The Accidental Siren

2.3 Mara

Thunk.

Thunk.

Thunk.

The locks bolted behind me. I released a bout of vapor through my nostrils and hugged my loot to my chest. It was only nine o’clock. Whit would be fine.

I looked left and searched the patch of trees for the peeping toms. I stepped from the porch, rounded the corner of the house, and saw my bike beside the lamppost, safe and sound.

A paper football fluttered from the sky. It landed with a delicate crunch in the dead grass at my feet, and somewhere above me, a window slid shut. I stooped down to read the words scrawled in blue highlighter: “FOR THE BOY.”

Part of me longed for the night to be over, to jump on my bike, process my adventure, and tell Whit all about it from the safety of his basement bedroom. The other part wanted to wait, to snatch the origami triangle and to revel in whatever words the pretty girl intended for me--

The tackle came from the right. Pain ruptured my side and the camera popped from my arms as I hit the ground. I flailed my fists at my shadowed attacker. We tussled. He wailed his fists into my shoulders. I tried to wiggle away, but he had me trapped.

When he thought I was down for good, he lunged for the note but I kicked out my foot at the perfect moment, caught his ankle, and he tripped--elbows first--onto the pouch that held my brand-new camera. CRUNCH.

My eyes stung but I held back the tears. I stood. Before my adversary could scramble away, I dropped my fat knee into his lower back and pinned him to the ground. His arm was limp but his fingers clenched my note like a steel claw. “Let it go,” I growled while working the full weight of my body into his lower spine. “Let. It. Go.”

“Uncle!” he cried and his fingers uncoiled and released the paper football. I pushed his head to the grass and crawled over his body, then I took the note, ripped the camera from under his chest, and gathered the scattered rolls of film. Just as I stepped toward my bike, the boy looked up from the dust and I saw his face for the first time.

It was A.J.

His dirt-smeared mouth dropped when he saw my face. He stood. He ran.

I dumped my soiled treasure in my bike's basket and peddled through the moonlit subdivision until I found a safe place to breathe; a place where I could read the note; a place where that house wasn’t watching me.

Savoring the suspense, I unhinged every adorable fold of the letter. The number “31” was scrawled in the bottom left corner. I was right: curly penmanship.

“10:00. Back window.

Boys will be gone but watch the bushes.

My name is Mara.

Whats yours?”

*  *  *

The grass was wet but I didn't care. I plopped on my stomach beside the foundation of the Conrad home and rapped on Whit's tiny window.

My friend was in bed below me. He used a broom handle to hit the latch and I stuck my head inside.

“Where the H.E. double--”

“You won't believe me when I tell you. But I can't stay--”

“Mom came down twice! I had to say you were in the bathroom! We're in such deep shit if--”