The Valley and the Flood by Rebecca Mahoney (i wanna iguana read aloud TXT) 📕

Unless this town isn’t enough to satisfy them. Unless we leave here, the two of us, and they just keep destroying.

I don’t want to understand them. I want Rudy to swallow them whole.

I should have told Christie Jones my mind is already made up. That it was a question of when we could get them off me, not if. But I think of the way she smiled at Rudy. And a little reluctantly, I slide her business card into my pocket, next to the mayor’s.

Stepping into the hallway, I face away from the double doors, deeper into the school. I’ve always loved abandoned buildings. It was the one reason I could put up with Gaby’s insatiable horror movie obsession—I liked looking at the sets. I liked putting those places back together in my mind, imagining what had been there before. Gaby thought I was missing the point, but she tolerated it.

It’s different to see an empty place that should be full. Like reality itself doesn’t quite fit together. Like this school is full, and I just can’t see it.

And I choose this moment, right now, to remember Felix’s words to Alex when he dropped me off. It’s okay. We’re not going inside.

The hairs on my arms stand up. I think it’s nerves, at first. But then I realize it’s getting colder. A harsh, artificial kind of cold, like central air on full blast. I don’t think the air is on; I don’t hear the telltale hum. The only sound is a soft kind of wheezing, hitching in and out, like the wind through a window somewhere.

I’m halfway around the corner before I realize what the sound is. It’s not the wind. It’s someone crying.

And before I think to turn back, I see that the tile under my feet has turned to carpet.

I look up. Ahead of me is a different hallway, dim and narrow. The long windows of the school are gone. I’m not in the school anymore. But I know exactly where I am.

A couple of feet away there’s a door, slightly open, nothing visible but a sliver of pale light. And beyond it, I can hear muffled sobs.

“Ohh boy,” I whisper.

Air rattles through the vents above me, and my skin prickles with a wave of goose bumps. I get the hint. I’m supposed to go in.

There’s no reason to be afraid, I remind myself. I know exactly what’s ahead.

“It’s actually back here,” someone calls from over my shoulder— a voice that doesn’t belong in this memory.

I whip around, and the bright and empty school hallway twirls back into place. In front of me, between two classrooms, is a heavy gray door labeled in all caps: BASEMENT. And standing directly next to it is my chaperone.

“Morning.” Cassie the prophet jingles a set of keys between her fingers. “Sleep well?”

Nine THIS IS A PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

THE BASEMENT DOOR opens with a little pop, as if we’ve punctured a seal, revealing a set of narrow, wooden steps.

Cassie lets out a low whistle. Even from a few feet behind her, I get a hint of cool, musty air. “We should throw a rock,” she says. “See when it hits the bottom. Got any rocks?”

“Sorry,” I say. “I’m fresh out.”

With a glance back at me, she finally notices I’m staring. “Something on your mind, Rose?”

“No.” Maybe. I drag in a breath. “You’re the sheriff’s trusted chaperone?”

Her eyes narrow. “I’m very trustworthy.”

“Does she have any staff above the age of eighteen?” I say. “Is this some kind of work-study thing?”

“I never thought of that. Do you think she’d give me college credit?” When I don’t smile, she sighs and lets her own drop. “Do your parents ever tell you ‘don’t drink, unless it’s in the house’?”

“My parents stopped at ‘don’t drink,’” I say.

“It’s not like we’re out there chasing down criminals, is the thing,” Cassie says. “Crime in Lotus Valley has held at a record low for the state of Nevada since Josephine Martin shoplifted three pairs of shoes five years ago. Ninety percent of the time, the city council meetings are about zoning and property lines and setting up the tent layout for Quiltfest.

“It’s just that sometimes Lotus Valley needs . . . a special kind of supervision. And why not bring in a couple civically minded young people to help with the legwork a couple of hours a week?”

She takes a breath. “That’s what Ms. Jones would say if you asked her. The truth is, she thinks we’re safer here, where she can keep an eye on us.”

“Safer?” I say.

“Some of us are a little bit stranger than most,” Cassie says. “And sometimes that means the neighbors . . . notice us a little bit more.”

An artificial chill skims my shoulders. But when I glance behind me, the hall is just the hall. No door standing slightly ajar. No muffled sobs.

I move toward the basement door. But midstep, I stop dead.

There’s a humming. Not a hum of central air like before. Someone—a very low-voiced someone, from somewhere very far down—is humming a tune.

“Do you hear that?” I say softly.

“Hm?” Cassie tilts her head toward the door, listening. Then she laughs. “Oh, that? Don’t worry. It’s always done that.”

Oh, well. I guess it’s fine, then.

My phone shudders in my pocket. Maybe it’s Sammy, practicing his composition homework again. Or Flora, because I didn’t text her back earlier today.

Somewhere down those stairs someone broadcast Gaby’s voice. In a couple of hours, I’ll be calling the mayor, finishing this. But this comes first.

We step through the doorway and make our way down, into the underbelly of Lotus Valley Elementary.

“It might not be that bad,” Cassie says.

“Hm?” I say, without looking at her.

“You know how you can go through your whole life afraid of a place and then find out there was no good reason all along?” Cassie says. “Happens to me all the time. Just last week I had to make a trip to my grandfather’s storage unit. That place’s