Took Read Free Page B

places for her dolls and stuffed animals.
    When she was finished, her room looked exactly like her room in Fairfield—her lavender checked curtains fit the new windows and the paint matched her old walls. The only difference was the view—woods and fields and mountains instead of green lawns and neighbors’ houses.
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    The next week, Mom enrolled Erica and me in school. It was our first trip to Woodville itself. The shopping center on the outskirts of town had a Home Depot, a Walmart, and a Piggly Wiggly grocery store, as well as a nail salon, a liquor store, an insurance agent, a bank, Joe’s Pizza, and a real estate office with faded photos of houses for sale taped to the windows. What more did we need, Dad asked.
    Whatever it was, we wouldn’t find it in Woodville. Except for a used-clothing store, a bar, and a thrift shop, the buildings on Main Street were boarded up. Even the graffiti was faded.
    Narrow streets ran uphill from one side of Main Street and downhill from the other side. Dogs barked as we drove by. A gust of wind blew newspapers down the street. We didn’t see a single person. The whole town could have been abandoned, as far as I could tell. Except for the dogs, of course.
    â€œNext time we’ll take the scenic route,” Mom said, “if there is one.”
    She turned off Main Street and drove uphill through a neighborhood of old houses that were slightly nicer than the ones we’d seen so far. The Woodville School was at the top of the hill—kindergarten through eighth grade, which meant that Erica’s second grade classroom and my seventh grade classroom would be in the same building. The school was made of dark gray stone and had tall, narrow windows; a steep flight of steps led to the main entrance, a big black door. It might as well have been named the Bastille School for bad boys and girls.
    Erica clung to Mom’s hand. “I don’t want to go here. It’s ugly.”
    â€œDon’t be silly.” Shaking her hand free, Mom pulled open the door. “It will be fine,” she added. “Just give it time.”
    I knew by the uncertainty in her voice that she didn’t believe her own words. But what could she do? It was the only school in town.
    Mom led us into an office filled with old-fashioned dark furniture. A thin woman looked up from a typewriter and did a funny thing with her mouth, which I think was meant to be a smile. Her hair was pulled tightly back from her face, and she wore a plain black dress with long sleeves. She scared Erica and made me nervous. Even Mom looked uncomfortable. According to the sign on her desk, she was Miss Danvers, school secretary.
    â€œYou must be Mrs. Anderson,” she said to Mom. “And you are Erica and Daniel, if I’m not mistaken. Welcome to Woodville Elementary.”
    While Erica and I sat side by side, as silent as mutes, Mom filled out forms. Miss Danvers returned to her typing. I watched, fascinated by the sight of a real live person using an antique instead of a computer.
    â€œTheir official transcripts should arrive any day,” Mom said as she handed Miss Danvers the completed paperwork.
    A bald man with a gray mustache stuck his head out of an inner door and smiled at us. “I’m Mr. Sykes, the principal. I hope you two will enjoy our school—a bit smaller than you’re used to, I’m sure. Not as up to date, maybe, but—” The phone in his office rang, and he excused himself to answer it.
    I knew sarcasm when I heard it.
    Miss Danvers led the three of us down a hall. The walls were grayish green and bare. No bright paintings, no starred reports, no posters. The closed doors to classrooms were unadorned too. It was very different from the schools I’d gone to in Connecticut.
    Miss Danvers stopped at a door labeled SEVENTH GRADE . “Wait here,” she told Mom and Erica.
    Opening the door, she ushered me into the room. The teacher was