My Book:
THE TUNNEL PROJECT

Maisy Hill discovers an envelope of clues hidden years ago by her deceased mother – clues that lead to a time capsule Maisy is certain will bring her closer to the mom she never knew. But when Maisy learns the time capsule is stashed in the maze of tunnels that span the underbelly of her middle school, she fears getting her hands on her mom’s treasured keepsakes may be harder than she imagined.

When Maisy’s inquiries about gaining access to the tunnels are denied by the school administration, she realizes her only avenue to the time capsule may be the same route her mother took decades earlier – sneaking into the well-secured tunnels. But Maisy’s mother had the advantage of both confidence and friends to help her, two things Maisy has been lacking since a bullying incident when middle school began.

As Maisy plots her journey she gains insight into her mother while also finding help in unexpected places: An old classmate of her mom’s, a new girl at school, a neighborhood friend, and a cute boy who likes photography. But as she learns to trust new people she begins to doubt her plan. Is sneaking into the tunnels worth the risk of serious trouble – and potential danger – to her and her new friends? And if they find the time capsule, will it have the answers Maisy is seeking?

EXCERPT 1

Chapter 1

The lady in the painting on our guest room wall was looking at me.

That wasn’t the worst of it, though. She wasn’t just staring; she was judging me. She was whittling me down with her stony blue eyes, asking the same questions as my dad but in a more direct way:

Why are you in here?

What’s wrong with your room?

Why are you alone all the time?

What happened to your friends?

I put down the scissors I was using to cut magazine scraps for my latest collage and uncurled myself from the knit blanket on the guest room bed. The painting had been a gift from my dad’s sister when she and my uncle moved to Arizona. I remembered her saying she’d always loved how regal the woman looked. Clearly Dad didn’t care for it as much as his sister, since the painting hung in a room he rarely entered.

I scurried over to the wall, already missing my cozy blanket cocoon. Looking away from the lady’s questioning eyes, I lifted the painting from its nail, turned it around, and set it on the floor.

“You can judge the wall,” I said aloud, wiping my hands of the dust from the frame.

I returned to the bed and my magazine cutting, putting in my headphones once I was settled. I felt a little better without the lady’s eyes on me, but my uneasiness lingered. It was the last day of winter break, and tomorrow I would return to seventh grade, my first year of middle school. Last year I’d been excited about the prospect of a big change. Now I knew the truth: change wasn’t always exhilarating. It could crush you while you glanced the other way.

I’d spent the first part of winter break in my bedroom, but the walls had started to slowly creep in on me, squishing out feelings I’d rather stayed flattened inside. The more time I spent in there, the more my room reminded me of who I once was – a cheery, confident girl who didn’t care much about what other people thought of her. A girl who found it easy to get along with anyone. That was the girl who used to live in my bedroom. She didn’t exist anymore, and I felt like an imposter in her space. So I’d retreated to the guest room for everything but sleeping.

I wondered what my friends had been doing over break. Had they noticed the fissure that was emerging between us? Was it temporary, or would it keep growing? We hadn’t had a huge falling out or anything, but ever since…well, ever since the incident this fall the phone calls had slowed.

A familiar feeling swept over me; one that visited me more and more in the last few months.

I wished my mom was here. That part was nothing new. I missed Mom, though I never really knew her. But lately…there was something more, a tangle of fringe hanging off the edges of the usual swath of grief:

I missed the girl I would be if I knew my mom.

EXCERPT 2

I traced my fingers along the magazine bins lined up along one closet shelf until I found the ones labeled “Allie’s yearbooks.” I pulled the bins from the closet and took the yearbooks out until I found the middle school editions.

I flipped open Mom’s eighth grade yearbook and scanned the pictures. I was surprised how well I remembered them from my previous perusing. There was Mom’s school photo, her smile shy and her hair wavy. There was another photo of Mom running track, about to cross the finish line in second place. Her ponytail was flying behind her. I’d always thought it was a great photo. There were a couple of other pictures where Mom’s head was a small dot among many. But that was about it.

Not ready to put it away, I decided to investigate the hand-written notes from other kids. Most were generic. “Have a great summer!” or “Never change” or “Orchestra was fun!” I was about to stash the book away when a note scribbled in purple pen at the back of the yearbook caught my eye.

                Hey Allie,

                Don’t forget!

                You’ll find the past beneath the wardrobe floor.

                Love, Allie

I didn’t remember seeing this note before. I certainly hadn’t noticed that the note was addressed to and from the same name. That may not have been important since Allison was a common name back then. But the handwriting looked like other things my mom had written around that time.

I went to the closet and pulled down the box of Mom’s old papers. I dug past the elementary school files to middle school. A hand-drawn map of Minnesota peeked up at me, and I snatched it out to set beside the yearbook.

The handwriting was very similar. And the name at the top – “Allie” was written almost exactly like the yearbook samples, with a regular A then loops for the Ls and an I with a circle instead of a dot.

So…did my mom write herself a note in her eighth grade yearbook?

And if she did…why?

I read the message a few more times, then set the book down and leaned against the edge of the bed. You’ll find the past beneath the wardrobe floor. What did she mean by that? Was it an inside joke? Or was it some sort of clue?

My fingers tingled with excitement but I tried to hold myself back. It was just a silly note. Maybe there was another “Allie” with handwriting similar to Mom’s. Maybe she and Mom talked about The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. The chances of a deeper meaning were slim.

Still, I sat for a long time wondering if somewhere, somehow, my mom had hidden something under the floor of a wardrobe.

And who even used the word wardrobe anymore?

My eyelids were heavy. I stood up just long enough to turn off the light and fall into bed.