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Authors: Kekla Magoon
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around Abby’s house so we are sure to stay out of sight of her dad.
Soon enough, we are crawling along the edge of Abby’s next-door neighbors’ garden, partly shielded by a decorative grape arbor. We hide and wait. It must’ve sprinkled overnight. The air is earthy, the ground a bit damp.
“When he’s done, he’ll put the trimmer away in the shed,” Abby says.
I nod. “That may be our best shot.”
Abby lies flat out in the dirt. “Can you keep watch, please? I don’t feel good.”
“Yeah.” I try to ignore the fact that she’s muddying my shirt. But I can’t. “Get up. Don’t get my shirt dirty.”
“I’m sick. It’ll wash.”
There are a thousand things I could say, a thousand things I’m thinking, but there’s no time. The trimmer motor cuts out. Peeking past the arbor, I see Mr. Duncan heading toward the shed at the back of the yard.
“Come on.” I nudge Abby. In ten seconds … nine … eight, he’ll disappear from sight.
“Ready? Go, go!”
We dash across the lawn, holding back our breath and trying not to laugh aloud, lest he hear us and come investigate. Who knows how long we have.
My hands grapple with Abby’s window ledge; I still have one eye on the shed. The open door blocks me from seeing in, which is great because it also blocks Mr. Duncan’s view out.
We get the window open. Abby dives in headfirst. I’m right behind her, landing practically on top of her when I fall inside.
“Shhhh…”
We pause, listening. Then we let ourselves collapse on the floor, and we’re choking back hysterics because we have lived the dream and gotten gloriously away with it.
From above, Abby’s mom says, “Girls, we need to talk.”
14
Getting Caught
It’s always a bit of a relief.
MRS. DUNCAN’S SITTING on Abby’s bed, cross-legged and cool as a cucumber, browsing a stack of Abby’s magazines.
We are so busted.
Abby sits up. “Mom! This is my room. What are you doing? Go away!”
“Abby, this is my house. I enter whichever room I wish, at any time that I wish. And I expect the people who are supposed to be in that room to be there when I stop by.”
Mrs. Duncan tosses the magazines onto the floor where she probably found them. She looks at Abby for a long moment. Then me. I swallow hard.
“Living room. Two minutes. Both of you.” She sweeps out the door.
“We’re not coming to the living room,” Abby shouts.
“I’m getting your father. We’ll see you in two.”
* * *
ABBY AND I slump on opposite sides of the living room couch. Mrs. Duncan plants herself between us. Mr. Duncan sits in one of the two armchairs, laying his yard gloves on the coffee table. He strokes his neatly trimmed beard.
Mrs. Duncan looks from me to Abby, but for some reason settles on me.
“Are you all right?” she says, quite warmly.
“Fine.”
She turns to Abby. “And what about you?” Her tone sharpens a little.
Abby makes a face that would wither flowers.
Back to me. “Mrs. Scottie called to tell us where you were.”
I’d been wondering how they found out. We were quiet when we left, sneaky when we came back. They shouldn’t have suspected a thing.
Enter Mrs. Scottie. I sink deeper into the couch. I can’t believe she ratted us out. I’m not surprised that she found out—she probably heard us coming in last night—but why would she go out of her way to call the Duncans? I’m steamed.
Mrs. Duncan’s still talking. Something about what is and isn’t acceptable behavior. We get it, already.
“Ellis, we’ve spoken to your mother.” Mrs. Duncan’s gaze turns sickeningly sympathetic. “We know this must be a very difficult time for you. You’re in a fragile emotional state, so it’s understandable that you might act out—”
“All we did was go to my house,” I say. “What’s the big deal?”
“Let me finish, hon,” Mrs. Duncan says. “I know this must be difficult for you to deal with, but this isn’t the way to handle it.”
I see
Soon enough, we are crawling along the edge of Abby’s next-door neighbors’ garden, partly shielded by a decorative grape arbor. We hide and wait. It must’ve sprinkled overnight. The air is earthy, the ground a bit damp.
“When he’s done, he’ll put the trimmer away in the shed,” Abby says.
I nod. “That may be our best shot.”
Abby lies flat out in the dirt. “Can you keep watch, please? I don’t feel good.”
“Yeah.” I try to ignore the fact that she’s muddying my shirt. But I can’t. “Get up. Don’t get my shirt dirty.”
“I’m sick. It’ll wash.”
There are a thousand things I could say, a thousand things I’m thinking, but there’s no time. The trimmer motor cuts out. Peeking past the arbor, I see Mr. Duncan heading toward the shed at the back of the yard.
“Come on.” I nudge Abby. In ten seconds … nine … eight, he’ll disappear from sight.
“Ready? Go, go!”
We dash across the lawn, holding back our breath and trying not to laugh aloud, lest he hear us and come investigate. Who knows how long we have.
My hands grapple with Abby’s window ledge; I still have one eye on the shed. The open door blocks me from seeing in, which is great because it also blocks Mr. Duncan’s view out.
We get the window open. Abby dives in headfirst. I’m right behind her, landing practically on top of her when I fall inside.
“Shhhh…”
We pause, listening. Then we let ourselves collapse on the floor, and we’re choking back hysterics because we have lived the dream and gotten gloriously away with it.
From above, Abby’s mom says, “Girls, we need to talk.”
14
Getting Caught
It’s always a bit of a relief.
MRS. DUNCAN’S SITTING on Abby’s bed, cross-legged and cool as a cucumber, browsing a stack of Abby’s magazines.
We are so busted.
Abby sits up. “Mom! This is my room. What are you doing? Go away!”
“Abby, this is my house. I enter whichever room I wish, at any time that I wish. And I expect the people who are supposed to be in that room to be there when I stop by.”
Mrs. Duncan tosses the magazines onto the floor where she probably found them. She looks at Abby for a long moment. Then me. I swallow hard.
“Living room. Two minutes. Both of you.” She sweeps out the door.
“We’re not coming to the living room,” Abby shouts.
“I’m getting your father. We’ll see you in two.”
* * *
ABBY AND I slump on opposite sides of the living room couch. Mrs. Duncan plants herself between us. Mr. Duncan sits in one of the two armchairs, laying his yard gloves on the coffee table. He strokes his neatly trimmed beard.
Mrs. Duncan looks from me to Abby, but for some reason settles on me.
“Are you all right?” she says, quite warmly.
“Fine.”
She turns to Abby. “And what about you?” Her tone sharpens a little.
Abby makes a face that would wither flowers.
Back to me. “Mrs. Scottie called to tell us where you were.”
I’d been wondering how they found out. We were quiet when we left, sneaky when we came back. They shouldn’t have suspected a thing.
Enter Mrs. Scottie. I sink deeper into the couch. I can’t believe she ratted us out. I’m not surprised that she found out—she probably heard us coming in last night—but why would she go out of her way to call the Duncans? I’m steamed.
Mrs. Duncan’s still talking. Something about what is and isn’t acceptable behavior. We get it, already.
“Ellis, we’ve spoken to your mother.” Mrs. Duncan’s gaze turns sickeningly sympathetic. “We know this must be a very difficult time for you. You’re in a fragile emotional state, so it’s understandable that you might act out—”
“All we did was go to my house,” I say. “What’s the big deal?”
“Let me finish, hon,” Mrs. Duncan says. “I know this must be difficult for you to deal with, but this isn’t the way to handle it.”
I see
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