From inside my warm cocoon, the ancient trees whisper. They've kept watch over this grove for so long, they've seen all my incarnations. These wooded giants know how to keep their secrets safe: never store them inside fruit, blossoms, branches or bark where they're easily stolen. Secrets are safest in the blood, flowing sticky and sweet. If I could beg the trees to reveal my past, my present, and my future, I would. But I cannot speak, and even if I could, the trees would never tell.

Before we go any further, I know you have questions.

Like: 1. Rowen, you promised us a school gym destruction. When is that happening already?

Um: 2. Why do you care about a stupid book? Maybe it's not about you.

And: 3. Isn't Coffin Ridge a weird name for a town?

Plus: 4. What's the deal with this three-legged cat who came out of nowhere at the end of chapter one?

Well, because I care about you deeply, allow me to clarify.

1. Patience is a virtue, or so I'm told. The destruction of the gym is imminent.

2. I have a strong intuition about the book, okay? It could tell me important things about my weird life. Like why I look this way. Why bad things happen when I am angry. And why my dads force me to drink smoothies.

3. Coffin Ridge is called that because it takes its cemeteries seriously. We have a population of about 20,000 living and about 50,000 dead. People and their pets come from miles away to be buried here. Hey, some towns have theme parks or enormous balls of string, we have cemeteries.

4. Calpurrnio is the neighborhood three-legged cat whom I've known my whole life. He used to have four legs, but one day when I was about five, he showed up short a leg. Coincidentally, that's when the smoothies started. Weird, right? Like most townsfolk, we'd leave food and water out for Cal. Sometimes he'd come in, curl up in front of the fireplace, and listen to me complain about my life while I scratched behind his ears. I know it's weird to think he understood me, but it seemed like he did. But now I must vow to hate him for all eternity since he stole my book!

If that's all the questions, let's return to the story ...

I calmly gauged the distance from the edge of the roof beyond the attic window to the tree, then assessed the branch structure to determine the tree's climbability and whether it would ruin my best jeans. The jeans I had handpicked this morning to impress a certain boy in my computer class. Of course, I considered the wind shear factor, barometric pressure, and sunspot activity.

Just kidding.

I screamed.

Stomped my foot.

Shook my fists at Calpurrnio and ended up accidentally slamming into Ripley, the nearly featherless taxidermy vulture. Ripley's wooden stand tipped. Oh, no! Poor Ripley! I reached for him, but my hands grasped only air as the stand crash landed into the Halloween—Shoppe box, sending bits of decomposed eyeball, foam, and feathers into the air. Ripley had taken his last flight.

"Rowen, what's going on up there?" Dad said.

"Nothing?" I said, totally unconvincingly. Not my best lie, I gotta admit, but Ripley's demise still shook me.

"Well, I suppose if you're capable of human speech, you're still alive. Do you have Mr. Mandible?"

"Er ..."

Calm down, Rowen. Calm. Just hand Mr. Mandible over to Dad, drink your smoothie, catch the cat, retrieve the book, and arrive on time to first period to avoid after-school yoga.

Easy, right?

I stuffed Mr. Mandible's "parts" back into the bag. Dad never said the skeleton had to be in one piece. If I had a magic wand, I totally would have reattached Mr. Mandible's skull to his spine. But, alas, I had no wand because, as everyone knows, magic only exists in fictional stories about 'chosen ones' who endure a life of extreme suffering before ending up in a medieval castle overrun with dragons and snot-flavored jellybeans.

"Here ya go, Dad," I said, dangling the bag over the edge of the attic opening.

"Thanks, sweetheart," he said, taking the skeleton from my grip.

I clambered down the ladder, skipping the last few rungs and jumping into the kitchen. It smelled like a Jamba Juice from all the smoothie fixings—a slight improvement over the smell of mold and dust in the attic.

The huge fireplace in the kitchen hadn't been lit. Still fire season. But a little mountain of ashes from months ago hadn't been swept away, despite the fact that Dad's favorite broom was propped up against the bricks. 

Dad set the bag on the floor beside his cabinet of 'wondrous elixirs.' He was famous in Coffin Ridge for his concoctions. Flasks of multi-colored liquids (one that swirled and glowed like liquid evil), jars of suspicious-looking creams; and one full shelf stuffed with ancient recipe books, all of them written in Latin or Ancient Greek or Jupiterian, or some other indecipherable language. It looked like something from a 19th-century mad doctor's office, lacking only a bloodletting fleam, a jar of leeches, and a few bone saws to complete the picture.

"Dad, I just remembered, um, I've got to go..." I searched my brain for a good lie that would allow me to escape and catch Calpurrnio. I knew the whole 'I'm late for school' thing wouldn't cut it since it was my fault that I had to exhume Mr. Mandible this morning.

But I must've been off my lying game. My cheeks heated. Having nothing convincing to say, I raced for the side door from the kitchen to the yard. But as my hand gripped the knob and victory was within reach, Dad captured my arm and stopped me. He shook his head while giving me the once over. "Dad, I'm fine."

"Why are you flushed?"

"I'm not."

He lifted a dark eyebrow. "Rowen, the basis of a strong relationship is honesty."

(Yeah, Dad said this. And since I'm telling you this part of the story in retrospect, I'm going to mention you should remember this line for later, so you can truly savor its blatant hypocrisy.)

"No, I am fine," I insisted. "I don't want to be late. Yoga detention awaits the tardy!" I added a slight giggle to reinforce the whole 'I am being lighthearted and not freaking outedness of the situation.'

"You will drink your smoothie, young lady. It's not my fault you put off this chore till the last minute."

See?

He released me, pinning me in place with his paternal glare, a force greater than any physical restraint. Once he seemed satisfied that I wouldn't disappear like a noontime shadow, he returned to the cutting board, which was covered with chopped fruit, blood-orange juice oozing over the sides like a crime scene. My stomach turned. You would feel the same if you had to drink a smoothie every day.

With his wide grin, cropped dark hair, and white apron, Dad looked like a TV chef about to dazzle his audience with his pro knife moves. Or maybe a fruit butcher in a horror movie called The Very Bad Apple, A Peeling Frenzy, Pulp Kitchen, or something like that.

Unable to resist, I cast glances out the front window towards the tree, hoping to glimpse the delinquent cat burglar.

"What's wrong, Ro?" Dad said. He picked up a gleaming knife and whacked a cantaloupe in half with disturbing glee. "You seem distracted. More than just being late for school. You know you can talk to me about anything. I'm always here for you, hon."

It embarrassed me to admit that his words made a lump form in my throat. Parents can turn you into a child with a single kindhearted sentence. For a moment, I even considered telling him about the book. Maybe he knew what secrets it held, or maybe he'd tell me it was just another recipe book like the ones in his cabinet. He'd smile that way he always does when he thinks I'm super entertaining with my wild imagination and say I was overreacting.

What if it turned out he had been hiding it from me? What if I told him I knew of its existence, and he kept it from me still? I couldn't risk that. I had to be the one to discover its mysteries.

"Thanks, Dad," I said, patting his back. "I've just got a lot on my mind. But one thing, if someone from the town's cybersecurity department calls, tell them you've never heard of me." This is another effective tactic to use with parents—diversion.

Dad shook his head, and in a flash, diced the cantaloupe into perfect cubes. "Ro, what have you done now?"

I grinned and winked. "I'd tell you, but that would make you an accomplice." Scooping up a cube of cantaloupe, I tossed it into my mouth, biting into the sweet flesh.

"Good morning, Paul. Ro," Papa said, shuffling into the kitchen in plaid pajamas, yawning, the belt of his flannel robe trailing on the wooden floor like a tail. He kissed Dad and hugged me. Papa smelled like minty mouthwash and what I think of as bottled Christmas morning—wood-smoke, mulled spices, with a hint of foiled gift wrap.  

"Morning, Papa," I said, taking an extra moment to breathe in his Christmas scent.

My parents couldn't look more different. While Dad was tall and thin, Papa, looked the part of a jolly accountant with thinning white hair, a Santa-esque belly, rosy cheeks, and thick metal-framed glasses that would not stay put, as if his button nose just wasn't up to the job.

"Good morning, darling," Dad said, plunking dissected fruit into the blender. "There's a fresh pot of coffee." Why did Papa get coffee while I had to drink massacred fruit? One of the many great mysteries of the Keckilberry-Brown household. Papa snatched the morning paper off of the worn floral sofa, frowned, tossed it back, and made his way to the coffee pot.

Dad sniffed the contents of the blender. "It's missing something," he said, tapping a finger on his dimpled chin. "Ah, I know!" He opened the glass door of his elixir hutch, and extracted three scary-looking murky bottles, adding a shake of each into the mixture. Finally, he plunked in a few ice cubes and set the blender awhirr.

Sharp odors wafted in the air. What was he putting in my smoothie now? Eau de dirty motor oil? Snot-flavored jellybean juice?

He turned off the blender and sniffed again. "Perfection!" Dad poured the concoction into a glass and presented it to me with a stately bow. "Tada! One impeccable morning smoothie, m'lady."

I took the glass, sniffed its contents, grimaced, and coughed.

"Now that's just hurtful," Dad said.

"What is?" I said.

"Coughing and wrinkling your nose at my brilliance. People in this town pay a fortune for my creations."

"Dad, haven't you ever heard the story about the shoemaker's kids having no shoes? That means the elixir-maker's daughter should have no smoothies."

"Fairy tales aren't real, Rowen."

"Ugh, why did you change the recipe?"

"You're getting older. Gotta make sure you get enough vitamins. Papa pushed his glasses up and checked his watch. "You going to make it to school on time, Ro? This would be your fourth tardy." He poured himself a cup of coffee.

"Right? That's what I've been telling Dad. At least I have one responsible parent who prioritizes my education. Can I go?"

"Just as soon as your smoothie is gone," Dad said.

As I lifted the glass to my lips, out the window, I caught a flash of something black and furry climbing the dead oak. There he was! Calpurrnio, with the book still firmly gripped in his mouth, taunting me from an upper branch. Without waiting for permission, I rushed to the kitchen door, and threw it open, tossing a "be right back," over my shoulder. Making my way around the obstacle course that was our front yard, I rounded the squirrel topiary, leaped over an array of giant plastic Halloween spiders, and pushed my way through a mass of cobwebs, smoothie in hand.

"Rowen! What are you doing?" Dad called from the kitchen window.

I didn't answer because I was too busy running, and I assumed his question was rhetorical since it was totally obvious what I was doing.

"Calpurrnio. Come down this instant."

The cat slipped down the side of the tree and went under the neighbor's fence. If only the missing leg slowed him down! But nope!

My blood boiled. Every nerve in my body was aflame. It was as if there was a ball of fire inside me, pushing against my skin. I swear, if I was a TV superhero, this would be the point where lasers burst out of my eyeballs.

(Note to self—invent laser eyeballs for mass market distribution.)

I know you think I should recite my new mantra here, but it was way past that stage. Something bad was going to happen. The only question was, "to whom?"

Once again... *cue ominous music.*

Calpurrnio raced across the neighbor's yard and crossed the street. Despite a stabbing pain in my side, I sprinted faster. As I stepped into the road, a growling garbage truck turned the corner and came barreling toward me. Dread, cold, and vile as a morning smoothie (which I still held in my hand), coursed through my veins.

Why did I have to hack into the town website and fix the sanitation delivery schedule!!!

The truck blared its horn. Slammed on its brakes. Squealed and fishtailed across the road. With the smoothie slopping over the side of the glass, freezing my hand, I barely managed to dash to safety, with me and most of the smoothie intact. My heart pounded in my throat, but did I get even one moment to celebrate my success? No, because the driver yelled something stupid about me watching where I was going next time.

This was the thanks I got for repairing the website! It took all my will not to fully imagine the driver dangling over a pit of alligators.

Do not picture the driver dangling over a pit of alligators, Rowen, I chastised myself.

After squelching the thought, I turned back to my quarry, only to see the bushy black tip of Calpurrnio's tail disappearing under a rosebush in the Sorenson's yard right next to a large "no trespassing" sign. Mrs. Sorenson, from one of the oldest families in Coffin Ridge, took her property lines seriously, especially since her cat, Pumpkin, was killed a few years ago by egg-throwing trick-or-treaters angry that Mrs. Sorenson wasn't giving out candy—practically a felony in Coffin Ridge. Well, no one knew Pumpkin had a fatal egg allergy. (May he rest in peace.) Of course, this was the yard Calpurrnio led me into!

"You cannot escape me!" I yelled, shaking my fist. "Give me my book, fiend!"

As I leaped toward him, I tripped over a hidden root, sending me and the smoothie flying and landing; you guessed it, right on top of the rose bush. "Ouch!" I cried as the thorns dug into my hands and scratched my face. I fell back on the lawn, trying to catch my breath.

Calpurrnio had disappeared like, yeah, like a shadow at noon.

But I suppose we've answered the 'who will get hurt.' At least this time it was only me, though that garbage truck driver really deserved at least a hangnail or paper cut for his rudeness.

All I wanted right now was to throw myself a massive pity party, but that wouldn't get me the book and it would definitely mean I'd be doing detention yoga after school. So, I forced myself up and searched the yard for my glass. There it was, miraculously all in one piece, lying at the base of a sugar pine tree. It must've been my imagination, but was the grass beneath where the smoothie spilled turning brown? It must've already been that way. Right?

I scooped up the empty glass. But before I could make my getaway, the front door opened, the screen banging in the wake of scrawny old Mrs. Sorenson, wielding her cane like a sword. "Get off my lawn!"

"Sorry," I said. "Thought I lost something."

As I backed away from her flailing cane, I caught sight of Calpurrnio on Mrs. Sorenson's roof, casually giving himself a bath, the book nowhere in sight.

Gritting my teeth, I allowed an image of Cal skidding down the roof and landing hard in Mrs. Sorenson's rose bushes to fully form in my mind. It's not like my angry thoughts always come true, but this time, I could get lucky!

And there you have it! Chapter 2, right on time! You have my permission to be impressed!

I hope you had as much fun reading this chapter as I did writing it. Rowen, because she has that hint of evil, is such a fun character to write. What do think will happen next? Do you have any questions so far?

As always, reads, votes, and comments are adored.

This chapter is dedicated toJanePeden because she was instrumental in helping me choose the title. If you haven't read Jane's stories yet, what are you waiting for? Get over to her profile and read her stories about sexy lawyers. Hey, lawyers and accountants can be sexy, okay?