Something Exquisite, Monsters of North Oldham

By Misty Provencher

Alicia, a girl with alopecia, and Jonathan, a stutterer with Asperger's syndrome-- come together to solve a monster mystery that has an unexpected connection to the school's art program at Kentucky's North Oldham School.

A story of acceptance, intentions, and the monsters we can overcome. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Misty Provencher
• Release date: Mar 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781536572186

Misty Provencher

I'm a writer. Just looking to entertain you.

Book preview

1

Islump over my desk in art, head in my hands, my brain beating against my skull like a rabid squirrel trying to crack open a nut.

Everything alright, Alisha? Mrs. Hardy asks from the edge of my desk. I don’t know when she got there, but Mrs. Hardy has a way of always being where I need her, when I need her. We’ve been back for just over five weeks, but Mrs. Hardy has been my art teacher since 6th grade, and she’s so familiar, it never feels like I’ve been away from her during summer vacation.

Yes, ma’am, I say, dragging my head upright.

At first, I see stars from leaning on my eye sockets, but when the speckles clear, I see Mrs. Hardy. Her eyes and lips are both cutting hard to the right. So hard that her cheek is almost touching her ear.

Uh oh.

I know exactly what that expression means when it appears on my teacher’s face: something is wrong.

I reach up and run my hand down the back of my head. My hair’s fine. Then I look into the palm of my hand and see it. The dark, brown smudge of my eyebrow, streaked across my skin.

Mrs. Hardy jerks her head toward the hall passes hanging by the door. I get up and walk a straight shot to them, grabbing one and heading across the hall to the bathroom. Mrs. Hardy joins me a minute later, an eyebrow pencil and some setting powder discreetly hidden in her fist.

That was close, I say as she puts the small box of powder on the edge of the sink, next to the hall pass. She pops the cap off the eyeliner pencil. Thank you for catching it.

You know I always have your back, Alicia. She smiles and her voice is as cheerful as ever. She holds my chin with one hand and plucks the pencil across my brow, drawing tiny hash marks where my eyebrows should be. I can smell the fabric softener she uses—Downey with a pink cap, she told me once. It’s her perfume, and it’s my favorite. She stands back every so often to make sure both my sketched-on eyebrows are even, like she does for me every morning.

She has no idea how often she makes me want to cry.

Two years ago, my mom passed from cancer. It was four days before my twelfth birthday. My dad held it together, but I didn’t. My little brother, Riggs, was only five and he didn’t really understand what was happening. He was scared and attached himself to me like a barnacle on a ship. Wherever I went, Riggs was hanging onto the back of my shirt. He would climb in bed with me at night and whimper in his sleep. That broke my heart too.

I took Mom’s place with him.

That broke my heart most.

I hid it from Riggs as much as I could, but I still cried for two months straight and lost a bunch of weight. My dad bought me ice cream for dinner, cake, cookies, bags of potato chips, but I never felt like eating. I just missed Mom so much. And then, when it felt like I was splintering into pieces and it couldn’t possibly get any worse, all my hair fell out.

Riggs ran his hand over the pillow one morning and said all of my fur fell off. He was right. Hair on my head, my arms, my legs, my eyebrows…all of it. Everything, everywhere…gone.

My dad freaked out. He thought I had cancer like my mom did and took me to the doctor. But Doctor Trevor said I had a non-infectious disorder called Alopecia Areata, which was probably brought on by the stress of mom’s death. The doctor prescribed anti-depressants, but they made me feel blurry, like when there is boiling water on the stove in the winter and the windows get foggy. When I left a grilled cheese to burn on the stove top for the second time and nearly caught the kitchen on fire, my dad took me off the pills.

The doctor said that once the grief subsided, my hair would grow back.

I don’t think Doctor Trevor ever lost his mom.

The grief isn’t as sharp as it was before, but it’s still there, suffocating me sometimes, like a blanket fort that’s collapsed.

My hair hasn’t grown back and it’s been two years.

Butch Wells, the meanest kid I’ve ever known, (his real name is Elmer, which helps a little) insisted I had a disease and spread it around until everyone in school was convinced that being my friend would make their hair fall out too. No one wanted to come near me, even though the teachers called an assembly, without me there, and told everyone it wasn’t true. Butch’s friends (he’s popular because he’s too scary to be ignored) started called me Gru and Shrek and Alicia Alopecia.

That last one stuck for all of sixth grade, most of seventh, and still surfaces even now that we’re in eighth grade. At least most of the kids have finally accepted that I’m not a walking, communicable disease.

The nicknames come up at certain times, like when Brin Larson lost to me in our spelling bee championship, or when Shauna Smyth thought that Dakota Holford (who she said she was dating, even though he doesn’t seem to know about it) lent me a pencil in math class. Oh yeah, and I still hear Alicia Alopecia sometimes if I don’t let people cut in front of me in the lunch line. If a teacher catches them saying it, they always say they were just kidding.

My parents could have named me anything in the world—something pretty like my best friends’ names, Lila and Sarah Kate, but I would even take something not as pretty, like Gertrude or Helga.

But, no, they had to pick the one name that rhymes with my disease.

I hate myself for being bitter about it, because my name is the one thing my mom gave me that I will always have.

When Mrs. Hardy is done with my brows, I rub my temple to ease my headache, but it doesn’t help.

Don’t smear my shadow mass! Mrs. Hardy laughs.

That’s art teacher humor. We were studying the shading technique last week, like a reverse relief drawing—making pictures using only the shading to create the subject.

I try to laugh at her joke, but it makes me wince. I put a hand to my temple, hoping to stop the throb in my head, but it doesn’t help. Mrs. Hardy’s brows steeple almost as high as Louisville’s Cathedral of the Assumption.

Another headache? she asks.

I nod. She thinks all my headaches are caused by my wig grip being too tight, or because the alopecia compromises my immune system, but that’s not always the case. This one is because of the school shut-down that stretched over the last three days and I can’t tell her that. Both North Oldham Middle and the high school are connected , so they were both shut down for an electrical problem that caused a huge blackout.

I can’t tell Mrs. Hardy that the shut-down caused my headache. I don’t want her questioning why I was up so late doing a gob of chores because then she would know how much I’m left alone to watch my little brother. I watch Live PD on TV. I know that kids left home by themselves too much can get tossed into foster homes. My dad works about seventy hours a week just to keep us going.

I’m not going to let my dad down. I’m not going to let anyone rip apart what’s left of our family.

To be fair, the headache is my fault. I spent all day streaming YouTube videos of baby goats instead of getting everything done that my dad asked me to do. I left all the chores until yesterday night, and then everything took me until three in the morning to finish.

That’s why I woke up with the headache.

Mrs. Hardy gives me a reassuring grin. Go on and take the hall pass down to the office and see if Nurse Mindy has any more aspirin left in the bottle your dad sent, alright?

I nod again.

Be sure to hurry back, she says, wrapping her arm around me and gives me a side-and-shoulder squeezy hug. A you-can-do-it-slugger kind of hug that infuses me with a tiny burst of her energy. "We’re doing a scumble technique today with watercolors! Once we’ve mastered the technique, we’re going to use it to create larger pieces. Her eyes light up as she explains it. I think this is why our art program is so popular. Mrs. Hardy’s passion is so immense, it slops over her edges and onto all of us. We’re going to layer mediums too--like the water-bleeding tissue, the new malachite glitter, and the India inks! Whatever you guys feel like! Doesn’t it sound like fun? I think you’re really going to like this technique!"

My headache immediately feels a little better, but if I’m going to do art, I want it gone all the way. I take the hall pass off the edge of the sink and head down to the office.

Dr. Smith, our principal, is speaking with the school electrician, Mr. Jeremy, when I open the office door. With all the blackouts lately, Mr. Jeremy’s been around a lot. They scoot out of my way and Dr. Smith tips his chin to acknowledge me, but otherwise, they return to their conversation as if I’m not there.

What do you need, honey? Mrs. Lancaster greets me from behind the office front desk.

She’s what my dad calls down home. Mrs. Lancaster always bringing treats like bags of Modjeska, johnny cakes, and fried pies to share with the other office ladies, and her ‘bless your heart’s aren’t just used when she’s really upset with someone. She uses them when she’s really proud of people too.

Mrs. Lancaster adjusts her electric-blue glasses, which are too small for her face, and she sticks the pen she was using into the bun on top of her head. There are about five pens and pencils in there already. She’s like a living cartoon, and the nicest office lady I know.

I have another headache, I say. She’s used to hearing that from me. She doesn’t even bother reviewing the consent form my dad signed anymore. Mrs. Lancaster says she’s about as familiar with my file as she is of her own birthday. Mrs. Hardy sent me down for aspirin.

Let me see if Nurse Mindy has any left in your bottle. Mrs. Lancaster adjusts her glasses again before getting out of her chair and disappearing into the nurse’s room behind her desk. Students call the nurse’s room The Cootie Cupboard, but nobody would ever admit it to the office ladies.

I grip my head. I hope there are pills left. Otherwise, I’m going to die.

If it’s not electrical, then what do you believe caused it? Dr. Smith switches his weight from one leg to the other, a hand on his hip.

Mr. Jeremy shrugs. No idea. I can’t make sense of it. No breakers were tripped and the circuit panel looks good. It’s the strangest thing I’ve ever seen.

Dr. Smith glimpses me with a wince, as if Mr. Jeremy is saying something he shouldn’t, but I can’t figure out what that would be, since he hasn’t said much of anything. Just that he can’t find any problems with the electrical system. Big deal.

Could there be an isolated issue? Dr. Smith presses on, pinching his temple with two fingers. Maybe a short somewhere? A mouse chewed through a wire, or something like that?

Possibly, Mr. Jeremy says, but if there is something, I sure couldn’t find it. Everything seems to be working perfectly now. The blackout is a head scratcher for sure. That thing—

Yes, yes, Dr. Smith says tightly, slicing his hand through the air. "You mean, the blackout."

"Yes, the blackout in the eighth grade hallway…" Mr. Jeremy nods, glancing at me.

That’s super weird. I don’t know what thing they’re making such a big deal about, but their discussion seems kind of silly. Everybody knows there was a blackout. The entire high school and middle school was closed for three days, so I’m not sure why they’re acting like they’re FBI agents.

Maybe it’s the thing they mentioned. Rats or bats in the school would probably panic more than a few people, so maybe that’s the thing they’re trying to keep so quiet.

I also checked the pole outside and everything looks good, Mr. Jeremy says.

Dr. Smith lets out a low sigh. Alright, well, thank you for the report.

Mrs. Lancaster comes back with a couple of aspirin and a paper cone filled with water. She hands it to me as Mr. Jeremy carries his tool box out the door.

Any luck? Mrs. Lancaster asks Dr. Smith.

He shakes his head, flashing a smile at me as I gulp the medicine. Just a glitch, Tracy. Nothing to worry about.

I can tell he said that for me. I’d have to be a kindergartener to have missed it, but I have no idea why he’s being so weird. It’s hard to care a whole lot anyway, since it feels like the top of my skull feels is about to blow off.

Dr. Smith leaves the office and Mrs. Lancaster takes my emptied cone.

It was fun having a few days off, wasn’t it, Alicia? she chirps.

I just grin as well as I can. I mean, what am I going to say? No? Every other kid in school drools over unscheduled days off, but for me, it just means a ton of stuff to get done at home. Piles of laundry, stacks of dishes, cleaning out moldy containers from the fridge that used to hold leftovers and then, homework. That’s not a treat to me.

School days are the ones when I can relax. Especially art class. Mrs. Hardy never tells me there is dinner to cook, or clothes to fold, or something that needs to be cleaned. Nope. Instead, she always looks over my shoulder and tells me how talented I am. She compliments my cheekbones and she tells me I’m smart enough to get scholarships and go to college.

The bell rings and Mrs. Lancaster jumps in her chair. That one sure snuck up on me! she says. You should get going, Alicia. You don’t want to be tardy for your next class!

I nod and am about to leave the office as Butch Wells opens the office door.

My mom said she dropped off my English folder, he says. He shoots me a smug grin, his butt holding open the door, so I can’t really scoot past him to class.

The problem with Butch is that he hates me, although I don’t know why. It’s not like I ever did anything to him, but ever since I lost my hair, it’s like he goes out of his way to make fun of me. Then again, he’s awful to just about everybody. It’s like somebody pours gasoline on his cereal every morning.

Go ahead and get to class, Alicia, Mrs. Lancaster says again, but I don’t want to walk past Butch. He got detention last week for yanking my hair off in the lunchroom and that’s not the first time he’s gotten caught. He likes to snatch my wig and pretend it’s an animal that is trying to bite him. It gets a lot of laughs and Butch doesn’t care about detentions.

Detention is almost an extra curricular to him.

Butch puts his hand in the air, sailing it over my head.

I can hardly believe it. He’s crazy to attempt a wig-snatch right