The Peculiar Incident on Shady Street

by Lindsay Currie

  Cassidy stands up with a huff. Her tray is clutched in white-knuckled hands, and I notice for the first time that her arm is covered in multicolored silicone bracelets. They look way too cheerful to be on her wrist.

  “Look, I’m late to meet Ms. Geist. I gotta go. Maybe I’ll catch you guys later.”

  Andrew, Nina, and Richie mumble out their goodbyes. Their eyes bounce around the table, silently questioning each other. Probably trying to figure out what’s wrong with their friend.

  Friend. I’m still not over it.

  Cass shoves the contents of her tray into the trash and stalks away. Even though she didn’t say it, it’s obvious I’m the reason she’s upset. So much for this day getting better. So far I’m enjoying it about as much as the nasty sewer smell on Shady Street.

  I poke at my banana, wondering if Cassidy will hate me forever. I remember last year when two eighth-grade girls decided their life goal was to make Rachel miserable. Writing on her locker, tossing random food onto her tray at lunchtime, and giggling about her every chance they got . . . they were awful.

  Fortunately, Rachel is the strongest person I know. I still smile when I think about the way she turned the tables on them. One day, her great-grandfather showed up at school and talked at an all-grades assembly about their family’s Native American roots. He discussed local legends and even told some of the bedtime stories he’d heard as a child, growing up on a reservation.

  Then he talked about the curses.

  I swear he looked directly at those mean girls while he described the ancient curses, a tiny smirk hiding in his wrinkles as their eyes widened with each word. Of course he told everyone at the end it wasn’t real, that the curses were nothing more than myths, but those two girls never bothered Rachel again. They never so much as looked at her.

  She won. So can I. I reach up and touch the locket around my neck, telling myself I can be like Rachel if I need to be. I can survive this place. Sadness claws around in me as I run my fingers across the smooth metal. I miss her.

  “Hey, don’t let Cassidy bother you. She’s . . . well, I’m not sure what she is right now. She’s moody, I guess.”

  Moody? More like murderous. That girl seemed out for blood.

  “So she’s not normally like that?” I press Andrew for more information. “Angry, I mean?”

  He arches one blondish eyebrow at me. “No. Not at all. Cassidy has been our friend for a long time. Since second or third grade, actually. But something is up because lately she hasn’t hung out with us as much.”

  “When?” I ask.

  “When what?”

  “When did she stop hanging out as much?”

  Andrew looks thoughtful. “I don’t really know. Guess I didn’t pay attention. A few weeks ago, maybe? She just always had something else to do or somewhere else to be. So weird.”

  Even though it shouldn’t, his comment makes me feel a little better. If Cassidy started acting weird a few weeks ago, it can’t be just me that’s bothering her. I wasn’t even here yet! Though, based on the way she looked at me—like I’m a big fat mosquito buzzing around—I’m still part of the problem. I just don’t know why.

  I sink lower on the bench, feeling glum. It’s then that I notice it . . . the look on Richie’s face. His eyes have skipped back across the cafeteria to where Cassidy is still standing. He gives her a look—something I can’t quite read—and she rolls her eyes back at him. Richie just sighs and looks down at his tray.

  What was that all about?

  11

  I’M STILL TRYING TO FIGURE out what the silent communication between Richie and Cassidy was when Andrew scoots closer to me on the bench, so close that I can smell the cheese sauce from his nachos. “So. About the haunted house.”

  “Nope. Not talking about this.” I go to stand up but he puts a hand on my arm, dragging me back down. “Seriously, I shouldn’t have said that. I was . . . I was just trying to be interesting. It isn’t true.”

  “I saw your face, Tessa. You meant it. Your eyes were huge.”

  I’m opening my mouth to tell him he’s wrong when I realize that would be lying.

  Andrew’s lip curls up into a satisfied smile. “You can rule out a career in professional poker, FYI. You are a terrible liar.”

  “I know.”

  “So why are you trying to make me believe that you didn’t mean any of that?”

  I shrug and exhale. I don’t really know the answer to this, other than to say that I’m afraid of what Andrew will think if I tell him the truth. That there’s a mysterious box drawn in my sketchpad, my own bathroom went berzerko on me, and I’m scared every time I walk through the door of my new house. It makes me sound dramatic. Actually, it makes me sound like a lunatic.

  “My mom used to think our house was haunted,” Richie offers. “She said she heard all kinds of crazy things. It was scaring her.”

  I watch him carefully for any sign that he’s baiting me—trying to get me to talk so he can make fun of me—but I see nothing. He looks serious.

  “Yeah, that’s happening in my place. What did you guys do?”

  Richie guzzles the rest of his milk, then goes to open the second of three cartons on his tray. The guy must really like white milk. “We called an exterminator. Turned out there were rats in our walls. Big black ones with teeth so long and yellow my mom fainted when they showed her.”

  I wince and look back down at my tray. I’m not thrilled to hear about the yellow-fanged rats in his house, but it gives me hope. Maybe the noises Mom heard were just some kind of rodent. But that still doesn’t explain the box drawn on my sketchpad . . . or the way the bathroom turned on me.

  “I don’t think the things happening my house can be explained by rats. Or bugs or birds or anything else that could get in and make noise.” I pause, unsure of how much to actually share with them. “I do a little drawing . . . I mean, I’m kind of an artist. Whatever is making the noises in my house also drew something in my sketchpad.”

  Silence. A lone fry dangles from Richie’s lips, and if it’s possible, his mute sister’s eyes open even wider. Andrew picks at the last of the nachos on his tray for a few long moments, then pushes it away and focuses on me.

  “I knew I saw you drawing down by the water the other day. I wanted to come over and talk, but my dad had a work meeting so we had to leave.” He pauses thoughtfully and then looks me in the eyes. “What did they draw?”

  I think back to the perfect right angles and the unbelievable shading. Even now, it gives me goose bumps. “A box.”

  “Anything in it?” Ritchie asks, swapping his last white milk for his sister’s chocolate. I haven’t seen her eat a thing off her tray yet.

  I shake my head. “Nope. It’s empty. But there’s this painting on the wall in my hallway that keeps changing, too. Like the colors get darker or the picture gets sadder or something.”

  I can’t believe I’m telling them this.

  “Where do you live again?” Andrew asks.

  “Shady Street. Not far from the pond where I met you.”

  Andrew runs a hand through his shaggy hair, leaving it standing on end. “I live close to there. On Surf. Maybe we could come over sometime. Take a look around with you.”

  “Definitely. Thanks.”

  “This neighborhood used to be a graveyard.” Nina’s voice comes out of nowhere, startling me.

  She finally said something!

  Nina’s huge eyes are focused on me now, like saucers of brown paint. If I had to classify them in pastel terms, I’d say they’re cocoa bean. They remind me a little of sea oats, only a few shades darker.

  “Seriously?” Ritchie asks. “How would you know that?”

  “I read about it,” Nina says matter-of-factly. The shyness in her expression has disappeared and now she looks almost . . . excited. “Back in the eighteen hundreds, the people who were buried there started coming—well, they started coming back up.”

  “What?” I ask. “Coming back up?” Th
e chill that digs into my body every time I think about my house is back.

  “Ugh. God, again, Nina?” Richie moans. “Enough with all this paranormal crap.”

  Nina exchanges an annoyed glance with her brother before continuing. “The bodies were buried too close to the lakefront. The moisture in the soil started making the graves all loose and stuff, so the dead people kind of—”

  “Kind of what?” Andrew interrupts. I can feel icy fingers along my spine and I have to force myself to stay seated. Truth is, I want to get up and walk out.

  “They didn’t stay buried for long. Let’s put it that way. Most of the bodies were eventually dug up and taken to a graveyard up north. They’re still there, if you want to go look sometime.”

  “Walk around a creepy old cemetery?” I ask her. “No thank you.”

  Andrew looks thoughtful but stays quiet. Richie has abandoned his fries and is looking at me intently. Like he’s not sure whether or not he even wants to stay sitting at my table. Like maybe having a haunted house is contagious.

  Nina shrugs and looks back down at her tray. Her long brown hair shifts like a curtain around her face, hiding her fishbowl eyes. Seeing her get so shy again makes me feel bad, but I really don’t want to go wandering around a bunch of tombstones with her.

  “Thanks for telling me all that, though. You never know, maybe one or two of those bodies didn’t get relocated.” I laugh nervously. The idea is nasty.

  “Twelve thousand. Around twelve thousand bodies are still in the ground underneath the Lincoln Park neighborhood. Well, and parts of Gold Coast.”

  “Under my house?” I practically scream.

  Nina shoots me a disturbingly serious look. “Under all of ours.”

  12

  EVERY GOOD ARTIST DOES SOME research before starting a big project. Two years ago, Mom painted for over four months on the same scene: a view of the harbor just down the road from our house. She went there almost every day, looked at it from all different angles and in lots of different light before deciding on one. Thanks to her research, the one image she chose to paint was perfect.

  I’m beginning to think Nina has done some of the research I need to solve the mystery of what’s happening in my new house. I just don’t know why.

  Andrew is jogging just ahead of me, waving back at me to hurry up. “C’mon, Tessa! Move it! The bell already rang.”

  Pulling the crumpled yellow schedule out of my pocket, I try to read it and watch where I’m going at the same time. Two crashes later, I realize it isn’t possible. “You’re in this class with me, too?”

  “Yup. And last period. But if we don’t get in there fast, Mrs. Abrams will lock the door.”

  Lock the door? Jeez. This lady must be really serious about—I take a quick glance down at my schedule—gym? “How can she be that insane over gym? Isn’t it Ping-Pong and push-ups and wall ball?”

  Andrew laughs. It’s a great sound. “She’s ex-military. At least that’s the rumor. She came back from some assignment overseas and got a job here,” he huffs out.

  Pictures of a stern woman with a brush cut flash through my mind. I shake them off and refocus on trying to memorize the route we’re taking. Eventually I’ll have to be able to do this on my own.

  The doors to the gym swing open and I breathe a little easier. It would be awful to get locked out of one of my classes on my very first day. Well, on any day, I suppose. I’ve never been a straight-A student, but I always do okay.

  We’re just about to go our separate ways—me to the girls’ locker room and Andrew to the boys’—when I pull him to a stop beside me. “What’s the deal with Nina? She seems nice and all, just a little—”

  “Weird?” he offers up with a smile.

  “Maybe a little. My best friend back in Florida knew a lot about Pokémon, but I’ve never known anyone who knew so much about graveyards before.”

  “Yeah, she’s always been different. She and Richie are twins, but they’ve always been opposites. He’s loud and she’s quiet.”

  I think about this, remembering how her eyes went from nervous and shy to excited all at once. “Twins, huh? Weird.”

  Andrew shrugs. “Weird is right. I’ve never met any two people who’re more different than them. Hard to imagine they shared the same stomach for nine months!”

  I laugh at the thought. Richie was probably stretching out and taking up all the space in there while Nina was glaring at him. “I hope she didn’t think I was being rude or mean or whatever. She just surprised me with all that stuff.”

  “Nah, she’s fine. Probably was happy you didn’t laugh at her.”

  “I hope you’re right. Hey, um . . . I’m sorry about earlier. With Cassidy.”

  “What are you sorry about?” he asks, one hand on the doorknob of the locker room.

  I sneak a glance at the freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheeks. They aren’t as obvious as they were when he was standing in the sun earlier, but they’re still there. Still intergalactic.

  “I don’t know. It just seemed like I upset her somehow. Like maybe there’s something about me she doesn’t like.”

  “She doesn’t even know you, Tessa.”

  “I know. But—”

  Andrew shakes his head, cutting me off. “Don’t. Cassidy is nice. I promise. I don’t know why she’s acting so strange, but I know it isn’t about you.”

  If that’s true, why does it feel like it is? I ask silently. The way Cassidy reacted to me in the cafeteria wasn’t the way most people react to a new girl—a girl they don’t know. It was the way my mom reacts to commercials for Chia Pets.

  She was annoyed.

  “Do you think she’ll tell Richie? I mean, do you think she’ll tell him what’s bothering her?” I hold my breath, hoping for a clear yes. It’s not like I’m obsessed with making Cassidy like me or anything, I just want things to be better here at school than they are at home. I’ve already got a haunted house to worry about; the last thing I need is a mean girl, too.

  Andrew shrugs. “Maybe. They’re pretty tight. Science nerds, you know?”

  Science nerds. No, I do not know. And I’m confused. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean they’re both really into science. They’re even in a club together after school. Meets once a week, I think.”

  Interesting. The thought makes me feel hopeful. If Richie and Cassidy are in a club together, there’s definitely a chance that she’ll confide in him. Tell him why she’s so upset and if it’s because of me.

  “We better get changed. See ya after class?” Andrew asks hopefully, and I nod.

  I’m beginning to think I wouldn’t have made it through my first day without him. Or his freckles.

  * * *

  The front door swings open with a bang, revealing a neat row of boxes in our living room where an enormous pile used to be. I slide off my jacket and drop my backpack.

  “So it wasn’t too bad, then, huh?” Dad asks as he shuts the door and drops his car keys on the small round table. It’s our junk table and came here with us from Florida. An artist friend of my mom’s carved it out of driftwood years ago and we’ve used it ever since.

  “It wasn’t bad. Just . . . different,” I say, remembering that the only bad part of my day was that Cassidy girl and my accidental haunted house outburst.

  Dad throws an arm around me and tugs me to his side. “It will get better, Tess. Much better. Just give it time.”

  A loud crash in the kitchen breaks our attention and Dad takes off, leaving me behind. The moment he disappears through the door, a gust of chilly air shoots up the back of my shirt. I turn back and notice that the front door is standing wide open.

  I peek into the hallway hesitantly. Empty. I watch the sidewalk through the front window for a second, bewildered. I know Dad shut and locked that door when we stepped in. I heard the giant dead bolt sliding into place. So why is it back open now?

  “Tessa, can you come in here?” Dad calls from the other room. I lock th
e door and head in that direction, looking back two different times on my way to make sure it isn’t open again.

  It’s starting. I can feel it.

  The kitchen is bright and there are dozens of utensils lined up on the countertops. Spatulas, knives, and can openers gleam in the overhead lighting. Mom is on the floor, digging frantically through a box. Wild curls of hair are falling loose from the bun at the nape of her neck, and she’s sweating.

  “Oh, good . . . the more eyes the better. Tessa, have you seen my watercolors?” she asks, her tone hopeful.

  I shake my head. “No. But why would they be in a kitchen box?”

  “They shouldn’t be,” she breathes out, obviously tired and frustrated. “I’m looking here now because I’ve searched everywhere else. They were so expensive; I’m really worried they didn’t make it!”

  Dad puts an arm around her shoulder and smiles gently. “I’m sure they’re here somewhere, Lily. We’ll split up and look if we need to.”

  “Are you on a deadline?” I ask. There have been times when Mom has been “commissioned” to do a painting of something specific. It would be horrible if her supplies went missing before one of those deadlines.

  Mom grips the edge of the island and pulls herself to her feet. Even under stress, she looks beautiful. Bright blue eyes, wild hair, and pink cheeks—she’s the prettiest mom I know.

  “Thank goodness, no. I wrapped up the projects for all my clients in Florida before I left.” She does a tight one-eighty to look around the room one last time. “I’m sure they’ll turn up.”

  I glance around the room, noting that there’s still a sea of boxes. “You’re positive they aren’t in one of these?”

  “Positive,” she says, huffing a chunk of hair out of her eyes. “Everything else is here. The brushes, the canvases. Even my backup brushes!” Mom lifts a scraggly-looking brush in the air and shakes her head. Her face is drawn tight with confusion.

  I lift the flap of the nearest box and peer inside. This one is filled with Tupperware. Mom has dozens of watercolors—probably close to a hundred. I don’t get how they just . . . disappeared.