The Princess of Las Pulgas (4 page)

Where did I leave it?

On the counter next to the refrigerator.

Idiot!

I lift the receiver on the
desk phone, punch Talk and hold it to my ear. There’s . . .no . . .
dial . . . tone. An icicle plunges from my head to my stomach and I
fight to keep from screaming.

Get to Kip’s room. He’ll have his cell.

With a shaky hand I open
the office door and listen. No sound. I tiptoe across the oak floor
of the living room, into the carpeted hallway, and upstairs to
Kip’s bedroom door. Grabbing the handle, I turn and
push.

Glass shatters
downstairs.

My skin tightens across my
forehead.

He’s inside.

I duck into Kip’s room. The
light next to his bed is on, his iPod plugged into his ears.
Leaning close, I press my fingers on his lips.

His eyes open and fix me
with a glazed, half-asleep look. He seems so much younger than ten
with his hair tousled over his forehead.

“Where’s your
cell?”

He points to his desk on
the opposite side of the room, his eyes wide. He’s caught the scent
of my fear, and I sense his panic rise to match mine.

“Someone’s,” I gulp air,
“broken into the house.” My whisper stretches to its breaking
point.
Keep your head. Hide yourself and
the kids.
“Let’s get Jessie.” I try to
moisten the inside of my mouth. “Be really quiet, okay?”

He nods, fully awake
now.

Grabbing the cell phone, I
slip out the door first. Kip holds onto the back of my sweater and
follows.

Fump
. The refrigerator door opens. I halt mid-step. Mrs. Franklin
hides jewelry in the freezer trays. Burglars know people do that,
even I know that.
Maybe he’ll take the
jewels and leave.
With Kip clinging to me
I creep forward.

At Jessie’s door, I twist
the knob carefully. This door squeaks. I’d woken Jessie a couple of
times trying to sneak out of the room after reading her to sleep.
The trick is to push fast. Jessie’s Little Mermaid nightlight casts
an orange glow across the rug. Kip enters on tiptoes and I
whoosh
the door shut
behind us, stopping an inch short of the jamb. Then lifting
slightly, I shut it and press the—

No lock. Now I remember
those stupid safety precautions. The Franklins removed the locks
from the kids’ bedroom and bathroom doors so they wouldn’t be able
to lock themselves in, intentionally or otherwise.

Kip and I huddle at the end
of Jessie’s bed, washed in the glow of the Little Mermaid. Jessie’s
snuggled under her blankets, her breath regular and untroubled, a
sharp contrast to my shallow panting.

Kneeling, I whisper into
Kip’s ear. “Do you know a good hiding place?”

He points to Jessie’s
closet.

I shake my head. “Too
obvious.”

But Kip is already sliding
the door open. Inside is a stepladder that Jessie uses to reach
toys on her top shelf. He pulls it to the center of the closet and
climbs the four steps. “Carlie, in here,” he whispers.

Sticking my head inside, I
look up. In the ceiling is a square wooden panel. “Where does that
go?”

“It’s kind of an attic. You
can’t stand, but can sit.”

“You go ahead. I’ll help
Jessie.”

As Kip crawls up inside the
opening, I tiptoe to the bed and lift his sister.

“Carlie, read more story,”
Jessie murmurs. Her eyes flutter open, then close again.

“We’re going into a special
secret place to read, so be very quiet, okay?” I climb the ladder
and hoist Jessie through the hole in the ceiling. Kip grabs his
sister under her arms and lifts her all the way inside. I pull
myself up. Once I’m in the crawl space, I reach down and draw the
ceiling panel into place with a click.

After I catch my breath, I
open Kip’s cell phone. Battery Low flashes three times.

Then the phone
dies.

Chapter 10

My illuminated watch reads
almost midnight. We’ve been here for nearly two hours. I’m a
Popsicle in the Franklins’ unheated crawl spece. Kip’s teeth
chatter, and he’s wound himself into a ball so he looks like a
spaniel on a cold night. Jessie groans, but then snuggles against
me, never opening her eyes. I smooth her forehead.
Please don’t cry out, Jessie.
I stroke her hair and sway with her in my arms until her
breath is steady.

How are we going to get out of here? What if
I promise to change? Really. I’ll make a late New Year’s Resolution
to start being nicer to my family, show Mom I love her, talk to my
brother like he’s a human being, feed Quicken before she begs.

“When can we get down?” Kip
whispers.

“Soon,” I whisper
back.
But how? Any ideas, Carlie?
“Not yet,” I sigh.

“What?” Kip grips my
sweater.

“Nothing.” I put my free
arm around him and hold him against me. He doesn’t resist like he
usually does, or complain that he’s not baby.

“Are you okay?” Kip
whispers from the shadows next to me.

I nod, but that’s not true.
I’m scared, working on not being terrified.

“Carlie,” Kip tugs at my
sweater. “What time is it?”

“After twelve.”

“I hafta pee.”

“It won’t be
long.”

As he sinks back against me
a dull sound comes from below the crawl space.

Kip grabs my arm and
squeezes.

The intruder’s in Jessie’s
room.

A murmur of people talking
over each other comes from below. Easing Jessie off my lap and
putting one ear on the floor, I hear two male voices. Then Mrs.
Franklin cries out.
What’s happening to
her?

If only I could see into
Jessie’s room. Mrs. Franklin’s sobs have become noisy enough to
cover the sound of the magnetic latch, so I press and release the
door, opening it a crack.

Mr. and Mrs. Franklin stand
next to Jessie’s bed, facing my direction, Mr. Franklin’s arms are
wrapped around her shoulders and she’s sobbing. Across from them,
his back to me, stands someone in a sweater and jeans. I stifle a
gasp. He has to be the one who broke into the house.
Does he have a gun leveled at them?

Kip taps my arm. He’s
sidled next to me, also peering through the crack. I signal him to
get back.

“When did you come in?”
That’s Mr. Franklin.

“It must have been around
nine,” the guy in the sweater answers.

It was nine you . . . you creep. I’d love to
drop kick you to the North Pole. Let you get chummy with some
cold.

Kip tugs on my sweater. I
swat him away, but he tugs again, harder.

“Huh?”

“He’s my cousin,” Kip
says.

“Your cousin?” I’ve let my
voice rise above a whisper and before I can register what Kip has
said, the trap door is wrenched from my hand.

Mr. Franklin stares up at
me. “What—?”

Mrs. Franklin, who is still
shaky but no longer crying, joins him. “Carlie!”

I reach for Jessie and hand
her down. Then Kip lowers himself into his father’s arms. “Carlie
made us stay up there for hours. I’ve got icicles on my feet,” he
whines.

If there were another exit
I’d sneak out that way, but there isn’t, so down I go.

“What’s this about?” Mr.
Franklin’s eyebrows form two upside-down V’s. He looks a touch
angry, yet relieved and really puzzled.

“I heard him break the
window on the back door.” I point a shaky accusing finger
at—
Sean Wright, the French tutor? Where
did he come from?

“I didn’t break any
window.” Sean looks at me like I’m nuts. “Oh, right.” He turns to
Mrs. Franklin. “Sorry, Aunt Corky, I accidentally knocked over a
vase on the kitchen counter.”

“A vase?” Anger rises like
a tide from my chest to my head.

Sean faces me. “Hey, sorry.
I didn’t mean to scare anybody.”

He’s staring at me with
those deep-set blue eyes that have Channing females crowding French
classes, and I feel embarrassment flare in my face. My throat clogs
when I try to say something, and out comes a hacking sound like I’m
clearing a hair-ball.

“You were creeping around!
Why didn’t you knock, walk in the door like a . . . a real
nephew?”

“I didn’t see many lights,
so I thought my aunt and uncle were gone with the kids. They hide
the key on the back deck, so I decided to hang out until they came
home.”

I need to let these people
know I’m not an idiot. “I tried to call 911 when I saw him sneaking
to the back door, but the phone was dead.”

“It was all right earlier.
I’ll check.” Mr. Franklin leaves the room.

Mrs. Franklin tucks Jessie
into bed and marches Kip out the door. I follow Sean into the hall
and down the stairs to the entry. I don’t want to be alone with
him, and even if I have a lot to say, none of it’s fit to speak in
the Franklins’ house. Besides he’s very distracting—tall,
handsome—a poster boy for “Come to the Bahamas.”

I look down at the floor
then scan the pictures on the wall. Twisting my bracelet around, I
pretend to be fascinated by my wrist and concentrate on staying
mad.
I deserve to be mad. Even if he
didn’t mean to terrorize me, he deserves some kind of
punishment.

He clears his throat, but
I’m not noticing him.
No
way
.

“Sorry I gave you such a
scare.”

What a lame apology.

Mr. Franklin comes from the
office, my jacket over his arm and his phone in the other. “We need
a new handset. The pads are wearing out, but the phone works,
Carlie. You were upset and probably didn’t press the TALK button
hard enough.” He places the phone on the entry table. “Come on.
I’ll walk you home.”

“I’ll do it.” Sean steps
next to me. “I think I still need to apologize some
more.”

“Thanks, Sean.” Mr.
Franklin says. “It’s been a long night and I’m tired.”

I don’t want him to walk me
home. I can go on my own.
But the
tightness around my head is there—that last bit of cold fear hasn’t
vanished. I slip into my jacket, grateful for its
warmth.

Mrs. Franklin comes
downstairs from Kip’s room holding the empty yogurt dish, remnants
of the illegal chocolate bits clinging to the edge. She shoots me a
“you-know-better” look. Maybe the health food diva won’t call me to
baby-sit again. That’s just fine.

Still, I need money for that dress. I’ll
call tomorrow and apologize. For what? The bedtime yogurt snack?
For keeping her kids safe from an intruder even if he did turn out
to be a nephew? I’m the one who deserves the apology.

At the front door, Mr.
Franklin hands me the scrumptious sum of twenty-five dollars. Then
he opens his wallet again. “Here.” He hands me another ten. “You
did a great job tonight. I’m sorry I didn’t say so earlier, but,
well, finding the you gone and Kip’s bed empty was quite a
shock.”

They’ll call me again.

Chapter 11

Sean and I walk alongside
each other, letting the sound of the ocean fill in for the lack of
conversation.

“How far is it to your
place?” he asks

I point toward the
two-story house across the street, home for as long as I can
remember. The wide path winds to the main entrance, and the leaded
glass panels in the door glow from the entry lights Mom leaves on
until we’re all home. Inside, the vaulted ceilings cast soft
shadows in the living room and at the back, I see someone, probably
Mom, in the kitchen.

“That’s the Edmund place,
isn’t it?”

I’m still not talking to him.

“You’re Carlie, Madame
Lenoir’s star pupil in French 3.” He fills the uneasy silence
between us by staring at my house. “You’ve taken down your
Christmas tree already.”

I’d like to punch Sean
Wright in the jaw. I’m in no mood for chitchat with this guy. I
don’t bother to tell him we never took that tree inside, that it’s
likely to turn brown where it stands next to the front door because
my dimwit brother hasn’t hauled it to the curb for pick up. My
hands still shake even though I’ve stuffed them inside my jacket
pockets.

“Look, I’m really sorry,”
he says as if repeating his apology is going to erase
tonight.

“Sorry? What kind of lame
word is that for making me think we were about to die?” I stayed
calm as possible hiding in Jessie’s bedroom and on this
stroll
home. Now I’m
having a hard time not yelling. “And what were you doing all that
time, playing video games?”
You should be
hung by your very beautiful, tanned neck!

“Désolé de vous avoir donné une telle
frayeur!”

“Oh.” The sound I make is
so small I’m not sure it made its way from my mouth into the night
air.
Sorry I gave you such a scare
sounds much more sincere in French.