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expression grave. “I seen the lady who looks like Patience
only she’s dripping wet. And the other lady with the bloody neck.”
    Hazel angrily wondered who in
their right mind would tell Aaron about what happened to Patience’s grandmother
Lottie Mathers that violent night at The Winslow—a night Hazel had spent
five years trying hard to forget.
    Sean looked up at Hazel, clearly
struggling with how best to handle the situation. After she gave him a helpless
shrug, he stood and mussed Aaron’s hair. “It’s okay. I won’t let ’em get you. I
promise.”
    “Can you do that?” Aaron asked,
wide-eyed and hopeful.
    “Can I do that?” Sean mocked
disbelief that he would even ask. Then he reached into the back of the van and
came out holding a bear claw. “Let’s start with this. Ghosts hate pastries.”
    “I hate those too.” Aaron pouted.
“Nuts are gross and my stomach already feels yucky today.”
    “Now you’re choosey?” Sean brought
out another. “Apple fritter?”
    “Yeah! I like apple.” Aaron
snatched the pastry from Sean’s hand and darted away.
    “You’re welcome,” Sean called
after him. Then he shot an anxious glance at Hazel. “Now I’m really late.” He
rushed toward the driver’s door.
    After Hazel jumped back in too,
Sean started up the van and they headed down the drive. She watched the imposing
mansion recede in the side view mirror. Everyone perpetuated the notion that
The Winslow was haunted. Good for business because tourists love a good ghost
story. But having grown up in the hotel, Aaron had heard tales of ghosts in the
tower his entire life and had never seemed afraid of them before.
    “More weirdness,” Hazel muttered.
“Maybe the heat wave is making the whole town go strange.”

Rodeo Carnival
Prospect Park
    H er back to the fence, screams erupted behind
Hazel from inside the House of Horrors each time a car rounded the third bend
and the skeleton popped out of his grave. It had startled her the first time
she rode through, but not the second . . . or the seventh.
    From the ticket booth fifty feet
away, a carny barked, “Every ride’s an adventure!”
    Where are they? Hazel wondered, the sun scalding her scalp the longer she
waited. Her boss at the Crock had let her off early for the rodeo. It wasn’t
looking as though her friends were so lucky.
    Looking past the ticket booth to
the far side of Prospect Park, she watched two ranch hands complete
construction of the rodeo stage by draping red-white-and-blue bunting across
the front. Every summer the park was transformed into the rodeo grounds by
installing tents, fences, corral pipes, and aluminum bleachers. We’re going
to burn our asses on those seats , she thought.
    Calliope music started up from the
kiddie Go-Gator ride, apt accompaniment to Patience sashaying up. She wore
short shorts and a pink tank top, black hair waving halfway down her back, and
she pretended not to notice every male over the age of twelve ogling her.
    Hazel glanced down at herself, at
the cutoff jeans and loose t-shirt she’d thrown on without any consideration,
and yanked off the ponytail holder strangling her own long hair.
    “Let’s go in,” Patience greeted
her.
    “We have to wait for them,” Hazel
replied.
    “No we don’t.” She tugged at the
hem of Hazel’s t-shirt. “It’s more fun just us.”
    “We’re waiting.” Hazel searched
Patience’s porcelain doll face for any sign that she might have cracked. But no
shame marred her clear skin, no doubt clouded her thick-lashed eyes. Hazel had
to ask anyway: “Did you say anything to anybody?”
    “No!” Patience appeared taken
aback. “You told me not to so I won’t.”
    “I’m sorry,” Hazel murmured.
Patience was right: questioning her loyalty was an insult.
    Something behind Hazel caught Patience’s
eye. “They’re here,” she said, sounding disappointed.
    Hazel turned to see Sean and Tanner
approaching. Sean toted a brown paper sack just the right shape for