The Poe Estate by Polly Shulman

books.”
    â€œHow can it be a library if it doesn’t have books?”
    â€œWell, technically it’s a repository, not a library. It’s a circulating collection of objects. Patrons can borrow all kinds of stuff, like doorknobs and teacups and bass guitars and wood lathes and—pretty much whatever you can think of.”
    â€œPeople borrow
doorknobs
?”
    â€œPeople borrow all kinds of crazy things.”
    â€œBut I still don’t get why you want a whole falling-down house.”
    â€œWe don’t want just
one
. We want a lot of them. It’s for our annex. We’re building a collection.”
    â€œA
collection
of
houses
?”
    â€œMm-hm.”
    â€œWhere would a library keep a collection of
houses
?”
    â€œIn a special annex facility.”
    That must be one big facility. “But why do you want
this
house?”
    He raised an eyebrow and quirked up the left side of his mouth. “I don’t know—
you
tell
me
! You’re the one that found it.”
    I didn’t have anything to say to that.
    Dad and Elizabeth came out of the front room together, with Griffin looming behind them. The dog was so big that when he stood next to Andre he made Andre look average-height.
    â€œI’ll get our legal team working on the papers,” Elizabeth said.
    â€œGreat,” said Dad. “I’ll talk to Bruce.”
    We all trooped downstairs, avoiding the fifth step.
    â€œCan we drop you off somewhere?” asked Dad.
    â€œNo, thanks. We have transport. I’d like to stay a little longer, if you don’t mind—take a look around down here,” said Elizabeth.
    â€œSure,” said Dad dubiously. There was no car or truck or anything in sight, just the two of them with the dog and their walking stick and hiking boots. Still, what were they going to do, steal the place? It’s not like we didn’t know where to find them. “Stay as long as you like,” said Dad. “Just prop that log against the door when you leave, okay? The latch doesn’t catch, and I don’t want it blowing open.”
    â€œWill do.” They waved from the porch as our truck crunched down the gravel road into the shadow of the trees.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    A Ghost’s Request
    W e started a new unit in science class the next day: physiology. Before the class ended, Ms. Picciotto told us the first lab assignment would be dissecting sheep hearts.
    Whoops from the bloodthirsty and protests from the animal lovers.
    â€œYes, it’s required,” said Ms. Picciotto. “No, you can’t dissect a vegetable instead. Okay, partner time. I want you in eight groups of two or three students each.”
    â€œHow many twos and how many threes, Ms. Pitch?” asked Tabitha Day.
    â€œThat’s a good question.” Ms. Picciotto walked to the corner of the whiteboard where she put the extra-credit assignments. “There are twenty-one students in the class. How many ways can the class be divided into eight groups of twos and threes? And for even extra-er credit, how many ways would there be if I said you could work in groups of four, too?”
    â€œ
Can
we work in groups of four?” asked Deshaun Franklin. He and his three best friends liked to stick together.
    â€œNo,” said Ms. Picciotto. “Just twos and threes. Go!” She clapped her hands.
    The class started scurrying around like a video of atoms forming molecules in a chemical reaction. Naturally, nobody headed my way. I looked around for Tabitha—she wasn’texactly my friend, but she wasn’t unfriendly, either. Maybe she would let me join her group. But she already had two other kids with her.
    The scurrying stopped. Nine groups had formed: Four groups of three, four of two, and one of just me.
    â€œPretty close, but we have one person left over,” said Ms. Picciotto. “Who has room for a third?”
    â€œThat’s okay, Ms. Pitch,” I