by Tate, Kristy
I rolled my eyes. “I was just thinking it’s probably a good thing we’re not friends.”
“Why’s that?”
“I can’t play tennis.”
“Why not?”
“I’m super clumsy.”
Court looked at me as if I’d admitted to having a flesh-eating virus. “No.”
“Really truly. And if we were friends, maybe he’d ask me to play tennis, and then . . . it’s just safer for everyone if I’m not holding a racquet.”
Court put down her apple core. “I’m going to teach you how to play tennis.”
I shook my head. “It’s hopeless. And a little dangerous.”
“Look, if you want to see the king of the forest, you have to play in the woods. You have to hang in his natural habitat.”
I sighed. “You’re right.”
“I know I am. If you want him to notice you, you have to go to where he hangs out. This is my new mission,” Court stated.
“What is?” Ryan asked, dialing into our conversation.
“I’m going to teach Evie how to play tennis.”
“Cool,” Ryan said. “Can I watch?”
“No,” I said.
“I want to play,” Austin said.
I shook my head. “This is not happening.”
“Oh, it’s happening,” Court said.
“I’m riding the bus home tomorrow,” I said to no one in particular, hoping to change the subject.
“Oh yeah,” Ryan said. “Me, too. Where do you get off?”
“Leroy Street.”
“That’s right before my exit!” Ryan said.
“Great. Save me a place.”
“Nice try, but that has nothing to do with anything,” Court said. “But tomorrow, we’re eating lunch by the courts. Do you have tennis shoes?”
I shook my head.
“I’ll bring you my old pair until you can get some,” Court said.
#
During English, I battled sleep while the teacher, Dr. Price, yammered about Charles Dickens’s Bleak House. Dickens also wrote Hard Times. At least we didn’t have to read both. Because school had started two weeks ago, and the advanced English class had assigned summer reading, I was thousands of pages behind, with Bleak House making up about eight hundred pages of that. Fortunately, I had already read some of the books, and I liked to read. Just not about bleak houses. If he were alive today, Dickens would probably write a book called This Sucks.
And I hoped it didn’t matter, because I wanted to swap advanced English for the journalism class.
I was seriously struggling to take in the class discussion until some girl on the front row raised her hand and said, “Mrs. Price, because I was curious, I did some research on spontaneous human combustion.”
My first thought was, kiss-up, but then the phrase spontaneous human combustion caught my attention. Human combustion?
“Very good, Vanessa,” Mrs. Price adjusted her bottle lens glasses so she could focus on Vanessa.
Vanessa, whose glasses mimicked Mrs. Price’s, looked exactly like the sort of girl who would do unassigned research.
“But the thing to note is even though we might not believe in spontaneous human combustion, Dickens did.” Mrs. Price settled her ample bottom on the edge of her desk. “A more important question might be why Dickens chose to employ this rather nasty end for poor Mr. Krook?”
No. That was not the important question. The important question was spontaneous human combustion?
Ryan raised his hand. “I think it was a simple way for Dickens to off a character.”
Off a character?
I put my hand on my forehead, trying to gauge my temperature. I found it pretty much impossible to think about anything else for the rest of the day.
#
When I got home, I found a plate of warm chocolate chip and butterscotch cookies on my nightstand next to a stack of books. I wondered about the cookies, but not for very long, because chocolate chip and butterscotch cookies were my absolute favorite. I didn’t see the note beneath the plate until I’d eaten about half of a cookie.
I know you must have questions. Perhaps these books will answer a few. Come to my house for lunch on Sunday. I’ll pick you up at 1:00. Birdie
The cookies were still warm, making me wonder when she’d come by. Mrs. Mateo hadn’t mentioned her dropping in.
I went to my door and stuck my head out. “Mrs. Mateo?”
No response. I looked out the window and spotted her in the yard, broom in hand. Opening the window, I called out to her. “Mrs. Mateo, did you talk to my grandmother?”
She looked up with a wide-eyed expression. “When? Why?”
I considered the second warm, gooey cookie in my hand. “Just now?”
Mrs. Mateo shook her head, made the sign of the cross over her heart, and went back to sweeping off the front walk.
I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled the books into my lap. A Little Night Magic, A History of the Ancient Arts, Spell Craft, Faery Foods. The last seemed to be nothing more than a cookbook, making me frown at the cookie in my hand. What if she’d put a spell on my cookie? She wouldn’t do that, would she? Of course, she would. But that didn’t mean it would do anything. Right?
I flipped through the books, intrigued by the spells and recipes. When I found a love potion, I stopped.
This, I decided, could be very interesting.
Mom had said Faith Despaign had a history steeped in superstition. Wishing that Birdie had sent me something on my school, I flipped through the books one last time before reaching for my laptop to email Mom. I didn’t bother with polite chitchat.
I have questions and I want you to answer all of them. I’ll number them, to make it easier for you.
1. Birdie—she’s a witch. What does that even mean?
2. Is Faith Despaign a witch school?
3. Birdie sent me a bunch of books with witch spells. I don’t know what to do with them.
4. Why didn’t you tell me about her?
5. So, she thinks she’s a witch. Is that really a reason to hate her?
I paused. The question I really wanted to know—no, needed to know—was this: was it possible I had somehow started the fire in the science room? Could I start a fire just by being angry?
Uncle Mitch would know, but I couldn’t ask him. That conversation would lead to panic. And I couldn’t ask my mom, either, because that would cause even more panic. But what if I really had burned down the science room? I’d be sent to juvie. I wouldn’t get into Yale.
What if I really could spontaneously combust like Mr. Krook in Bleak House? What if I burned down our house and killed more people than just Lizzy?
I took a deep breath; finished my message to Mom, pressed send, and typed in human spontaneous combustion. My fingers began to shake when the results appeared.
HOW SPONTANEOUS HUMAN COMBUSTION WORKS
In December 1962, a postman discovered the body of 94-year-old Mr. Joseph Riley in his Ohio home. Actually, only a part of Mr. Riley’s foot, presumably all that remained of his body, was found in a pile of ashes. A smoldering hole in the living room floor was the only clue, as the rest of the house remained perfectly intact.
Spontaneous human combustion. What is it? How does it happen? And why? No one really knows, but sadly, the strange case of Mr. Joseph Riley is not an isolated one. Several hundred others just like it have riddled mankind for centuries. Can humans spontaneously burst into flames? A lot of people think spontaneous human combustion is a real occurrence, but most scientists aren’t convinced.
In this article, we will look at the strange phenomenon of spontaneous human combustion, see what believers have to say about it and try to separate the scientific truth from the myths.
Spontaneous combustion occurs when an object—in the case of spontaneous human combustion, a person—bursts into flame from a chemical reaction within, apparently without being ignited by an external heat source.
The article went on
to describe a number of other grisly accounts. One look at the pictures and the cookies in my stomach began to roil.
I had a really hard time falling asleep that night.
#
Thankfully, it rained the next day, postponing my complete and utter humiliation on the tennis court and ruling out the possibility of setting anything on fire.
“Tomorrow,” Court promised, handing me her shoes before I got on the bus to go home. “We’ll stay after school. Mr. Jenson will let us borrow some racquets and balls if we tell him you want to try out for the team.”
“Try out for the team?” My voice squeaked. “You can’t be serious.”
Court nodded, looking very serious indeed. “I need a friend on the squad and I choose you. Besides, if you want to be cozy with the tennis captain, I can’t think of a better way.”
“Mr. Jenson isn’t going to let a total newbie be on the team,” I said, taking the shoes, because Court didn’t look as if she was going to let me leave without them.
“I don’t know what things were like at Hartly, but here, if you want to play, you’re on the team. We have such a skeleton squad that we’re always afraid of forfeiting because we won’t have enough players.”
Ryan bumped me with his shoulder, letting me know we had to get on. I followed him to a seat near the back.
“I have to get off on McCloud today,” I told him. “I’m going to voice lessons.”
“Voice lessons and tennis lessons,” he said. “You’re learning all kinds of stuff.”
But when I got off at McCloud, it became obvious what I really needed to learn was my way around Woodinville. Even though I had lived there for most of my life, I didn’t recognize this side of town.
CHAPTER SIX
I looked down at the address written on the slip of paper in my hand. I tried to keep it sheltered from the rain so the ink wouldn’t run into a blue mess. After double- checking the name of the street, I tucked it into my pocket. When I’d looked at the online map this morning, getting to Mrs. Olson’s house seemed easy enough. Of course, everything looks easier when you’re warm, dry, wearing jammies, and contentedly eating a blueberry muffin. Everything is so much worse when you’re wearing your new gray, wool, school uniform and it’s raining. Wet wool smells a lot like Scratch in the bathtub—and can I just say that skirts are dumb? And wearing a skirt in Connecticut in the fall is only slightly less dumb than wearing one in the winter.
The rain ran in small streams and soaked my shoes and socks, making me feel like I wore sponges on my feet. Right then, something happened that I thought never would. I actually missed Hartly’s saddle shoes. Yeah. It was that bad. The Faith Despaign Mary Janes had the saddle shoes beat in the fashion department, but style couldn’t keep my feet dry. I tucked my chin into the collar of my coat and trudged to the next street sign. French and McCloud. Where was Elm?
On a map, one street looks pretty much like another, but when you’re on foot you notice things—small things like cracks in the sidewalk, and graffiti on a shed, and big things like steep, take-your-breath-away hills. Shabby old houses lined the street. Behind the houses were railroad tracks.
I didn’t remember noticing railroad tracks on the map. I knew the tracks couldn’t lead me to Mrs. Olson’s house, but if I followed them, I’d make it to the station near the library. Mrs. Caddy, the librarian, would let me use a phone.
None of this would have happened, of course, if Uncle Mitch had let me bring my phone. Being without a phone was not only socially unacceptable, it was also dangerous. This, I decided, was a truly creepy part of town, probably full of rapists and drug dealers, and here I was, walking the streets. Because I had nothing of value to steal—like, you know, a phone—thugs would have to kill me. If I had a phone, they might be happy to just take that and leave me alone. But since I didn’t have a phone . . .
“You lost?” a ragged voice asked.
I wheeled around and spotted a tall woman standing on a porch shrouded by a blue plastic tarp.
She laughed, and her voice rattled, as if she had a cold. She wore gold platform shoes with three-inch heels, black fishnet stockings, cut off jean shorts, and a bright orange parka. She pointed the end of her glowing cigarette at me. “Need a ride somewhere?”
“Uh. No.”
“You sure?”
I pulled the piece of paper out of my pocket and checked the address. “Do you know where Hickory Street is?”
She shook her head and her dangly earrings swung back and forth. “But I got a map. Want to come in, get out of the rain?”
No. I did not.
I looked up and down the deserted street and considered the railroad tracks. I could try following them, but which way? And what if they crossed a trestle? And what if a train came while I was mid-trestle? Being caught on the railroad tracks was a lot more dangerous than walking without a phone.
The woman flicked her cigarette into the bushes where it sizzled and steamed. “I’ll go and get it.” She disappeared into the house, leaving the door open.
“That’s . . . nice of you,” I called out to her before crossing the spotty crab grass. I went to stand on her front porch to wait. It felt good to be out of the rain. Heat radiated from the open door. I edged closer, catching a look inside at the matted gray carpet and lumpy furniture. It reeked of overflowing ashtrays, cats and beer. I stepped away.
The woman reappeared, carrying a small map tucked beneath her arm while she lit up another cigarette. “You’re lost,” she told me. “The closest Elm is a long way away. You got someone who can give you a ride?” She studied at me with swimmy red eyes. “I’d offer you one, but the best I can offer is a bike.”
A bike? In a skirt? In the rain?
Uncle Mitch had a class. Wednesday was Mrs. Mateo’s day off. I decided to call Mrs. Henderson. Even if she couldn’t pick me up, maybe one of Bree’s older brothers or sisters could. A shirtless Josh flashed in my mind.
“Maybe you don’t want to go home. Maybe you’re running away.” The woman pointed her cigarette at me. “I’m guessing your life is in the toilet, and you’re thinking about flushing it all away. Listen to me, sister, it’s not worth it.”
I shook my head. “No . . . I’m just . . . trying to get to Mrs. Olson’s for a voice lesson.”
The woman straightened and light filled her eyes. “Are you an actor?”
“No . . . not really. Although, I’m filling in for my friend. She’s Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz at the Thornhill Theatre. I’m just a Munchkin. Or at least I was until Bree, my friend, broke her leg.” I was babbling. I had to stop, and I had to leave. Now.
The woman croaked a laugh. “Lucky break for you, huh?”
I swallowed. “I was okay being a Munchkin.” I swallowed again. “Did you say you have a phone?”
She flicked the ash off her cigarette, gave me a slow smile and turned back into her house.
I watched the rain beat into the grass, flattening it.
Moments later, the woman returned holding a blue, plastic cell phone.
I punched in Bree’s number, while the woman leaned against the house, watching me with her red swollen eyes.
“What’s your name, sister?”
“Evie,” I told her.
She jerked a thumb at her chest. “I’m Lauren Silver. I’m an actor, too.”
“Wow. I’m not really an actor. I want to get on the school newspaper.”
“I was almost big. Played on Broadway for years. Paint Your Wagon. Mousetrap.”
Bree picked up on the first ring.
“Bree, it’s me,” I said before she could say anything. “I’m lost. I was trying to get—”
“Who is this?” Lincoln. Why did he have Bree’s phone?
“It’s Evie. Go get Bree!”
“Hi, Evie. Bree’s at the doctor with my mom. Josh is home, want to talk to him?”
“Oh! Yes, please hurry.”
Closing my eyes, I felt waves of cold, wet frustration. Leaning back agains
t the house, I decided to change out of the soggy flats and into Court’s tennis shoes and pulled them from my bag. If I had to walk home, I could at least do it in dry shoes. In the background, the Henderson dogs barked while Lincoln handed Josh the phone.
“It’s Evie,” Lincoln said.
“Evie?”
I cradled the phone between my shoulder and ear. “Josh! I’m lost.”
“Where are you?”
“That’s part of being lost . . .” I looked at the woman. “Where am I?”
“67 Old Barn Road,” Lauren said.
I repeated the address. “Can you Google it and come and get me?”
I bit my fingernail waiting while he hesitated.
“I’ll have to bring the jeep.”
Discouragement settled in as I thought about the jeep’s bi-polar personality. I imagined Josh stuck in the middle of an intersection with cars and trucks pointing at him and blasting their horns. “Really?”
“It’s the only thing here that’s even sort of running. Oh, wait. The dirt bike.”
I looked out at the rain and the dark clouds. “The dirt bike?”
“We could wait for my mom to come home with the van, but she and Bree just left.”
I didn’t say anything for so long, Josh asked, “Evie?”
“I owe you, Josh.”
“Yeah. You will.”
“How long will it take for you to get here?”
“Google says fourteen minutes.”
“Fourteen minutes?”
He must have heard the desperation in my voice, because he said, “I’ll leave right now.”
Lightning zigzagged through a dark cloud. Seconds later, thunder boomed so loudly it rattled Lauren’s porch. I ducked inside, afraid the porch would fall and squash me. I shivered, more from fear than cold.
Unopened mail, fliers, and coupons lay scattered on the floor. Cigarette burns pocked the carpet and the brown velveteen sofa and chair. A black cat sat curled on the back of the sofa. He watched me with amber-colored eyes.
Lauren sat down and patted the cushion next to her. “I want to hear about this play you’re in.”
