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5
THE DAY THEY went sailing, Brian’s parents dropped him off at the Egg in the middle of the morning. The Egg was Ollie’s house. It was a farmhouse, built in 1890. There was a foundation stone in the basement that said so. It was called the Egg because Ollie’s dad, who loved bright colors, had painted it all the colors of an Easter egg. The outside was purple, with a bright red door.
Brian’s mom pulled up outside the door and looked at him searchingly. “Brian,” she said, “we don’t want to control who your friends are; we’re not ogres. You don’t think we’re ogres, right?”
“Um, no,” said Brian.
“But,” his mother added, “we want what’s best for you. So after this sailing trip—you hit the books, okay?”
“Okay,” said Brian, wondering what his mom would say if she knew that his sudden fascination with ghost stories wasn’t just him going through a phase. If she realized how hard he’d been hitting the books. Just not the right books.
“Love you,” she said.
“I love you too.”
He went into the Egg and was instantly swept up into a whirl of activity. Mr. Adler, like always, had gone really overboard in his trip preparations. He was filling a giant hamper of food. Brian went over for a peek—and maybe to grab a snack. Mr. Adler had made shortbread cookies, each one shaped like a brontosaurus, with the legs cut into a flipper shape, and iced in green.
“I only had dinosaur cookie cutters,” he said. “But I think they look like lake monsters, don’t you?” He winked and didn’t say anything when Brian snitched a cookie. Besides the cookies, there were sandwiches, neatly wrapped and labeled. Brian saw egg salad (ew) and ham and Swiss (yum) and Ollie’s favorite, peanut butter and jelly. There were chips and carrot sticks and hummus and stuff to drink.
“Thanks, Mr. Adler,” said Brian. “This looks awesome.”
He went upstairs to where Ollie was packing and Coco advising. She was sitting on Ollie’s beanbag chair, watching the chaos, munching toast with strawberry jam. Brian joined her, eating his cookie.
“Rain gear,” said Ollie, shoving distractedly through her stuff. “Woolly hat, sunglasses, sunscreen, swimsuit . . . Hi, Brian.”
“Hi,” said Brian.
“You know,” said Coco to Ollie, “it’s nice out. I dunno if you’ll need a woolly hat. Also the lake’s cold. It only finished melting a couple of weeks ago! Are you really planning to swim in it?”
The girls both looked as happy as Brian felt. To be doing something other than huddling at home, researching and worryi
ng.
“You never know!” crowed Ollie, sounding just like her dad. “We might.”
Brian felt himself start to grin. It felt like a holiday. And, yeah, sometimes the girls drove him up the wall, and he’d gotten pretty tired of just hanging out with the two of them all winter, but they were still his best friends in the world.
“I know,” said Coco firmly. “Swimming is not a thing in May.”
“Swimming,” said Ollie, “is a thing whenever.”
* * *
—
They piled into Susie the Subaru, Mr. Adler’s car, the back end stacked high with bags and coolers.
“Anyone think we’ll meet Champ?” said Coco’s mom from the front seat, once they’d gotten on the highway.
“Maybe,” said Ollie’s dad. “What do you guys think? Is Champ a leftover dinosaur?”
“I don’t see how a dinosaur can be left over,” said Coco. “Left over from what?”
“I think,” said Ollie, “that someone in Vermont back in the day went to Scotland, learned that they had a lake monster, and got jealous.”
“Or that,” said her dad. “Now I’m trying to imagine who gets jealous of some other country’s lake monster.”
“A Vermonter,” said Brian decisively. “We’re all a little weird.”
