The Grave in Grandma’s Garden: Chapter One

Author’s Note: I started this story on a whim when LMS began, but I decided to take a step back and plot out where I wanted things to go. A lot of this will be familiar ground, (especially the first couple chapters) but it diverges in some key places now that I know what’s actually happening, lol.

I’m sitting in a cold, bleak office. The blinds are shut, and the only sound is the buzzing of the fluorescent lights. I’m tracing the trajectory of an angry, hissing fly as it ricochets off the walls.

Principle Gerald watches me with his beady black eyes, which are quite like the bug sailing above his head. His face is beat red, and his oval glasses were made for a dormouse. I avoid his gaze.

Above him, framing his face like a halo, is a great big poster, the word RESPECT inscribed loudly across the top. Beneath it, the schools rules are meticulously listed. The font is really small, because otherwise, they wouldn’t be able to fit all the expectations.

I squint up at the poster. I don’t think necromancy is against school policy.

Principle Gerald clears his throat. With a great amount of trepidation, I meet his eyes.

I don’t entirely know what to expect. I’ve never been to the Principles Office before.

“I suppose I am just confused, Ms. Kimberly,” he says, massaging his temple, “how does a straight A student, with nothing but glowing remarks from your teachers, manage to cause so much chaos?”

Heat rises in my cheeks. I pick at my fingernails. “Well, I suppose it started with the frogs.”

His eyebrows raise a fraction, “The frogs?”

I nod, “The frogs.” I say sagely.

A beat passes. Somewhere outside the office, a bell rings. I slump my shoulders, I’m missing recess.

Mr. Gerald is getting impatient. He taps his foot. “Kimberly, would you care to elaborate?”

“Yes.” I mutter, but stubbornness won’t get me anywhere. I sigh dramatically and raise my chin with great determination.

I’ve done nothing wrong, ergo, I’ve nothing to fear.

“The frogs.” I say with renewed vigor. “It started with those.” A smile creeps up my face. As I talk, I buzz with excitement, “We’ve been learning about ecosystems and food webs in biology! It’s been lot’s of fun, but I’ve been really looking forward to something more hands on. I want to be a scientist!” I proclaim proudly.

Normally, when I say that, the grownups face lights up. They usually compliment me on my ambition, ask me questions, or tell me how smart I am. Mr. Gerald’s expression doesn’t shift in the slightest. I can’t help but deflate a little.

“Please, continue.”

Still disheartened, I oblige.

I tell him about how Mx. Archer announced our frog dissection project last week. We spent the last couple days preparing, going over safety procedures and all that. Our teacher doesn’t like to assign homework, but I begged my mom to take me to the library so we could check out a book on frogs.

“Did you know that when a frog catches it’s prey, it blinks to help with the digestion process? Also! A group of frogs is called an army!” I beam. Mr. Gerald doesn’t say anything, so I continue.

Mx. Archer put us into groups of four, since they only had so many frogs. I did almost all the work for my group. We had a huge packet, and I answered most of the questions. I don’t know how well I did, though, because I was mostly just excited to dissect a frog!

But then, when I actually saw the frogs, my belly did a weird wobbly thing. They set the tray down in front of us, and it dawned on me that they were dead, dead.

“Like, gone forever, dead.” I say, widening my eyes super big to better convey my point. “I’d spent all week learning how wonderful frogs were, and it made me really sad to think that they’d never return to their habitat, or catch a bug, or swim around ever again.”

Mr. Gerald scoffs, “How do you expect to be a scientist if you can’t even handle one dead frog?”

I shoot him the ugliest look I can manage, but he doesn’t notice. I huff, “I persevered. The frog dedicated its body to science, I’d be remiss if it was for naught!”

Mr. Gerald isn’t impressed. He rolls his eyes all the way to the back of his skull. “Gracious girl, please, stay focused.”

“I have half a mind to walk out of this room right now, actually,” I say, shocked at my own flagrance.

Mr. Gerald’s glare quells my disobedience, so I plow onward.

The frogs were in excellent condition, all things considering. I wanted to dig straight in, but Mx. Archer wanted to take us step by step. It was frustrating, but I supposed it did save me the headache of making a mistake.

One of my group members though, Gilbert, the loudest, most obnoxious boy in my class, wanted a turn dissecting the frog. I knew he’d make a mess of it, so I said no.

“But Mx. Archer said That’s not very nice!” I say, crossing my arms and leaning all the way back in my chair, so the legs were a couple inches off the ground. “Really, Sir Principle, Gilbert should be the one in here, not me.” It’s infuriating that he’s outside on the playground while I’m trapped in this drag of a room.

“Mr. Louis has come to the office his fair share of times, don’t you worry.” Mr. Gerald says.

I roll my eyes. Like that makes me feel any better about this whole situation.

“So anyway, against my better judgment, I let him have his turn dissecting the frog. He kept making dumb mistakes, and it was really starting to get on my nerves.”

“And is that when you punched him?”

I recoiled, “No! I didn’t punch him at all!” Mr. Gerald raises an eyebrow, and I frown, continuing my story now, in part, to spite him.

Class ended, and we had to clean everything up. I would’ve volunteered to take our frog back to the counter, but Gilbert beat me to it.

He dropped the tray on the floor and everything scattered everywhere, including the frog. A girl screamed, and everyone was skirting to the edge of the classrooms. Mx. Archer was quick to help though. I ran to grab paper towels.

Seeing the frog on the floor, all mangled and gross, made me really, really sad. Even more so than before. I wished I could’ve seen it while it was alive. I thought, that would’ve been cool.

“And then, boom, the frogs alive again.”

Mr. Gerald stares blankly, his face entirely slack. The silence grows awkward, so I keep talking.

“Not just that frog either,” I say, “All of them. They started ribbiting and hopping around the classroom. One of them landed in Gilberts hair.” I chuckle nervously, “It was pretty funny.”

Still, Mr. Gerald doesn’t say anything. It’s like someone’s put him on pause.

I’m about to call for help, because this man might have literally just died right in front of me, when the office doors kicked right off it’s hinges. I turn to see my mother framed against the doorway.

“Mom!” I cry, smiling and waving at her from my seat. Mr. Gerald blinks. Guess he’s alive after all.

I don’t look much like my mother. She’s tall and willowy, and the color of clay. Her long curly hair is tied into a bun on top of her head, and she’s still wearing her coat from the doctors clinic. Her glasses are pinned to her shirt. Around her wrist is the bracelet I made for her last Mother’s Day.

“Oh, Dear,” she says, running in and sweeping me into a hug. I feel hopeful for the first time since I entered this office. But right as I’m about to disentangle myself from the embrace, she whispers in my ear, “You didn’t tell him anything, did you? Promise me you didn’t tell him anything.”

Mr. Gerald’s hateful eyes lock onto mine, and I can pinpoint the moment my heart stops.