Skeleton Man by Joseph Bruchac Page B

lip, not give up the ship. She loves songs and stories that have upbeat endings. Mention the Titanic to most people and they think of a tragic love story. Mention it to Ms. Shabbas and she will start belting out something from The Unsinkable Molly Brown . Molly, just like me. Except I am not named for some survivor of a shipwreck. I’m named Molly after Molly Brant, a Mohawk warrior woman from the eighteenth century. “Back during the American Revolution,” my mom told me, “one word from Molly Brant went farther than a thousand words from any white man. No one ever got the best of Molly Brant.”
    For some weird reason, Ms. Shabbas and her up-with-people singing helps me. Corny-but-sincere is her style, and it is just what I need this morning. I want to get out of my seat and walk up and hug her while she is singing. Instead I just give her a thumbs-up sign when she is done. She winks at me.
    But when the time comes for us to talk, I still don’t tell her anything. I need her to be on my side, and I’m too scared she won’t believe me. Nothing new, I say. Which is true. It’s just that now I know my so-called uncle has been keeping watch on me through a camera lens.
    â€œWill you be okay over the weekend, honey?”
    The weekend starts tonight. Every kid in America but me is looking forward to the weekend. I have a feeling that whatever awful thing he has in store for me is going to happen tomorrow. I swallow hard and make myself smile.
    â€œI’ll be fine,” I say.
    â€œShould I come over and check in on you?”
    â€œIf you have time.”
    â€œI’ll make time on Sunday.”
    And that is how we leave it. She will call my so-called uncle after school and let him know she is going to come over to visit on Sunday. She’s going to take me out for lunch and a visit to the park. If nothing else, it will let him know that someone is watching and that he won’t get away with it.
    But the small measure of relief I feel is short-lived. Maybe, I think, he doesn’t care if he gets away with it. If he is crazy or evil, maybe getting caught wouldn’t bother him. If he gets caught after doing whatever he plans to do to me, that won’t help me much, will it?
    Sunday. That leaves all of tonight and all of tomorrow and tomorrow night. Sunday may be too late for me.

14
Toolshed
    W HEN THE SCHOOL day ends, I hang back from the crowd of kids who head out the door. They’re happy about the weekend. For them the clock’s hands have been almost standing still, while for me they’ve been going double time. Like my brain is going around and around like a top that’s out of control. But it has kept circling back to one idea. It is a crazy one, but the only one I’ve been able to come up with.
    Like the kids, the workmen have been eager for the day to end, too. They’ve even left before us. That’s my first real break, that and the fact that they’ve left their toolboxes open again. Sure, they put a yellow ribbon across the hall in front of the library to keep people out. You know how easy it is to duck under a yellow ribbon? And though my backpack is a lot heavier when I get onto the bus, no one notices.
    When I get off the bus, I stand for a long time looking down the darkening road. I feel so scared. I should run away now. But where? And what good would it do me? Not only that, but for some reason I feel as if running away now won’t just affect me, but my whole family. My real family.
    Dinner is waiting on the table for me. It’s pizza, and it looks good and smells even better. And there’s an open bottle of Coca-Cola, too. My favorite drink. I sit down and look at the pizza and then I shake my head. I won’t eat any of this dinner, either.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” My so-called uncle’s whispery voice comes suddenly from behind me and it makes me jump. I turn and see him in the doorway, standing with his