The Peculiar Incident on Shady Street

by Lindsay Currie

  But none of that really matters. It doesn’t matter because the truth has clawed its way into my mind like the terrifying thing it is.

  Our new house is haunted.

  8

  Hi Rachel,

  Today is my first day of school and I’d kill to stay home. Actually, I take that back. I don’t want to stay home. There’s some weird stuff going on here. Scary weird. Sounds and flickering lights and things drawn into my sketchpad that I didn’t draw. Wish you were here to help me figure it out. Anyway, I’ll keep begging Mom and Dad for a phone because I’m dying to tell you all about it. Maybe it’s Casper LOL!

  Miss you.

  Love,

  Tessa

  P.S. Do you believe in ghosts? Real ones?

  The car rolls to a stop in front of Lincoln Park Elementary and I stare out the window at the swarm of students moving up the school’s front steps. Like everything else, the building is brick and the steps are cement. This is exactly how I imagine prisons might look.

  “When did you say the computer will be hooked up?” I ask. Part of me is stalling so I don’t have to get out of the car yet, but the other part of me really wants to know. I miss Rachel. It would be awesome to e-mail her my notes instead of having them pile up in my bag like this.

  “The computer is already hooked up, but it will be at least a few more days before we have Internet access. Why?” A flicker of concern crosses Dad’s face. “Are you worried about getting your homework done? Because I can explain to your teachers if you—”

  “No, it’s not that,” I say, trying for a smile I don’t feel like giving. Still. I promised myself I’d try not to be so grumpy about all this—for Mom and Dad—and I’m going to do it even if it kills me. “I’ll figure out the school stuff.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I miss Rachel.”

  The glass is half full smile Dad is always wearing fades. He leans over and gently tucks a chunk of hair behind my ear. “I know you do, sweetie. And I’m sorry. Somewhere in all the chaos, I think your mother and I overlooked how hard that would be. Leaving your best friend.”

  I blink a few times, tell my eyes not to even think about watering. It’s my fourth day in Chicago, my first day at a new school, and my best opportunity to make a good impression on the kids here. I can’t do that with watery eyes and a splotchy face.

  “You can use my phone any time you want,” Dad continues, leaning over to pat my leg. “Call Rachel. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to hear from you!”

  I’m sure she would, but I hate borrowing Dad’s phone. Actually, I hate borrowing anyone’s phone. It’s frustrating to feel like someone is waiting on me every time I talk to Rachel. Plus, there’re all the annoying chimes. E-mail, texts, calendar reminders . . . yeah, I need my own phone. Bad.

  “This is a good school, honey. I really think you’re going to like it here.”

  I nod as I watch a group of tiny kids racing toward the main door, lunch boxes in hand. They’re squealing as they run and I can’t help but think they sound like little sirens. Back in Fort Myers, I wouldn’t even have been in school with kids their age. Middle school students had their own building, with only sixth through eighth graders in it. According to Mom and Dad, here the schools have kindergarten through eighth grade all in one school. Huh.

  Dad taps an imaginary watch on his wrist. “Okay, kiddo. We’ve stalled enough. Get in there and have the best first day of school possible!”

  He presses down on my seat belt latch to release it. I shimmy out of the belt, my eyes trailing a girl with a streak of blue nestled in her black hair. She stops by the car and slowly looks me up and down through the window. Blue Streak Girl doesn’t look impressed.

  I buckle my seat belt again. “I can’t do this.”

  “Sure you can, Tess. You’re a Woodward. You’re strong and beautiful and . . .”

  I hold a hand in the air, hoping he’ll stop. I love my dad for trying to make me feel better, but I’m really just the new girl. One of probably two dozen who get stuck in this place every year.

  Dad’s face softens. “Listen, I know this is hard, and for the record, I owe you and Mom and Jonah a lot for doing it with me. Playing with this orchestra is a dream come true; kind of like if Mom got all those fancy art shops downtown to carry her paintings. It means a lot to me, honey, and I promise that once we get all settled in here, things will be great.”

  I clench my teeth together to keep from telling Dad what I really think. That his violin has just gotten us trapped in a real-life haunted mansion.

  Dropping a hand to the door handle, I sneak a quick glance into the backseat. Jonah is sound asleep in his car seat again. Reno is sitting beside him, half slumped over. “Don’t let him take that into school, Dad. He’ll get made fun of.”

  Dad looks thoughtful for a moment, then chuckles. “I agree with you on that one. I’ll keep Reno with me, tell Jonah I’m giving him a tour of Symphony Center while he’s in preschool.”

  He leans over and hugs me, pulling back quickly and sticking both palms in the air. “Too much? Have I crossed the parental line that shall not be crossed on school grounds?”

  I can’t help but laugh. He has no idea how many hugs I could use right now. “It’s okay, Dad. I’ll see you after school. If I survive.” Tossing open my door, I crawl out. Then I stay in that exact same spot and watch as he pulls away, waving the entire time.

  I should go into the school. I should go get this over with. Instead I find myself staring at a large sign in the front lawn that still reads WELCOME BACK TO SCHOOL even though summer break ended here almost a month ago. Guess they don’t get around to changing their signs very often in Chicago.

  “Hey! Florida!” A familiar voice breaks through the chatter of kids milling around me. It’s the boy from North Pond—Andrew. He’s wearing a plaid button-up shirt and a backward baseball cap.

  “Hi,” I say, grateful to see at least one familiar face. It’s better than nothing, anyway.

  He adjusts the backpack slung over his shoulder and smiles. The sun is hitting him just right for me to see the scattering of freckles across his nose. They kinda look like the Milky Way.

  “I didn’t know you were coming here. That’s awesome. You’re going to like it. Well, everything except for Mrs. Pollack, anyway. She’s, ahhh . . . grumpy.”

  Laughing, I remember how much everyone disliked Mr. Leon, the natural environments teacher back at my old school. While most of our teachers were young and had a lot of energy, he was older. Crankier. He spent more time picking food out of his mustache than actually teaching, too. Rachel called him Mr. Peon, which I eventually figured out means she didn’t think he was very smart.

  I hike my bag up and look at the steps. They’re emptying out; must be getting close to the first bell.

  Andrew catches me looking in the direction of the front door. “So, um, do you have a schedule yet?”

  “Yeah, somewhere.” I dig into my jeans pocket and come up with a wrinkled slip of yellow paper. Andrew takes it from my hand and flattens it against the railing at the base of the steps.

  “Do you know who any of those teachers are?” I ask, hoping his answer is yes. Planning ahead is kinda my thing and one of the characteristics that makes me so opposite my parents. While they prefer to “go where the wind blows us,” I like to have an agenda.

  Andrew smirks. “I know all of them. Why—you nervous, Surfer Girl?”

  “Of course not,” I lie. “And just because I’m from Florida doesn’t mean I’m a surfer girl.” The words sting a little coming out, like just imagining a gleaming-wet surfboard sitting in the sand is enough to make me homesick. I wasn’t a surfer there, but right now I’d give anything to go back and try.

  Andrew’s eyebrows wrinkle together as if he can sense my sadness. “Hey, you’re in my homeroom, so we can walk together.” He folds the schedule into fourths and hands it back before picking up his backpack. “We better get going, though, or we’ll be late.�
��

  I trail behind him, wondering who I’ve just aligned myself with. The athlete? The math geek? The slacker? Every school has them, but Andrew doesn’t really seem like any of those.

  He just seems nice.

  9

  I CURL MY TOES IN my sneakers and stare out into the sea of strange faces. I’m sure Mrs. Medina is going to be a fine teacher and all, but insisting that I get up in front of the class to “say a few words” about myself was a really rotten move. And on my first day!

  Andrew gives me a small nod from the corner. I try to smile back, but I’m too nervous.

  “My name is Tessa Woodward. I . . . uh . . . I just moved here from Florida.”

  Say something about myself? Done and done. I start heading back to my chair, freezing in my tracks as the teacher holds up a hand to stop me.

  “I’m sure there’s more to know about you than that, Tessa!” She smiles warmly. “Tell us more! Do you play any sports?”

  Slinking back into the center of the room, I shake my head. “No sports.”

  “Instruments?”

  “No.”

  “Dance?”

  “Ahhh, no.” I almost laugh at this. I’m the most uncoordinated person on the face of the earth. One time Rachel tried to teach me how to slow dance and after the fifth time I stepped on her, she said if she didn’t quit right then, she’d end up with a broken foot.

  “Anything else you’d like to share?” Mrs. Medina asks, her once-warm smile growing strained. The silence in the room is peppered with noticeable giggles. Blue Streak Girl scours me with her eyes.

  My cheeks flush. If I don’t do something fast, my whole make a good impression chance is going to go down the drain. They probably already think I’m boring! Maybe I should tell them I paint, or that my mother received dozens of awards for her art back home. That’s interesting, right?

  No. I need to stick to the plan. Sharing anything too personal on my first day is a bad idea. I’ll let the dust settle and figure out who’s who before I say anything risky.

  Think, Tessa. Don’t get labeled as a big ol’ yawn-fest.

  “I live on Shady Street now. It’s really different from where I used to live because it’s super-old and all.” My nerves are getting the better of me, making me jittery and tense, and it’s taking all my effort not to run back to my chair, whether or not Mrs. Medina wants me to. The way she’s looking at me is awful, like I’m under a microscope.

  Students are shifting in their seats, shooting each other looks I’d recognize in any city. They’re “the new girl is weird” looks, and if I’m not careful, I’ll get them for the rest of my years here. I gotta give them something else. Something safe.

  My heart beats faster and my hands go clammy. I really, really hate to improvise. The last time I was this nervous I completely lost control of my mouth and told my dentist about Rachel’s crush on Warner Higgins. I even told him how she wrote Rachel Higgins on the inside cover of her history book because she was bored in class. I didn’t mean to say it—I didn’t mean to say anything—but I guess babbling is my specialty.

  “I have a little brother—his name is Jonah,” I blurt. “My dad moved us here because he took first chair in the Chicago Symphony Orchestra with his violin. My mom is an artist. A really good one. And Chicago is pretty good so far, except for the cold . . . and the smell . . . and the rain, and . . . my haunted house.”

  All the air is sucked out of the room in one giant whoosh. A few snickers break the silence, and Mrs. Medina shifts uncomfortably. Glancing over toward Andrew, I notice that instead of nodding or smiling at me like he did earlier, he’s dropped his head into his hands.

  Uh-oh.

  * * *

  The smell of stale peanut butter mingled with something like gym socks wafts past me and I groan, plunking a banana down on my tray. I’d give anything to be somewhere else right now. Anywhere but this smelly, loud cafeteria.

  I close my eyes and imagine how great it would be to have a friend here. Just one friend. Andrew seems nice and all, but is he a friend? Maybe. Hopefully.

  Letting my eyes flutter open, I notice that the girl with the blue streak in her hair is sitting by herself two tables away. Her mouth is downturned, and her pale face is pinched like she just bit down on a lemon. As if she can sense me watching her, the girl’s eyes suddenly snap up to meet mine.

  “Can I help you?” Blue Streak Girl asks.

  Turning around to look behind me, I realize there’s no one there. She’s talking to me. I lift my brownish banana into the air. “Maybe. This banana is pretty hard to open.”

  I let out a weak laugh, hoping she’ll stop looking at me like I just fell out of a spaceship. She doesn’t. Instead, her eyes narrow into unfriendly slits. “Look, I know you’re new and all, but the staring thing is getting old.”

  I don’t know what to say. She’s not wrong; I have been staring. It’s just that I never realized how hard it would be to figure out brand-new people until I had to do it. I look back down at my tray, focus on opening my plastic silverware like it’s a serious task. It keeps me from having to look directly at her again.

  She lets out a long, tired-sounding sigh. “You’re the girl who said she lives in a haunted house, right?”

  “Maybe,” I respond coolly, hoping she can’t tell how upset I am. Doesn’t matter that I’m tired and scared and miss Rachel so bad it hurts. I still shouldn’t have said what I did. Haunted! Guess I have two things to work on now: staring and word vomiting.

  “Hey! Where have you been hiding?” Andrew appears, setting his tray down. There’s another boy with him, and a girl I haven’t seen before, too. The boy has a look of amusement plastered on his face, but the girl seems anxious. Her huge brown eyes are darting around like fish in a bowl and she’s gripping her backpack tight against her chest.

  I start to answer Andrew’s question but suddenly realize he isn’t talking to me. He’s talking to Blue Streak Girl. My mouth falls open, but I snap it closed before anyone notices.

  They know each other?

  “I haven’t been hiding. Just . . . busy,” she answers sharply. It doesn’t sound angry exactly, mostly just guilty. Like maybe there’s some truth to what Andrew is saying but she doesn’t want to admit it.

  “With what?” he presses.

  “Stuff.”

  “Stuff,” Andrew repeats flatly. “Since when do you have too much ‘stuff’ to go to a movie with us? Or to get gelato? Or—”

  Blue Streak Girl holds a hand up in the air. “Okay, okay. I get it. Jeez. I’ll be better.”

  Her words tumble out in a hushed tone. Andrew watches her skeptically. “If you say so. Because seriously, I have a hermit crab at home I see more than you lately.”

  With this, he pats the bench next to him for her to sit down. Wow. I struggle to keep the surprise out of my expression, but it’s hard. Andrew and Blue Streak Girl don’t just know each other.

  They’re friends.

  10

  “WHOA! YOU STILL HAVE JIMMY?” The boy who came in with Andrew exclaims, startling me. “That crab must be a hundred by now.”

  “Um, he’s five,” Andrew corrects. “And very proud to be on his seventh shell.”

  A hint of a smile plays on Blue Streak Girl’s lips. I would laugh at the whole crab-named-Jimmy thing with them, but I can’t. I’m too confused. So far, she’s the only bad thing about this school—other than the food—and finding out that she’s friends with Andrew is . . . I don’t know . . . disappointing.

  Andrew laughs and gestures to the friends who’ve taken up spots next to him. “Oh, Tessa—this is Richie Whitfield and his sister, Nina. They live just down the street from me.”

  Richie gives me a quick nod before stuffing a handful of soggy fries into his mouth. Nina smiles shyly, barely making eye contact. Now that I look at them closely, I realize that even though they’re not the same height—he’s tall and she’s short—their faces are similar. Same brown eyes, same brown hair—twins, ma
ybe?

  “Nice to meet you,” I say. It is nice to meet them. I could use more friends in this place.

  “And this is Cass Stone.” Andrew gestures toward Blue Streak Girl.

  Cass. I wonder if it’s short for Cassidy, and then realize I shouldn’t care. Mom would probably say her karma is terrible and that she’s giving off negative vibes. I say she’s flat-out rude.

  “We met,” she mumbles, barely taking her eyes off her tray. She reluctantly sets it down at our table and lowers herself to the seat.

  O-kay.

  “Tessa is new here. She’s from Florida,” Andrew continues. “I was thinking we could show her around and stuff. You know, educate her on which teachers allow gum in class and which ones don’t.”

  “I’m in,” Richie says. He tips to the side and bumps into his sister’s shoulder. She wobbles, catching her balance just short of toppling off the end of the bench. Most girls would probably punch him or something, but she settles for a quiet glare. “Nina is in, too.”

  “Awesome.” Andrew dramatically lifts a milk carton into the air. “I hereby proclaim this the beginning of Project Tessa. May she never embarrass herself in homeroom again!”

  A deep belly laugh erupts from Richie. Nina takes a break from glowering at him long enough to smile around a mouthful of sandwich. Cass, though—she looks even more irritated than she did before. Wordlessly, she begins stacking uneaten food up on her tray.

  I can’t help it . . . I open my mouth again even though I know it’s a bad idea. “Aren’t you going to eat any of that?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  She straightens her hunched shoulders and looks me straight in the eyes. “Why do you care?”

  Andrew’s face falls. “Cassidy.”

  She shoots him a death glare. “Stay out of it, Andrew.”

  Sighing, he holds both palms up in the air as if he’s surrendering. Maybe he is. She does look pretty frustrated.

  “I didn’t say I care. I’m just curious,” I say. It’s the truth. Something tells me Cass isn’t as tough as she wants me to think. More than anything, she seems sad.