Free The Stone Child by Dan Poblocki Page B

what it meant.
Olmsteady: one who reads Olmstead
.
    “Are you obsessed or something?” She kicked at the stoop with her black boot.
    “I wouldn’t say obsessed. I just like to read,” said Eddie. “Don’t you?”
    “No. I hate it. But
television
is totally cool.” Eddie didn’t know what to say. Then Maggie smiled at him. “I’m kidding. I do read. Books about biology and science and cool stuff like that,” she said, clearing her throat. “I think those books are terrible, by the way.” She pointed at the book in his lap. “Nathaniel Olmstead’s.”
    “Oh,” said Eddie, a little bit hurt. “That’s too bad. I really love them. They’re exciting. Good versus evil. Battling it out. I like being scared. The books make me happy.”
    “I like science,” she said. “There is no good and no evil. There’s fact versus fiction. And it doesn’t matter who wins. The truth is the truth. … Epic tales of good and evil are so unnecessary, you know? Those kinds of battles are fought every single day, right here.” Maggie slowly extended her index finger and pointed it at Eddie’s forehead, like a gun. “Kapow.”
    Eddie laughed and quickly moved out of her line of fire.
    “I’m Maggie, by the way.”
    “I know,” said Eddie. “I mean … I’m Eddie. Nice to meet you.”
    Maggie smiled. “See you around, Eddie,” she said, blowing on her trigger finger as she slinked away. Eddie realized he was staring when he felt someone breathing in his ear.
    “She’s way too mature for someone like you, dude.” It was Harris. “I’ve seen your pits in gym class. They’re totally bald.”
    “So are yours,” said Eddie. He knew his face was bright red.
    Smacking Eddie in the arm, Harris said, “You totally have a crush on her.”
    “No, I don’t. I just …”
    “She’s a real witch,” Harris whispered. “Be careful. She probably put a spell on you. You might fall in love with her and have little witch babies.” Then he started kissing his own hand in a really gross way. Eddie blushed, but Harris looked so ridiculous, he couldn’t stop himself from laughing.
    Eventually, Harris stopped kissing himself and said, “Mrs. Dunkleman is such a dummy. She made me stay late because I said her skirt looked like a sheep.”
    “Why’d you say that?”
    “Because it did,” said Harris, heading toward the bike rack. “Come on, it gets dark early in Gatesweed at this time of year. Let’s go to my house. If we can’t crack the code today, then at least I’m totally going to kick your butt playing The Wraith Wars on my computer.”
    Eddie took his finger from
Whispers in the Gingerwich House
and dog-eared the page where he’d stopped reading. The chapter title caught his eye. Chapter Eleven: “The Place Where Stories Are Told.” Why did that look so familiar?
    When Eddie didn’t follow him, Harris called over his shoulder, “Oh, come on … don’t be a sore loser before we’ve even started playing the game!”
    Eddie waved him quiet. He stared at the book. He didn’t want to lose his thought.
    “What’s wrong?” said Harris.
    Finally, Eddie blinked and looked at Harris again. “Have you heard this before?” he said, then read from the page, “‘The Place Where Stories Are Told.’”
    Harris stood next to the bike rack. He squinted and looked confused. “Well … yeah. ‘The Place Where Stories Are Told’ … It’s the phrase that’s carved into the stone near the roof of the library. In the middle of town.”
    Eddie thought about his English class and how Maggie accused him of believing in monsters.
So basically, you’re saying that monsters are real?
she’d asked him. Slowly, he began to nod. “Are these words carved into the library because Nathaniel Olmstead wrote them? Or did Nathaniel Olmstead write them because he saw them carved into the stone?”
    “I don’t know,” said Harris. “What do you mean?” He stood over his bike, undoing the chain lock, looking at Eddie as if he