Bye-bye, Blue Creek Read online

  Right?

  Everyone in Blue Creek went to Lake Marion Park, even people who I’m sure didn’t have crushes on each other. There was a swimming area for kids, and horseshoe pits and barbecues under shady trees and stuff like that, and it hadn’t yet gotten so hot that people shut themselves indoors all day long.

  “It’s good that so many people come here. Otherwise this would be a perfect spot for my dad to take me on a garbage-eating expedition,” I said.

  Bahar laughed.

  I might explain that my father liked to take me survival camping with absolutely nothing, just to see if we could make it through a weekend living like animals and eating whatever we could find, which sometimes included bugs cooked in somebody else’s discarded beer can. And he pretty much forced me to go with him too, just like he occasionally forced me to wear the official Scottish kilt of Clan Abernathy on his randomly proclaimed “kilt days” at the golf course. Both of these things were intended to make me tougher and more manly—to grow up—but I don’t think either of us, Dad or me, got what he was hoping for out of kilts and camping.

  It was the week before Blue Creek’s Flag Day parade, and school had just gotten out for the summer—for good, as far as I was concerned.

  Enter the dancing spiders.

  Bahar said, “Your dad does not make you eat garbage, Sam.”

  I puffed up my chest like a lawyer delivering an emotional closing argument. “On the contrary, Bahar. It’s actually worse than garbage. He’s boiled creek water in somebody else’s used beer can to make it safe for drinking, if it’s even possible to wrap your head around that notion.”

  We followed the path beside the lake as it veered off between the red clay diamonds where teams of kids played pickup baseball.

  Bahar shook her head and said, “Ew.”

  “To be honest, Dad’s toasted grasshoppers on a stick weren’t that bad. They kind of reminded me of an overdone corn dog at Colonel Jenkins’s, but I seriously cried actual tears when his boiled earthworms refused to be swallowed without a slimy fight.”

  “Well, that’s still pretty brave, if you ask me,” she said.

  I never in my life thought I was brave about anything.

  I definitely was never brave about errant foul balls cutting through the sky like missiles while a bunch of boys screamed “Heads up!” at me, which is what happened just as I was feeling dizzy about Bahar telling me I was brave, which was also definitely not something that was crushy.

  And the ball—a blazing line drive—would have hit me square in the face too, if it hadn’t been for Bahar grabbing my shoulder and pulling me down into a crouch, without even hesitating.

  That ball was hit so hard, it would have knocked my head completely off my shoulders.

  The kids who’d been playing ball ran over to the three-foot-tall chain-link fence that enclosed the outfield just as Bahar and I got back to our feet. Brenden Saltarello came trotting over from home plate holding a bat in his hands, apparently the boy who’d knocked the foul ball toward us; and Brody Bjork (a kid I distinctly disliked for having participated in trapping me inside a locker and causing an extreme episode of claustrophobia) rested his glove hand on top of the fence and said, “Ha! I guess all that ‘Pray for Sam’26 stuff paid off! She pretty much saved your face from getting an extra mouth, Well Boy!”

  Then all the baseball kids in the field laughed and nudged each other, and said boy stuff about “Pray for Sam,” and “The Little Boy in the Well,” and other dumb27 middle-school-going-into-high-school boy things.

  So if I had been feeling any level of boost at all from Bahar telling me she thought I was brave, it was gone in an instant of dread when I realized that the two of us should never have chosen this particular path to walk home.

  “Gosh, I’m really sorry about that, Sam and Bahar. Are you guys okay?” Brenden asked. He was wearing a pink Princess Snugglewarm T-Shirt that had small wet circles of sweat around his neck and under his arms. No kid in Blue Creek would ever make fun of a guy like Brenden Saltarello for wearing a Princess Snugglewarm shirt, while I couldn’t not get made fun of by kids in Blue Creek, no matter what I wore, or said, or did.

  It was all hopeless.

  “I’m okay,” I said. “Bahar is just like my Betsy. She would have given you a heart transplant if you knocked my face off.”

  And Brenden laughed, because Princess Snugglewarm fans just get things like that.

  He nodded at Bahar and said, “Let’s get ’em, Betsy!” which was something Princess Snugglewarm would say to her unicorn spike just before stabbing some bad guy or another in the heart.

  I walked back and picked up their stupid28 ball that had almost killed me. Brody Bjork pointed his glove up and fanned it open, a sign that he wanted me to throw it to him, but I tossed the ball to Brenden, who barehanded it and then popped it off the tip of his bat back to the pitcher’s mound.

  26. “Pray for Sam” had been printed on a few thousand shirts during the time when I’d been trapped in a well for three days. Some people in Blue Creek still wore them, and every time I saw one or someone said “Pray for Sam,” I felt like running away and hiding.

  27. (excuse me)

  28. (excuse me)

  THE HUNGRY BLACK MOUTH

  Everyone and everything, it seemed, had been conspiring against our finding out the truth about the Purdy House.

  Two days had passed since our first Monster People meeting at the library, and Karim was still staying at my house. The three of us had tried to get together on Monday after my lunch shift at Lily Putt’s, so we could read the next article Bahar had saved for us, but Mom insisted on taking me to the big mall in Uniontown so she could buy new high school clothes for me. Worst of all, Mom asked Karim and Bahar if they wanted to come along, which was incredibly embarrassing, just thinking about Bahar watching my mom pick out things for me to wear. And I knew Mom would make me try on everything and show my friends how I looked, and Bahar had very strong opinions on what kinds of clothes boys in high school should wear, despite the fact that Pine Mountain Academy had strict uniform and ties-for-boys rules. The fact that I didn’t care—or even think—about my clothes made me feel kind of inadequate around Bahar too.

  It was like I was going to be on display or something, modeling all those creased khaki school uniform slacks, cardigans, and stiff-collared white shirts, because Dylan and Evie were there too, contributing to the size of my clothes-shopping audience.

  I knew something terrible was going to happen, but over the last year in eighth grade I’d gotten pretty good at not telling anyone when I felt doom heading my way. I was sweaty and shaking, and hardly said a word while Mom led us through the section with the big hanging sign overhead that said BACK TO SCHOOL, BOYS!

  Bahar nudged my elbow and said, “Are you okay, Sam? You don’t look right.”

  To be honest, I think I said something to her, but I can only picture my mouth opening and closing like a goldfish pressed against the side of its bowl.

  Then Mom handed over an armful of stuff that smelled like the inside of a new car and told me, “Go try these on. And let us see how every one of them looks. We’ll wait here.”

  I noticed that Bahar was looking at me, but I didn’t quite understand why. I felt awful, suddenly caught up in worrying about all the things I’d never get to do here in Texas again, and then getting mad at myself because what was I thinking? I’ve never been clothes shopping with Bahar—not once in my life—and it was something I never wanted to do again.

  Never.

  Bahar held Dylan’s and Evie’s hands, half in an attempt to keep them from following me into the dressing room. She said, “Don’t worry, Sam. It’ll be okay.”

  So they all watched me like I was some kind of knight about to enter a cave filled with dragons, while I stood there, face-to-face with the hungry black mouth of a department store dressing room.

  What I should have done was said, “Mom, maybe we could go in there together so you could che
ck if there’s a changing room with a window in it.”29

  Or I could have said, “Can Karim go in with me?”30

  Or I could have said, “I trust the accuracy of modern clothes manufacturers. When they say size M, you can bet they are a spot-on match for a kid my size! I mean, look at me, Mom. I am the walking, talking poster child for an eleven-year-old boy who is size M!”

  Which is what I did say, but then Mom shoved my shoulder playfully, nudging me in the direction of the hungry black mouth, and said, “Don’t be silly, Sam! We won’t have time to come back here again before we leave for Oregon.”

  Which is also when all the spiders in my stomach rose up in some kind of wild, flailing polka dance.

  I took a deep breath and went inside the changing room.

  Alone.

  Well, alone not counting the ten thousand spiders.

  * * *

  The dressing rooms were like tiny prison cells made from windowless, floor-to-ceiling flat panels of pale-blue indoor-outdoor carpeting that seemed to suck all the sound out of the air—probably to muffle the anguished screams, I thought.

  I headed left (that was the direction that said ←MEN AND BOYS) and then turned right, down a narrow hallway with three doors. The hungry black mouth vanished behind me, like I had been swallowed and was on my way to its stomach.

  The clothes I had draped over my arm suddenly became unbearably heavy.

  I concentrated on taking deep breaths, but it felt like there was no air in the air.

  I could do this, I kept telling myself. If I couldn’t, I’d end up ruining everything.

  I tried the first door, but when I rattled the knob, it was locked, and a kid’s voice came through the panels of indoor-outdoor carpeting.

  “Stay out, you weirdo! Can’t you see the door’s shut? I’m putting on pants!”

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  He was probably mad at his mom, too.

  The second room was unlocked, the door halfway open.

  Back when I was in grade school, my parents brought me to a therapist to help me with my claustrophobia. My therapist was named Dr. Greene, but he always insisted I call him Matt, which made me feel weird because I didn’t call any grown-ups “Matt.” Kids in Texas are not allowed to call adults anything that doesn’t start with an official title, like “Mr.” or “Dr.” or “Officer” or “Coach.”

  As far as I knew, no grown-ups in Texas even had first names.

  I practically needed another therapist to help me get over calling Dr. Greene “Matt.”

  Matt gave me a couple of tricks to use when I started to feel my claustrophobia coming on. Matt told me I should think of something really boring, so I thought about Science Club at Dick Dowling Middle School, but it wasn’t working. The clothes in my arms were getting heavier, and the dressing room—the stomach—seemed to be getting smaller. Matt also said that I could try to imagine doing something that made me very happy, so I thought about staying up after bedtime, making and eating popcorn, and watching the Cooking Channel while it rained outside. That was one of my favorite things to do.

  But even that wasn’t helping me.

  In Mom’s defense, I think it was easy for everyone in Blue Creek to just assume that Sam Abernathy—forever the Little Boy in the Well—had grown up and out of those feelings of being lost and closed off from everything. Sometimes I got lucky, and I didn’t have to remind them—like when Mom and Dad decided to drive to Oregon instead of taking me to school on a plane. I could never get inside an airplane.

  So I should have said something about not wanting to go into those dressing rooms that day, instead of just expecting that Mom might have known better. But to her, Dylan, Evie, Karim, and Bahar, I’m sure everything that day just seemed so perfectly back-to-school-shopping-ish, while in my mind I was trapped in the dark just like I had been when I was four years old.

  It was a nightmare.

  Cooking Channel, Science Club, Cooking Channel, Science Club…

  Maybe I could just leave the door open, I thought.

  And right about then, everything went black.

  29. But that would have been weird because nobody ever wants a window in their changing room.

  30. But that would have been SUPER weird, and besides, Karim would never stop making fun of me if I said something like that.

  THE RETURN OF BARTLEBY

  “Someone grew about a foot and a half since the last time I saw him!” Bartleby said.

  Even though the last time Bartleby had seen me was about nine months before, near the beginning of my eighth-grade year at Dick Dowling Middle School, and there was no way I could have grown that much, I didn’t bother pointing out Bartleby’s obvious exaggeration.

  “Where did you come from?” I asked.

  “Ha! Is that any way to say hello to your best nonhuman friend, Sam?”

  Bartleby tugged at the whiskers under his chin with a curled and yellowed armadillo claw. Then Bartleby’s eyes shifted from side to side like a lawyer preparing to argue for an obviously guilty client’s innocence. “Uh. You don’t have any pets, by any chance, do you?”

  Mom was allergic to cats and dogs. At least, that’s what she always said.

  “No,” I said.

  “So like I said, is that any way to say hello to your better-than-best nonhuman friend? Anyway, I dug a tunnel,” Bartleby said.

  “It’s fifteen miles from Blue Creek to the Uniontown Mall,” I said.

  Bartleby pursed his armadillo lips and nodded. “Yeah. And I would have been here sooner, but I ran into a bunch of rocks and a buried Cadillac under the old graveyard. But that doesn’t matter now, because you’ve got some important things to do, Sam!”

  “Like what?” I said.

  “Well, for starters, you’ve got to snap out of this being-afraid-of-going-to-school thing.”

  “I don’t know. It’s not the going-to-school thing that’s bothering me; it’s the going thing. I think I’m too small to leave Blue Creek. Thinking about being at school in Oregon with a bunch of kids who are all practically grown-up is really scary. I don’t think I’m smart enough or good enough. I feel like I’m not ready.”

  Bartleby snorted a disgusted hiss. “That is not the Sam Abernathy I’ve known for… for…”

  Then Bartleby clicked his armadillo claws together like he was counting.

  “For…”

  Bartleby sighed and said, “Help me out, Sam. I think I ran out of claws.”

  “Eight years,” I said.

  Bartleby’s lips stretched wide in a toothy armadillo grin. Also, he had very bad breath. “Eight years! Yes, sir! The Sam I met while I was digging around eight years ago—he was no quitter! He would have left Blue Creek on the spot! And what you’re about to do—going to school and learning how to be a great chef—this is exactly what that Sam Abernathy would have wanted more than anything else! So, kid, tell me this: Who are you, and what did you do with the real Sam Abernathy?”

  And when Bartleby said “real Sam Abernathy,” his eyes got big and dark, like he was confronting a swindler at his front door.31

  But, as always, Bartleby was right.

  I sighed.

  Bartleby continued, “And another thing. No. Two more things, Sam. First—and this is very important—if you go inside that house, it would be nice if you’d look for Ishmael. Everyone misses him. Just tell him we’re all down in the basement if you see him. Not the regular basement, the one that’s way down below. You know, the one you’ve been to before.”

  I had no idea who Ishmael was or what Bartleby was even talking about.

  “What house?” I said.

  Bartleby shook his head. Little bits of dirt fell from his whiskers. “You know, Ethan Pixler’s place. Well, his wife’s house, technically. I mean, it’s not her house anymore, right? Because she’s dead and everything.”

  “The Purdy House?”

  “Yeah. Whatever. The one with the secret hideout down there. And the other thing is… is…”


  “Is what?”

  “I forgot,” Bartleby said. “Hang on. Give me a minute.”

  I looked at Bartleby.

  Bartleby looked at me.

  Lots of time passed, but I knew Bartleby was not someone I could push.

  Bartleby scratched his armadillo chin.

  “Dang,” he said.

  Bartleby had forgotten.

  “It must not have been very important,” I said.

  “Of course it was important!” Bartleby said, obviously a little ticked-off. “Just because something’s important doesn’t mean you can’t forget it! I mean, just look at you! Someone whose name happens to be ‘Sam Abernathy’ obviously forgot to put on pants, right? Isn’t putting on pants kind of important?”

  And when Bartleby said “important,” he jabbed his armadillo claws in the air at my bare legs.

  I looked down and noticed that Bartleby was right.

  I didn’t have pants on.

  I felt myself turning red, and then I wondered if this was one of those kinds of dreams where I’m at school or cooking dinner for company in my underwear.32 I was so embarrassed. I must have been trying on my school clothes for Mom when the claustrophobia happened and Bartleby showed up.

  And then I remembered where I was and what I was supposed to be doing, which was also about the same time that Bartleby remembered what else he wanted to tell me.

  He clicked his armadillo castanet-claws together. “Now I remember what I was going to say! It’s about your girlfriend—the one you have a crush on and take walks with and have iced tea with—”

  “I so do not have a crush on her!” I protested.

  “Aww. Now, Sam—” Bartleby began, in that tone of his where I could tell he was about to explain something to me that I already knew but didn’t want to admit. And at the exact moment when Bartleby said “Sam,” another voice came from behind me:

  “Sam?”

  I half jumped.

  “Sam?”

  It was Karim, standing in the wide-open doorway of my dressing-coffin.

  Apparently, I’d neglected to shut the door too.