Dogs Read Online Free PDF Page A

about school. I’m thinking about Mr. Sinclair and whether I should tell Mom he has a key and he let himself into the house. I mean, he could do that in the middle of the night while we’re sleeping. I picture him standing at the foot of my bed, staring at me.
    Stop it, that’s crazy.
    Is it? Anyway, if I tell, so what? Mom’ll freak, but then she’ll say, “Every landlord has a key, and I did ask him to clear things out, so it’s my fault. Don’t worry. I’ll talk to him about limits.” And Mr. Sinclair’ll say, “Sorry,” and Mom will act like everything’s fine. Only it won’t be. Mr. Sinclair will know I’m scared, and he’ll still have the key.
    â€œâ€¦And by the end of the year, Marcia and I were best friends.” Mom reaches across the table and puts her hand on mine. “Trust me, honey, things will get better. Things always get better.”
    â€œOh yeah?” I pull my hand away, so mad I can’t think. “Things always get better? Like with Dad?” Mom turns white. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
    Mom gets up and takes our dishes to the sink. She braces herself against the counter.
    â€œMom, I’m sorry . I’m really, really sorry.”
    â€œNever mind. Go do your homework.”
    â€œMom—”
    She raises her hand, not mad or anything, just like it’s on a string. And I know that’s it. Nothing I say can make it better.

7
    I go up to my bedroom. It’s at the top of the living room stairs, next to a small bathroom and near the big room over the kitchen. That’s the room Mom thought I’d pick, and I would have, except for the trapdoor in the ceiling. It’s sealed up with nails and paint. When I saw it, I asked Mom what she thought was up there.
    â€œAn attic.”
    â€œYeah, but what’s in it?” I pictured a dried-up body, half eaten by mice. I mean, who seals up an empty attic? Anyway, that’s why I didn’t choose the big room. If I don’t see the hatch, it’s easier not to think about what’s on the other side.
    The bedroom I picked came with an oak desk, a wooden chair, a night table with a lamp, and a metal-frame bed. The mattress is new, unlike the wallpaper, which is stained and peeling along the seams near the window. Under the peels are layers of older wallpaper, one with little orange canaries on it.
    The window over my desk is the one good thing about my room. Looking out, I can see the barn with the fields all around and the woods in the distance. At night, the stars and the glow of the porch-lamp light up bits of the barn and the first row of cornstalks.
    I start to do my homework. Pretty soon, though, I’m looking out the window, watching the stars come out and trying to forget my life. I wonder who all are staring up at the moon right now. Are they wondering the same thing?
    Out of the corner of my eye, I catch something moving by the barn. When I look, it disappears. Wait. There it is again, at the cornfield. Some movement, some thing .
    I count to twenty. Nothing. I relax. Then—did that stalk move? I turn off my light so whatever’s out there can’t see in.
    It’s probably just a breeze.
    Or Mr. Sinclair. Or Cody and his gang.
    Don’t be nuts. If it’s anything, it’s an animal. A coyote or a dog.
    The dogs. I close my curtains. If I don’t look out, whatever’s there will go away. But I can’t not look. I sneak a peek. Nothing. Wait. By the barn. Is that a boy?
    I blink. The boy is gone.
    My eyes scan the barn. There’s a missing board up in the loft area. The more I stare, the more I think I see the boy staring back at me from the shadows behind the hole. He’s maybe ten, very pale, and he’s wearing one of those old Davy Crockett hats with the raccoon tail hanging from the back. Are those freckles on his cheeks?
    Don’t be crazy. The barn’s too far