When my lesson is over, I start to clean my oboe, running my silk cloth through the upper section of the instrument.

“Thank you for showing Henry around, Samantha,” Miss Joon says to me as she makes notes about my lesson, using the grand piano as a desk. “He seemed really happy this morning.”

I smile and nod quietly. “Henry seems nice.” I’m not sure what to say, exactly, as I move on to the lower section and bell of the instrument and start to put it back in its case.

“I think you two are lucky to have found each other.” She’s saying it cautiously, like there is something she’s not saying.

“Is there something else, Miss Joon?” I ask, my figures silent drumming at my sides where no one else can see them.

“Henry said something about a mystery?”

“We’re looking for some lost letters. It’s not…” I stop myself from denying the idea that it’s a mystery, feeling a sense of loyalty to Henry. “It’s not a big mystery.”

“Okay, just be safe.” I start to feel warm, like my face is probably flushed. Miss Joon is one of my favorite teachers, and I don’t think she would talk to Mrs. Naves about my overactive imagination. 

“Sam, I know you’re very responsible, but Henry broke both his arm and leg last year exploring an abandoned building in pursuit of a mystery. Just promise you’ll keep the exploration to safe places. If you’re not sure about whether you should search somewhere, you can always talk to Dr. Plume or me.”

I click the latches on my oboe case shut. “Right now, we’re sticking to library research for the mystery.”

“Great plan!” Miss Joon says with a smile. “I will see you tomorrow. Same time, same place.”

Outside of the music room, I walk slowly down the hall, finding my locker from 3rd grade. Number 44. It’s summer, so it’s no one’s locker right now. As I open it, muscle memory takes over, and I feel around for my books before I realize they won’t be there. I realize it will never be anyone else’s locker. At first glance, it’s empty, but I reach up into the top, where there is a hollow space that I used to hide really important items. I’m curious to see if anyone else over the years had found the secret compartment. It seems like no one had, but then my hand brushes something in one of the back corners. I pull it out and find an envelope made of a clear paper that sort of reminds me of wax paper.

Could this be Mary’s letters? It would be weird if they were in my old locker, right?

There is only a single sheet of paper in the envelope. On it is written: 

2-5-12-15-23  

2-21-20

14-15-20

19-1-6-5

Math problems?

I put it in my pocket so I can think about it later.

I turn away from the locker and return to the library as quickly as I can without running. As I enter, Henry is working on the computer, looking focused and not noticing my return.

“Hello Samanta! Your oboe sounded lovely.” Dr. Plume says when she sees me.

This remark gets Henry’s attention and he motions me over to the computer. On the screen is a website titled “Women’s Clothing Through History: 1940s.” There are a number of dresses on the page, but none of them look exactly like the dress Mary was wearing.

“I don’t think any of these are the one. What do you think finding dresses can tell us?” I ask.

“It just seemed like one of the most interesting details about her. Maybe we can learn something.”

I look closer at the dresses on the page. “I don’t see the dress she was wearing, but the neck is similar to that one,” I point to a dress, “and the fabric looked similar to that, but in a darker green. But then again, if her clothes are older, they might not be on the internet yet.” 

At this point, Dr. Plume seems to have overheard.

“What are you looking for?” She asks

“Sam saw a young lady wearing old clothes and we were trying to figure out where she might have gotten them?”

“Oh?” Dr. Plume says. The word is a question, but I’m not sure what she is asking us.

“Yes,” I say, cautiously.

“We think her clothes were from the 1940s, based on what we found, but none of the clothes we found on the internet look exactly like what she was wearing.”

“The 1940s,” she whispers to herself, somewhat absentmindedly before turning her full attention to us. “Maybe she bought something vintage.” She still seems a little preoccupied and goes to her desk and takes a note. I hear her say something to herself that sounds like “this is a new one,” though she is also looking at a pile of books, so I conclude she must have moved on to something else.

Henry and I look at vintage websites for a while, but none of them resemble the dress Mary was wearing. Dr. Plume is back at our side, reassuring us that it is possible that we might not be able to find the exact vintage dress online. At 1:34, Henry and I decide to compile the notes from our mostly futile day of research. What we have found so far:

1.     No letters in Dr. Plume’s folders.

2.     No Mary Wolf in the phone book

3.     No record of a Mary Wolf on the internet in the area around Ellis Field

4.     Mary’s clothes and hair style resemble those from the 1940s.

We decide our next step is to explore the front stairs to see if Mary left anything there. Since the front stairs aren’t used very often and the only people who come into the school other than Henry, Ms. Joon, and I are library patrons. The teachers had packed up their classrooms, and no one else had any reason to be in the building, apart from Mr. Dijon, who might still have principal duties or want to visit his grandfather’s carousel. That means even though it has been a few days since I saw Mary at the school, if she had left any clues—or items, since this probably is not a real mystery—on the staircase, there is no reason why anyone would have found or moved them.

The front stairs are wooden, unlike the marble side and back stairs. They are sturdy, but they make creaky noises. Beside the staircase is the building’s only elevator, which I have never used because you have to have a key to use it. My mind jumps to the tower--another key I don’t have. Another search in the school. Maybe if we don’t find anything, we can check out the tower, since the trail on Mary’s letters would have run cold by that point.

“What are we looking for?” I ask Henry, whispering because the empty stairs echo.

“I don’t know, anything that could be useful.”

“I don’t like these stairs,” I say, “We only used them for fire drills and there were rumors that they were, well, haunted.”

“How so?”

“Lots of different stories. A kid who fell down them. The first principal of the school. You know, the sort of things kids make up all the time.” 

“There is too much light for the stairs to be haunted. That said, I also don’t see anything noteworthy.” He’s at the bottom of the stairs when he says this. I’m three steps behind him.

“Me neither. Shall we do another pass?”

“Yep,” I start climbing again, sweeping my foot along each step, finding nothing.

“Nothing here.” Henry is feeling each post of the handrail. 

Our trip up the stairs takes about three times as long as the trip down, but at the top of the staircase, we are still empty handed.

“Okay, what now?” I ask him once he checks the last post.

“Divide up the building and tackle it day by day? You know it better than I do. How would you proceed?”

“The building has four clear parts--front and back halves, two floors. We’re up here, so let’s do the front half of the second floor today and the front half of the first floor tomorrow. Thursday and Friday we tackle the back half of the building, starting with the first floor.” 

“Solid plan.” 

“On Friday, we need extra time. I want to check the lockers.”

“Okay. It doesn’t seem like there is much to inspect,” he gestures to the empty hallway. 

He’s right, I think to myself. The halfway is swept clean, and apart from a stack of three boxes in an alcove opposite the stairs, there are none of the usual signs of life in the school--no papers, discarded hats or single gloves, or even trash. 

“Check along the baseboards. I’ll check around these boxes and in here,” I point to a student desk at the end of the hallway beside the boxes. In the desk, I find an envelope made of the same material as the one I found earlier. 

“This is the only thing I found,” I tell Henry after he returns empty-handed. 

I hand it to him and he opens it. 

“It’s just some letters cut out from magazines,” he says, “I don’t think it’s a clue, but we’ll look into it more later.” 

We walk up and down the hallway another time, but still we find nothing that points toward Mary’s letters. We check each classroom door to see if they are unlocked, but none of them are. After walking the hallway, looking carefully, five times, Henry sighs.“Another dead end. Meet by the front door tomorrow?”

“Sounds good to me.” 

We walk outside and sit on the merry-go-round for a few minutes.

“Do you think we couldn’t find anything because there is more to this than just missing letters?” Henry asks hopefully.

“I think we couldn’t find anything because it is only missing letters,” I say, somewhat disappointed that we had not found a true mystery. When Henry looks sad, I force a smile a little too brightly and continue, “we can keep looking though.”

“What are you doing after this?”

“I was going to go home and read. My mom says if you wanted to come over and stay around until dinner, you could. She’s got a late night at the hospital and she’s having Chinese delivered for me. She always gets way too much food. Plus, if you can stay until about 8, you might get to meet her.”

“Sounds great! I’m not doing anything for the rest of the day. Let me text my mom to make sure it’s okay.” We started to walk to my house as Henry sent the message to his mother. His phone chimes within seconds of sending it. He smiles reading the reply. “She says she wants to meet you soon, and I can absolutely stay at your house until your mom gets home.” 

We arrive at my house and sit down in the living room.

“Would you like some tea? I drink mint tea in the afternoon, usually.”

“Sure!” 

I start to make the tea, continuing the conversation from the kitchen. Because it opens onto the living room, I can see Henry as I boil the water. 

“How big is Ellis Field?” Henry asks.

“It’s about 500 people, I think.”

“Could we go door to door and see if we find Mary? We could also ask if people have found any letters.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea. People might think we’re playing a joke.”

“Wait. If it’s that small of a town, how is it that you don’t know Mary? Someone has to know her. She has to be from here if she knew how to get into the school. Could we ask around?”

“People around here don’t seem to take teenagers seriously. When I saw Mary, there was a teacher there who didn’t believe me. If possible, I’d like to solve this ourselves before we go asking for help.”

“Okay.” He says, idly thumbing through his notebook.

“So, why do you draw animals?” I change the subject. 

“I like animals, but my parents are allergic.” He looks around, “Wait, do you have any pets?” 

“Not now. I’ve had goldfish in the past, but Mom works long hours and Dad is gone for three months of the year. Do you draw anything else?”

“I could draw the school for you.” He takes out a bigger sketchpad from his bag and sits at the kitchen table. He draws and I read. Every now and then, he’ll ask me a question, but otherwise, it is a comfortable silence as Henry makes his art. At 5:10, approximately 3 hours after we arrived home, the doorbell rings with an entire buffet’s worth of Chinese delivery, and we begin to set the table.

“Have you ever seen a ghost?” Henry asks. We’re sitting at the kitchen table after a long dinner.

“I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“I do. There was a haunted house in my old neighborhood. I almost found evidence, but then…” he stops. Could this be about his injuries last year? “Anyway, I’d love to see a real ghost.” 

It’s starting to get late, and we clear off the table, putting the excess food in the refrigerator and the dishes in the dishwasher. As we finish up, my mom arrives.

“Hello Mrs. Dewey. I’m Henry,” he says, extending a hand.

“Nice to meet you Henry,” Mom says. “How was your day?” She asks both of us.

“We didn’t find any letters.” Henry says. “We have a plan to look for them though.”

Mom raises an eyebrow but doesn’t ask any follow-up questions. 

“How are you settling in, Henry?”

“Pretty well. I’ve almost unpacked all of the boxes. Tomorrow morning, I’m going to finish cleaning out the attic. Sam, would you want to come over and help”

I look at my mother for permission, aware that I usually wouldn’t feel the need to ask for permission. She nods almost imperceptibly.

“Sure, I can come over after breakfast.” 

Henry returns his attention to the drawing, of the school, adding the color and shading, as well as dogs and cats in each of the windows. As he alternates between quiet focus and asking me an occasional question. At around 9 pm, he finishes the drawing.

“I hope you don’t mind that I took some creative liberties with the windows.”

“It’s perfect. I’m going to get it framed and hang it in my room.”

Mom wanders back in the kitchen. She’s been reading by the fireplace in the living room. She admires the painting silently and then looks at her watch, realizing more time has passed.

“It’s gotten late. Henry, do you want a ride home? I hope your mom isn’t worrying about you.” 

“I texted her I was here, but I will take a ride if you don’t mind.” He gathers his things as he says this. 

“Goodnight!” I shout to them as they leave and I settle into the sun porch for the evening. 

The next morning, I arrive at Henry’s house at 7 am with two travel mugs full of London Fog. He answers the door. 

“Hi Sam! Come in!” He motions to the front staircase, and I follow him up the stairs and down the hall, where he pulls down a ladder. Once we arrive in the attic, he explains, “There are a lot of papers up here. I thought maybe we could look for any sign of Mary.” 

“Not a bad idea.” I say, looking around the attic. It is full of boxes, an old rocking horse, and some assorted antique furniture, giving the attic a feel of a different time and place.

“The old owners just left everything up here. Mom wants the papers out because they’re a fire hazard. I guess old newspaper can spontaneously combust.” He shudders at the thought. 

He has already divided the papers into two piles. 

“80s or 90s?” he asks.

“I’ll take 90s.” 

We shuffle through the old papers, in silence for about a half an hour. We don’t find anything, but we do throw away a lot of newspapers. About halfway through my pile, I find an obituary for someone named Mary Viola Wolf.

Between the Leaves will return in July of 2022.