Yellow Brick War by Danielle Paige Page A

even a librarian; if you wanted to check out books, you were supposed to borrow a teacher’s keys and use the honor system. Literature theft wasn’texactly a high-concern crime in our neck of the prairie. The school probably would’ve been excited just to learn that someone could actually read.
    The “archive” turned out to be a closet at the back of the library. Dustin flipped through the keys Mr. Stone had given him, but none of them fit the lock. “Shoot,” he said. I looked at the flimsy wooden door, and then at Dustin. He grinned. “Really?”
    â€œCome on,” I said. “I did your homework for you for a year. You owe me.”
    He nodded solemnly. “You do have a point there.” Bracing one foot against the doorframe, he grabbed the doorknob and pulled. Muscles bulged under the soft fabric of his cornflower-blue T-shirt, and I remembered with a pang that I’d once had a major crush on the guy. Dustin might be a little dumb, but he was hot. The door creaked alarmingly, and with one final tug it came away from the frame with a splintering crack.
    â€œWow,” I said. “I didn’t think that would actually work. You’re really strong.”
    Dustin blushed modestly. “It’s just, like, laminate,” he mumbled.
    â€œWe’re going to be in so much trouble,” I said, looking at the ruined lock.
    â€œNah,” he said. “Nobody comes in here. They won’t notice for years.”
    Eagerly, I looked over his shoulder at the contents of the closet: a teetering stack of dusty cardboard boxes, piles of fadedfabric, and, weirdly enough, a rusty old hoe. That was it. The entire historical archive of Flat Hill, Kansas.
    â€œI guess this place was always a dump,” I said. Dustin pulled the top box off the stack, grunting with surprise at how heavy it was. I lifted the lid, revealing a stack of ancient yearbooks. The top one was dated 1967.
    â€œFar out,” Dustin said, leafing through it. “Check out this dude’s hair.” He pointed to a blissed-out-looking hippie guy with shampoo-commercial-worthy blond waves past his shoulders.
    â€œTotally not fair,” I said. I shoved the box aside and went for the next one while Dustin looked at old yearbooks. More yearbooks, a box of old newspapers—none of them dating back to the time of Baum’s article—a leather-bound book whose title,
Tales of the Prairie
, was embossed on the front in frilly letters. Nothing. My heart sank. The piles of fabric were old-fashioned aprons and a frayed blue banner with CONGRATULATIONS CLASS OF 1934 sewn on in bright red letters.
    â€œI guess that’s it,” Dustin said in disappointment.
    â€œThere’s one more box,” I said. “Way at the back.”
    â€œI don’t see it.”
    I reached for the box and then yanked my hands back with a yelp. It had
stung
me. I popped a finger into my mouth, tasting blood. “There’s something sharp back there,” I said.
    â€œI don’t even see what you’re trying to grab.”
    I reached in again, more cautiously this time, and then I felt it, like a halo around the battered old box: the unmistakable buzz of magic. A thrill ran through me. I’d been
right
. There wassomething here—and someone had tried to hide it. Someone powerful enough to use magic in Kansas. Someone who’d been able to keep the truth about Dorothy a secret for over a century. Someone who
had
to be from Oz.
    â€œGive me those dust cloths,” I said. Just as Dustin handed them to me, the library door swung open, and we both froze.
    â€œI don’t see much cleaning happening in here,” Mr. Stone growled. Dustin’s eyes were huge.
    â€œOh, shit,” he mouthed.

F OURTEEN
    â€œWhat’s going on in here?” Mr. Stone asked peevishly, stepping into the library. We were hidden by the shelves, but if he came any farther into the room