Free Spotted Dog Last Seen by Jessica Scott Kerrin Page B

trailed back to us, clumsily dropping his bin to the ground.
    â€œAs I was saying, pick a stone, a stone that is not cracked or weakened, and cut a piece of interfacing larger than the stone. Tape the interfacing dead center over the area you want to rub. Pick a color of crayon you like and peel off the paper covering the crayon. Then rub with the side of the crayon — not the tip! — against the interfacing, and watch the image appear. If you do this correctly, your rubbing will be an exact replica of the stone. When you get home, use an iron to set the crayon into the fabric. Then you’ll have an artifact that is suitable for framing.”
    I glanced at Merrilee, who was listening intently to Creelman’s every word. This kind of project was right up her alley.
    â€œWhen you say iron ,” Merrilee probed, “how exactly do you do that?”
    â€œPlace your rubbing face-up on your ironing board with an old towel over it. Then with a hot iron, press down on the towel. This will melt the rubbing beneath it into the interfacing fabric so that you have a permanent image.”
    Merrilee nodded along with Creelman’s instructions. I had never seen her look so fascinated, so eager. I was certain that her bedroom walls would soon be covered in spooky rubbings of every type of skull and crossbones imaginable.
    I wished she’d turn into a vampire and get it over with. What was she waiting for?
    Creelman seemed to pick up on Merrilee’s enthusiasm.
    â€œIf you ever want to do a rubbing at another cemetery, be sure to get permission first,” he added. “Not all cemeteries allow it.”
    We nodded.
    â€œThat’s it for now,” Creelman said. “Pick your gravestone and begin. And be careful. We don’t want to see any crayon wax on any gravestone. We’ll be back later to check your work.”
    The Brigade left without a backward glance, leaving us behind with our blue bins.
    I turned to face Pascal and Merrilee, but Merrilee was already off like a shot.
    â€œSo much to choose from,” Pascal said. “What do you think you’ll pick? One with an hourglass? An angel? A weeping willow?”
    â€œI think I’m going to look for one with an interesting epitaph,” I said, thinking back to my conversation with Creelman. “There’s bound to be something I like that’s been written in stone.”
    â€œOkay. Well, good luck,” Pascal said, and he wandered away with his bin.
    I picked up mine and headed in the opposite direction. I slowly made my way up and down the rows, reading the gravestones one by one.
    Rest in peace.
    Rest in peace.
    Rest in peace.
    The oldest ones were more of the same, so I made my way over to the north section, past the marbles. There I read some interesting epitaphs with more modern phrases. Then I came across a great one carved underneath the person’s date of birth and death. It read, Writer. End of Story .
    I set my bin down and opened the lid. I took my time and followed Creelman’s instructions exactly. I didn’t want to mess up, especially because he had lent me his book without a word.
    I carefully rubbed across the epitaph with a blue crayon and the letters came through boldly. The sun was warm on my back, the ground was drying out, and the grass was soft and bright green — signs of spring. When I was almost done, I stood to see where Merrilee and Pascal were working.
    Merrilee had remained in the oldest part of the cemetery, near poor Enoch’s plot where there were plenty of skulls and crossbones to choose from. No surprise there.
    Pascal had moved to the marble section of the cemetery, just before the first hedgerow.
    Except for an older couple who were visiting a gravestone a few rows ahead of me, I had the granite section to myself.
    I was just finishing up when the couple came over to see what I was doing. They looked to be the same age as my grandparents and were dressed as if