by Amy Brashear
He slams the door and locks up his truck. Everybody locks up everything nowadays. I wonder if that will continue when the killers are finally caught, if they’re ever caught. “That’s a shame; we could’ve sat together,” he says.
“Asher said something’s up with Bobby.”
Landry frowns at me. “Oh. So?”
“So I’m going to go see him. Can I ask a favor? Can I borrow your truck? Please. Pretty please with a cherry on top.”
“Okay.” He gives me a curt nod. “You know, Bobby still loves Nancy,” he adds, handing me the keys as he walks by me. His voice is cold. He grabs a hold of the door to Hartman’s and pulls it open, avoiding my eyes.
“I know that,” I tell him.
“Do you?” he asks, letting the door slam behind him.
The gym is unlocked, to my surprise. Tossing my bag on the floor, I take a seat on the bleachers. Bobby is alone, but he doesn’t see me. He’s still in his basketball uniform, practicing all by himself. I watch as he shoots from behind the line. He makes some and misses some. Finally, when a shot bounces off the backboard and into the backcourt, he chases after it and spots me.
“I didn’t see you come in,” he calls, out of breath.
“Yeah, well. I’m sneaky,” I say.
He manages a smile. “What are you doing here?”
“Asher said something happened.”
“Oh. Nothing happened.” He bends over and picks up the ball, his smile gone. “It’s just my friends aren’t really my friends anymore.”
“You don’t mean that.”
He shakes his head and sits beside me. He stinks like Asher, but I don’t mind.
“It’s the truth,” he said. “I’ve been cleared by the police, and they still look at me as if I killed them all.”
“But you didn’t,” I say.
“Yeah, I know I didn’t,” he says.
“They’re stupid.”
He shrugs. “Not all of them. Everything’s different. I’m not getting the ball as much during practice.”
“It’s just a game.”
“No, it’s not. It’s what we do.”
Stealing the ball from him, I say, “Okay, then I should learn, too. Show me how to shoot.”
He laughs, which was what I was hoping for. “I don’t think there are enough hours in the day,” he teases.
“Har-har-har.”
I try dribbling the ball. It doesn’t go so well. The ball hits my foot and bounces over to Bobby. He hops off the bench, scoops it up, and dribbles past me, whizzing toward the basket.
“Show-off!” I call after him as he makes a layup.
“Come on, I want to see you shoot,” he says. He throws the ball and it hits my chest.
“Ouch.”
“Two hands,” he says as I try to catch my breath.
“I know, I know,” I manage. “Asher tells me the same thing.”
Standing at the free-throw line, I lob the ball into the air, underhanded. It doesn’t even come close to the basket.
He laughs and shakes his head. “But I guess he didn’t tell you how to shoot, huh?” he asks, chasing down the ball. “Like this.” He stands beside me at the line, holds the ball in his right hand, and pushes off with his knees. It goes straight into the basket. “Nothing but net. Now your turn.”
For some reason, I actually want to do this. I’ve never felt like I had to prove something to Asher. In fact, I secretly get a kick out of being so awful at sports, because it aggravates him. So I concentrate when Bobby hands me the ball. I do exactly what he did, pushing off with my knees, releasing with my wrists, watching my shot go through the basket without even hitting the backboard or rim. I blink twice. I can’t quite believe it.
“Swish?” I say.
“Carly!” He cheers my first-ever basket. “You’re a natural.”
He grabs the rebound and stands in front of me; only the ball is between us. Then he lets it drop to the floor; it rolls toward the door. I look up. His eyes are inches from my own. My breath catches.
“Bobby?” a voice yells.
We both spin. It’s Coach Eck.
“I’ve got to lock up,” he says.
I swallow when I realize he’s not alone. Someone emerges from the shadows on the other side of the gym. Seth. He stands in the doorway, his face blank. Then he turns and walks out.
“Yeah, okay, Coach,” Bobby says, hurrying toward the locker room. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Carly.”
“Yeah,” I mumble without looking at him. I race to the door.
Seth is sitting on the hood of Landry’s truck, smoking a cigarette.
I approach slowly and stand at the driver’s side door. We stare at each other. Seth doesn’t seem to be in any hurry to move. He takes a long drag and exhales. I shiver in the cold.
“It’ll be hard to drive with you blocking my view,” I finally say in a flat voice.
He flashes me a disgusted sneer. “Honestly, Carly, you’re embarrassing yourself,” he says. “I just thought you should know.” With that, he stubs out his cigarette on the hood and leaves the butt there. Then he jumps off and walks away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-four
I had a hard time falling asleep last night. Now it’s morning, and the sun seems too bright, and I’m irritable. I’m sitting on a bench in front of the office, waiting for Seth to walk through the front doors. He has to know what he saw between Bobby and me at the gym wasn’t what he thought it was. Not that I should even care. Our relationship is over. But I know how rumors get started in Holcomb.
At least he’s alone when he arrives. Talking to him is harder with Alex around.
“Seth,” I say, but he just walks past. I grab my bag and catch up with him at his locker. “Seth, you’ve got to listen to me.”
“Do I?” he says.
“What you saw last night—”
“I don’t care about what you do, Carly. I’m going to be late for class.”
“We still have a minute.”
He doesn’t even bother to answer. Instead he slams his locker shut and walks down the hall. I’m about to chase after him when there’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn to see Alex. He smiles and hands me a note just as the bell rings.
Mrs. Ford—the school’s art instructor, resident oddball, and my homeroom teacher—nearly shuts the door in my face. I apologize and slink to my seat.
“I have a splitting headache. I need peace and quiet,” she says, sitting at her desk at the front of the room. She closes her eyes and rubs her temples.
I start to open the note.
“No notes in my classroom,” she snaps, her eyes suddenly open.
But it’s too late. I can’t help but gape at what’s on the scrap of paper: a crude drawing of a tree with two stick figures holding hands, ropes around their necks, hanging from a tree branch.
Mrs. Ford stands up and walks over to me. “Carly, I told you,” she says, grabbing the note from me. Then she lets out a little cry. Her face turns as white as a ghost. If it wasn’t the drawing that did her in, it was the line underneath it.
Carly and Bobby hanging from a tree, D-Y-I-N-G.
She turns to me, her jaw slack.
“I didn’t draw it,” I say, shaking my head.
“Who then?”
Everyone in the classroom points to someone else.
A few months ago, some troublemakers locked all the doors to all the classrooms at school and hid the keys. We were stuck sitting in the hallways, talking so loud that the teachers got tired yelling at us to be quiet. At least we had no homework that night. The janitors went around unlocking each door. It took a while, and when we got inside the classrooms and took our seats, we couldn’t stop laughing. The teachers were frazzled.
The boys who were responsible got a lecture, but that’s it. I think Princi
pal Williams was just too glad the day was over to deal with punishments. There was a group of them, from out near where Landry lived, who were always pulling those types of pranks. Especially on Mrs. Ford. She’s gullible. She’s also a jumpy mix of very bohemian and very religious. Not a great combination in a teacher. The result is an unfortunate habit she has of running to the storage closet in the back of the room, shutting herself inside it, and praying for us. We can hear her through the door. It’s always the same prayer, too.
“Dear Lord, they do not know what they do. Please take away their sins. Cleanse them, dear Lord, cleanse them.”
As she stands there now in shock, looking over all the kids, the classroom door opens. It’s Bobby. He’s late. I want to crawl under my desk and hide. Mrs. Ford looks at him and then at me. She pushes the paper into my hands and heads straight for the storage closet.
Alex and Seth chuckle. Soon we’re all listening to the muffled words we know by heart now.
Bobby looks over at me. “What’s going on?”
I hand him the piece of paper. He takes it, gives it a once-over, and tears it up. The pieces fall to the floor. He sits in silence for the rest of the period, avoiding everyone’s eyes—including mine. The instant the bell rings, he’s out the door. Running.
Mrs. Ford slowly emerges from the closet.
Once everyone is gone, I scoop up the fallen bits of paper and hurry out of the room. I spot Landry in the hall. He’s grinning.
“So, Mrs. Ford was praying again?”
“Yes, we’re all cleansed now,” I mutter. I toss the bits of paper in the trash can and head to my locker. Landry follows. He’s in a better mood than he was last night, and I’m relieved. It means the rumor mill hasn’t begun to churn. It’s still too early in the morning. He leans against the lockers as I dial my combination and grab my history book and composition notebook.
“She and Mr. Helms should spend some time together,” he cracks. “I bet they’d hit it off.”
I turn to him. “Did he tell you about the ghost he saw?”
“Yeah, he did.”
“Do you really think he saw something? I mean, other than the guy that they arrested?”
Landry shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe he did see something.”
“Do you believe in ghosts?” I ask.
He’s still smiling, but his eyes are distant. “Maybe, I don’t know, though sometimes I think I feel my uncle’s spirit,” he says. He pauses and looks right at me. “About yesterday, I didn’t mean what I said outside Hartman’s Café. I was just . . . frustrated. Okay?”
I nod, but I’m not listening. My mind is a thousand miles away. Thanks to Landry and Mr. Helms, I’m suddenly thinking of Aunt Trudy.
CHAPTER THIRTY-five
Mary Claire’s on board from the moment I say the word séance. The problem is that, according to the Ouija board Aunt Trudy sent me, we need four people.
“What about Landry and Bobby?” I suggest.
“No way,” Mary Claire says.
“Why not?” I ask. It makes the most sense, not to mention that it was my plan all along. Plus, I wouldn’t even have had the idea if it weren’t for Landry. Besides, maybe with Bobby being there, the spirits will talk. Not that I’m sure I believe in this mumbo-jumbo. But anything is worth a shot if it will clear Bobby’s name once and for all.
“It’s too risky,” she says. “Most of all, it doesn’t look good for him to be there.”
I try to think of a comeback, but she has a point.
“Don’t worry, Carly, I’ve already recruited a pair,” she says.
“Really? Who?”
“Karen and Audrey,” she says.
I sigh heavily. I can already picture what this will turn into: a convenient excuse for them to snicker at me and get the rumor mill churning nice and steady.
“Listen to me, Carly.” Her voice grows serious. “It’s better to be friends with them than not. Besides, Karen and Audrey believe in this séance thing. Don’t you think we need four people that actually do? I mean, if you’re serious?”
Mary Claire is right. For all kinds of reasons. Not that I’m happy about it.
My parents know that I’m not only spending the night with Mary Claire, but with Karen and Audrey, as well. That means four different sets of parents know exactly what we’re doing, or believe they know what we’re doing. They believe we’re going to see Journey to the Center of the Earth at the movie theater in Garden City.
I know I vowed not to sneak around anymore. But this is worth it, for all kinds of reasons. There was no way I could tell them we were going to the Clutter farm. It’s not just the best place to hold a séance. It’s the only place.
Mary Claire drives us out in silence. We sit at the end of the long driveway for a good five minutes before we have the courage to go any farther. I try not to think of the gruesome photographs I saw at the courthouse.
Karen and I get out first. We move the police barricade out of the way. We’ll move it back when we leave. We don’t have to worry about Mr. Stoecklein; he moved off the land shortly after my arrest, to a property along the highway. My father told me it was because he couldn’t stand to be so close to the Clutter house anymore. Who can blame him?
Tucked under my arm is the Ouija board. While Aunt Trudy insisted she believes in its powers, she also suggested I could make a game of it with my friends. Her note concluded, It works either way.
This does not feel like a game, and two of the three others don’t feel like friends.
I think of my aunt’s words in the note right after Nancy and her family were murdered: “Things will be back to normal.” And here I am, breaking into the Clutter house to conjure their spirits. Is this what she meant? Maybe. But then “normal” to Aunt Trudy might seem to some Holcomb locals like a direct link to Satan himself.
Mary Claire carries a bag full of candles and a box full of matches. Audrey has a couple of flashlights. None of them work, though, because she forgot to change the batteries. Karen holds a huge blanket that we plan to lay on the hardwood floor.
The front door’s locked. But Mary Claire has planned for this. She remembers where Nancy hid a key just in case she forgot hers.
It’s still there.
Somehow, that gives me the chills. The house is empty. We tiptoe up the stairs and down the hall to Nancy’s bedroom. Karen and Audrey lay the blanket on the floor, and Mary Claire starts to light the candles around the room. Taking the Ouija board out of the box, I place it in the middle of the blanket. My hands tremble. It looks like a game, but spookier: square-shaped, marked with the twenty-six letters of the alphabet, the numbers zero through nine, and the words yes, no, and good-bye.
I read the rules last night so I’d know them by heart.
“It says we should never ask questions about our death or another’s death,” I tell them.
“Nonsense,” Mary Claire says. “We want to talk to Nancy and find out the truth, don’t we?”
“Wait, can we ask her about how she died?” Karen asks.
“Yes,” Audrey chimes in before I can answer. “I read about it in a magazine. I know exactly what I’m doing. We can’t ask how we’re going to die—that’s the rules.”
At least they seem to be taking it seriously, even if they get on my nerves.
“We’ll have to each put our fingers on this to help guide the spirit to speak to us,” I say, holding the movable planchette.
We make a circle.
“Should we say a prayer first?” Audrey asks.
“Like, to God?” Mary Claire asks.
“Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of dark magic?” Karen asks. I see her smiling wickedly in the flickering candlelight. She’s having the time of her life. Maybe that’s what such a strict religious upbringing will do to you.
“Probably. But shouldn’t we cover all our
bases?” Audrey says.
Karen rolls her eyes. Audrey mumbles a prayer anyway. Afterward, we hold hands and say in unison, “Let there be no evil forces or demons . . .” Just like the directions say.
“Someone has to be the designated medium,” Karen points out. She must have read the directions, too.
“I volunteer Carly; it is her board,” Mary Claire says.
I scoot closer. When we each put our index and middle fingers on the planchette, my heart beats so fast I think it’s going to jump out of my chest.
Leaning forward in a huddle, we watch the board intently, moving the planchette around in circles to get the board warmed up.
“Be careful,” Audrey whispers.
I take a deep breath and start, “I, Carly, ask for my spiritual guide’s protection. Spirit, please come forward and give us guidance.”
The planchette comes to a complete stop and then forcefully moves to the bottom left-hand corner of the board, spelling out the word H-E-L-L-O.
“Hello.”
Mary Claire laughs.
“This is absurd,” Karen says with delight.
“Shhhh!” I whisper.
“Ask it who it is,” Mary Claire says.
“Who are you?” I ask.
It takes a second, but then it starts to spell Y-O-U-R-F-R-I-E-N-D.
My heart is thumping again. I can hear it in my ears.
“Make sure it’s Nancy,” Audrey says. “It could be a demon for all we know.”
“Are you Nancy?” I ask. The words lodge in my throat.
The planchette moves forcefully to the top of the board and lands on the word yes.
“It’s working! It’s really working!” Audrey cries.
“Shhh!” we hiss at her in unison.
She squeezes her eyes shut and covers them with her hands, shaking her head.
“Do you remember the night of November fourteenth?” I ask the board, fighting back my own fear.
The movable indicator moves to yes.
“Ask her if she knows who killed her,” Mary Claire whispers.
The planchette starts moving at a rapid pace. B-O-B-B-Y-D-I-D-N-O-T-K-I-L-L-M-E. Mary Claire and Karen are barely touching it, and Audrey has taken her fingers off it. The rules say that all participants need to be touching it. I blink at the triangle shape in the uncertain candlelight. Did it move on its own or did I move it? I don’t know anymore, and maybe it doesn’t matter, because I know the truth. Right now I want to prove it. And then I want to leave.
