So the fact that Trevor liked my stuff—that was incredible...to me. It was incredible. I had to work super hard to keep my whatever, forever facade going and not act like a little kid who just got their birthday gift early.

  “That would be cool,” I told him, as nonchalant as possible. “I can ask my grandmother when she picks me up. If she says yes, you can come over and we can do art together.”

  Trevor grinned at me. “Sounds like a perfect plan. I’m hyped.”

  “Hyped?” I lifted one side of my lips in a half-grin.

  “Hey, don’t knock the word. It’s got a good sound to it,” laughed Trevor. He waved over his shoulder as he turned and headed for his next class. “I’ll catch you when school lets out!”

  I waved back and turned to head for my next class, too. I was in a great mood for all of ten minutes. Then I hit up my next class, and I had to deal with Alice and her best friend, May. They were jerks. Jerks with a capital J.

  That whole first meeting with Alice? Yeah, that was just how she actually acted. And May was even worse, because she had this super-nasal voice and the habit of repeating everything that Alice said.

  I, unfortunately, sat right in front of Alice and right beside May in my next class. The teacher, Mrs. Harringbone, wasn’t very fond of me. She said it was hard to deal with students that came around later in the year.

  I hadn’t told her that none of the other teachers minded—and that it was literally just a week late—but I had sure thought it.

  Mrs. Harringbone was a tall, thin woman with a mop of messy dark brown hair and big, blue eyes. She dressed up like all of the other teachers, a pinstripe skirt and a dark red jacket, but her heels were way too skinny and tall for everyday teaching uses.

  “Alright, class. Today we’re going to talk about the beginning of art impressionism,” said Mrs. Harringbone. “This radical art movement began in the late 1800s, where Parisian painters did the majority of the development.”

  Boring.

  Impressionism was not my cup of tea. I knew it was important to understand how different art styles worked and how they could influence the big pieces of an era, but I just hated this particular style. Why couldn’t we ever discuss the merits of modern illustrators? The people that revolutionized digital art, or the idea of web comics and how they had undergone such a rapid growth so quickly?

  Something interesting?

  I might not have had to deal with May and Alice if the teacher ever talked about something that actually held her students’ attention.

  Today, the whispering started as soon as Mrs. Harringbone began her lecture about art history.

  She prattled on, “Impressionists were pushing back against the standards of classical art. Their focus was on how light could define a moment in time, and how color could be used to define a piece of work rather than the standard black lines that many other painters had taken to using.”

  The whispering said, “Hey, May. Have you seen that purple hair?”

  I tried to ignore it. It was really, really hard to focus on the lesson.

  “Plein air painting was the practice of doing your artwork outside, beneath the clouds,” Mrs. Harringbone continued. “It was popularized during this movement.”

  Focus on the lesson.

  That was all I kept telling myself. I just had to focus on the lesson. Then I caught the words, “Someone is trying way too hard to be the main girl,” And all of my focus levels went straight out the window.

  “Right?” hissed May, turned around so she could look at Alice. “She thinks she’s the new main character here. I don’t think that I would have the audacity to—”

  “Here’s a thought,” I snapped. “Maybe you would get better grades if you did your work instead of making an ass out of yourself.”

  Despite the fact that Alice and May had been talking literally the whole time too, I’m the one that Mrs. Harringbone scolded. She said, “Quinn. We don’t allow that sort of behavior in this class.”

  “Are you kidding me? Did you just not hear what they were saying about me?” I demanded—way out of line, I know, but whatever, forever.

  Mrs. Harringbone looked over the rim of her thin wire-framed glasses at me. “The only thing I’ve heard is your inappropriate language. And now, you’re back-talking about a correction. I think it’s best if you spend this class standing in the hall.”

  Alice snickered.

  Tears burned at my eyes—that’s how mad I was. I stood up, grabbing my laptop, and storming out into the hallway without another word. I sat down on the floor just outside of the door, laptop beside me, and hauled my knees up against my chest.

  That was the sort of thing I would have told my dad about. He would have come down to the school and sorted it out.

  There was just no way I could expect that out of my grandparents. They were old. And they were weird, too. I didn’t really want them down here in the school. Grandma would probably show up in a hat with stuffed birds all over it or something, and Gramps in his alligator boots. No thank you. Where did that leave me, though?

  I sniffed and shoved my head against my knees. For a few long moments, I just sat there being miserable. Then I wasn’t just miserable and sad, I was miserable and angry. Even worse, I was miserable and bored.

  I grabbed my notebook and a pen, and started to doodle. Flowers at first. There were easy ways to pass the time because I didn’t need to think about them at all. But then the flowers turned into little cartoon knives, and then the knives turned into little knives that were shoved into the chest of Alice, and the head of May, and the throat of Mrs. Harringbone.

  Was that the best way to deal with the situation? Eh, probably not.

  But it made me feel better. That had to count for something, at least.

  All Manners & Politeness

  As soon as the bell for the last class rang, I turned and all but charged out of the front door of the school. I was so done with being here. I took the white stone stairs down to the main path two at a time, and all but leaped over to my grandmother’s old, beat-up station wagon.

  Pulling the door open, I sat the computer down on the passenger seat up front. “Hey, Grandma?”

  “I’m sorry about this morning,” she blurted out with a sigh.

  I froze—I’d thought we were over and done with that.

  Grandma continued, “You have to understand, when you get to be our age… It’s hard, thinking that keys have gone missing. We get a little bit nervous.”

  “It’s okay. I should have kept a better grip on it.” I was just relieved she wasn’t mad at me anymore. That would hopefully make what I was about to say way easier. “I was actually hoping… Since you were driving me home anyway, could I have some company over this evening?”

  Grandma’s lips pursed. “Company?”

  I looked around and then gestured at Trevor when I spotted him. “We have a few classes together, and he was going to come over so we could work on one of our illustration projects. We would stay out of the way.”

  She didn’t look convinced.

  I laid on the charm, putting on my best puppy-dog eyes and batting my lashes at her. “Please? We’ll stay up in my bedroom practically the whole time and we’re just going to be drawing, so we won’t be loud or anything.”

  There was a long minute where I thought she was going to tell me off, but then she relented. “Alright. Just make sure he knows that he can’t stay too late. I don’t think I put enough in the oven for four people’s supper, and it’s too late to add anything else to the casserole.”

  My stomach churned at the thought of my Grandma’s casseroles. Cooking was not her forte, despite the fact she seemed to love doing it.

  “He’ll be gone before supper,” I said with a bob of my head. I hurried over to grab Trevor, announcing, “Success,” once I was close enough to be heard.

  “I can come over?” Excitement was laced in his words.

  “We’re good to go! You just can’t stay for ‘supper,’”—I made little air quotes with my fingers—“but that’s not until like, six or seven. We should have plenty of time to get some drawing in,” I said, cheerfully. We went back to the car together and climbed into the backseat.

  “You’re Quinn’s little friend?” Grandma interviewed him as she pulled the car out of the pick-up lane.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Trevor was all manners and politeness. “I’m Trevor.”

  “Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Trevor. You can call me Mrs. Hoggwaller,” said Grandma. “I would have invited you to stay later tonight, but it’s just too short of notice.”

  “It’s okay,” I responded quickly, not wanting Grandma to think I wasn't grateful. I figured that at her age, the last thing she wanted was to have a bunch of kids running around the house, causing trouble and making noise. “We don’t mind.”

  Trevor added in, “I’ll give more notice next time.”

  “Mhm,” hummed Grandma. I had yet to figure out if mhm was a good thing or a bad thing. She made that noise a lot, and it always seemed to be implying and meaning something different. This time around, it seemed to mean… I had no idea.

  That she was glad Trevor had manners, maybe. Or that she didn’t want there to be a next time. Talk about having to make a coin toss and just hoping that it landed on heads!

  The drive was mostly silent. I didn’t want to talk about my murder story with my Grandma right there listening in, and Trevor seemed to be on the same page. He perked up as we pulled into the driveway and started up toward the Hoggwaller Manor. It was kind of funny; I had seen dogs do the same thing when their home came into view.

  I didn’t blame him. Grandma’s car smelled funky. Like fake pine-tree aerosol and her fruity perfume. It wasn’t a good combination. Plus, the AC made this weird rattling sound and didn’t put out actual cold air. It was luke-warm at best. Sweat dribbled down the back of my neck.

  “Your house is gorgeous, Mrs. Hoggwaller,” Trevor crooned, once again ever-so-politely. He sure had lots of manners. Who knew?”

  Grandma parked the car. “It used to be. I know what people think at first glance, but this house, oh, her bones are still strong. If I were a few decades younger, I would have slapped a bit of paint on her and she really would be a sight for sore eyes.”

  “I like her this way,” Trevor went on. “There’s more story to her.”

  Grandma hummed again. “Mhm.” And then she said, “Your grandfather is in having a nap, so try to keep things a little on the quiet side. I’m going to get a few things taken care of out back. That garden is more weed than petunia at this point!”

  “We’ll be quiet,” I promised. We waited until Grandma walked around the side of the house, and then I led Trevor up onto the porch. “Watch the steps. They’re downright hazardous. Thanks for being cool about the place, by the way.”

  “I meant it.” Trevor grinned at me. “I think a place like this has a lot of character. I mean, think about all the things that have happened here.”

  “A lot of bad dinners.” I swung the front door open, and I was met, yet again, with the sight of the two cat paintings. They stared at me, judging. I wrinkled my nose at them.

  Trevor asked, “Are they, like, your grandmother’s cats?”

  “I…don’t even know. I didn’t ask. But they don’t have any pets now, so those cats are probably long dead. They’re creepy though, right?” I stepped over to them, gesturing at the doll sitting on the table. It had changed again. The dolls were always moving around.

  Rationally, I knew it was just my grandparents doing it. Probably Grandma. She seemed to be the one with the soft spot for the dolls. But it didn’t change the fact that on a totally irrational level, it was the creepiest hobby.

  One day, there would be a doll in a pink dress sitting here. The next day, it would be a boy doll. And then it would be two little twin dolls holding hands. I just didn’t like it.

  “I guess,” said Trevor. “I don’t mind cats. And these ones are pretty… You know, they actually look like something old people would have in their house. My aunt is about their age and she’s got all kinds of glass cats all over the place.”

  “I think that I’d rather have the cats than the dolls,” I muttered. Then, more loudly, “My room’s upstairs. Come on, we should do our art up there.”

  Trevor followed me up and we put our school stuff down on the end of my bed. He looked around the room. “Dolls, huh?”

  “Not mine,” I said quickly. “They were here when I moved in.”

  “I noticed,” laughed Trevor. “Hey, what about a tour before we get started?”

  “A tour?” My shoulders fell. I really did want to come in, kick off my shoes, and get some work done with a buddy. But I also didn’t want to disappoint or upset said buddy.

  Trevor nodded. “Yeah, just a quick one! I’ve been passing this place on the way to school practically my whole life. I kind of dig seeing what it looks like inside.”

  “Alright,” I said after a moment. “But we can’t touch the dolls or Grandma will get irritated. She totally didn’t like it when I moved some of the bigger ones out of this room.”

  “No touching the dolls.” Trevor crossed his fingers. “I think I can manage that.”

  So back out into the hallway we went, the old wooden floorboards creaking beneath our weight. I pointed to the room at the far end of the hallway. “My grandparents’ room. Off limits, plus, Gramps is napping in there. And uh, this one’s the…sitting room? Spare room.”

  I showed him where I had dumped the dolls right after I moved in. They had since been sorted out, not just onto the shelves on the walls, but also up onto the big, cushy-looking red recliners that flanked either side of the window.

  Each recliner had one doll in it. The dolls wore matching yellow dresses. I swore that they were looking straight at me. There was a small, flat table beneath the window. The table had an old age-yellowed lace doily atop it and two dusty tea cups, like the dolls had just sat down for a sip.

  “Weird,” Trevor said flatly.

  “You haven’t seen weird yet,” I promised him, taking him to the upstairs bathroom next. The door swung inward. I clicked the light on. A small wicker table was pressed against one wall; on it sat a collection of miniature porcelain figures. They were less dolls and more statues, but they still got an A+ for creep-factor.

  They were little glass figures of doughy-faced people taking bubble baths, and wrapped up in towels. Nothing lewd and more comical than anything—the sort of figures that you would expect to find put out by an old company from the eighties or the nineties. They were dusty.

  Everything in the house was dusty. Even the stuff we used every day, like the sink, seemed to be dusty. It was almost like the dust reset every night.

  “Wow. There are a lot of dolls in this place, huh?” Trevor reached out and tapped the top of one of the figurines. It left a big clean spot on the little blond boy’s head.

  I winced a bit, thinking about the fact that we were totally not supposed to be touching the dolls. Then I tried to justify it as these not really being dolls. Plus, it wasn’t like Trevor had picked it up and made it do a jig or anything, right?

  It was probably fine. Still, I hurried him out of the bathroom and finished giving him a tour of the top floor. I was kind of hoping that would be enough, but Trevor insisted that he wanted to see the whole house, so down the stairs we went, tennis shoes brushing over the rough worn wood.

  The living room was dimly lit. There was a radio sitting on top of the old box TV. A wooden rocking chair sat in the corner of the room…with a doll in it. He was dressed up like a boy from the 1800s, complete with a waistcoat and top hat. I disliked that one in particular.

  The face sculpt and the hair—they looked just like my dad.

  After that was the downstairs smoking room—no actual smoking allowed—and the office, the study, and the little library. Yes, they were all different rooms. No, I didn’t like any of them. Yes, they all had loads of dolls in them.

  Last stop on the tour: the dining room and the kitchen.

  We stepped into the dining room. Trevor’s gaze instantly snapped to the locked door on the far side of the room. “What’s that go to?”

  “The basement,” I said. “We’re not allowed in there.”

  I didn’t stop. These were arguably the least creepy rooms in the building, but that also meant they were the most boring. I grabbed us both a can of off-brand cola out of the fridge, and then led the way back into the dining room. “Do you want to go draw now?”

  Trevor looked over to the locked door. He frowned, just a tiny bit. “Are you sure we can’t go down there?”

  “It’s locked.”

  “Don’t you know where the key is?”

  Sitting on the jamb right above the door. But I was not about to go down there. For one, I had already disappointed my Grandma enough with losing the house key. For another, I just…didn’t want to.

  I wanted to draw, with my friend.

  “Nope,” I stated, hoping to end the conversation.

  Trevor worried at his lower lip with his two front teeth. “Bet I can pick it.”

  I froze, staring at him with wide eyes and an open mouth. “What?”

  “I bet I can pick it,” he repeated with a grin. He pulled a bobby pin out of his pocket. “I always have one of these on hand. You never know when you need to get in somewhere. Plus, my sister leaves them all over the house.”

  “I didn’t know you had a sister.” Actually, I didn’t know a lot about Trevor. We talked about art at school. I had thought that we would be doing the same thing here, too. You know, drawing. Comparing stories. Helping each other with our ideas.

  But I could tell from the look on his face… That had never been his plan.

  A sinking, sucking feeling took hold of my stomach. My heart dropped straight down to my feet. I stared at him, eyes starting to itch. I wasn’t crying, but I knew that I was right there on the edge of it.

  “Dude, are you here to hang out with me, or are you here to investigate my house?” I snapped, folding my arms over my chest. “Because so far, it seems like you’re just here to poke around the place.”