Unspeakable Things(8)
Sergeant Bauer’s words made me think of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, a movie I’d watched on television at my grandma and grandpa’s house when they were still alive, obviously. One of the film’s villains, the Child Catcher, was a grotesque horror doll of a human being. His nose was long, too long, and his lips were wet and red, kind of like Sergeant Bauer’s. The Child Catcher held out giant lollipops and bright taffy to lure the kids into his cage.
Don’t let me catch you.
I wiggled the creeps off me.
“One more thing,” Sergeant Bauer said, drawing to a close the shortest and crappiest symposium Lilydale Elementary and Middle School had ever witnessed. “Always travel in pairs. I don’t want to see any of you kids out alone this summer.”
That shushed us all up, every last one of us.
This time it wasn’t the words, or even his tone.
I think it was the first moment we caught a whiff of what was coming for us.
CHAPTER 5
“Cassie!”
My name was almost swallowed by the rumble of voices streaming toward second period classes. I couldn’t see who was hollering for me.
“Cassie! Over here.”
I finally spotted Mr. Kinchelhoe, my English teacher. He was a short red-haired man with a Bob Hope profile. He specialized in Jane Austen jokes. I pushed sideways against a stream of kids. “Hi, Mr. Kinchelhoe. They have you on herding duty?”
“Someone’s got to make sure you ding-dongs can find your way to the right rooms,” he said, winking. “I wanted to tell you, great job on that paper.”
The flush was instant. It wasn’t exactly pride, more embarrassment, actually, all mixed together with the roller-coaster ick feeling left over from Betty’s warning and then the symposium. “You read my paper already?”
I’d written my capstone on the chronograph’s symbolism in “For Esmé—with Love and Squalor.” The paper was five pages typed, plus my works cited page. I had spent every study hall for the past month in the library looking up my sources and had nervously turned it in last Friday.
“Twice,” he said, smiling.
I ducked my head. “Thank you.”
“You’re a writer, Cassie. Don’t fight it.”
That did it. I smiled so wide I was in danger of the top of my head cracking off. The bell rang, yelling at us that we should already be in our next classes, so Mr. Kinchelhoe waved me off. I was swept toward the band room, holding close the warmth of his praise. It wasn’t the first time he’d told me I should be a writer, but sometimes teachers had to say gooey stuff about their students so they didn’t feel like they’d wasted their life choosing education. I hoped that wasn’t the case with Mr. Kinchelhoe, but you never knew.
There was one way to test it. I’d wait until my Nellie Bly’s Trust It or Don’t articles were published and I was up for my first award. I’d invite Mr. Kinchelhoe to the city where the ceremony was, probably New York, but not tell him why. We’d drive to the auditorium together and even sit next to each other. I’d wear glasses and a serious expression but also a strapless red gown for the formal occasion. We’d be talking about the good old days, and then they’d call my name. I’d act all surprised, excuse myself, and then saunter onto the stage, smiling and waving. I’d reach the microphone and say, I am only here today because my English teacher believed in me . . .
If he cried then, I’d know he meant it all along.
I walked into the band room, scanning the sea of kids. Most were still talking to their friends, moving slowly toward their seats. Out of habit, I searched for Lynn and Heidi, who’d been my two tight buds until last fall. Our parents hung out and everything. But then we’d stopped being friends, and I’d been bouncing from group to group ever since.
You would think with only eighty-seven kids in our whole class we’d all be tight. You’d be wrong. Small-town kids are pebbles in a river, pushed around by the flow, forming pockets and piles, reforming when the current picks up and we find ourselves in a whole new cluster. Maybe it’s the same in big cities, I don’t know.
I didn’t see Lynn or Heidi.
Gabriel either.
The cacophony of instruments beginning to warm up hit me like a wall. No Mr. Connelly in the pit, which was where he should be. My mood soared. Maybe he hadn’t taken attendance yet.
I hurried to grab my clarinet.
The instrument room was one of my favorite places in the entire school. It had a secret door off the back, usually hidden behind a stack of music stands. The door only came up to knee height, a leftover from before the addition was built back when my parents went to high school here. It led to a cement room that used to store the school’s water heater and furnace but now was an empty space the size of a large bedroom. The storage room used to be locked, but now it was left open, and you could sneak in there to do stuff. Some kids swore they smoked in there, but I’d never smelled any evidence of it.
I liked to hide in there because it was quiet, and dark, a peaceful tomb compared to the noise of the main room, which was currently all trumpets tuning up, drumsticks tapping, boys pushing each other around, and girls telling stories. Clarinets were stored in the back left, my secondhand case at waist level. I clicked it open and dug around, popping a reed in my mouth to wet it while I assembled my instrument. I was wondering about the logistics behind a Minneapolis gang passing unnoticed through Lilydale when a voice from the storage room startled me.