tiny and cramped hand. But then I remembered something Annie once told me:
It’s called a scytale. You can use a pencil or a curtain rod, or whatever you want, so long as you
and the person you’re sending the message to agree on the key.
It was one of Annie’s codes. I’d wound the strip of paper around the pencil stub, pulling it tight until the letters lined up across the length of the pencil, and I saw what they
read:
TRUST ME
Jerry had asked me to put an awful lot of faith in a scrap of paper. Still, I trusted him more than I trusted my parents. I was, at that moment, actually fairly furious with my
parents. What kind of people leave their daughter alone in the house the night after a break-in so they can go out for dinner? I’d done the breaking in, of course, but they didn’t know
that. In a few hours, they’d stumble through the front door laughing or fighting. Either way it would be loud enough to wake me up and remind me exactly how miserable and lonely it was to
live in their house.
The idea of staying there for another second was more than I could bear. I packed a bag for the hospital, filling it with toiletries for Annie, a change of clothes, and most important, the
envelope I’d taken from my father’s safe. I left another note in the kitchen, this one saying that I didn’t feel safe in the house and had gone to Cassie’s. I hoped they
felt terrible when they read it, if they read it.
There was only one more thing to do before I could go, and I dreaded doing it. The last time I asked Cassie to cover for me, I’d been manic and close to tears, and she’d still balked
at the idea. If I asked her again, she’d want to know the reason, and I couldn’t tell her. Still, there wasn’t any way around it. I needed her help.
Cassie’s mother answered the front door when I knocked, and invited me in without looking very happy about it. Even in better times, I’d never gotten the feeling that Mrs. Jurgens
was all that fond of me.
“Twice in one week. To what do we owe the honor?” she sniffed, pointing toward the strip of carpet that ran the length of the foyer. “Your shoes, dear. Please.”
Mrs. Jurgens was from the Midwest and made everyone take their shoes off when they went inside her house. My mother had gone there for afternoon tea once and came home raving that she’d
been treated like a common field hand.
“If she thinks I’m going to track dirt all over her clean floors, then perhaps she shouldn’t have invited me into her home,” she’d said.
“Maybe it’s hygiene,” my father had mumbled from behind his newspaper.
“Maybe it’s provincial.”
I kicked off my shoes and went upstairs to Cassie’s room.
Mrs. Jurgens called up after me. “Don’t keep her too long, Alice. She has to get up early for field hockey practice tomorrow.”
Cassie was sitting on the bed when I got there, brushing her hair and trying to look like she hadn’t heard me downstairs a minute before.
“What do you want?” she said. The brush whipped through her hair with such force I was surprised it didn’t pull it out by the roots. “I know you wouldn’t be here if
you didn’t want something.”
At one time, I would have bounded up the stairs and taken my customary spot on the window seat. Now I stood uneasily in the doorway, waiting to be invited in. When it became clear that
wasn’t going to happen, I closed the door behind me and took a seat in the straight-backed desk chair.
It had been a mistake to come here. Cassie and I weren’t close anymore, not the way we used to be. And yet, in the years since, there’d been an understanding between us that
we’d never be the kind of friends who traded in on the history between us. Apparently, that’s the kind of friend I was now. The kind who called in favors for old time’s sake.
“It’s important, Cassie.”
“Important how?”
She stretched her legs out across the bed and hugged a pillow in a white eyelet cover to
It’s called a scytale. You can use a pencil or a curtain rod, or whatever you want, so long as you
and the person you’re sending the message to agree on the key.
It was one of Annie’s codes. I’d wound the strip of paper around the pencil stub, pulling it tight until the letters lined up across the length of the pencil, and I saw what they
read:
TRUST ME
Jerry had asked me to put an awful lot of faith in a scrap of paper. Still, I trusted him more than I trusted my parents. I was, at that moment, actually fairly furious with my
parents. What kind of people leave their daughter alone in the house the night after a break-in so they can go out for dinner? I’d done the breaking in, of course, but they didn’t know
that. In a few hours, they’d stumble through the front door laughing or fighting. Either way it would be loud enough to wake me up and remind me exactly how miserable and lonely it was to
live in their house.
The idea of staying there for another second was more than I could bear. I packed a bag for the hospital, filling it with toiletries for Annie, a change of clothes, and most important, the
envelope I’d taken from my father’s safe. I left another note in the kitchen, this one saying that I didn’t feel safe in the house and had gone to Cassie’s. I hoped they
felt terrible when they read it, if they read it.
There was only one more thing to do before I could go, and I dreaded doing it. The last time I asked Cassie to cover for me, I’d been manic and close to tears, and she’d still balked
at the idea. If I asked her again, she’d want to know the reason, and I couldn’t tell her. Still, there wasn’t any way around it. I needed her help.
Cassie’s mother answered the front door when I knocked, and invited me in without looking very happy about it. Even in better times, I’d never gotten the feeling that Mrs. Jurgens
was all that fond of me.
“Twice in one week. To what do we owe the honor?” she sniffed, pointing toward the strip of carpet that ran the length of the foyer. “Your shoes, dear. Please.”
Mrs. Jurgens was from the Midwest and made everyone take their shoes off when they went inside her house. My mother had gone there for afternoon tea once and came home raving that she’d
been treated like a common field hand.
“If she thinks I’m going to track dirt all over her clean floors, then perhaps she shouldn’t have invited me into her home,” she’d said.
“Maybe it’s hygiene,” my father had mumbled from behind his newspaper.
“Maybe it’s provincial.”
I kicked off my shoes and went upstairs to Cassie’s room.
Mrs. Jurgens called up after me. “Don’t keep her too long, Alice. She has to get up early for field hockey practice tomorrow.”
Cassie was sitting on the bed when I got there, brushing her hair and trying to look like she hadn’t heard me downstairs a minute before.
“What do you want?” she said. The brush whipped through her hair with such force I was surprised it didn’t pull it out by the roots. “I know you wouldn’t be here if
you didn’t want something.”
At one time, I would have bounded up the stairs and taken my customary spot on the window seat. Now I stood uneasily in the doorway, waiting to be invited in. When it became clear that
wasn’t going to happen, I closed the door behind me and took a seat in the straight-backed desk chair.
It had been a mistake to come here. Cassie and I weren’t close anymore, not the way we used to be. And yet, in the years since, there’d been an understanding between us that
we’d never be the kind of friends who traded in on the history between us. Apparently, that’s the kind of friend I was now. The kind who called in favors for old time’s sake.
“It’s important, Cassie.”
“Important how?”
She stretched her legs out across the bed and hugged a pillow in a white eyelet cover to
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