Free A Little Bit of Spectacular by Gin Phillips

that the school motto—or whatever it is—just happens to be part of the writing I’ve seen on the bathroom walls?”
    â€œIt’s only three words,” said Amelia. “Pretty common words, except for the Plantagenet part. But it’s still hard to believe it’s a coincidence.”
    I nodded. Hearing her say what I was thinking made the whole situation seem more manageable. More understandable. I’d gotten so used to having conversations by myself, inside my head, that I’d forgotten how helpful it could be to go over a problem with someone.
    â€œI think so, too,” I said. “I think someone connected with this school has been writing on the walls.”
    We were on the edge of the lot now, in the middle of a group of oak trees. The ground was bare, totally shaded by the branches so that grass obviously couldn’t grow underneath. The air was cold and crisp, and even in the middle of a city block, somehow it felt quiet and peaceful in the shade. I could hear traffic noise in the background, but I could also hear the rustling of the leaves in the wind.
    â€œSpeaking of writing . . . ,” said Amelia. She pointed at the tree closest to her. I could make out a smattering of names and initials carved in the wood. There were hearts with arrows through them. The tree was tattooed all over like an NBA player’s arm.
    â€œI guess this is what people did before they wrote on walls,” I said.
    â€œAnd when it wasn’t illegal to have a knife at school,” Amelia added.
    I walked to another tree, and there were plenty of carvings in it, too. It was hard to make most of them out—the knife marks were slowly being absorbed back into the wood. The letters looked like they’d been etched a long time ago, and they were fading just like ink did.
    I kept exploring until I got to the fifth or sixth tree, one so big that if Amelia and I stood on either side of it, we couldn’t have gotten our arms around it. I squinted to try to make out any letters. I could make out one here or there, and occasionally a word, but then I got to one section where the initials looked fresh. They were at least half an inch deep, as if they’d been carved yesterday.
    And the initials were inside a slightly crooked star.

    â€œI don’t know,” said Amelia, when I’d called her over. “A star? It’s not too hard to find a drawing of a star.”
    â€œYou think it’s a coincidence?” I asked. “‘
Our home is in the stars
?’”
    â€œYes, I do think it’s a coincidence. Otherwise, oh, the American flag might also be a clue. Or those little glow-in-the-dark designs you stick on your ceiling. Stars are everywhere.”
    I didn’t agree, but I didn’t have a good argument. I’d already circled all the other trees, and the rest of the carvings had been faded and shallow. Not like this sharp, clear star. I ran my fingertips over the wood, feeling each line of the star. The wood was rough, and sandy bits stuck to my fingers. When I raised my hands to my mouth to blow off the wood dust, my skin smelled like a forest.
    â€œIt’s the only new carving here,” I said.
    â€œRight,” said Amelia. “But it could have been done by anybody. I don’t mean to be rude, but you might be seeing what you want to see. You might want this too bad.”
    I wanted a lot of things.
    â€œMaybe,” I said.
    â€œIs this what you want most of all?” she asked, eyes sharp and focused. “Is this what you would wish for if you could wish for anything? To find out about Plantagenet?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think so.”
    â€œThen what is it? And don’t say coffee this time.”
    I frowned. Amelia could be a little repetitive sometimes. Frogs, frogs, frogs, frogs. Wishes, wishes, wishes.
    â€œWhy do you care?” I asked.
    â€œBecause I’m