PART ONE: A SOUR NOTE The air was hot and still, like a warm fuzzy blanket that dulled the senses, making everyone pleasantly sleepy. Even bees veered off their straight course and hummed in lazy loops. The air was thick with pollen; but that was not why Sandy sniffled. She ran up her apartment steps by twos up to the fourth floor. She slammed against her door, sobbing, and grabbed her key out of her black backpack. She fumbled in the lock, her eyes blurry. Sandy burst into her house, throwing her backpack onto the ground. Tears coursed down her cheeks in an ever-steady torrent of water. Running into her room, she created eddies of swirling dust. She was sobbing, trying to catch her breath through her clogged nose. Coughing and hacking, Sandy hurled herself upon the bed. “Why?! Why?! Why?!” With each “why” the sadness crescendoed to anger. Turning over onto her back, she winced as the ponytail holder dug into her head. Yelling her fury, she ripped the holder out of her short red hair and fell back again on her green comforter. Her breathing slowed. She sniffed, but was calmer now. In a small voice she again asked herself, “Why?” Her orange tabby, Fireball, uncurled, stretched, and showed his teeth in a large yawn. He walked onto Sandy, purring sentiments. “I didn’t do it, Fireball. Why would he say that I did it?” “Oof,” Sandy grunted weakly. She raised up a hand and started stroking the furry friend. Purring contentedly, he padded in a few circles and settled down on her stomach. He always knows when I need comfort the most, Sandy thought fuzzily. Maybe it’s instinct. Talking to her cat, Sandy sighed, “I didn’t do it, Fireball. Why would he say that I did it? I barely even know Colin. I would have never done that to anything, much less the band instruments. Mr. Foley knows how much I love the band. Doesn’t he?” Her eyes moistened slightly. Memories of what she had seen flipped through her head like a slide show. A broken window, the glass shards askew. Trombones bent in half with their bells crumpled. Cases everywhere, open with instruments spilling out like so many marbles. Tubas with dents the size of saucers in their delicate brass: ruined, out of commission. Mr. Foley’s face as he looked at the accused. In that look Sandy remembered sadness and anger, but most of all, disappointment. Sandy’s pale face sported freckles and scared green eyes that glistened with tears. Those eyes widened in a sudden realization. “And they’re going to make Mom pay! She can’t afford it! She can’t even afford a car much less so many instruments!” Her eyes looked downward. Almost instinctively, she petted Fireball with ferocity. “We can’t afford it.” Sandy jumped up with resolution in her eyes, shoving the cat off. “And gosh darn it! We’re not going to have to try and afford it! I’m going to prove my innocence! I have three days to prove my innocence and by all that’s good and holy I’ll do it if it’s the last thing I do!” Sandy strode over to her computer. Fireball crossly flicked an ear at Sandy, then loped over to a window seat. He jumped up and settled in the cushions. Unnoticing, Sandy flumped down in her computer chair and pressed a button. The screen began to glow, beep, click and whir. Sandy glared at the computer impatiently; if it made any more noises it would moo. She swirled around in her chair so she faced her cat, who washed himself contentedly. Sandy started explaining her ideas and thoughts to her cat. The words came out, bubbling over like an eager spring. “Mom will be back in five days, and it’ll take, hmm, about three days for the suspension papers to process through. So I have only three days to prove my innocence. Less, actually. About two days. I have to prove my innocence! It’s my only hope! I need a list of suspects: people in the band who don’t play tuba, baritone sax, French horn, trombones, or tenor sax, considering those were the instruments that were destroyed.” Her brows knit furiously. “What happened that night? Lessee. PTA meeting at the MPR. Nope, too early. When Mr. Foley announced the incident he said it would have been between ten PM and five AM, when the janitors weren’t there.” She gnawed her lip. Then her eyes widened. “The football game at the high school! Duh! She slapped her forehead. Hearing the first couple of notes of the Jaws theme song, she spun her chair around. Grabbing the mouse, she guided her shark cursor over the Jaws desktop to the Word icon. She double-clicked with familiar ease. The computer chugged and clicked as it opened the word-processing program. (She knew almost everyone in the band. That gave her the knowledge needed to make a decent suspect list.) Being a percussionist also gave her a pretty good view of the classroom and anyone who was yelled or glared at, since she was in the back. Sandy started typing the names of the band members who had older brothers or sisters in the high school. As a second thought Sandy typed the names of those people’s friends who may have gone with them. By the time the document was ready to be printed she had about twenty kids’ names typed in front of her eyes. Clicking the print button, Sandy noticed the time: 9:45—time to get ready for bed. * * * PART TWO: TUNING THE NOTE It was yet another beautiful summer day as Sandy trudged up her apartment steps. She flipped open her mailbox and took out the letter inside. Junk. She sighed and let one shoulder of her backpack slide off. With a little twist, Sandy swung the backpack to her front and opened the smaller pocket. She wiggled her hand in it, feeling for her key. Triumphantly, she
Mystery
Haunted Mansion
Haunted houses don’t exist, right? Well, one night when I was about nine, I wasn’t so sure. I was coming home from my friend’s house as the sun was setting, hurrying since I was late for dinner. I was on the east side of the hill, and darkness blanketed me. The last rays of the sun highlighted the tops of the tallest trees. It was a little spooky, so I tried to walk faster. Up on the top of the hill was the old Finster house. To get home, I had to walk right past it. I was already shivering from the gloominess of the darkened hill, and the presence of that old mansion frightened me. Even from the bottom of the hill, I could see the cobwebs cluttering that rickety front porch and the broken windows on one side. Creepy as it was, I couldn’t rip my eyes away The only time I’d ever walked past that house was with my friends in the middle of the day We would dare each other to walk up to the front porch and sit on the old rocking chair. No one ever did it. Usually, we all looked at our feet and hurried on by. Consequently, I never got a good look at the place. Now, if I tried hard enough, I could spot some dusty furniture inside the house. By craning my neck, I saw that the side door hung crookedly in its frame, and blew slightly in the wind. The creak, creak of it sent shivers down my spine. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. I froze, and whirled around. There, in a second story window was a pale yellow gleam. The sun had set by now, and the faint glow cast a square of light on the hill. I wanted to run and hide, but my feet were cemented to the ground. I knew what I had seen. I wanted to run and bide, but my feet were cemented to the ground There had been someone in that room. It was a man, hunched over with age. The light had gone right through him, and his features had been ghostly white. He’d a lantern on the table where it flickered now. If I listened closely enough, I could hear his footsteps on the creaky floorboards. Then, there was the wheezy sigh of someone settling into a rocking chair. My whole body was shaking violently. Now I found energy to run. Before you could say “boo,” I was up the nearest tree. No one belonged in that house. Old Man Finster had moved two years ago. I barely remembered it. The house hadn’t been in a better state, that was for sure. All Old Man Finster had done was keep the cobwebs on the porch at bay I wondered if someone had broken in and was planning to rob the place. Then, I laughed shakily Silly me, who would want to rob that dump? There was nothing worth taking, unless you had an interest in rotting timber. Still, something nagged at me. No one had moved in—the “for sale” sign still swayed in the breeze by the road. Besides, no lights had been on in there ever since Old Man Finster moved out. I was almost certain it was a robbery. That was even worse than a ghost was, I thought. Ghosts really couldn’t hurt you, but real, live people could. What if they had guns? I climbed a few branches higher in my tree. The sky was a deep, indigo blue now, and the entire world was a shadow. The light from the Finster house’s window seemed much brighter. I had just resigned myself to a night in the tree when I remembered something I’d read in the newspaper. People were supposed to be in that house. It had been one of the stops on the Underground Railroad in the Moos. Someone had bought it, and was sending a renovation crew to fix it up so people could visit it. That spooky old Finster house was going to be a museum! I caught another glimpse of the mysterious man. He wasn’t hunched over, at all, nor was he transparent. He was middle-aged, and wearing a baseball cap. A clipboard was clutched in his hand. He made a note on it, picked up the lantern, and left the room. Comforted, I shinnied down from the tree and alighted on the ground. Picking up my jacket from where it had fallen, I strode on down the road, my head held high. Ghosts? Ha! Ghosts don’t exist. That old house wasn’t haunted, and nothing inside was going to get me. I began to jog, since it was now dark. After all, I was late for dinner. Lyla Lawless,13Gaithersburg, Maryland Kamiye Hoang Mai Davis,13Palo Alto, California
