“Hi, Amy,” he said. “We should—”

“No socializing!” Mr. Stone said, coming to life a little. Dustin apologized and accepted his bottle of glass cleaner. “Help Gumm with the science classrooms,” Mr. Stone added.

“Actually, sir, I thought we could clean the library,” Dustin said innocently. “That was my job last time. I’m a real expert.”

Mr. Stone stared at Dustin as if he was up to something—which, of course, he was. Sort of. But Dustin just looked back with a vacant, innocent expression. I had to look away or else I’d start cracking up.

“Fine,” Mr. Stone growled. “But I’ll be checking up on you. Any hanky-panky . . .” He stopped short and then flushed red. One of the potheads snickered and sneezed the name of a venereal disease.

“That’s enough!” Mr. Stone barked. “For that, you’re on bathroom duty, Carson.” Mr. Stone tossed Dustin a set of keys, and I hid another smile as I followed him to the library.

I’d never spent any time in the high school library. From what I could tell, nobody else had either. Dustin unlocked the door to what was more or less a glorified janitor’s closet: a tiny, windowless room full of rusting metal shelves crammed with books that hadn’t been new when my mom was going to school here. It looked like the shelves hadn’t been dusted since the last time Dustin served detention. The sad little book display arranged on a tiny table near the door was springtime-themed—despite the fact that it was October. There wasn’t even a librarian; if you wanted to check out books, you were supposed to borrow a teacher’s keys and use the honor system. Literature theft wasn’t exactly a high-concern crime in our neck of the prairie. The school probably would’ve been excited just to learn that someone could actually read.

The “archive” turned out to be a closet at the back of the library. Dustin flipped through the keys Mr. Stone had given him, but none of them fit the lock. “Shoot,” he said. I looked at the flimsy wooden door, and then at Dustin. He grinned. “Really?”

“Come on,” I said. “I did your homework for you for a year. You owe me.”

He nodded solemnly. “You do have a point there.” Bracing one foot against the doorframe, he grabbed the doorknob and pulled. Muscles bulged under the soft fabric of his cornflower-blue T-shirt, and I remembered with a pang that I’d once had a major crush on the guy. Dustin might be a little dumb, but he was hot. The door creaked alarmingly, and with one final tug it came away from the frame with a splintering crack.

“Wow,” I said. “I didn’t think that would actually work. You’re really strong.”

Dustin blushed modestly. “It’s just, like, laminate,” he mumbled.

“We’re going to be in so much trouble,” I said, looking at the ruined lock.

“Nah,” he said. “Nobody comes in here. They won’t notice for years.”

Eagerly, I looked over his shoulder at the contents of the closet: a teetering stack of dusty cardboard boxes, piles of faded fabric, and, weirdly enough, a rusty old hoe. That was it. The entire historical archive of Flat Hill, Kansas.

“I guess this place was always a dump,” I said. Dustin pulled the top box off the stack, grunting with surprise at how heavy it was. I lifted the lid, revealing a stack of ancient yearbooks. The top one was dated 1967.

“Far out,” Dustin said, leafing through it. “Check out this dude’s hair.” He pointed to a blissed-out-looking hippie guy with shampoo-commercial-worthy blond waves past his shoulders.

“Totally not fair,” I said. I shoved the box aside and went for the next one while Dustin looked at old yearbooks. More yearbooks, a box of old newspapers—none of them dating back to the time of Baum’s article—a leather-bound book whose title, Tales of the Prairie, was embossed on the front in frilly letters. Nothing. My heart sank. The piles of fabric were old-fashioned aprons and a frayed blue banner with CONGRATULATIONS CLASS OF 1934 sewn on in bright red letters.

“I guess that’s it,” Dustin said in disappointment.

“There’s one more box,” I said. “Way at the back.”

“I don’t see it.”

I reached for the box and then yanked my hands back with a yelp. It had stung me. I popped a finger into my mouth, tasting blood. “There’s something sharp back there,” I said.

“I don’t even see what you’re trying to grab.”

I reached in again, more cautiously this time, and then I felt it, like a halo around the battered old box: the unmistakable buzz of magic. A thrill ran through me. I’d been right. There was something here—and someone had tried to hide it. Someone powerful enough to use magic in Kansas. Someone who’d been able to keep the truth about Dorothy a secret for over a century. Someone who had to be from Oz. <