The Secret Tree (6 page)

After dark I climbed down the big tree outside my window and dashed across the front yard, darting behind bushes and cars until I reached the safety of the woods. No one saw me. I waited among the trees, watching the lightning bugs twinkle.

While I waited, my head was full of other people’s secrets, especially the new ones.

Did everyone around me have secrets? These were serious, the last one most of all. In order to want to run away, you’d have to be pretty sad. And it made me sad to think that someone around me was that sad. Like the person who felt like only a goldfish loved him or her. Sadness seemed to be spreading everywhere.

“Minty Mortimer …” someone whispered.

“Who’s there?” I whirled around. I knew I was meeting Raymond, but he’d startled me.

He stepped out of the shadows in his camouflage outfit and a black ski mask, his boxy camera hanging from his neck. I wore a black T-shirt and jeans to blend into the night.

“Where do we start?” Raymond asked.

“Troy’s house.” My reason: Thea had said that love hurt like a stomachache. So if Troy had a crush on Paz, his stomach probably hurt. Maybe he thought that a stomachache would make Paz like him back. It was twisted, but that’s the Mean Boy Way.

Or maybe Troy just felt like doing something mean to Paz. That was always a possibility.

We crossed through the shadowy gulf between the Murphys’ house and Wendy’s and into Troy Rogers’s backyard. Raymond hesitated at the border.

“They don’t have a dog, do they?” he whispered.

I shook my head. “Cat. Named Slayer. He might scratch.”

Raymond nodded, and we continued into the yard. A light glowed from the kitchen window at the side of the house. We crept up to it and peeked inside.

Mr. Rogers was washing the dishes and singing along with the radio. He was a chubby man, big like Troy.
Slayer, an orange tomcat, ate from his dish by the sink. He was big and fat too.

“I want to know what love iiiiis!” Mr. Rogers wailed to the music as he slotted the dishes into the dishwasher. Slayer ignored him. I wondered where Troy was. Up to no good, surely.

Mr. Rogers gave me a ride to school every once in a while. The previous fall, for three whole months, his eyes had been red every morning. I didn’t think much of it. Maybe he had allergies. Then I realized I hadn’t seen Mrs. Rogers around in a long time. Eventually, Mom told me Mrs. Rogers had left them.

“I don’t blame her,” I’d said at the time. “I wouldn’t want to live in the same house with Troy either.”

“Araminta Mortimer, that’s a heartless thing to say,” Mom had told me. “Someday you’ll understand.”

It turned out that Mr. Rogers had been crying all night long, every night, for three months. But he looked okay now.

Mr. Rogers poured soap into the dishwasher and clicked it shut. Slayer finished eating and licked one of his legs. Mr. Rogers squatted down to pet Slayer, who hissed at him. Mr. Rogers pulled his hand away. Slayer went back to licking his leg.

“Sorry, buddy. I know you’re touchy these days….”

Raymond nudged me. “I’m bored,” he whispered.

I understood. I waved at him to follow me around to the back of the house.

We crawled along the brick wall until we found another light, coming from the basement. Perfect. Very easy to peek into.

Troy sat on the rec room floor with the TV on, a jar of lightning bugs at his side. A fishbowl sat on top of the TV. Troy’s birthday goldfish from Mr. Jack swam a restless figure eight.

Troy removed the lightning bugs from the jar one by one and smashed them on a plate with a plastic hammer. Then he wiped the dead lightning bugs’ green glow juice on his face like war paint.

“He’s sick,” I muttered. “How can he do that to the poor lightning bugs?”

“Maybe that’s a voodoo ritual,” Raymond suggested.

“Yeah.” It was evil, that’s for sure. But I saw no dolls of any kind, voodoo or otherwise, in the basement. “It’s not proof, but Troy is a suspect.”

Something cold and wet bumped my arm. “Whoa!” I jumped and let out a shout.

“Meow!” Slayer rubbed himself against my leg.

“Ssshh!” Raymond clamped his hand over my mouth, too late. Troy looked up toward the window. Raymond and I ducked down. Slayer meowed again, then ran off in the direction of Wendy’s house.

“Slayer?” Troy stood up and walked to the window.

“We better get out of here,” Raymond whispered. He and I ran around the house and out of the yard until we got to the sidewalk on Carroll Drive. We slowed down and tried to act normal, like we weren’t running for our lives from a crazed lightning-bug killer.

We strolled casually down the street. Next door, Mr. Jack’s house was lit up and noisy, his driveway full of cars — that could only mean poker night. Next to Mr. Jack was the Carters’ house, already decorated for the Fourth of July with red, white, and blue streamers on the porch, red, white, and blue lights along the roof and in the trees, a giant American flag, a plastic Mount Rushmore that played “America the Beautiful,” and a life-size, blow-up Uncle Sam in the yard. The Carters overdecorated for every holiday. Easter was the worst, with pastel bunnies and eggs all over the place.

We stopped in front of a squat brick house with lights on in every window and sappy music blaring from the living room.

“David Serrano’s house,” I told Raymond.

We ran to the side of the house, clinging to the shadows, and peered through the living room window. Mr. and Mrs. Serrano and two of David’s three sisters — Claudia and DeeDee — were tangoing cheek to cheek.

The kitchen counter was piled with melons and peaches and bananas — Mr. and Mrs. Serrano own a fruit stand in Lexington Market — around a fish tank
with four goldfish in it, one for each of the Serrano kids. But no David.

“David’s room is upstairs,” I said. The tango music was so loud, there was no need to whisper. “Come on.”

An ivy-covered trellis ran up the side of the Serranos’ house, right between two second-floor bedrooms: David’s and his older sister Connie’s.

“You’re lighter,” I said. “You go.”

Raymond scrambled up the trellis like a monkey. He leaned to the left and peered through a window. He leaned to the right and looked into that window. He pointed at the right window.

“What’s he doing?”

Raymond climbed down the trellis. “He’s not doing anything.”

“What do you mean, he’s not doing anything? He must be doing
something
.”

“Well, he’s sitting at his desk. And he’s reading.”

“Reading? David Serrano?” Impossible. David was in my class last year. He hated reading. “I’ve got to see this.” The trellis strained as I climbed up. There he was, sitting at his desk with headphones on, reading a very fat book — a dictionary or encyclopedia or something like that. I checked the room for signs of evil spells: dolls, pins, herbs … but saw nothing suspicious.

Unless you count the fact that he was sitting at his desk, studying, which was very suspicious. It was summer.
School was out. Why would a boy who hated to read be reading unless he had to?

Summer school. If anyone had to go to summer school, it would be David Serrano.

But even if he had to go to summer school, he still wouldn’t study.

Unless he was studying voodoo spells!

Out of curiosity, I leaned to the left and looked into Connie’s room. She sat at a vanity table, brushing her hair over and over and over. She had dolls all over the place, dozens of dolls … but they were all the fancy, dressed-up, collectible kind, not the kind you put pins in.

I climbed down to consult with Raymond. “No hard evidence of voodoo. But David stays on our suspect list.”

“Who’s next?” Raymond asked.

I wanted to say the Witch Lady. If anyone knew voodoo, it would be her.

But I was afraid to say it to Raymond. I don’t know what stopped me, maybe some sense that it would upset him.

There was also the fact that I had no desire to spy on the Witch Lady. What if she caught me? Then
I’d
get cursed.

“What about that lady who lives next door to you?” Raymond asked.

“Wendy? She’s nice. I don’t think she’d hurt anyone.”

“Everyone is a suspect,” Raymond said.

“You’re right. Let’s go.”

We walked back up Carroll Drive and turned left on Western Street, approaching Paz’s house. A shadow flitted across the back wall.

A bat?

I stopped.

The shadow dropped out a window and bypassed a pool of light by the back door. Someone was sneaking out of Paz’s house.

I ducked behind a parked car and pulled Raymond down with me. The shadow slipped out of the Calderons’ yard and crossed Western Street. Pink shorts, a tank top, and long, dark hair flashed under the streetlamp. It was Melina.

“Where’s she sneaking off to?” I wondered.

“Let’s follow her,” Raymond said.

Melina stopped outside the Murphys’ house, just across Western Street from her own. She beamed up at a window on the second story like she was wishing on a star. Then she ducked into a shrub to hide. I waited. She didn’t move. It was as if she’d disappeared.

“That’s funny,” Raymond said. “We’re out spying, and so is she. The world is full of spies.”

“Kip,” I said. “She must be waiting for Kip.”

Kip Murphy’s Mustang wasn’t in the driveway, and his bedroom light wasn’t on.

“Why?” Raymond asked.

“She likes him. Don’t you see? We’ve just solved one of the secrets. ‘I’m in love with Kip Murphy’ must be Melina’s secret.”

“Yeah,” Raymond said. “When I get home I’ll paste that one under her picture.”

There was a roar down the street and a flash of headlights. Kip’s Mustang squealed into the driveway. He gunned the engine. Melina stepped out of the bushes and straightened her tank top. She gave her hair a quick brush with her hands to make sure there were no leaves in it. Then she started walking down the sidewalk toward the Murphys’ driveway, like she was just passing by, la-di-da-di-da.

Kip got out of the car. “Hey, Melina.”

“Kip! I was just out for a walk. Where are you coming from?”

“Nowhere special. Stopped at the 7-Eleven.”

“See anybody there?”

“Not really. See you later.”

“Bye, Kip.”

Kip jogged up the four steps to his front door and disappeared inside his house. Melina walked slowly, watching him all the way. The porch light went out. The light in Kip’s room went on. She lingered on the corner a few seconds longer. Then she crossed the street and sneaked back into her own house.

“I should go home too,” I said. Sometimes my parents
checked on me while I was sleeping. I’d left a bunch of pillows under my covers to suggest a body, but if they turned on the light, they’d know I was gone, and I didn’t need the drama.

“But we haven’t solved the voodoo mystery yet,” Raymond said. “Can you come over tomorrow?”

“I’m supposed to go roller-skating tomorrow with Paz. We’re practicing a routine for the Fourth of July Parade.”

“How about the day after?”

“Okay. We’ll meet the day after tomorrow to plan another spy mission. I just hope the curse doesn’t kill Paz before then.”

We shook hands on it. Raymond slipped off into the woods like a shadow. I went home and crawled into bed, undetected.

“Minty Fresh dodges a block by Pax A. Punch! She pulls ahead for the win!” I ducked under Paz’s flailing arm and raced past her on my skates.

“I wasn’t really trying.” Paz rolled listlessly toward a bench on the sidelines of the track.

Paz was not putting much energy into our routine. It was like she didn’t even care about roller derby anymore.

“Paz, we’ve got to practice. The parade is next week. If we don’t have a roller-skating routine, we’ll have to decorate our bikes and ride with Lennie and Hugo, and that’s so babyish.”

“The whole parade is babyish,” Paz said. “That’s what Isabelle says. She hasn’t even gone to the parade since she was six.”

“Isabelle.” I crossed my arms. “Of course
Isabelle
would say that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.”

“We’ll be in middle school next year,” Paz said. “We’ve got to think about our reputations. Are we going to be
cool girls with lots of friends? Or are we going to be dorks who roller skate in a baby parade?”

“Roller derby is cool,” I said.

“To you, maybe.”

“So you don’t want to do roller derby anymore?” Paz and I had been planning our derby auditions since we were eight. We’d been lobbying the Oella Roller Rink to start a junior team all year. Now Paz didn’t like it anymore?

What else didn’t she like?

“You can’t quit roller derby,” I said. “You’ve got the perfect name! Pax A. Punch!” I loved saying it out loud.

“You can have it,” Paz said. “You can be Pax A. Punch.”

“But my name isn’t Paz,” I said. “Don’t you get it? It doesn’t work. The joke’s not funny unless your name is Paz.”

“Change your name to Paz, then.” She untied one skate, then paused to rub her nose. “My nose is all tickly. I don’t know if I’m getting a cold or what.”

Maybe she was getting a cold. Or maybe the curse had struck again.

I tried not to get mad at Paz. I imagined how it would feel to be cursed. If I was always getting rashes and stomachaches and a tickly nose, I’d be cranky too.

“So no more practice?” I asked. “We’re not going to skate in the parade together?”

“You can do it by yourself if you want to,” Paz said. She adjusted her barrettes. She always wore four silver barrettes in a row now. “I bet Lennie would skate with you if you asked her.”

So now Paz was trying to pawn me off on her little sister? The fact that Lennie wanted to skate just proved that it was babyish.

The weird thing was, I still wanted to skate in the parade, even if it
was
babyish. I’d always been in the parade, ever since I was little. Mom used to pull me and Thea down the street in a decorated wagon. Later I tagged after Thea on my tricycle. Then Paz and I wrapped our bikes in patriotic streamers and rode down Carroll Drive with all the other kids.

Why stop now? I wasn’t ready. What would I do with myself if I wasn’t in the parade? Just stand on the sidewalk and watch? That seemed so … boring.

Then I remembered something awful.

“What about my birthday party?” I asked Paz.

“What about it?”

I was turning eleven on August 27 and had planned a roller-skating party — with a roller derby theme — at the rink. Which Paz knew perfectly well.

Paz had turned eleven in May. Her birthday party’s theme was “April Showers Bring May Flowers.” I’d thought it was strange at the time — not very Pax A. Punchy — and figured her mother had forced her to have
a flower party. But maybe it had been a warning signal. Maybe I should have paid attention.

“My mom already booked the rink for that afternoon,” I reminded her.

“Who wants to go roller skating in August?” Paz said. “If I had a summer birthday, I would definitely have a pool party.”

“But I don’t have a pool,” I objected. “And neither do you.”

“At Rollingwood, silly. You can reserve a barbecue and have it at night, with a DJ and dancing and everything. We could buy new bathing suits for the party!”

“I guess that would be fun,” I said.

“Tell your mom you want to change it,” Paz said. “You’ve got time.”

“Okay,” I said. “So we’re not skating anymore?”

“No,” Paz said. “Let’s go home.”

I took off my skates, and we walked back to Woodlawn Road. There was a commotion outside Wendy’s house. Lennie, Hugo, Casey, and Kip circled Wendy, who was crying.

“Phoebe is gone!” Wendy sobbed. “She never runs away. Someone must have stolen her!”

“We already made a sweep through the neighborhood,” Kip told me.

“We couldn’t find her anywhere,” Hugo said.

“But we did find this clue.” Lennie held up a tuft of white fur. “Snagged on that holly branch there.” She pointed to a bush in Wendy’s backyard.

“What will I do without Phoebe?” Wendy cried. “The house is so lonely without her.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll find her,” Kip said.

“A lot of things have been stolen around here lately,” Paz said. “Like my photo ID.”

Gulp. I hadn’t figured out how to give it back to her without breaking my promise to Raymond. She didn’t need it anymore, anyway. The rink manager had given her a new one.

“I heard someone in our garage one night last week,” Kip reported. “He ran off before I could see him, but he left a box open. There were old pictures scattered all over the garage floor.”

Raymond strikes again.

“And there was that flash in the woods!” Lennie said. “A week or so ago, remember?”

That was Raymond too. But he wouldn’t have stolen Phoebe. Why would he want a cat? Unless …

… unless the Witch Lady wanted the cat for a curse. And Raymond was working to help her.

“What about the Man-Bat?” Lennie said. “He eats cats!”

Wendy’s face went gray.

“Shh! You dope!” Paz kicked Lennie in the shin. “There’s no such thing as a Man-Bat.”

“That’s what you say,” Lennie said.

“We’ll find Phoebe,” I said. “Don’t worry, Wendy.”

Raymond had stolen some things. But he wouldn’t kidnap a cat.

Would he?