The Strangest Thing Happened on Halloween

According to my fifth grade journal, my three favorite books that year were Just As Long As We're Together, The Search for Grissi, and Sister of the Quints. You see, I was into realistic fiction. Don't get me wrong, I enjoyed a good yarn about dolls reenacting murders or a ghost who turned roses to mush while helping to uncover some hidden savings bonds as much as the next gal, but horror? Suspense? Mystery? I wouldn't say they were "my thing." So when we had a class assignment to write a Halloween story, I tried to come up with something I could actually imagine taking place. The result: The Strangest Thing Happened on Halloween.

Maybe I should have defined strange, because if we're being honest, stranger things have definitely happened on Halloween. Stranger things might even be happening to you, like, right this very second. Cleaning out my refrigerator? Possibly stranger that what happens in this story.

Okay. Now that your expectations have been sufficiently lowered, proceed.

The Strangest Thing Happened on HALLOWEEN...

This book is dedicated to Katie, who thought up the name, "rat zoid"

Okay, let me start my story. My name is Carol. All of this started when I had my Halloween sleepover...

(First, let me tell you I invited: My best friend, Tina, plus: Janey, Melissa, Ginger, and Tracy.)

It's worth noting that each girl's name is penciled in a different handwriting. Melissa cops the obligatory Stacy McGill, but it's Tracy who takes it to the next level. Her T looks like it was crafted out of cotton candy, and the Y is so curlicued that it resembles a snail shell more than a letter.

They all came.

The first thing we did was eat. We ate: pepperoni and sausage pizzas from "Little Caesars," 1 liter of Minute Maid orange pop, 1 liter of Coke, and ice cream for dessert.

Apparently none of them know how to make their own dip. Amateurs.

Then we changed into our pajamas (which was mostly shirts). We set up the sleeping bags. I popped "Beetlejuice" into the VCR.

Let me clarify this "mostly shirts" thing. Because there will be no pillow fights leading to preteen make-out sessions here. In 1989, it was perfectly acceptable to wear just a shirt to a sleepover. That's because the shirt would be approximately 25 sizes too large for you and come down past your knees. My best (read: hugest) one was purchased at Cedar Point, after my sister and I had been soaked to the frigging bone on the Log Ride and desperately needed a wardrobe change. So, technically, grossly oversized shirts were not just for sleepovers. They could, in a pinch, be worn around amusement parks.

Halfway through, my big brother, Rob (he's in high school) came down and insisted that after we watched the second movie (Psycho III) to come up to his room.

After Beetlejuice, we couldn't stop exclaiming over what we liked best. The special effects were so neat!

Neat!

I excused myself to make some popcorn. I came back soon, carrying a huge bowl of buttered, salted popcorn.

Where were they? The girls had disappeared!

"I VANT TO SUCK YOUR BLOOD!" cried Ginger, cackling. The other girls followed her lead.

I turned around quickly. They had come out of thin air. NO KIDDING!

I screamed. I didn't mean to, I just did. It was like some demon... "I'm posessed!" I shrieked.

By that time Tracy had had it. She fell on the floor. She was crying. WAIT A SECOND! She was laughing so hard she was crying!

"Oh, come on, Carol, can't you take a joke!" exclaimed Tina. She trying to ignore hysterical Tracy.

"Oh, get off it, Tracy!" snapped Melissa. "Grow up!" Tracy immediately stopped.

"Boy." I heard her mutter.

Well, I don't care if they dot their i's with hearts or not, Tina and Melissa seem like a-holes.

Obviously, Janey had to [I believe she'd "had it too"] because she said, or she cleared her throat and said, "Let's watch Psycho III." She rolled her eyes at the same time.

So we did.

Melissa pouted because she couldn't eat the popcorn (braces). Janey refused to go to the bathroom without someone guarding the door. The bathroom scene had really freaked her out.

During the bathroom scene, someone is beheaded while, ahem, using the facilities. A screening of Psycho III pretty much guaranteed that at least one sleepover attendee would be afraid to pee for the rest of the night.

While Tracy guarded, the rest of us went into my room. Janey didn't know the vent in there led to the vent in the bathroom.

Really? The vent in the bathroom leads to her bedroom? That sounds awfully unfortunate for Carol. In my house, there was a vent in the living room that led to the basement, and this architectural boon figured prominently in many of our haunted houses. In my mind, vents were an obvious vessel for auditory terror.

"Oooweee!" moaned Melissa.

"Auuuiiiauuuuiii!" groaned Ginger.

"Ab Eb Eeb! Ab Eb Eeb!" cried Tina.

"Eeeeek! Eeek!" I shrieked.

I'm sorry, but Ab Eb Eeb? AB EB EEB? What is THAT?!

Janey freaked. She flushed the toilet, fumbled with the lock, and freed herself.

We confessed.

Janey cried.

After she was comforted we went to Rob's room. Where was Rob? Everybody was disappearing! The door creaked open...

And a squeaking bat flew into Melissa's face! She screamed. It flew into the hallway and out an open window.

Meanwhile, we all crept inside.

We'd only gone a few steps when my foot fell in something wet. I put my bare foot back into the hall; into the light.

I screamed. BLOOD! There was blood on my foot!

The first thing I thought was Rob. A bat. A puddle of blood on the floor. It all fit. The bat must've bitten Rob!

Then I remembered.

It was Halloween. I was having a sleepover. We had just watched a scary movie. I had a rat zoid for a big brother.

"A haunted house!" Ginger squealed with delight. "I can't wait!"

So we went back in.

My sister and I were WAY into haunted houses... as long as we were staging them ourselves. Did we like being scared? Mehhhh. But we loved to scare the crap out of others! Or, uh, try.

A Few Essential Items for Your Haunted House:

1) A well-placed vent (as discussed earlier).

2) Creepy sound effects. Our tape of Disney's Thrilling, Chilling Sounds of the Haunted House (surprisingly awesome and now available on iTunes!) was a favorite, although we did make our own tape at one point. Feel free to get creative.

3) Rubber bats. We usually had a few on hand.

4) Toys covered in blood. We liked to decapitate Barbies—plus remove all of their limbs—and then depict their wounds using red nail polish. (Warning: It turns out that nail polish is kinda difficult to remove, so your Barbies may forever after have a bit of a "bloody" look.)

We all shrieked while walking through the blood. Then things started happening. Things I can't explain.

Janey tripped over a dead body.

She freaked again. She fell on the floor, crying over and over, "I swear to god I stepped on a real hand!" But we had to go on. Rob would brag at school.

They were scared, but they had to keep going ON PRINCIPLE, guys. Also, "I swear to god I stepped on a real hand!" seems like an unwieldy phrase to repeat. I swear to god I stepped on a real hand! I swear to god I stepped on a real hand! I swear to god I stepped on a real hand!

A monster grabbed Tina. She shouted, "Get off, you idiot!"

While at the same time a huge something flew into Ginger and Tracy became entangled with a real live snake.

We freed ourselves and left, shouting unkind, unladylike things at Rob's room and at Rob, wherever he was.

"Jerk!"
"RAT ZOID!"
"I swear to god I stepped on a real hand!"
"Ab Eb Eeb!"

Well, we tried to forget the haunted house.

We ate, gossiped, played Truth or Dare, told ghost stories [yeah, that'll help you forget the haunted house all right], raided the refridgerator, told secrets, said nasty things about Rob, and etc. until 5.

But we still wonder what had happened.

Where had Rob been?

Were there spirits at my sleepover?

Were there demons running the haunted house?

Was it blood that stained Janey's P.J.'s?

Was the scratch on Tina from a real monster?

WILL WE EVER KNOW?

Um, do we really need to call Robert Stack in on this one?


Because my questions are more along the lines of:

Where were Rob and Carol's parents?

Do Rob and his friends really have nothing better to do than scare a bunch of 10-year-old girls by playing dead and throwing borrowed snakes around?

Is there such thing as remote-controlled bats?

WILL WE EVER KNOW?*

*Well, I don't have any final word on Rob and his reptile-renting habits, but I'm thrilled to report that the answer to the remote-controlled bat question is a resounding YES!

Carol, have you ever thought that maybe Rob just loves technology?

So I guess... kudos to Rob? I mean, that elaborate haunted house definitely put my vent wailing and quartered Barbies to shame. I just hope it was worth it, Rob. You do realize Janey had to buy a new enormous nightshirt, right? I hope you're proud of yourself.

My teacher's verdict? "Sada, this is WONDERFULLY written." And I got a check PLUS. Booyah!

NEXT TIME: Plan A: I really wanted to reminisce about my Halloween costumes of yore, but all of the Halloween pictures have gone MISSING from my parents' photo albums! So unless Robert Stack steps in to investigate this, I'll probably have to move on to Plan B: a continuation of The Sig Saga, including one of my (thankfully, unsent) letters to my elementary school crush. The shock! The horror! And—most of all—the embarrassment.

Leaving on a Jet Plane

I haven't had time to snark all of Lauren Lowsky, 100% babysitter, so I'm sneaking in a quickie first. This short story was an entry in my fifth grade school journal, and I thought it was totally eeeeeeerie and could definitely get me a gig writing for The Preteen Twilight Zone. (And yes, by that I mean Are You Afraid of the Dark? Or was that more like Tales from the Preteen Crypt? Discuss.)

3/14/89

Two Friends: The Story of Friendship

Once upon a summer day, two friends, Janet and Heather, were sitting in the grass.

"I don't want to move." Heather said stubbornly, crying

"I don't want you to either." said Janet, crying, too. "But you have to promise me we'll always be best friends, no matter what. If the end of the world comes, I'll still be there for you."

These five... er, six... words I swear to you. But awww, how sweet. If the end of the world comes, I'll totally be there for all of YOU GUYS! We'll hang out in my underground (or inner-tree) bunker and play MASH until we can play MASH no more. And maybe kiss some Chad Allen posters and choreograph a new routine to "I've Had the Time of My Life." We'll go out in a blaze of 1989 glory. If anyone can find nonperishable Cool Ranch Doritos, it is ON.

"I promise." said Heather.

"Here," said Janet, taking off her necklace. "I want you to have this." She handed it to Heather.

"Your shell necklace!" gasped Heather. "The one your mother gave you before she died. OH, I can't!"

It's nice how the girls are so helpful with the exposition! Also, if my mother were on her deathbed and bequeathed to me a SHELL NECKLACE, I might get rid of it too.

My mom died and all I got was this stupid shell necklace.

"Take it." said Janet.

"Here," said Heather, digging into her pocket. "I want you to have this."

"Your lucky stone! The one you found on the beach! Thank you!"

They both have special beach objects! You have goosebumps already, just admit it.

"Thank you!" cried Heather. And then she was gone.

In a puff of smoke? What happened? Did she just apparate? Is she moving to HOGWARTS?

7 years later, when the girls were 17, there was a plane crash. Only one girl was killed. Her name was Janet McCall. Heather cried for days after she heard. Janet had been coming to visit Heather. Heather had never worn the shell necklace, but now she took it out of it's case and put it on.

Like, just how ugly is that necklace? Seriously.

Two days after Janet was killed, there was a second plane crash. Only one person died. Her name was Heather Dobbins. She was going to her friend Janet McCall's funeral. So, then they were together again.

Woooo-oooooo-ooooooh! Wasn't it EERIE, with the exchange of oceanic items and the really implausible only-one-person-on-the-entire-plane-dying thing happening TWICE? You'll be up all night trying to make sense of it, I know.

So, what was the story of friendship? A few theories:

• Visiting your be-fri means risking your life. Even if she's already dead and you haven't seen her in seven years and you're just going to pay your respects to her family or whatever, you're pretty much taking your life into your hands.
  
• Wearing a fugly shell necklace might just cause your plane to crash. (That necklace is so cursed. I want a sequel.)
  
• If your friend moves away, forget her. You can give her your lucky stone, but you'll never see her alive again. But don't worry! You two can totally hang in the afterlife!
  

NEXT TIME: We'll finally be babysat by Lauren Lowsky.

Until then, since I know how much you like reading other peoples' diaries, you might want to check out this post on Jezebel. I'm not the only one who likes to embarrass myself on the Internets!

That's Me!

In fifth grade, we had a class assignment to write our autobiography. This should have been a piece of cake for me. I mean, I wrote at home all the time... FOR FUN. But? Those were stories about punk rock Valley girls! Runaway cult members! Girls who dressed up like hookers for Halloween and wired the insides of trees in their spare time! In other words, people with much more interesting lives than mine. What did I have to offer the world? Let's see...

In my first attempt, I took a straightforward approach:

I was born on June 24, 1977. It was dinnertime. I was named Sada Rose. Sada after Sada Thompson an actress on the T.V. show, FAMILY. Rose after my grandmother's maiden name. I was Halle and Charles's first child, their first little girl. I was born at home in Buffalo, New York.

Blah blah freakin' blah. Where was the DRAMA? The biker gangs? The secret passages? The Wheel of Fortune wins? I quickly jotted down the most important points to cover in my 11 years of existence:

Born
Genie born
Will born
Pets
Friends
Houses
Family
School
Fights
Vacations
Getting Hurt Badly
Interesting things

Could this work? Could I pull it off and transform myself into a fascinating protagonist?

Well, apparently not. Instead I decided to go in the complete opposite direction, by insisting to the reader that I was BORING AS ALL GET-OUT. Here's how I began Draft #2:

I HAVE A BORING LIFE

I HAVE A BORING LIFE
I HAVE A

My mother says I don't have a boring life. My grandmother says I don't have a boring life. My father says I don't have a boring life.

I HAVE A BORING LIFE.

As you can see, I was keeping expectations low. EXTREMELY LOW.

I was born, naturally, but that's boring. EVERYONE was born. I was born at home.

When I was a baby, I went to King's Island. I met ______________. But I don't remember. That's boring to me.

You know who the blank is? MUHAMMAD ALI! Totally not boring! When I was six months old, my mom and I happened upon him while flying out of NYC, and he not only held me, he even kissed me! And I cried. And my mom didn't take a single photo, a fact over which she should still be kicking herself. That could have MADE this autobiography.

When I was a baby, I went to the Virgin Islands. WOW. WHERE ARE THE VIRGIN ISLANDS?

Not only was I boring, I also lacked basic geography skills. Or looking-at-a-map skills. Or asking-my-parents skills.

But, man, I was onto something with this "boring" theme! It was time to set to work on the final draft. Here's what I turned in to my teacher (photos and all).

THAT'S ME!

This book is dedicated to:
my parents
because without their help I never
would have had this life

Bow chicka wow wow! On the other hand, that could be translated as "Without you two I never would have had such a BORING life!"

Since I think I have a boring life, the most exciting way to write this story would be to tell you everyone's suggestions...and things I remember.

SPOILER: That might, in fact, be the LEAST exciting way to write this story.


You guys, I loved this pile of dirt. LOVED IT. In fact, check out this other photo (not part of the book, but included here for your viewing enjoyment), where I'm all, "Holy God! This is the best pile of dirt EVER!":

DIRT RULES!

"I have a boring life." I exclaimed. I had just walked into my little brother's room. It was the week-end and the morning.

I was right! This is boring already!

My mom tried to be helpful. "When you were little you used to lay down and suck your fingers to go to sleep." she said.

And then there's a photo of... me sitting on a stoop with some disembodied legs?

The caption for this one reads "Me (notice the slippers)." I have no idea why. Of much greater interest is my MAINE POTATOES shirt, because my family calls me Sada Potato. For those of you who don't know me, that rhymes.

"What about me?" asked my little brother, Will. He won't be left out of a conversation.

"Well," said mom. "You used to call Josh:Dosh, Sada:Ada, and Genie:Nenie."

Will laughed into his pillow.

"And Genie used to call American Cheese: AMERICACHINO." added mom.

More hysterical laughter from Will.

I rolled my eyes.


My sister had a Groucho Marx mask that she bafflingly referred to as her "Philip Face." Here I model the mind-blowing Philip Face and peach leotard combo. Hipsters, you might want to be writing this down.

"I have a boring life." I said to my grandma.

"A BORING LIFE." cried Grandma. "I think you have one of the most exciting lives of any 11-year-old."

She went on to make suggestions:

Me wearing my Santa pajamas.

"You traveled to the Virgin Islands when you were a baby. How many people do you think have done that?" questioned Grandma.

"I don't remember." I said.

"You've seen your brother and sister being born." continued Grandma.

"I don't remember Genie." I told her. (Genie is my little sister, of course.)

My siblings and I were all born at home (a detail that I clearly had to leave out, lest I make this autobiography slightly interesting), and I was present at their births. But whatever. The miracle of life? BORING.

Me and dad on the boat, cruising the Carribean

I neglected to mention that we stayed on a houseboat in the Virgin Islands. I know, right? Being on a boat? TOTALLY BORING.

I remember stories my mom told me like the time I was in my crib.

I was supposed to be taking a nap. I saw our neighbor and I started to wave and call, "JULIE. JULIE." Then, I fell out of my crib and out of the window.

YES! Finally we get to some good stuff, i.e., Getting Hurt Badly by Falling Out of a Window! Well, except for this:

OOOOOOOOOOOOPPPPPPPPPPSSSSSSSS.....

My mom just came in and told me I fell out of the crib (I'd been leaning out of the window) and smacked my head really badly on the hardwood floor.

That was the end of the crib.

...And the end of this story, which was way better when I thought I fell out of the window. Falling on the floor? BORING!

Me doing "exercises"

Please note the Super '70s playpen and the sock monkeys strewn willy-nilly.

When I was little my feet used to point in so, I wore a brace (on my feet) that kept them out. My mom's friend, Maura says I used to walk around with it on my feet.

Me and the brace (I used to make that face all the time)

Yes, everyone, I was dropped on the head AND I was pigeon-toed. You want to make fun? Just try it! I know Muhammad Ali!

Well, back to Will's room.

I was asking my mom about when I was in the hospital.

"Well," she began. "You were yellow."

"Yellow?" I repeated.

"Yellow." she said.

The first photo in the infamous "Eating Sand" series...

"And," she continued. "We took you to the hospital. Your blood was different than mine. So, they poked and prodded you and gave you blood transfusions and all that." She went on and on and on and on and on..........

In other words: BORING! I mean, my body was just REJECTING MY BLOOD. No big whoop.

I could tell funny, interesting, exciting stories about my brother or sister.

BUT NOT ME.

So that's my boring life.

What do you think?

My teacher's comments?

Excellent! You did a wonderful job on this aubobiography Sada!

I am not kidding. It definitely says "aubobiography." Which probably explains a lot.

NEXT TIME: Fifth graders cannot keep their stinkin' traps shut in THE BIG SECRET.

The Ghost and the Cowgirl (Oh! Oww! Oww!)

You guys? I know. I am the mayor of Slackerville. The CEO of Slack, LLC. The... um... head of something else that involves slacking. But I'm back! Again! And I've brought with me Shorlock Homes the Cowgirl and Jenany and Jonhhy, the Children of Terrible Spellers. Do you forgive me? Maybe a little?

Guest author Michelle wrote these all-too-brief goodies when she was in second grade (circa 1998–1999). The first is a Halloween thriller... if by "thriller" you mean "barely-make-senser."

Halloween night part 1

"Aghhhhh! ghost!" cried Jenany is she ran downstairs. "Where!?" creied Mom, Dad, Kristy, and me.

Michelle says: I was a Babysitters Club nut when I was a little kid, and Kristy was my favorite character before I realized she was a bossy dictator who terrified me. Also, "Jenany" is supposed to be "Jenny."

"Upstairs!," she said. "let's get him!" we all creied!

End of part 3

Michelle says: I find it hilarious that I divided up such a short story into sections. And that I forgot what part I was doing so early on.

Sada says: I like that the parental response to a supernatural sighting by young Jenany is neither a) "Now, Jenany, you know ghosts aren't real..." nor b) "A ghost? Let's GET THE FRIG OUT OF HERE!" Nope, instead they're all, "Let's take that sucker DOWN!"

I think that's Jenany on the left.

Part 2

Whosh! the trees blew. It was not to sunny. We knew we could'nt bang into him.

Michelle says: Into whom? I'm assuming the ghost.

Sada says: Bang into him? Is he a ghost or a wall? Also, I thought vampires were the only weather-restricted supernatural beings, but I guess I stand corrected!

"There are no such things is ghosts" said brother Jonhhy."

Michelle says: Brother Jonhhy? Why is it that Kristy and Jenany, who I'm assuming are the unnamed protaganist's sisters, don't have "Sister" in front of their names? Or is Jonhhy a monk? Or am I reading too much into this?

"There is to and I saw him!"

Brother Johny lauhed so hard he fell and saw the ghost.

End of part 2

Sada says: Say what? Has Brother Jonhhy been sipping too much of the Trappist beer? Did he perhaps hit his head and then "see" said ghost? Or could this happen to anyone?! If so, be careful, gang! Excessive laughter COULD cause you to topple over and glimpse a specter!

Michelle says: Note that poor Johnny seems to have a new spelling of his name every time he's mentioned. Half of the words I repeat in this story are spelled differently the second time around.

Part 3

"Ehhhhhhh!" he creid. (Boo hoo).

Michelle says: Best scream ever.

"Help!" we all creied! Then frankinsein step on the dog.

Michelle says: Wait... Frankenstein stepped on the dog? If this had a semblance of coherency up until now, it was just shattered into a million pieces.

This is awful! I sreamed.

End of part 3.

Part 3

Michelle says: Because naming Part 4 "Part 4" is so overrated.

"TIRCK or Teat! smell my feet!"

It was Joey and the nebors!

THE END

Michelle says: Let me get this straight: Some random kid named Joey and the neighbors put this all together? I'd be pretty freaking pissed if I were Jenany and crew!

Sada says: I'm SO confused. So Joey and Frankenstein are in cahoots? With the ghost that can't be bumped into after sundown? And why did they drag the poor dog into it?

Seriously, can we review what just happened? Because it was basically this:

Jenany: Augh! GHOST!
Family: Where? We will kick that phantasm's ASS!
Friar Jonhhy: Dude. Everyone knows ghosts aren't real.
Jenany: Are too!
Friar Jonhhy: Ha ha ha ha ha ha--ouch. OMIGOD, a ghost! Ehhhhhhh!
Frankenstein: Hope you didn't like that dog.
Mystery narrator: This blows!
Joey and the nebors: TIRCK or Teat, bitches! You totally got punk'd!

Yeah, there are no answers here. However, one thing's for sure: If your name is Jenany, you should avoid the TIRCKS at all costs and stick to Joey and the nebors' Teats. (Ew?)

Next up is the story you've all been waiting for...

SHORLOCK HOMES

Michelle says: It should be said that I had no idea who Sherlock Holmes was, so I decided that he must be a cowgirl. Yes, a cowgirl. Don't ask me where I got that from.

Sada says: And if you're having trouble picturing that...

...it might look a little something like this.

Walking her horse through the desert, Shorlock Homes was carful, just in case if the robber, Jenson Leanes, jumped out and started a fight.

Michelle says: For some reason I thought a cowboy/cowgirl was a sheriff, and that outlaws just randomly attacked them.

She was very brave. All of a sudden there was a loud, paniked sream. It was Jenson Leanes! Her horse went up on his hind legs and ran as fast as he could. She got out her gun and started shooting. (Jenson was so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so, so mean!)

Sada says: That's pretty mean.

"Well, well, well. If Jenson gets shot everyone in the west would be safe, right?" She shot her in the face.

Michelle says: Wait! Isn't she supposed to arrest her or something? Dude, Shorlock Homes the Cowgirl totally just murdered someone!

Sada says: Do NOT mess with Shorlock Homes the Cowgirl. She will definitely find a way to justify shooting you in the face.

But the west wasn't safe yet. There was still Jakson Lenson. She traed to cacth her, but got hurt.

Michelle says: You can totally see here I was getting tired of writing this—one sentence after I introduced a new character. But poor Shorlock Homes, were her injuries fatal? Was she ever put on trial for shooting Jenson Leanes in the face? The world will never know.

That brings us to Michelle's final bit of guest author magic: a song (though, sadly, not about Shorlock Homes).

Michelle says: I have no idea to what tune it would go and it's painful to imagine ANYONE singing this. This lovely little ditty is called "Oh! Oww! Oww!"

Sada says: That sounds like something I'd sing after accidentally walking into my coffee table. Which happens much more frequently than I'd like to admit.

Oh! OWW! OWW!

I need ya, baby!

Something with you, my loooooooooove!

I love you darling, of course I doooooo!

Yaa!

Your cute!

I'll marry you!

Could yoooooou?

Would yoooooou?

You will?!

Oooh, baby!

Michelle says: This... requires no comment.

Sada says: Everyone, feel free to set this to music and serenade your significant other at the earliest possible occasion.

NEXT TIME: My autobiography, written at age 11. It's a page-scroller, all right.

By a Hair

Remember how I had a bit of an obsession with child sleuths? Well, guest author Heraa was on the opposite end of the spectrum. While I wanted to solve crimes, she dreamed of being the one committing them. Heraa wrote the following story—about a prepubescent burglar with shoddy hair accessories—in 2003, when she was in third grade. That's right, 2003! I'll let you do the math. It's never too soon to start making fun of yourself, people! In fact, Heraa even provided the snarky commentary (unless otherwise noted). So what are we waiting for? Let's get to the underage thieving!

Matilda smiled as she snuck in to another house on Market street. When would those people learn that locks couldn't keep her out?

Heraa says: See, I had secret ambitions of being a thief when I was younger, so most of my stories revolved around them. I never acted on the impulse.

The first room she found was a nursery. Nothing valuable there [human life—completely useless, duh]. Matilda found absoloutely [I nearly failed spelling. Only because I was a "good kid" my teacher let me do extra credit. In spelling. IN THIRD GRADE.] nothing in the second, third, and fourth [room, I'm guessing]. Then, finally, a locked room.

Heraa says: Because locked rooms = cash, in my mind.

Delicately, she plucked a booby pin from her hair. Matilda carefully bent it, but it snapped, reminding her she need to get a refund on them.

Heraa says: Jeez, this chick is CHEAP. A bobby pin? Couldn't spring for actual burglary tools?

Sada says: I don't know if "booby pin" was a third grade misspelling or 2009 typo, but I am finding it vastly amusing. ...Because apparently I am STILL in third grade. What would a booby pin look like? Maybe this:

Booby pin?

Um, or this:

Booby pin!

(Which I stole from this girl's Flickr page. I totally give booby pin credit where booby pin credit is due.)

Okay, now back to the thievery in progress:

Carefully pulling out another bobby pin, the theif failed to notice it was her last one before she would be left with only one.

Heraa says: Most awkwardly phrased sentence ever. Um, I think the word I was looking for was next-to-last.

Sada says: Free advice for Matilda: If discount booby, ahem, BOBBY pins are your only lock-picking device, I would suggest that you bring more than three with you. Heck, try a handful!

Indispensable tools for 9-year-old burglars.

Matilda wasn't having any luck with the door, as the doornob's lock was tiny.

Heraa says: And, you're using a BOBBY PIN.

As the pin in her hand broke, so did the last one in her hair.

Sada says: It broke while still in her hair? That is one cheapass bobby pin.

A mass of dark hair toppled down, and Matilda looked around wildly looking for something to hold up her hair.

Heraa says: This really was the extent of my knowledge of thieves. They MUST have something to hold up their hair, and they use bobby pins to break locks.

Sada says: They use bobby pins to break locks and to hold back their locks! Ba-dum-bum! But seriously, how can you concentrate on picking a lock with hair in your face? Impossible!

Meanwhile, one hair, the only one that got any hairspray that morning [wait, what? She only sprayed one hair?], made its way into the lock.

Heraa says: You're kidding, right? How does that happen?

As Matilda's face turned, so did the hair. And then - [I didn't...] The lock let out a sound [I did...] Matilda had wanted to hear for about an hour, it clicked.

Sada says: That's right, she picked a lock with her HAIR. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, MacGyver!

As the door swung, the girl felt her jaw drop lower and lower.

Heraa says: How low can a jaw drop? And did the door move on its own? So many questions. Don't worry, we don't get answers.

Sada says: Is it fair to assume that her magical strand of hairsprayed hair opened the door? If that sucker can unlock a door, surely it can push one open as well...

The room was filled with gold, jewels, and, to Matilda's delight, money.

Heraa says: Because gold and jewels are worth nothing without cold, hard cash.

As soon as she swiped everthing and headed home [wow, how did she carry all that?], Matilda smirked. Maybe she wouldn't get a refund on those pins after all.

Heraa says: Ohmigosh. I have never seen such a convoluted plot, ever. I think I actually beat the Sweet Valley High books. Let's recap:

1) This thief apparently breaks into houses a lot, and locks can't keep her out.

2) She's supposed to be my age at the time (nine).

3) She breaks into houses with a bobby pin. A cheaply made bobby pin that broke.

4) Matilda hairsprays ONE HAIR. And holds all of her hair up with bobby pins.

Sada says: Well, you're going to need bobby pins if you're applying hairspray to a SINGLE STRAND OF HAIR.

5) Her hairsprayed hair UNLOCKED a friggin' door that she was working on for an hour.

Sada says: She should really stop buying bobby pins at the Dollar Tree.

6) Houses on Market Street have gold, jewels, and money lying around in poorly locked rooms.

Good thing I never actually tried to steal anything—I would be relying on a hair.

NEXT TIME: Some slice-of-life tales from my fifth grade journal. And I mean that literally—someone actually loses a finger.

Detective Work

After reading books like Peggy Parish's Clues in the Woods, I too wanted to become a child sleuth. So in third grade, I started up my own (perhaps slightly unwelcome) detective business. The following are some case notes from my Detective Notebook. The same notebook was used to track the testicular destruction reaped by the USA Crushers, to record my friends' vital statistics for matchmaking purposes, and to keep track of homework assignments. All very top secret.

The first page is blank except for Detective written across the top.

The second page contains a drawing of a girl with two right hands who's about to perish of ennui, or—even more likely—be smothered to death by her own hair:


Page three finally brings us to our first case:

Decetive

I was so excited about my big case that I momentarily forgot how to spell detective!

Problem:
Indian Pencil

Someone's Cleveland Indians pencil had gone missing, and I was determined to find the criminal mastermind behind it!

Suspects:
Sherron ✓
Hesham ✓
Kami
Katie
Sig
Aja
Nathan

I believe the checkmarks denote Sherron and Hesham as my prime suspects.

Sherron liked it.
Had one
Sits near

Sherron is the theif
Witnesses: Aja

I remember we confronted Sherron about the pencil and forced her to give it back. Did I ever stop to think that there could possibly be two people with Indians pencils? Clearly not, because mystery solved! On to the next case!

Oh, except that page four features a lovely mountainous landscape:


On the fifth page, we're back in crime-solving business.

Detective
Jessica's slide for microscope is gone

Suspects:
Ty ✓
Ché ✓
Dena ✓
Ryan ✓

Holy crap! Everyone's a suspect!

Witnesses
None

Ryan kept looking at Jessica and the slide. Jessica looked at teacher. Had to take it? Why? Tell all rooms it is gone. Good Idea! Dena went to bin a few times.

Why would someone feel the need to steal a microscope slide? That's an excellent question—and one that never gets answered, as the final outcome was:

Found by Ty's seat in L.A. by Ché

Note how even though it's obvious that Jessica accidentally dropped the slide at some point during Language Arts, I'm still highly suspicious of both Ty and Ché. A detective can never let her guard down!

Page six is blank, but pages seven and eight contain "notes." Although I'm still slightly concerned with wrongdoing on page seven, by page eight the whole thing has disintegrated into gossip and catty remarks.

Notes

Shonda took chalk from Tacie's desk.

Aaron thinks his pink and blue markers have been stolen. Scissors too.

Ryan has Katie K's pencil.

Someone broke Latonya's pencil.

Jessica's slide is gone. p. 5

Sherron, Sarah B, and Casey are writing a story.

Ryan is always with Kami.

Dena is being nosey.

Mrs. Turner [our lunch monitor!] is nosey.

Nathan J. is always talking.

Matt should do his work.

It was only natural that all of this real-life investigative work would have an influence on my writing. I give you Exhibit A, the following short story written when I was in fourth grade. It boasts an unflagging commitment to realism not glimpsed in my other works. Unfortunately, it also means the story totally sucks.

Lisa's Adventure of the Missing Ballet Shoe

Note how it's deemed an "adventure," not a mystery. I would actually argue that it's neither, but I will concur that there is absolutely NO mystery involved here.

Hi! My name is Lisa Bartet. This is my story.....

The phone rang! I picked it. [Note: I'm assuming it should say "I picked it up," but it really does just say "I picked it."] "Hi."

"Hey, Lisa, it's me." It was Daphne.

"Hey, Daffy Duck!" I answered.

"Ha ha! You'll never believe what happened in ballet class. I lost my ballet shoe! I have to have it by tomorrow for my next class. Can our team find it? I mean I know we can find it. But by tomorrow... I'm not so sure!"

That's right, the big "mystery" surrounds a misplaced shoe. And it takes an entire team to track it down.

"Sure, Daf, we'll do it. Let's see, it's 3:00. O.K. I've got it. I'll meet you and the rest of the gang at your house in 15 minutes, O.K.?"

"Sure, Lisa. See ya! In 15 minutes!"

We met at Daf's house. We being: (Me) Lisa, Daphne, Janis, Cici, Patty, John, and Ted.

"O.K. guys, let's search the house!" said Janis.
"All right!" agreed Cici and Ted. (They are sister and brother) "I'm not so sure!" said Daf.
"Aw. Come on, Daf-knee!" urged Patty.
"Yeah. I mean just because it's your house doesn't mean we can't investigate!" cried John.
"Don't get any ideas!" shouted Daf.

She seems to think Ted and John are dying to rifle through her underpants.

We ended up looking around.

"Found IT!" called Janis. We rushed over.
"Oh! Why, it's the one I already have!" said Daf.

Shouldn't she have shown that to "the team" earlier so they'd know what they're looking for? Hacks.

"It's 4 o'clock." I said. "Let's check the 'Ballet Room!'"
"Yeah!" everyone agreed.

So, we went to the 'Ballet Room'.

"Is this it?" called Ted.
"No." replied Daf. "it's Jenny Sawyer's. My feet aren't that big!"
"Is THIS it?" called Patty in her oriental accent.

This story is not only devoid of mystery, it's also racist. Great!

Daf shook her head. "Looks more like the preschool class. 3 or 4 sizes too small!"
"What about this?" screamed John. "What about this?"
"Hmmm. Let's see." Daf tried it on. "Oui! I fits! It's mine!" Daf knows some french.

I seemed to think that my minimal knowledge of the French language might make up for how utterly anticlimactic this story is.

"I KNEW WE COULD SOLVE IT!" everyone yelled.

THE END

SOLVE it? If finding misplaced items of clothing is considered detective work, then slap a badge on me right now. Why just the other day, as I was folding my laundry, I noticed one sock was missing its match—and I returned to the laundry room to find it on the floor outside the dryer. Check me out, guys! I'm adventurous as fuck!

NEXT TIME: We'll travel to the Land of Lost Books, where all of my brilliant storylines that never came to fruition live.

Guest authors: On crafty horses and smelly brothers

As promised, more guest authors! First up is obie119, whose all-consuming horse obsession led her to turn a school assignment about Valentine's Day into horse-tastic historical fiction about a pair of globe-trotting animals.

Says obie119: This story of mine from second grade is very, very odd. And yes, I did indeed write “copyright Feb 1984” at the top. I was obsessed with horses so the subject of the story is not a surprise. In fact, 1984 was the year that my art teacher declared a moratorium on my drawing/painting/sculpting horses (no joke!). I will note that after the word “tornado,” I drew a little tornado right on the page. Allendale is where I grew up. I am assuming that our assignment was to write a story about Valentine’s Day.

Copyright Feb 1984 / My Valentine Horse / Creative Writing

My Valentine Horse's name was Hardy. And he always ate Valentine's Day candy. You know, I didn't own him. It's like this. In 1817, a man named Mr. Mean owned him except his name was It. And Mr. Mean lived in England.

Anyway, a jaguar named Jaggy was in a circus. He was trained, but he hated the climate. But a year later, in 1818, something happened. A small tornado came onto the circus, but Jaggy got away. Now Hardy made a can that could float. So Jaggy and Hardy went to South America. Jaggy held a sign that said: From Allendale, New Jersey. So they went to New Jersey. There were 18 storms! At Allendale, they found Jaggy's owner, and she liked Hardy. That was February 14, 1823, and with all the loving, it was Valentine's Day. The End.

I kind of feel like I need the CliffsNotes version of this! Let's attempt to review, shall we? It's like this: In 1817, Hardy, a horse with a penchant for Valentine's Day candy, is residing in England with Mr. Mean, but as Mr. Mean refers to him as "It" (MEAN!), that's clearly a crap living situation. So Hardy (somehow) hooks up with a rain-hating, circus-performing jaguar who—in the midst of the great tornado of 1818!—is able to escape from the circus.

Luckily for Jaggy, Hardy is like the Thomas fucking Jefferson of horses and invents a "floating can" in which the two set sail from Britain to South America. But Jaggy is so goddamn picky (what, he doesn't like the climate in South America either?), he will be satisfied with no location short of Allendale, NJ.

Getting there, however, takes five years—I'm assuming in part because of the 18 storms they encounter along the way. How exactly do they travel from South America to the Jerse, though? Jaggy's sign evokes visions of hitchhiking, but was it even possible to hitchhike in 1818? On a wagon? If you're a HORSE? I'm guessing that wouldn't really fly with the settlers, so maybe they walk (which would certainly explain the five-year timeline) or even bust out the ol' floating can again. Can you imagine being stuck out at sea in a can with a jaguar for five years, eating nothing but conversation hearts? Harrowing!

In any case, they eventually arrive in Allendale on February 14, 1823, and promptly find Jaggy's long-lost owner, and everyone is so freaking psyched that President Monroe (yeah, I just looked that up) has no choice but to create a national holiday of luuuuuv. (And candy, 'cause Hardy likes that shit.)

At some point Hardy comes to be owned by obie119 in 1984. That part I'm not so sure about unless Hardy is immortal. Which would be awesome!

Next up is BadKat, who has sent us an array of elementary school goodies. First, some school writing assignments from third grade:

About Me

I have blond hair and green eyes. My favorite friend is Rachael and Jennifer. I like Ryan C. to. We ride our bikes together to the park some times. I have one sister, Alea. We are good sisters. I have two brothers, Jett and Bradley. They are O.K. I have one dad, Tom one mom, Rachel one step-mom, Brenna. I'm 8½.

(Teacher's comment: Write more about you)

What Makes Me happy

Our class created a Chienese play called "The Shirt of Happyness"!! I learned that you don't have to have a shirt to be happy. The play was fun, exciteing to!

(Teacher's comment: I'd liked to have read more about this!)

I don't know about you guys, but I'd be pretty bummed if I didn't have a shirt. I'd also be cold.

I am a cigarette

When you smoke me you can get very bad breth. I am made with nicotene and tar. Tar can hurt your lungs and nicotine speeds up the heart and that is not good for you! I can cause tooth decay and when you start smoking me you just cant stop. I am very bad for you health.

(Teacher's comment: Very good! You made some great statements!)

Wow, I really feet like I AM that cigarette. Stay away! When you start smoking me—much like when you pop the top off a can of Pringles—YOU JUST CAN'T STOP! And I'll give you bad breth! BE FOREWARNED!

We also have some of BadKat's school journal entries from fourth grade.

Says BadKat: My creative writing booklet from the fourth grade contained daily journal entries where I was forced to record my thoughts or short creative stories. From March until June of 1992, I chose to bitch about the weather every day. I even have a barometer scale scribbled on the inside of the back cover. Because then, like now, I was obsessed with the weather. I have always enjoyed observing the weather and then bitching and complaining about said weather, while living in one of the most meteorologically volatile states in the country [that'd be Minnesota]. You can also tell how impatient I am and how I wished I could be doing anything but writing in this damn booklet.

March 30, 1992: The weather is sunny. I'm excited that the weather is sunny and I'm going to my uncle's house to dinner. I'm going bye myself and with my sister and not my brothers. My brothers smell bad.

I'll bet that's why they weren't invited to dinner.

March 31, 1992: The weather is partly sunny. The high and low are '35 and '20. I'm not happy it is Tuesday and I'm in school. I'm happy I do not have girl scouts becuase me and Rachael hate Heather.

April 2, 1992: The weather is sunny and warm. I'm happy the rollar skateing party is tonight. The birds, like Robbens, are coming back.

Remember how great roller-skating parties were? We used to go to United Skates of America, which had maybe the best roller-rink name ever!

April 3 1992: The weather is sunny and warm. I'm sad that my step-mom cut her thumb with my dad's razor blade (it was a utility knife) and I'm happy that the carnival is tonight.

April 7, 1992: The weather is couldy and mild I'm happy we are doing the book badge in girl scouts tonight. ("me and Rachael" must have made up with Heather by this point)

April 21, 1992: It is cloudy and rainey. I'm releved that my glass were fond because, I didn't zip my bag up at home and my glasses fell out and someone fond them for me! I'm happy that my sister is going to kindergarden conection tonight and grandma is comeing.

After this entry, my 4^th grade teacher, Mrs. Bitchface, wrote to "watch my sentences - add more detail - watch the writing." So the attempts to increase material begin:

April 23, 1992: The weaher is rainy and cold. I'm happy that it is Thursday and that tomorrow is the end of the week.

9:55am (only entry that is marked with a time): wemen wear komotos for spicel accations. Keiko lives in a huge house with a huge garden and the schools in Japan are very different then ours. (huh?)

April 24, 1992: I glad that today is Friday and it is almost saturday and I get to sleep in tomorrow. Keiko is very fun! (again, huh?)

April 27, 1992: The weather is sunny and warm. I'm happy that my Grandama is bringing me some new Christopher Pike books tomorrow. I liked fall in to darkness but Mrs. Ringlien says we can't read those books for quiet read time or for a book report. Emelia said that her mom would call our school.

BadKat, I love that your grandma bought you Christopher Pike. But look out, because it sounds like Emelia's mom wants to have a Christopher Pike book bonfire!

April 29, 1992: The weather is partly sunny and warm and I'm happy that it will be so nice today. We are beaginning about Japan (well that explains the Japan crap). Both men and wemen in Japan ware kimono and I hope my step-mom likes her birthday present.

May 6, 1992: It's cloudy and warm I'm happy that I don't have reading, or math, or anything today and that we go to the zoo. I'm happy that it is Twins Day (the baseball team) tommorrow and that we get to have a parad.

May 12, 1992: The weather is sunny and warm. If you went to Japan you would see mountony land and be spending time outdoors. I'm happy today is grandparents day. Rachael and I think that we want to read the Matchlock Gun for our book reports.

May 14, 1992: I'm in truble and I hope that my mom will let me go camping and I hope that the camping trip is not put off. I hope I don't get stuck with a coupl of people on the trip. (I wonder who I was avoiding at the Girl Scout Camp Out? And what, no weather today?)

Oooooooooooh, BadKat's in troooooooouble. Hope she didn't get stuck with Heather on the camping trip. Hate her!

May 18, 1992: The weather is sunny and warm. I'm going to tryouts for the disric cyor. I hope I get in to cyhor. Part one of the tryouts is today and part two of the tryouts are tomorrow. My aunt told me my voice was beutiful and that it made her cry.

I love the creative spelling of choir. LOVE it!

May 22, 1992: The weather is cloudy and very humed. I'm happy that there is only one week and a half of school left. I'm happy that I get to go up to the cabin in Grad Rapeds (Grand Rapids) for this weekend. Rachael and I like to play with my dog, Teako. Did you hear the Mount Pleasant fre departmant's siren? (I live nowhere near Mt. Pleasant).

May 29, 1992: It is sunny and pretty warm. I'm going to the beautician and I wish she would set my hair (this is not true because my mom was a cosmetologist. So, what? And setting my hair? WHAT?). I hope that every one this summer will Pledge Alleagiance on Saturday July 4, 1992. Rachael and I took Gary's apple and then hidden it in the tire swing. "Where did you put that apple, asked Gary. He was mad and he is going to put our rain coats under Rona's front pottch.

Stealing Gary's apple? You girls were OUT OF CONTROL! I'm taking away your Christopher Pike books!!! Actually, this might be my favorite entry because of the seemingly unrelated topics of BadKat's desire for old-lady hair; her earnest patriotism; and the wholesome pranks involving a tire swing and raincoats.

June 1, 1992: I'm happy it's warm and almost summer vacation. We set our books on Wes's desk and he siad it was all right. In July, Rachael is moving to Summer Green road. That is closer to me and makes me happy. Yesterday Teako, my dog, ran relly quickly after my cat Jezebel and she quickly climbed a tree. My dad got her down with his ladder but it took a long time. Clair, my other cat does not run away from Teako and once she scrached her on the nose.

June 3, 1992: It is very hot. I'm happy that we got our pass for the pool and that it is the last day of school. I'm not going to miss my teachers and I'm not sort of sad. I hope I get Mr. T. next year. Me and Rachael go to camp in 3 weeks! I am very happy and I wish this year she would do the Polar Bear swimming with me!

"I'm not going to miss my teachers and I'm not sort of sad" is hilarious. Way to stick it to Mrs. Bitchface!

That's it for this round of guest writing, but if you're soooooooooooo, etc., jealous and have some cringe-worthy works of your own that you'd like to share, for God's sake, e-mail me!: 30isthenew13@gmail.com.

NEXT TIME: A discussion of one of the key components of elementary school social life: the club.