Heartwood Box Read online

  “Did you want to talk about it?”

  “It’s more that I want to warn you.”

  “About what?” I’m eating my soup because it’s there, as bland as I expected. My mouth waters when I think about spicy carne empanadas and crispy milanesa. Of all the places I’ve lived, Argentina has the food I love most.

  “This is a strange town, Araceli. If you see lights in the woods, don’t go looking for them. And if you hear noises upstairs in the night, ignore them too.”

  “Excuse me?” That’s basically all I can come up with because I’m so shocked.

  I’ve heard creepy stories, of course. Whenever we move, it seems like there’s always someone who wants to freak me out with local legends, but my great-aunt doesn’t look like she’s about to crack a smile. In fact, her eyes are somber, her brows drawn.

  “I’ve heard about ghost lights,” I say. “Isn’t that usually swamp gas or something?”

  “Or something.” Her mouth pulls tight, and she lowers her gaze to her soup bowl, leaving me to shiver over a draft that creeps along my bare arms, raising goose bumps that won’t go away no matter how much I rub.

  Ottilie probably thought warning me against the weird sounds would dissuade me from checking them out, but I’ve always been stubborn. As soon as I finish dinner and wash the dishes, I rush upstairs to inspect the third floor, but there’s a door blocking the staircase and it’s solidly locked. It occurs to me that Great-Aunt Ottilie might have killed her husband and hidden the body in the attic. Maybe his mummified corpse is sitting in a rocking chair upstairs, his ghost walking the floor in search of freedom. Or possibly she confined him, Rochester-style, and he’s been locked away for decades. I want to know what’s up here, but I’ll need to get the keys first, and I have no idea where they might be hidden.

  Grumpy as hell, I retreat to my room to finish the book I read in the park earlier. As I settle onto my bed, something thumps hard overhead. I freeze. It’s so cold in this room, a direct contrast to the bright sunshine I can see but not feel through the smudged windowpane. Though I strain my ears, I don’t catch anything else, but it’s like ten minutes before I move a muscle.

  It could be something else, I try to tell myself. An animal rummaging in the attic? But then I should hear some follow-up noises, like little feet scurrying around, more rustles, but there’s nothing else. And it doesn’t explain this unnatural chill; I can actually see my breath. In the dead of night, it seems like there’s only one explanation.

  I’ve experienced some shit in my life, but I can’t say I ever lived in a haunted house.

  Until now.

  5

  Day one, take two.

  The parking lot looks entirely different from the day before. People hang around in clusters, apparently in no hurry to get inside. School’s been going on for a few weeks now, I suspect, but in a town this size, the cliques have been in place for years. I’ve started over so often that I’m good at making friends, but I don’t know if I have the energy. Part of me thinks it’s pointless since I’ll be moving on as soon as possible, and I already know how it goes when new friends promise to keep in touch. Probably better not to go in with that attitude, though.

  I messaged NJAW before I left this morning, and she says she’ll be wearing a black hoodie and a T-shirt with the faces of JaeY, Moonie, QT, Jungmin, X, Ghost, and K-Dream emblazoned on her chest. Since 7TOG isn’t wildly successful in the US, I doubt I’ll have any trouble spotting her. Keeping an eye out, I head straight to the main office and give them the paperwork my great-aunt provided. In exchange I get a printout of my schedule and a green pencil bag with WELCOME printed in yellow and below that, GO LIONS! and a stylized leonine face captured mid-roar. That must be the school mascot.

  Inside the bag, I find two unsharpened pencils, a ballpoint pen imprinted with the school logo, and a folded piece of paper that tells me what’s for lunch over the next month. I mumble my thanks to the secretary and join the trickle of students in the hallway. It’s early, so nobody’s running yet. I have time to meander around and locate my first class. There are a couple of people by the door, no teacher yet, and I don’t know what desks are available, so I go into the room, prop myself by the window, and pull out my phone.

  My parents still haven’t responded to my most recent message and my cousins in Monterrey must be busy. This is me, pretending I have someone to talk to.

  “Did you get the Wi-Fi password?” It’s the boy from yesterday, dressed in baggy shorts and a gray T-shirt that says CLOWN SCHOOL DROPOUT.

  His brown eyes sparkle like he knows a funny story, and his black hair falls in messy waves. He’s kind of cute in a puppyish way, all awkward arms and legs and shoulders that are broad but bony. I notice he’s got a fresh scab on his right knee. Maybe the bike tricks didn’t go well yesterday.

  “Not yet.”

  “Here.” He grabs my phone and inputs the code, and while I don’t love that he did it without asking, it feels good to check messages without thinking about how much it costs.

  I don’t know if it’s a coincidence, but when I change networks, four messages from my parents come in, two in the group chat we share and a private one from each parent. They’ve settled into the little apartment they’re renting in Caracas, so they’ll have a front row seat to the riots and civil unrest. I won’t read the news or else I won’t be able to stop worrying about them. The fear lingers in the back of my head; one day, they will become casualties of the atrocities they report, and I will be left alone.

  My hands are shaking as I reply. Everything is fine here. I’m at school. More later.

  When I glance up, he’s staring at my face, brows drawn together in concern. “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. Do you know what seats are empty?”

  His hesitation says he doesn’t believe me, but he’s nice enough to pretend. “The one behind me is available. Over here.”

  I follow him away from the window and set my stuff on the desk he indicates. It’s near the back, which I like. “Thanks.”

  “No problem. What’s your name, anyway?”

  “Araceli Flores Harper.”

  I expect some dumb question about why I have two last names, but instead, he brightens up like he’s won a prize. Until he smiled, I wouldn’t have given him a second look, but that grin is breathtaking. “Wow, seriously? Your name is Araceli? I’ve only heard that name once before. Sorry, getting ahead of myself. I’m Logan Reed. My middle name comes from my great-grandfather, and he’s related to that, so—”

  Before he can finish, the teacher strides in. He’s all business with a briefcase beneath one arm. “I see a new face. You can stay there behind Reed; that seat is available. You probably know from your schedule, but I’m Mr. Timmons, your English teacher. If you don’t have a copy of Bram Stoker’s Dracula, get one as soon as possible and read the first ten chapters.”

  “On it,” I say.

  I download a copy from a site that offers free novels in the public domain and open the book on my phone. Meanwhile, the class discusses the themes of the novel, which I’ve already read. If the teacher knew that, he’d make me contribute, so I keep my mouth shut. Logan of the gangly limbs is an eager arm-waver, always blurting something strange. From the way the others react, it seems like he’s the class cutup.

  Mr. Timmons quiets the room. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about the composition component of the course, and since this is an epistolary novel, I want you to write a letter and bring it in for critique tomorrow.”

  “Nobody writes letters anymore,” a red-haired girl complains.

  “To who?” That question comes from the front of the room.

  “I don’t care. A fictional character, a historical figure, your late grandpa. Whomever you choose, it needs to be at least three hundred words.”

  The bell rings before anyone can whine more. Just as well; writing a one-page letter isn’t too tough an assignment. If the rest of the day goes this well, I won’t be drowning i
n work. Everyone files out while I pack my stuff slowly. In my previous schools, I usually didn’t have a locker, and if I did, I rarely used it, so I don’t need to head there between classes. My backpack contains everything I need.

  None of my morning classes seem that hard, but there are a lot of pale faces in this town. The Black and Brown kids sit together at one table during lunch along with a few white kids. As I’m trying to decide where I belong, I catch sight of a Korean American girl wearing a black hoodie, and when she leaves the cafeteria line, I identify the 7TOG shirt. She’s slender and a couple of inches shorter than me with light brown eyes, delicate features, and shoulder-length black hair.

  I hurry toward her, noting that she’s heading out of the lunchroom, back toward the hall that leads to the auditorium. Crap, I’m going to be so embarrassed if I’m wrong and she’s a random 7TOG fan, but what are the odds?

  “Hey, NotJustAnyWon!” I call.

  She spins, nearly dropping her food. “NomadtotheBone?”

  Shit, that’s embarrassing. I thought it was clever when I was twelve. “Yep.”

  “Finally! I’ve been looking for you all day.” She rushes me, and I get a one-armed strangle-hug.

  We’re jumping and squealing, drawing some looks, then she says, “Crap, I have a lunch meeting today. You can come if you want.”

  I shake my head. “It’s fine. We’ll catch up online, or tomorrow in person. I’ll be here all year.” Since I say it like a punchline, she laughs.

  “Since we’re real-world friends now, my name’s Eunsoo. Park Eunsoo!”

  “Araceli Flores Harper.”

  Giving me a wave, she hurries off to her meeting. For now, I head to the courtyard, where a few picnic tables have been set up, probably for students who bring lunch from home. This will be fine through late summer and fall, but when winter rolls in, I’ll have to eat inside. Hopefully, I can sit with NJAW—I mean, Eunsoo. A few other kids wander out while I’m eating, but they pay me no attention. I’m cool staying low for a while. Once I get a feel for this place, I’ll join a club or something. Along with hanging out with Eunsoo, that should open enough social doors to make this situation bearable until I graduate.

  Another bell tells me it’s time to wrap it up. I make it through repeated introductions and “tell us a little about yourself” requests. At least Mr. Timmons didn’t do that. I get the feeling he’s a book guy lacking in people skills, but that disinterest spares me from the other end of the spectrum, where people try way too hard. Currently I’m slumped in my economics class, after revealing as little as possible about myself.

  When classes finally end for the day, I have some idea what life will be like here. I can stick it out long enough to graduate. Everyone is in a hurry, heading out for extracurriculars or part-time jobs. I feel like the only person in the world with nothing to do and nobody particularly waiting for me. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I’ve never been separated from my parents this long before, and I miss them. Their quirks got on my nerves, but now that they’re just words on a messenger app, I want to see their faces.

  I’m the last one to leave the classroom, slower than the teacher, even, and I amble toward the front doors, pausing when a bright notice on the bulletin board catches my eye. The dance team is holding auditions next week. This isn’t as cool as swing club in Buenos Aires, but it’s something to do besides study. Well, assuming I make the cut.

  I take a picture of the flyer describing the date, time, and tryout requirements. I’ll need to choreograph a one-minute performance and then learn one of their dance routines and execute it with other hopefuls. I should be able to manage that. While I’m not talented enough to become a professional, I’m pretty good and I love to dance for fun.

  Feeling more cheerful, I head out of the school into the afternoon sunlight. Walking back takes fifteen minutes or so, and I don’t expect much, but Ottilie is waiting by the front door when I get in, and the smell of something delicious wafts from the kitchen. She greets me with a tentative smile.

  “Hope your first day was good. I wasn’t sure what kids eat after school, so I made some bread. To my mind, there’s nothing better than fresh bread with butter and jam.” She pours me a glass of milk to go with it.

  I don’t see a bread machine either, which means she did this by hand. She may not be great at expressing herself, but I guess I’m welcome.

  “Wow. I wasn’t expecting a snack. Thank you.” It’s kind of cute that she thinks of me like an elementary school kid.

  Still, I’m not turning down fresh bread; I’ve only had that from bakeries, never at home, and this is delicious. I tell her a little about how school went because she’s wearing a hopeful expression. She listens and nods with more interest than I would’ve expected.

  “You’ll make friends, don’t worry.”

  I finish the milk and wash up my dishes, then set them in the drainer. “Thanks again. I have some homework already. Is it okay if I go up?”

  “Of course. I’ll see you at dinner.”

  6

  Normally, I’d type this assignment, but I don’t have a printer and I’m not sure I’ll have time to visit the computer lab before first period. There’s something fun about breaking in a new notebook anyway. Ma says I get that from her, and since she’s a writer, that’s probably true. English teacher Timmons doesn’t care who I address my letter to, and the natural choice would be my parents, but that message would be full of too much emotional honesty for something that might be read aloud in class. I open the wooden box on my dresser and pull out the yellowed letter from the stranger named Oliver. I’ll write to him like he’s my pen pal. That should be good enough, right? I unfold the brittle page and reread it to respond.

  Dear Oliver,

  I can’t imagine how you’re feeling, but scared and trapped? I understand those feelings well. It’s normal to be scared, considering what you’re about to face. I mean, I’ve only seen pictures, but that’s some heavy stuff. It also must feel like you’re entering another world, comparing where you are now to where you came from. I’m guessing, though, because I don’t know anything about you.

  It seems like Lucy was special, and I’m wondering who Lester is. I’m curious about you too. I’m sure you’re wondering about me as well, so what can I tell you? My name is Araceli, and I turned eighteen a few weeks ago. I speak English and Spanish fluently, conversational levels of Portuguese, and I’m learning Korean and Mandarin in my spare time. Since I’ve traveled a lot, I think I want to major in languages. I have a knack for them, and it would be awesome to work as a translator, or maybe I could go into foreign service as a diplomat or something. My skill at languages would come in handy for that, and I’d get to travel.

  Even though I complain about being constantly uprooted by my parents, the truth is, I’m not completely sorry that we lived like we did. My folks are doing important work and a lot of news wouldn’t have gotten out, if not for them. We lived in a lot of places where there was unrest. One time, my dad was uploading photos and my mom’s article using a sat link while we were in a bunker and the signal was so spotty. There were soldiers looking for us and trying to stop my folks from telling the truth about what was happening. We could’ve died that day, but that’s true of anywhere, anytime. I know some places are higher risk than others, but sometimes the risk is worth the reward, you know?

  Most of all, I’m sorry they left me behind this time. Now that I’m old enough not to get in their way, maybe I could help. Anyway, wish me luck getting acclimated here. This town has a seriously strange vibe. Take care of yourself, whenever, wherever you are.

  Regards,

  Araceli

  Counting the words, I’ve written 340 or so, more than the minimum required. There’s no benefit to overwork, so I stash the letter in the box along with Oliver’s for safekeeping. I’ll proofread it later; if I put it in my backpack before I’m 100 percent done, I might forget to get it out again.

  I decide to take a study bre
ak, so I pull out my phone and start an otome game that rewards you for making the right choices. Before I know it, it’s dinnertime and I’m eating quiche Lorraine with my great-aunt, who’s asking about the car again. “Did you find out about driver’s education?”

  “They don’t have that anymore.” Not a lie. I checked the school website during lunch, and while there were, like, twenty after-school clubs, nowhere did I find any mention of driving classes.

  “Then I’ll look into finding an instructor for you. Living here, it will be much better if you can drive.”

  Maybe she doesn’t mean for her tone to sound like that, but it rings ominous, like something dire could go down if I can’t drive out of this town with my own two hands. I stir uneasily, setting my spoon down to study my great-aunt. “Like, you mean in case you get sick or there’s terrible weather, or…? Level with me, Tía, what kind of emergency do you foresee in my future?”

  She doesn’t hold my gaze long, glancing down at her plate. The tines of her fork scrape against the surface, almost as bad as nails on a chalkboard. “Oh, I don’t know,” she says. “It’s just better to be prepared, isn’t it?”

  “I guess. If you’re willing to help, I’ll get my license.”

  Looks like I’ll be studying the rules of the road along with my senior classes. I’ll download a guide from the DMV website at school tomorrow.

  She nods. “I’ll renew the insurance. I can afford the bump of adding a new driver.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s my pleasure.” Her gaze goes distant, telling me she’s thinking of something else. “You may not know this, but your mother often stayed with me during the summer when she was growing up.”

  Huh. That was quite a topic change, but I go with it since I don’t want to keep talking about the driving. “I had no idea. Didn’t Grandma Irene move to Kentucky a long time ago?” I’m asking because it seems strange that Ma would have stayed at her aunt’s house for an entire summer, unless there was some family drama I don’t know about. Maybe Ma didn’t get along with her own mother and they both needed a break?