The Secret Grave

by Lois Ruby

“What’s your last name?”

  “Dare,” she says quickly.

  “Um, okay, I dare you to twist yourself into a pretzel.”

  No problem. She can practically wrap her foot around her neck. Maybe she should try out for the Olympic gymnastics team.

  “Your turn,” she says, spinning the twig. “Truth or dare?”

  “Truth.”

  “Am I your best friend now?” Cady studies my face so boldly that I have to look away. “Dare.”

  “Fair enough,” Cady says. “Okay, I dare you to wade into Moonlight Lake up to your navel.”

  I’m thinking sinkholes, snakes, spidery webs like Dad warned, but, like I always say, women who behave … I jump up, kick off my flip-flops, and run toward the lake. The first step sinks me into wet sand, and I nearly lose my balance. Then the water welcomes me and eddies around me like a silky cocoon. It is so not Pukey Pond.

  “Come back,” Cady calls to me, and though I don’t really want to get out, I drag myself back to the shore. I’ll never be afraid of Moonlight Lake again.

  Soaked through to my underwear, it’s not comfortable on the bed of leaves anymore.

  “Fun, but I gotta get home. Mom’s paying me to babysit Gracie while she goes to the library to research something for ‘Dear Bettina.’”

  “Who’s Bettina?”

  “She’s like ‘Dear Abby,’ only funnier.” Cady looks totally puzzled. “You never read advice to the lovelorn and the crazies of the world? It’s the only thing worth reading in the newspaper. Do you live under a rock?”

  “Yeah, I kind of do,” she says. “Tomorrow?”

  “If I can.”

  “Tomorrow!” she says, like it’s an order I can’t refuse. That’s okay. Tomorrow I’m coming back with Scooter. He and Cady are gonna love each other. Maybe.

  At home, Gracie’s down for her nap, and I’m filing Dad’s papers in his studio. It’s my other summer job, which earns me about twenty-five cents an hour. Even prisoners make more than that working in the steamy jail kitchen. But, as Mom is always reminding me, it’s another one of my family responsibilities. Each of us five kids has jobs, even Gracie, who’s supposed to slide everybody’s dirty sheets down the laundry shoot on Tuesdays.

  “Hi, Mr. Mosely!” I call as the carpenter comes into the studio.

  He waves his clipboard toward me in greeting and turns to Dad. “Like I said on the phone, Joe, we’ll start tearing up the balcony pretty soon. Just wanted to show y’all a couple of dicey things about it.” He spreads the Nightshade blueprints out on Dad’s drafting table.

  “See, thing is, the balcony wasn’t in the original blueprints. House was built in 1895, balcony not until 1897. I went down to the City and got the permits. It was shoddy work, Joe. Somebody did a rush job, so no wonder it gave out. That floor out there now?” He leads Dad to the glass door, and I peer around them. “Put in later, I’d say maybe 1940, but the workmen didn’t have pride in their work. Look how it leans.”

  Dad nods in agreement, and then Mr. Mosely totally surprises me.

  “Say, while we’re workin’ on the new balcony, want my guys to dig you a pool? Used to be one right there, under the balcony.”

  Now it’s a vegetable garden. Who wouldn’t trade carrots and turnips for a pool, especially on a day as hot and sticky as this one? “What happened to the swimming pool, Mr. Mosely?”

  “Filled in with tons of dirt. By the way, it wasn’t a swimmin’ pool. It was what ya call a reflectin’ pool. Meant to reflect the house. Water only about twofoot deep. But if y’all are wantin’ a backyard swimmin’ hole, I believe my boys can do that.”

  “Not until Gracie gets older,” Dad says, and my hopes sink. That’s the way it’s been since school let out, a few ups, more downs, and good-byes and disappointments and texts from my friends who are having the time of their lives.

  But at least there’s Cady.

  “Gracie! Where are you?” Poking her head into my room, Mom asks, “Hannah, have you seen your sister?”

  “Why do I have to be the one to keep an eye on her?” I grumble.

  “We all have a responsibility for one another. It’s called family.” Not that again. It’s my signal to pout and follow her down to the second floor to hunt for Gracie, who’s probably hiding under her crib with her stuffed panda.

  But she’s not there.

  Mom swishes open the shower curtain in the bathroom. No Gracie. “She was in my office scribbling in her Snow White coloring book a moment ago.” Mom raps on Scooter’s door. He’s belly down on the tile floor, working a crossword puzzle. “Honey, have you seen Gracie?”

  “Hunh-uh,” he responds, filling in a few squares.

  “Scooter, be so kind as to give me your eyeballs,” Mom says, and he reluctantly looks up, pencil frozen over the puzzle book.

  “Did you try the broom closet?” Scooter offers.

  “Why would she go into that skunky space?” asks Mom.

  Scooter shoots me a look, and I race downstairs for the closet, Mom following. We push aside the mops and buckets and smelly rags, but there’s no sign of Gracie.

  Mom’s frantic. “Gracie, where are you?”

  A tiny, muffled voice says: “Here, Mama.”

  “I know where.” I find the button and the secret wall slides open. There’s Gracie smiling in the dark, cradling her panda.

  “Oh, baby, you must be so scared! I sure was.” Mom scoops Gracie up into her arms.

  “No, Mama. Wady talk to me.”

  Mom gazes into Gracie’s face. “A lady?”

  Her little head bobs up and down. “Wady say, ‘Hi Gracie!’ ”

  We back out of the closet, Mom clutching Gracie to her heart. “You have quite an imagination. Need a snack, baby? Let’s go have some Goldfish and peaches.”

  “Okay.” Gracie reaches behind Mom, waving. “Bye-bye, wady.”

  When the two of them are downstairs, I burst into Scooter’s room. “She was in the broom closet.”

  “Where the ghosts hang out,” Scooter teases.

  “Yeah, smarty. I think Gracie met one.”

  “No way!”

  “Well, she wasn’t a bit scared sitting in the dark with somebody who called her name.”

  Scooter slams the puzzle book shut. “She must have heard us talking about the imaginary ghosts in there.”

  “Be realistic. Gracie doesn’t have the words to know what a ghost is, even if she heard us talking. And why wasn’t she terrified in that dark secret compartment all alone? I think she actually met a lady in there.”

  “You mean, there really are ghosts in this house?”

  “No.” I pause uncomfortably. “I don’t know.”

  The next morning I shout down the stairs to the immediate world, “Who took my blue nail polish?”

  Trick ducks his head out of the bathroom. “Yeah, I burglarized your room, ’cause Coach wants all us Dalton Devils to do our nails before the next game!”

  Scooter’s behind him with toothpaste foam covering half his face. “I don’ ’ave ut,” he mumbles around the toothbrush hanging out of his mouth. He flashes me his chewed fingernail stubs for proof. He spits toothpaste in the sink and says, “It must have been the ghost in the broom closet.”

  I scowl at him. The yelling wakes Gracie up. I dash back to my room to escape to the attic. Up there I won’t hear Mom shouting from the kitchen for me to get Gracie up, which means dealing with her soggy diaper.

  The attic is the best part of the house, where no one bothers me. To get to the attic from my bedroom, you climb on a chair to slide the trap door in the ceiling to the side, then pull down this little ladder. Seven steep, narrow steps, and you’re in the attic. It’s gloomy and always either too hot, or too cold, and too dusty for Scooter, but I’ve got legendary lungs.

  So I’ve set up my universe with cushions on the floor under the window and a lamp with a paper shade that turns my corner a soft, muzzy blue. Books and my iPad and a sketch pad and colored pencils are tosse
d across the floor. I’ve tucked packages of Oreos and Cheetos and little apple juice boxes on a high ledge so the mice can’t get them. I could live up here, except there’s no bathroom. On days like today, it’s the perfect place to curl up on the pillows to read a creepy mystery while rain pings the roof right over my head and slithers down the slanted window in thick rivulets. Up here I’d be the first person in the house to spot a rainbow arcing across the sky when the shy sun peeks out from behind the clouds. Besides the spectacular sky, the view isn’t so great because everything below the window is blocked by the balcony that juts out from Dad’s studio.

  I’m still in my pj’s, my back against a battered and scuffed leather trunk that belonged to Dad’s grandparents.

  “What’s in it?” I asked him the day the movers struggled to jam it in through the attic window.

  “Just bolts of fabric and ribbon from my grandpa’s shop in Thomasville. Hasn’t been opened in years. The whole thing would probably fall apart if you tried to jiggle the lock. It’s a family heirloom. You know what heirloom means, Hannah?” Of course I did, but before I could answer, he said, “It’s a thing that’s passed from one generation to the next that no one wants, but no one dares get rid of. Be careful; someday it could be yours to lug from house to house,” he said, laughing.

  The lock doesn’t budge. It’s probably corroded and needs a slug of oil and maybe a crowbar. Hard work, which I’m feeling too comfy and lazy to do right now.

  Gentle thunder rumbles off in the distant mountains, and then it’s quiet again, and The Case of the Spinning Acrobat captures me. It’s the third book in the Haunted Circus series. I can’t wait to dig into it. But what’s that noise? Skittering mice? I glance up at my stash on the ledge; no critters. Anyway, it sounds more like someone sliding a palm across nubby paper. A breeze flutters past me, chilling the sweat on my back. A draft from a tiny hole in the roof? I look up. It’s pitch-black up there, but then a sudden burst of lightning illuminates crisscrossed wooden rafters that look like huge dinosaur bones.

  Wait, there’s that sound again. Now it’s like someone tiptoeing in soft slippers. I spin around. No one’s there. My eyes explore the shifting shadows of boxes stacked along the wall, a crate of toys Gracie’s outgrown, an antique gramophone broken and leaning into an armchair oozing its white stuffing. On a small three-legged table stands a huge silver teapot covered in crackly plastic, another one of those heirlooms that nobody wants. I do a double-take in the distant corner and jump, seeing a thin man with a derby hat angled on his head. Whew, no, it’s a hat rack, just a hat rack.

  I have loved this attic since the day we moved into Nightshade. I’ve always felt safe and comfy up here. Today? Something’s different. A ripple of fear snakes up my back, across my shoulders. What’s scaring me? The pounding rain, the dark clouds, the gloomy shadows? It’s enough to make me snatch up my mystery and iPad. With a bag of Cheetos dangling from my teeth, I scamper down the ladder. Now that I’m twelve, maybe I’ve outgrown the attic just like Gracie outgrew the toys stored in the crate.

  Or maybe there is something creepy up there, just like there is in the broom closet.

  Gracie is wrangling her way out of the Food Lion kid seat. She’s always hyper in the cereal aisle, trying to grab any cartoony box she can reach. Franny tosses Cocoa Puffs into the cart, and that calms Gracie for a while.

  “Mom will have a fit,” I remind Franny. Sugary cereals are a no-no at Nightshade.

  We round the corner into the canned veggies aisle, and there’s Cady, deeply concentrating on a can of asparagus spears. Who buys white asparagus spears? I mean, really?

  “Hi, Cady.”

  “Oh, Hannah! You shop at Food Lion, too? These your sisters? Let’s see, you’re Gracie,” she says, jiggling Gracie’s big toe. “And you’re Franny, the one who’s counting down the days ’til you leave the cozy family nest and run away to college. You’re going to break Hannah’s heart, you know.”

  Franny’s eyes flare, and I shoot Cady a glare that could raise fiery blisters on her nose. I’m hugely embarrassed and furious. So much for telling a friend something in confidence.

  Franny coolly studies Cady. “Live around here? I’ve never seen you before. What school do you go to?” Uh-oh, here’s the interrogation, but Cady’s earned it.

  She laughs, then claps her hand to her mouth, I think to hide crooked bottom teeth. I can’t help but notice that she’s wearing blue nail polish. Sheesh, is she trying to be me?

  She says, “No, you haven’t seen me before, and yes, I live near your house, and no, I don’t go to a Dalton school anymore. My friends and I have our own home school. Y’all learn things to pass a test. We learn things that stick with you for a lifetime.” She mutters something under her breath that I don’t catch.

  Franny makes a sharp U-turn, pushing the cart and Gracie out of the aisle. The whole scene is totally embarrassing. “We gotta run,” I offer over my shoulder, and that sure doesn’t explain Franny’s rudeness, or Cady’s.

  Wouldn’t you know it? Cady ends up right behind us in the checkout line. She hands Gracie a bag of M&Ms.

  “Fanks!” Gracie cries, meaning she and Cady are now best friends for life.

  “Not ’til after dinner.” Franny snatches the bag out of Gracie’s hands.

  In a huff, Cady takes off. She stomps on the rubber mat to activate the automatic door and hurries outside.

  It occurs to me that Cady had no groceries in her shopping cart. Wait, no shopping cart, either! I look for her in the parking lot. Someone must have driven her here. It’s way too far to walk from where she lives. Wherever she lives. There’s no sign of her. She must have gone back into the store through a different entrance. Does she just hang out at Food Lion for fun? I can think of lots of places I’d rather be on a summery afternoon—horseback riding at Fort Mountain State Park, swimming at Dad’s club. Definitely not sweating my head off at Trick’s baseball game—which is where we’re heading later today.

  And my face is burning with embarrassment. While I’m loading groceries into the back, and Franny’s buckling Gracie into the car seat, Franny lets me have it.

  “How could you embarrass me that way, Hannah? What happens at Nightshade stays at Nightshade. I thought I could trust you.”

  “You can. I’m really sorry. I just … well, there’s no excuse. Cady listens to me, and my friends are all off having awesome summers, and I have no one else around.” It’s lame, but it’s the best I can do as I slam the back gate and slide into the seat next to Franny.

  “You used to talk to me,” Franny says, and the only sound in the car all the way home is Gracie singing “itsy bitsy spider.”

  At home, I’m feeling like a worm for letting Franny down, but I’m also mad that my new friend would do such a mean thing. “Mom, okay if I don’t go to Trick’s game? I’m hot and sweaty and just want to chill at home.”

  “Sure, honey, I understand. You need more me time, less us time. You’ve always been that way. It’s a middle child thing, isn’t it? Trick’s not pitching today, anyway, so it could be a yawner.”

  Perfect! Because while the family’s gone, and Cady’s lurking around in the Food Lion parking lot until somebody (who?) comes to pick her up, I’m going to go exploring in the woods without her watchful eyes.

  I’m drawn to Moonlight Lake. It’s so captivating and mysterious. There’s a foggy mist hanging just over the water as I arrive. Kicking off my flip-flops, I push aside a cluster of marsh marigolds and drop to the soft bank of the lake, dunking my heels into the cool water that’s irresistible and refreshing on this boiling, sticky day. My toes tangle in a web under the surface of the lake. “Sorry to disturb your handiwork, Ms. Spider,” I murmur. Doubt if she hears me. A dragonfly lazily circles a bed of water lilies floating just out of my reach. On the west side of the lake a mama duck leads a parade of her ducklings. So peaceful, so beautiful.

  The sun burns off the misty fog, revealing a small cabin on the north bank of the lake
. I’ve got to see what that’s about, so I jump to my feet and forge my way through the marshy bushes toward the hut, with my flip-flops hooked over my thumb. If Cady can go barefoot in the forest, so can I.

  Ouch! This isn’t as easy as it looks. Something just went squish. Hopping along, I check out the victim stuck to my foot. A centipede. I scrape the disgusting thing off on a rock and trot toward the cabin, but as I get closer, my nerves kick in. What if there’s someone inside? Oh, who’d be in there besides Cady and her friends? But still, they wouldn’t like me barging in like an invader, so I knock. No answer. I stand on tiptoes to peek in the window, which has no glass. The cabin’s empty. Opening the door slowly, I’m ready to hurl my shoes at any animal that comes barreling out.

  I have to duck my head to get inside this broken-down hut. Three small, battered beach chairs, with slats painted red and yellow and green, form a circle in the center of the one room. What kind of friends does Cady have that would fit in such Gracie-sized chairs? Elves? Leprechauns? Give me a break! Or maybe all of her friends are under the age of three. Now I’m more curious than ever to meet her honest and true friends.

  “Ready to go?” A few days later, I’m itching to return to the woods. I put my ear to Scooter’s chest. No wheezing. “Sounds clear. Let’s go to the forest. I’m dying for you to meet Cady.”

  “Me too?” Gracie asks, arms raised for us to pick her up.

  “Not this time, Gracie, but I’ll carry you upstairs to Dad’s studio, okay? You love Daddy!” I plop her on the floor with a circle of her favorite books and panda around her. Then I dash out and make sure the door’s closed tight before Dad fully realizes she’s under his drafting table. We leave a note on the fridge saying that Scooter and I will be home by dinner.

  It’s great to see that Scooter’s feeling frisky today, and I lope along after him. When we get to the fallen log that’s the entrance to the forest, he comes to a halt.

  “I’m not sure I wanna go in there,” he says.