Read Online FINNED (The Merworld Water Wars) by Sutton Shields - Free Book Online
Authors: Sutton Shields
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that dang Snitch Demon date. Pavlov’s dog, I’m not. I’m glad you told me, Meeks.”
Still completely in her own world of mind dump, Polly said, “We could exchange bodily fluids, but not birthdays, or breast size, for that matter. My breast size is obviously of the jealous-causing kind. And I’d tell you when my birthday is, but I’d rather have you throw me a surprise party with cake and presents…and a tiara.”
“You really don’t get how monumentally screwed up you are, do you?” said Meikle. “You told me all about your birthday last year, along with some bonus details no one wanted to know.”
“Yes, but I haven’t told Marina. Meeks won’t share her birthday. Too cheery a day for her. She probably thinks presents and cake are evil.”
“Presents are evil. There’s always a price attached to them, and I don’t mean of the sticker variety. Cake, I like.”
“We don’t care, Meeks,” said Polly. “You know, Trey has disappeared before, usually to follow the scent of a lie. He always comes back.”
“According to the tea leaves, this time is different,” said Meikle.
“Tea leaves are a fool’s future-reading tool. Marina had the only reliable talent, but she chucked it away with her temper,” said Polly, throwing up her arms.
“Have either of you been to see his grandfather?” I asked, barely able to think.
Meikle and Polly looked at each other warily.
“Um, well, he’s—” started Polly.
“Completely batshi—”
“Meeks! That’s ridiculously rude. Even I’m not that insensitive. Surprisingly. We stopped by a few days ago. After five knocks, he finally answered the door. He smelled like a Sewer Drip Demon, and he had a shotgun hanging on his arm like a scary mercenary…an old, stinky, crazy mercenary,” said Polly.
“Y’all, he does have PTSD. Remember? Trey was really worried about him while we were in the institution. Apparently, it’s pretty bad,” I said.
“Pitsid?” asked Polly with a completely clueless look on her face.
I stared at her blankly before doing a little forehead dive into the table. “I can’t believe you said that,” I said, banging my head against the table.
“Not Pitsid! PTSD,” said Meikle, aghast. “Posttraumatic stress disorder. Trey’s grandfather was in the military. Ring a bell?”
“Not really, no,” said Polly airily.
“Just wow. Anyway, yeah, I think his PTSD is getting worse or something. His eyes kept darting back and forth, and he kept muttering, ‘They’re coming, get away,’” said Meikle dramatically.
“Who’s coming?” I asked.
“Dunno. He slammed the door on us and wouldn’t come back out,” said Polly, shrugging her shoulders.
“I think a visit with Trey’s grandfather is in order—today, after classes,” I said.
“Don’t forget to put a clothespin on your nose,” said Polly.
Preventing a worrywart-Mom-meltdown was critical, so I stopped by admissions after lunch to tell her about visiting Trey’s grandfather.
It took every ounce of patience I had to sit through the rest of my classes. The second I heard the foghorn bell after English, I bolted past Troy—who has been attempting to talk to me every afternoon since Halloween (attempts I happily ignore)—grabbed junk from my locker, and headed for Trey’s house.
Downtown Saxet Shores was aflutter with villagers roaming from doorways to ladders, hanging all sorts of merry decorations for the upcoming holiday season. Trey was right—everything looked so breathtakingly jolly.
Working to keep my emotions in check, I finally made it to 41 Valleta Lane. The old house looked weathered and abandoned. Large plywood sheets covered the front windows. Climbing the porch steps, I could hear movement coming from behind the front door.
“Mr. Campbell? I’m a friend of Trey’s from The Helena Hambourg House for Maladies. I was hoping we could talk,” I said after ringing the doorbell and receiving no answer. “Please, Mr. Campbell! He
Still completely in her own world of mind dump, Polly said, “We could exchange bodily fluids, but not birthdays, or breast size, for that matter. My breast size is obviously of the jealous-causing kind. And I’d tell you when my birthday is, but I’d rather have you throw me a surprise party with cake and presents…and a tiara.”
“You really don’t get how monumentally screwed up you are, do you?” said Meikle. “You told me all about your birthday last year, along with some bonus details no one wanted to know.”
“Yes, but I haven’t told Marina. Meeks won’t share her birthday. Too cheery a day for her. She probably thinks presents and cake are evil.”
“Presents are evil. There’s always a price attached to them, and I don’t mean of the sticker variety. Cake, I like.”
“We don’t care, Meeks,” said Polly. “You know, Trey has disappeared before, usually to follow the scent of a lie. He always comes back.”
“According to the tea leaves, this time is different,” said Meikle.
“Tea leaves are a fool’s future-reading tool. Marina had the only reliable talent, but she chucked it away with her temper,” said Polly, throwing up her arms.
“Have either of you been to see his grandfather?” I asked, barely able to think.
Meikle and Polly looked at each other warily.
“Um, well, he’s—” started Polly.
“Completely batshi—”
“Meeks! That’s ridiculously rude. Even I’m not that insensitive. Surprisingly. We stopped by a few days ago. After five knocks, he finally answered the door. He smelled like a Sewer Drip Demon, and he had a shotgun hanging on his arm like a scary mercenary…an old, stinky, crazy mercenary,” said Polly.
“Y’all, he does have PTSD. Remember? Trey was really worried about him while we were in the institution. Apparently, it’s pretty bad,” I said.
“Pitsid?” asked Polly with a completely clueless look on her face.
I stared at her blankly before doing a little forehead dive into the table. “I can’t believe you said that,” I said, banging my head against the table.
“Not Pitsid! PTSD,” said Meikle, aghast. “Posttraumatic stress disorder. Trey’s grandfather was in the military. Ring a bell?”
“Not really, no,” said Polly airily.
“Just wow. Anyway, yeah, I think his PTSD is getting worse or something. His eyes kept darting back and forth, and he kept muttering, ‘They’re coming, get away,’” said Meikle dramatically.
“Who’s coming?” I asked.
“Dunno. He slammed the door on us and wouldn’t come back out,” said Polly, shrugging her shoulders.
“I think a visit with Trey’s grandfather is in order—today, after classes,” I said.
“Don’t forget to put a clothespin on your nose,” said Polly.
Preventing a worrywart-Mom-meltdown was critical, so I stopped by admissions after lunch to tell her about visiting Trey’s grandfather.
It took every ounce of patience I had to sit through the rest of my classes. The second I heard the foghorn bell after English, I bolted past Troy—who has been attempting to talk to me every afternoon since Halloween (attempts I happily ignore)—grabbed junk from my locker, and headed for Trey’s house.
Downtown Saxet Shores was aflutter with villagers roaming from doorways to ladders, hanging all sorts of merry decorations for the upcoming holiday season. Trey was right—everything looked so breathtakingly jolly.
Working to keep my emotions in check, I finally made it to 41 Valleta Lane. The old house looked weathered and abandoned. Large plywood sheets covered the front windows. Climbing the porch steps, I could hear movement coming from behind the front door.
“Mr. Campbell? I’m a friend of Trey’s from The Helena Hambourg House for Maladies. I was hoping we could talk,” I said after ringing the doorbell and receiving no answer. “Please, Mr. Campbell! He
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