General
Chapter1
Hi Maggie,
My name is Mrs. Fedorchuk, and I'm going to be your sixth-grade teacher this year. I'll be exchanging e-mail throughout the year with all of my students, and I look forward to getting to know you better. Can you tell me a little about yourself? Do you have any brothers or sisters? What is one goal you have for grade six? What are you planning to do for your last week of the summer holidays?
I'll tell you a few things about myself. My favourite summer memory was visiting my sister in Prince Edward Island. I love animals, and I have two terriers named Eddie and Freddie. And I'm spending the last week of summer getting my classroom ready!
Enjoy the rest of the summer.
Mrs. Fedorchuk
Dear Mrs. Fedorchuk,
Hi! I'm Maggie, and I'm eleven years old. I have an older sister, Mary. She's fifteen and she's really bossy.
My goal for sixth grade is to become the best at something. I'm good at lots of things, but not best at anything.
In the last week before school, I hope to visit a dragon sanctuary. If I'm brave, I'll go into a haunted house.
See you next week!
Maggie Ito
I can't wait to have Mrs. Fedorchuk as a teacher. She sent me this e-mail today to introduce herself. I already know who she is, though. Mrs. Fedorchuk used to teach grade one, and the little kids always wanted to hold her hand. She even has dimples when she smiles. She'd be a perfect fairy godmother.
There are only five days left until the first day of school. On Monday, my family and I got back from vacation, but my best friend, Sasha Kovalik, is still at camp so I don't have much to do. Every time I tell Dad I'm bored, he says, "Help me fold the laundry" or "Why don't you unload the dishwasher?"
But at lunch he gives me a different answer. "How about walking up to Runnymede library and getting some books?" he says. "You'll be walking home from school by yourself this year. You can practise this afternoon."
I've been looking forward to walking to school by myself since Mary was in grade six. As soon as the table is cleared from lunch, I quickly lace up my runners, worried that Dad will change his mind.
"Come back with something to read, or I'll have to find more laundry for you to fold," he says with a wink.
Most days I'll walk to school with Sasha, but today I feel like a true adventurer. As I race out the door and tear down our street, I'm glad to be wearing a sweater. It's been a cold, wet summer, and today is no different. I hope I get back before it rains.
Despite the weather, it's a great afternoon for two reasons: I'm going to Bloor Street by myself, and I'm going to check out Fresh Ink or, as I call it, the haunted house. I've been waiting for the day I could walk up and investigate it on my own.
That day is today.
Whenever my family goes to High Park, we walk past Fresh Ink. The sign says it's a tattoo parlour, but I'm sure it's really a haunted house. I never see people walking in or out, and one of the windows is covered with a picture of a skull. Maybe they have a door knocker that comes to life when you use it. I wonder if there are ghosts floating around, or cobwebs on the furniture.
But first, the library. No matter what perils await me at Fresh Ink, I need something to do when I get home.
I head to the kids' section and choose Fablehaven and The Hobbit. Wouldn't it be great to live in a magical world like the ones in those books? Sometimes I think I really do, but I just can't see it yet.
Maybe that magical world is in the playground beside the library. I peer out the picture window and imagine it's actually a dragon sanctuary that's been enchanted by a powerful wizard. If the spell is lifted, I'll see two enormous dragons clashing over a hoard of gold and jewels, buried deep below the sandbox. I squint, hoping to glimpse a little of the sanctuary, but all I see is a slide and a couple of swings. I can't find danger anywhere in my neighbourhood.
I walk half a block to the haunted house. It's separated from the library by a couple of vacant buildings, and it sits back from the street, unlike the other shops which come right up to the sidewalk. The skull in the window leers at me, daring me to approach the door. The sign in front reads:
Fresh Ink
Tattoos and Piercings
With or Without Appointments
I wonder if the people who go in for an appointment ever come out again.
The path leading to the doorway is overgrown. Flowers spill out of the sides of their planters and droop toward the ground, struggling to escape their cement prisons. The front lawn is a mess of dark green grass, growing thick and matted. I can hardly breathe for the smell of over-ripe flowers.
A gust of wind wafts up the walk and a few dark clouds have floated in from the distance. I pull the sweater tighter around myself, clutching my library books. I'd better make this quick.
I pick my way along the path, until I reach the front door. There's no knocker, but there is a handle. I gulp, tug the door open, and
