The Princess of Las Pulgas

by C. Lee McKenzie

  I snatch up my pen and draw a line through what I wrote that last night of the year. I slip my journal back into my backpack and I’m about to stretch out on the couch when a scraping sound comes from outside the house.

  The Pacific low tide tumbles onto the sand, washes out and returns. Nothing unusual. Still, there was something. A creaking board? Pushing up from the office chair, I go to the window and peer around the curtain.

  Outside on the deck, the spa lights glow under circulating blue water; steam rises into the air. In the background the surface of the ocean shimmers in the moonlight. A gust of wind snaps the flag mounted on the railing.

  “Just the flag.” I roll my neck to loosen my shoulders.

  I’m about to return to the desk when a male figure darts across the deck.

  “OMIGOD!” The words are smothered at the back of my throat and I press against the wall, shaking.

  Risk another peek. Be sure you’re not making something sinister out of ordinary nighttime shadows. As I ease the curtain back, the man ducks behind the topiaries that edge the steps,. Then he creeps toward the back door.

  Every part of me stands on end, like fur on a cornered cat. Is the kitchen door locked? I didn’t check like I usually do when I baby-sit for the Franklins. I’d been too bent on getting the kids to bed so I could get my homework done. Where’s my cell? I feel in my pocket, search under my notes on the desk.

  Where did I leave it?

  On the counter next to the refrigerator.

  Idiot!

  I lift the receiver on the desk phone, punch Talk and hold it to my ear. There’s . . .no . . . dial . . . tone. An icicle plunges from my head to my stomach and I fight to keep from screaming.

  Get to Kip’s room. He’ll have his cell.

  With a shaky hand I open the office door and listen. No sound. I tiptoe across the oak floor of the living room, into the carpeted hallway, and upstairs to Kip’s bedroom door. Grabbing the handle, I turn and push.

  Glass shatters downstairs.

  My skin tightens across my forehead.

  He’s inside.

  I duck into Kip’s room. The light next to his bed is on, his iPod plugged into his ears. Leaning close, I press my fingers on his lips.

  His eyes open and fix me with a glazed, half-asleep look. He seems so much younger than ten with his hair tousled over his forehead.

  “Where’s your cell?”

  He points to his desk on the opposite side of the room, his eyes wide. He’s caught the scent of my fear, and I sense his panic rise to match mine.

  “Someone’s,” I gulp air, “broken into the house.” My whisper stretches to its breaking point. Keep your head. Hide yourself and the kids. “Let’s get Jessie.” I try to moisten the inside of my mouth. “Be really quiet, okay?”

  He nods, fully awake now.

  Grabbing the cell phone, I slip out the door first. Kip holds onto the back of my sweater and follows.

  Fump. The refrigerator door opens. I halt mid-step. Mrs. Franklin hides jewelry in the freezer trays. Burglars know people do that, even I know that. Maybe he’ll take the jewels and leave. With Kip clinging to me I creep forward.

  At Jessie’s door, I twist the knob carefully. This door squeaks. I’d woken Jessie a couple of times trying to sneak out of the room after reading her to sleep. The trick is to push fast. Jessie’s Little Mermaid nightlight casts an orange glow across the rug. Kip enters on tiptoes and I whoosh the door shut behind us, stopping an inch short of the jamb. Then lifting slightly, I shut it and press the—

  No lock. Now I remember those stupid safety precautions. The Franklins removed the locks from the kids’ bedroom and bathroom doors so they wouldn’t be able to lock themselves in, intentionally or otherwise.

  Kip and I huddle at the end of Jessie’s bed, washed in the glow of the Little Mermaid. Jessie’s snuggled under her blankets, her breath regular and untroubled, a sharp contrast to my shallow panting.

  Kneeling, I whisper into Kip’s ear. “Do you know a good hiding place?”

  He points to Jessie’s closet.

  I shake my head. “Too obvious.”

  But Kip is already sliding the door open. Inside is a stepladder that Jessie uses to reach toys on her top shelf. He pulls it to the center of the closet and climbs the four steps. “Carlie, in here,” he whispers.

  Sticking my head inside, I look up. In the ceiling is a square wooden panel. “Where does that go?”

  “It’s kind of an attic. You can’t stand, but can sit.”

  “You go ahead. I’ll help Jessie.”

  As Kip crawls up inside the opening, I tiptoe to the bed and lift his sister.

  “Carlie, read more story,” Jessie murmurs. Her eyes flutter open, then close again.

  “We’re going into a special secret place to read, so be very quiet, okay?” I climb the ladder and hoist Jessie through the hole in the ceiling. Kip grabs his sister under her arms and lifts her all the way inside. I pull myself up. Once I’m in the crawl space, I reach down and draw the ceiling panel into place with a click.

  After I catch my breath, I open Kip’s cell phone. Battery Low flashes three times.

  Then the phone dies.

  Chapter 10

  My illuminated watch reads almost midnight. We’ve been here for nearly two hours. I’m a Popsicle in the Franklins’ unheated crawl spece. Kip’s teeth chatter, and he’s wound himself into a ball so he looks like a spaniel on a cold night. Jessie groans, but then snuggles against me, never opening her eyes. I smooth her forehead. Please don’t cry out, Jessie. I stroke her hair and sway with her in my arms until her breath is steady.

  How are we going to get out of here? What if I promise to change? Really. I’ll make a late New Year’s Resolution to start being nicer to my family, show Mom I love her, talk to my brother like he’s a human being, feed Quicken before she begs.

  “When can we get down?” Kip whispers.

  “Soon,” I whisper back. But how? Any ideas, Carlie? “Not yet,” I sigh.

  “What?” Kip grips my sweater.

  “Nothing.” I put my free arm around him and hold him against me. He doesn’t resist like he usually does, or complain that he’s not baby.

  “Are you okay?” Kip whispers from the shadows next to me.

  I nod, but that’s not true. I’m scared, working on not being terrified.

  “Carlie,” Kip tugs at my sweater. “What time is it?”

  “After twelve.”

  “I hafta pee.”

  “It won’t be long.”

  As he sinks back against me a dull sound comes from below the crawl space.

  Kip grabs my arm and squeezes.

  The intruder’s in Jessie’s room.

  A murmur of people talking over each other comes from below. Easing Jessie off my lap and putting one ear on the floor, I hear two male voices. Then Mrs. Franklin cries out. What’s happening to her?

  If only I could see into Jessie’s room. Mrs. Franklin’s sobs have become noisy enough to cover the sound of the magnetic latch, so I press and release the door, opening it a crack.

  Mr. and Mrs. Franklin stand next to Jessie’s bed, facing my direction, Mr. Franklin’s arms are wrapped around her shoulders and she’s sobbing. Across from them, his back to me, stands someone in a sweater and jeans. I stifle a gasp. He has to be the one who broke into the house. Does he have a gun leveled at them?

  Kip taps my arm. He’s sidled next to me, also peering through the crack. I signal him to get back.

  “When did you come in?” That’s Mr. Franklin.

  “It must have been around nine,” the guy in the sweater answers.

  It was nine you . . . you creep. I’d love to drop kick you to the North Pole. Let you get chummy with some cold.

  Kip tugs on my sweater. I swat him away, but he tugs again, harder.

  “Huh?”

  “He’s my cousin,” Kip says.

  “Your cousin?” I’ve let my voice rise above a whisper and before
I can register what Kip has said, the trap door is wrenched from my hand.

  Mr. Franklin stares up at me. “What—?”

  Mrs. Franklin, who is still shaky but no longer crying, joins him. “Carlie!”

  I reach for Jessie and hand her down. Then Kip lowers himself into his father’s arms. “Carlie made us stay up there for hours. I’ve got icicles on my feet,” he whines.

  If there were another exit I’d sneak out that way, but there isn’t, so down I go.

  “What’s this about?” Mr. Franklin’s eyebrows form two upside-down V’s. He looks a touch angry, yet relieved and really puzzled.

  “I heard him break the window on the back door.” I point a shaky accusing finger at—Sean Wright, the French tutor? Where did he come from?

  “I didn’t break any window.” Sean looks at me like I’m nuts. “Oh, right.” He turns to Mrs. Franklin. “Sorry, Aunt Corky, I accidentally knocked over a vase on the kitchen counter.”

  “A vase?” Anger rises like a tide from my chest to my head.

  Sean faces me. “Hey, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare anybody.”

  He’s staring at me with those deep-set blue eyes that have Channing females crowding French classes, and I feel embarrassment flare in my face. My throat clogs when I try to say something, and out comes a hacking sound like I’m clearing a hair-ball.

  “You were creeping around! Why didn’t you knock, walk in the door like a . . . a real nephew?”

  “I didn’t see many lights, so I thought my aunt and uncle were gone with the kids. They hide the key on the back deck, so I decided to hang out until they came home.”

  I need to let these people know I’m not an idiot. “I tried to call 911 when I saw him sneaking to the back door, but the phone was dead.”

  “It was all right earlier. I’ll check.” Mr. Franklin leaves the room.

  Mrs. Franklin tucks Jessie into bed and marches Kip out the door. I follow Sean into the hall and down the stairs to the entry. I don’t want to be alone with him, and even if I have a lot to say, none of it’s fit to speak in the Franklins’ house. Besides he’s very distracting—tall, handsome—a poster boy for “Come to the Bahamas.”

  I look down at the floor then scan the pictures on the wall. Twisting my bracelet around, I pretend to be fascinated by my wrist and concentrate on staying mad. I deserve to be mad. Even if he didn’t mean to terrorize me, he deserves some kind of punishment.

  He clears his throat, but I’m not noticing him. No way.

  “Sorry I gave you such a scare.”

  What a lame apology.

  Mr. Franklin comes from the office, my jacket over his arm and his phone in the other. “We need a new handset. The pads are wearing out, but the phone works, Carlie. You were upset and probably didn’t press the TALK button hard enough.” He places the phone on the entry table. “Come on. I’ll walk you home.”

  “I’ll do it.” Sean steps next to me. “I think I still need to apologize some more.”

  “Thanks, Sean.” Mr. Franklin says. “It’s been a long night and I’m tired.”

  I don’t want him to walk me home. I can go on my own. But the tightness around my head is there—that last bit of cold fear hasn’t vanished. I slip into my jacket, grateful for its warmth.

  Mrs. Franklin comes downstairs from Kip’s room holding the empty yogurt dish, remnants of the illegal chocolate bits clinging to the edge. She shoots me a “you-know-better” look. Maybe the health food diva won’t call me to baby-sit again. That’s just fine.

  Still, I need money for that dress. I’ll call tomorrow and apologize. For what? The bedtime yogurt snack? For keeping her kids safe from an intruder even if he did turn out to be a nephew? I’m the one who deserves the apology.

  At the front door, Mr. Franklin hands me the scrumptious sum of twenty-five dollars. Then he opens his wallet again. “Here.” He hands me another ten. “You did a great job tonight. I’m sorry I didn’t say so earlier, but, well, finding the you gone and Kip’s bed empty was quite a shock.”

  They’ll call me again.

  Chapter 11

  Sean and I walk alongside each other, letting the sound of the ocean fill in for the lack of conversation.

  “How far is it to your place?” he asks

  I point toward the two-story house across the street, home for as long as I can remember. The wide path winds to the main entrance, and the leaded glass panels in the door glow from the entry lights Mom leaves on until we’re all home. Inside, the vaulted ceilings cast soft shadows in the living room and at the back, I see someone, probably Mom, in the kitchen.

  “That’s the Edmund place, isn’t it?”

  I’m still not talking to him.

  “You’re Carlie, Madame Lenoir’s star pupil in French 3.” He fills the uneasy silence between us by staring at my house. “You’ve taken down your Christmas tree already.”

  I’d like to punch Sean Wright in the jaw. I’m in no mood for chitchat with this guy. I don’t bother to tell him we never took that tree inside, that it’s likely to turn brown where it stands next to the front door because my dimwit brother hasn’t hauled it to the curb for pick up. My hands still shake even though I’ve stuffed them inside my jacket pockets.

  “Look, I’m really sorry,” he says as if repeating his apology is going to erase tonight.

  “Sorry? What kind of lame word is that for making me think we were about to die?” I stayed calm as possible hiding in Jessie’s bedroom and on this stroll home. Now I’m having a hard time not yelling. “And what were you doing all that time, playing video games?” You should be hung by your very beautiful, tanned neck!

  “Désolé de vous avoir donné une telle frayeur!”

  “Oh.” The sound I make is so small I’m not sure it made its way from my mouth into the night air. Sorry I gave you such a scare sounds much more sincere in French.

  “I mean it—really.”

  I know he means it, but I can’t get the words out to tell him.

  When I don’t answer he backs away, his palms up, silently asking me, What more can I say? “I’d better get back to my aunt’s” are his parting words.

  From the driveway I watch him leave. “Désolé.” I savor Sean’s word and let it linger on my tongue.

  He strides away, his sleek black hair glinting under the streetlights, and I can almost see the word, “luscious,” on a page of my journal. Maybe I should pay attention to what my dad’s telling me. Maybe it’s time to come out of that cocoon. This is the first time since October I feel like that might be possible.

  I walk past the Christmas tree that died for no reason and brush my hand against the fir needles. They prickle and some scatter to the ground. If Keith doesn’t carry it away, maybe we can light it as farewell bonfire when we move.

  Is that you, Carlie?” Mom calls as I close the front door and toss my jacket on the entry table.

  “C’est moi.” I’m in a French mood and I want to stay that way.

  “I’m in the kitchen. How did the babysitting at the Franklins’ go?”

  “It was, um, fine.” Last year I would have rushed to tell Mom what happened, especially the part about Sean. I want to, but life’s different now. She jumps to edgy if I have a headache these days, and I don’t need a lecture about getting my imagination under control. Not tonight. I run my fingers through my hair as I look into the hall mirror, making sure I don’t show any signs of what happened at the Franklins. “You’re up late.”

  “I needed to get an hour of study in.” I don’t hear the yawn and the sigh that follows, but I know they’ve happened just like I know that later when I’m almost asleep I’ll hear her crying on her way past my door.

  I walk through the dining room and into the kitchen where Mom faces the stove, her head bowed, a stirring spoon resting on the edge of the saucepan. We’ve been at each other for weeks, so now I remember the promise I made while I cowered in Jessie’s bedroom. Show Mom I love her.

  I wrap my arms around he
r waist from behind, then press my cheek against her familiar deep blue cashmere. “Can I have some cocoa?”

  With a quick swipe of a hand across her eyes she pours the steamy liquid into two mugs, gives me one and sits at the kitchen table. “So tell me about your night.”

  “No, you first.” I need time to get my story right, so I sit across from her, both hands around the mug.

  “We’ll take turns.” Mom used to love this game, when we’d all manage to be around the dinner table at the same time. First Dad, then me, then Keith, and last Mom—each sharing a small piece of what we’d done that day. She sighs. “Let’s see. My night—” She holds up her real estate books as if they tell the whole story. “Now your turn.”

  I’m not getting out of telling her something about tonight. But what? If Mrs. Franklin calls to complain to Mom about what happened, she’ll hear a version of the story I probably won’t like. That would so be like that cranky vegan. Mom’s in a pretty mellow mood—playing her take-turns game. If I tell the Sean story, keep it light—

  “A really strange thing happened at the Franklins.” My laugh sounds forced, but she doesn’t tense up. I tell about Sean, the burglar, only I don’t use that word, choosing “suspected intruder,” “hidden safely,” and a “little nervous” to explain what happened.

  “Carlie!” She lunges for my hand as if she's saving me from falling off a cliff. She’s been so protective of Keith and me that we can’t go outside to get the newspaper without her asking where we’re going.

  “I overreacted, Mom. Really. And it ended . . . fine. Sean—”

  “I’m calling the Franklins. Don’t they have an alarm system?”

  “Yes, but I told you. It was a nephew who had a key. I just didn’t know. It wasn’t a big deal.”

  She still hasn’t let go of my hand and now she grips it even more tightly. “It’s a big deal to me. If anything happened—”

  “But nothing did. It was my imagination.” I want to say, “You have no idea how unimaginative this version is,” but instead I stroke the back of her hand. “Your turn.”

  She rubs her forehead with both hands, taking her time before starting. I’ve seen her do this a lot as if she’s constructing interior dams to hold back a flash flood—sometimes tears, sometimes fear. Sometimes I think it’s anger. It's as if she'll be washed away if she doesn’t control every emotion as it rises inside her.