Secret Histories

she’s the Witch of the Pines come back from the dead works for her somehow.”

She and her dog had moved into Old Town a dozen or so years ago. Her mysterious ways—disappearing for months at a time and then suddenly

around every day, wandering through the Pines at night—had started some folks whispering that she was real y Peggy Clevenger, the famous Witch of the

Pines. But how could that be? Everybody knew how the real Peggy Clevenger’s decapitated body had been found in her burned-out cabin back in the

1800s.

Weezy shrugged. “Could be.” She gave Jack a sidelong look. “You know they say Peggy’s body wanders the Barrens at night looking for her head. But

I’m just wondering …”

“Wondering what?”

“What if she found it and put it back on?”

Jack laughed. “Come on! Even you don’t believe that.”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. But how do you explain Mrs. Clevenger’s

ever-present scarf? Why would she wear it on a hot day like this?” Weezy dropped into her ooh- spookyvoice. “Unless she’s hiding the seam where she

reattached her head.”

Jack picked up his bike and waited for Weezy to knock back her kickstand. “You gotta be kidding me.”

She looked at him with those big, dark, black-rimmed eyes. “Okay, fine. Your

turn then: Give me another explanation for the scarf.”

Jack couldn’t come up with one. Not for lack of trying. He real y wanted another

explanation. Because he didn’t like Weezy’s one bit.

6

Jack spent the afternoon at USED.

The best thing about the job was he hardly ever did the same thing two days in

a row. One day he’d spend dusting al the antiques and just plain junk; the next he’d supply a third or fourth hand to help Mr. Rosen fix an old clock;

another he’d wind al the clocks and watches—not too far—and make sure they were set to the right time. Today he was helping Mr. Rosen pretty up some

antique oak furniture he’d just bought—a rol top desk and a round table with cool lion paws at the ends of its legs.

The old man’s fingers weren’t as steady as he’d have liked, so he oversaw Jack

as he used a stain-soaked Q-tip to darken scratches in the old wood.

After the stain dried, Jack would polish the surface.

For his time and effort he was paid $3.50 an hour—not a princely sum, but

fifteen cents above minimum wage. Mr. Rosen had offered him the extra if Jack would save him al the government paperwork by taking cash. Fine with

Jack, because that in turn saved him the trouble of finding his birth certificate and applying for a Social Security number.

He supplemented the USED money by mowing lawns, but that was always

subject to the whims of weather—not enough rain and the grass didn’t grow, which meant no mowing; too much rain and the wet grass clogged the mower.

He liked the reliability of the weekly cash from USED.

Not that he had much in the way of expenses. He’d go to the movies—he

planned on seeing ReturnoftheJedifor a fourth time this weekend—or rent sci-fi or horror films on videocassette. He liked to keep up with certain comics

like Cerebusand Roninand SwampThing,but he’d lost interest in most of the titles he used to love—especial y ones with characters in tights. Occasional y

he’d buy a record album if he liked it enough. His latest had been

Prince’s 1999;he’d probably buy Synchronicityby the Police next. Dad had insisted he find a part-time job that would, in his words, “al ow you

enough time to enjoy the summer but help you learn the value of a dol ar.” Wel , fine. But Jack would have found one anyway because he wasn’t

comfortable with an al owance —givenmoney didn’t feel like it was real y his. But the money he earned—that belonged to him and him alone.

The phone rang and Jack hustled over to pick it up.

“USED.”

“Yes, hel o,” said an accented voice. “This is Professor Nakamura. May I speak to