I used to think that I was brave.

In the summer, I'd go out with the boys and take charge of our little expeditions into the forests around our little town,

pretending that we were archaeologists uncovering lost tombs and fighting off mummies or mutant vampire bats,

and by the time I'd reached 12, there wasn't a tree I hadn't

climbed or a boy in school I hadn't tussled with. I'd always come back with a scraped knee

or a skinned elbow, with dirt and grass stains on my sneakers and burrs stuck to the hems

of my jeans, and my mom and dad would just roll their eyes and smile because I was just so precious.

I'm pretty sure I was the only girl in my class who didn't scream when Ben Howlitz

brought one of his dad's tarantula specimens in for show and tell.

I mean, the thing was dead and behind glass.

I was always first to take a day or two. Couldn't stand the thought

of someone thinking that I was just some girly girl because I wouldn't climb the water

tower or walk through the graveyard at midnight and touch the statue that was supposed to kill you

if you did. I didn't tell my parents about those things unless I actually got hurt.

I think I had to go to the hospital like four times before elementary school was finished.

They were always pissed, but I just bide my time until I could start up again.

I kept on like that, with fear and guilt in my periphery until the second year of middle school.

We were in Miss Newman's English class.

It was July, and we were reading The Turn of the Screw.

And about halfway through we got bored and started talking about ghost stories.

Miss Newman talked about the Victorian tradition of reading a ghost story on Christmas Eve. got bored and started talking about ghost stories.

Miss Newman talked about the Victorian tradition of reading a ghost story on Christmas

...