mask, his boxy camera hanging from his neck. I wore a black T-shirt and jeans to blend into the night.
“Where do we start?” Raymond asked.
“Troy’s house.” My reason: Thea had said that love hurt like a stomachache. So if Troy had a crush on Paz, his stomach probably hurt. Maybe he thought that a stomachache would make Paz like him back. It was twisted, but that’s the Mean Boy Way.
Or maybe Troy just felt like doing something mean to Paz. That was always a possibility.
We crossed through the shadowy gulf between the Murphys’ house and Wendy’s and into Troy Rogers’s backyard. Raymond hesitated at the border.
“They don’t have a dog, do they?” he whispered.
I shook my head. “Cat. Named Slayer. He might scratch.”
Raymond nodded, and we continued into the yard. A light glowed from the kitchen window at the side of the house. We crept up to it and peeked inside.
Mr. Rogers was washing the dishes and singing along with the radio. He was a chubby man, big like Troy.Slayer, an orange tomcat, ate from his dish by the sink. He was big and fat too.
“I want to know what love iiiiis!” Mr. Rogers wailed to the music as he slotted the dishes into the dishwasher. Slayer ignored him. I wondered where Troy was. Up to no good, surely.
Mr. Rogers gave me a ride to school every once in a while. The previous fall, for three whole months, his eyes had been red every morning. I didn’t think much of it. Maybe he had allergies. Then I realized I hadn’t seen Mrs. Rogers around in a long time. Eventually, Mom told me Mrs. Rogers had left them.
“I don’t blame her,” I’d said at the time. “I wouldn’t want to live in the same house with Troy either.”
“Araminta Mortimer, that’s a heartless thing to say,” Mom had told me. “Someday you’ll understand.”
It turned out that Mr. Rogers had been crying all night long, every night, for three months. But he looked okay now.
Mr. Rogers poured soap into the dishwasher and clicked it shut. Slayer finished eating and licked one of his legs. Mr. Rogers squatted down to pet Slayer, who hissed at him. Mr. Rogers pulled his hand away. Slayer went back to licking his leg.
“Sorry, buddy. I know you’re touchy these days….”
Raymond nudged me. “I’m bored,” he whispered.
I understood. I waved at him to follow me around to the back of the house.
We crawled along the brick wall until we found another light, coming from the basement. Perfect. Very easy to peek into.
Troy sat on the rec room floor with the TV on, a jar of lightning bugs at his side. A fishbowl sat on top of the TV. Troy’s birthday goldfish from Mr. Jack swam a restless figure eight.
Troy removed the lightning bugs from the jar one by one and smashed them on a plate with a plastic hammer. Then he wiped the dead lightning bugs’ green glow juice on his face like war paint.
“He’s sick,” I muttered. “How can he do that to the poor lightning bugs?”
“Maybe that’s a voodoo ritual,” Raymond suggested.
“Yeah.” It was evil, that’s for sure. But I saw no dolls of any kind, voodoo or otherwise, in the basement. “It’s not proof, but Troy is a suspect.”
Something cold and wet bumped my arm. “Whoa!” I jumped and let out a shout.
“Meow!” Slayer rubbed himself against my leg.
“Ssshh!” Raymond clamped his hand over my mouth, too late. Troy looked up toward the window. Raymond and I ducked down. Slayer meowed again, then ran off in the direction of Wendy’s house.
“Slayer?” Troy stood up and walked to the window.
“We better get out of here,” Raymond whispered. He and I ran around the house and out of the yard until we got to the sidewalk on Carroll Drive. We slowed down and tried to act normal, like we weren’t running for our lives from a crazed lightning-bug killer.
We strolled casually down the street. Next door, Mr. Jack’s house was lit up and noisy, his driveway full of cars — that could only mean poker night. Next to Mr. Jack
“Where do we start?” Raymond asked.
“Troy’s house.” My reason: Thea had said that love hurt like a stomachache. So if Troy had a crush on Paz, his stomach probably hurt. Maybe he thought that a stomachache would make Paz like him back. It was twisted, but that’s the Mean Boy Way.
Or maybe Troy just felt like doing something mean to Paz. That was always a possibility.
We crossed through the shadowy gulf between the Murphys’ house and Wendy’s and into Troy Rogers’s backyard. Raymond hesitated at the border.
“They don’t have a dog, do they?” he whispered.
I shook my head. “Cat. Named Slayer. He might scratch.”
Raymond nodded, and we continued into the yard. A light glowed from the kitchen window at the side of the house. We crept up to it and peeked inside.
Mr. Rogers was washing the dishes and singing along with the radio. He was a chubby man, big like Troy.Slayer, an orange tomcat, ate from his dish by the sink. He was big and fat too.
“I want to know what love iiiiis!” Mr. Rogers wailed to the music as he slotted the dishes into the dishwasher. Slayer ignored him. I wondered where Troy was. Up to no good, surely.
Mr. Rogers gave me a ride to school every once in a while. The previous fall, for three whole months, his eyes had been red every morning. I didn’t think much of it. Maybe he had allergies. Then I realized I hadn’t seen Mrs. Rogers around in a long time. Eventually, Mom told me Mrs. Rogers had left them.
“I don’t blame her,” I’d said at the time. “I wouldn’t want to live in the same house with Troy either.”
“Araminta Mortimer, that’s a heartless thing to say,” Mom had told me. “Someday you’ll understand.”
It turned out that Mr. Rogers had been crying all night long, every night, for three months. But he looked okay now.
Mr. Rogers poured soap into the dishwasher and clicked it shut. Slayer finished eating and licked one of his legs. Mr. Rogers squatted down to pet Slayer, who hissed at him. Mr. Rogers pulled his hand away. Slayer went back to licking his leg.
“Sorry, buddy. I know you’re touchy these days….”
Raymond nudged me. “I’m bored,” he whispered.
I understood. I waved at him to follow me around to the back of the house.
We crawled along the brick wall until we found another light, coming from the basement. Perfect. Very easy to peek into.
Troy sat on the rec room floor with the TV on, a jar of lightning bugs at his side. A fishbowl sat on top of the TV. Troy’s birthday goldfish from Mr. Jack swam a restless figure eight.
Troy removed the lightning bugs from the jar one by one and smashed them on a plate with a plastic hammer. Then he wiped the dead lightning bugs’ green glow juice on his face like war paint.
“He’s sick,” I muttered. “How can he do that to the poor lightning bugs?”
“Maybe that’s a voodoo ritual,” Raymond suggested.
“Yeah.” It was evil, that’s for sure. But I saw no dolls of any kind, voodoo or otherwise, in the basement. “It’s not proof, but Troy is a suspect.”
Something cold and wet bumped my arm. “Whoa!” I jumped and let out a shout.
“Meow!” Slayer rubbed himself against my leg.
“Ssshh!” Raymond clamped his hand over my mouth, too late. Troy looked up toward the window. Raymond and I ducked down. Slayer meowed again, then ran off in the direction of Wendy’s house.
“Slayer?” Troy stood up and walked to the window.
“We better get out of here,” Raymond whispered. He and I ran around the house and out of the yard until we got to the sidewalk on Carroll Drive. We slowed down and tried to act normal, like we weren’t running for our lives from a crazed lightning-bug killer.
We strolled casually down the street. Next door, Mr. Jack’s house was lit up and noisy, his driveway full of cars — that could only mean poker night. Next to Mr. Jack
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