It isn’t because I don’t trust him, because the truth is, he’s the only kid my age who’s been nice to me in my entire life. It’s not even because he might freak out at the crazy things that go on in the turret, because I don’t think he would. It’s just that I have a feeling the turret is mine, only mine. And Aunt Edith’s. Of course. I’m trembling as I climb the stairs. Going up here makes me think of Aunt Edith. It also, unfortunately, makes me think of the crickets. I force myself to focus on only one step after the other: Take out the key, put it in the lock, turn it slowly, hear the bolt slide out of place. I breathe fast, shallow breaths as I push open the heavy door, then jump back in the hallway quickly, in case any cricket decides to terrorize me. Nothing seems to move. I cautiously take a step, crossing over the threshold into the turret. And then the Monster cricket rushes me, leaping up on my shoulder. “Hey!” Monster cricket jumps off, landing on a stack of dusty books.
