Famous in a Small Town(29)

“Let’s do it,” he replied, but then paused, considering Creepy Cookie. He reached up again and turned the head so that the face was pointed toward the wall. “Better or worse?”

“Honestly? I think it’s a toss-up.”



* * *



“It’s just past those trees up there,” I told August as we neared the site of Megan’s would-be house, having retrieved Brit and biked over.

“The Pleasant place,” Brit said with relish.

August waggled his eyebrows. “I know a thing or two about a pleasant place.”

“Save it,” Brit replied. “No one wants your clarinet dick.”

The mansion was a little ways out of town and set back from the road, off a drive that wound through a bit of woods.

It was actually two houses—or the remains of an old house with the shell of a new one attached to the back of it. The original part was an old farmhouse that supposedly Megan had wanted to restore. A giant addition was tacked on the back, but neither part of the renovation was ever completed.

There had been talk of the town buying it and turning it into some kind of a museum—the Acadia Historical Society brought it up—but I don’t think they had the funds for that. So it sat vacant, the grass growing tall around it.

We dropped our bikes by the front and stared up at the house.

“What are we waiting for?” Brit said, and started forward.

I grabbed her arm. “What are you doing?”

“We didn’t ride all the way out here just to look at it. We’re going in, aren’t we?” And she strode up to the front of the house.

Brit reached the door by the time I caught up, climbing the steps to the wide front porch, which was another add-on to the original structure. The porch was just bare wood, unpainted and badly weathered. It would’ve been lovely if it were finished—a cushioned porch swing swaying in the breeze. Condensation on a pitcher of lemonade. That kind of thing.

Brit turned the handle on the front door. It was locked, but the door gave a bit against the pressure.

She rattled it a few times. “We could probably knock it open.” She looked back at August. “Wanna give it a whirl?”

He shook his head. “I’m not trying to make this into a genuine breaking-and-entering situation.”

“But we’re not going to learn anything new by just standing out here!”

“You don’t even care about the whole Megan thing anyway,” I said.

“I care deeply about doing something interesting,” Brit replied, and went back down to retrieve August, urging him up the steps from behind. “Come on, August ol’ boy, give that door a good shoulder. Show us all the … raw power in that … tight … body of yours”—she sputtered a laugh—“I’m sorry, I can’t even pretend like that’s true—”

“If you care so much, you do the breaking in,” August said.

“I can’t risk it. I have to stay in top physical form.”

“Maybe I do too.”

“To do what? Shill sponges at Dollar Depot? Get to punching down that door.”

August was about to speak when I held up a hand. “There’s a way in. It’s in the back.”

“Awesome,” August said, at the same time Brit said, “How do you know that?”

I had heard people talking about it at school—this was briefly a party spot, before the cops started routinely buzzing by on weekend nights. “I know it’s shocking, but I occasionally know stuff.”

“But illicit stuff, though?” Brit said.

“It’s not illicit.”

“You were the one who said we shouldn’t go in.”

I sighed. “We’re just … briefly surveying. For research. We’ll be fine.”

“You’re the one who’s gonna tell the cops it’s for research, okay?” August said, following me around back. “I really feel like they’ll believe you.”

“Why?”

“You have an honest face.”

“I could be a huge liar, you wouldn’t know.”

“Tell me a lie right now.”

I picked my way through the tall grass. “When I was seven, I entered the firehouse’s annual hot-dog-eating contest. I ate half a hot dog and then threw up, and then cried a lot, and they made me honorary winner because they felt bad for me.”

He looked at me for a moment. “It’s true. You’re trying to trick me.”

I grinned. “It’s a lie. I knew you’d think I was going to do that.”

I would never tell him he was right.

We reached the particular spot in the back, and just as the girls from school had said, there was a wooden board covering a large window that was attached loosely enough at the top that you could push it to the side and slip through. We did just that.

It was dim inside. This part of the house was basically a shell—unfinished floors, drywall only.

I could tell it would be a nice place if it was ever finished. The kitchen was giant—an island outlined on the floor, chalk marks laid down for where the appliances would go. A long hallway branched off to the right, a large doorway straight ahead opened up into the old side of the house, where a staircase led up to the second floor.