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Thursday, October 03, 1996     Page: 1C

Scare us silly
   
Complete this Halloween story and win some valuable prizes
    O.K., Kids, here’s your chance to rustle up your imaginations, put
yourselves in Roberta’s shoes and write an ending for this Halloween story
crafted by staff writer Mark E. JonesLet us know what happens to this alleged
‘fraidy cat. Maybe she’s braver than she thinks; maybe not.
   
A team of judges from The Times Leader will choose the most interesting
conclusion in each of three age categories and publish them on the Oct. 31
Kids Page.
   
First prize is $25 and second prize is $10 in the following categories:
Fourth grade and younger; fifth-grade through eighth-grade and ninth-grade
through 12th-grade.
   
Please print, write your entry neatly and limit it to 300 words or less.
   
Send them to The Times Leader Newsroom, 15 N. Main St., Wilkes-Barre, PA
18711, in care of Mary Therese Biebel.
   
You have two weeks to scare us. Deadline for entries is Oct. 17.
   
Racing out the door and across the lawn, I heard my grandmother call, “Are
you sure you’ll be OK, R.J.?”
   
“No problem,” I answered cheerfully, never expecting this night would get
so bizarre. And so frightening.
   
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Roberta Q. Jeffries, and I turned
11 last month. Everybody I know calls me R.J. My mom says the initials stand
for “real jewel.”
   
My brother Josh insists it means “Roberta’s a Jerk.”
   
All my friends, however, decided R.J. suits me perfectly because I’m always
Real Jittery. You know, scared. It’s an embarrassing trait. Being a girl,
people just assume you’re afraid of stuff — snakes and those kind of
creepy-crawly things — and that you can’t play soccer.
   
Well, I can blister a goal past most boys . . . even some of the
13-year-olds. But when it comes to being a ‘fraidy cat, people will tell you
I’m a wimp with a capital `W.’ Thunder makes me jump. Darkness gives me the
willies. And I’d rather avoid stuff that howls, hoots, scratches or moves
across town in anything other than a taxi.
   
Once, when my family went away to Ocean City, my brother stuck seaweed in
my tennis shoes when I wasn’t looking and then started telling icky octopus
tales.
   
I fell for it. Pulling my shoes on later that day, I screamed bloody
murder. Josh laughed all the way back to our hotel. Mom said, “Josh, that
wasn’t nice.” Dad just shook his head.
   
So everybody looked surprised after school today when I said I’d walk to
grandma’s house by myself. But, hey, I’m 11 now. Her house isn’t that far
away. Plus I’d take our dog, Tidbit, and I’d be back before sundown.
   
At least, that was the plan.
   
Then I got distracted, helping Grandma bake her apple pies. I’m no cook
myself, but I love sprinkling flour on her formica countertop, then mashing
pie dough with that big, wooden rolling pin. Squish-squash. Squish-squash.
   
Next thing I knew, it was almost 7. Gets dark quick in October, I realized
a bit too late. No way was I calling home for a ride. After all, Josh might
answer.
   
That’s how I got here, crunching through a noisy pile of autumn leaves
blown against the football field’s chain-link fence. This was the shortcut
home, past the junior high school. There weren’t any street lights, but it was
starting to rain. I was in a hurry.
   
Suddenly, Tidbit yanked at his leash. Snap. “No, Tidbit. Come back!” I
watched as Tidbit chased a squirrel into the evening mist. Now I was alone. Or
so I thought.
   
I was standing next to the aluminum tool shed, where “Old Man Sweeney” —
as we kids know him — keeps the school’s hedge trimmers and lawn cutters. The
door was open just a crack, allowing a sliver of light to escape.
   
It began to pour. I thought I could slip into the shed, maybe, just for a
minute until the rain slowed. As I got closer, I heard — or maybe I didn’t
hear, it was so faint — a sound very similar to the whine of a dentist’s
drill.
   
The tool shed’s door creaked as I pushed lightly against it. And then . . .