Alice in Charge

by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor

  When we came to the first driveway, Keeno stopped. “Now you don’t have to take your clothes off unless you want to—”

  “What?” said Gwen.

  “Shhhh,” Keeno cautioned. “I’ve been here before. Just remember to whisper.”

  Despite our better judgment, we moved up the driveway, setting each foot down carefully. A thin veil of clouds moved across the moon, making it difficult, but not impossible, to see in the darkness. Straight ahead, on the back of the house, we could just make out a sign reading GUEST PARKING ONLY.

  “Keeno, what is this?” I whispered, grabbing his arm.

  And then I saw the second sign: PINEVIEW BED-AND-BREAKFAST.

  “Omigod!” Liz whispered.

  “I’m freezing!” Pamela whimpered.

  The breeze had picked up. In a half hour or so it would be November, and I had mailed the first part of my application to the U of Maryland that morning. Maybe I deserved a little celebrating.

  One finger to his lips, Keeno led us across the yard and into the shelter of a couple trees—evergreens, of course—and pointed to something attached to the back porch. A hot tub.

  “Oh, no!” I heard Gwen whisper.

  “You’ve got to be kidding,” said Liz.

  “What’s wrong?” he whispered back. “It’s wonderful! You should try it.”

  “You’re out of your mind,” said Gwen. “How do you know it’s hot? How do you even know there’s water in it?”

  “Because they keep it hot year-round. It’s in their advertisement,” Keeno said. “Trust me. I’ve used it in the middle of February.”

  “They’ll catch us!” said Liz.

  “Not if we’re quiet, they won’t. Look.” He pointed up to the dark windows. “No guests. The parking lot’s empty and the lights are off.”

  “So who goes first?” asked Pamela, hugging herself.

  “We’ll go,” said Keeno. “Just don’t take long and don’t make a sound.”

  We pretended not to look as the guys took off their shoes and slipped out of their jeans and jackets. But we stared wide-eyed, hands over our mouths to suppress the laughter, as we watched two naked bottoms go streaking across the short stretch of lawn to the porch steps, ascend in the darkness, then disappear at the other end.

  “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” said Liz. “Can’t we undress on the porch?”

  “With the guys watching us from the water?” said Pamela. “C’mon. Strip. My arms are like ice.” She slipped out of her Jolly Green Giant costume, and the rest of us started undressing. Leaving our clothes in a little heap under the trees, we carefully made our way across the yard in our bare feet, then hurried silently up the steps, and across the darkened porch. One at a time, with the guys offering outstretched hands to help us down, we slid into the hot water and sank down to chin level, savoring the warmth. There we were, six floating heads in the darkness, with just enough moonlight to make out each other’s faces.

  “Keeno, this is your best idea yet!” I whispered as my toes touched someone in the middle of the large tub.

  “I wish we could turn the motor on,” Pamela whispered.

  “Yeah, but they’d hear it, and the controls are inside,” said Keeno.

  The water was so deep that I was only half sitting. My bottom kept lifting off the seat and my legs floated effortlessly, tangled up now and then with other legs, our heads resting on the indentations around the rim, knees touching, side to side. “We could do a water ballet,” Liz whispered.

  “What would we call ourselves? The Naked Six?” asked Louie.

  We muffled our laughter and watched the clouds pass over the face of the moon. It was a little weird being in a hot tub without the hum of the motor, the swish of the water, the force of the jets. Like being in a bathroom together with no background music.

  “Down!” Keeno hissed suddenly as a car turned into the alley, its headlights sweeping the back of the house and moving rapidly toward us. Instantly, all six of us submerged and rose up only when we ran out of air. The car had moved on and turned in someone else’s driveway farther on. We wiped the water from our eyes and settled back again.

  “Whose knee keeps poking mine from across the tub?” asked Pamela. “Keeno’s, I’ll bet. I swear, guys’ knees are like ice picks. All angles and points.”

  “And girls’ knees,” said Keeno, one hand on Liz’s knee, “are like soft, velvety, uh …” His hand was obviously kneading her flesh and moving slightly up the thigh. Liz laughed and pushed his hand away, and we unanimously cautioned her to be quiet.

  We played footsies under the water and took turns being It—another of Keeno’s ideas, obviously. With all of our feet together on the bottom, the “it” person would choose one foot in particular and, by examining it with his own two feet, try to guess whose foot it was.

  I was It. I chose a foot and clasped it between my own. It could have been either a large girl’s or a small guy’s foot. High arch, I could tell that much.

  “Somebody needs to cut his toenails,” I whispered, and soft giggles traveled around the group. I pushed the foot up on its heel and ran the big toe of my other foot along its bottom. The foot immediately twitched and pulled back. “Ah! Ticklish, are we?” I whispered, and tickled some more. I saw Liz give her leg a jerk and immediately chose her. We laughed.

  “Hey, hey! Keep it down!” Keeno whispered. “Shhhh.” We submerged again up to our lips, looking in all directions, but no lights came on, no door opened on the porch.

  “What time is it?” Pamela wanted to know.

  “I don’t know. Left my watch in my jeans,” said Louie.

  “What’s this?” asked Gwen. She held up a flip-flop. “Did somebody wear flip-flops in here?”

  “I did,” said Pamela. “I forgot to take them off.”

  “Maybe we’d better head out pretty soon,” whispered Keeno. “I don’t want to press our luck.”

  “Where’s my other flip-flop?” asked Pamela.

  “Find it before we leave, or we’re toast,” said Louie.

  We all felt around to see if it was caught behind us or floating under our legs. My hand touched something, but it sure wasn’t a flip-flop, and Louie looked at me in surprise. “Sorry,” I said, and felt heat rising in my face.

  Pamela found the flip-flop on the bench behind her, and we agreed to get going.

  Keeno rose up and looked all around. When there were no stirrings from indoors that we could see, no lights coming on or off, he whispered to Louie, “Let’s go.” They got out, backsides showing up white in the darkness, quickly climbing the steps out of the tub and onto the porch, then down the stairs on the other side, where they darted across the lawn and into the shelter of the trees.

  “Omigod, you know what I grabbed?” I told the others as soon as the guys were gone. “I was looking for Pamela’s flip-flop and took hold of Louie’s …” We covered our mouths and submerged for a second to stifle our laughter.

  “This was wild!” said Liz. “Leave it to Keeno.”

  “We’ve gotta go,” said Pamela. “It’s going to feel like forty when we get out.”

  “Gotta do it,” said Gwen. “No squealing. Ready? One … two … three.”

  One by one we followed her up the steps to the porch, our feet making contact with the wood planks. It occurred to us only then that there were no fluffy towels waiting to envelop us, no towels at all. And at that exact moment, another car came toward us on the side street and slowed at the entrance to the alley.

  We stopped dead still. Gwen put out her arms to keep us from going any farther as the car turned and its headlights moved across the back of the house. We might as well have been onstage because the spotlight shone on each one of us in turn.

  Worse yet, the minute the headlights had reached the last cowering girl, the car suddenly braked, then started backing up. With little shrieks, we went racing down the steps. The headlights swept over the back porch again, but this time we were gone. Finally the car we
nt on down the alley and pulled in somewhere else.

  I don’t know whose jeans I yanked on there in the cluster of trees. The guys kept handing us pieces of clothing, and we pulled them on as fast as we could. Gwen had worn tights under her peanut costume, but her legs were too wet to pull them on. She pulled on her underwear and a guy’s sweater, and as soon as we could, we were running down the alley to Keeno’s car.

  “My jacket!” I cried. “Has anybody got my jacket?”

  “Hurry up!” Louie was saying, holding the car door open.

  No one had the jacket.

  “I’ve got to go back!” I said. “It’s Sylvia’s!”

  “Cripes, Alice!” said Keeno.

  I was only half dressed—my jeans and bra. Somebody else had my shirt. I raced back up the driveway and into the cluster of trees, my eyes searching for a heap of black velvet.

  My heart was pounding as I moved around the base of the trees, around the parking lot, scanning the ground. I exhaled in relief when I found the jacket against the trunk of a tree, and I swooped it up and ran back across the parking lot.

  “Hey!” came a man’s voice, and suddenly the porch light came on. Not only the porch light, but a floodlight illuminating the whole guest parking area.

  “Hey!” the man yelled again. “You’re trespassing, you know. Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m sorry,” I called timidly over my shoulder, but I didn’t stop.

  Liz was waiting for me in the alley. She grabbed my arm, and we ran as though dogs were after us. Keeno had the engine running when we reached the car, and we tumbled inside, shrieking.

  I expected to hear footsteps coming after us. The wail of sirens, even.

  But Keeno turned at the next corner, then again at the light, and we screeched and laughed as we melted into the traffic and cruised innocently along the street. Our hair was dripping water all over the place, and we used someone’s fleece jacket to dry our heads, passing it from one to the other.

  “Omigod, my heart’s still thumping,” I said, panting. “I was sure the owner would catch me.”

  “I’ll bet the neighbors called him,” said Louie. “Bet that last driver in the alley told him that some kids were goofing around in his hot tub.”

  “Relax, already!” said Keeno. “We didn’t hurt anything.”

  “Yeah, but we can’t go back there again. He’s onto us,” said Louie.

  “Funny you never invited us here before,” said Liz.

  “Never knew you wanted to get naked before,” said Keeno, and we all broke into laughter.

  “Man, though, he almost nailed you,” Louie said, turning around and looking at me.

  “Yeah, he could have had a camera and taken your picture for evidence,” said Keeno. “There it would be on the Metro page of the Post: ‘Senior Arrested for Trespassing’!”

  “Well, the Gazette, maybe,” said Gwen.

  “How about ‘Features Editor of High School Newspaper Caught Nude’?” said Pamela.

  “No, I’ve got it,” said Liz. “‘Member of Student Jury to Be Tried by Her Peers.’ How’s that for the next headline in The Edge?”

  Nothing could ruin this evening, though. A perfect way to start November.

  12

  INCIDENT NUMBER THREE

  The same day The Edge published “Bob White’s” mongrelization comment and Daniel’s essay, the local news reported four separate incidents of tire slashing in Latino neighborhoods, and on all the rims, the letters HH had been chalked. None of the incidents took place near our school, but on Friday, Mr. Beck’s voice came over the sound system:

  “Good morning, students. It’s not customary for me to intrude on your news and announcements, but I have something important to say. Yesterday there were several instances of tire slashing in our community, and most of you are aware of a couple of hate-inspired incidents in our school as well. Two recent comments in The Edge, by a student using a pseudonym, serve as another example of the kind of prejudice that provokes vandalism or worse. I was glad to read that in the future no letters will be published unless the author can be identified.

  “I am not suggesting that anyone in this school is responsible for the tire slashing. And I know by your letters to The Edge that most of you do not hold similar views as those of the anonymous student.

  “We are proud of our ethnic diversity. The fact that there are at least thirty-one different countries represented in our school provides us with a cultural richness that enhances your education, not diminishes it. This school will always stand for the free expression of ideas and concerns, but we will not tolerate bullying, vandalism, violence, or racial slurs.

  “To students of every race, nationality, religion, or sexual orientation, we promise that we will do our utmost to protect you and your rights in this country. To those who would like to express a difference of opinion, no matter how unpopular it may be, we invite you to engage in respectful dialogue. We do not prosecute students just because they might have different views on politics or social issues. But we do expect responsible behavior of high school students. Demand this of yourselves and of your friends, and make this school proud.”

  We noticed that another security guard was added to the two regulars, and Mr. Gephardt was very visible as he talked with students one-on-one in the hallways.

  Earlier in the week Miss Ames had asked me to check out the Student Safety Council to see if we could get any leads on who else might be feeling intimidated here at school. Maybe do a write-up of how the council got started. Were students worried about what had happened at Columbine and Virginia Tech? Were they being harassed out in the parking lot or on the buses? Surely this wasn’t just a look-both-ways-before-crossing-the-street kind of club. So I’d checked the activities calendar and saw that the SSC met on Fridays at 3:15 in G-108. That was forty-five minutes after classes were officially over.

  That very day after school I did a little reading, listening to the hustle and shouts outside growing dimmer and dimmer as the buses rolled away. Gradually the parking lot emptied too, until finally there were only occasional footsteps in the hall, the close of a book, or the scooting of a chair to interrupt the quiet. At 3:05, I put my stuff in my bag, took out a small notebook, and headed down the main hall to the stairs.

  There was band practice at the far end of the building. I could barely hear it as I descended the stairs, and by the time I reached the ground level, it had faded entirely.

  I checked the number of one of the classrooms. Wrong hallway. Taking the first cross corridor, I passed the furnace room, the boiler, the custodian’s office, then listened for conversation as I reached the second hallway. The science labs and photo studio, with their chemical smells, sat side by side along this corridor. Mine were the only footsteps on the tiled floor.

  I found G-108, and it was empty. I went inside and turned on the light. I was still five minutes early. From all appearances, it seemed to be a freshman earth science room. A bulletin board had photos of a recent volcanic eruption in various stages, and a plastic model of the earth’s layers sat on a side table.

  I sat down in a chair near the back and surveyed a large maple tree outside the window. It had shed half its leaves, and with each gust of wind, a few more peach-colored leaves let go and swirled, forsaken, to the ground.

  When another five minutes had gone by and no one came, I wondered if they had been scared off. It occurred to me that I hadn’t seen Curtis Butler at our last GSA meeting either. Who else besides Daniel had gotten a warning logo? Who else might have had their cars vandalized and were afraid to report it?

  Down the hall, the huge furnace cut on and off with clicks and swooshes. The hallway outside the room suddenly grew darker as the after-hours lighting went into effect. Outside, the sun emerged from behind some clouds, then receded. The wind blew, then calmed, then gusted again, as though the weather couldn’t commit. The room seemed colder.

  “You waiting for somebody?”

  I jumped as a fi
gure appeared in the doorway. One of the custodians poked his head inside.

  “I thought the Student Safety Council was meeting today,” I told him.

  “Don’t look like nobody’s coming. I got to do this floor,” he said.

  “Come on in, I’m leaving,” I said. “Maybe I’ve got the time mixed up.”

  He waited, swish broom ready, as I gathered my things and headed back to the stairs.

  The office was open till four, so I went back and asked one of the administrative assistants, “Safety Council? No one was there.”

  “That’s what I’ve got,” she said, checking her calendar. “Fridays, three fifteen to four fifteen, G-108. Mr. Bloom is faculty adviser.”

  “Civics teacher?”

  “Yes. Gordon Bloom. He was just in here a minute ago. I’ll bet he’s on the way to his car.”

  I used the faculty door, and sure enough, he was about twenty feet ahead of me, unlocking his station wagon.

  “Mr. Bloom?” I called, and he paused as I ran over. “I’m doing an article for The Edge and wanted to mention the Safety Council, but no one was at the meeting.”

  “Oh, sorry about that,” he said. “It’s been scratched. I’ll tell Betty to take it off the calendar.”

  “Why? Not enough members or what?” I asked. “Was there some particular problem they were concerned about?”

  “To tell the truth, it was hard to put your finger on it,” he said, smiling genially. “And I didn’t make every meeting.” He put his briefcase on the backseat, then rested his arms on the roof of the wagon. “There didn’t appear to be any one issue exactly … just … a general uneasiness, I’d call it. Not a big group … five guys and two girls. But it seemed their focus was going to be on martial arts—protecting themselves, I guess—and I had to disband it.”

  “Why?”

  “It was kids teaching kids. We’re not insured for that. I told them they’d have to get their training somewhere else by a professional. Maybe talk with a P.E. instructor about starting a class.” He smiled again. “Sorry, but I have to pick up a daughter from a dance class. Gotta scoot.”