Sydney Mackenzie Knocks 'Em Dead Page 2

  It was a simple plan, really.

  THE S5

  1. HAVE AN AWESOME LOOK: CLOTHES, HAIR, ETC. . . .

  2. MAKE SURE EVERYONE KNOWS I’M FROM CALIFORNIA AND THAT CALIFORNIA ROCKS

  3. BE NICE TO EVERYONE

  4. STAR IN THE SCHOOL PLAYS

  5. MOST IMPORTANT: DON’T LET ANYONE KNOW ABOUT THE CEMETERY THING

  I closed my eyes, and in my head I played scenes like a movie preview, with bouncy music in the background.

  Scene:

  I walk into the cafeteria in my awesome dark purple tank top and white skirt. My legs are tan. Everyone waves me over to sit at their table. Since I can’t choose, I sit at an open table and invite everyone to come eat with me. They do.

  My bangle bracelets knock together as I stir my iced caramel latte with a swizzle straw. The girls love my hair slightly spritzed with glitter, which I share with them.

  The most popular, cutest boy in eighth grade, who all the girls love, invites me to the movies. The girls are jealous, but they can’t hate me, because I’m so nice. They beg me to act out a scene from MAXINE THE MARVELOUS, and I do. The drama teacher, who happens to be in the caf, sees my performance and asks me to take the lead in the next school production. The kids tell me that I just have to do it, so I accept.

  After days of quality family time, I saw the sign WELCOME TO BUTTERMILK RIVER COVE, DELAWARE—POPULATION 800.

  The streets of Buttermilk River Cove were quiet, the houses small, run-down, and close together. Dirty snow piles lined the roads like mud mountains. Christmas lights, the kind with real big bulbs, not little white twinkly ones, were lit, even though it wasn’t dark yet and Christmas was weeks ago. My excitement over my new life fizzled at the sad appearance of the town. If you thought of California as bright lights, brilliant colors, sunshine, and flashing cameras, Buttermilk River Cove was dull, dark, and depressed.

  Roz fidgeted in her seat. “Turn here, Jim.”

  After going down one street and making a turn, it seemed like we’d gone through the entire town.

  “Oh my,” Roz said at the sight of the house. “It doesn’t look quite like the picture, does it?”

  Jim didn’t seem to hear. “There she is. The Victorian. Built in 1830. Uncle Ted’s lawyer sent me the entire history of the place. It’s fascinating.”

  At this sight any bouncy music emerging from my scene stopped.

  Oh dark and spooky Magoo.

  “That’s the house we’re going to live in?” I asked.

  It was the biggest house I’d seen in Buttermilk River Cove. Its white and navy paint peeled; the shutters were crooked; the roof sagged. It kind of leaned to the right like it was tired of standing for the last hundred and eighty years or so.

  On either side of the house was a black wrought-iron fence surrounded by tall, angry-looking dead weeds. Over a gated entrance, metal letters said:

  LAY TO REST CEMETERY

  A PLACE TO SPEND ETERNITY

  ESTABLISHED 1602

  Jim drove the Jeep into the half-moon-shaped driveway and pulled up next to the house. Our headlights shone on the backyard.

  I could not believe what I saw.

  “You’ve. Got. To. Be. Kidding. Me.”

  Goose bumps covered every inch of my tan skin.

  “What?” Roz said.

  “Those are tombstones!” I yelled.

  “Of course they’re tombstones. It’s a cemetery,” Jim said.

  “You left out an important detail.” I felt deceived. “You failed to mention that the graveyard was in OUR BACKYARD!” I shivered. There was no way I was getting out of this car.

  The Dumb-Os climbed over the backseat, kicking me in the head on their way out the door.

  “Cool!” One yelled.

  “Awesome!” Two yelled.

  How could these twerps not be scared?

  Jim got out. “The best way to run a business is to be at it all the time. That was a mistake I made with the sporting goods stores. I trusted other people to manage the day to day. I’m not going to do that again. The cemetery office is on the first floor of the house. We’ll live upstairs. It’ll be perfect.”

  It was the opposite of perfect.

  If you could take perfect and turn it upside down and run it over with a Porsche, then shove it in a NutriBullet, you might be getting close to how far we were from perfect.

  I stayed in the dark car. I couldn’t believe it. Just like that, my dream of being the Buttermilk River Cove Gigi was destroyed. Gone. Blown away. Disintegrated.

  I was going to be the weird kid.

  The one who lived in a cemetery.

  How could I possibly hide a bazillion tombstones . . . in my backyard? It wasn’t like hiding an extra toe, or a peanut allergy, or two pain-in-the-butt twin brothers, or the brand of my shoes.

  My fate was sealed: I was going to be the Freaky Magoo of Buttermilk River Cove.

  [Gloomy music plays in the background.]

  When I realized I was in the car all alone, I reluctantly set a foot on the frozen ground, sending a chill up my back.

  Jim walked up the Victorian’s front steps. They creaked. I followed, every cell of my body stuffed with fear. Jim opened the door and disappeared across the threshold. He turned on a chandelier, which barely lighted the foyer enough for us to see the faded, frayed braided rug and thick, peeling wallpaper.

  “Get your bags, boys,” Jim called to One and Two. To Roz and me he said, “The movers confirmed all our stuff is here. Let’s go up and check it out.”

  I grabbed Roz’s arm. She held mine, too, offering me a smidgen of comfort.

  “Jim, can you find a few more lights?” she asked.

  Jim flicked one switch then another, having little luck. “First thing tomorrow we’ve gotta replace some bulbs.”

  “Hundred watts,” Roz suggested.

  Jim didn’t hear her because he’d climbed up the curved staircase. “Ouuch!” he yelled.

  Roz clenched my arm tighter. “What happened?”

  “I bumped my head. I’m fine.” A dim light came on. “Ah. There we are. Our furniture looks good. It looks just like home. Come on up.”

  Roz called the twins again. I ascended the winding stairs and examined the first room, a living room. Seeing our furniture relaxed me a little, but if Jim thought this looked like home, he needed a sip of Reality Juice. It was here but covered by brown cardboard packing boxes filled with stuff and the distinct smell of yuck.

  Roz dropped heavy bags from her shoulders. “Ah, home,” she said, flopping onto the couch. She popped right back up. “It’s wet! The couch is wet!”

  I extended my hand to touch a mysterious spot. I looked up. “Jim, I think there’s a leak in the roof.”

  He came over. “Don’t call me Jim. Regular kids don’t call their parents by their first names.”

  “I live in a cemetery,” I said. “I don’t think I qualify as a regular kid.”

  With one hand on his hip and the other over my shoulder, he asked calmly, “Just call me Dad?” He looked up. “Yup. Looks like a leak. Old houses have leaks.” Removing his hand, he touched the wall. “Yup, they don’t build ’em like this anymore.” He knocked on the wall and a chunk of withered wallpaper crackled off the wall, but his smile remained.

  Maybe they didn’t make ’em like this anymore on purpose.

  “I’ll work on it tomorrow.” He walked around the room rubbing his hands together. “A coat of paint, a little buff on these beautiful hardwood floors, some new fixtures, and this place is going to be a beaut. Houses this old don’t exist in California. Nope. You find architecture like this in the First State. You know this house is on the National Historic Register? I love it already. THANK YOU, UNCLE TEDDY!” He stood next to me, hand back on hip, the other around my back, admiring the craftsmanship of the house.

  Roz reappeared with a pot, which she placed under the leak. “Might need more than a coat of paint,” she said.

  “Yup. Big plans. I’m goin
g to convert the basement into an awesome game room.” At that comment the lights flickered. He ignored it. “They used to use that space for mortuary stuff, but not anymore. Funeral homes do that now, so sky’s the limit down there. You’re gonna love it! Maybe a space for yoga, too?” he asked Roz.

  She didn’t answer him. The look on her face said she didn’t love the house as much as Jim. She stood on the other side of me, with an arm over my shoulder. I was sandwiched between them.

  A breeze of icy air floated through the room. “Is there a window open?” I asked.

  “Hmm?” Jim asked. “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t you feel that cold air?”

  “I like it,” Jim said. “Brisk.”

  Apparently I was the only one covered with goose bumps.

  “The heat will kick in soon,” Jim said. “This is going to be a Great Mackenzie Adventure. We’re going to look back at this very moment some day and say, ‘Remember what the Victorian looked like that first night?’ ”

  “Uh-huh,” said Roz.

  The Dumb-Os barreled into the living room howling like ghosts, messing up this picture-perfect parental moment.

  * * *

  That night I crawled into my bed and blocked thoughts of my freezing toes and nose, the smell of mildew, and the field of dead people buried on the other side of my bedroom wall by playing a mental movie preview.

  Scene:

  I walk into homeroom and look to the teacher for my seat. “Oh, you’re the folks who live at Lay to Rest?” she asks. I nod. The kids’ faces register shock and disgust. They whisper and point. I take my seat, and the kids on either side of me slowly slide their chairs away. One of the kids says, “She smells like a corpse.” No one even gets to know my name, except maybe the chubby boy eating boogers.

  I pulled the pillow over my head.

  Then Jim came in. “Good night, honey. I turned the heat up. It’ll just take a little while to warm the whole house.”

  “Okay.” My teeth chattered.

  “I know you didn’t want to move away from California and your friends, but you’ll see, Syd, this is going to be great.” I think he really believed that.

  “Yup.”

  “Maybe losing the stores was a blessing in disguise,” he continued.

  I wasn’t buying it. “Uh-huh.”

  “And we want you to help out around here more—with your brothers, the house, and the business. You didn’t have any chores in California. Most kids have jobs around the house. You’re going to have chores.”

  For a salesman, he wasn’t doing a great job selling me on this. “Chores?”

  “Yeah. Maybe I can even teach you a few things as we renovate the basement.” The lights flickered again. “You can be my apprentice. And in exchange, you’ll get an allowance to spend on whatever you want. After a few weeks, you’ll get used to it. You’ll see.” He winked at me. “I’ll see you in the morning, sweetheart.” He blew me a kiss.

  The Buttermilk River Cove breeze blew tree branches. The house moaned to resist the wind. There was a thud!

  I sat up.

  A thud?

  It was definitely a thud.

  I listened.

  Nothing.

  I pulled the covers over me and closed my eyes, imagining the gentle lap of the Pacific Ocean and the shiny banister of the escalator at the Galleria, when I heard another thud!

  There was a howl of more wind, a hoot of an owl, a bark of a dog in the distance, a squeak, a groan, then sort of a sigh.

  I knew what it was.

  A thud, a groan, and a sigh?

  It was a ghost.

  [Horror movie music softly plays in the background.]

  We had inherited a haunted cemetery in Delaware.

  Gee, thanks, Great-uncle Teddy!

  * chapter five *

  MEETING THE CREW

  WHAT I’D THOUGHT WAS A spooky old haunted house in the middle of a cemetery at night was still a spooky old haunted house in the middle of a cemetery during the day.

  It was overcast, cloudy, and cold. I found a box of my clothes and pulled on not one, but two pairs of hot-pink socks. I finger-combed my hair, the hair that Gigi Greggory had liked, tossed it into a clip, and slid on a pair of Urban Outfitters jeans over the leggings I’d worn to bed, because the house was still too cold to take them off. I looked around the room for a silver lining but didn’t see one. I looked out the window; there wasn’t one there, either. You know what was there? Tombstones.

  In the living room Roz was already busily working. Her head was covered with a bandana, her arms protected by gardening gloves. She wore an apron over a Juicy sweat suit like she knew what she was doing, which she didn’t, because we’d always had a cleaning person, even when the stores weren’t doing well and she probably should have done it herself. She tried to swipe cobwebs from the corners of the ceiling but caused more dust to fall from the beams.

  “So, it wasn’t just a bad dream,” I said.

  “What?”

  “We still live in a cemetery.”

  She grabbed my shoulders and looked me in the eyes. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  “Roz, I get a weird feeling in this place. Don’t you feel it?”

  “It’s just cold. You’re not used to it.”

  “Did you hear those noises last night?”

  “I didn’t hear anything except the wind and the creaks of an old house,” Roz said. “Give it a chance, okay?”

  I guessed I could give it a wee little bit of a chance. And then a stinky droplet of water hit me on the nose.

  “Where’s Jim?” I asked. She gave me the We’ve talked about this look. “Where’s Dad ?”

  “Downstairs meeting the staff.” She snagged a web around her broom and held the sticky spiderness away from her like it was a snake.

  “Staff?” I asked.

  “Yes. Lay to Rest came with its former staff.” She remained focused on the end of the broom, maybe trying to figure out what to do with the webs. “Dad is downstairs meeting them. Why don’t you go and say hi?” I wondered if the staff would know if the cemetery was haunted. “And can you also bring me up a latte?”

  I tilted my head and gave her a look that said, We live in a cemetery—no lattes down there, Roz.

  “Fine,” she said. “A hot tea?”

  I nodded; that sounded possible.

  “Oh, and later I want to talk to you about those chores.”

  I’m not a Chorey Magoo, but I said, “Sure. Where are One and Two?”

  “They’re playing outside. And they have names, Sydney.”

  * * *

  The creaky steps of the Victorian were chilly even through two layers of socks.

  Jim sat in the kitchen with two other people. He was talking, but his voice was drowned out by a sound from a stainless-steel pitcher plugged into the wall. Brown bubbles popped in the pitcher’s clear lid. I inspected it.

  “It’s a percolator,” Jim said. “It makes coffee.”

  I looked more closely. “Can it make a decaf skinny mocha latte?” I wanted to wrap my hands around a warm cup. Maybe I’d crawl inside it.

  “Sorry.” Jim tossed me a hooded sweatshirt that had been hanging off the back of his chair. “Here, put this on. We’ll have to look into getting some warmer clothes.”

  My ears perked up, because I’m pretty sure he just said we were going shopping. He saw my I’m going shopping! I’m going shopping! look. “Relax. Just a few no-nonsense sweatshirts.”

  The woman at the table said, “There’s an army-navy store at the bottom of the hill. You can get some wool socks there too.

  Won’t they itch?

  “Sounds good.” Then Jim said, “Sydney, this is the crew that runs things here at Lay to Rest.” He indicated the grandma-aged woman who looked like she’d been up for a major role in Hocus Pocus. “This is Joyce. She handles all the day-to-day office stuff.”

  Joyce was tall and thin. She had long, dark, straight hair streaked
with gray. Her skin was so pale, it had a greenish tint. She wore a thick, knitted black shawl, and a long, heavy skirt that might’ve been made out of black tapestry.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I said.

  Jim extended his arm toward the man standing cross-armed in the corner. “This is Mr. Corcoran.” Mr. Corcoran was tall and thick, his hair military short. He had a scar that I tried not to stare at. It extended from one ear to mid skull. Mr. Corcoran wore coveralls over a red sweater that frayed at the neck and wrists. His socks were pulled up over the hem of his pants so that they were higher than his army-ish boots. He reminded me of A Nightmare on Elm Street meets Frankenstein. Jim said, “He is the um, the um . . .”

  “Gravedigger,” Mr. Corcoran interrupted. “Call me Cork. Everyone does.” He didn’t offer me his hand, but I noticed there was a lot of dirt under his nails. But I guess you’d expect a gravedigger to have grave dirt under his nails.

  “Okay,” I said. “Hi, Cork.” If there was an audition for the part of Weird Gravedigger Guy, Cork wouldn’t even have to read lines.

  “They live in the quarters down here. Uncle Ted had the back rooms renovated into apartments,” Jim said. “They were just explaining the routine to me.”

  Joyce slid a chair from the table with her foot. “Why don’t you have a seat, sweetheart?”

  I thought about asking them about my haunting suspicions, but maybe not with Jim around.

  “That’s okay. I’m supposed to bring my mom tea, and then we’re going to school to pick up my schedule for tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” Jim said. “But before you do, would you please take this out back to the groundskeeper.” He handed me a small gadget. “It’s a pruner, for bushes.”

  I took the pruner, passed through a small workroom, slipped on a pair of Jim’s boots, and went out a back door. It slammed behind me, making me jump. About twenty rows into the cemetery I saw a slender man. The two employees inside had taken the parts of Witch and Freddy Krueger. I wondered what was left for this guy: Mummy? Wolfman?

  I cautiously stepped through the maze of headstones, freaked out to be stepping on dead people. I tried to stay on the tips of my toes and took the biggest steps I could. “Sorry,” I whispered to the buried people. I hopped around a few. “Sorry, sorry. Sorry. Oh geez, I’m really sorry.”