed to the Student Center, where Joleene Jowrey was arguing with her twin sister, Jackie, about whether vampire marks were on the dead body. I walked up to them, doing my part as a truth teller.

  “The sheriff told me there were no scratches on the body, no vampire marks, nada. Come on!”

  “You come on, Hildy! You think the sheriff is going to tell the truth about that?” And they went back to arguing about whether the ghost was still on the property or roaming the streets looking for his next victim.

  I walked past the DO NOT ENTER sign plastered across the auditorium door. I wondered when that collapsed auditorium roof would be fixed. It was one of many places in town that needed repair. I’d called the mayor’s office and the Board of Ed about it, but hadn’t gotten anywhere.

  “Stay with a story,” Dad always told me. “Stay with it until it makes sense.”

  “It’s a fine day in Banesville, people,” Mayor Frank T. Fudd boomed at the farmers market. “My, haven’t we been given a sweet town?”

  “Getting kinda sour around the edges,” Felix muttered.

  The mayor was making his presence known, walking briskly down th
e open lanes, showing everyone within earshot that he wasn’t worried about an ever-loving thing.

  The pears and quinces were showing up at the market now. The aroma of apple cider filled the air. I was explaining to a customer that apples need to be refrigerated to keep their flavor. If you leave them out on the counter, no matter how pretty they look, they’re going to get mealy in nothing flat.

  The mayor strolled past our stand; I heard a woman reporter ask him, “What’s the plan you’re going to unveil to revitalize Banesville?”

  I hadn’t heard of any plan.

  Mayor Fudd said, “Well, my office is always working on something new. That’s what this administration is all about.”

  The reporter smiled brightly. She was wearing a Windbreaker embroidered with the words Catch the buzz in Banesville…read THE BEE. “Mr. Mayor,” she continued, “I hear this plan is big.”

  “It’s a humdinger all right,” he acknowledged, chuckling.

  I grabbed a notepad from my backpack and wrote that down. I told Mom I’d be right back and headed toward the mayor, who was saying, “We’re looking ahead to tomorrow. We’re looking at all the places where we can make things better for people and plot a strong course for our future.”

  He looked at me and smiled because, I guess, I represented the future. I smiled right back. “Mr. Mayor, I’m from the high school. I was wondering when our roof problem is going to be fixed.”

  His face got a little pink. “We’re going to be taking care of all that.”

  “Do you have a completion date?” I continued.

  He coughed.

  “Have you thought about the danger of having a collapsed roof covered by a tarp on school property?”

  He harrumphed. “I take the safety of every citizen of Banesville seriously.”

  “How’s the Lupo investigation coming?” I asked.

  “Sheriff Metcalf is on that, covering every lead.”

  “Any word on the cause of death?”

  He glared at me. “The sheriff will be issuing a statement.”

  The woman reporter wasn’t too happy I’d barged in. She shouted, “Your revitalization plan, Mr. Mayor. What is that about?”

  He smiled. “Making Banesville a better place.”

  I asked, “Does the revitalization plan involve the high school, Mr. Mayor?”