sure if you would even be interested or if you have the time. What I am sure about is this—I want to be the best journalist I can be and I could use your help.
Thank you for considering this.
Hildy Biddle
I didn’t send it right away.
I circled the computer, reread the e-mail again and again.
I pressed SEND .
Sleep wouldn’t come.
The hall light cast a thin strip across my bedroom floor. My rug had geometric patterns, but at night in a dark room, it seemed like a crazy maze that I was trying to get through. I could hear MacIntosh sleeping by the bed.
How do you get around that dark room, Hildy?
That was a big question I had to figure out after Daddied. His death was so shocking, so sudden, it made me feel like anything bad could happen—the earth could explode, the ocean could evaporate, the stars could melt in the sky.
Mom found a therapist for me to see. Her name was Gwen. I didn’t want to go at first because I don’t talk about my troubles with just anybody. I’d sit in Gwen’s soft navy blue swivel chair and face the wall. It was easier to talk to a wall in the beginning.
“How are you feeling today, Hildy?”
“Awful.”
“Are you feeling scared today?”
I was scared a lot that eighth-grade year.
“Can you describe the fear, Hildy?”
“No.”
“Because sometimes when I’m scared,” Gwen said in her soothing voice, “I feel a little like I’m in a dark room with all the lights out. Have you ever felt like that?”
I turned halfway toward her and nodded.
“And what do you do?” she asked.
“I guess I try to find the wall.”
“That’s right.”
“I try to find the things I know are there and get to the bed.”
“You look for things that are familiar,” Gwen said. “And you know, that’s what you’ve got to do now.”
It took a while to find the real touch points of my lifeagain. But when I started looking, I realized they were everywhere—the orchard, my school, my friends, my family, my dog.
I got out of bed, touched MacIntosh’s head. “Good dog.”
I turned on the bed lamp and walked to my desk.
My laptop beckoned.
I checked my e-mail; spam, actually.
Thin thighs in thirty minutes
Delete.
If I don’t get one thousand dollars by Thursday, I
will die. Can you help me?
Delete.
Are you naughty?
Nope. But you are. Delete.
Your request
I was about to zap it, then I saw the sender.
Baker Polton! He’d responded already.
I took a deep breath. This could be my big break. I clicked on the message excitedly, up it popped:
Can’t do it. I’m swamped.
B. Polton
I sat there looking at the screen.
Chapter 8
On Friday morning
The Core
was published. My Ludlow house story was front and center, too. No typos, either, but there was some unfortunate wording in a classified ad:
DOG FOR SALE—Eats anything and is particularly fond of children.
I got ready for the onslaught of kids congratulating me on getting the facts right in my article.
That didn’t exactly happen.
I walked through the hallways holding the paper as a visual aid, hoping someone would comment on it.
That didn’t happen, either.
In biology lab,
The Core
was used to wrap up dissected frog carcasses.
Jerry Sizer used his
Core
to wipe mud off his boots.
It’s best for journalists not to focus on the alternative uses for their work.
Didn’t anyone care about the truth?
I walked to my locker, saw Zack rush by. “Great article!” he shouted on his way to class.
Finally! Too bad he couldn’t stop and go into more detail.
I headed to the Student Center, where Joleene Jowrey was arguing with her twin sister, Jackie, about whether vampire marks were on the dead body. I walked up to them, doing my part as a truth teller.
“The sheriff told me there were no scratches on the body, no vampire marks, nada. Come on!”
“You come on, Hildy! You think the sheriff is going to tell the truth about that?” And they went back to arguing about whether the ghost was still on the property or
Thank you for considering this.
Hildy Biddle
I didn’t send it right away.
I circled the computer, reread the e-mail again and again.
I pressed SEND .
Sleep wouldn’t come.
The hall light cast a thin strip across my bedroom floor. My rug had geometric patterns, but at night in a dark room, it seemed like a crazy maze that I was trying to get through. I could hear MacIntosh sleeping by the bed.
How do you get around that dark room, Hildy?
That was a big question I had to figure out after Daddied. His death was so shocking, so sudden, it made me feel like anything bad could happen—the earth could explode, the ocean could evaporate, the stars could melt in the sky.
Mom found a therapist for me to see. Her name was Gwen. I didn’t want to go at first because I don’t talk about my troubles with just anybody. I’d sit in Gwen’s soft navy blue swivel chair and face the wall. It was easier to talk to a wall in the beginning.
“How are you feeling today, Hildy?”
“Awful.”
“Are you feeling scared today?”
I was scared a lot that eighth-grade year.
“Can you describe the fear, Hildy?”
“No.”
“Because sometimes when I’m scared,” Gwen said in her soothing voice, “I feel a little like I’m in a dark room with all the lights out. Have you ever felt like that?”
I turned halfway toward her and nodded.
“And what do you do?” she asked.
“I guess I try to find the wall.”
“That’s right.”
“I try to find the things I know are there and get to the bed.”
“You look for things that are familiar,” Gwen said. “And you know, that’s what you’ve got to do now.”
It took a while to find the real touch points of my lifeagain. But when I started looking, I realized they were everywhere—the orchard, my school, my friends, my family, my dog.
I got out of bed, touched MacIntosh’s head. “Good dog.”
I turned on the bed lamp and walked to my desk.
My laptop beckoned.
I checked my e-mail; spam, actually.
Thin thighs in thirty minutes
Delete.
If I don’t get one thousand dollars by Thursday, I
will die. Can you help me?
Delete.
Are you naughty?
Nope. But you are. Delete.
Your request
I was about to zap it, then I saw the sender.
Baker Polton! He’d responded already.
I took a deep breath. This could be my big break. I clicked on the message excitedly, up it popped:
Can’t do it. I’m swamped.
B. Polton
I sat there looking at the screen.
Chapter 8
On Friday morning
The Core
was published. My Ludlow house story was front and center, too. No typos, either, but there was some unfortunate wording in a classified ad:
DOG FOR SALE—Eats anything and is particularly fond of children.
I got ready for the onslaught of kids congratulating me on getting the facts right in my article.
That didn’t exactly happen.
I walked through the hallways holding the paper as a visual aid, hoping someone would comment on it.
That didn’t happen, either.
In biology lab,
The Core
was used to wrap up dissected frog carcasses.
Jerry Sizer used his
Core
to wipe mud off his boots.
It’s best for journalists not to focus on the alternative uses for their work.
Didn’t anyone care about the truth?
I walked to my locker, saw Zack rush by. “Great article!” he shouted on his way to class.
Finally! Too bad he couldn’t stop and go into more detail.
I headed to the Student Center, where Joleene Jowrey was arguing with her twin sister, Jackie, about whether vampire marks were on the dead body. I walked up to them, doing my part as a truth teller.
“The sheriff told me there were no scratches on the body, no vampire marks, nada. Come on!”
“You come on, Hildy! You think the sheriff is going to tell the truth about that?” And they went back to arguing about whether the ghost was still on the property or
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