True managed to keep her voice light as she asked the next question, which was kind of amazing, considering she was slowly but surely dying inside. “The Spirit Box? You mean the device that streams radio channels?” She’d read an insightful (and damning) article about those inScientific Americanrecently, though she knew this wasn’t the crowd to share that tidbit.
“Yeah! You know it?” Orion looked inordinately pleased that she did.
“I’m… acquainted with its properties, yes.”
Beaming, Orion continued talking while Isaiah watched their exchange with interest. “Well, the spirits can manipulate the radio frequencies to communicate with us. We’ve gotten some legit amazing messages from the beyond like that.”
True stared at his face—the square jaw, the earnest golden-brown eyes, the effortlessly glorious hair. Maybe he was technically a hottie, but they had literally nothing in common, not even small-talk-level stuff. Unless she wanted to spend the rest of the evening watching videos of ghosts and gargoyles, she should make her escape now.
“That’s pretty cool.” True made a show of checking her phone. “Oh, shoot!” Looking apologetically at Orion and Isaiah, she hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “I just got a text from Ash, my cousin. He needs me. So I should probably—”
There was a sudden, bone-chilling shriek from the deepcaverns of the den. “Oh my god!” someone shouted. “I found a dead body!”
Mr. Brightside yelled, in response, “Leave her alone! She’s mine!”
True raised her eyebrows, turned, and hurried toward the melee, Orion close on her heels.
When she got to the far corner of the den, Mr. Brightside was fussing over what looked very much like the deceased body of a woman, dressed up as a witch. He, in turn, was dressed up as the Moon King, an elaborate silver mask from Ash obscuring half his face. The skin that was visible had been painted the color of bleached bone.
“This is Wicked Wynona,” he was saying severely to the gathered group of students, some of whom looked dangerously close to passing out. “She doesnotlike to be bothered.”
“Whatisthat thing?”
The question came from Aiden, a football player and close friend of Bradley’s. True’s heart thumped erratically as she looked around, ready to catch Bradley’s eye, ready to feel the sting of his trademark smirk. What should she say to him? But she couldn’t spot him in the throng of students surrounding Mr. Brightside.
Mr. B turned slowly to survey Aiden down the length of his crooked, bony nose, his eyes narrowed. “I gotherfrom an antique shop in Twilight Grove. She’s a papier-mâché mannequin from the early 1900s. She’s surprisingly heavy; the craftmanship is top notch.” Stroking the bright-red, very tangled, rat’s nest of a mane on the mannequin’s head, he added, almost lovingly, “And thisis real human hair. Some say she even has actual human teeth, though that’s disputed.”
There was a gasp from around the room. Some of the girls huddled into their boyfriends, who looked just as freaked out as they did.
Mr. Brightside smiled knowingly. “The reason I got her, though, is because I was told there was a legend attached to her. Apparently, if you brush her hair for ten strokes, you can whisper a wish into her shriveled little ear and she grants it.” He looked around the room, and his gaze lit on True. “Aha, True, one of my best students. A true woman of science! Almost didn’t recognize you in that mask, but those discerning brown eyes give you away every time. Now I knowyouwant to try it, don’t you? If only to test this most intriguing hypothesis?”
True exchanged glances with Orion, who looked utterly baffled. She’d have to explain Mr. Brightside’s ways to him later. Turning back to her completely loony teacher, True replied, “Well, I’d love to… except I don’t have a brush.”
Mr. Brightside’s smile grew even wider. “Well, well, well. Look what I found.” His long, wan hand slipped into his jacket pocket and pulled out an old boar-bristle hairbrush, which he held out to True.
The crowd held still, waiting to see what she’d do. Biting her lip to keep from laughing, True walked forward. She had a feeling Mr. Brightside had concocted this entire bizarre story just so he could find gullible people to get Wicked Wynona looking pristine again.
Taking the brush from her teacher, True leaned closer to himand spoke quietly. “Let me guess: you want to add her to that diorama on your front lawn, don’t you? That’s what this ‘getting people to brush her hair’ thing is all about?”
Mr. Brightside’s Cheshire cat smile grew even wider. He had painted his teeth to look all rotten and gross, and the effect was unsettling. “Whatever do you mean? I don’t have a diorama. I’m just storing those things on my lawn… indefinitely. And before you ask, what people call my ‘poison garden’ is simply a botanical repertoire.”
True cocked an eyebrow. “Really. So the lifelike wax statue of Lavinia Fisher, the tapir skull, and the supposedly possessed rag doll just happened to fall in a neatly arranged pile around that antique coffin?”
Mr. Brightside chuckled deep in his throat, the sound like a thousand bees buzzing. “My dear True. One day you’ll understand why the night calls to me so strongly. Now. Will you do the honors?” He gestured to the mannequin, bedecked in the ugliest green paisley scarf and skull ring True had ever seen.
Snorting, she turned to Wicked Wynona and brushed her ratty red hair ten times. Then she gave Mr. Brightside a slightly admonishing smile. “Only for you, Mr. B. Only for you.”
“What? You’re not done yet! Go on.” He made a shooing motion with his hand. “Whisper your innermost desires into her ear.”
The crowd rippled with snickers.
Ugh, gross. Whispering into Wicked Wynona’s desiccated ear wasn’t on True’s bucket list. But she knew Mr. Brightside. If she wanted to get out of this unscathed, she should just do it. Leaning forward toward the mannequin’s ear, True whispered, too low for even Mr. Brightside to hear, “I wish the truth about this ‘magical night’ and the ‘Founders’ Fable’ would come out once and for all.” Then she stood back, handed the hairbrush back to Mr. Brightside, and nodded. “There.”
As she turned to go, Mr. Brightside called, “That was marvelous, True! I can tell you’re meant to be her keeper for the night.”
Swinging around, True cocked her head. “Say what now?”
He thrust the hairbrush back into her hand before she could object and addressed the small crowd. “Ifyou’dlike to make a wish on this most magical evening, I suggest you form an orderly line. True here will be Wicked Wynona’s protector the rest of the evening.” Patting her once on the back, Mr. Brightside melted away into the farthest recesses of the party, his silver mask glittering like a smattering of stars across his face.
