Secret of the Sevens by Lynn Lindquist Page A

find my own black envelope with the exact message as hers. I nod at her and mouth same .
    Suddenly, Kollin creeps up behind her and covers her eyes. She screams, and everyone turns and looks. Nice timing, idiot .
    Standing side by side, Laney and Kollin look like two mannequin models of preppy perfection. He smiles down at her, and I almost forget the envelope in my hand. I slide it into my pocket.
    They walk past me on their way to class. “Listen,” Kollin is saying, “do you want to go into town this weekend? Maybe do the movie thing again?”
    Now the buzz feels more like a hangover. Laney loves movies. I wouldn’t mind going sometime, but Singer School is pretty strict about leaving campus. You have to have straight A’s for two consecutive semesters, with perfect behavior and full privileges, in order to go into town. That cuts out about 99 percent of the student body, including me.
    Laney gnaws on her fingernail. “Maybe.” She glances back as she passes me and says, “I need to check what’s going on at home first.”
    She winks and I swear to God, my heart races. What the hell is wrong with me? If Vanessa Jackson was around, I’d drag her into the janitor’s closet until I was sure whatever this is was out of my system.
    A second later, Kollin turns around and gives me a dirty look that has the same effect.

    By the time I get home from football practice, Laney’s already gone. Dad Shanahan catches me in the kitchen. “Your counselor emailed that you never showed for your appointment yesterday,” he says. “Ms. Bennett claims that’s the second one you’ve missed with her. She’s eager to get going on your college planning.”
    â€œI’m on it,” I say, but honestly, it seems like a waste of time.
    I rush through dinner and chores and head for my room. I’m running late and still haven’t showered, plus I’m stressing about what we’re going to find at seven o’clock.
    I grab my towel and a change of clothes and duck into the bathroom.
    While the water warms up in the shower, I lean against the wall and picture Laney this morning, chewing her thumbnail like a chipmunk on crack. It was already red.
    My stomach knots.
    I step inside and try to clear my head. The stream from the shower drenches me. As I lather up, my fingers brush across the scar on my chest and trigger a memory. All at once, I’m eight years old again.
    The rain comes down so hard it hurts, and I’m scared. What if I can’t find Chicago? What if an animal runs out of the woods and attacks me? What if this car coming down the road doesn’t see me in the darkness and hits me?
    I leave the shoulder and veer toward a gate in the fence, trudging through the soaking grass. Suddenly, lightning flashes and lights up a yard full of statues and tombstones to my right. The different shapes and outlines look like a mob of shadowed ghosts—squatting, standing, and hunched over, all of them just waiting to get me.
    My voice is trapped in my throat. My feet won’t move. A burst of lightning close behind me sends me flying forward into the swampy soil. The air is still crackling when I push myself up on shaky arms and see the most terrifying sight of all. An enormous winged statue towers above me, pointing at a grave. Is she saying it’s for me? I spin around and sprint as fast I can, slipping and sliding all the way out the gate and onto the road again. Between the wind and thunder and fear, I don’t notice that the car has pulled onto the shoulder behind me.
    â€œWhere you going, little man?” a voice calls between thunder claps.
    I twist around to see Mr. Shanahan. Delaney must have snitched. I told her to leave me alone, but she never does. She watches me all the time. I’ll get her for tattling.
    The rain is pouring down so hard, by the time Mr. Shanahan comes around the car and reaches me, he’s drenched too.