Whisper Down the Lane by Clay Chapman (inspiring books for teens txt) 📕

enter the flow of students before I can say anything more.

The papier-mâché has yet to harden, so the figure feels damp in my hand. Like flesh. Actual flesh. But without warmth. Without life. The clammy skin of a cadaver. I close my eyes, and in that darkness, for just a moment, I feel like I’m holding a dead man’s hand in my own.

Maybe somebody just made two papier-mâché projects? But then why not claim it.

I turn it over to see if anyone wrote their name on the underside.

There, scrawled across the sole of its right foot—what would’ve been this faceless person’s foot—is a name written in purple magic marker.

SEAN.

I throw the piñata into the trash can.

There’s no Sean in my class.

DAMNED IF YOU DO

  SEAN: 1983

The stitching within its left eye had come undone. The threads had frayed, unraveling from the quartet of buttonholes. It looked like he was bleeding out.

The sock puppet refused to blink. It only stared back at Sean.

Mr. Yucky.

Peach-colored plush. Its slack mouth wrapped around the entirety of its head, its lipless grin far larger than any normal mouth should ever be.

Maybe it was more like a bear trap. That’s what the puppet’s mouth reminded Sean of. A trap. It hung open, waiting to capture his words, yearning for somebody’s voice to fill it.

At the center of the therapy puppet’s overalls, resting upon its heart, was a fluorescent green sticker. Printed along the top of the sticker, in bold block letters, was the word poison. And in fine print, barely legible from this distance: if ingested, dial 911 immediately.

Sean couldn’t read those words. Not all of them. Ingested felt foreign to him, like another language. But Sean knew that sticker. He had seen it plastered on the bottles and boxes hidden beneath their kitchen sink at home. It was an unhappy face, neon lime green skin, eyes pinched tight into lightning bolts of anguish. Its tongue stuck out from its frowning mouth.

Poison. Sean knew how to read that word because Mom had made him repeat it, a household incantation, pointing the word out wherever it materialized in their home.

In the bathroom cabinet.

In the broom closet, amongst all the things he wasn’t supposed to touch.

In the garage.

The sticker was a warning: Don’t ever drink me. Don’t ever touch me. Don’t ever let me inside. I can kill you, if you ingest me…

Whatever was brewing inside those bottles, those plastic containers with complicated names, was never, ever to be ingested. The creamy pink and blue and green liquids were toxic.

So what did that mean for this puppet? Was it harboring noxious toxins inside its plush body? Was its blood poisonous like the sticker said? What kind of thoughts did Mr. Yucky have?

What were his secrets?

Sean couldn’t help but dwell on the broken thread inside its left eye. What if he plucked it? Would the artery untangle itself? How far did the vein go? How long would it take for Sean to pull on that string before that button eyeball popped out from its socket?

The puppet was supposed to be a boy, just like Sean, but calling him a “he” didn’t feel right. Didn’t feel real, no matter how much Miss Kinderman insisted Sean should consider this lifeless object was just like him. He’s just like you, she had said. You two could go to the same school. He could even be in your class! I bet you have a lot in common. Why don’t you say hello?

Miss Kinderman used her fingers to comb its tangerine-colored hair. It wore a pair of overalls that tapered off at its torso. It had no legs. Everything below the waist was gone. Its arms flopped limp at its sides.

He, Sean reminded himself. It’s supposed to be a he. Not an it. He.

A boy, just like him.

Was Mr. Yucky waiting for Sean to say something? To break the silence? The office was so quiet. Full of dolls. Puppets of all kinds, suspended from the walls. Doctor puppets. Mommy and daddy puppets. Police puppets. All of those open mouths. Silently gaping. A muted chorus.

Some dolls looked more lifelike than others. Anatomically correct was how Miss Kinderman described them. Those puppets had no clothes on at all. Their boy parts and girly parts were completely exposed. Sean couldn’t help but blush. His cheeks felt hot from just glancing at them. He knew he shouldn’t look, turning away, still aware of their presence.

Sean scanned the office while Miss Kinderman busied herself with her notepad, scribbling something. She was always taking notes. He would say something and she would nod, looking very, very interested, like he had just said the most interesting thing in the whole wide world. So interesting, in fact, that she wanted to make note of it. Write it down.

Was Sean really that interesting? Were the things he said actually that special? Miss Kinderman always made him feel special. The things he said were noteworthy, she explained.

He liked feeling special. He wanted to make Miss Kinderman think he was important. If he could just keep saying interesting things, noteworthy things, he might feel special forever.

Sean had something to say. Something noteworthy.

Now people wanted to hear.

Listen to him.

First, he’d told his mom. Then she made him tell the police. Then another type of police officer who didn’t have to wear a blue uniform. He still had a police badge, but he kept his in his pocket, hidden away from everyone. That officer had a lot of questions for Sean.

The more people Sean talked to, repeating what he’d said to his mother—or what he thought he remembered saying, it was getting harder to recollect exactly what he’d told her—the more other people wanted to hear him say it. Repeat it. Tell us again what happened…

These adults made Sean feel like he had something special to share. Just like the teachings of Jesus, Miss Betty had said. When he spoke, the world stopped. Everybody listened.

This was the first time Sean had ever