But who’d made these glyphs? What language was it? Did the warning mean the Pretenders were dangerous? The origin of the symbols was one small mystery amongst many, but since nobody would talk to her, it was the only trail Lucy could follow for now.
Willow slid to the floor and pulled a musty hardback book off the nearest shelf.
“Ah, you found one of the old school yearbooks,” said Ms Keisha. The young tattooed librarian pushed past Lucy and Willow with a cartful of books. “Pretty neat, huh?”
Lucy narrowed her eyes at the cheery woman. Could she be one of Them? She imagined Ms Keisha’s tattoos squiggling around, her skin jellifying as she gooped into a bat or something and flew out the window.
Willow wiped the dust off the title: SPEAMS Dreams. “I wonder if Dad’s in here.” She opened the crumbling cover.
“If you find him, let me know immediately,” said Lucy. “I’ll bet his hair was INSANE.”
Willow laughed so hard she snorted.
“Girls,” said Ms Keisha, “this is a library, you need to keep it down.” She tapped a poster on the wall from the 1900s featuring a cartoon kangaroo saying, “SSSHHH!”
“Yes, ma’am.” Lucy saluted. She skimmed through her notebook to a page where she’d scribbled some of the questions and riddles rattling around in her brain: “Is it the trees?” “Does the sap make the Strickses turn into owls?” and “Note to self: eat a bunch of tree sap.” The last sentence was crossed out, a vomit-faced emoji drawn underneath with the words “unsuccessful attempt” scrawled next to it.
“Oooh, look what I found,” Willow whispered. She slammed the book on the desk and flopped it open. The pages were yellowed and worn, with drawings of big-eyed animals doodled in the margins.
Lucy examined the date in the corner. “1925? I’m pretty sure Dad’s not that old.”
“Not Dad. Look.” Willow flipped to a page with several black-and-white student portraits.
The people in the photos were all around Lucy’s age, but their overly styled hair, formal clothing and steely expressions made them seem much older. Willow tapped a picture of a girl with chin-length pin-curled hair.
Lucy read the name under the picture and her eyes widened. Esther Stricks. “The Other Mrs Stricks?” She checked the date again. “It can’t be. If she was twelve in 1925, that would make her, like, over a hundred years old.” Although she can turn into a bird, so what else might be true about her?
Willow’s lip curled in ambivalence. “I can never tell how old adults are.”
Lucy thumbed through more student portraits and spotted another familiar name. “Alastair Chelon. Okay, I know he’s not a hundred. He works with Dad, and they’re basically the same age.” She examined the skinny ten-year-old boy wearing a suit. Is it really him? Can he turn into a bird, too?
“Maybe it’s his great-grandpa?” Willow suggested.
“That’s a possibility,” said Lucy. She crossed out the word “werewolves?” in her notebook and added “vampires?” under the word “ALIENS??”
She perused the rest of the portraits but didn’t spot any other names she recognised. Near the back of the book, she came across group photos for various school clubs and activities.
Esther Stricks was pictured at the centre of the girls’ basketball team, a head taller than everyone else. Lucy smirked at their attire, which looked like sailors’ uniforms with pouffy skirts gathered in the middle to create makeshift shorts. How can you dribble a ball in something like that?
Next, she found a photograph of the “Arts and Crafts Society”, in which little Alastair Chelon stood proudly next to his painting of a tortoise. That’s not bad, actually, for a ten-year-old. She squinted at the picture, then gasped. The tortoise’s intricately designed shell was covered in symbols like those she had seen under the Nu Co. factory.
He’s definitely one of them. “I’m on to you, turtle boy.”
“What?” said Willow, perusing a yearbook from 1963.
“I didn’t say anything.” Lucy shook herself from her reverie. “You’re hearing things again.”
“Nice try, gaslighter.” Willow stuck out her tongue.
Lucy raised her hand so high she was straining.
Ms Keisha looked up from the cartful of books she was shelving. “Yes, Lucy?”
“Can I please check out this book?” She held it up.
The librarian shook her head. “Those yearbooks are too old and fragile. They’re for reference only.”
“But this is an emergency,” Lucy insisted.
Ms Keisha put her hand on her hip. “No, Lucita.”
Pickled beets, this woman will not be moved.
Just then, Miranda Sladan strode into the library, a canvas satchel overstuffed with papers slung round her shoulder. “All right, girlington bears, are you ready to go home?”
“Finally.” Willow gathered her things.
Yeeps. “Just a minute,” said Lucy. What am I gonna do?
“Got your grading done early today, Miranda?” said Ms Keisha.
Miranda patted her satchel and strolled over to the librarian’s book cart. “Yes, hallelujah! I sense a big bar of dark chocolate in my near future. Sy and I are hoping to have a date night this evening, too, if Nu Co. doesn’t have him working late again.”
While they talked, Lucy bit her lip and prepared to do something positively sacrilegious. It’s all in service of the Truth, she repeated to herself. As quietly as she could, she tore the turtle page out of the yearbook. Grimacing, she folded it up and slipped it into her pocket. She shut the yearbook, creating a small cloud of dust. “Okay,” she croaked, “I’m ready.”
“Great,” said Miranda. She said goodbye to Ms Keisha and led Willow out the door.
I’ve got what I need, thought Lucy. Alastair Chelon can fill in the rest. She was formulating a plan to confront the suspected Pretender, but to pull it off she was going to need something harder to obtain than authentic alien autopsy results: her parents’ permission.
Woo Woo
What was that Thing? Milo had been ceaselessly replaying the events of Halloween in his head. Was it some
