by H. R. Hobbs
Suddenly, he remembered the attic. His stomach tightened for a different reason. The only time he could remember Pops being mad at him was when he was nine. Pops caught him going up to the attic. He’d never forget Pops’s angry words, telling him he wasn’t allowed up there. Or the way Pops’s eyebrows had come down to form a straight line of displeasure on his face. He remembered his parents being shocked at the fierceness of Pops’s anger but agreeing he shouldn’t be up there. From that time on, the door had remained locked. It was the one place that had been off-limits whenever they visited. It didn’t matter how much he begged Pops to go up there, the answer was always a firm “No.”
But now he was alone in the house. Who was going to stop him?
Sitting up, he listened for any sound that indicated he wasn’t alone. Just silence.
He crept into the hallway and peeked over the bannister to the floor below and listened. Still nothing. He snuck over to the door that led up to the attic. With one more look over his shoulder, he turned the knob—and was surprised that the door was unlocked.
The hinges creaked as he opened the door. A trickle of apprehension ran down his spine. It was the same one he got the time Pops had caught him. “There’s nothing up there for little boys,” he’d said, closing the door with a sharp snap.
But Pops wasn’t here to stop him this time.
He pulled the door open and looked up the stairway that led to the attic. Dust danced in the faint light. Each stair was cluttered with old magazines, boxes, and shoes. A thick layer of dust coated the only wood that was visible on the stairs. Mitch waved at the dust that tickled his nose. From the bottom of the stairs, everything above cast menacing shadows.
Bracing his hands on each side of the stairway, Mitch placed his foot on the first step. The wood groaned under his weight. As he was about to take another step, he could feel a sneeze building in his sinuses. Positive he was still alone in the house, he let it go.
“Aaachoo!”
More dust rose and floated up from the objects on the stairs. Afraid to sneeze again and create a bigger dust storm, Mitch held his breath and picked his way up the stairs.
When he reached the top, he sucked in a deep breath through his mouth. He surveyed the contents of the attic. Stuff was piled nearly to the top of the slanted roof. There were no paths to follow here. He figured no one had been up here for years, and if they had it was only to drop something on a pile and leave. Every surface seemed to be covered with something: dried flowers, old dishes, even furniture. The smell of moth balls—meant to protect what was up here from bugs and rodents—was overwhelming. He pulled the neck of his T-shirt over his nose.
Where to start?
He carefully picked his way to what looked like an old dresser. The top was covered with stacks of old newspapers. The one on top was from 1984.
Why would Pops save stuff like this?
He could make out the frame of a mirror above and drawer handles below. Not wanting to disturb what was on the dresser, he was about to pull on the handles of the top drawer when he had a thought.
What if there’s mice in here?
Praying the moth balls had done their job, he eased the drawer open. Clothes made of flowery fabric now yellowed with age lay neatly inside. They looked like something an old lady would wear. He thought they probably belonged to his grandma, who had died before Mitch was born. Not wanting to disturb his grandma’s things, he closed the drawer and moved on to the next one. More of his grandma’s clothes. The final drawer held the same.
Discouraged at not finding anything interesting, Mitch inched his way farther into the mass of items. He found a box of old dishes, a coffee maker, and the frame for a bed. None of it looked like it was worth keeping. Why had his grandparents kept all this junk?
As he made his way closer to the window at the opposite end of the stairway, his foot struck something solid. At first glance, it looked like a stack of boxes. But when Mitch bent over, he could see that the boxes were sitting on something made of metal. Curious, he moved the boxes—clothes spilled out of the one on top—and found that they had been covering a trunk. The kind people used in the olden days, when they travelled on ships.
Pops had liked to travel. He always brought something back for Mitch and his sister. In fact, they were still packed in the boxes in his room. Mitch felt a twinge of guilt. Pops had brought him some really cool souvenirs, like the ball he caught when he went to a Yankees game. But his grandpa never travelled with a trunk. He’d always had a battered old leather suitcase.
Who did the trunk belong to, then?
After carefully moving all the boxes to rest on top of the stacks of newspaper on the dresser—he was afraid that if he put them on any of the piles, the whole place would come tumbling down—he shuffled back to the trunk and cleared away the last bits of junk.
Finally, he squatted down to open it. The trunk had a latch with a keyhole. He hoped it was unlocked. He pushed the latch. Nothing happened. He tried to lift the lid. Still, nothing happened. Frustrated, he banged the latch with his fist. Still nothing. The trunk was locked.
But where’s the key?
He stood and scanned the attic for a hiding place. If the key was here, it would take him the rest of his life to find it in this mess. Where to start looking? Maybe the trunk could give him some clues.
Squatting again, he searched the outside of the trunk for a sticker or some kind of identification. It wasn’t until he looked at the end that he found a label stuck to its side. He touched it and a piece of the brittle paper broke off. Realizing that he could be damaging his one clue, he carefully put his finger on the label and read the name.
G. Howell.
This trunk had once belonged to Pops? The rest of the label was gone, but now at least he knew who it belonged to.
Mitch went back to the dresser and opened the top drawer again. He knew his mom hid valuable things in her dresser drawers. Maybe his grandparents did too. He carefully slid his hands under the clothing at the front of the drawer. Finding nothing at the front, he moved slowly towards the back. The clothing lay across his forearms as he did so, and his fingers came into contact with something he knew wasn’t clothing. He wrapped his hand around it and pulled it out.
It was a book. About the size of a paperback with a worn leather cover and no title on the front. Mitch opened the book and was surprised to find writing on the first yellow page. G. Howell, 1914 was written at the top of the page in opaque blue ink. Mitch turned the page to the first entry. Was this his grandpa’s journal? Mitch couldn’t remember ever seeing him write in a journal.
March 15, 1914
I’m on the train. Mary gave me this journal to write down my thoughts as I set out on what I’m sure will be a life-changing experience.
What was Pops talking about? He’d never mentioned anything to Mitch about a life-changing experience. And why was he using this beat-up old trunk and not his beat-up old suitcase? It didn’t make sense.
Hoping to find the answer, he went to read some more when he heard a door shut. He pushed the clothes back into the drawer and slid it shut. He tucked the diary in the back of his pants. Taking a quick glance to make sure nothing looked disturbed, he picked his way back to the stairs. He turned the knob on the attic door and closed it as quietly as he could.
He nearly jumped out of his skin when his mom called from downstairs: “Mitch! Where are you?”
“I’m upstairs,” he answered, making his way to his room. Not wanting his mom to know he’d been in the attic, he slid the book under his pillow and made a half-hearted attempt to straighten the blankets on his bed.
“Come and put your backpack away, please. And clean up the stuff you left on the table.”
His attempt at irritating his mom had backfired. Now, rather than reading Pops’s journal, he had to go and clean up the mess he’d made.
“I’ll be there in a second,” he told her.
“Right no
w, Mitch. I need to get supper on.”
With a wistful glance at his pillow, Mitch made his way downstairs.
As he put away his backpack and the makings of his snack, his mom peppered him with questions. How had his first day gone? Did he like his teacher? How was the bus ride? Did he make any new friends? He answered all of them with “Fine.” Except the last one. That was a “No.” Finally, she quit asking and just studied him for a moment. He knew she wanted some confirmation that he had made out okay at school, but he didn’t care. His mind was on something else.
The journal upstairs.
Had Pops gone on a cool adventure that he hadn’t told him about? Was it the reason his grandpa had forbidden him to go up in the attic? If it was some kind of “life-changing experience,” why had he left Grandma behind?
“Here—you can set the table.”
Mitch sighed and took the plates. The journal would have to wait.
Chapter 3
With Pops’s journal safely tucked in the bottom of his backpack the next morning, Mitch got on the bus. His plan was to read as much as he could on the way to school. With an absentminded wave at the bus driver’s greeting, he sat in the same seat as yesterday and waited for Alyssa to find her seat before taking out the journal. He was just about to open it when a familiar voice came from behind him.
“What’s that?”
Snapping the book closed, he turned and looked over his shoulder.
“What?” he replied, hoping Brock wasn’t asking about the book but knowing he was.
“The book.” Brock pointed to where Mitch had it stuck under his arm. Mitch had no intention of telling anyone about his grandpa’s journal. His parents didn’t know he’d taken it. If Alyssa found out, she’d run and tell them.
“Just a book I’m reading,” Mitch deflected, hoping that Brock wasn’t into books and would lose interest in it.
“It looks old. What’s it called?”
Mitch scrambled to come up with a story about the book. Remembering what Pops had written on the first page, he said, “A Life-Changing Experience.”
Brock’s eyes lit up with interest. He hung his arms over the back of the seat. “Cool. What’s it about?”
“I . . . I’m not sure yet. I just started it.” Well, that was the truth. And if he could just get rid of Brock, he could read more.
“My favourite book is The Lightning Thief. Have you read it? I love that it’s based on mythology, which is my favourite thing to read about. Do you know who the King of the Gods was?”
Yes, Mitch knew. He’d read The Lightning Thief and loved it.
“Zeus,” he answered, afraid of Brock’s long-winded response.
“Awesome! You’ve read it!”
Mitch was right to be worried. Brock proceeded to go on about all his favourite parts of the book. He was like a top that seemed to get wound tighter as he talked about the book. He finally stopped and asked, “What did you like?”
Mitch, who had stopped listening at the beginning and started counting how long it would take Brock to wind down, answered, “All of it?”
At Brock’s suspicious look, Mitch dropped his gaze.
“Well, “I’ll let you get back to it.”
Finally, he got the hint.
Brock settled back in his seat and Mitch was finally able to pick up where he’d left off yesterday.
All too soon, the bus pulled up to the school. Hiding the journal in his backpack, Mitch got off the bus and headed for the entrance. Brock walked silently beside him, which was strange. Had he hurt Brock’s feelings when he was pretending to listen to him on the bus? His mom gave him heck when he didn’t pay attention to her when she was talking to him. She said it was disrespectful and hurt people’s feelings. But sometimes Mitch got so involved with something, like a TV show or video game—or a secret journal—that he didn’t even know someone was talking to him. From the sad look on Brock’s face, he figured he was right. It wasn’t Brock’s fault he was obsessed with the journal. He was just trying to be friendly.
“I think my favourite part of the book is when Percy defeats that bull thing at the beginning.”
Brock’s head came up and excitement shone in his eyes. “I know! I love that part too! It’s like the first moment Percy realizes he’s not a typical kid.”
Mitch smiled to himself. He listened to Brock talk as they entered the school. He’d find time during lunch to read the journal. Right now, he wanted to learn everything Brock had to say about Percy Jackson.
Mitch’s hands shook with excitement. He was sitting under a tree on the playground, and he was opening up his grandpa’s journal. He’d found a secluded spot and hoped to have thirty minutes of uninterrupted reading when he heard his name.
“Mitch! Come and play soccer.”
Brock was walking towards him with a ball tucked under his arm. Mitch closed the book again, sighing. Would he ever get a chance to read it?
Brock came to a stop in front of him. “Boy, that must be a really good book if you’re reading it during lunch.”
“I’m not sure if it is or not. I’m just getting started.”
He hoped Brock would get the hint and leave him to read it in peace. Of course, that didn’t happen. Instead, Brock sat down on the grass beside him. Just like everything in his life right now, it went the opposite to what he’d hoped.
“Where did you find it? I’ve never seen a book this old in the library.”
Not sure if he could trust Brock or not, Mitch was vague. “I found it at my house.”
“Your family keeps old books like that?”
Mitch didn’t like how Brock made it sound like there was something wrong with keeping old books. It made him think of Brock’s comment yesterday that everyone thought his family was “loony.”
“Yeah, they do,” he answered defiantly. Wanting to defend Pops, he added, “It’s not a book, really. It’s Pops’s journal.” Mitch immediately regretted his words. What if Brock told everyone in the school?
Brock’s eyebrows went up. “Really? That’s so cool! What did he write about?”
Brock’s words eased the tension in Mitch’s chest. He seemed sincerely interested. Maybe he could trust Brock with this secret. Besides, it would be kind of nice to have someone to share this with.
“All I know so far is that he started writing in it in 1914 and that he’s talking about some ‘life-changing experience.’ I was hoping to find out what it was when you got here.”
“This book is over a hundred years old?” Brock leaned closer. “Maybe we can find out why everyone thought he was crazy.”
“He’s not crazy.” Mitch leaned away.
“That’s what everyone in town seems to think.”
“Well, they’re wrong.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do—and I don’t like you calling my grandpa crazy.”
“Prove it.” He set the soccer ball in his lap and looked expectantly at Mitch. “Let’s see if he was a nutcase or not.”
Now he really wasn’t interested in sharing it with Brock. But their lunch hour was slipping away, and Brock didn’t appear to be going anywhere. He sighed and opened the book to the first entry.
March 15, 1914
I’m on the train. Mary gave me this journal to write down my thoughts as I set out on what I’m sure will be a life-changing experience.
Brock broke in. “Who’s Mary?”
Mitch sighed at the interruption. “It must be my grandma, but everyone called her Beth.”
Brock nodded and looked at the page over Mitch’s shoulder. “Keep reading.”
Mitch shook his head and started again.
I’m not going to lie and say that I’m not scared. I’m petrified. The train is full of young men, my age or younger. I’m pretty sure the guy sitting next to me isn’t a day over seventeen.
Mitch stopped. Something wasn’t right. Pops was eighty-two when he passed away.
So why was the date in the journal over a hundred years ago?
“He’s on a train?” Brock asked. “Where’s he going?”
“No idea.” Mitch knew Pops did a lot of travelling—he used to tell him about different countries he’d been to when they visited. But he’d never talked about going by train.
They say the war will be over quickly. I sure hope they’re right. In fact, I hope it ends before I have to get on the boat. A prairie boy in the Navy—and to England of all places. I’ve always wanted to travel, but I never imagined it would be like this. We’ll be travelling in a convoy of other boats. Safety in numbers, they tell us. I hope they’re right and we aren’t sitting ducks.
Mitch paused to turn the page.
“Your grandpa was in the war?”
Brock’s voice reflected Mitch’s feelings. Pops had never talked about being in the war.
“I guess so? He never told me about it.”
“What’s a ‘sitting duck’?”
Mitch hadn’t heard this saying before either. He was going to have to ask his parents about some of this stuff. Which meant he’d have to confess to taking the journal.
“Maybe it will tell us. Keep reading.”
We are scheduled to arrive by March 20 if everything goes well. The train is pulling into the station and more boys are waiting at the loading area to get onboard. I better go.
“Wow! Your grandpa was in World War I!” Brock looked at Mitch, his eyes like saucers, obviously impressed with this news.
“How do you know it was World War I?” Mitch asked, curious that Brock would know this piece of information.
Brock shrugged. “World War I started in 1914 and ended in 1918. It’s why we celebrate Remembrance Day on November eleventh. That’s the day the war ended. Didn’t your old school have Remembrance Day ceremonies every year?”
“Yeah, they did. I guess I didn’t pay very close attention to what they were talking about.”
