The Key to Extraordinary

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  It is a known fact that the most extraordinary moments in a person’s life come disguised as ordinary days.

  It is a known fact for me, at least.

  Because that morning started out mostly the same as all mornings before: I woke up to an ache in my chest, the smell of chocolate, and the sound of the ghost making a racket in the kitchen.

  Now, I’m not the sort to dwell on doom and sorrow. Life is too short for that. But I should at least try to describe the ache briefly:

  It’s not the kind that comes from eating tacos too late at night.

  It’s the kind that comes from being left behind.

  I think my heart knows I should be filling it with new memories, new jokes, and wondrous adventures with the one person I loved most of all. But that person is gone now. And so, my heart has a giant hole in it. I call it the Big Empty.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and reminded myself of these affirmations:

  Tonight you could have your Destiny Dream.

  Never doubt your starry aim.

  I repeated those words while I tugged my mud boots on over my jeans, and again when I zipped up my favorite hoodie. Early summer had settled into the mountains, but the air was still chilly first thing in the morning. I didn’t feel cold, though. I felt energized. Just the prospect of my Destiny Dream rattled my brain to such a degree that I fixed my sideways braid on the wrong side of my head. I’m not superstitious about most things, but I knew the day would go badly if I wore my braid on the wrong side.

  Finally, I snatched up my messenger bag and zoomed down the stairs to see what the ghost was up to.

  Since there’s no sense in scaring a ghost who might whirl around and scare me in turn, I decided to declare myself.

  “It’s Emma!” I called out as I stepped into the darkness of the Boneyard Cafe.

  My family’s bakery, the Boneyard Cafe, takes up the whole bottom floor of our house, which is perched on the edge of a famous cemetery, hence the cafe’s creeptastical name. Currently, Granny Blue is doing her best to keep the Boneyard running, as business hasn’t been too great lately.

  “I’m back here,” yelled a voice that, unfortunately, belonged to my big brother, Topher, and not one of the dearly departed. I’d never actually seen the ghost in our kitchen; I’d only heard it banging around. But due to my home’s location, I figure I’m bound to run into a ghost eventually.

  The air was thick with the smell of chocolate as I walked into the kitchen. The Cocoa Cauldron was already bubbling near the far window. It was Topher’s week to make Boneyard Brew, our cafe’s most famous treat. As near as I can describe it, Boneyard Brew is like hot chocolate with a heavenly twist. Maybe it seems crazy to drink hot chocolate in the summer, but I’m here to tell you: Once you’ve had a taste of Boneyard Brew, you’ll never stop craving it. Topher even makes homemade marshmallows.

  The marshmallow man himself was perched on the tip-top of the tall ladder, digging through one of the supply cabinets like a scrawny snack bandit.

  “Hungry?” I asked him.

  Thomp. Topher bumped his head on the cabinet, and let out a low groan. He got all squinty-eyed, pretending to be mad, as he hunkered down to look at me. But I could see the start of a smile on his face. “Emma Pearl Casey, I thought you might be a ghost.”

  “I yelled and declared myself!”

  “I know.” Topher gave me the same dimpled-cheek grin that made most of the girls at Blackbird Hollow Community College go googly-eyed. “I always get skittish when I’m down here before daylight.”

  “It is early for you to be making brew,” I agreed. In my nearly twelve years of existence, we’d never opened before ten a.m. on Sundays.

  “I can’t get this recipe out of my head,” Topher said by way of explanation. “Peach-lavender muffins. I won’t have any peace of mind until I make them. And I thought I’d get the brew going while I was down here.”

  “I’m glad you’re making extra. I usually have a big tour group in the graveyard on Sunday.”

  Topher cocked his head and studied my face. “Are you okay? You look … troubled.”

  I gave him a thumbs-up. “All good.”

  “Huh.” He didn’t look convinced, but he reached back into the cabinet and dislodged one of the giant silver muffin pans. He twisted out of the way as it clattered to the floor.

  “Easy!” I said as I jumped to hand it back to him. “If you make any more noise down here, you’ll—”

  “What? Wake the dead? You and Blue play music so loud the dead can’t get any sleep around here anyway.”

  “I was going to say wake my dog. But that’s a fair point about the loud music.”

  Topher stretched tall again, and got back to digging. He tossed a sack of Blue’s organic flour down on the countertop before he dismounted the rickety ladder. I could tell by the tune he was whistling that Topher was about to go into a serious baking frenzy. He’d already tied his red bandana securely around his head. That was a direct order from Granny Blue. Topher likes to let his hair grow long and shaggy for summer, so Blue makes him pull his hair back when he bakes.

  I felt a soft thump-thump-thump against my boot, and looked down to see Bearclaw yawning up at me. I scooped her up into my arms and hugged her against my chest.

  When Topher took me to the animal shelter to pick out a pup, the lady said we didn’t want That Dog because she was scrawny. But I knew from the first time I saw That Dog, she was meant to be mine. I hope every person in the world gets to have an experience so wondrous: the sweet tug at your heart when you look at a dog, and a dog looks at you, and you know you’re meant to take care of each other.

  Topher thought I made a fine choice in picking That Dog but we both decided she needed a bolder name, something that’d help her see herself in a new way. So I named her the toughest word I could think of: Bearclaw.

  I call her Bear for short.

  That day at the shelter, Bear leaped up into my arms as soon as I called out her name, as if she’d been waiting her whole life for someone to see her true potential.

  “Good morning, my fearless little fuzz monster,” I whispered against her floppy ear.

  Bear nuzzled happily against my neck.

  “Is Granny Blue still sleeping?” I asked.

  “I don’t think she sleeps much anymore.” Topher stirred the big spoon through the Boneyard Brew. He nodded toward her office. The door was closed, but a glow of yellow light seeped out into the hallway. “Her light was still on when I went to bed. I wouldn’t be surprised if she stayed awake all night.” Most of Blackbird Hollow was having a tough time making ends meet, and the cafe was no different.

  I cuddled Bear close, but stayed in the doorway. Granny’s rule is that Bear can’t go in the kitchen. She says some people are particular about dog fur in their biscuits.

  Topher opened a tiny jar full of dried lavender. He tap-tap-tapped out a teaspoon’s worth into a tiny, sugar-filled
pestle. Flour dust already graced his cheekbones, neck, and hands, as if some angel had reached down out of the clouds to trace my brother’s features like, “See, now? This is what a perfect human looks like.” We are not anything alike in that aspect, my brother and me. It would make way more sense if Topher was supposed to have the Destiny Dream.

  But he wasn’t.

  The Destiny Dream would be happening to me. And soon, I hoped.

  “Emma?” Topher studied me carefully. “I can see something’s wrong. You might as well tell me.”

  My brother can read people like a story. He knows when a smile’s covering sadness and which sparkly-eyed look is a sure sign of a secret. He can hear a broken heart in the sound of someone’s voice. He’s especially good at reading me. The floors creaked under Topher’s sneakers as he came to stand in front of me, like he was putting himself between me and the world, as if whatever was breaking my heart would have to get past him to get to me.

  “It’s the Big Empty,” I whispered, cuddling Bear tight against the infernal ache in my chest. “I woke up thinking that I wanted to talk to Mama. And then I realized I couldn’t talk to her and …” I shrugged. “It aches, is all. Missing her is a terrible ache.”

  Topher reached out to hug me, but I spun around and headed for the back door.

  “I’m fine, Toph. No need to start the day all morbid and sad. Anyway, I’m off to see the long-ago dearly departed.”

  I made my way through the kitchen door and onto the back porch. The screen door slapped shut behind me, and I stared out over the dreamy-morning world. The dark night had already faded to a pretty, pale blue at the horizon. A cool wind prickled my skin and rustled the branches of the big oak in the center of the field. It was a life sound the wind made, a pretty rasp and then shhh … which was kind of strange considering all that lay before me. As far as I could see, the headstones and statues of Blackbird Hollow Cemetery peeked up from the mist.

  I plucked a white daisy from the grass, stuck it in my braid, and set out to walk among those graves, just the same as always. I only walk in the daylight, though. Everybody in town knows you never set foot in Blackbird Hollow Cemetery at night. Most people are too skitter-brained to go there during the day as well. But I’m not afraid.

  Not exactly.

  Okay, here’s the honest truth: Sometimes I do feel like something is following me around in the graveyard. At times, that feeling comforts me; it’s like I’m being watched over. But every now and then, I get a certain chill and feel more like I’m being flat-out watched.

  I was right about both things. But I didn’t know it yet.

  Bear jumped out of my arms so she could scamper ahead of me through the graveyard. I stopped at the first crooked stone rising up out of the mist, reached deep into my bag, and pulled out a cluster of dried-up flowers from the day before. I tucked them against the base of the stone.

  “Someone loved you, Adeline Carpetta,” I whispered.

  Most people think my backyard is haunted. I suppose that’s understandable, considering my backyard also happens to be one of the oldest cemeteries in the state of Tennessee. But it’s also quiet and sacred and full of shady trees, stone angels, and names. Old, beautiful names that sound like they dripped out of a storybook:

  Adeline Carpetta

  Captain Daniel Toliver, 1st Tennessee Infantry

  Wonder St. Clare

  Cillian McNeal

  Mama said if I ever felt lonesome in a graveyard, I should say the names on the stones aloud and declare the better truth of the situation, like this:

  “Someone loved you, Wonder St. Clare.”

  Granny Blue doesn’t believe in ghosts the way most people in town do. She says it’s memories that haunt people. “I can’t imagine the afterlife is so boring people have to keep pestering you from the Great Beyond,” she said. But whenever I walk through Blackbird Hollow Cemetery and I call out the names on the stones, I always feel … something. I know they aren’t here, those folks. But I believe they’re somewhere. And maybe what I feel is their happiness when they pull back the curtain and take a look at what’s happening back here on earth.

  Bear nudged her head underneath my palm. I leaned down, cupped her fuzzy face, and kissed her soft ear. That’s when I heard the flutter of friendly chatter. The old gates are the public entry point, and I was excited to see a good-size group waiting for me.

  A happy shiver settled over my shoulders as I stood and looked toward the noise. The fog was fading now, lifting up out of the cemetery in curls and wisps. Clusters of bright dandelions bloomed open—one at a time—in a perfectly curved path all the way to the gate.

  “Good morning!” I called out as I scampered down the hill. Bear yapped as she bounded along beside me.

  “Good morning, Emma Pearl!” yelled some of the folks standing at the gate.

  Once upon a time, the gates were probably beautiful. Nobody knows for sure, because now they’re covered by a thick fluff of coppery rust. Waxy vines of ivy wrap through the bars and up around the spires. Ivy grows everywhere in the cemetery. It dangles from the giant oak trees and creeps across the mossy tombstones. It’s tangled so thick around the fence that passersby can barely see inside. Sometimes I think the mountains and the woods might be in cahoots, using their ivy powers to hide Blackbird Hollow from the world. To keep it sacred, maybe.

  Or to keep it all secret.

  I cranked my gate key sideways in the lock, until I heard the satisfying click. The gates swung open slowly, emitting a long, low screeeeech.

  At least twenty people were waiting for me, mostly white-haired retired folks, all milling around talking to one another. The couple at the front of the line were my regulars: an old man with a long white beard, and an elderly lady on a sassy pink scooter.

  They’re also my relatives: Granny Blue’s brother, Periwinkle, and his wife, Greta.

  “Welcome to Blackbird Hollow Cemetery!” I called out as I pushed the gate open. “One of the oldest and most famous resting-places in the state!”

  The air filled with a clatter of applause. They always applaud, though I’m not sure why. Everybody there’d heard my speech plenty of times. But I like giving folks the full-tour experience. “This morning’s excursion is our famous Love Tour. Your journey through our town’s great and glorious romantic past will last approximately seven minutes.”

  I fished down into my tote bag and began passing out pairs of heart-shaped sunglasses to my guests.

  “Now, these are fancy, Emma!” said Uncle Periwinkle as he slid on the shades. He lifted his paper cup of Boneyard Brew in salute.

  “You’re lucky Topher was up early on Brew Duty,” I told him. “It’s never ready before the sun rises.”

  “He must have known I’d need a fix.” Uncle Periwinkle grinned. His long white beard billowed in the breeze. Were it not for his faded jeans and raggedy jacket—or the big, sweet smile on his face—Uncle Periwinkle would look a bit ghostly himself. Most days, he pins a tiny flower over his heart. But today, he’d decided to get festive. He’d tucked a violet into his beard.

  Uncle Peri leaned down and said softly, “I don’t need heart-shaped spectacles to see something’s bothering you.” He patted my shoulder. “What’s that sad look in your eyes all about?”

  “Restless night.”

  “What?!” Aunt Greta screeched. She grabbed my arm and, to her credit, tried to whisper but mostly yelled, “Restless night? Emma, did you have your Destiny Dream?!”

  “Ha!” Uncle Peri clapped his hands. “I knew her mama was right! What have I always told you, Greta? I said, ‘See now, Emma’s going to have her Destiny Dream early!’ ”

  I reached out and gave them both a gentle shake. “You guys, shhh! I haven’t had the dream. Not yet. The Big Empty kept me up all night. That’s all I meant.”

  “Ah.” Periwinkle nodded. A grin tugged at his beard. “That happens around here when seasons change, you know. People remember the ones they love and miss.”

&nb
sp; Uncle Periwinkle fancies himself the town historian. For many years, he worked as the newspaper editor. According to Granny Blue, being a newspaper editor in a town this size is just a fancy way of saying he minded everybody’s business but his own.

  Aunt Greta grabbed my arm and yanked me close for a hard hug. She smelled like roses and hair spray. “You’ll have your Destiny Dream soon enough, sugar. Now why don’t you let me hold that wild dog while you give your tour?” Bear jumped up into Greta’s lap, thrilled for the invite. “Hmpfh!” Greta groaned as Bear licked her chin.

  I’d never seen Aunt Greta actually smile. She only ever pressed her mouth into a firm line and made a hmpfh noise when she was happy.

  Ever since she broke her hip last year, Aunt Greta’s been rambling all over town on a customized pink scooter. This morning was no exception. She wore a pink tracksuit to match her ride, and her white hair was tucked up into a rosy-colored baseball cap. She’d stitched her flower shop’s slogan onto the cap:

  GRETA’S MAGICAL GARDEN:

  GET YOUR FLOWERS—THEN GO AWAY

  “Thank you, everyone, for coming out this morning,” I said as I made my way down the line, passing a pair of sunglasses to Mr. Marcum and his wife. The Marcums had won Farmers of the Year going on twenty-seven years now. Last year, their ten-pound tomato made the front page of the Regional Farmers’ Almanac. In the world of competitive tomato farming, the Marcums are total rock stars.

  “We’re tickled to be here, Emma!” Mrs. Marcum hugged me tight before she donned her shades.

  I cleared my throat. “If everybody’s okay with it, we’ll start early this morning. Daisies are blooming on the rooftops. That means the rain’s coming.”

  That’s another fact about Blackbird Hollow, Tennessee, that some folks attribute to the supernatural: Flowers never stop blooming here. They bloom through the snow. They bloom up through cracks in concrete sidewalks. They bloom in bundles near the river, and in colorful bursts in yards and hillsides. And they’ve always bloomed especially thick here in the graveyard. You’d think this place was a proper garden, were it not for all the headstones.

  “HOLD UP!” shouted a young woman running across the street. “Wait for me, please!”