Twelve Impossible Things Before Breakfast

  Zena’s mind went, Will/won’t. Will/won’t.

  “What?” the man asked. Evidently she had said it aloud.

  “Will,” Zena whispered. “Only I didn’t save me. You did.”

  “No, Zena, we could never have gotten to you in time if you hadn’t screamed. Without the collar, Wild Wood Central can’t track you. He counted on that.”

  “Track me?” Zena, unthinking, put a hand to her neck, found a bandage there.

  “We try to keep a careful accounting of everything that goes on in the park,” the man said. He looked, Zena thought, pretty coolish in his camouflage. Interesting looking, too, his face all planes and angles, with a wild, brushy orange mustache. Almost like one of those old pirates.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Now that the city is safe everywhere else, people go Wilding just to feel that little shiver of fear. Just to get in touch with their primal selves.”

  “ ‘Mime the prime,’ ” Zena said, remembering one of the old commercials.

  “Exactly.” He smiled. It was a very coolish smile. “And it’s our job to make that fear safe. Control the chaos. Keep prime time dean.”

  “Then that guy...” Zena began, shuddering as she recalled the black mask, the hands around her neck.

  “He’d actually killed three other girls, the Maharish girl being his latest. All girls without their collars who didn’t have the human fight-back know how. He’d gotten in unchanged through one of the old tunnels that we should have had blocked. ‘Those wild girls,’ he called his victims. Thanks to you, we caught him.”

  “Are you a cop?” Zena wrinkled her nose a bit.

  “Nope. I’m a Max,” he said, giving her a long, slow wink.

  “A Max?”

  “We control the Wild Things!” When she looked blank, he said, “It’s an old story.” He handed her a card. “In case you want to know more.”

  Zena looked at the card. It was embellished with holograms, front and back, of extinct animals. His name, Carl Barkham, was emblazoned in red across the elephant.

  Just then her mother came in. Barkham greeted her with a mock salute and left. He walked down the hall with a deliberate, rangy stride that made him look, Zena thought, a lot like a powerful animal. A lion. Or a tiger.

  “Princess!” her mother cried. “I came as soon as I heard.”

  “I’m fine, Mom,” Zena said, not even wincing at the old nickname.

  Behind her were Marnie, Lazlo, and Nick. They stood silently by the bed. At last Nick whispered, “You OK?” Somehow he seemed small, young, boneless. He was glancing nervously at Zena, at her mother, then back again. It was very uncoolish.

  “I’m fine,” Zena said. “Just a little achey.” If Barkham was a tiger, then Nick was just a cub. “But I realize now that going collarless was really dumb. I was plain lucky.”

  "Coolish,” Nick said.

  But it wasn’t. The Max was coolish. Nick was just ... just ... foolish.

  “I’m ready to go home, Mom,” Zena said. “I’ve got a lot of homework.”

  “Homework?” The word fell out of Nick’s slack mouth.

  She smiled pityingly at him, put her feet over the side of the bed, and stood. “I’ve got a lot of studying to do if I want to become a Max.”

  “What’s a Max?” all four of them asked at once.

  “Someone who tames the Wild Things,” she said. “It’s an old story. Come on, Mom. I’m starving. Got anything still hot for dinner?”

  The Baby-Sitter

  HILARY HATED BABY-SITTING at the Michells' house, though she loved the Mitchell twins. The house was one of those old, creaky Victorian horrors, with a dozen rooms and two sets of stairs. One set led from the front hall, and one, which the servants had used back in the 1890s, led up from the kitchen.

  There was a long, dark hallway upstairs, and the twins slept at the end of it. Each time Hilary checked on them, she felt as if there were things watching her from behind the closed doors of the other rooms or from the walls. She couldn’t say what exactly, just riling.

  “Do this,” Adam Mitchell had said to her the first time she’d taken them up to bed. He touched one door with his right hand, the next with his left, spun around twice on his right leg, then kissed his fingers one after another. He repeated this ritual three times down the hall to the room he shared with his brother, Andrew.

  Once a night,

  And you’re all right,

  he sang in a Munchkin voice.

  Andrew did the same.

  Hilary laughed at their antics. They looked so cute, like a pair of six-year-old wizards or pale Michael Jackson clones, she couldn’t decide which.

  “You do it, Hilary,” they urged.

  "There’s no music, guys,” she said. “And I don’t dance without music.”

  “But it’s not dancing, Hilly,” Adam said. “It’s magic.”

  “It keeps Them away,” Andrew added. "We don’t like Them. Grandma showed us how. This was her house first. And her grandmother’s before her. If you do it, They won’t bother you.”

  “Well, don’t worry about Them,” Hilary said. “Or anything else. That’s what I’m hired for, to make sure nothing bad happens to you while your mom and dad are out.”

  But her promises hadn’t satisfied them, and in the end, to keep them happy, she banged on each door and spun around on her right leg, and kissed her fingers, too. It was a lot of fun, actually. She had taught it to her best friend, Brenda, the next day in school, and pretty soon half the kids in the ninth grade had picked it up. They called it the Mitchell March, but secretly Hilary called it the Spell.

  The first night’s baby-sitting, after they had danced the Spell all the way down the long hall, Hilary had tucked the boys into their beds and pulled up a rocking chair between. Then she told them stories for almost an hour until first Adam and then Andrew fell asleep. In one night she’d become their favorite baby-sitter.

  She had told them baby stories that time—“The Three Bears” and “The Three Billy Goats Gruff” and “The Three little Pigs,” all with sound effects and a different voice for each character. After that she relied on TV plots and the books she’d read in school for her material. Luckily she was a great reader.

  The twins hated to ever hear a story a second time. Except for “The Golden Arm,” the jump story that she’d learned on a camping trip when she was nine. Adam and Andrew asked for that one every time.

  When she had asked them why, Adam had replied solemnly, his green eyes wide, "Because it scares Them.”

  After she smoothed the covers over the sleeping boys, Hilary always drew in a deep breath before heading down the long, uncarpeted hall. It didn’t matter which stairs she headed for, there was always a strange echo as she walked along, each footstep articulated with precision, and then a slight tap-tapping afterward. She never failed to turn around after the first few steps. She never saw anything behind her.

  The Mitchells called her at least three times a month, and though she always hesitated to accept, she always went. Part of it was she really loved the twins. They were bright, polite, and funny in equal measure. And they were not shy about telling her how much they liked her. But there was something else, too. Hilary was a stubborn girl. You couldn’t tell from the set of her jaw; she had a sweet, rounded jaw. And her nose was too snubbed to be taken seriously. But when she thought someone was treating her badly or trying to threaten her, she always dug in and made a fuss.

  Like the time the school principal had tried to ban miniskirts and had sent Brenda home for wearing one. Hilary had changed into her junior varsity cheerleading uniform and walked into Mr. Golden’s office.

  “Do you like our uniforms, sir?” she had said, quietly.

  “Of course, Hilary,” Mr. Golden had answered, being too sure of himself to know a trap when he was walking into it.

  “Well, we represent the school in these uniforms, don’t we?” she had asked.

  “And you do a wonderful job, too,” he s
aid.

  Snap. The sound of the dosing trap. “Well, they are shorter than any miniskirt,” she said. "And when we do cartwheels, our bloomers show! Brenda never does cartwheels.” She’d smiled then, but there was a deep challenge in her eyes.

  Mr. Golden rescinded the ban the next day.

  So Hilary didn’t like the idea that any Them, real or imagined, would make her afraid to sit with her favorite six-year-olds. She always said yes to Mrs. Mitchell in the end.

  It was on the night before Halloween, a Sunday, the moon hanging ripely over the Mitchells’ front yard, that Hilary went to sit for the twins. Dressed as a wolf in a sheep’s clothing, Mr. Mitchell let her in.

  “I said they could stay up and watch the Disney special,” he said. “It’s two hours, and lasts well past their bedtime. But we are making an exception tonight. I hope you don’t mind.” His sheep ears bobbed.

  She had no homework and had just finished reading Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House, which was scary enough for her to prefer having the extra company.

  “No problem, Mr. Mitchell,” she said.

  Mrs. Mitchell came out of the kitchen carrying a pumpkin pie. Her costume was a traditional witch’s. A black stringy wig covered her blond hair. She had blackened one of her front teeth. The twins trailed behind her, each eating a cookie.

  “Now, no more cookies,” Mrs. Mitchell said, more to Hilary than to the boys.

  Hilary winked at them. Adam grinned, but Andrew, intent on trying to step on the long black hem of his mother’s skirt, missed the wink.

  “Good-bye,” Hilary called, shutting the door behind the Mitchells. She had a glimpse of the moon, which reminded her of the Jackson book, and made a face at it. Then she turned to the twins. “Now, what about those cookies?” she asked.

  They raced to the kitchen, and each had one of the fresh-baked chocolate-chip cookies, the kind with the real runny chocolate.

  “Crumbs don’t count,” Hilary said. She scraped around the dish for the crumbs, and having counted what cookies remained—there were thirteen—she shooed the boys back into the living room. They turned on the TV and settled down to watch the show, sharing the handful of crumbs slowly through the opening credits.

  Adam lasted through the first hour but was fast asleep in Hilary’s lap before the second. Andrew stayed awake until nearly the end, but his eyes kept dosing through the commercials. At the final ad, for vitamins, he fell asleep for good.

  Hilary sighed. She would have to carry them upstairs to bed. Since she wanted to watch Friday the Thirteenth, Part II—or at least she thought she wanted to watch it—she needed to get them upstairs. It wouldn’t do for either one to wake up and be scared by the show. And if she woke them, they’d want to know the end of the Disney movie and hear at least one other story. She would miss her show. So she hoisted Adam in her arms and went up the stairs.

  He nuzzled against her shoulder and looked so vulnerable and sweet as she walked down the creaky hall, she smiled. Playfully she touched the doors in the proper order, turning around heavily on one leg. She couldn’t quite reach her fingers with her mouth until she dumped him on his bed. After covering him with his quilt, she kissed his forehead and then, with a grin, kissed each of her fingers in turn, whispering, “So there,” to the walls when she was done.

  She ran down the stairs for Andrew and carried him up as well. He opened his eyes just before they reached the top step.

  “Don’t forget,” he whispered. To placate him, she touched the doors, turned, and kissed her fingers one at a time.

  He smiled sleepily and murmured, “All right. All right now.”

  He was fast asleep when she put him under the covers. She straightened up, watched them both for a moment more, listened to their quiet breathing, and went out of the room.

  As she went down the stairs, the hollow tap-tapping echo behind her had a furtive sound. She turned quickly but saw nothing. Still, she was happy to be downstairs again.

  The first half of the show was scary enough. Hilary sat with her feet tucked under a blanket, arms wrapped around her legs. She liked scary stuff usually. She had seen Alien and Aliens and even Jaws without blanching, and had finished a giant box of popcorn with Brenda at Night of the Living Dead. But somehow, watching a scary movie alone in the Mitchells’ spooky house was too much. Remembering the popcorn, she thought that eating might help. There were still those thirteen chocolate-chip cookies left. Mrs. Mitchell had meant the boys weren’t supposed to eat them. Hilary knew she hadn’t meant the baby-sitter to starve.

  During the commercial break, she threw off the blanket and padded into the kitchen. Mrs. Mitchell had just had new linoleum put on the floor. With a little run, Hilary slid halfway across in her socks.

  The plate of cookies was sitting on the counter, next to the stove. Hilary looked at it strangely. There were no longer thirteen cookies. She counted quickly. Seven—no, eight. Someone had eaten five.

  “Those twins!” she said aloud. But she knew it couldn’t have been them. They never disobeyed, except when she let them, and their mother had said specifically that they could have no more. Besides, they had never left the sofa once the movie had started. And the only time she had left either one of them alone had been when she had taken Adam upstairs, leaving Andrew asleep.... She stopped. Andrew hadn't been asleep. Not entirely. Still, she couldn’t imagine Andrew polishing off five chocolate-chip cookies in the time it had taken her to tuck Adam into bed.

  “Now...” she said to herself, “if it had been Dana Jankowitz!” She’d baby-sat Dana for almost a year before they moved away, and that kid was capable of anything.

  Still puzzled, she went over to the plate of cookies, and as she got close, she stepped into something cold and wet. She looked down. There was a puddle on the floor, soaking into her right sock. An icy-cold puddle. Hilary looked out the kitchen window. It was raining.

  Someone was in the house.

  She didn’t want to believe it, but there was no other explanation. Her whole body felt cold, and she could feel her heart stuttering in her chest. She thought about the twins sleeping upstairs, how she had told them she was hired to make sure nothing bad happened to them. But what if something bad happened to her? She shuddered and looked across the room. The telephone was hanging by the refrigerator. She could try and phone for help, or she could run outside and go to the nearest house. The Mitchells lived down a long driveway, and it was about a quarter mile to the next home. And dark. And wet. And she didn’t know how many someones were in the house. Or outside. And maybe it was all her imagination.

  But—and if her jaw trembled just the slightest she didn’t think anyone could fault her—what if the someones wanted to hurt the twins? She was the only one home to protect them.

  As silently as possible, she slid open the knife drawer and took out a long, sharp carving knife. Then slowly she opened the door to the back stairs...

  ...and the man hiding there leaped at her. His face was hidden behind a gorilla mask. He was at least six feet tall, wearing blue jeans and a green shirt. She was so frightened she dropped the knife and ran through the dining room, into the living room, and up the front stairs.

  Calling, “Girly, girly, girly, come here,” the man ran after her.

  Hilary took the steps two at a time, shot around the comer, and ran down the hall. If only she could get to the twins’ room, she thought, she could lock and barricade the door by pushing the dressers in front of it. And then she’d wake up the twins and they’d go through the trapdoor in the closet up to the attic. They’d be safe there.

  But the man was pounding behind her, laughing oddly and calling out.

  Hilary heard the chittering only after she passed the third door. And the man’s screaming as she got to the twins’ room. She didn't take time to look behind her but slid into the room, slammed the door, rammed the bolt home, and slipped the desk chair under the doorknob. She didn’t bother waking the twins or moving anything else in front of the d
oor. The man’s high screams subsided to a low, horrifying moan. Then at last they stopped altogether. After all, he hadn’t taken time to touch the doors or turn on his leg or kiss his fingers one at a time. He hadn’t known the warding spell. Once a night and you’re...

  She waited a long time before opening the door and peeking out. When she did, all she could see was a crumpled gorilla mask, a piece out of a green shirt, and a dark stain on the floor that was rapidly disappearing, as if someone—or something—were licking it up.

  Hilary closed the door quietly. She took a deep breath and lay down on top of the covers by Andrew’s side. Next time she came to baby-sit, she wouldn’t tell the “Golden Arm” story. Not next time or ever. After all, she owed Them a favor.

  Bolundeers

  THE ONE CHORE Brancy hated more than any other was taking out the food scraps and emptying them into the compost heap. She didn’t mind the dry garbage, or rinsing out the bottles and cans for the recycling bins. She didn’t even mind tying up the endless numbers of newspapers that seemed to positively breed in her mother’s den, though she refused to go into the den to get them. But the compost...

  She flung the final bucketload onto the small mountain of scraps and tried not to watch the tomato ends and eggshells creep down the slimy sides. And she didn’t take a new breath until she was well upwind and moving fast.

  God! she thought. Then amended it quickly, in case God was listening, though she doubted he was. Gosh! Ever since her father’s death she had had these big moments of Unbelief. Still, she thought, probably better not to swear. She had an additional thought then. Imagine if the whole world was like the compost heap. Aid not just my life.

  Of course, the world had once actually been that way. They had talked about that in school. The Cretaceous, with its great, wet, green, muddy, mucky, swamp-and-romp dinosaur playground. It was supposed to have been full of fetid and moist, murky growth. like an overgrown compost heap. Imagine living in that! Brancy thought. I’d rather die first.