* * *
“My name is Becca Ramsey, and I’m eight years old. My favorite baby-sitters are the coolest baby-sitters on the planet. They always let me stay up as late as I want. They let me watch really scary movies. And I can eat anything in the fridge. My baby-sitters rule!”
“The BSC? They’re great. Every time I break my arm or a finger or something they know just what to do. They’re always there, ready to help bandage a cut or sew my pants or glue together a vase or something. Oh. My name is Jackie Rodowsky, and I’m seven.”
“I’m Norman Hill. I’m seven. The BSC members are excellent. Last time Kristy sat for me she didn’t give me a single cookie, even though I was begging her for one. She gave me carrot sticks instead.”
“I’m Adam Pike. I’m ten. How much are you going to pay me to say the BSC sitters are the best?”
“Jordan Pike. Also ten. Or would you rather pay us to not tell how bad the BSC stinks?”
“We’ll say whatever you want. But we’ll need — let’s see — three dollars and seventy-nine cents. Oh. I’m Byron. Ten years old.”
* * *
Eek!
Charlotte collected several other testimonials that day, but most of them were just as strange as the first ones. We couldn’t send in a tape like that without making sure the contest judges understood a few things.
For example, Becca misunderstood Charlotte’s question. She thought it was a game in which you said what your fantasy Baby-sitters of the Year would be like. And Charlotte was in too much of a hurry to tape it over.
Jackie — well, that’s Jackie. If you didn’t know better, you’d think we were the most irresponsible sitters in the world. I mean, if we were watching, our charges wouldn’t hurt themselves in the first place, right? And how were the contest judges to know that Jackie can’t go a whole day without breaking something, no matter who’s watching him?
Norman Hill? He’s a great kid, but even he admits that he’s overweight. He’s always trying to diet. He says it helps when we baby-sitters keep him away from temptations.
And the Pike triplets don’t always sound like gangsters trying to extort money. It’s just that they’re obsessed with saving up enough for this “really awesome” model plane they saw at a store downtown.
As Stacey said later, we know our charges love us, and we know we’re good baby-sitters. But she wasn’t sure that Charlotte’s tape was going to get that across to the contest judges. We were going to have to keep working on those testimonials.
If only I had known.
But what if I had? What would I have done differently? Would it really have helped to know in advance that my life was about to change so suddenly and dramatically?
Friday was a day like any other. There wasn’t anything special about it, not really. But it was the last normal day I was going to have for a long, long time.
Maybe that’s what I would have done differently. Maybe I would have tried to savor Friday for what it was: normal and uneventful. The kind of day you don’t appreciate until something terrible comes along.
It’s like when you come down with some miserable, sneezy, stuffed-up, runny-nose, bad-cough cold. Once you feel well again, you’re so happy just to feel okay. Breathing normally feels like the best thing in the world. You’re grateful for your health. But pretty soon you start taking your good health for granted again — at least, until the next cold comes along.
Does that make sense? I hope so. Anyway, bear with me while I tell you about my Friday. My normal, uneventful Friday. The last day I took my life for granted.
I woke up at around eight-thirty. Isn’t summer the greatest? I love not having to set an alarm. I like to wake up whenever I’ve had enough sleep, feeling rested and ready for the day. I stretched and yawned, and Tigger, who was sleeping on the foot of my bed, stretched and yawned too. Then he padded across the quilt to give me one of his gentle little kitty-kisses, on the tip of my nose.
“Morning, Tigger,” I said.
He purred as I rubbed his head. He loves to have his head rubbed first thing in the morning.
I looked around my room, enjoying the way the morning sunshine lit up the white lacy curtains hanging at the windows. Sharon and I had been talking about painting my room later in the summer; I was thinking about yellow, but I hadn’t decided exactly what kind of yellow. I squinted at the walls, trying to imagine a soft buttercup shade. Or what about a more golden yellow, like an egg yolk?
Suddenly, my stomach rumbled. “I’m hungry,” I told Tigger. “Bet you are too.”
A few minutes later, I headed downstairs, dressed in my favorite old bathrobe. It’s red plaid flannel, so old that it’s almost falling apart. I’d hate to be seen in it by anyone but family, but it’s so soft and cozy I can’t seem to throw it away. Tigger thumped down the stairs ahead of me, meowing hungrily.
“Is that a wild jungle cat I hear?” my dad said as I came into the kitchen. “And his brave tamer?”
I laughed as I kissed his cheek. “Morning, Dad.” My dad was obviously in a good mood. Sharon, on the other hand, was not. She was looking glumly into her mug of herbal tea, and she barely looked up when I kissed the top of her head. “Morning, Sharon.”
“Oh, good morning, sweetie,” she said, snapping out of her funk for a moment. “Sleep well?”
I nodded. “How about you?” I asked. I knew Sharon hadn’t been sleeping well lately.
She shook her head. “I woke up at three and couldn’t fall asleep again for the longest time,” she said. “I just lay there, worrying about how I was going to find time to do this report Marjorie needs by Monday.”
Sharon works for a woman who has her own small accounting business. Lately Sharon doesn’t seem too happy with this job. I don’t think she finds the work all that interesting. Also, Sharon works really hard, but I don’t think Marjorie appreciates her.
My dad gave her a concerned glance. “I didn’t know you were awake,” he said. He patted her hand. “Poor you.”
“Poor me,” agreed Sharon with a smile. She shrugged. “Oh, well.” She took one last sip of her tea. “Time to hit the road.”
My dad stood up. “Time for me to go too,” he said. “See you tonight, ladies.” He put his mug in the sink, kissed Sharon and me in turn, and grabbed his briefcase. Then he was out the door.
Sharon left a few minutes later, after the usual frantic search for her car keys (she never leaves them in the same place twice — this time they were in the silverware drawer). “See you tonight, sweetie,” she called as she left.
I fed Tigger, then settled down at the table with a bowl of cereal and the latest L.L. Bean catalog. I was hoping to find the perfect pair of shorts — not too long, not too short — to wear through the summer.
After breakfast, I did the dishes. Then I headed back upstairs to make my bed and get dressed. I was in the midst of tidying up my room when the phone rang. I ran out and picked up the extension in the hall.
It was Logan. “Good morning,” he said.
“You’re up early,” I told him. Logan often sleeps until eleven or so on summer mornings.
“That’s because I wanted to catch you before you ran off to some sitting job,” he said.
“No job today,” I reported.
“Great! Then how about a picnic?”
What a terrific idea. “I’d love to,” I said. “What should I make?”
“Nothing,” said Logan. “My mom wants me to use up some leftovers. There’s potato salad and coleslaw and stuff for sandwiches. I’ll bring everything over to your house and then we can decide where to go.”
It sounded wonderful. Unfortunately, by noon the sun had disappeared and a light rain was beginning to fall.
“Bummer,” said Logan when his mom dropped him off. “I wanted to go over to Miller’s Park.”
“We’ll go there another time,” I promised. “Today we’re going to dine in style.” I led him into the barn, where I’d laid out a red-checkered tablecloth over a couple of planks balanced
on two sawhorses. I’d set my makeshift table with napkins and paper cups and I’d brought out a big pitcher of homemade lemonade.
“This is excellent,” Logan told me. He unpacked the food and we had a feast. Afterward we took turns jumping into the hay, something I hadn’t done for years. One of the things I like best about Logan is that I can act like a little kid around him. I don’t have to pretend I’m somebody I’m not. He likes me just the way I am.
When Logan left (okay, okay, I’m leaving out the part when he kissed me in the hayloft), I put away the picnic things and spent a little time working on the Baby-sitter of the Year contest entry. Then I took the book I’ve been reading (My Side of the Mountain, for the third time) onto the porch. I lay there in the hammock, feeling cozy as the rain dripped off the eaves. I read and napped for the rest of the afternoon.
Summer rules, doesn’t it?
By late afternoon it had stopped raining, so I rode my bike over to Claudia’s for the BSC meeting. We had a lot of fun that afternoon. Stacey brought over the tape Charlotte had made, and we listened to the “testimonials” and laughed so hard our stomachs hurt. Our charges may mean well, but they make us sound like the meanest, most irresponsible sitters on earth!
After Stacey played the tape, Claudia passed out Twizzlers and Reese’s peanut butter cups. (She had Frookwiches for Stacey, cookies sweetened with fruit juice instead of sugar.) Then Kristy asked us for help with the essay she was working on for the contest.
“I just can’t seem to find the right way to start,” she said. “I don’t know if I should be funny or serious. Should I list all the reasons we like to sit? Or should I give examples? What are all the reasons we like to sit?”
We sat there, munching our snacks and thinking.
Kristy looked desperate. “I have to have this done by Monday,” she reminded us. “Come on, you guys.”
“This is too much like homework,” Claudia said. “This is supposed to be our summer vacation, isn’t it?”
“Too bad Mal’s not here,” Jessi said. “She’d enjoy a job like this.”
“I can’t think of a thing,” said Abby. “I mean, besides the obvious stuff. And I’m sure you’ve already thought of all that.”
“Anyway, it’s six o’clock,” Stacey pointed out. “Meeting’s over.”
“Augh!” Kristy was frustrated. “All right. I’ll do it myself. But just remember who to thank when we win the contest!”
When I arrived home, my dad and Sharon were already there. Dad was mowing the lawn, and Sharon was rummaging around in the fridge, trying to find something for dinner. She looked tired and not much happier than she’d looked in the morning.
“How about if I make my special spaghetti?” I suggested. It was the least I could do, after I’d had such a nice, relaxing day.
Sharon gave me a grateful look. “Would you?” she asked. “That would be heaven.” She kissed me, grabbed the newspaper, and went into the living room.
I bustled around in the kitchen. I’m not a great cook, but there’s one thing I can make, and that’s spaghetti. I use sauce from a jar, but I add stuff to it (the recipe is a secret!) to make it extra tasty. I threw together a salad too. Then I set the table and called Dad and Sharon in for dinner.
As we ate, I tried to ask Sharon about her day at work, but she dodged my questions. She just didn’t seem to want to talk about her job. My dad, on the other hand, gave us a blow-by-boring-blow account of this case he was working on, something to do with a property dispute between neighbors. Sharon and I listened politely, but I’m sure if you asked either of us to tell you the details afterward, we wouldn’t have been able to.
After dinner, Sharon thanked me and went off to work on her report. Dad headed into the living room to watch a news show, and I went upstairs to call Dawn.
We talked for half an hour or so, about nothing in particular. I told Dawn about the contest the BSC was entering, and she told me about a movie she’d seen. It’s always good to catch up with my favorite (and only) stepsister.
After I hung up, I watched TV with my dad for awhile. Then I headed for bed, along with Tigger and my book. I read for a few minutes, then turned off the light and went to sleep.
And that was my normal, uneventful Friday. Not a very special day, but one I’ll never forget.
Hours later, I woke up. Something was tickling my nose. Tigger! He was walking around on my pillow, making little meowing noises. Sleepily, I glanced at the clock. It was 4:42. In the morning. Why was Tigger waking me up now?
Then I heard it. A regular, high-pitched, shrieking sound. I remembered it from the day, months ago, when my dad had been checking the fire alarms in our house.
Fire alarms?
I sat up in bed.
Tigger’s meowing grew louder as soon as he saw that I was awake. He leaped off the bed and ran toward the door, which was closed. Then he ran back to me and meowed some more.
The shrieking noise didn’t stop.
But now I could hear something else.
“Mary Anne! Mary Anne, wake up!”
It was my father’s voice, from down the hall.
I was awake, there was no doubt about that. Totally and completely awake.
And terrified.
I didn’t think — I couldn’t think. I grabbed Tigger in my arms, swung my legs over the side of the bed, stood up, and walked toward the door.
“Mary Anne!” my father’s voice was closer now.
Even though I was awake, I felt as if I were in a dream. Everything was happening so fast — but at the same time, I felt as if I were moving in slow motion. Don’t ask me to explain how that could be. It just was.
Tigger struggled in my arms, but I tightened my grasp on him. Then I reached out with one hand to touch the door before I opened it.
Why?
To see if it was hot.
Somehow, I remembered that from all those lectures during Fire Prevention Week at school every fall. “Don’t open a door without checking first to see if it’s hot. The fire may be raging on the other side.”
Fire.
My house was on fire. It couldn’t be happening, but it was. That’s why Tigger was behaving oddly. That’s why my dad was shouting for me. That’s why the alarm was shrieking.
I could smell smoke now.
And I could hear odd sounds. Cracks and pops coming from the other side of my door.
“Hurry!” my dad cried.
The door felt warm but not hot. I opened it a crack — and smoke billowed into my face. I stepped back.
Then a hand reached in and grabbed my wrist. My dad. “Let’s go!” he said. “Sharon’s already downstairs, probably outside. We have to get out. Now!”
He pulled me along through the smoke-filled hall and then made me start down the stairs in front of him. The temperature seemed to rise ten degrees for every step we went down. Smoke filled the air. Dark, hot, horrible-smelling smoke. I tried not to breathe it in, but there was no way to avoid it. Clutching Tigger, I stumbled down the stairs with my dad behind me.
I still couldn’t see flames, but I sensed that they were near. The alarm hadn’t stopped shrieking. It was going on and on, penetrating my brain. The heat was almost unbearable now, and the smoke made it hard to see. I was coughing and choking as I reached the bottom of the staircase. The front door was only yards away. If we could make it there, we’d be safe.
“Drop and roll!” my dad yelled in my ear.
Another phrase from fire prevention lectures.
I didn’t stop to think. I did as he said. I dropped to the floor and rolled, clutching Tigger to my chest. It was cooler on the floor and a little less smoky. I could breathe without choking.
“We’re almost at the door!” yelled my dad. “Stay down!”
I wasn’t about to argue. Besides, I’m not sure I could have stood up if I’d tried. Holding Tigger more tightly with one arm, I crawled along the floor.
Tigger had stopped squirming by then. I guess he sensed, someho
w, that I would take care of him.
“Richard! Mary Anne!” I heard Sharon shouting. Her voice sounded very close. If she was outside, that meant we were almost there too. The smoke was so thick by now that it was hard to see the front door.
But suddenly, I caught a momentary breath of fresh air. The door! It must be standing open. I pulled myself along, ignoring the pain in my knees as I desperately crawled forward. I felt in front of me for the doorframe, waving a hand wildly until I touched wood. I grabbed it and pulled myself up and out.
Then I was on the porch. The heat of the fire poured out of the open door behind me.
I felt a hand on my back. “Run, now,” my father shouted. “Run!”
“This way!” cried Sharon. “Oh, Mary Anne.” She was sobbing as I ran into her arms. “You’re safe. You’re safe. Oh, Richard!”
We stood in a little knot beneath the apple tree in our front yard, holding one another as tightly as we could. It came to me then that the apple tree was the place we’d agreed to meet long ago, when we’d made an escape plan in case of a fire. I still hadn’t let go of Tigger, but he didn’t seem to mind being squished among the three of us. My dad and I gasped for breath. I couldn’t stop coughing.
Then I heard sirens. “I called for help,” Sharon said through her sobs. We broke apart, and she looked down at her hand, which held our white cordless phone, the one from the hall table. “I guess I must have grabbed the phone on my way down the stairs,” she said wonderingly.
“Good thing,” said my dad. “The house is going fast.”
I didn’t want to look, but at the same time I had to. I had to see what was happening. Slowly, I turned around.
What I saw was so awful I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forget it. My house — my home — was burning. Huge orange flames shot out of the kitchen window, and smoke billowed through the open front door. I could see flames licking at the staircase I had just come down. There was a roaring sound, and crackling, and occasional loud bangs. The flames grew larger as I watched, and they began to boil out of the dining room window as well. The fire looked like a living thing, a hungry, destructive thing that was devouring my house.