Chapter 6
Edmonds Air Force Base is basically a town with a high-security perimeter. And lots of planes. About twenty thousand people live here—service members and their families. A few hundred of those people go to Edmonds High School right here on the base. That’s where Gabby and I are headed Thursday morning, the day after our trip to Sanford’s Folly. Mom and I live next door to Gabby’s family, so we’ve started biking to school together. But she might change her mind about that if I keep bringing up the curse.
“For the last time, Alex! There is no curse.”
“Look, I’m not coming at this from a superstitious angle, like Destiny. I’m just saying, there’s evidence. Stuff that doesn’t add up logically.”
“Losing your wallet doesn’t count as a supernatural event.”
“But doesn’t the curse involve bad luck?”
“Yeah.” Her tone could slice an apple in half. “Which is one step up from a curse that says you’re going to die someday. Pretty safe bet that people will have bad luck from time to time. I mean, sure, we had some bad luck last night. Ahmed almost missed prayer. You lost your wallet. Destiny hurt her arm. Oh, and I missed my usual phone call with my mom.”
Her mom’s a professor of film studies in California. Gabby’s parents divorced and her dad remarried when she was little. She told me that until her dad got stationed at Edmonds, she and her mom hadn’t lived in the same time zone for years. I know those weekly phone calls mean a lot to her. “Sorry,” I say.
She shrugs. “My point is, that’s not a curse. That’s life.”
“Shut up about the coyotes! These days, lots of animals are doing things they’ve never done before. Wandering into the middle of cities. Relaxing in hammocks in people’s backyards. Haven’t you seen Mooseland?”
I’m pretty sure that’s a movie only Gabby has seen. And I can tell this conversation is about to get useless. “Fine. I was just curious. Wondering how all the bad-luck rumors got started. Like, if what’s-his-name, the mega-star, died in a coyote attack, that would be good to know.”
“He died of lung cancer,” says Gabby acidly. “And yeah, he had plenty of bad luck in his life. But most of it was his own fault. Guy was a first-class son of a—”
A minivan blows past a stop sign right in front of us. We both slam our brakes. Gabby shouts some choice words at the driver.
“See?” I say. “What was that?”
“An idiot driver. Grow up.”
Time to change the subject. I don’t want to push too many of Gabby’s buttons. That’s how you lose friends. Especially friends you haven’t known very long. Which is every friend I’ve ever had.
So for the rest of the ride to school, I ask her about things she likes to talk about. New movies she’s planning to see. Ways her stepsisters have annoyed her lately. The summer program she’s applying to at Berkeley, where her mom works. I pretend to forget about the curse.
Until fourth period, which I have with Destiny. While I’m signing her new cast, she whispers, “I did more research on Sanford’s Folly last night. I found out some insane stuff.”
“Like what?”
“So, the people who worked there. Actors, directors, crew members. Every single one of them had terrible things happen to them. Sometimes during the shoot. And then afterward too. For the rest of their lives.” She flicks a stray curl out of her face. Her charm bracelet clinks. “The curse followed them around. Forever.”
I draw some squiggles on her cast with my marker. “Can you give me an example?”
“Okay, so there was this director. Martin Feeney. Made lots of famous movies, I guess, back in the day. Filmed a bunch of Westerns at Sanford’s Folly. The last one he did there, right before the shoot wrapped, he got shot.”
My marker freezes mid-squiggle. Didn’t see that coming.
Destiny nods. “Yeah. One of the actors brought a real, loaded gun on set. And who would’ve known? They were filming a Western. Plus it was, like, the sixties, so there probably weren’t many gun restrictions back then. Anyway, the actor just walks up Main Street, right in front of the mission, and shoots Feeney point blank.”
“Whoa. Why?”
She shrugs. “That’s up for debate. I guess the actor had a huge ego and a bad temper.”
“Did Feeney die?”
“No, the actor shot him in the shoulder. But Feeney never made another hit movie after that. Plus his wife left him. And he was in massive debt when he died.”
She raises her eyebrows like this settles the question.
“Well, that could all be coincidence . . .”
“That’s only one example.”
Before I can respond, our teacher snaps, “Alex, have you finished your art project on Destiny’s arm? Or should we wait for you a little longer?”
“Sorry,” I say. I dive back to my desk, which is right behind Destiny’s.
A minute later, as she’s passing a worksheet back to me, she whispers, “You want another example? Look up the actor who shot Feeney.”
“Who was it?”
“Earl Morrison.”
***
Fifth period. History. We’re at the school library, doing research for a project, and I’m way off track. I’ve been reading up on Earl Morrison.
Destiny’s right. His life is like a checklist of disasters. At least after 1961. Up to that point, he seemed to be living the dream. And even when he shot the director, Feeney didn’t press charges. But that seems to be the last stroke of good luck Morrison had.
His next film—the one he and Feeney had been finishing up—flopped. Morrison didn’t work with Feeney again, but the rest of his movies tanked too. His big affair with Simone DeVray went down in very public flames. Then he fell off a horse while doing a stunt. Paralyzed from the waist down. Instant retirement. Ran for governor of Arizona and lost. His secretary stole a ton of his money. His kids wanted nothing to do with him. And then the lung cancer capped it all off. The whole picture is pretty grim.
I reach the end of the article I’ve been skimming. An early publicity photo of Morrison fills half my computer screen. It’s a classic movie star close-up. Cowboy hat cocked to one side, cigarette clamped between his lips. Yeah, that cigarette would explain the lung cancer . . .
“Alex? How’s it going?” My history teacher, Ms. Ruiz, is getting suspicious.
I close the browser tab with the Morrison info. Now I’m back on the school library’s home page. “Still looking for reference books,” I tell Ms. Ruiz. Better make it convincing. I type something into the catalogue search bar. Sanford’s Folly.
I don’t really expect any results. But one book pops up.
The Atlas of Cursed Places.
What?
Ms. Ruiz is coming around to look at my screen. As fast as I can, I type Mexican-American War into the search bar. A new list of books appears. I get to work.
But I can’t stop thinking about The Atlas of Cursed Places.
That can’t possibly be a legit book.
Can it?