Skateboard Tough by Matt Christopher

shrugged her shoulders, as if she were having trouble saying what she wanted to say.
    “Yeah, go on,” Brett said, a slight bit of anger in his voice. “Ever since I’ve had it… what?”
    “You haven’t been the same,” she said, looking directly at him. “You’ve been a different person. You’ve not only become a real whiz on that skateboard, but it seems — I don’t know — it seems to have gone to your head.”
    Her eyes were wide now, as if she thought she’d gone too far.
    “You
are
crazy Shan,” Brett snapped. “How could I be a different person just because of a new skateboard? That’s movie stuff. Cartoon stuff.” He laughed at her as he held up the postcard. “You don’t really believe this was written by Lance Hawker, do you? The guy’s dead! No dead guy can write a postcard! I know who wrote it, just as well as I know my own name! It was W.E.! He’s the only guy who’d do a rotten thing like this!”
    “Why?” she asked. “Why would W.E. do it?”
    Brett’s eyes narrowed, and his mouth tightened into a thin, hard line. “Because he thinks it’s hexed, that’s why. Isn’t that stupid?”
    She closed the music book and stood up. “I don’t know,” she answered, heading out of the room. “I just know that it’s done
something
to you, that’s all.”
    She disappeared down the hallway, and a moment later Brett heard her bedroom door close.
    Brett mulled over his sister’s words. Well, maybe he
had
changed.
When you begin performing tricks on a skateboard that you’ve never performed before in your life, you’re bound to change a little, aren’t you?
    One thing for certain: he wasn’t going to rebury The Lizard, no matter what she, and that postcard, said.
    But there was one thing he was going to do, and he was going to do it now. He went to the telephone, picked up the directory, found W.E.’s number, and dialed it.
    “You’re a rat, W.E.,” he said the minute he recognized W.E.’s familiar, high-pitched voice. “You know that? Writing that postcard is the lowest, meanest thing a guy could do, and I…” He was so angry that even the receiver was trembling. “I don’t want to speak to you again.”
    He was about to hang up. But W.E. said, “What postcard? What are you talking about, Brett? I didn’t send you any postcard.”
    “Don’t lie to me. Only you would’ve written a note like that.”
    “You’re way out of line, Brett. I haven’t written a postcard since Christmas. What did it say?”
    “You
know what it said.” Again he was about to hang up, but the way W.E. was answering him …
    “I don’t, Brett,” W.E. said, his voice soft, sincere. “Honest. I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about. Why are you so sure I wrote it? Is it in my handwriting? Because if it is, somebody forged it. And I don’t know who’d do a dirty, dumb thing like that.”
    Brett stared at the wall a minute, suddenly wondering if he was wrong after all. He hadn’t thought about the handwriting. And the writing wasn’t in longhand. It was printed.
    No, he wasn’t sure it was W.E.’s handwriting. And, because of the sincerity of W.E.’s voice …
    Darn it, he
believed
W.E. Somebody else must have written that postcard. Who? Kyle Robinson?
    “I’m sorry, W.E.,” he said, embarrassed and apologetic. “I’m really sorry. I… I don’t know what else to say.”
    “That’s okay. What did the card say?” W.E. asked.
    “Something about my reburying The Lizard, and it was signed by Lance Hawker.”
    “Oh. And because I’ve been telling you about Lance you figured I was the guilty party.”
    “I guess that’s it. I’m sorry, W.E.” He was about to hang up for the third time, and thought of something. “Did you say anything about The Lizard to Kyle?”
    There was a momentary silence, then W.E. answered. “I don’t know, Brett. I don’t think so, but I’m not sure. Why? You think …?”
    “I’m not sure what to think,” Brett replied,