There was not. Daddy Dearest insisted on paying a security company three thousand dollars a month—that’s right, amonth—to make my house an impenetrable fortress. Clara didn’t know it, but my mile-long driveway was lined with hidden security cameras. There were even cameras on the beach side of my property to spot potential kidnappers inclined to approach by boat. And every single door, window, and even the chimney practically had its own armed guard. Without the code, there was no way we were getting in.
“We’re screwed,” I said.
“Do you have the number of the security company?”
“I can only verify my identity through an app.”
“Which is, let me guess—”
“On my phone.”
There was probably a workaround, but the fact was, I didn’t even know the name of the security company. My father’s minions took care of all that for me. It was one of those moments when I really, really wished I wasn’t my father’s son. But then again, every moment was a moment when I wished I wasn’t my father’s son. But some moments of my miserable life were more miserable than others, and this was quickly shaping up to be one of them.
“I need to pee,” Clara said.
“What else is new?”
“It’s at critical mass.”
I made a sweeping gesture to the wooded lands around my property. “The world is thy toilet. Plenty of rocks to hide behind.”
“Fine,” she said with a huff.
After retrieving a roll of toilet paper from her trunk (I made a point of not asking the backstory there), she scampered off to the woods to pee in blissful ignorance of the CCTV cameras in the trees overhead. For my part, I headed to the shed to fetch my spare car key.
I hadn’t been inside it since last fall and it was so dusty and musty and spider-webby that it almost seemed haunted. But as I made my way through, I encountered no ghosts, just the regular guy-stuff collection of tools and boxes and things with wheels.
Pulling the collar of my shirt over my nose, I headed toward the corner where I kept my spare key hidden. But after only one step forward, my foot accidently kicked something that caused a domino effect. It started with a snow shovel falling off its wall hook, then something landing on my head, followed by me tripping and grabbing a wall shelf for support. The grand finale was the wall shelf and everything on it crashing to the floor. Through it all, I miraculously suffered minimal damage to the general cranial region.
The back end of the shed did not fare as well, however. Its injuries were grievous. It looked like it alone had been struck by an earthquake. Sometime this weekend, I’d have a jolly good time cleaning up the wreckage, but for now all I needed to do was unearth my key. I kicked a few small crates and hand tools out of my way as I forged a path through the rubble. I was just pushing aside the contents of a broken cardboard box when something caught my eye.
A ghost.
My heart skipped a beat. But not because I was scared. The ghost in question was anything but an unwelcome one. And it wasn’t your run-of-the-mill, garden-variety ghost, the kind that passes through walls and floats above your head singing “la la la, la la la” in a creepy little girl’s voice just to fuck with you.
No, this ghost was of the most mundane variety: a child’s notebook. It was standard fare, black with white speckles. Under the words “Composition Book” were three lines of adolescent handwriting.
Ian Dunning, Grade 8
Mom’s Memory Book
Private Property Do Not Read
I could barely believe it. My long-lost memory book. I’d misplaced it over a decade ago and it had been years since I’d even allowed myself to hope I’d ever find it again.
I picked it up. The last time I’d seen it was the day before I left for college. I’d planned to bring it to Tufts with me, but paranoid visions of drunken dorm mates finding it and reading it aloud as part of a fraternity prank made me think the better of it. But then again, if I left it at home, there was the danger that one of my father’s underpaid household servants would find it and make a beeline to the nearest cash-paying tabloid. The gossip-mongering press would pay extremely good money to get their hands on Dunning family drama in any form, and what could be more dramatic than a poor little rich boy’s journal of memories of his dead mother? The sad truth was, my journal, and the secrets and emotions and love hidden in its pages, was worth its weight in gold. It wasn’t safe anywhere, and no one on earth could be trusted with it. So I’d hidden it away in a super-secret hiding place where there was no chance anyone would ever find it.
Including me. I’m what people like my father like to call “book smart, life stupid.” I can do complex math in my head and I’m fluent in multiple computer languages, but if someone says,How’re you doing, I’m known to respond withThanks!When I’m running out the door, there’s a good chance I’ll miss the door. And the only time I remember to lock my car is when my keys, phone, and wallet are inside it. In short, it was extremely like me to hide my notebook so brilliantly that even I couldn’t find it.
I spent the entirety of my first Christmas home from college scouring all eight thousand square feet of the house for the notebook. I searched each and every room, including the bathrooms, top to bottom. But it was no use. My journal, and all the memories buried inside it, was gone. It was the first time since my mother died that I actually cried.
But now here it was. How it had ended up in a cardboard box in my unlocked shed, I didn’t know or care. All that mattered was that, after twelve long years, it was returned from the dead and back in my arms.
Yeah, I said in my arms. I was quite literally hugging it. One hundred percent of the only unconditional love I’d ever gotten from another human being was locked away in these pages. If ever there was such a thing as a living, breathing college-ruled notebook, this was it.
A little nervously, I opened to the very first page.
Mom died three weeks ago. My school counselor gave me this notebook and said I should write down all my memories of Mom before I forget them. I told him I didn’t want to, but he says I don’t ever have to show it to anyone else and I’ll be glad I wrote everything down when I’m older.