made their way through the dimly lit hall to the back exit of the school.
The four of us have been friends for a long time, Tristan thought. But Mr. Moon doesn’t know that. We’re not even in the same science class.
So why did he pick us to help with his experiments today?
They passed an orange-and-black poster about a school Halloween party.
“Wow. Almost Halloween,” Rosa said. “Are we trick-or-treating this year?”
Bella twisted her face, thinking hard. Whenever she did this, her green cat eyes seemed to disappear into her freckles. “I don’t know,” she replied. “Are we too old? How old is too old to trick-or-treat?”
“I think twelve is too old,” Tristan replied. “And we’re all twelve.”
“Who cares?” Ray said. “We still want candy—right? So, that means we’re not too old. We should go out.”
He bumped Bella against the wall. “Unless you’re afraid of the werewolves!”
“I’m not afraid of the werewolves,” Bella said, bumping him back. “But if we go out, it means we need costumes.”
“Why don’t we have a party this year?” Ray asked. “A costume party would be awesome. I’ll put tattoos all over my chest and arms and come as Stone Cold Ray.”
He let out a deafening cheer and wrapped Tristan in a headlock. “You got a problem with that? You got a problem with that?” he barked.
It was his favorite wrestling line. He drove them crazy repeating it all the time. “You got a problem with that?”
Tristan wrestled free. “Yeah, I’ve got a problem with that,” he said.
He smoothed down his wavy straw-colored hair. “If we have a party, there won’t be time to trick-or-treat.”
They were nearly to the door. Through the window, Tristan could see a ghostly pale moon—shimmery and round—still low in the late afternoon sky.
As they started to leave the school building, he glanced back—and gasped when he saw someone behind them.
Someone standing very still against the dark wall, watching them, listening to them.
“Hey—” Tristan muttered to the others. All four of them turned around.
Squinting in the dim light, Tristan recognized the kid. A guy from their class.
Michael Moon, the teacher’s son.
A strange kid. Skinny and dark with Mr. Moon’s slicked-back black hair, tiny round eyes, and a narrow, unpleasant face.
A face like a ferret, Tristan thought.
Michael Moon, who kept to himself and barely ever spoke. Who didn’t seem to have any friends in school.
Leaning against the wall, Michael watched Tristan and his friends with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his black jeans.
And then suddenly he straightened.
He raised his hands to his mouth. And he called out two words to them.
Just two words in his high, whispery voice.
Two words that sent a chill down Tristan’s back.
“Be careful.”
2
A few minutes later Rosa followed Tristan into his house. “That kid gives me the creeps,” Rosa said.
Tristan stared at her. “Who? Ray?”
“No, idiot!” Laughing, she gave him a hard shove. “Michael Moon.”
She pulled off her cap and glanced in the hall mirror. Using her fingers, she combed her dark hair. Then she took off her down vest and tossed it onto the bench near the door.
She wore a loose purple sweater over baggy cargo khakis. She took one last glance in the mirror, then turned back to Tristan.
“ Be careful? So why do you think Michael Moon said that to us?” she asked.
Tristan shrugged. “Beats me. Was he warning us about something? Or was he threatening us?”
“I—I couldn’t tell,” Rosa replied. “But the way he said it—it really was kind of frightening.”
“I guess.”
Tristan dropped his backpack on the front stairs and made his way to the kitchen. “Mom? Are you home?”
“I’m in the den,” his mother called. “Who are you talking to?”
“Rosa came home with me,” Tristan said. He poked his head into the small den.
Mrs. Gottschalk had the news on the TV and a magazine in her lap.
The four of us have been friends for a long time, Tristan thought. But Mr. Moon doesn’t know that. We’re not even in the same science class.
So why did he pick us to help with his experiments today?
They passed an orange-and-black poster about a school Halloween party.
“Wow. Almost Halloween,” Rosa said. “Are we trick-or-treating this year?”
Bella twisted her face, thinking hard. Whenever she did this, her green cat eyes seemed to disappear into her freckles. “I don’t know,” she replied. “Are we too old? How old is too old to trick-or-treat?”
“I think twelve is too old,” Tristan replied. “And we’re all twelve.”
“Who cares?” Ray said. “We still want candy—right? So, that means we’re not too old. We should go out.”
He bumped Bella against the wall. “Unless you’re afraid of the werewolves!”
“I’m not afraid of the werewolves,” Bella said, bumping him back. “But if we go out, it means we need costumes.”
“Why don’t we have a party this year?” Ray asked. “A costume party would be awesome. I’ll put tattoos all over my chest and arms and come as Stone Cold Ray.”
He let out a deafening cheer and wrapped Tristan in a headlock. “You got a problem with that? You got a problem with that?” he barked.
It was his favorite wrestling line. He drove them crazy repeating it all the time. “You got a problem with that?”
Tristan wrestled free. “Yeah, I’ve got a problem with that,” he said.
He smoothed down his wavy straw-colored hair. “If we have a party, there won’t be time to trick-or-treat.”
They were nearly to the door. Through the window, Tristan could see a ghostly pale moon—shimmery and round—still low in the late afternoon sky.
As they started to leave the school building, he glanced back—and gasped when he saw someone behind them.
Someone standing very still against the dark wall, watching them, listening to them.
“Hey—” Tristan muttered to the others. All four of them turned around.
Squinting in the dim light, Tristan recognized the kid. A guy from their class.
Michael Moon, the teacher’s son.
A strange kid. Skinny and dark with Mr. Moon’s slicked-back black hair, tiny round eyes, and a narrow, unpleasant face.
A face like a ferret, Tristan thought.
Michael Moon, who kept to himself and barely ever spoke. Who didn’t seem to have any friends in school.
Leaning against the wall, Michael watched Tristan and his friends with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his black jeans.
And then suddenly he straightened.
He raised his hands to his mouth. And he called out two words to them.
Just two words in his high, whispery voice.
Two words that sent a chill down Tristan’s back.
“Be careful.”
2
A few minutes later Rosa followed Tristan into his house. “That kid gives me the creeps,” Rosa said.
Tristan stared at her. “Who? Ray?”
“No, idiot!” Laughing, she gave him a hard shove. “Michael Moon.”
She pulled off her cap and glanced in the hall mirror. Using her fingers, she combed her dark hair. Then she took off her down vest and tossed it onto the bench near the door.
She wore a loose purple sweater over baggy cargo khakis. She took one last glance in the mirror, then turned back to Tristan.
“ Be careful? So why do you think Michael Moon said that to us?” she asked.
Tristan shrugged. “Beats me. Was he warning us about something? Or was he threatening us?”
“I—I couldn’t tell,” Rosa replied. “But the way he said it—it really was kind of frightening.”
“I guess.”
Tristan dropped his backpack on the front stairs and made his way to the kitchen. “Mom? Are you home?”
“I’m in the den,” his mother called. “Who are you talking to?”
“Rosa came home with me,” Tristan said. He poked his head into the small den.
Mrs. Gottschalk had the news on the TV and a magazine in her lap.
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