CHAPTER 3
I almost don’t go outside the next morning. But I swallow my courage with a Gatorade before hooking Billy to his leash. Billy, for his part, looks wary as he follows me down the front steps. He lets out a low growl from the back of his throat as we both look across the street, searching for signs of life.
And then somebody grabs me around the shoulders. My heart jumps as I spin around, a small scream escaping my lips. Mike bursts into laughter, clutching his stomach as he bowls over.
“Ha! Got you again, Parker! You make it so easy!”
I clench my fists at my sides, restraining myself from punching him. “What’s wrong with you? That was so not funny!”
“It was pretty funny from where I’m standing. Two times in a row. That’s what I’m talking about!” He continues to laugh, his voice ringing out over the otherwise quiet street. “Oh, I’m sorry, bud,” he says, bending over to pet Billy, who looks like he is ready to keel over from fright.
I scowl and turn around so that my back is to Mike as I jog in place, huffing and puffing, my face already hot.
Mike nudges me with his foot. “Don’t act like you aren’t happy to see me. I even came out early. It’s only six twenty.”
I nudge him back. “Maybe we should go on separate runs today. We can split up to spy on the Oldies.”
“Split up?” He makes a face. “What’s the matter? You scared I’ll outrun you?”
“Not on your life.”
Mike lowers his hat. “Just try and keep up.”
I take off before he’s ready, Billy’s old, graceful legs galloping at my side. I guess that’s technically cheating, but it doesn’t take Mike long to catch up.
“So that’s how it’s going to be?” he asks. I ignore him. He passes me and starts running backward. “It’s no use fighting it: you’ll never run as fast as me.”
When he turns back around, I snatch his stupid hat and wave it triumphantly in the air. “I’m sorry, what did you say? Who’s faster?”
“Hey! Give that back!”
I start running in half circles, back and forth around Goodie Lane, taunting Mike with his hat. “It’s mine now!” I cry. I guess I’m louder than I mean to be, because someone behind me clears their throat. I spin around and see Ms. Bea on her front porch, clutching her watering can. Instantly, I shrink back under the weight of her sneer.
“It’s early, you realize,” she huffs.
“Sorry, Ms. Bea,” I say, lowering my voice while still holding firmly to Mike’s hat. I notice that once again Ms. Bea is in full makeup, her skin resembling the texture on the plastic watering can.
Mike slows down. “Whatever, wear it. It’s not like it’s my favorite one.” Mike’s collection of hats can only be rivaled by Grandma Jane’s collection of crystals.
“I think I will,” I tell him. The hat’s too big, but I like wearing it all the same. I imagine what Zoe would say if she could see me right now, frolicking in the street with Mike Warren.
“So,” Mike starts, bobbing up and down beside me. “Last night was weird, right?”
“They’re ghosts,” I say. “I was thinking about it. It’s the only logical explanation.”
“There’s nothing logical about ghosts, Parker. They don’t exist. Just like vampires don’t exist, just like aliens don’t exist . . .”
I turn to him, my skin suddenly hot. “Then how do you explain last night?”
He shrugs. “Optical illusion.”
“What?”
“You know, optical illusion. It’s what happens when the brain processes reflected light and—”
“OK, OK.” I wave him off before he gets too technical. “I forgot you’re all like Bill Nye the Science Guy over here.”
“You can’t argue with facts, Parker.”
“You don’t have facts, Mike. You have theories.”
Mike pouts and we both turn our attention back across the street. More of the Oldies have made their way outside—all of them except Mr. Brown.
Mike notices, too. “Yesterday Mr. Brown didn’t come out until later,” he says in a low voice. “Maybe if we want to spot him, we should go on the run first and try to catch him after—maybe as we cool down in your driveway.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I agree.
Together we wave goodbye to a scowling Ms. Bea as we start running in the direction of the pond toward the trail. I can feel myself climbing into that peaceful state of mind where I don’t think of anything else except my breath, the ground, my body—I’m focused until we reach the water. Then, from the corner of my eye, I catch a glimmer of orange light breaking through the surface. What is that? I continue to squint as we jog closer to the edge. Is that a fish? I slow my pace just as the color fades.
“Come on,” Mike urges, pulling my attention away from the water. “It’s too muddy over here. Let’s head on back to Goodie. We can run sprints instead.”
With this, I follow him for one last loop before heading back toward Goodie Lane.
We’re just about to launch into our sprint exercises when, all of a sudden, there are footsteps behind us. Loud and fast. Thump-thump-thump-thumpthumpthump. They grow closer and more aggressive.
“Parker, look out!” Mike pulls me out of the way just in time.
Next thing I know, I’m in Mike’s arms, staring at the backside of skinny, eighty-something-year-old Mr. Brown. He turns around and shouts at us, “Share the road!” before taking off in another sprint. Billy is barking his head off and Mike grabs his leash to keep him from darting after Mr. Brown.
“You OK?” Mike asks.
I don’t answer. I stare down the street after our neighbor. Two days ago I watched him struggle to limp his way out of his house.
“That’s wild,” Mike mumbles, catching his breath, petting Billy’s head to soothe him. “It’s like he got new legs or something.”
“Maybe he did,” I say, half joking, as I point to the thick bandage wrapped around his right calf.
Mike follows my gaze. “Remember when Ms. Bea had her whole face bandaged a week ago?”
I do. Last week, on Monday, she came out of her house as usual at six thirty, dressed in her evening gown and armed with a watering can. Only, instead of her face being painted, it was bandaged with thick white gauze, wrapped around and around as though she were a mummy. A mummy wearing designer heels and a topknot.
But the next day, the bandages were gone and her face once again looked perfect. Too perfect.
“You think they both had surgery or something?” Mike asks.
I shrug, my attention focused on Mr. Brown. Just before he disappears toward the pond, his bandage gets caught by a stray bush branch, exposing the skin beneath.
And now I see it: the scar. Back of the right leg, middle calf, shaped like Florida, about the size of a glue stick.
“Whoa, Parker, where you going on me?”
I’m on the ground, dizzy and light-headed. “That’s—”
“I think you need some water.” Mike looks nervous. He gently removes his hat from my head and brushes back my bangs. “Are you too hot?”