"Some people have metaphorical skeletons in the closet. Mine are real, and therefore harder to keep under wraps."—Rowen Keckilpenny Brown

First of all, today is Friday, the thirteenth of October, which should totally have been an omen. Other important facts:

1. I had exactly twenty-four minutes before the tardy bell.

2. I had three tardies this semester already; one more meant automatic detention. (Promptness is not my thing.)

3. Detention at my school is after-school yoga in the gym. (California cannot have normal 'write an essay about your failings as a human being' detention. I'd even prefer the Harry Potter writing "I must not tell lies" in his own blood detention to yoga!)

4. If you haven't already guessed, I despise yoga, which is a form of torture created in the fifth century BCE, for the express purpose of causing humans excruciating pain while boring them to death.

5. Finally, Before I could leave for school, I had to retrieve my dad's skeleton from the attic.

Sure, I had all week to retrieve the skeleton, but my free time got filled up with more important things, like scrolling through social media, jealously watching other people my age having actual lives, friends, and most of all, boyfriends, and wondering what that would be like; what it would feel like to be kissed.

I spent an embarrassing number of hours staring into the mirror, examining my wild mass of red hair, reminding myself that no one would ever want to kiss me, anyway. Who would kiss a freak with crazy red hair and vaguely reptilian green eyes? My hair seems to have its own agenda. Like Medusa's snakes, but with less molting. Just don't come too close with a hairpin. It will not be tamed!

Both of my dads are normal-looking, so it's pretty obvious I'm not related to either of them, though whenever I bring up the subject of my adoption, my dads look so hurt, I drop it. But I do wonder about my birth parents, who must've been so weird looking it was a miracle they reproduced.

Plus, yesterday, after the third week of scheduling mishaps by the Coffin Ridge Sanitation Department, I had to hack into the system on the town's website. If the adults couldn't properly clean up their trash, it was up to me.

You can see that all these activities left me with no time for chores, especially the skeleton search.

Sorry to lay all that on you, but let's face it, you're all I have!

So where was I? Oh right, this morning's smoothie incident and how the trip to the attic ruined my life.

Outside the kitchen window, the sun was still a weak watery thing, its dull light filtering through the gnarled branches of the dead oak in our front yard. The barren tree stood vigil over a mish-mosh of tacky Halloween decorations, all painstakingly arranged by Dad. He loved Halloween. I hated it, mostly because it made our house look like a place where crazy ladies hung out and knitted pumpkin-themed sweaters for their cats.

An inky crow fluttered onto a branch. It bobbed under her weight, but she kept her balance and set her dark, beady gaze on me. A chill threaded up my spine.

Crows! Move aside pigeons! Crows are the true rats of the air.

Upstairs, footsteps thumped along the ancient floorboards; muffled voices rising and falling. Our cottage was like something out of a fairy tale—wood furniture and floors worn to a shine like river rocks. You could almost smell the secrets lingering in every corner.

I pulled the rope hanging from the ceiling to release the retractable metal ladder into the attic. It descended into the kitchen noisily, popping and creaking like the bones of an ancient crone, exposing the attic's dark rectangular maw. I sighed and mounted the ladder.

My sweaty palms gripped the cold rungs, one by one, my heart pounding wildly.

Attics are not my thing, okay?

They're dark, dusty, and infested with rats and spiders. You know who belongs in attics? Ghosts. Why? They love to hang out there because that's where their stuff is.

Not much to love about attics, am I right?

But that's not even the worst part about them. The thing I like least is, I swear, the attic seems happy when I'm there. Look, I'm not crazy. I know it's ridiculous to anthropomorphize an attic, but it feels true. With all its dark, dusty, cobwebby, abandoned contents, it's almost like when I take my first step inside, and the floor creaks under my shoes, the attic wakens, shivers, and moans, "you've returned at last.")

As I neared the top of the ladder, I distracted myself by reciting my new mantra (that I totally just made up): Calm yourself, Rowen. No catastrophes before noon.

I admit it's weird for someone who despises yoga to have a mantra, but I'm doing it anyway.

Even as time grew short, I couldn't help pausing at the entrance, a part of me hoping for a disaster—an earthquake, freak storm, kitchen fire—anything to get me out of this task. But I squashed this line of thought before it took shape and form.

It's never good when I imagine catastrophes, as you will soon learn.

No catastrophes before noon. No catastrophes before noon.

I held my breath to prepare for the smell and hefted myself into the gloom. The attic seemed to settle and whisper, "you're home, Rowen, you're home." But this time, a new sensation tugged at my belly like a tractor beam. Something in that attic wanted to be found. But I had only one job to do: find that skeleton, not play games with a figment of my imagination.

A single shaft of dusty light slashed across the attic from the dormer window, hanging askew in its rotted casement. The light fell upon mountains of boxes, a tilted chest of drawers, a taxidermied vulture named Ripley, so ancient he could barely hold on to the last of his feathers, and an old rocking horse (all attics are required to have one).

I scuttled between boxes to the middle of the cramped space to pull the chain dangling from the ceiling. A sickly yellow bulb clicked to life, casting sallow light over the room. A rat skittered past my feet. I squealed.

Squealing meant I had to breathe, which meant the full attic-stench experience. It smelled like decay, mold, and rotted wood. Focus, Rowen, focus! School. Tardy. Yoga! Where was that skeleton?

I covered my nose and mouth with one hand and scanned the boxes, all labeled with a thick black Sharpie.

"Ro, you alright?" My dad's annoyingly cheery voice called from below.

I may have forgotten to mention that the skeleton I was looking for was a Halloween decoration, not the one Dad carried around inside his body. What? Do you think I'm a serial killer who keeps her father's skeleton posed in the attic in a rocking chair? I'm not a character in a horror movie!

Hope I didn't "rattle" you too much!

Dad must have gone down to the kitchen to prepare my morning smoothie. He was super serious about me drinking one every morning. Why were my parents so health conscious? Why couldn't I have Pop-Tarts or Raisin Bran like a normal human?

"No! I am not all right! The smell up here is killing me," I called down dramatically. If I did die in the attic, at least I wouldn't have to waste any time in the afterlife searching for a primo haunting spot. I could just haunt my dads from up here for the rest of their lives. Revenge for being overprotective and for all those smoothies.

"People do not die of unpleasant smells, Rowen."

"There's always a first time, Dad." I rolled my eyes.

"Do not roll your eyes, young lady."

How did he do that? "I didn't," I lied, not wanting to confirm his mind-reading prowess. Got to keep him on his toes.

"Your smoothie is almost ready. Find Mr. Mandible, and get down here. He's probably in the box marked Halloween - Shoppe. Near the window."

Beside the window, stacked in a tower, were boxes labeled Halloween - Halloween - Porch; Halloween - Yard; Halloween - House; and Halloween -Miscellaneous; and, of course, on the bottom an enormous box about the size of a coffin marked—Halloween-Shoppe.

I sighed and hefted each box from the stack before unearthing the bottom one. Kneeling before it, I peeled back the cardboard flaps, pliable and cold with the dampness. I waded through the contents, tossing them aside as I went—one sticky deflated vinyl giant pumpkin, five foam gravestones, a skein of cobwebs, and one plastic cauldron filled with half-decomposed rubber eyeballs. And there! At the very bottom. My quarry. The black Hefty bag that contained one life-sized plastic skeleton! Hurrah!

I opened the bag and lifted Mr. Mandible out headfirst, something hit the old window, popping it open. I yelped and tumbled onto my behind, decapitating Mr. Mandible in the process. Crap! Heart racing, I sat up, holding the skull, no longer attached to the rest of the skeleton.

In my anger and frustration, I shook the skull, and from the cavern inside, a ball of dusty black fabric fell into my lap. A great shudder rolled through me, so powerful and deep, that my insides felt as hollowed out as a Halloween pumpkin.

My breath sped as I unwrapped the fabric. Inside, I found a small, locked book, about the size of my palm, covered in an iridescent lizard-like leather. Releasing the fabric, I held the book with reverence. It was warm, unlike everything else in the musty box, and it almost seemed to hum against my fingers. I took the shallowest breaths, afraid that one strong exhalation would break its spell. I turned the book over. No title. No writing at all on the cover or the spine. I fumbled with the lock. How to break it open? If only I had a hairpin! Though, even if I did, the only thing I knew how to break into was the backend code of a small government agency. I yearned to know what was inside and knew if I didn't open that book, I would die of curiosity. A prickly wave of deja vu crept up my neck. Had I seen this book before? It contained something important about me, about where I came from, and even where I was going. I was sure of it. Where was the key?

Something dark and furry and fast snatched the book out of my hands and leaped out the window, his tail stuck high in the air like a feline version of the middle finger. Even with only three legs, that cat was fast!

I raced to the window, but when I stuck my head through, he was poised in the oak, staring down at me with perfect cat derision. "Calpurrnio, you darned cat! Get back here now!"

His tail twitched. He held tight to the book and leaped to a higher branch. A hot pain licked inside my body like a thousand bees on the rampage, stinging, burning, trying to escape.

Cats! Now they are the real rats!

So what do you think is in the book? Will Rowen ever find out? And will she have to do yoga? Find out in next week's chapter!!!

All votes, comments, and follows cherished and appreciated! xoxoxo

NOTE: Hello, to all my current readers who might wonder what's going on! I decided to split up chapter one so it's not as long. Just something I'm trying. Love you guys!!!