General
Chapter 1
Thwack, thwack, scrape, THUNK.
I hear that every time my friend Charlie scores on me. Charlie scores on me every time.
We are playing ball hockey in my driveway. Charlie plays forward. I'm in net. Aldeen Hummel, the Godzilla of Grade Three, is on defence. The thwack thwack is Aldeen's stick as she mashes at Charlie's feet. Luckily for him, Charlie is way too fast. The scrape is Charlie getting off a wrist shot. The THUNK is the tennis ball hitting the garage door behind me. Every time. I stink at hockey.
Oh-oh. Here we go again. Thwack, thwack, scrape, THUNK.
"Shoots, he scorrres," Charlie says. When we started, he'd shout and shoot his arms up over his head. Probably his arms are tired by now.
"No fair," says Aldeen. Her glasses are steamed up and her witchy hair looks as if it has exploded. It is fair. It's just that it's no fun. "Do it again," Aldeen orders.
Instead, Charlie flops in the fallen leaves on the grass. "In a sec," he says. "What are you going to be for Halloween? I'm going to be a hockey player."
Aldeen snorts. "You can't be a hockey player. How are you going to walk around in skates?"
Charlie shrugs. "I'll carry them over my shoulder."
Aldeen's Granny Flo pulls up in the taxi cab she drives. Sometimes Aldeen comes over after school until her mom or her grandma can get off work and come to get her. Granny Flo waves and goes inside.
Aldeen says, "Well, I'm going to be a scary monster."
I look at Charlie. He looks at me. We're both thinking, You won't need a costume. We don't say that. We both like living too much.
"What are you going to be, Morgan?" Charlie asks.
"I dunno yet," I say. Halloween makes me think of treats. I like eating way better than hockey. "Let's get snacks," I say.
We go in. Mom is in the kitchen, talking with Aldeen's grandma. They are looking at a booklet. We get juice and one cookie each. I'm about to sneak another one when I hear what they are talking about.
Mom says, "The community centre runs good programs. What are you signing up Aldeen for?"
"Piano," says Granny Flo. "She's artistic. She needs to try something new. But we don't have a keyboard at home."
"We've got one in the basement," Mom says. "She can practice here after school if she wants. We're signing up Morgan for floor hockey. Something active."
I freeze. Aldeen looks at me. Her eyes are bigger than the cookie jar. I can tell we are both thinking the same thing: Oh, no.
The stage beneath her began to turn, and then suddenly it was not a stage, but a carousel populated by wolves and wild dogs and other dark beasts. They were fixed in place on the carousel, and yet somehow they were alive, roaring and howling as the carousel spun faster and faster through the darkness. The bench she'd been sitting on had become a vicious hound. It yapped and growled as she clung to its black fur in terror.
