I slept until the sun was high in my window, bright rays hitting me in the face. It felt weird getting up so late in the morning. I felt sluggish from having been up in the middle of the night, then having slept too late. It felt like I could just go right back to sleep. I dragged my butt out of bed anyway.
Downstairs, everyone else was all ready up and breakfasted. Seth had slept through the whole thing. Mom and Dad looked like they hadn't slept well, but they were up before me. Fortunately, today was Dad's day off. Right now, he was getting ready to start on his "honey-do" list. Mom had her supplies out and was working on her project.
Seth had friends over. The group, all kids from the neighborhood, ranged in age from about a year younger than Seth to a year older than me. They were all in the back yard playing a game everyone in the neighborhood just called "guns." It was kind of a never-ending war game with squirt guns. There were two "teams" of guys, each team intent on shooting the other. If you were shot, you were "dead" and had to lay on the ground and count to ten. Seeing me in the kitchen, Seth's buddy Joe came into the house and demanded I join his team. I told him maybe after breakfast. I received the response, "Hurry up. We're losing."
I wasn't sure how that could be, since there was no score, and the "dead" always got back up after the ten count. How were the guys even keeping track? I nodded, and he went back outside, bellowing. "Sara's on our team when she comes out!" Someone else shouted back, "No fair!" and I heard Seth chime in, "She's my sister. It's fair. Cody's sister's on his team!"
Cody shouted back, "Yeah, but my sister can't shoot!" That was followed by Julie's offended voice, "Hey!"
I guess being a good shot counts for something, even when you're thirteen and using squirt guns.
I figured I had better get out there before they got impatient. I gulped down a couple of toaster pastries and a glass of milk. I wanted to start reading, but I didn't want to have to tear myself away from the story to go outside. Instead, I grabbed my "gun" out utility closet, loaded it in the sink, and headed outside.
I joined up with my "team," getting the lowdown on which kids were targets and which were allies by watching who Joe and Seth shot versus who they "covered." After a moment, I let the kids know I was there by blasting Julie's right butt cheek. She turned and shot back at me, and I dodged, running across the yard toward Mom's flower garden.
"Ha! Missed me, but you're injured! You have to hop on one leg!"
Julie obediently began hopping, counting to ten as she continued to shoot at the surrounding players. Joe caught her right in the chest, and she was down. Unfortunately, gloating had cost me. As I headed toward the garden, I let my guard down just enough for one of the guys to shoot me in the back. The water felt like ice on my sun-warmed skin.
"Ugh, you got me!" I spread my arms dramatically, and fell to the ground, careful to keep off of Mom's plants. We weren't allowed in the garden. That was a huge no-no.
From my vantage point on the ground, I noticed something I hadn't seen while standing up. In the dirt around Mom's marigolds and daffodils was a set of foot prints. They were bigger than Mom's feet or mine, but not as big as Dad's.
"Hey!" I shouted. "Who ran into Mom's garden?"
The shooting stopped, and the kids all turned to look at each other. Who was going to get into trouble? Joe came over to look. I pointed to the prints. We started looking at everyone's feet.
"Well, you know it wasn't me," Joe said, holding up a sneaker-clad foot. His feet were huge, bigger than my Dad's. No way were the prints his.
Craig, a classmate of mine, knelt down beside the prints. "I don't think it was any of us," he said, then pointed out, "Look, these are from shoes that don't even have any tread."
He was right. The prints were flat. There was no pattern from the bottom of the shoes. They looked like they'd been made by loafers or something. None of the kids were wearing flat-soled shoes. Some of them weren't wearing shoes at all.
I didn't have to go inside to get Mom. She'd been watching us through the window, and seen that we were gathered around the garden, looking at something. She came out, asked what was up, and examined the prints with a concerned look on her face, then went inside to get Dad. She sent the kids over to Joe's house to continue the game, but I stayed to see what was up. Dad came out and took a look. Mom said, "See how this one set is deeper than the others? See how they're right next to each other, instead of one in front of the other? It's like someone stood here for a while." She crossed her arms over her chest.
I felt goosebumps rise along my arms. I imagined someone walking into Mom's garden from the driveway, then standing there with his toes facing our house, long enough for his feet to sink a little into the dirt, before heading back the way he came, carefully stepping around Mom's lilies. Were these from the other night?
Apparently, Mom and Dad thought so, because they called the police. Plaster casts were taken from the prints. There wasn't much else that could be done. Mom was quiet the whole time. The officer took some notes, including making a note of when the prints were found, and how they were spotted. I had to sign another statement, after which Dad told me I could go play with the other kids. I didn't feel like fun in the sun after finding the prints, but I didn't want to worry anyone, so I wandered over to Joe's house with my squirt gun. I couldn't get it out of my head - the thought of someone standing in Mom's garden, watching our house, probably in the middle of the night.
I got my butt totally kicked in that game. Eventually I gave up and went back across the street to my house. I wandered upstairs to read, hoping that losing myself in a story would take my mind off of the garden.
The rest of the day was pretty uneventful, right up until time to go to bed. I was sure I'd be too spooked to fall asleep, but I guess I had played harder than I thought. I was snoring before my head hit the pillow.
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"Aaaayyyyyyy, batter, batter batter! You swing my Grannie!"
My team mates were chomping at the bit. With two outs, two men on base, and only a one point lead, we were just barely hanging on. Jason was on second base. That kid could run like a deer. If Bradley hit that ball anywhere outside the infield, he'd tie up the score, and we didn't have time for extra innings.
Bradley slid his feet out a little and glared at Tommy. He was still pretty mad about my hit in the last inning, I guess. He bobbed his head up, and he shouted out, "You gonna throw that ball, or make love to it all day?"
Tommy threw a fast pitch, right across the plate. Bradley swung the bat and made a solid connection. The crack of the bat went right through my chest, and then the ball was coming right at my face. I reacted instinctively, not so much trying to catch the ball as trying to shield myself from being hit, throwing my gloved hand, palm first, up to block it. At the last split second, conscious thought kicked in. As it hit, I closed my glove around the ball, and brought my other hand up to stop it from bouncing out. The force of the movement knocked the back of the glove into my nose, but I didn't care. I'd just caught Bradley out. It was the third out for the last bat of the last inning. I heard Tommy and the guys yelling, "Yeeeerrrrrrrrr OUT!" and then the cheers began.
Chapter 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 Epilogue
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