Laurel King - The Matchmaker's Medium

Shaking my head, I kept walking, and the kid continued to the back yard. As we got closer, I saw a big stand of trees still dropping leaves all over the ground. Now I knew why every step we took was announced by a loud crunch-crunch .

Stupid trees, always dropping their dumb leaves all over the place. So messy.

The kid walked over to a shed, back behind the stand of trees. It was a mini-house, built the same exact way as the main house, up front. If I wasn’t so freaked out, I would probably be trying to get in there and explore it. Ever since I was five, I wanted my own clubhouse, and this shed looked perfect. It was painted the same peeling, grayish-yellow color as the house, with dark windows and a fake little second-story section on it. The kid was just standing there on the fake-porch of the shed, staring at the shed with his hands shoved in his pockets, like he was waiting for the school bus.

“Cool,” Chris whispered behind me, reaching for the door handle.

“Wait,” I said. I looked at the kid, who was suddenly acting really weird. He kept looking back and forth, from the main house to the shed, like he was nervous. Then I heard it.

A car was rumbling up the road, toward the house.

Crap .

“I think someone’s home,” Chris said, looking toward the main house.

“Do you want me to go in the shed?” I asked the kid. He nodded his head, like he was real serious about it, over and over.

“Maybe we should just go, and come back later?”

“No, Chris, we have to get in there, now. Something’s wrong.”

The kid yanked his hands out of his pockets, and put them up to the sides of his eyes, like he was trying to look into something. The shed windows.

I put my hands up like his, then pushed my face to the little window on the shed. Darkness.

“Chris, you still got that Zippo you stole from dad?”

“What? What Zippo? I never stole anything from dad!” he answered, trying really hard to sound convincing.

“Yeah, you did. I saw you playing with it the other day. Give it to me right now, or I’m telling dad you took it.”

“Okay, okay, you’re such a tattletale ,” he said, scrounging in his pocket for it. He finally fished it out, and showed it to me. “Here it is. But I’m using it, not you. You’ll just burn the whole place down.”

He flipped the top open by snapping his hand back, with a metallic ting! Then he flicked his thumb down the circle-flint thing and a huge flame appeared. It flickered in the wind a little, but it held.

“Zippos are the best,” he said, “they’re the only lighters that stay lit in the wind. The army guys used ‘em in the war. Dad told me all about it.”

“That’s so great I forgot to care,” I said, grabbing it out of his hand.

“Hey!” he said, “Give it back!”

“Shh! Just let me look in there and shut up !” I said, holding the flame up to the window.

I could only see a few inches into the shed, mostly just handles of things all over the place, like shovels and rakes. And maybe a table or something.

“We gotta go in there,” I said, “I can’t see anything.”

“Okay,” Chris said, reaching for the handle.

Slam! A car door closing.

“Hurry up!” I whispered, my shaky hand making the flame jump around, thanks to my heart racing in my chest again.

“I am!” he turned the old knob a little bit, but then it stopped. “It’s locked!”

“Well, look for something to open it!”

He wandered around the side of the shed, finding nothing but a bunch of dry sticks that broke when he tried to pry the door open. I looked at the kid, who was pointing at the other side of the shed.

“Look over there!” I whisper-yelled, pointing the same way the kid had.

Chris looked around for a few seconds, then almost tripped on something. He reached down and picked it up, “Yes!” He showed me a long screwdriver that looked as rusty as the shed’s doorknob.

He put the screwdriver into wood between the door and the shed, pushing and cussing a little under his breath, until I heard a wood-splitting craaaack . “Finally!” he said, pulling the door open.

Chris stepped into the shed, with me right behind him, holding the Zippo so we could see inside, since the sun was almost down. It was even bigger inside than it looked from the outside, almost big enough for a small car. There were about a million rusty-dusty tools all over the walls, hanging from the ceiling, and piled on the workbench by the window. Leaning against the walls were a bunch of rakes and shovels and even an ancient push-mower like my next door neighbor used.

“Just some crappy tools and yard stuff,” Chris said, “gimme the lighter.” I handed it to him, and he walked further into the shed. That’s when the kid’s face popped right in front of mine, nearly scaring me to death.

“Aaah!” I scream-whispered.

“What?” Chris asked, turning around.

“Nothing,” I answered. The kid pointed to the back corner of the shed, where it was super dark. “Look over there.” I pointed the same place the kid was pointing.

Chris walked to the back corner of the shed, shoving stuff with his foot, “Better not step on any rusty nails, or we’ll get test-nuss and Doctor Lindworth will give me a shot. I hate getting—holy crap .”

“What? What is it?” I asked.

“Don’t come over here, Amber.”

“What? Why?”

“Just don’t .” I never heard him sound so grown up and serious before. My arms got a little goose bumpy from it.

I heard scraping and rustling, like he was moving something. “Here, hold the Zippo. But don’t look,” he said, handing the lighter to me. I took it from him, held it out, and glanced at the kid. He was really sad, now, looking down at the ground, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.

That’s when I knew.

I turned away from the kid, really slow, pushed the lighter down toward Chris’s feet, and looked.

There he was. The kid who brought me here, who was just standing there crying a second ago, was crumpled on the ground. His newspaper bag was on the floor next to him, his eyes staring at nothing, his mouth hanging open a little bit. I dropped the lighter, and the shed went dark. The rest happened really fast.

I screamed, and Chris fell backward into me. Scrambling around for the lighter, he yelled some cuss words, both of us tangled arms and legs on the floor. Then a man’s voice yelled something from somewhere by the house, and Chris grabbed my arm like he was either really mad or really scared.

“We gotta get outta here!” he whispered. I couldn’t really see him, since the light coming in through the window and shed door was almost gone, the sun finally setting.

“How?”

“Come on!” he said, grabbing my hand, and dragging me toward the shed door. He crawled with me, then poked his head out. “Hurry!”

He sprung out of the shed like one of those guys in the Olympics, yanking my hand so hard I felt my shoulder pop. Then we were running like crazy, crashing through thick weeds and tall grass, crunching through big piles of leaves. A branch smacked me in the face as we smashed through some bushes, but I kept running, hearing the man’s voice getting closer. We ran and ran, Chris right in front of me, the man’s voice muffled but yelling when he got to the shed and saw the door.

We got to our bikes, snatched them off the ground, flipped around and ran, pushing them for a few feet then swinging our legs over them like a cowboy jumping on a horse that’s galloping away. I pedaled faster than I ever had before, wind flying into my face and eyes, tears streaming down my cheeks, not daring to look back. Chris weaved through the streets, curving and turning, jumping the curb and taking a few shortcuts. Finally, we zoomed up the driveway to our house, both of us throwing our bikes to the ground so hard it sounded like a car wreck, racing up the stairs and rushing to Chris’s room. He slammed the door and locked it, and we both crammed into the tent-fort he built for practicing his Army stuff, as mom called up the stairs, “What in the blue blazes are you two up to ? I told you not to throw those bikes! If you break them, I’m not buying you a new one, y’hear?”