The blue plastic chairs of the old abandoned elementary school were lined up against the wall. The wall was crumbling, the white plaster coming off in my hand. The air still smelled of kids’ crayons and waterproof markers, but there was another smell, one I couldn’t quite put my finger on. It was a musty, overwhelming smell. Before I could answer my own question, the brown wooden door creaked. I jumped. There was a girl there. She looked about 17, with hair like melted chocolate, and eyes that shone like emeralds. She was wearing plain clothes, just an old, dirty pink hoodie, a blue tank top, and a short khaki skirt. She looked as if she had appeared from a rundown boarding school. I blinked. She smiled and blew chalk dust and other grime off a desk.She sat on it and asked me, “Why did you come here?” I wanted to ask her the same, but I couldn’t seem to form the words. Was it the chalk dust in my mouth? Or was it the sinister gleam in her eyes?The girl stared at me, clearly amused. She smirked and reached for my backpack. In the front pocket, she found my necklace. It was simple, a silver chain with a ruby pendant hanging from it carelessly. The girl examined it, and I tried to reach for it. She backed up, out of my reach, and asked me, “What’s your name?”I grumbled, frustrated. “Marly Thomas. Give me back the necklace.”She shook her head, hair spilling around her like a waterfall. “Where did you find this, Marly?””I found it in my attic. It’s my great-grandmother’s. What’s your name?”She laughed and exclaimed, “I thought you knew. I’m Lillian. And I’d like to keep this necklace.”I looked at her, mouth hanging wide open.”Why would you do that? I need that necklace. It belongs to me.”She looked at me with an odd expression I didn’t understand. It was like a mixture of confused and knowing. That can’t be right.”No,” she whispered, “It’s mine. I need this necklace.” With that, she walked away, leaving a trail of dust and kindergarten memories behind her.Defeated, I trudged home. Grabbing a Fanta from the refrigerator, I unhooked the string and let the ladder fall. I climbed up to our attic, where I immediately tripped on a ripped brown box labeled “Dad’s Old College Stuff.” I scanned the room, searching for a bright blue jeweled hat box. I found it, stuffed in between a box labeled “School” and a broken TV with its useless remote sitting there waiting for a second chance. Snatching the box, I hoped that maybe Great-Grandma had more beautiful possessions for me to remember her by.That’s when I saw it. Gleaming under the overhead lights was the necklace. I gasped, leaned in, and saw that there was something else in the box. It was an old, faded high school yearbook photo. There was a group of senior girls laughing as they sat at a metal picnic table. One of the girls had a beautiful new pink hoodie, long chestnut hair, and, when I squinted, a ruby necklace around her neck. On the back, in messy cursive, read “Seniors: Carol Winter, Melissa Harold, and Lillian Thomas.” Underneath that, it read “Thank You.”
