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  In memory of

  SCHOOL OF FEAR

  The wilderness outside Farmington, Massachusetts

  (Exact location withheld for security purposes)

  Direct all correspondence to PO Box 333, Farmington, MA 01201

  Dear Parental Units,

  I write to you today with terrible news, perhaps the worst news ever! Don’t worry—your children are still alive and well. Or perhaps that is a bit of an overstatement; they are definitely still alive.

  In an unforeseen turn of events, School of Fear finds itself on the brink of total and utter ruin. Rather regrettably, one of our students (I’m not mentioning any names, but she does have a certain fondness for ferrets) informed tabloid reporter Sylvie Montgomery not only of our existence, but of our deepest secret! And now, with a mere three weeks to stop the publication of the career-annihilating article, your children have chosen to stay on and fight.

  So while you may see them simply as your children or, as I once did, as an arachnophobe (Madeleine), a thanatophobe (Theo), an aquaphobe (Garrison), a claustrophobe (Lulu), and an isolophobe (Hyacinth), I assure you they are much more. Regardless of the outcome, they shall return to you different than they came to me a year ago, or even at the start of this very summer, and that is because they are different. They are School of Fearians.

  With smudged mascara and a heavy heart, but still very attractive,

  MRS. WELLINGTON

  EVERYONE’S AFRAID OF SOMETHING:

  Autodysomophobia is the fear

  of emitting a vile odor.

  The end is not the end. And that is certainly not to imply that the end is actually the beginning or the middle, for that would be most inaccurate. The end is simply far more than a completion point or finish line. The end is a call for courage, rallying those ready for the next journey.

  Thirteen-year-old Madeleine Masterson was sound asleep, with her raven locks tucked neatly beneath a shower cap and her serene blue eyes sealed tightly to the world. Only a year earlier, Madeleine had arrived at School of Fear adorned in a netted veil and a belt of repellents, desperate to keep all spiders and creepy crawlers at bay. While the politically savvy London native had shed both the belt and veil after her first summer, there had been quite a relapse as of late. A few days earlier Madeleine had come to blows with a brown and burgundy Balinese spider, culminating in arachnid roadkill on her forehead. The traumatic incident immediately sparked a renewed sense of panic, hence the implementation of the shower cap.

  On this particular morning, it was not her usual hallucination of eight sticky feet dancing across her arm that awoke her, but something far more harmless. With her eyes still tightly sealed, Madeleine noticed a pungent scent. It wasn’t that of smoke or any recognizable danger. Thick and musty, the overwhelmingly saccharine odor lingered in both her mouth and nostrils. While Madeleine had always enjoyed the odd sweet, there was something downright nauseating about this smell. Now, if this had been any other day, she would have instantly opened her eyes and satiated her curiosity. But on this particular morning Madeleine could think of nothing quite as frightening as facing the hours ahead.

  “Madeleine,” a familiar voice whispered, warm billows of breath cascading against the young girl’s cheeks.

  Having no recourse, Madeleine relented and slowly unlocked her eyes. A mere inch from her face was School of Fear’s eccentric headmistress, Mrs. Wellington. And while some people may look good up close, she certainly was not one of them. Thick layers of makeup sat unflatteringly atop the old woman’s deep and jagged wrinkles, showing her skin to be a most merciless record of time past.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Wellington,” Madeleine whispered awkwardly before once again finding her olfactory gland overwhelmed by the stench. “Not to be cheeky, but what on earth is that smell?”

  “I’ve never cared much for body odor, so I had Schmidty replace my eccrine glands with marmalade and honey. Lovely, isn’t it?”

  “But Schmidty isn’t a doctor!” Madeleine exclaimed.

  “No, but he pretended to be one quite frequently as a child.”

  “That hardly matters.”

  “Shush,” Mrs. Wellington replied. “You’ll wake the others. We haven’t time for idle chitchat; you must meet me in the classroom at once.”

  Madeleine looked into the old woman’s face and nodded. There was an understandable urgency in the air as Mrs. Wellington prepared to face her two greatest fears: Abernathy, and losing the school. Far more than an estranged stepson, Abernathy was Mrs. Wellington’s lone failure as a teacher—a truth she could barely admit to herself, let alone to the world.

  As Mrs. Wellington sashayed femininely into the hall, her cats Fiona, Errol, Annabelle, and Ratty darting rapidly between her feet, Madeleine slipped carefully out from between the sheets. This was not a simple task, for ten-year-old Hyacinth Hicklebee-Riyatulle and her pet ferret, Celery, were curled up at the foot of the bed. Hyacinth—or, as she preferred to be called, Hyhy—was notorious for her obnoxious behavior, as well as for her fear of being alone. Maneuvering cautiously on her tiptoes, Madeleine crept away from her bed and past that of thirteen-year-old Rhode Islander Lucy “Lulu” Punchalower.

  Deep in slumber, with her strawberry blond hair covering her freckled face, Lulu displayed a softness she rarely exhibited when awake. The bold young girl was known for speaking without restraint, for never holding back a thought or a roll of the eyes. Of course, it ought to be mentioned that Lulu’s confident façade instantly evaporated where confined spaces were concerned. When forced into an elevator or a room without windows, Lulu broke into unbridled hysteria. The young girl once went so far as to hijack a window washer’s cart to avoid the elevator at a Boston hotel. Unfortunately, Lulu hadn’t a clue how to maneuver the thing and had to be rescued by the fire department. The whole debacle wound up on the nightly news, much to the chagrin of her image-conscious parents.

  Now, as the sun blazed above the dilapidated limestone mansion known as Summerstone, Madeleine tiptoed down the creaky stairs, the importance of the day that lay ahead weighing heavily on her mind. If Mrs. Wellington and Abernathy did not reconcile, and thereby undermine reporter Sylvie Montgomery’s exposé, School of Fear would quickly and most unceremoniously cease to exist. And as nothing else had worked on her phobia, not even the terribly experimental seminar Brainwashing for Bugs, Madeleine couldn’t afford to lose the school. This was a fact all the School of Fearians recognized: without the completion of the course, they could easily backslide into restricted, panic-filled lives.

  By the time Madeleine dashed through the pink fleur-de-lis foyer and past Mrs. Wellington’s wall of pageant photos, her stomach had twisted itself into a highly complicated Celtic knot. Even the sight of the Great Hall, a grand corridor of one-of-a-kind doors, couldn’t distract Madeleine from her mounting anxiety. The airplane hatch, farm gate, giraffe-shaped portal, and countless other creative aberrations fell on blind eyes as she barreled into the ballroom, inside which both the classroom and drawing room were housed.

  Immediately upon entering, Madeleine saw Mrs. Wellington, dressed
in pink satin pajamas that perfectly matched her eye shadow, pacing nervously in front of the couch. Before her time at School of Fear, Madeleine had never known a woman who reapplied makeup before bed. But Mrs. Wellington was just such a woman and had on the eye shadow, rouge, false eyelashes, and lipstick to prove it.

  “Shower Captain—thank Heavens you’re finally here!” Mrs. Wellington exclaimed.

  Madeleine delicately smoothed her clear plastic shower cap before looking up at the old woman with irritation. “Mrs. Wellington, I loathe to be impertinent on such a day, but you only asked me here thirty seconds ago. And please stop calling me Shower Captain. It makes me feel like a cartoon character—and not a very attractive one at that!”

  “It appears someone woke up on the left side of the bed.”

  “I know I shouldn’t ask,” Madeleine said with a sigh, “but what’s wrong with the left side of the bed?”

  “It’s not the right side of the bed,” Mrs. Wellington said briskly as her mouth shifted colors. The old woman was a bit of a genetic anomaly, with oversized capillaries in her lips that darkened when she was angry, nervous, or embarrassed.

  Madeleine abstained from responding, as she was nearing the end of her perfunctory spider-and-creepy crawler scan of the room. Web-free surroundings normally left the young girl feeling terribly relaxed, but not today. There was simply too much at stake for her to be relaxed. Why, just the thought of being relaxed felt downright irresponsible, almost illegal!

  Mrs. Wellington gracefully lowered herself onto the couch, crossing her legs, and beckoned for Madeleine to do the same. As if performing a well-orchestrated dance, the four cats circled the woman’s feet before falling into the sphinx pose. After carefully noting the locations of all four tails and sixteen paws, Madeleine took her place next to Mrs. Wellington, mimicking her teacher’s perfectly vertical posture. As the young girl prepared to ask the nature of the early-morning visit, she focused on Mrs. Wellington’s long, frail fingers, awash in brownish liver spots. It was dangerously easy to forget that beneath the powerful persona lurked a feeble body weathered by time and experiences.

  “Madeleine, I asked you here today,” Mrs. Wellington announced, “because something strange is happening to me.”

  “I’m quite sure I understand. The possibility of losing the school must be awfully frightening for you; it’s a legacy you’ve worked so hard to maintain. And as for confronting Abernathy, well, I should think it’s normal to be scared after all these years.”

  “Need I remind you that I am the headmistress of School of Fear? I know fright better than anyone! As a matter of fact, I recently awarded myself an honorary PhD in the subject, so I can assure you that fear is not the issue. It’s something far more distressing,” Mrs. Wellington said firmly as she grabbed her chest, contorted her face, and swallowed loudly.

  “You’re not going to fake your own death again, are you?”

  “No!” Mrs. Wellington barked. Then she softened her tone, saying, “Please, Madeleine, I’ve come to you for your sensible British advice. I need help. Something is very, very wrong with me…”

  “As sensible and British as I am, I think I ought to wake the others. After all, Theo is terribly adept at diagnosing people, and Garrison is strong should you need help walking, and Lulu knows CPR, and Hyacinth, well, she is actually the opposite of helpful, so perhaps I’ll leave her and the ferret to sleep,” Madeleine babbled uncontrollably, panic seeping into her voice, as she left the room to collect her friends.

  Within minutes Madeleine had returned with her groggy and pajama-clad classmates—Theo, Garrison, and Lulu. A self-proclaimed specialist on both death and illness, thirteen-year-old New Yorker Theo Bartholomew maneuvered his pudgy frame to the front of the group. After a quick smoothing of his tousled brown locks, he pushed his smudged glasses up the shaft of his button-like nose and began his examination.

  “The doctor is in,” Theo announced confidently as he grabbed Mrs. Wellington’s wrist. “And the good news is I feel a pulse, which means you are definitely still alive.”

  “Ugh, Maddie should never have woken you up,” Lulu moaned, already annoyed by Theo’s theatrics.

  Rather surprisingly, Theo ignored Lulu, instead focusing all his attention on Mrs. Wellington. “Are you experiencing any sharp or dull pains in your head?”

  “No,” Mrs. Wellington responded. “I haven’t had any problems up there since I stopped using tar as wig glue.”

  “In that case, I think I can rule out an advanced brain tumor, aneurysm, or cranial abscess,” Theo declared matter-of-factly before continuing. “Have you experienced any tingling in your extremities?”

  “My extremities?”

  “ ‘Extremities’ is just a fancy word for arms and legs,” Madeleine explained.

  “I’m looking for signs of a stroke, multiple sclerosis, fibromyalgia—just your basic run-of-the-mill, life-altering illnesses,” Theo said.

  “Honestly, half the time I forget I even have extremities, let alone feel them,” answered Mrs. Wellington.

  “Interesting,” Theo said as he took off his grimy glasses and cleaned them on his pajama top.

  “Interesting? Why is that interesting?” Mrs. Wellington asked impatiently.

  “Oh, it isn’t interesting at all. I just like to say that word. Now then, have you noticed any large portions of flesh disappearing from your body?”

  “Most definitely not.”

  “So that’s a no on flesh-eating bacteria,” Theo said as he rubbed his chin and looked down at the felines lounging around Mrs. Wellington’s feet. “Is there a chance one of the cats might have scratched you, given you a case of the old cat scratch fever?”

  “Totally made-up disease,” Lulu mumbled under her breath.

  “Actually, Lulu, it’s totally real,” Theo said. “And if you don’t believe me, go on iTunes—there’s a song about it.”

  “Sorry, I forgot how credible iTunes is when diagnosing an illness,” Lulu quipped.

  “I assure you, Chubby, these cats haven’t had a ragged nail a day in their life,” Mrs. Wellington said. “Have you not seen the kitty spa in the basement? There’s even an artificial tongue to groom their coats.”

  “I hate basements… no windows… bad news,” Lulu muttered nervously to no one in particular.

  “So that’s a no on cat scratch fever, flesh-eating bacteria, brain tumor, aneurysm, cranial abscess, multiple sclerosis, stroke, and fibromyalgia. Well, I’ve got to say, I’m stumped. This might be one for the record books, or maybe just WebMD, but since we don’t have Internet access, I’m going to have to go with medical mystery.”

  “Seriously?” said fourteen-year-old Miami native Garrison Feldman as he stepped in front of Theo. Tall and tanned, with shaggy blond hair, the water-phobic boy had an innately commanding presence. “Why don’t you just tell us what’s going on, Mrs. Wellington? I promise it will be a lot easier than letting Theo examine you.”

  Mrs. Wellington nodded and pursed her lips before beginning. “Ever since I learned about Sylvie Montgomery’s story and the plan for me to confront Abernathy, I’ve been having the weirdest sensations.”

  “What kind of sensations?” Lulu asked with mounting curiosity.

  “Heaviness in my chest, tears in my eyes, a sinking feeling in my stomach. And worst of all, my thoughts keep returning to the past, back to when I first met Abernathy…”

  More decades ago than a chimpanzee can count, a widower by the name of Mr. Wellington brought his son, Abernathy, to School of Fear. The boy was in desperate need of help due to a most irrational fear of stepmothers, also known as novercaphobia. But as fate would have it, Mrs. Wellington, then known as Ms. Hesterfield, and Mr. Wellington fell madly in love. Of course, they tried to hide their feelings from Abernathy, but he soon discovered their love letters, which sent him on a downward spiral. From that point on, Abernathy never spent another night under the same roof as his father or stepmother. Instead, he retreated to the great outdoors,
choosing to live the quiet life of a recluse.

  Greatly weathered by Mother Nature, these days Abernathy sported gray, leathery skin and ragged, sun-stained hair. However, his most notable attribute was a near complete inability to socialize normally. Had it not been for his profound but terribly undiscerning love of music, he would still be living among the trees and squirrels. Rather shockingly, it was the rapture of Hyacinth’s tone-deaf singing that had lured Abernathy back to School of Fear. And once there, he grew rather fond of human company, having spent the last few decades engaged in one-sided conversations with forest animals.

  “Contestants, you must tell me the truth,” Mrs. Wellington now implored her students, or, as she saw them, “contestants in the beauty pageant of life.” “What’s wrong with me?”

  “Am I the only one who thinks that’s a loaded question?” Theo asked with a furrowed brow.

  From the back of the ballroom came the unmistakable sound of Mrs. Wellington’s manservant, Schmidty. In balancing his enormous polyester-covered belly and elaborate comb-over, Schmidty had developed a very distinctive shuffle.

  “Madame, must I explain what’s happening to you again?” Schmidty called out from across the room, the portly English bulldog Macaroni waddling close behind in striped blue pajamas.

  “It’s not meningitis, is it?” Theo asked, stepping away from Mrs. Wellington. “Because my neck is already feeling a little sore.”

  “No, Mister Theo, it’s something far more common…. Feelings,” replied Schmidty.

  “Don’t listen to him; I’ve got plaque on my teeth smarter than he is!” Mrs. Wellington said indignantly.

  “Okay, we definitely need to find a dentist who makes house calls,” Lulu grumbled with unmistakable repulsion.

  “Madame is experiencing emotions such as sorrow, regret, and melancholy for the first time in decades, and understandably she’s rather overwhelmed,” Schmidty explained as the old woman wiped away tears.