She attempts to kiss the top of my head again, but I manage to duck away. While she goes back to the kitchen, I head down the hallway to the stairwell, but as always, I pass the door to the basement. Dad’s been down there a lot this week. He was away on a fishing trip all weekend, and now this week he’s been in the basement nonstop. I’ve hardly seen him.
I pause at the basement door, inhaling that familiar whiff of lavender. And then, while I’m standing there, I hear something.
I frown at the door. Dad isn’t home yet, so why is there noise coming from the basement? It sounds like something banging. It’s soft, but I can definitely hear it.
And then something else. Almost like a muffled scream.
What’s going on down there?
I place my hand on the doorknob. I give it a good twist, but of course, it doesn’t open. The basement door is always locked.
“Nora, what are you doing?”
My mother’s voice is sharp. I leap away from the door, hiding my right hand behind my back. I try my best not to look guilty.
“I… I thought I heard a sound coming from down there,” I mumble.
She wags a finger at me. “You know that’s your father’sprivate space to work. I don’t want you trying to get down there.”
“But I heard—”
“Maybe something fell,” she says. We both stand there, listening for a moment. But it’s become silent. “Anyway, it’s none of your concern. I thought you had work to do.”
“I do.”
“Then go upstairs and do it, okay?”
“But…” I stare at the basement door and inhale deeply, the molecules of lavender filling my lungs. “Maybe if something fell, we should check on it. Maybe something is broken.”
“If something is broken, he’ll deal with it when he gets back from work.”
“What’s he even making anyway?” I grumble.
My mother hesitates. “He says he’s building a bookcase. Either way, he doesn’t need your help.”
I stomp my foot and turn away from the basement door, and go up the stairs. I don’t understand why the basement has to be so private. I’m not going to go down there and mess around with Dad’s stuff. Why can’t I at least see what he’s been working on?
And what was that noise? It really sounded like screaming.
But it couldn’t be.
When I get up to my room, I plop down on the bed with my backpack next to me. I rifle around inside, searching for my composition book. I also look in the smaller pocket in the front for a pencil. I’ve got like a million pencils and pens in that pocket. I also have oneother thing. A penknife—another present from my dad at Christmas last year. He told me I should carry it all the time. For protection. Not that it’s dangerous around here. We basically live in the safest and most boring neighborhood on the planet.
Once I get out my notebook and a pencil, I’ve got to get started. My only homework is I’m supposed to write an essay about a book we were assigned. It shouldn’t take long. I already finished the book a few days ago—I’m a quick reader.
I look across the room at the cage on top of my bookcase. Up until a week ago, that cage was occupied by the mouse that dad got me for my birthday. And then over the weekend, the mouse died. Very suddenly. Now he’s buried out in the backyard in a shoebox. We had a mouse funeral, and my mom kept talking about how sad it was that the mouse died, although it wasn’t all that sad. I mean, it was amouse.
I open up the composition book and turn to the first blank page. I’m supposed to be writing aboutCharlotte’s Web. But I can’t think of anything to say. I mean, it was a good book, I guess. What can you say about a book involving a spider and a pig?
I stare down at the blank page. I press the lead of the pencil against the page. And I write down the name Marjorie Baker.
And I underline it.
Chapter 7
Present Day
It’s raining when I finally finish up my work and head downstairs. I stand in the lobby for a moment, watching the plump droplets of rain fall from the sky. I don’t have an umbrella. I’m not even sure Iownan umbrella. Well, there’s probably one in the back of my closet somewhere, but it doesn’t do me much good right now.
