The Phamtomime

Chapter 4

Andy didn't catch up to me until I reached our house. He stamped ahead, shoved his way through the front door, and slammed it so I had to use my key to get in.

It was so worth it. I'd won the dare, beaten my brother, and, for bonus points, ticked him off big-time. Not a bad day's work, I'd say.

Andy's foot-stomps disappeared into his bedroom, followed by a slam.

When I hung my coat on its hook in the mudroom, the tear in the sleeve was right there, glaring at me. It didn't help that the red coat had been lined with a yellow so bright it screamed, "I am torn!"

I tucked the sleeve into the breast pocket, which hid the tear but made my coat look like it was pledging allegiance.

No way was I telling my mom about the damage. I'd ask Marissa for help next time I saw her. She learned to sew when her mom stopped driving to the city each month and Riverton Fashions didn't carry anything bright enough for her tastes. The only time I ever tried to sew, I ended up with more puncture wounds than a porcupine wrestler. Until I could get my best friend's help, my coat would have to stay patriotic.

Next time I did a dare, I'd wear something poorly made that my mother hated.

Since Andy had gone to sulk in his room, I had the computer in the den to myself. I logged into my IM to look for Marissa. A little pen icon showed that she was already two-finger-typing a frantic message.

"There you are," her message said.

"Crisis!"

"How? I only saw you a couple of hours ago." The pen icon wriggled around for a bit and she added, "Oh, the theater dare. You're not going to be in the paper again?"

"No, I'm not. And it's crises, plural."

"Crisis one?"

"I tore a hole in my coat."

"How did you find something to jump off in the theater?" There were times when Marissa's wit was not amusing.

"Any-WAY, on to Crisis two. Turns out the theater isn't so abandoned." I stopped to stretch out my fingers. Typing came a close second to math as my worst skill. "There were actors there."

"What sort of actors?"

"I don't know. Acting ones. A boy."

I could almost hear her ears prick up from three blocks away. "Ooh, cute?"

"A show off."

"Cute then."

"Focus, M."

"Soz." Even Marissa's pen icon looked apologetic. "What's the crisis?"

I banged away at the keyboard, hitting backspace over and over to fix my mistakes.

Marissa got impatient. "C'mon."

I had to wipe out what I'd written so I could say, "Gimme a sec." Then I typed faster and made more mistakes. "Tehy in the dark. Thetaer a mess. How cuold they put on a play in the drak?"

It must have taken a minute for Marissa to think of an answer, or maybe interpret what I'd said. The pen icon sat still for so long, I decided she'd gone to dinner when her reply arrived.

"A play about mimes? No. A shadow play? I don't know. I didn't even know the theater had reopened. Mom says every time they try to put on a play there, the whole place stinks of smoke so bad that everyone has to leave."

I'd heard that story too. Lucky for me, my nose didn't work. Mom called it "anosmia". In this case, I called it a stroke of good luck. The theater could reek and I wouldn't notice.