Charlie Joe Jackson's Guide to Planet Girl by Tommy Greenwald Page A

across them.

    I stepped over the rope and headed down the stairs.
    â€œHey!” Jack said. “You’re not supposed to go down there!”
    But I didn’t answer, and two seconds later, I heard him right behind me.
    At the bottom of the stairs was a half-open door. We pushed it open to reveal another long hall, which was dimly lit—kind of like our unfinished basement back home. It felt like people hadn’t really been down there in a long time.
    â€œWe should go back,” Jack said, nervously.
    I was a little nervous, too, but I’d also noticed something: The more nervous I got, the more I was able to put the whole Katie thing out of my mind.
    â€œIn a minute,” I said, trying to sound cool.
    As we walked slowly down the hall, things got a little creepier. There were some weird paintings on the wall of guys in long gray wigs. There was a half-eaten sandwich on the floor that looked like it might have been from 1932. And when I glanced up and saw a long spiderweb hanging down from one of the barely working lights, I realized there’s only a certain amount of nervousness one person can take.
    â€œJack?”
    â€œYeah?” For some reason we were whispering, even though there wasn’t a person in sight.
    â€œUm, I think this is totally cool down here, but if you want to go back, we can.”
    â€œOkay.”
    We turned around and started heading back, when Jack stopped at a door.
    RARE MANUSCRIPTS AND BOOKS: FIRST EDITIONS, AUTOGRAPHED. AUTHORIZED ENTRY ONLY.
    â€œWhoa,” Jack said. He was really into books, like everyone at Camp Rituhbukkee.
    â€œCome on, we gotta go,” I said, a little embarrassed that I’d become the scaredy-cat.
    â€œJust a quick look,” Jack said, pushing the door open. The room was even dimmer than the hallway, so we both took out our cellphones for light. There were books everywhere . Books, books, and more books. Did I mention books ?
    â€œPeople are going to start wondering where we are,” I said. Hey, you can’t blame a guy for trying.
    Jack was going down a row of books. “Faulkner … Norman Mailer … Whitman…”
    â€œAre those writers?” I asked. Jack looked at me like I was from Mars. Which, book-wise, I was.
    â€œMark Twain!” he exclaimed. A cold shiver ran through my body. Him, I knew—ever since my sixth birthday, when my dad gave me the entire Mark Twain collection for Christmas. Needless to say, that did not go well.
    â€œThat’s it, I’m leaving,” I said, heading out. But right by the door, there was a book lying on the floor that caught my eye.
    I picked it up, dusted it off, and read the title: Elizabethan Love Sonnets .
    Hmm.
    I didn’t know what Elizabethan or Sonnets meant, but I was familiar with “Love.”
    Way too familiar.
    I picked up the book and started thumbing through it. The first thing I thought was, I’m pretty sure this is English, but I can’t understand a word of it. The second thing I thought was, That just proves that love is totally un-understandable.
    And the third thing I thought was, What was that?
    â€œWhat was that?” Jack asked, proving he was thinking the same thing I was. Then we heard it again. A noise.
    We both froze in place and listened. Footsteps that sounded like they were coming from the stairs, and two voices that were getting closer. I could hear a few words here and there:
    â€œNot sure how it got open…”
    â€œPhil is getting the key…”
    â€œDon’t tell the boss…”
    Then, the footsteps stopped. Jack and I looked at each other and waited, hoping the silence meant that the voices were gone.
    They weren’t.
    Two seconds later, a third voice added: “You guys owe me.” We heard a push … a squeak … and finally, a SLAM!
    Jack and I waited another minute and then slowly made our way out of the rare book room and back down the