It's a Little Haywire by Elle Strauss Page A

them.
    Mrs. Pershishnick chips in, “I’m
skunking your grandfather.”
    “I’m afraid it’s true. Do you want to
join us, Owen? There’s always room for one more.”
    I go to the fridge and pour myself a
glass of juice. “It’s okay.”
    “Your grandfather wasn’t kidding about
the eye. What did Master Sweet have to say for himself?”
    “Well, actually, I did see him, but we
didn’t talk.” I gulp back the juice until I see the bottom of the
glass. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
    “Gramps, do you know Mr. Sweet very
well?” In a town this small I figure everyone knows everybody
well.
    “Not really well. I know he has a temper
and favors a drink now and again.”
    I’d say more than now and again.
    “Why do you ask?”
    I’d don’t want to blab about Mikala’s
family’s secrets, but Mason could be in trouble, not to mention his
mom. Or Mikala.
    “I kind of saw Mr. Sweet yell at Mason.
Push him around. I think he was drunk.”
    Gramps puts his cards down on the table
and swivels to look at me.
    “I’m sorry to hear that. This darn
re-cess-ion is bringing the worst out of people.”
    “What should we do?”
    “Do? It’s none of our business, Owen. We
leave them in peace.”
    Gramps is definitely old school. Mom
would be all over this with social services in a heartbeat.
    “Do you think the mill will ever open
again?”
    Gramps shrugs. “I s’pose there’s always
a chance.”
    Suddenly I’m exhausted. I tromp upstairs
and flop on my bed. I stare at the ceiling. It’s cracked and
yellowed. Wall paper peels away from the corners. This house needs
an extreme makeover. This town needs an extreme make over.
    I’m overwhelmed with other people’s
problems. I’ve spent so much of my time in Seattle consumed with my
own problems that I didn’t notice that maybe other people had
problems.
    Real problems. Like Mr. Joseph and Mr.
Red. Like the Sweet family.
    And what can I do about it?
Really, what can I do? I’m
just a kid.
    It’s stuffy, so I lug myself to the
window. It’s got an old twisty wood frame that’s stiff at some
points and slippery at others. There’s a block of wood with notches
at different heights to prop the window open. I put my weight under
the window to shimmy it up as far as it can go, then slip the block
in, making sure it’s good and secure.
    I can see the creek from my window.
    Maybe they know.
    Maybe they’re trying to tell me
something and that’s why I keep seeing them. But testing this idea
means heading out to the log. My skin gets all crawly at the
thought. Still, I’m drawn back. There’s gotta be a reason for the
visions. I just need to be brave enough to find out why. I rush
down the stairs and out the door before I lose courage.
    I’m on the log waiting. This time I’m
looking for them, expecting them. The creek is drying up as the
summer nears its end, hardly high enough to pitch rocks into. I’m
antsy and nervous. My leg bounces like that will make things happen
faster.
    What if they don’t come?
    What if they do?
    I’m almost fit to go back into the
house, eat some of Gramps cooking, when I get the first
glimpse.
    Fog swirling along the tracks.
    The whistle.
    I’m not even that scared this time. I
don’t believe the beings (angels?) will hurt me. They had plenty
opportunities to wreak havoc before and didn’t.
    Still, as it draws closer the hairs on
my neck spring to attention.
    The fog has formed into the image of a
train once again. Every time I see it, the sight is clearer, the
lines more distinct.
    The beings form like before, dozens this
time, popping their heads out the windows. Their long arms reach
toward me.
    They are holding something in their
hands but I can’t tell what they are. Disks of some kind.
Frisbees?
    Then they fling them. At me.
    “Whoa!” I duck.
    The objects evaporate before they hit
me, but I yell out all the same. “Hey, what the heck?”
    They keep flinging these things at me as
each train car goes by.