The Haunted - Jessica Verday [119]
He smiled at me. “I know you would have, Abbey.” He thrust the cigar box at me. “Here.
Take it.”
“But I can’t. They’re your treasures.”
He held the box out even further. “I know. That’s why I want you to have them. They’re all I have left of my childhood, and it’s a piece of me that I want to give you.” Fear of rejection was written all over his face, and my heart almost broke for him. Taking the box, I put the coins back inside and cradled it gently. “Thank you, Caspian. I’m honored.” My words seemed to make him happy, and he beamed at me. It was contagious, and I smiled back. The warm sun beat down on our backs, and in that moment I knew there was no greater feeling in the whole word.
“Do you want to see my elementary school?” he asked, almost shyly.
“Absolutely.”
I tucked the box under my arm, and we climbed back up the embankment. He took me behind his old house and down several roads, until we came to a small red brick building. MAR-TINSBURG ELEMENTARY SCHOOL 1842 was carved above the front door.
Go Bulldogs! was painted in faded red and white letters along the side of the building.
“Home of the bulldogs, huh?” I asked, walking toward the school.
“Best basketball team since… okay, since never. The team here sucks.” I laughed and spotted a side door. “Should we try there? Do you think it’s open? What are the odds?”
“Not very good,” Caspian said, but he followed me to it.
I gave the silver metal push bar a slight tap, and the door swung right open.
We crossed the threshold and entered into the school. The hallways had that classic stale smell to them—papers, erasers, new sneakers, and old cafeteria food—and I wrinkled my nose. “I hope they air this place out before the new school year starts.” Caspian didn’t answer. He was too busy looking at rows of black-and-white class pictures hanging up in the hallway. Most of them were hidden behind dusty glass and faded wooden frames.
I turned to the pictures. “Are you here?” I tried to find him, searching for his hair, but the photographs were yellowed and grainy.
He put one finger on a frame, and I leaned in to see where he was pointing. Even with the washed-out coloring, I recognized the hair and eyes. “There you are,” I whispered. He had on a plaid shirt and brown pants, his eager smile showing a missing front tooth. “I was right. Adorable.”
He turned and gave me the same smile as in the picture, and I giggled. “I knew it. You’re still nine.”
Caspian nodded and ran his finger over the glass one more time. “Feels like a lifetime ago.” His voice was wistful, and then abruptly changed. “I have one more thing to show you.
Out back.”
We left the school, and he took me to where a small fenced-in playground stood. It was shabby, and obviously not very well taken care of. The peeling paint on the red-and-yellow monkey bars barely clung on, and the swing set had only two swings, both with cracked wooden seats. A small row of plank-wood bleachers had been set up in the corner of the playground, looking out at what passed for a baseball diamond.
Caspian led me there.
He bent down and looked under the first seat. “Down here.” I bent down too, and saw a mishmash of carved initials, just barely making out a CV. “You were here,” I said. “I see your initials.”
“I carved them on my first day of school. I saw some older kids doing it, and they lent me their pocket knife.”
“How old were you?” I asked.
“Six, I think. Old enough to want to make my mark on the world.” I ran my fingers over the CV, committing the feel of it to memory, and sat the cigar box down carefully. “It’s too bad we don’t have a knife now. I’d like to add my initials there too.
Maybe next time.”
“If there is a next time.” Caspian gazed at me with a serious expression, and the mood turned somber. I didn’t want things to stay that way, so I hollered, “Race you to the monkey