She’s looking inside at the white shoes. No, it’s the pink shoes she’s looking at.” Then you keep going and you hear, “She’s going on down the street. She’s getting something out of her pocket. It’s a piece of gum! She’s unwrapping the gum. She’s putting it in her mouth. She’s chewing.” Like that. He wouldn’t hurt a fly, Charley Narley. What the boys will do is walk along and get Charley to follow and talk and then one will drop back behind Charley and imitate him talking about them. Like this: “Now Charley’s watching Tommy. He’s slowing down. He’s looking at Tommy. He’s talking.” Charley gets all confused and wants to get behind whoever’s talking about him and gets more confused and then he starts yelling even louder and then the boys run and Charley gets in trouble with the sheriff. Once they packed sand into an old stocking like the kind the ladies wear at church and hid it in the bushes so that just the tip was peeking out. When Charley Narley came by and saw it they wriggled it to look like a snake and Charley screamed all high like a girl, thinking it was real or something. Just last week they threw stuff at him like he was a target (“ten points if the Coke can hits his right arm!”) and me and Emma went out to try to get Charley to go in the opposite direction. Mr. White came out after us and told the boys to scat but ever since then they call Charley Narley my boyfriend.
“Oh, hush up,” I say under my breath, thinking Darryl Becksdale’s a good distance away and can’t hear me.
“What’s that?” Uh-oh. He heard. “You sticking up for your true love?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“You think you’re so smart,” I say without even thinking first about what I’m going to say, “but you don’t know anything.”
“Yeah?” he says, trotting alongside me while I walk toward the doors to the inside of the school. “Ask me anything—I bet I know the answer to it. See? You can’t think of anything!” He starts fake laughing. I know it’s fake ‘cause it’s louder than his real laugh, plus he’s looking around for an audience.
“Okay,” I say, just before I go inside where it’s just as hot but I don’t have to be in the sun that burns the part line in my hair, “you know about the Box?”
For a second I think he’s stumped ‘cause he’s not saying anything, but then he says, “The Box isn’t real, moron.”
“It is, too,” I say.
“You’ve seen it?”
“Not yet,” I say, smiling for real, knowing I’ll be seeing it in five hours and twenty-two minutes.
“You lie,” he says, and then he backs away from me and goes over to his friends, who’re showing off how they can form a bridge with shuffling cards.
“Mr. White?” My hands are sweaty and it’s not on account of the heat.
“Yes, Caroline,” he says, putting down the pad of order forms. “What can I do for you?”
“Um …” I clear my throat. Maybe that’ll make some room for the words to come out. “I was wondering …”
“Yes?” he says.
“Um, if it’s okay with you, sir—” I clear my throat again “—could Emma and I please have this afternoon off of work? We worked superhard yesterday lining up all the bottles to the front of the shelves like you said and we got to the Ms already even though you said G was enough, so if you could spare us we’d sure appreciate—”
“That’ll be fine,” he says before I can even finish. He picks up his order-form pad again like the subject’s closed so I hate reopening it to ask him to keep it quiet, and somehow the thought of asking a grown-up to keep a secret embarrasses me but I know I have to do it.
“Um.” Ahem.
“Yes?” He looks back up at me all serious over the half-moon glasses holding on to the tip of his nose.
“I was wondering if you might be able to keep this just between us?”
What did I just say? Of course he’d be able to! He’s not a baby, for goodness’ sake. Stupid, stupid me.
I can tell he’s thinking on it and I’m burning red because I’m sure he’s insulted I’m treating him like a baby and then he says, “I think I can pull that off.” Phee-you.
“Thank you so much, sir,” I say, and I’m almost out the door when he calls out.
“Oh, Caroline …”
I turn around and catch him smiling just like his high school picture. “Yes, sir?”
“Y’all better be careful,” he says, “the Box is the scariest thing you’ll ever see.”
He knows! Could he have heard us yesterday? I stumble back-first out the door while my mind tries to wrap itself around this question, and then I see the noisy old rusty car Miss Mary borrows to drive herself to town pull up, the windows sealed up tight to keep in the little bit of cool air that trickles out of the one unbroken vent, and I hurry to grab the front seat before Emma can call it and I forget all about Mr. White and how he came to find out about the Box.
“Emma, I’m older, I get it!” We’ve both grabbed the front door handle and are trying to push each other out of the way. It’s one thing to ride in the back in Momma’s car—I do that ‘cause Emma’s so picked on by her. But this is a horse of a different color. Emma gets plenty of attention from Miss Mary so I think I should get it. Plus, I was the one we decided had to do the Mr. White asking.
“Em-ma!” I jimmy my shoulder in between her head and the car door, but she’s strong from beating up so many people after school so she isn’t about to let go of the handle without a fight. Now Miss Mary has herself halfway standing, halfway sitting out her side of the car, calling out to us, “You better git in ‘fore I change my mind and that’s that.”
We cain’t get into the car fast enough. The cool air gives me gooseflesh at first but then I settle into it.
“So? Y’all ready for the Box?” Miss Mary says as she pulls the car out of the parking lot and onto the main road that leads out of Toast.
“Is it alive or dead?” Emma asks.
“Don’t be startin’ on me with all them questions. This ain’t no game show.” I can see the top half of Miss Mary’s face in the cracked rearview mirror looking back at the both of us, the lines around her eyes crinkled from smiling. I once heard one frown line on an old person’s face is caused by one hundred thousand frowns all added up. If the same’s true for smiles, then Miss Mary’s been a happy person all her life ‘cause she has a ton of lines around the corners of each of her eyes.
“Just say,” Emma says. “Is it alive or dead?”
“I just do not know,” Miss Mary says. She’s at the blinking yellow light that keeps you from getting hit by an eighteen-wheeler racing fast as can be through Toast and on to bigger and better places. Not one today, though, so Miss Mary pulls out slow and onto the highway toward Lowgap.
“I bet it’s a head cut off of someone’s body,” Emma says.
“I bet it’s a pig’s tongue,” I say. “You know, Daddy used to eat tongue—did you know that?”
“I bet it’s blood,” Emma says, not paying any attention to this tidbit of Daddy information I parcel out to her. Too bad for her.
“That’s not all that scary,” I tell her. “I mean, who hasn’t seen blood before? No one’d hightail it out of the room over a box full of blood.”
“I’m telling you, it’s boogers,” Emma says, crossing her arms and sitting up straighter so she can see the road we’re driving on. I don’t know why she’d