The Hayloft. A 1950s Mystery

the Buffalo Express had been uninformative on that score. He had also met the Drucquers for the first time. I asked him how we were related to them.
    “We have a common English ancestor from the early 1800s,” he said. “Although the Drucquers may have originated someplace else, maybe Holland. I’m a little hazy on the details.”
    Tom asked him about a diamond necklace.
    “There is no diamond necklace. That’s a family legend. It’s fun to talk about, but that’s all it is.”
    That night, when my fever was at its highest, I had nightmares about Ralph falling off the balcony at the Carter High School auditorium, over and over again. But it never occurred to me, even in those nightmares, that very soon I would be an involuntary student at Carter High, myself.

    CHAPTER 2
    Everybody has bad days occasionally. I had managed to put together a string of bad days. The longest string I could remember in my seventeen years, except for some of the times I was sick. I shouldn’t be here. I should be in my homeroom at Atherton High School getting ready for the third week of school. But instead, I was sitting in the office of the principal at Carter High School, hoping that he wouldn’t throw me out. The way I had been thrown out of Atherton last week. Had it only been last week? It seemed like at least a century ago.
    Tap tap tap. The sound of the pencil tapping on the desk sounded like the drumbeat for a particularly mournful country song about pickup trucks, booze, and wayward women. It irritated me. And scared me. In fact, everything irritated and scared me this morning. I had an urge to get up from the uncomfortable chair in which I was sitting and run from the office. And from the building. And from the world.
    Dr. Graves continued to tap his pencil as he read a transcript of my grades. The way he wore his glasses down on the end of his nose led me to believe that he didn’t wear them all the time. He was tall—taller than I was. I had discovered that fact when he had stood to shake my hand as I entered his office. It was the first time I could remember shaking the hand of a principal. He had a strong grip, and he looked lean and mean.
    He wasn’t wearing his suit coat, and the sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up two folds. His hair, what there was of it, was all on the sides of his head. The center had been paved over with skin, still sporting a trace of summer tan. His eyebrows might have more hair than his head.
    He stopped tapping his pencil and looked up at me over his glasses. His dark eyes drilled holes through me for several seconds, making me more and more scared. I tried to brace myself for what was coming.
    “Your grades are good,” Dr. Graves said, in a surprisingly kind voice. “You won’t have any trouble here academically.”
    A wisp of hope. Did that mean he was accepting me?
    “I understand you write limericks.”
    His comment disordered my brain cells. Limericks were not one of the topics I was expecting to discuss this morning. And how did he know? “Er, I’ve written some.”
    “Clean ones I hope. Can you write one about me?”
    “Right now?” Dr. Graves nodded. Maybe this was an admission test. I had been asked to do stranger things. I would keep it bland. I thought for a minute while Dr. Graves tapped his pencil. Then I spoke.
    “ Our leader’s a doctor named Graves.
    He sees that each student behaves.
    He won’t lose his poise
    With the girls and the boys,
    And we hope he won’t treat them like slaves.”
    It was a bad limerick, but what did he expect so early on a Monday morning? Then I saw that Dr. Graves was laughing.
    “I hope that doesn’t reflect your true feelings about school.”
    “It’s the best I can do on short notice.”
    His smile disappeared. “You and I need to agree on a few things.”
    I was ready to agree to anything, even to polishing his glasses each morning.
    “I’d like you to not write for the school paper.”
    I nodded.
    “Some of our students write up school events for the Carter Press, our local town paper. You’d probably better stay away from that, too.”
    I continued to nod.
    “Concentrate on your studies.”
    “I-I plan to keep a low profile,” I stammered. Lower than the bellybutton of a snake.
    “Good idea. That doesn’t mean you can’t participate in some extra-curricular activities. I hear you play basketball.”
    He knew my life story. I had played for Atherton last year in the game against Carter. Atherton had