The Hole in the Wall by Lisa Rowe Fraustino

Around the edges of the map were newspaper clippings about natural disasters all over the world—earthquakes, volcanoes, tsunamis.

    “Oh . . . my . . . Godzilla,” I said. “Look at this, Barbie. Does this mean what I think it means? ORC’s mining is causing all this damage!”

    Barbie took a quick look and shook her head really fast. “No way,” she said. “Impossible. Boots Odum is just . . . just an artist. A really good artist. This must be his plan for a painting.”

    The sketch was beautiful, just like all of the artwork Miss Beverly had shown us in the house. But what if it was more than that? What if whatever ORC was mining did have some powerful connection to other places in the world? It could be like when you pull a loose thread on the front of a sweater, and you wind up with a hole in the back. And somehow the cookie dough in my guts had put me in the middle.

    Okay, now I was good and scared. “Hold the door, Barbie, I’m gonna make a run for it.”

    “About time!”

    We’d have been out of there in a flash if a dog in the next yard hadn’t picked that moment to start barking its head off. Was it barking at us, or was someone coming? I held my breath to listen.

    Footsteps crunched on the gravel walkway leading to the barn.

10

    “Hide! Someone’s coming!” I said, looking frantically around the room. The closest escape was the bathroom with the painting that liked me. Not a good idea.

    “In here!” Barbie slid open the folding closet doors at the far end of the workshop, and we burrowed into the hanging coats as the barn door creaked open.

    “Stanley? Stanley?” Thank goodness, it was Miss Beverly. I pictured her twisting her sorry neck around, searching for him. “Good afternoon, dear,” she said toward the bathroom door. Her voice sounded stretched out, worried. “Forgive me for intruding, but I heard you out here, and thought you could use a cup of coffee after being up all night trying to find an antidote for, you know. . . .”

    She walked into the room, her footsteps creaking the wood planks, then lightly knocked at the bathroom door. I could hardly hear it with my heart thundering in my ears. I held my breath, hoping she wouldn’t discover that Boots wasn’t in the john after all. Even though his latest masterpiece was.

    “I’m sorry, Stanley,” she said with tears in her voice. “I know you told me not to use those eggs, but I thought you just meant for cooking. They were the only ones we had in the house, and they looked perfectly fine, so I didn’t think it would hurt to use them in the balm recipe. Who would have thought it would . . . oh, please don’t be mad. . . .”

    Now I was holding my breath so I wouldn’t miss a word. Eggs? Our petrified eggs? Miss Beverly had used them, and now Boots was mad at her? Why? What had gone wrong? If I wasn’t trespassing I’d have popped out and asked her.

    Miss Beverly waited a moment, then sighed, and said, “Okay, Stanley, I’ll leave you alone to work. Dinner’s at six.”

    We would have been home free if Barbie hadn’t picked that moment to let out her perfect bloodcurdling scream and bolted out of the closet. Straight into Miss Beverly.

    Miss Beverly backed away, covering her face as if she didn’t want to be seen, then uncovered, stood tall, and smiled meekly.

    “Barbie!” she said. “Why, you gave me quite a scare! And Sebby! What are you kids doing here?”

    I was fighting with the coat I’d been standing in, trying to get out of it, and tripping over all the junk in the closet. Milk crates and pails full of doodads, a bunch of furniture, and office supplies, just to name a few.

    Miss Beverly seemed not just surprised, but nervous to see us. Her hand fluttered around the hair behind her right ear. Something about her seemed very different. She looked five inches taller, that’s what! Most of it was her neck, sticking straight up.

    “Miss Beverly! What happened to your . . .” Oops, I better