Bzzzz. “Ouch.” A loud thud filled the air. “That hurt.” It was Bobby, of course.
I shut off the computer and turned. Bobby stood near a workbench, staring down at the ground. Other kids at the same table giggled as they watched Bobby’s discomfort. Tools clinked, electric circuits buzzed, and robots whined in every corner of the classroom as future engineers worked on their projects. But, of course, Bobby stood out from the rest of the chaos. He was the only Techie with sparks crawling across his skin. A small metal sphere sat on the ground beside Bobby, shimmering glints of electricity dancing across the device’s metallic shell, then jumping to his foot.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Well, I . . . ouch!”
Some of the other kids laughed.
“I built a copy of your shocker-ball thing,” Bobby said. “I call mine the Tazer-bomb, but when I turned it on, it zapped me before it could deploy its barbs.” He nudged the baseball-sized sphere with his foot. It rolled across the ground, then four tiny barbs shot out of the sides, thin wire trailing from each. One of the barbs landed in Bobby’s sock, the sharp point finding his skin. Sparks of electricity sped across the wire like glistening spiders, the energetic creatures enveloping his foot and seeking tender flesh with electric fangs.
“OUCH! Not again.” Bobby jumped up and down, trying to dislodge the barb, but all it did was make the ball flail about, causing more barbs to stick into his sock. Sparks bounced off the edge of his shoes, and tiny puffs of smoke floated into the air like gray spirits coming to life from the burned portions of his Nikes.
I grabbed a rubber glove from a table, put it on, and carefully picked up the device. Turning it over, I flipped the switch on the bottom, deactivating it, then tossed the device to Bobby.
“What do I always tell you when you’re messing around with electricity?” Kneeling, I pulled the barbs from his sock.
“Ahhh . . . I don’t remember.” Bobby shrugged. “Don’t get electrocuted?”
Kids nearby chuckled.
I shook my head, then disconnected the lid and showed him the innards. “Always insulate your tech so you can control where the electricity goes.” Moving to a shelf, I grabbed a jar of red rubber paint and handed it to Bobby. “I made this. It’s rubber paint. When I built my shocker-ball, I coated the outside of the shell with it so I wouldn’t get shocked when I touched it; you should do the same with yours.”
Bobby unscrewed the top and looked in, confused.
I sighed. “When it dries, it’ll leave a layer of rubber. Electricity can’t go through rubber, so you’ll be protected when handling your device. Whenever I build electrical gadgets that might shock me, I ensure I have the rubber paint where I need it.”
“Good advice,” Bobby said. “Note to self: Don’t get shocked . . . it hurts.”
More laughter from their neighbors.
“You see that?” I pointed to what looked like a shirt made from tiny links of metal hanging from a hook on the wall. Lifting it off, I draped it over my body, the metal rings coated with the bright red rubber paint. Instantly, I felt like a knight getting ready for battle. “I made this during the school year and brought it with me to Camp. I started wearing this insulated chainmail when working with electrical devices that might shock me, just to be safe.”
Bobby reached out and touched the rubber-coated chainmail and nodded.
“You did a good job building your Tazer-bomb, Bobby,” I said. “Well, except for getting shocked by your own device. Maybe you should rethink that part.”
My friend smiled. “It’s not as good as the ones you built, but that’s not a big surprise. Your tech is always better than everyone else’s.”
CLANG . . . CLANG . . . CLANG. The ancient bell in the camp’s tower rang, echoing across the grounds.
“That’s the end of class,” Mr. Jameson said. “Everyone, clean up your workstation and put away your tools. Don’t forget about the lunar eclipse tomorrow night.”
Bobby took the shiny metal ball and put it in his bin next to my collection of shocker-balls and other electric gadgets, then headed for the door with me two steps behind.
Just outside, we found Elisa waiting for us.
“Ready for our prison sentence?” Bobby asked, stopping in the doorway.
Elisa and I both shrugged.
“I guess.” I stepped out of the air-conditioned tech building. Instantly, the New Orleans heat slammed me in the face, the humidity like a steamy, suffocating blanket. Sweat trickled down my face until the rivulets of moisture made it down my neck and soaked the edge of my purple robotics shirt.
Overhead, the late afternoon sky showed a crystalline blue tapestry stretching from horizon to horizon. A few puffy, white clouds clung to the sapphire canopy, the constant breeze trying to push them off the edge of the world. The pockmarked face of a full moon was just daring to peek up over the Louisiana landscape. To the west, the sun started its gentle caress of the horizon, making the sky blush with soft shades of orange.
We walked across the neatly cut grass, heading for the rear of the grounds. Here and there, bright yellow dandelion flowers poked their golden heads up out of the rolling sea of green, the threat of a hundred floating white seeds just a few weeks away. Curving around the back of the last building, we went straight toward the bright red barn situated on the edge of the lawn.
One of the enormous barn doors slowly opened as we approached. A tall, skinny man in jeans and a Camp Pontchartrain t-shirt emerged. He flung the door open the rest of the way, then opened the other, mopping sweat from his shiny scalp with a cloth. It was Mr. Wallace, the groundskeeper.
“You must be the rebellious youths,” he said. “I thought there were five of you.”
“Yep. Five’s the number.” Bobby held his hand out, each finger extended. “I figured the others would be here already and—”
“Here they come.” Mr. Wallace put away his handkerchief and pointed across the lawn. Leonard and Karl walked toward us, neither in a hurry.
I peered inside the barn. A large mirror hung on one of the doors, the wooden frame warped and cracked; it had been there for a long time.
A fleet of eight identical riding lawnmowers sat in a neat line on either side of the interior, a four-wheeler parked nearby. The forest-green machines dripped with water; Mr. Wallace had likely just hosed them down, keeping them clean and sparkling.
“Do you use all these mowers?” I asked.
“We don’t use them daily, but workers come in and take the mowers out on grass-cutting day.” The groundskeeper wiped at his forehead again. “Each person is assigned part of the grass to cut, and we get it done as fast as possible. We don’t want the noise of the mowers to interfere with any of the activities. That’s why we have so many. Cut the grass quick; that’s our motto.”
“That’s not a very good slogan,” Bobby said. “How about . . . umm . . . we slay the grass with our army of tanks, one blade at a time.”
“What?” Mr. Wallace stared at Bobby, confused.
“Ignore him,” I said. “Why don’t you mow that section?” I pointed to the far end of the field, a section overrun with tall grass and weeds, nature reclaiming the land. On one side of the unkempt area stood the Crypt, rusted metal bars covering the stone entrance. Opposite the marble building, fifty yards through snarled thistles and tall clumps of devil grass sat the entrance to a cave, more decaying bars covering the shadowy opening. Much of the metal fence across both had fallen to the ground years ago, time and rust demanding their price. Between the barn and the Crypt area, gentle hills of grass stretched across the school grounds. They reminded me of smooth mounds of mint ice cream, tiny yellow flowers dotting the green surface like candies; I was a little hungry.
“That’s the Crypt grounds. Not even me or my gardeners are allowed over there.” Mr. Wallace lowered his voice. “You didn’t hear this from me, but whenever I’ve been near that place, I feel like something’s watching me.”
“Watching?” Bobby leaned closer. “By whom?”
“Not who . . . but what.” Mr. Wallace lowered his voice to barely a whisper. “You’ve heard the rumors, right? Strange sounds and funny lights floating around.” He shook his head. “Sometimes, I wonder if the lights are the Le Feu Follets.”
“You mean Cajun Fairies?” Elisa asked.
Mr. Wallace nodded.
I shuddered as my mind created monsters hiding in the tall grass and clumps of weeds. The talk about monsters from Louisiana’s folklore made me nervous. What if the stories are real? I thought as I tried to push aside my fear. I didn’t do a very good job.
“Creole superstitions?” I wiped sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand as I tried to sound like none of this bothered me.
“Maybe superstitions, or maybe not,” Elisa said, her voice serious.
I shuddered again.
“That place over there gives me the creeps.” Mr. Wallace pointed to the stone wall and the overground area beyond. “I’m glad we don’t have to cut the grass and manage the weeds. It’s too spooky.”
“BOO!”
My friends and I jumped.
“Ha ha ha, look at all of you, a bunch of scared babies.” Karl laughed, a huge smile on his face. “You’d think you all saw a demon or somethin’.”
Leonard stepped away from Karl, shaking his head as he moved to my side.
I glanced up at him and felt small, as usual. Even Elisa stood taller than me.
“Don’t joke about demons, son.” Mr. Wallace glared at Karl. “There’ve been demons and other nasty creatures of the night skulking around the bayous of New Orleans since long before your great great great granddaddy was born.”
“The mirror, it keeps the demons away?” Bobby asked.
Elisa nodded.
“Ahh . . . you know your Creole history, do ya, boy?” Mr. Wallace asked.
Bobby shrugged and flashed the groundskeeper a smile.
“Demons and monsters of the night are extremely vain,” Mr. Wallace explained. “If they look into the mirror, they’ll get caught admiring themselves and can’t look away.” He patted the mirror as if it were a beloved family member. “This protects my barn and all my precious mowers from those mischievous gremlins.”
“Gremlins?” Karl laughed an angry laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s part of the Creole culture,” Elisa said in a low voice. “I heard the same stories from my great-grandfather.”
“Just a bunch of superstitious nonsense; that’s what I think.” Karl glared at the young girl, then stared at Bobby and me. “You’d have to be an idiot to believe all that nonsense.”
Elisa sunk her head low, her posture slumped.
Now it was Mr. Wallace’s turn to glare. “You need to show a little respect for other cultures, Mr. Baseball Player.” He stared into Karl’s eyes, waiting for him to look away.
Karl stared back for a moment, then lowered his gaze, the old man’s stern expression putting the baseball captain in his place.
Mr. Wallace turned to the others. “Now, it’s time to work. You’ll be pulling dandelions across the lawn. I have tools and gloves in the buckets over there.” He pointed to a line of five old, rusty buckets, then turned to Karl. “Make sure you return with a full bucket; slackers will get extra detention. Now, get to work.”
We picked up their pales and headed across the grounds, plucking yellow dandelions as we walked. But as I pulled weeds, I had the strange feeling something watched us, just like Mr. Wallace said. Those hidden eyes peering at us had evil intent; I could feel it in the back of my mind. Was it that little red creature I’d seen before, or maybe something bigger and meaner?
I shuddered as my imagination created a host of hidden monsters, all watching me from the tall grass near the Crypt. As Dr. Jen had taught me, I told myself those imaginary creatures were a lie, but still, I felt something watching. Whoever, or whatever it was, it scared me.
The buzzing started in my head.