by Kirsten Rue
The Unofficial Secret Keeper of Halsey School
Tales of the Uncool
Copyright © 2015
Published by Scobre Educational
Written by Kirsten Rue
Illustrated by Sara Radka
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner whatsoever
without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles and reviews.
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Cover and layout design by Jana Ramsay
Copyedited by Renae Reed
ISBN: 978-1-62920-146-7 (Soft Cover)
ISBN: 978-1-62920-145-0 (Library Bound)
ISBN: 978-1-62920-144-3 (eBook)
Table of Contents
Chapter 1 A Warning
Chapter 2 Tearful Truth
Chapter 3 Pramila
Chapter 4 News
Chapter 5 Ripping Off the Band-Aid
Chapter 6 Retirement
A Warning
I wake up from a nightmare. I’m twisting in my covers; they feel like heavy weights and are scratching my arms. My pillow is damp with sweat. The beams from cars driving by on the street outside seem like searchlights trying to find me. My chest is tight. I’m taking deep breaths, heaving in and out. It’s like I’m drowning or something. On the nightstand beside my bed, my clock blinks. 12:03. Breathe in. Breathe out. 12:04. In. Out.
Finally, at 12:06, the room starts to look real again.
The car headlights are just headlights. The shapes surrounding me start to make sense, too. That pale ghostly figure floating in space is actually just a white towel hanging from the back of the door. The dark hole to the other side of my bedroom is nothing but the shadow underneath my desk. Phew. I can see the little white light on the top of my cellphone pulsing on and off. I watch it for a while and that helps me calm down even more. You just have to breathe, I remind myself. Oxygen makes you calm. I think one of our science teachers at Halsey said that once.
As my pounding heart goes back to normal and my breathing slows down, I start to think about my nightmare. What WAS that?! Ugh. That dream was just . . . creepy. I switch on my bedside light and sit up. My nightshirt is soaked with sweat and I pull it off right away. Grody. I hate dirty clothes or things that don’t look right. I toss it towards the clothes basket, wincing when it doesn’t quite make it. That’s going to bother me all night.
This dream was one I’ve had before . . . but worse. It started out funny. My best friend Tina and I had to go to drama class, but every time we opened a door in one of the Halsey School doorways, we had to go down a playground slide to get there. Then, when we’d get to the bottom of one slide, another hallway would appear. We’d have to try all over again. Slide after slide. They were never-ending! They were the really twirly kind, too. Like the kind you can slide down at water parks.
Tina kept grabbing the top of my hoodie and saying, “I’m going here for my birthday party!”
Then, suddenly, Tina was gone. It was just me in one of those same long hallways where every classroom looked exactly the same. None of them had pictures and artwork taped to the front like the doors at Halsey. I opened one door and heard the sound of a girl crying, really hard. After that, I opened one across the hall, and this time, a man was complaining to me.
“I try and I try,” the deep voice said, “but nothing is ever good enough for you.”
The more doors I opened in the hallway, trying to escape, the more voices would burst out. And they were all unhappy voices. Angry people. Sad people. Annoyed people. Some of them were even whispering.
“I took it, okay,” whispered a female voice. “I took it and I hid it in the closet.”
I mean, talk about creepy! No matter how hard I tried to close the doors, the voices wouldn’t go away.
They just kept getting louder and multiplying until Dream Me sat down on the hallway carpet. Dream Me put his hands over his ears and shouted, “Shuuuutttt upppppppp!” And that’s right when I woke up.
Weird, right? The thing is, though, I don’t really need anyone’s help decoding this dream. I know exactly whom the voices belong to. One of them is my Dad, a few months ago, when he and mom tried living apart for a while. Another one is a girl at school who confessed that she steals clothes sometimes from her older sister. And even Tina’s in there, complaining about our teachers and her mom and this scary health problem she has.
You might say: “Hey, if you don’t want to hear these weird confessions and complaints, then just don’t listen.” Easier said than done—that’s all I have to say about that. I mean, I don’t want to know any of these things. Sometimes people just need to talk; sometimes people just need a friend. I guess I give off a vibe that makes kids and adults comfortable. They finally let their guards down. They talk. And I’m stuck there, listening. Who knows why? I guess it’s my gift . . . or curse. All I know is, that dream was definitely trying to tell me something. I think it’s a warning.
Tearful Truth
Usually I beat Tina to the Halsey doors every morning. Today she’s actually there first. She’s standing right inside the entrance, tapping her left foot furiously. When I first met Tina at camp last summer, I thought she was totally shy. Her hair was always over her face and it seemed like she was usually embarrassed about something. Well . . . let’s just say she’s come out of her shell since we’ve become friends. Um, not even just come out of her shell, but more like cracked it from the inside and then stomped it into a million tiny pieces. She laughs more now and holds her head up higher, which is good. And, also? She never stops talking . . . at least to me.
“Julian!” she says impatiently as I open the door. “Come on! Ohmigosh, I have SO much to tell you about this morning.” She grabs my elbow and pulls me inside the school. As we march towards our lockers at her brisk pace, she keeps talking. “So, first, my mom was like, ‘I don’t think you can go to camp if you don’t have a better report card.’ And I had to tell her, I mean, you know what I told her . . .”
“Um, I do?”
“Yeah, obviously. You remember yesterday? We talked about it for, like, twenty whole minutes.”
“Oh . . . yeah.” (The truth is, I don’t remember that at all, but with Tina, you’ve just gotta go along with it.)
“ANYWAY, like I was saying, I told her that whole thing about how I asked for extra credit, and guess what?”
I start to ask, “What?” but Tina is too impatient to finish her story.
“She was actually okay with it! I mean, I did NOT expect that. She is SO strict. But she said that she’s glad that camp means so much to me. She’s glad I have goals.”
“Oh, well, that’s awesome!”
“But,” Tina adds, grabbing my arm dramatically as we reach my locker. “That’s not all. That was just the start of this morning. Because then, on my way to school . . .”
At this point, I suddenly remember the bizarre dream I had the night before. I know Tina likes talking about dreams and what they mean. She even has one of those dream dictionaries where you can match your dream to an explanation. For example, in Jan
uary, I had a dream where I lost three teeth, and Tina looked it up. She said it meant I was anxious about something, and she was probably right, because that was right when my dad went on his “trip.” I was worried he wouldn’t be coming back. I never even told Tina about him leaving. My best friend. If I told her now, she’d probably be mad that I didn’t fill her in in the first place. Kind of a lose/lose situation if you ask me. Anyway, as I think about my dream now, I want to tell her and see what she has to say. At the very least, maybe she can help me figure out how to get people to stop sharing their secrets with me all the time.
“Dude, I had the craziest dream last night,” I start as I grab my textbooks and notebooks for class.
“Julian! You interrupted me right in the middle of my story!” Tina pouts.
“Uh . . . you mean something else happened on your way to Halsey?”
“Duh! That’s what I was saying! Now I totally lost my spot.” She scowls, and right then, the first bell rings. No time to finish either conversation. I have to go straight to English and she has to go straight to health. I sigh. From waking up in a cold sweat last night, to right now, this day is off to a rocky start.
At least I don’t know anyone in Mr. Mahoney’s English class. I guess that might sound weird, but it kind of makes me feel relaxed to just slide into my seat and look at words for an hour. The only class I like more is choir class. No talking. Just singing and listening to the blend that voices make together.
Mr. Mahoney’s voice stretches on and on. I can feel myself slipping into a daydream. I think about all the doors I opened in my dream last night and start doodling a picture of a door.
“So, what do you think is the main image in this poem?” Mr. Mahoney drones in the background. I feel my eyes start to get heavy and my elbow begins to slide towards the edge of my desk. No one will notice if I just close my eyes for a second, right? The main image of the poem . . . the main image of the poem . . .
“Pssst!” a girl sitting next to me pokes me in the ribs. “You’re falling asleep!”
I sit up and try to concentrate again.
“Thanks,” I whisper back to the girl. She has bright, shiny eyes and smooth hair. She looks kinda familiar. Glancing down, I notice the heart charms she’s wearing on her sneakers, and I realize that she’s one of the Sweets. Talk about your typical mean girls. I’ve never had much of a problem with them, but DON’T get me started on Tina’s battle with Stella Sweet, the leader of them all. I do not want to go there again. I’m usually pretty reluctant to talk to any “Sweet.”
As Mr. Mahoney continues to write different poem images on the board, I try to wake myself up. I pinch the skin on one of my arms. I bet grown-ups don’t have to sit around pinching their own arms. They just have to drink coffee to stay awake. I start to realize, though, that the girl sitting next to me is still looking at me. I flush a little bit. Is it possible I have something gross going on, like toothpaste on my chin or something? I mean, why else would she be looking at me like that? And wait, what’s going on . . . I can’t believe it, but it almost looks like she has tears in her eyes!
Uh oh. Now I know what’s coming. This girl wants to talk to me. English class has been contaminated, too.
I know I’m right when the bell finally rings and we start gathering our stuff. Mr. Mahoney is already leaving the classroom in a rush. Tina told me that he goes outside during breaks to smoke by the side door. Somebody else told me that he has to take a very important medication every two hours. I wouldn’t exactly count on any story that gets spread around Halsey School. Usually you start with one side of the story—like someone having to go home sick with a headache—and end up with a story about that same guy actually being arrested and taken to jail in handcuffs. I mean, seriously. It can get twisted.
Anyway, back to why I know I’m right: The girl whose eyes were all shiny in class grabs my arm. Most of the other kids have already left class, so she knows we’ll be alone.
“Julian, right?” Her chin wobbles.
I nod, embarrassed by her tears.
“I know we’ve never actually met,” she starts, looking down, tears balanced like perfect mini-globes on her eyelashes, “but my friend Steph told my friend Lotte who told me that you are really . . . nice. And a good listener.”
Now, I know this might seem ungrateful to you, ‘cuz you might think, “Hey, a cute girl is talking to you and thinks you’re ‘nice.’” But you wanna know what I’ve found out? “Nice” can sometimes mean the same thing as “walk-all-over-me.” Plus, Tina is about the only friend I can handle right now. I finally realize who this girl is, though—her name is Dana, and I think she joined the Sweets pretty recently. Those friends— Steph and Lotte—are definitely not Sweets (a.k.a. the Most Popular Girls in School). I bet she doesn’t even talk to them anymore. Some friends from fifth grade
never make it past the Cool Test in sixth grade. I think that’s probably what happened with Dana’s friends.
“Um, I have to go to my next class,” I say, trying to escape, but she grabs my arm again.
“The second bell’s still ten minutes away. Please?!”
“Okay fine, what’s up?” I ask, sitting back down in my desk. Dana sits back down, too. I really AM too nice, and now I’m going to be late for my next class.
“I think—” Dana begins, looking down really hard at her desk. “I think I chose the wrong friends.” She sniffles a little bit. I go up to Mr. Mahoney’s desk and grab her a Kleenex from the box he keeps there. She blows her nose into it, and it’s not exactly the small, ladylike sniffle I was expecting. This is more like a “HONK!” Take my word for it: serious snot.
“Ew!” she says sheepishly. “Sorry about that. I have a cold.”
“No worries.” I really hope she’s going to wash her hands before going to her next class. That’s how germs get spread!
“So, it all goes back to first grade . . .” Dana begins. Oh, brother . . . if we’re starting at first grade, this is going to be a looonggg conversation. She confides that she grew up on the same street as Steph and Lotte. They went to daycare together. They did everything together. And then she started at Halsey School. “At first I was flattered when Stella and those other girls paid attention to me. I really was.”
“Uh huh.” My eye keeps flicking to the clock. You know how I told you that it bothers me when things are out of order? Well, being on time is for sure one of those things. I absolutely hate being late and how all the other kids stare at you when you open the door. Plus, it always seems like the door is extra creaky when you’re late. It creaks like one of those doors in a horror movie.
“But now . . .” Dana continues. “I just feel stupid. Like, why did I get so fooled by those girls? I miss Steph. I miss Lotte. They won’t even look at me in the hallways now.” She starts to sniffle again.
Other kids start to file back into Mr. Mahoney’s class for second period. The second bell is about to ring. I stand up. “Look, Dana, I’m sorry, but I really need to go.”
She stands up, too, and smiles at me, even though her chin is still wobbling just a little bit. “Thank you,” she says. “I feel a lot better now.” She reaches into her pocket and hands me a wrapped peppermint. “They’re my favorite.” And with that, she’s gone.
I try to sprint to my next class, the hard carpet full of static electricity beneath my running feet. That’s the other funny thing about being the Unofficial Secret Keeper of Halsey School: No one actually wants advice. They just want to talk. And, for some reason, even though they don’t even know me, they assume they can trust me. It’s like, how many secrets can one person take before they just explode?
Pramila
At home after school, I think about my dream again. My dad has actually been back for more than a month now. I’m not really sure where he was staying because whenever I spent time with him, it was in a public place. We got ice cream and another time we went to a basketball game. I know a lot of guys would think that’s awesome, but the
truth is, I’m not really into sports. If I’m being 100 percent honest, I would rather have gone to a concert or something. I think Dad realized I wasn’t exactly enjoying the game.
I could tell he was nervous because there was so much to say. And I was nervous because I thought that if Dad could tell that I wasn’t having any fun, he might start thinking that maybe he really should stay away. I felt nervous that somehow, something I might do would lead him to his inal decision.
Of course Mom told me things weren’t like that at all. “It has nothing to do with you,” she always says. “Marriage is a really tough thing, and you know, one thing about me is that . . .”
This is where I usually start tuning her out. It’s like c’mon, Mom, not you, too! Sometimes I just want to be a kid. Maybe I just want to be allowed to talk about my feelings! I know grown-ups can be kinda boring, but they DO have friends, right? I always wonder why my mom can’t just call her sister or her friend Bess when she really wants to talk to someone. Like Tina would say, “Geez, Mom, over-share, why don’t you!?”
Now, I’m in my room with my door closed, about to put on my headphones and just relax. I know Mom and Dad are in the kitchen because I can hear the undertone of their voices, talking quietly. That’s what I want to tune out, though. What if they’re having another Serious Discussion out there? What if Mom starts crying or Dad raises his voice? Every time I walk in the front door, I feel the muscles of my shoulders clench together. It’s like I’m walking on a tightrope, and I’m just hoping I won’t fall. Or, it’s like in choir, when you want to hit a certain note, but until you open your mouth and sound comes out, you’re not really sure you will hit that note at all.
Just as I get my headphones in and press “play,” I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. It’s Tina.
Where were u after school 2day?
Are u mad at me?
That’s so Tina. She can’t wait to hear back from one text, so she sends two or three within seconds of each other. The girl has lightning fingers or something.
