Heartwood Box Read online

  I’ve spent very little time with my mother’s family. My grandpa died when Ma was a baby, and my grandmother moved from upstate New York to a small farm in Kentucky. Before, I had no idea why she wanted to cut ties, but now that I’m seeing the town for myself, I get why Grandma Irene left. Of course, my mother was no happier with Kentucky than I am with this place, which is why she took off as soon as she could.

  The deepest roots I have are planted in Monterrey, Mexico, as I’ve spent a few weeks a year visiting with la familia on my dad’s side. There, I have an abuelo and abuela, two uncles, three aunts, and countless cousins. I stifle a wave of bitterness over not being allowed to stay with them, but no, I had to have a “typical American experience” instead.

  Ottilie nods. “It’s been more than forty years now. When was it, 1976, I think, just before the bicentennial…” She tells a rambling story about fireworks and commemorative coins, and I never am sure what that has to do with Grandma Irene.

  It takes me half an hour to clean up the kitchen and put away the leftovers. Under Tía’s watchful eye, I wipe everything down and I’m about to start on the floor, when she says, “It’s fine. I only do that once a week.”

  Whew. I did not want to sweep and mop.

  “Noted. By the way, is there anywhere in the house with a lot of floor space? I’d like to work on a routine for the dance team, but my room…” I trail off, not wanting to say it’s too small, because it’s not for most things. Just not sizable enough for choreography.

  Really, I’m also angling to get access to the third floor. The noises I heard were no joke, and a complete inspection of the premises might make me feel less creeped out. Though I concluded this place is haunted in the middle of the night, in the daylight, I can’t make that surety stick. I’m looking for logical explanations here. I wait with wide and hopeful eyes, a look that works on Papi half the time, almost never on Ma. Ottilie is susceptible, it looks like, because she’s nodding.

  “The attic has plenty of space, if you move some of the junk and clean up a bit. I wouldn’t wish that dust on my worst enemy, but I suspect it could be turned into a decent dance studio.”

  “I won’t bother you if I’m up there?”

  “The house isn’t soundproofed, so I’d appreciate if you didn’t tap dance after midnight, but otherwise, it’s fine.”

  “Awesome, thank you! Is it okay if I check the attic out tonight? I probably won’t start cleaning until this weekend.”

  She smiles, her eyes genuinely warm. “Please do. The keys are in the drawer by the stove.”

  “I’m heading to the top floor, then,” I tell her.

  “You don’t have to keep me that informed.” The fact that she has a sense of humor will probably help us get along for the next nine or ten months. “There’s a flashlight in the drawer by the fridge. Take it with you. I’m not sure if the bulbs are still good up there.”

  After grabbing the light and testing it, I leave her sitting at the kitchen table, staring out the window at the empty yard while a cup of tea cools before her. If someone painted her like this, it could be Portrait of Loneliness, and I feel slightly guilty for going to rummage in the attic instead of hanging out longer. Not enough to keep me from jogging up the stairs, eager to see my practice space.

  And to figure out what might be making those strange noises.

  7

  The attic stairs wind up and around, opening into a wide, dusty space with a ceiling like an inverted V. I shine the flashlight around, and it’s good that I have it, or I’d probably break my neck on the boxes and trunks piled around. I’m half expecting moth-eaten furs, a dressmaker’s dummy, and a rocking chair that will creepily move when nobody’s in it. So far, I’m only seeing cardboard and vintage hatboxes, though.

  Tiny, smeared windows don’t let in much light, and it’s nearly full dark, so I fumble around, looking for the switch. Then I realize there likely isn’t one. This floor hasn’t been used in years, so there may just be a pull switch and a simple bulb for lighting. Marshaling my courage, I move deeper into the junk maze, sweeping the flashlight up and down like I’m scanning for enemies. I can hear my heart in my ears, and there’s no rational reason for why I’m this scared, but my skin is crawling, as if someone’s watching me. Chills spill over me, bumps prickling my arms even beneath my sweatshirt sleeves.

  Since I enjoy ghost stories, but I don’t really believe in that stuff, I square my shoulders and search until I spot the swaying string in the middle of the room. Even that detail bothers me, though. Why is it moving? There’s no breeze up here; it’s musty and airless. Before I get to the pull cord, it’s tugged by an invisible hand until the distinctive click, and the light flares on.

  This house is so damn haunted.

  For a few seconds, I’m frozen, and then logic kicks in. There must be some reasonable explanation for this shit. Right now, I can’t come up with anything, but I refuse to believe there’s a spirit with nothing better to do than turn on lights. And honestly, if that’s all it does, I could categorize this thing as helpful, right?

  Yeah, that pep talk didn’t work for crap. My heart is still racing, and I want to sprint out of the attic. Instead, I walk over to the bulb and stretch up on my tiptoes to pointedly turn it off again. Then I make my way downstairs, all while trying not to be terrified, and half expecting a push that will leave me a broken wreck at the bottom of the stairs.

  By the time I get back to my room, I’m shaking.

  It’s fine. This is fine.

  I can’t even message my parents or my cousins in Monterrey. The only thing I can do is go downstairs and ask Great-Aunt Ottilie about the weirdness. Since I need to shower anyway, I gather up my bath supplies and do just that. She’s sitting in the front parlor with a cup of tea, and when I tell her what happened, she averts her eyes.

  “It’s an old house, Araceli. Of course there will be some … vagaries.”

  “That’s not just an oddity. It’s an anomaly.”

  Finally, she lifts her pale eyes to meet mine, and to my surprise, there are actual tears shining in them. “You don’t have to believe me, but I have always thought these events signify that my dear Archibald didn’t desert me entirely. I take comfort when small, strange things occur in the house. It means I’m not alone.”

  Whoa.

  “Does that mean you think he passed away?” And you never found the body is the natural extension of that question, but I can’t bring myself to go that far.

  She gives me a helpless look. “I don’t like to think so, but what else can I imagine?”

  “This is pretty far outside my comfort zone.” Hesitantly, I pat her shoulder in an attempt at consolation, knowing it’s awkward, but she puts a cool hand atop mine.

  “You’re sweet. Thank you.”

  “No problem. I guess if it happens again, I’ll just take it as a greeting from Great-Uncle Archibald.” I’m not sure I can be as cool as I’m pretending, but right now, I don’t have anywhere else to go.

  To get the college fund my parents promised, I need to graduate from Central and take all the necessary tests to start my own life. I can’t follow my parents around forever, and I think that’s why they made a move now, so it will be easier for me to get into an American university. Cheaper, too, if I establish residency in New York first; there are a lot of great schools here. Vassar is an impossible dream, as there’s no way my parents have that much socked away. I’ll need to choose a public university, maybe Binghamton or Stony Brook. My parents don’t want me to take out loans to pay for my education, and I agree with them. I’m lucky they can help me, but I’ll still need to work while I study.

  “Please do. I really am glad you’re here,” Ottilie says.

  Since that’s not the first time she’s stated it, it must be true. She might say it once to be polite, not repeatedly, though. Still, I can’t bring myself to hug her freely yet. Maybe closeness will come in time. Mumbling a vague response, I head for the bathroom. After my showe
r, I wrap up in two towels, one for my body, and one for my hair, then make a run for my room. The parlor lights are off, so Tía must be in her room, but she’s left the stairway lamp on dim, so I can get to my room. Small kindnesses like this send a message. Maybe I’ll feel more at home here in time. I dry my hair on low so it doesn’t end up poufy in the morning and then crawl into bed. It’s been such a bizarre day that I think I won’t be able to sleep, but I wink out almost as soon as my head hits the pillow.

  In the morning, I wake late and scramble to get ready in time. At home Ma would be yelling at me, but there’s only silence in this old house. The floor creaks as I run back up to my room to snag my backpack. In my rush, I almost left my homework behind … and I forgot to proofread it last night. Too late for that. I open the wooden box, lift the false bottom, and … it’s not there. Nor is the original letter from Oliver.

  “This shit is not funny,” I mutter.

  I’ve read stories about prankster ghosts, who take objects from the house and they’re either gone forever or the items reappear later in some weird place, like the freezer or a bathroom cupboard. But I don’t have time to play with Great-Uncle Archibald even if he’s bored and lonely. Maybe I should be scared, but right now, I’m just pissed. I’m already late, and what is even happening today?

  “Let’s not do that,” I say. “Give me back my homework, or I’ll never talk to you again. I can’t be late on my second day and show up without my damn assignment.”

  Nothing.

  I guess I was hoping the ultimatum would strike fear into Archibald’s spectral heart. No such luck. Aggravated beyond belief, I turn the box upside down and shake it, tapping the bottom for good measure, but only a bit of dust wafts out. Those two letters have vanished, just like Great-Uncle Archibald.

  Swearing beneath my breath, I rush down the stairs while slinging my backpack over one shoulder. There’s no way I’m getting to school on time at this rate, and I won’t have time to scrawl something to get completion credit either. As I shoot out of the front door, Logan is passing on his bike. He brakes suddenly, tires scraping hard against the pavement. He beckons frantically.

  “Get on! We can get there before the late bell.”

  I don’t know why I’m running—I hardly know this boy—but I jump on behind him and he stands up, peddling with all his might. The wind blows through my hair, and we’re moving at a good clip. We pass a few people sprinting full-out toward the school. The first bell is ringing as he skids up to the bike rack.

  “Don’t wait for me to lock it up. Run!”

  It’s like avoiding this late slip is a freaking spy mission. I take him at his word and sprint for the doors. No locker stop, so I skid into the first period classroom just as the final bell rings. I stumble to my desk seconds before Mr. Timmons enters, with Logan creeping behind him doing some weird monster walk.

  “Not amused, Reed. Sit down immediately, or I’m marking you late.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” He doesn’t sound sorry, and the class is laughing.

  Well, I’m not late, but I don’t have my homework. Timmons goes around the room checking it personally, and I slouch, avoiding his eyes when he stops by my desk. “Where’s your work, Flores Harper?”

  He earns instant points for using both my last names, but I hesitate over my answer. Am I really gonna say this? Screw it, I was never gonna be popular anyway.

  “I’m, like, seventy percent sure a ghost stole it.”

  8

  The entire class laughs. Not my intention—I’m not trying to establish myself as funny to earn credit with my new classmates.

  That ill-advised response wins me a long look from Mr. Timmons. “I must admit, Flores Harper, that’s one of the more creative excuses I’ve heard. Far more interesting than simply admitting you didn’t do the assignment. But out of curiosity, what’s the other thirty percent?”

  “What?” I hadn’t expected the teacher to stop class to grill me. If anything, I’d guessed he would make me stay after.

  “You said you’re seventy percent sure a specter stole your homework, meaning you’ve left some probability for other outcomes.”

  Oh. I know what he’s driving at. To nip this in the bud, I say, “That I forgot to do my homework. I’m sorry. I’ll turn it in tomorrow.”

  “No need,” Timmons says. “You’ll get a zero for this assignment, and if this happens again, I need to see your parents.”

  “Good luck with that. I want to see them too, but they’re in Venezuela.” I should stop, I know I should, because I’m only making things worse.

  By the clench of his jaw, Mr. Timmons already dislikes me profoundly. “Your guardian then. Say one more word, Ms. Flores Harper—”

  Just then, Logan spills a bottle of chocolate milk in such a profoundly dramatic way that he must be creating a diversion. The brown liquid spatters all over the teacher’s sensible shoes, and then Logan’s on the floor, crawling around with tissues while the class laughs some more. I should help, but since he did this to get everyone’s eyes off me, I won’t ruin a perfectly good distraction. Slouching in my chair, I do my best to become invisible. It mostly works, and then Timmons gets the class back on track while bitching about class time lost forever.

  The others read their letters aloud, just as I’d speculated, which is why I didn’t write my parents. I check out during the analysis, and after class, I catch Logan in the hallway, stopping him with a tug on his sweatshirt sleeve. “You didn’t have to do that for me, but … thanks.”

  “What makes you think it had anything to do with you?”

  “You always open your milk during first period and throw it on the floor?”

  “If I say you’re welcome, will that stop the interrogation?”

  “Probably.”

  “You’re welcome, then. Word to the wise, Mr. Timmons doesn’t have much of a sense of humor. If you thought he might react better to a joke, and that’s why you said the ghost thing, well, don’t do that again. He prefers groveling and pleas for mercy.”

  I really did do the assignment, I consider saying. But there’s no point. Logan won’t believe me either. Even if I told the absurdly detailed story about putting the letter in the box, I have no proof I wrote anything last night. Sighing, I just nod.

  “Noted. Thanks for the tip.”

  We go our separate ways then, though I’m low-key wondering why he helped me. No chance to ask him, since that’s our only class together. At lunch, Eunsoo is waiting for me outside the cafeteria. We don’t have any classes together, but it’s nice to know someone, at least. She’s not wearing any 7TOG memorabilia, and we hug again spontaneously.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t message me at all last night,” she says.

  “Sorry. I got distracted by some stuff at home.”

  “I’ll forgive you this time. Don’t let it happen again.”

  It’s so weird (but cool) to be standing here with someone I’ve been chatting online with for almost six years. “Did you bring lunch?” I ask.

  “Yep. You should eat with us,” she answers.

  I have a basic lunch packed too, no need to get in line, so I follow her to the table. It’s the one I noticed on my first day with the Black and Brown kids clustered together. I smile as I sit next to Eunsoo, making eye contact with the rest of the group: a fit Black boy with medium-brown skin wearing headphones, a pretty brunette with short, wavy hair and light brown skin sporting red glasses, a gorgeous Black girl with rich brown skin, hazel eyes, and long hair in spirals swept back in a colorful scarf, and a skinny white boy with shaggy, sandy hair and blue eyes.

  “I’m Araceli.”

  “We already heard all about you,” the girl with the red glasses says. “A ghost stole your homework?” She laughs and shakes her head. “I’m Tamsyn Leon Salazar. That’s Derek Washington,” the headphone guy, “Kimala Burke-Jones,” the gorgeous Black girl, “and Jackson Pruitt,” the nerdy white kid at the table. Eunsoo sits across from me, giving me a
thumbs-up. “You seem to know Eunsoo already.”

  I nod. As I memorize their names and faces, I’m startled when Logan plops down at the table. I didn’t see him here the day before, but nobody is reacting like this is weird. Maybe this is his normal group? He could be like me, fair enough to pass, but that carries its own problems.

  “What’re you having?” Logan asks.

  “Cheese sandwich, apple, water.” Spoken aloud that way, my lunch sounds depressing, even to me.

  Everyone at the table has better food. I might as well be carrying a sign that says I’m currently unparented. They offer me some of their lunches, but I decline—mostly out of pride, because Kimala has a layered salad that looks incredible, and I’m dying to try some of Eunsoo’s kimchi fried rice and rolled eggs. I can’t start out mooching food on the first day. Even if they want to be nice, they’ll still talk about me—maybe not in a mean way, but they’ll wonder about my situation—and I’m not ready to drop that story.

  “Thanks, anyway,” I add, so potential new friends don’t think I’m rude.

  “Are you thinking of joining any clubs?” Eunsoo asks. “I’m in drama—that was the meeting I had yesterday, electing this year’s officers—and we could use some help behind the scenes, if that sounds like your thing.”

  “Actually, I was looking at a flyer for the dance team…”

  Kimala perks up. “Really? I’m the co-captain, and I’ll be glad to answer any questions you have about the squad.”

  Exactly the kind of connection I’m hoping to make. “Can you give me any tips as to what you’re looking for? I have a background in swing dancing, but I can also do hip-hop, salsa, and a little bit of—”

  “I can’t give you any inside information, but I’ll send you a list of songs that I’d pick from if I was putting together a routine,” she cuts in.

  “That would be fantastic.”

  “Are you on messenger?” She names a chat program, and I give her my info so she can send me the song titles.