"I think you have a case of either „testitis‟ or 'I Didn't Do My Homework Syndrome.' It's common in the spring."
"But I feel awful!"
"You probably just need a good night's rest."
"I think I need to go home," I choked out. "You are keeping me against my will. I have a stomachache and headache, and my throat hurts," I said, talking through my nose.
"We can't release you unless you have a fever," she said, returning the thermometer to the glass cabinet.
"Haven't you heard of preventive medicine?"
"You do look like you haven't slept. Well, you'll have to get approval from Principal Reed," she said with a sigh, exhausted.
Great. New rules to be broken.
I stepped into Principal Reed's office with a note from Nurse William.
I fake sneezed and coughed.
"You've used up all your school sick days," he said, perusing my file. "You've requested to leave school one hundred and thirty days out of the one hundred and forty days of school so far."
"So thirty-one might be the magic number?"
"Well, you do look awful," he finally said, and signed my school release form.
"Thanks!" I said sarcastically.
I wasn't planning on appearing so convincing.
"I'm sorry, Raven," my mom said as she pulled our SUV into the driveway. "I feel terrible leaving you alone, but I have an off-site meeting that's been scheduled for months."
She walked me to the front door and gave me a quick hug as I stepped inside.
"Funny," I began. "I'm feeling better already." I closed the door, and as soon as I saw my mom drive down the street, I grabbed my usual vampire detectors—garlic powder and a compact mirror belonging to Ruby White of Armstrong Travel—and headed straight for Trevor's.
No wonder vampires didn't venture out in daylight. I hungered for the safe haven of shade from trees and hovering clouds and thirsted for the warm blanket of nightfall.
The hot sun began to bake my pale skin as I rode my bike up the Mitchells' driveway and passed a Ferguson and Son's Painting pickup parked in front of their four-car garage. I laid the bike against the side of the screened-in porch and rang the Mitchells' bell. Their dog began to bark from the backyard.
When no one answered, I rang the bell again.
Suddenly a small, elderly white-haired man carrying a ladder came out of the garage.
"Hi, Mr. Ferguson," I said, running over to the familiar painter. "Is Trevor home?"
The elderly worker looked at me oddly.
"It's me, Raven," I said, pulling down my shades.
"Hi, Raven. Shouldn't you be at school?" he wondered.
"I'm on lunch break," I replied.
"I didn't think they let kids go home for lunch anymore. In my day, there was no such thing as school lunch," he began. "We had to—" "Really, I'd love to hear all about it, but I don't have much time—" "I just dispatched my sons for takeout. If I'd known you were coming…," he began politely.
"That's very sweet of you, but I just need to see Trevor."
"It's probably not a good day for a visit. He's been in his room since sunrise."
Sunrise? I wondered.
"Well, I'll just be a minute," I said, walking past him toward the garage.
Mr. Ferguson put down the ladder.
"Raven, I can't let you in."
"But why? It's only me—," I whined.
Didn't he know I was on a mission to save Dullsville?
"Not when I'm on a job. It could cost me my contract."
More rules to be broken.
I plastered on my best puppy-dog face, the one I used with my dad when I wanted to stay out late. But the old man was steadfast. "The Mitchells should be home after five."
"I'll come back later then," I responded. "It was nice seeing you."
I walked over to my bike as Mr. Ferguson awkwardly carried the ladder to his truck. With his back to me, I knew I had only seconds. I dashed into the garage, snuck past a vintage Bentley, and opened the door to the laundry room. The smell of fresh paint wafted through the house as I raced over the plastic drop cloth, past the newly painted sunflower yellow kitchen. I would have complimented Mr. Ferguson on his paint job if it wouldn't have given away my dubious location.
I ran toward the front hall.
I'd been to Trevor's house only once, for his fifth birthday party, and that was only because he had invited everyone in our kindergarten class. My parents always told me that when they grew up and returned to their childhood homes, the houses looked smaller.
Well, if Trevor's house seemed like a castle when I was in kindergarten, then as a sophomore, it had only downsized to a mansion. Mr. Mitchell owned half of Dullsville, and Mrs. Mitchell made her living by serial shopping. And it showed.
The entranceway alone seemed three stories high. A marble balcony was accentuated with two descending bleach white wooden staircases forming a semicircle around an indoor fountain. A grand dining room sat off to the left with a white diamond teardrop chandelier and a glass table with twelve beige linen-covered chairs. It was almost the same style as the living room at the Mansion—but without the cobwebs. On the right, a sitting room the size of my house was decorated in African art and adorned with enough fertility statues to impregnate an entire country.
I remembered standing in this exact spot when I was five, just after my mom dropped me off. For what seemed like hours, my classmates were running past me, giggling as if I weren't even there.
Finally we were called outside to the Mitchells' football-size backyard where a clown, a merry-go-round, and a pony were awaiting us. Watching my classmates dance, sing, and ride, I sat alone on the patio until Trevor opened one perfectly wrapped present after another containing Hot Wheels, LEGOs, or Nerf footballs. Then Mrs. Mitchell handed him a black box complete with a black bow, wrapped by yours truly.
Trevor ripped the package open and pulled out a brand-new mint-condition Dracula action figure. His eyes lit up and he exclaimed, "Wow!"
Mrs. Mitchell cued him to "show and share."