Of the twenty-four sixth graders arriving at the Air and Space Museum, all but Lulu were gulping down a sugary beverage. She refrained from food and drinks while out of the house to avoid having to use the restroom. Lulu found that most public restrooms occupied less square footage than a coffin and lacked windows. Therefore, she preferred to skirt the issue altogether. Slightly dehydrated, Lulu hung near the back of the herd of children as they slowed to a stop in the lobby of the museum.
Mr. Brampton and Mrs. Johnson were the teachers-slash-wranglers on this particular outing, and by the looks on their faces, they were not enjoying it.
“Quiet down, quiet down. I want everyone using inside voices,” Mr. Brampton said. “Mrs. Johnson and I will be breaking the group in two for the elevator. And those of you with cell phones, consider yourselves warned: if I see or hear one, it will be confiscated, no exceptions.”
From the back of the group came the distinctive jingle of Lulu’s handcuffs as her arm shot straight in the air.
“Um, Mr. Brampton, I’d rather take the stairs; it’s healthier.”
“Unfortunately, the stairs are closed today, they’re repainting.”
“What? No one told me that. I would like to take the stairs anyway; paint fumes never hurt anyone,” Lulu said as she felt a twitch behind her left eye, her regular reaction to stress. It wasn’t that noticeable, but to Lulu it felt as if a boulder were pulsating beneath the thin flap covering her eye.
“That’s not possible. You need to stay with the group, and we are taking the elevator.”
“I am NOT taking the elevator. I’d rather stay right here.”
“You will take the elevator like everyone else. As much as I would love to leave you down here, someone could kidnap you, and that wouldn’t reflect well on the school.”
“How will it reflect on the school when the parents find out you forced me into a steel death trap?”
“This is not a discussion, Ms. Punchalower, this is an order. Get in the elevator. And we will deal with your attitude when we get back to school.”
“I will never, ever, ever, ever get in that or any other elevator, and you can’t make me. I have a condition called claustrophobia. I can get you a doctor’s note.”
“I am not going to tell you again — get in the elevator.”
“This is so unfair; you don’t make Howie run in P.E.”
“He has a broken leg!”
“Exactly, he has a condition that prevents him from running. I have a condition that prevents me from going in elevators and other confined spaces. Why is that so hard for you to understand?”
Mr. Brampton stared at Lulu and shook his head.
“Whatever, you can’t make me do anything.”
Mr. Brampton, now boiling with frustration, walked through the children, parting them like the Red Sea. When he finally reached Lulu, his six-foot-one frame dwarfed her body. Lulu’s small crossed arms and twitching eye were imperceptible in the shadow of such a tall man. Mr. Brampton pushed her toward the open elevator without paying any mind to her incessant pleading.
Lulu’s heart pounded ferociously. All she could feel was the suffocation of her breath and the cold metal of the cuffs against her skin. She dug her Converse sneakers into the floor futilely, trying to stop the wave bearing down upon her. The plastic soles squeaked loudly as she skidded across the concrete.
Lulu knew what she had to do. She had rehearsed this moment many times in her mind, a scenario she knew would eventually come. Perhaps not at this precise location or with these particular people, but she had always known it was coming. It was only a matter of time before someone would try to force her into an elevator, a bathroom without windows, or some other confined space.
Lulu’s small body overflowed with adrenaline as she stealthily crouched down, falling between Mr. Brampton’s legs. With the agility of an Olympic gymnast, she performed a backward somersault, bounced to her feet, and took off in a sprint. If any judges had been present, she could have easily scored a ten. Her small legs worked overtime to beat Mr. Brampton. Luckily, the man’s bulky thighs rubbed together, slowing him down.
Lulu ducked beneath the body of a WWII bomber plane on the left side of the lobby. Mr. Brampton, consumed with catching Lulu, did not notice the plane until his forehead smashed into the body, leaving nail indentations above both of his eyebrows. His robust frame wavered back and forth before crashing to the cement floor. Lulu’s classmates watched with rapt attention, absolutely thrilled by the excitement.
As her classmates reveled in the action, Lulu slapped the cuffs around the metal rod directly above the plane’s wheels. Without any regard for her fallen teacher, Lulu sat down to catch her breath. A few feet away, Mr. Brampton stirred, grunted, and touched his forehead.
“You’ll have to drag the plane along if you want to get me in the elevator,” Lulu said with an abundance of pride in her well-executed plan.
Mr. Brampton, awash with animosity, hobbled silently toward the elevator. He didn’t dare say a word for fear of what he would shriek. Profanity would most definitely be involved.
The following day, the dean confiscated Lulu’s handcuffs and explained that she was banned from field trips for the remainder of her time at Roger Williams Elementary. The Punchalowers received a registered letter explaining that Lulu would have to stay home and write essays on the history of the elevator for the remaining two field trips.
The Punchalowers didn’t mind their daughter’s staying home or performing extra class work, but they loathed the idea of her classmates gossiping to their parents about Lulu’s performance at the museum. The Punchalowers belonged to a set of parents whose favorite pastime was bragging about their children’s accomplishments, and Lulu’s behavior hardly ranked as an achievement. Why, only a week after the infamous museum escapade, the Punchalowers were sure they heard whispering as they took to the golf course at the country club. Mrs. Punchalower had worked tirelessly to uphold the family’s regal front, and now Lulu was jeopardizing it all.
After the museum episode, Lulu noticed an increased amount of murmuring in her overly tense home. She suspected her parents were up to something, but in all honesty, she didn’t pay them much mind. It wasn’t until the early weeks of May that Lulu found she could no longer disregard the suspicious activities of her routine-oriented parents. Not once in Lulu’s twelve years of life had her parents fetched the mail. Lulu wasn’t even sure how the mail got in the house; all she knew was that her parents never dared worry themselves with such trivial matters until now. Her parents suddenly insisted on being the first ones at the mailbox; under no circumstances were Lulu or her eight-year-old brother, Marvin, to approach the mailbox.
“Mom.”
“What did I tell you about calling me that?” Mrs. Punchalower firmly rebuked her daughter.
“Fine, Mother,” Lulu said with attitude, “let me get the mail.”
“Absolutely not, young lady. You and your brother are prohibited from leaving the house until either your father or I have checked the mailbox. If I see either of you near the front door I will ground you for a month.”
“Whatever.”
“Whatever is not an appropriate response in any situation, and certainly not to your mother’s instructions,” Mrs. Punchalower rigidly responded.
“Yes, Mother dearest,” Lulu said while rolling her green eyes back into her head.
Lulu’s suspicions regarding the mail exploded on a nondescript Tuesday morning in early May, when she watched her parents dance with elation on the lawn. This was highly suspect behavior for a couple who thought dancing at weddings was in poor taste. Lulu knew it would have taken something monumental to provoke such peculiar behavior, and she was determined to get to the bottom of it.
Lulu ran to the end of hallway, lowered herself atop the immaculate cream-colored carpet, and waited. Her small head protruded from behind the wall, giving her a view of the formal living room. She heard the front door open swiftly, followed by the cl
acking of heels across the marble foyer. Lulu watched her parents whisper conspiratorially into each other’s ears as they pushed a pink envelope back and forth between them. Mrs. Punchalower, rife with frustration, finally took the envelope and slipped it under the tartan couch cushion.
Moments later in the kitchen, Lulu spooned Raisin Bran into her mouth while watching her mother suspiciously. Lulu was certain that that pink letter had something to do with her. As Marvin followed her toward the bus stop, a nagging little voice dominated Lulu’s thoughts. Instead of standing beneath the simple yellow sign with a black stencil of a bus as usual, Lulu dragged Marvin behind a row of nearby garbage cans.
“What are you doing?” Marvin complained as she pushed him to the ground.
“You’re staying with me.”
“No, I’m going to school. I have a math test.”
“I know you; you’ll tell Dotty I’m skipping if I let you go.”
Marvin had a knack for telling people what they weren’t supposed to know. If left alone on the bus he would positively tell Dotty, the bus driver, of Lulu’s truancy.
“How long are we going to wait here?” Marvin whined.
“Until Mother and Father leave. I’m sure they’re up to something.”
“Who cares? We don’t even like them. Let’s go to school.”
“Fine, but don’t blame me if they sell you to Grandma.”
“Sell me?” Marvin responded with shock.
“Grandma’s been eyeing you for a while. She misses having a kid in the house. Plus, she needs someone to massage the bunions on her feet.”
“How come Grandma doesn’t want to buy you? You’re older.”
“What can I tell you? I’m not that cute anymore.”
“I knew this face was going to get me into trouble,” Marvin mumbled.
After watching their parents’ cars pass, Lulu and Marvin crawled out from behind the trash cans and ran toward their house. Lulu fumbled with the keys, hoping that neither parent had forgotten anything. Finally, she opened the door and ran for the couch with Marvin close behind. Under the middle tartan cushion was the oblong pale pink envelope crafted out of expensive cardstock with formal gold printing on it.
The Punchalowers were part of the country club set and often received fancy invitations, but never in a color as vulgar as pink. Moreover, they never had hidden any of the invitations in the past. Lulu noticed the return address was a post office box in Farmington, Massachusetts. She didn’t think her parents even knew anyone in Massachusetts, let alone someone with a post office box. Weren’t those reserved for contest entry forms and wacky wilderness people miles from civilization?
Lulu slowly opened the envelope, pulling out an acceptance letter, brochure, and map. She wondered if her parents had finally decided to send her to boarding school as they often threatened. Her eyes narrowed and then bulged as she read the institution’s name: School of Fear. She was to report to the Farmington, Massachusetts, bus station at 9:00 AM on Monday, May twenty-fifth, to meet a delegate from School of Fear.
With a hand over her twitching left eye, Lulu turned to Marvin. “I’m in big trouble; nothing good ever begins at a bus station.”
School of Fear had come to Mrs. Punchalower’s attention through a renowned specialist, Dr. Guinness. The doctor was a formidable man in his late fifties who sympathized immensely with Lulu’s fears, but was unable to reason with her to enter his office on the fourth floor of an elevator-only building. Lulu tried to bully the security guard into letting her climb the fire escape, but he politely declined.
“If you don’t let me on the fire escape, I swear, you’ll never see your kids again,” Lulu said in her best gangster impression.
“I don’t have kids,” the security guard said with a yawn.
“Um, I meant your wife.”
“I don’t have a wife.”
“What about friends?”
“Don’t have those either.”
“Come on,” Lulu said with frustration, “everyone has friends.”
“Not me. All I have is a goldfish.”
“Okay, loser,” Lulu said with a roll of her eyes, “if you ever want to see that fish again, I suggest you let me on the fire escape. Otherwise, I’ll be sautéing the little guy for dinner.”
“Threatening a man’s fish, that’s cold, but you still can’t go on the fire escape.”
“Ugh!” Lulu huffed as she stormed out of the building; it was impossible to coerce a man whose only friend was a fish.
In a rather unorthodox move, Dr. Guinness agreed to conduct the sessions in his car in the parking lot. Instead of sitting on the therapist’s couch, Lulu sat in the backseat and Dr. Guinness in the front. Occasionally, it grew so stuffy in the car, he turned on his noisy diesel-guzzling 1973 Mercedes to run the air-conditioning. Due to the strict doctor-patient confidentiality agreement, the windows could not be lowered more than a crack, lest someone walk by and eavesdrop.
After five months, Dr. Guinness had developed heat rash, as well as a severe neck cramp from craning to see Lulu in the backseat. He requested a meeting with her parents in the car after Lulu’s session.
“I’m afraid it’s time to terminate my relationship with Lulu,” Dr. Guinness calmly explained.
“What? You can’t be serious. It’s only been five months; my wife’s been in therapy for ten years, and her doctor hasn’t dumped her!” Mr. Punchalower fumed while simultaneously typing on his BlackBerry.
“Edward, please refrain from using the word dump!” Mrs. Punchalower retorted, “And Jeffrey is a life coach, not a therapist.”
“I think you’ve misunderstood me. I believe that Lulu needs a more intense program than I can offer. Something very unique, very exclusive.”
“Yes?” Mr. and Mrs. Punchalower said.
Their eyes lit up at the word “exclusive.” Nothing pleased them more than being “exclusive.”
“I’m talking about School of Fear,” Dr. Guinness said in the quietest of all whispers.
CHAPTER 4
EVERYONE’S AFRAID OF SOMETHING:
Agyrophobia is the fear of crossing the street.
Hidden deep within a rural pocket in Northwestern Massachusetts was a small town known as Farmington. For a lucky four hundred and four people, twenty-eight dogs, forty-nine cats, and six horses it was home. While there were many other creatures from squirrels to turtles living in the town, they weren’t registered with the county and, therefore, didn’t make the yearly census.
Farmington was oddly untouched by time. Missing were any signs of corporate America such as Wal-Mart, Starbucks, or McDonald’s. Instead, each shop was privately owned with hand-painted signs to prove it. There was one main street, rather straightforwardly called Main Street, on which sat McMillan’s Grocery Store, the post office, Henry’s newsstand, Farmy’s diner, and the sheriff’s office.
Nearly all of the four hundred and four human residents (and many of the animal ones) lived on the roads surrounding Main Street, creating an extremely tight-knit community. A few people inhabited the surrounding wilderness, only sporadically venturing into town for mail and provisions. The ever-elusive headmistress of the School of Fear, Mrs. Wellington, and her caretaker, Schmidty, lived the farthest from town, atop a four-acre plateau with two-hundred-foot protective granite cliffs on all sides. Scientists supposed the unusual granite mountain was the result of a glacier from the Cretaceous Period, which was approximately a really, really long time ago.
Mrs. Wellington’s estate, Summerstone, acted as a beacon in the Lost Forest. Upon hearing the name Lost Forest, one might wonder how a forest could get lost. It doesn’t walk, run, or skip, and one would assume it’s too large for a park ranger to miss. In this case, lost does not refer to the forest itself, but rather to anyone or anything that enters it.
The townsfolk in Farmington referred to the Lost Forest as their very own Bermuda Triangle. At the request of park rangers, it was long closed with many NO TRESPASSING signs posted aro
und the perimeter. The only two things that dared cross the forest were the Moon River and a scarcely used cobblestone road, which led straight to the base of Summerstone’s Mountain.
Harold Wellington built Summerstone in 1952 as an isolated retreat for his wife, Edith. The eight-bedroom manor surrounded by persimmon, fig, orange, and cherry trees was located squarely in the center of the grounds. Mr. Wellington had spared no expense in the construction of Summerstone or its lavish decoration.
Rumors abounded of golden latrines and platinum light switches resting beside Renoirs or Monets, but none of it was true. Mrs. Wellington was far too eclectic and peculiar to indulge in such noticeably grand items. She much preferred to commission one-of-kind pieces such as tortoiseshell tables and portraits of her pets. Regardless of Mrs. Wellington’s offbeat taste, Summerstone was the grandest structure Farmington had ever seen. Unfortunately, the locals were only able to admire the architecturally mesmerizing building from a distance, as Mrs. Wellington did not take kindly to visitors.
CHAPTER 5
EVERYONE’S AFRAID OF SOMETHING:
Ablutophobia is the fear of washing or bathing.
John F. Kennedy Airport in New York City was in for quite a surprise the night the Mastersons arrived from London. Weary travelers wheeling suitcases, holding children’s hands, and generally trying to make it through the maze of gates stopped in their tracks. They paused mid-sentence, mid-gait, mid-look, mid-breath to stare at Madeleine Masterson, her parents, and a plume of repellent.
Quite literally, a cloud of bug repellent lingered over Madeleine’s veil-covered head, causing strangers to cough vociferously. Madeleine plowed through the highly congested terminal without batting an eyelash. Madeleine had long ago made peace with the price of spider protection.
The Masterson clan rushed through the terminal to catch their flight to Pittsfield, or as Farmingtonians called it, “the Pitts.” While the Mastersons expected the plane to be little, they certainly never thought it would be that little. The plane was approximately the size and color of a New York City cab, only much more run-down. If the Mastersons hadn’t been told otherwise, they would have thought the plane was en route to a demolition yard. Its wings were lopsided, leaning strongly to the left, and the windows were secured with silver duct tape.
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