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

been listened to. Truly listened to. Before, nobody other than his mother and Mr. Woodhouse really cared about what he had to say. Now adults were asking him to tell them more. Now they were all ears. He’d never felt that kind of power before.

I haaaave the pooooower…

Sean just had to remember what to say.

Keep his story straight.

Now it was Miss Kinderman’s turn to listen. She was nice enough. She reminded Sean of his mom, only…sunnier. More smiles. He felt bad for thinking it, but it was true. His mom couldn’t keep still. Her eyes were looking more red. Bloodshot, that’s what it was. Her hair was a bit frizzier. The things that made his mother so beautiful, so special, were chipping away.

Not Miss Kinderman. Her hair curled into golden waves. It reminded Sean of a poster in his classroom at school. It was a photograph of a surfer barreling through a clear blue tunnel of water. At the bottom, it read hang one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine…ten! The poster was a counting game. A play on words.

Sean liked to play word games. Maybe that’s what this was all about. Just another game.

Looking at the waves that cascaded across Miss Kinderman’s temples, he couldn’t help but count to ten to himself. It was a force of habit. Whenever he saw waves, he automatically started ticking off in his head—One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

Miss Kinderman looked like she could’ve been the same age as Mom, but all adults looked old to him. Miss Kinderman wore makeup, though, in a way that made him realize she wanted people to know she was wearing makeup. Her skin shined. Glimmered, almost.

Their first interview had been a downright disaster. Even Sean knew that. It only lasted a few minutes before he broke down crying. Miss Kinderman had dressed up like a scarecrow. “I thought you might need a friend,” she’d said in this nasal, high-pitched voice. It didn’t sound real at all to him. “Everybody likes Cabbage Patch Kids…Do you like Cabbage Patch Kids?”

Sean didn’t know what to say. He only stared at this grown woman wearing a Halloween costume. Overalls and a wig made out of yarn. Talking in a funny voice. “Think of me as a pal!”

Miss Kinderman might have wanted to look like a Cabbage Patch Kid, but the dimples and stitchwork resembled a scarecrow. The expanded smile, her lips painted beyond their normal proportions, stretched across her cheeks, all the way to her ears. Sean had slipped into a crying fit that promptly ended their first session before it even started. No interview that day.

Miss Kinderman didn’t have to dress up in a costume to make Sean feel safe. All he needed was someone to listen. Miss Kinderman was always excited to hear what he had to say.

So why was Mr. Yucky here?

There was a large mirror that took up nearly the entire length of Miss Kinderman’s office. Sean gazed into his own reflection. He spotted the reflection of the puppets behind him.

Over his shoulder. Staring at him.

The room was beginning to make him feel scared.

Miss Kinderman slid her fingers into Mr. Yucky. Suddenly he gasped to life and smacked his lips, opening and closing his mouth until finally finding his voice. “Heya, Sean!” Mr. Yucky beamed. He sounded like Mickey Mouse with a head cold. “Whatcha thinking about?”

Miss Kinderman receded into the shadows. She wasn’t there anymore. Just Mr. Yucky now.

A boy. Sean could see him.

Sean and Mr. Yucky could tell each other anything. Everything, just like Miss Kinderman had suggested. But Mr. Yucky had no ears. How could he really listen to Sean? Mr. Yucky had the same funny way of always asking the same exact thing, just like the adults did, only in different ways, changing the words a little bit to make it sound new. But it wasn’t.

Tell me about Mr. Woodhouse…What was it like in Mr. Woodhouse’s class? What did Mr. Woodhouse do during naptime? What did Mr. Woodhouse say to you when he took you to the supply closet? Did Mr. Woodhouse bring any other teachers into class?

Woodhouse, Woodhouse, Woodhouse! How many ways could Sean answer the same thing? Bread crumb questions—that’s all this was. A game. Maybe Mr. Yucky and Sean were playing the same game he had played with his mother. If Mr. Yucky asked the same question, over and over again, that meant Sean had to figure out the right answer. Until he answered correctly, he’d be stuck in the same spot, unable to move on to the next round.

He just had to listen closely. Listen to the clues. The answers were there, somewhere, embedded within Mr. Yucky’s questions. It wasn’t easy. Sometimes the questions led to a dead end and Mr. Yucky would give up and move onto a different riddle. Sean always felt like he was letting him down in those moments. Like he’d failed. He didn’t like that feeling. Failing. Losing.

So he tried harder. Harder. As hard as he could. Winning was the best feeling. Mr. Yucky’s voice would lift even higher, saying, Great job, Sean! You’re doing great! So brave!

He did feel brave. Powerful. Mom would be so proud of him.

Just a game. A puzzle. It was all a matter of listening for the clues, the hidden meaning within the words, and answering back. Echoing. Hear whatever Mr. Yucky wanted Sean to say.

The game may have started with Sean and his mother, but now they were inviting others to join in on the fun. How many other people could he get to play along? A hundred?

A thousand?

A million?!

He suddenly thought of a song, that song from the commercial, singing it to himself—I’d like to teach the world to sing…in perfect harmony…I’d like to buy the world a Coke…and keep it company…

DAMNED IF YOU DON’T

 RICHARD: 2013

What do you think? she asked when I first moved in.

It’s great, I managed.

The standalone garage was built to