"You guys still need a
babysitter?" Neil smirked. The tall, rangy, freckle-faced bully turned his
nose up at Joey and me in the courtyard of our Chicago apartment complex.
"Babies!" he sneered at
us, raising a toy spyglass to his eye. "I'm going exploring!"
With the late-autumn daylight fading
fast, I knew his boast was an empty one. In half an hour, night would blanket
the neighborhood. But there was another reason his taunts lacked their usual
sting that evening: anything Neil Preston did appeared childish and boring, and
even a bit pathetic, compared to what Joey and I had planned for the
babysitter.
Our plan was a bit mischievous, I
must admit, but not at all malicious. To the contrary, we intended the best.
The only question in my mind was: could we pull it off?
"Billy! Joe!" Mom called
down to us from the third-floor landing.
"We're coming, Mom!" I
yelled back.
My brother and I took the stairs two
steps at a time, I leading the way, past the dark windows of the Goldbergs' apartment,
through the halo of appetizing aromas emanating from the Tortaninis' kitchen,
and up, finally, to our back porch, high above the darkening courtyard where
Neil still stood fondling his spyglass.
"Sissies!" he shouted up
at us. "I PITY you!"
Mom ushered Joey and me into the
warm glow of the kitchen light where she gave us the usual shakedown.
"How much DIRT you boys pick
up!" She licked the corner of a handkerchief and rubbed behind my ear.
"Aw, MOMMMMMM!" I tried to
pull away.
"Hold still!"
Looking down the hallway, my heart
began pounding. Kristina was there, in the foyer!
Talking with Dad, she looked
different from three months ago, the last time she babysat us — more grown-up.
I guessed why: her new job as retail sales clerk for an upscale women's fashion
store required her to wear adult apparel. Gone were the T-shirt, blue jeans,
white bobby socks, and tennis shoes. She'd come directly from work in a gold
rayon blouse, navy blue skirt, nylons and pumps.
She'd done things to herself, too.
The chestnut-brown hair over her shoulders appeared more lush and shinier now.
When she tilted her head back to laugh at one of Dad's jokes, her earlobe
glittered like a dewdrop. She'd accentuated her eyebrows and lips, reminding me
of the markings of certain butterfly wings. And then there were the nylons.
Something about them made her look
especially grown-up, although what exactly it was puzzled me. Why did women
wear nylons anyway? Mom wore them sometimes. So did Miss Gordon, my third-grade
teacher at Holy Mount of the Angels Catholic elementary school. Light brown in
tone, the kind Kristina wore that evening gave her legs and feet the color of
baker potatoes. She had good legs, too-—not the bony stilts possessed by many
young women, but legs with warm flesh on them, legs that made me want to wrap
myself around her and plant a cheek in her lap!
"You two be good," Mom
wagged a finger at Joey and me by the front door while she and Dad prepared to
depart.
"Can I give Agnes a snack
before bedtime, Mommy?" Our four-year-old sister, Charlotte, kissed her
doll baby on the forehead. In a pink chiffon dress with puffs around the
shoulders, immaculate white socks, and shiny black shoes with little straps,
Charlotte had honey-golden hair done up in tubular curls to resemble the
doll's.
"Can I give her apple
sauce?" the little girl asked.
"Sure, honey," Mom said.
"But don't feed her too much or she won't be able to get to sleep."
"I won't, Mommy."
"Can Billy and I have the rest
of them cookies, Ma?"
Joey, who was a year younger than I,
was nonetheless half a head taller. He looked much more like Dad than I did,
what with his smooth, dark brown hair and straight, commanding nose. No one
knew where I got my tempestuous locks of sandy blond or the nose that poked out
from my puckish face like a rebel's ensign.
"Just two for each of
you," Mom said.
"But I'm bigger than Billie,
Ma! I NEED more!"
Mom bent over slightly as Dad helped
her on with her coat. If she was as light and nimble as a ballerina, Dad was
tall and strong as a derrick with a ruggedly handsome face that, Mom always
said, made him look like a Russian espionage agent.
"Enjoy the opera, Mrs.
Stenova," Kristina smiled.
"You can't go wrong with
Mozart," Mom chirped.
"Depends on the orchestra,"
Dad corrected her in his bearish bass voice.
Mom frowned at him. "Bye
now!" She waved to us.
We kids waved back. The parents
left. Kristina locked the front door.
"So!" the babysitter
turned around. "How have we all been lately?"
Although Polish by origin and Slavic
in appearance, Kristina had grown up in London and had an excellent command of
English. Mom was enamored of her English accent, which is one reason why she
liked her. But I sensed another, deeper reason, too.
Mom felt sorry for Kristina-—sorry
that this attractive, intelligent, twenty-three-year-old woman was so lonely.
Kristina's mom, Stasha, had told mine all about her daughter's travails. In
American schools and at work, Kristina had met with repeated rejection from
young men who, supposedly, found her too complex, too cosmopolitan, too
DIFFERENT. Learning of this, I, too, felt sorry for Kristina and wanted to help
her, which is what had inspired that night's plan.
"What's on the agenda?"
the babysitter asked, eyeing Joey and me. "I sense you two have something
brewing."
"Baking," Charlotte
corrected her. "Cookies! Cakes! Brownies!" She referred to her
make-believe Wonder Cakes.
Ignoring her for the moment,
Kristina shifted her eyes from Joey to me and back again. "Cat's got your
tongues?" she asked.
"The cow jumped over the
moon!" Charlotte exclaimed.
"Be quiet!" Joey scowled
at her.
"Now, now, Joey," Kristina
said, "don't talk like that to your little sister." She patted
Charlotte on the head and turned to me.
"Joey and I made up a new
game," I said.
Her eyes narrowed. "Oh, you
did, did you?"
I nodded.
She gave me a sly smile. "Do I
get to be tied up?"
My heart leapt. She'd remembered the
game we played last time.
The night we played it, one of her
college friends, Ingrid Templeton, stopped by. We were at the front door,
Ingrid standing in the hallway just outside our apartment. While chatting with
Kristina, Ingrid paused, blinked behind her thick spectacles, and blinked
again.
"What's he DOING?" she
asked.
Tall, skinny, giraffe-like, with
blond hair that hung down her back like a wet mop head, Ingrid bent sideways to
look behind Kristina's shoulders.
"He's tying me up,"
Kristina said.
She said it as if getting tied up
were the most natural thing that could happen to her. In fact, I was binding
her hands, tying them together with my pajama sash.
Ingrid frowned.
"Well, in any case," she
resumed her gossip, "Theresa decided not to go to the movie after all,
which is why Greg changed his mind about Saturday night, and Laura gave me that
call Wednesday. Linda told Jim, Jim told Margery, and that's how PATRICK found
out!"
As the girl talk flew by like monkey
prattle, I had plenty of time to experiment, knotting and re-knotting,
unbinding and rebinding. The exercise absorbed me for some reason but, with
only three feet of pajama sash to work with, I soon ran out of possibilities.
Still the women talked on.
I glanced at Joey. Rolling our eyes
in mutual exasperation, we turned toward the wall of the foyer and slumped down
like a couple of stuffed duffle bags to sit and wait in a corner.
Finally, Ingrid heaved a sigh of
adjournment. "You'll be able to come then, next Friday?"
"Sure," Kristina nodded.
I was staring at her bound hands,
which lay where I had left them, crisscrossed above her butt. She hadn't moved
a finger.
"Don't worry about
Patrick!" she said. "You're making a mountain out of a mole
hill."
"I hope so!"
Ingrid glanced at Joey and me. We
were still slumped in that corner, glummer than a rainy day at the ballpark.
"They look constipated,"
she said.
Craning her neck around, Kristina
laughed. "They want their prisoner."
"Prisoner?" Ingrid
repeated.
"I'm the captured Spanish
princess!" Kristina turned to show Ingrid her bound hands.
Ingrid shook her head in mock
reproach. "Boys! Boys!"
WHY DON'T YOU JUST SHUT UP AND GO
HOME!
That's what I felt like saying. But
Ingrid was an adult-—or almost an adult-—and I'd been trained to show respect
to adults.
"As long as it keeps 'em
quiet!" Kristina sighed.
"I GUESS!" Ingrid sighed
back.
At last, the talky visitor left.
Joey slammed the front door shut. I marched the "prisoner" back to
the sofa in the living room.
The night went pretty well after
that. Armed with plastic toy swords, my brother and I enjoyed a number of good
sword fights across the living-room floor, which, for that night, was really
the deck of The Skull and Crossbones. Charlotte baked Wonder Cakes for Agnes
and the rest of us. And Kristina, hands bound behind her back, sat watching a
Woody Allen film on the sofa, which, for that night, was Bluebeard's bunk.
Later, I fetched an old curtain cord
Mom kept in the linen closet and tied the prisoner's feet together. Engrossed
in the movie, she paid me no attention.
Then the phone rang.
"Oh, my Gosh!" she exclaimed.
My heart jumped. I couldn't possibly
untie her in time.
"Billie," she said.
"You answer that. And if it's your parents, just tell them I'm using the
restroom."
The call was, in fact, from Mom, who
was only checking up on us. Everything was fine, I said. Joey and I were
playing. Charlotte was asleep. And Kristina was…
TIED UP?
"She's in the restroom,
Ma."
It worked like a charm. Later,
though, I wondered if we could use the same stratagem again without rousing the
suspicion that Kristina suffered from some embarrassing bowel or bladder
problem. So now, three months later, I'd concocted another solution.
"What's THAT?" Kristina
looked down at the bundle I'd fetched from Dad's work closet.
"An extension cord," I
said. "We can bring the phone from Mom and Dad's room into the living
room—in case Mom calls."
Beaming with pride, I smiled up at
her.
"And what," she asked, her
pretty blue eyes acquiring a wry twinkle above the curves of her high Slavic
cheekbones. "What am I supposed to be tonight?"
"A bank teller," I said.
"Hmmmmm! I think I like the
Spanish princess better."
"We're robbing the First
National Savings and Trust," Joey announced, whipping a toy pistol out of
his pocket. "Stick 'em up, lady!"
Kristina raised her hands. In that gold
rayon blouse of hers, she looked remarkably LIKE a bank teller.
"I won't shoot," Joey
assured her, "so long as you do what you're told!"
"We don't want to hurt
ANYONE," I noted.
"That's good to know,"
Kristina smiled.
"Can I give her a cupcake now?"
Charlotte asked, holding up a plastic make-believe pastry with a red rubber
cherry on top.
"Not yet," I scowled at
her.
"What do you plan to DO with
me?" Kristina adopted a falsetto tone.
"Calm down, lady. CAAAAAALM
down! We're just gonna tie you up." I turned to Joey and growled,
"Take her downstairs!"
"THAT way!" Joey jerked
his gun.
The "hapless teller",
hands in the air, minced into the living room, which, for that night, had
metamorphosed into the vault of the First National Savings and Trust.
"Sir?"
"What?" I growled.
"May I use the restroom?"
Joey and I exchanged glances. Using
the restroom never happened in any bank robbery we'd ever heard of.
"Okay," I sighed.
"But make it fast!"
When she returned, I had dragged a
piece of furniture in from Mom's boudoir-—a light, armless chair with a tall
back, round, cushioned seat, and feminine legs.
"You can sit down here,
lady," I said.
Adjusting her skirt, Kristina sat
down, crossed her ankles, and folded her hands on her lap.
"What now, sir?"
"Hands behind your back!"
"May I take these off
first?" She indicated her three-inch high heels. "They've been
killing me all day!"
Joey and I exchanged glances again.
"Oh, go ahead!" I waved
impatiently. "But remember, this is a bank robbery."
"Oh, I won't forget THAT,
sir." She slipped off the shoes and set them neatly together beside the
chair.
"I'll turn the TV on,"
Charlotte piped up.
"Thank you, honey,"
Kristina said.
Little Sister ran to the television
and turned it on, glad to participate in the evening's events as well as
display her competence, but she floundered on changing channels.
"How do you get to seven,
Billie?"
"Joey," I strove to remain
calm. "Turn it to seven."
To keep the robbery from
degenerating into a total farce, I summoned up my gruffest voice. "Hands
behind your back, lady—-and no more interruptions!"
With a show of alacrity, Kristina
brought her wrists behind the back of the chair, crossing one over the other,
as she'd done when I bound them with the pajama sash. Since then, however, I'd
done some thinking that led me to another idea. I repositioned her hands,
heel-to-heel. Using Mom's new clothesline - soft, supple rope of white cotton —
I wrapped her wrists together loosely, not tight, as when I'd bound her with
the sash.
"Ooooooo!" she exclaimed a
moment later, turning her head slightly. "What did you do, Billie?"
I'd done something I'd learned a few
weeks earlier while fastening sticks together to make a tripod - I'd cinched
the bond. The rope round her wrists suddenly contracted, assuming a snug grip.
"Quiet, lady!"
I knelt in front of her and tied her
feet the same way, cinching the bond.
"Oooooo!" she cooed with
curiosity and delight. "That's different!"
"I learned it in Cub
Scouts," I said, unable to contain my pride.
She turned her ankles and wrists,
one way and another, and a smile of surprise broke out on her face. "Why,
I don't know if I can get OUT of this, Billie!"
Three months ago, she had wiggled
out of my pajama sash in fifteen minutes.
"No more talking, lady!"
She turned her attention to the
television.
It was fun fastening her to the
chair—-like decorating a tree—-and I took my time to do a thorough job. I'd
thought about how to tie her beforehand, so I knew approximately where I was
going, but I improvised a lot, too, looping, cinching, knotting. When I
threaded the rope under her armpits to pass across her brazier, both over AND
under it, she began to object.
"Billie! That's…"
I paused, rope in hand.
"What?" I asked.
"Oh, nothing," she smiled
up at me and relaxed. "Go ahead! Go ahead!"
The rope was longer than I thought
it would be, but I used all of it anyway. When I finished, Kristina was one
with the chair, trussed up from ankles to shoulders. She reminded me of a
character I'd seen on one of Mom's favorite soap operas—-some lady who got
kidnapped and held for ransom.
"Can I give her a cake
now?" Charlotte asked.
"Not yet," I said.
"We need the combination first."
"What IS it, lady?" Joey
spoke up.
"Wha- what's what?"
Kristina turned from the TV and
refocused on the "gunman".
"The combination to the
safe," Joey growled. "What is it?"
"Oh, sir!" she ratcheted
her voice up a notch. "Do I have to betray the bank? This is my first real
job and I…"
Joey's brow darkened.
"You better talk, lady," I
advised.
"Woe is me!" she
exclaimed, twisting her wrists and ankles to exhibit her helplessness. "If
I must, then I must! 76—31—92."
"Got that, Joey?"
"Got it!"
Stepping to a cardboard box we'd
painted to resemble a safe, he pretended to dial the number.
"Billie!" he exclaimed.
"There's at least a million dollars in here!"
"A million!" I said.
"At LEAST!"
"Put it in the bag. And hurry!
We ain't got all night."
Kristina, I noticed, had begun
squirming and twisting, but not in a theatrical way. Rather, she was testing
her bonds, seriously. Unable to free herself, she relaxed, arms bound behind
the back of the chair, ankles tied back beneath the seat.
"Billie?" she looked at
me.
"What is it now, lady?"
"I...I suppose you'll have
to..."
She lifted her eyebrows
inquisitively. "To GAG me?"
Joey and I glanced at each other. I
hadn't planned on gagging her.
My plan was to swing into high gear
now. Joey and I were to make a "getaway" by dashing to the far end of
the apartment - the kitchen. There, I'd telephone Brad Funderburk, a friend and
classmate of mine.
Brad happened to be the little
brother of Tom Funderburk. Of Kristina's age, maybe a little older, Tom was a
gangly, shy, nerdish kind of guy obsessed with auto mechanics and car design.
From Brad, I knew that Tom had a crush on Kristina. I also knew that she was
fond of him. But since he was so shy, he'd never make a pass. I wanted Brad to
"tip off" his big brother that Kristina's car had broken down, she
was at our place, and she needed help.
"You know, Billie," she
pointed out, "if this were a real bank robbery, I'd scream for help after
you made your getaway."
"She's right," Joey said.
"But this vault has ten-foot
thick walls," I noted.
"Ever hear a woman
scream?" Kristina asked.
"I think we better gag
her," Joey said.
I nodded.
Kristina's eyes brightened.
"Look in my purse," she said. "There's a clean handkerchief in
there."
Unlacing the handbag on the sofa, I
found the desired cloth.
"Do you guys have duct
tape?" she asked.
"In Dad's closet," Joey
said.
He got the tape. I fetched a clean
white rag from Mom's laundry basket. Kristina opened her mouth and I packed in
the handkerchief. Her lips closed around it. I sealed her mouth with several
strips of tape and wrapped the white rag over it, knotting the cloth firmly
behind her neck, underneath the hair.
When I'd finished, she turned her
head and looked at me. The expression on her face I shall never forget. It
reminded me of Droopy, Grandma's sad-eyed beagle. She moaned into the gag as if
imbibing the aroma of chocolate-chip cookies baking in an oven.
"Mmmmmmmmmmm!"
Pushing up on the balls of her feet,
she began rubbing her legs together as far as her bonds permitted, thighs back
and forth, calves up and down, her nyloned toes digging into the carpet. The
chair creaked a little. Then something bizarre happened.
Her eyes widened, glowing for a
moment like fanned embers above the cream-white cloth wrapped over her mouth.
The embers dimmed; her eyes misted over. She shuddered, and the moan that
issued from the depths of her throat was long and languishing.
"MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM!"
Her chin dropped to her chest.
Joey and I stared at each other,
mystified.
"Are...are you all right, Miss
Poltava?" I asked as delicately as I could.
She opened her eyes looking groggy.
"Mmmmmmm!" she moaned
again and smiled at me dreamily.
I shrugged. "Come on, Joey!
Let's go!"
He grabbed the "loot" and
we dashed down the hall to the kitchen.
"Brad!" I spoke into the
phone. "Yeah, we're ready!"
About fifteen minutes later, the
knock sounded on the front door. Joey and I were in the living room, sitting on
the floor playing marbles. Charlotte was curled up in a corner of the sofa
dressing Agnes. Kristina, still bound and gagged, was watching TV. At the sound
of the knock, she turned to the door with eyes the size of walnuts.
It sounded again.
She turned to Joey and me and jerked
her head, apparently meaning to be dragged, chair and all, out of the line of
sight.
"Mmmph! Mmmph! MMMMPH! Mmmph!
Mmmph!"
Joey and I stared back, pretending
to be baffled.
"Should I answer the
door?" I asked.
"MMMPH!" she shook her
head emphatically.
The knock sounded a third time,
louder now, more insistent.
Kristina began pushing up with the balls
of her feet, trying to budge the chair toward a safe corner, but could only
inch backward and sideways at a weird angle.
I pictured the look of surprise that
would break out on Tom Funderburk's face when Joey swung open the door. What we
saw, though, was something totally unexpected.
Standing in the hall were two
uniformed policemen. Between them stood Tom, looking rattled, his shaggy hair
curtaining his eyes, his hands apparently cuffed behind him.
"Kristina!" he cried,
aghast.
"What's going on here?"
asked one of the cops, a portly, middle-aged veteran of law enforcement with
tufts of grayish hair sticking out from behind his ears.
His partner, a skinny young man a
bit taller than Tom, might have been fresh out of the police academy and this,
his first real assignment. With deep-socketed eyes, he stood stupefied, staring
at Kristina.
"Would you like a cookie?"
Charlotte stepped up to him, holding her doll baby in one hand, a plastic
make-believe brownie in the other.
The tall cop looked down at her,
still stunned, then again at Kristina.
The babysitter turned her face away,
looking as if she wanted to curl up, vanish into a black hole, and re-emerge
elsewhere - preferably in another universe.
"It's just a game,
officer," I tried to explain.
I was standing now next to Joey, who
was still agape, holding onto the doorknob as if his hand were welded to it.
"Our parents are at the opera
and that's..." I pointed to the bound woman. "That's our
babysitter."
"She's the bank teller,"
Charlotte corrected me.
The cops loosened up a bit.
"Bank teller, eh?" the
portly one smiled. "Are you all right in there, ma'am?"
Kristina looked up and nodded,
lifting her eyebrows to simulate a smile mingled with a sigh.
The cop poked his head into the
apartment. "You sure there's no problem?" he asked.
"Mmmm, mmmm," Kristina
shook her head.
"Well!" the cop turned to
Tom. "I guess this was all a mistake, young man."
He took a key from his pocket and
unlocked the handcuffs. The "suspect" pulled his big hands in front
of him looking surlier than an angry grizzly bear. He rubbed his wrists where
the cuffs had been and, with a jerky motion, brushed hair from his eyes.
"You two know each other?"
Looking at Tom, the cop nodded at Kristina.
Tom reddened.
"Sort of," he mumbled.
"I...I went to school with her. I just came here to visit. I didn't know
she'd be... Or that I'd be..."
"Sorry," the portly cop
laughed. "Someone reported a burglary. Standing outside the door, you did
look pretty suspicious."
I pictured poor Tom - big, clumsy,
shaggy-haired Tom - lurking in the hall, his heart pounding with excitement but
too timid to knock, and then the police arriving!
A beeper went off and the portly cop
answered it.
"We got to go," he said.
"Have a good night, ma'am," he waved at Kristina.
"Mmmm! Mmmm!" she nodded.
Chuckling behind his hand, the cop
said to me, "Don't keep her tied up too long, sonny. Okay?"
"Don't worry," Charlotte
piped up. "She'll be untied soon." Charlotte looked at Tom, which
made him blush.
Although she'd averted her eyes,
Kristina blushed too.
"May I come in?" Tom asked
me after the cops had left.
"Kristina," I called,
"can Tom come in?"
The babysitter nodded, her eyes
closed.
Tom entered. I shut the door. Joey
and I followed the visitor into the living room.
"May I?" Tom asked.
Kristina nodded.
He proceeded to undo the gag. The
rag around her mouth dropped away. "Wow!" he gasped. "You're
taped up, too!"
Past embarrassment, she merely
tilted her head to facilitate his task. Carefully, Tom unpeeled the tape while
Joey, Charlotte and I stood watching like medical students observing the head
surgeon perform a fascinating and delicate operation. Finally, there emerged
from between Kristina's lips the core of the gag, the wadded handkerchief.
It reminded me of an egg coming out
of a hen - something I'd seen on a field trip in Miss Gordon's class earlier
that autumn. Tom incredulously extracted the damp stuffing and placed it neatly
on a coffee table.
"Operation complete!" he
proclaimed.
"Thanks!" Kristina smiled
up at him sheepishly.
"This was a GAME?" he
asked.
"It keeps the boys
occupied."
"I bet it does."
She licked her lips, sighed, and
licked her lips again. "Tom?"
Their eyes met, hers glistening.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"Sorry? About what?"
"About you getting arrested. I
don't know how the cops got involved. I don't know how YOU got involved."
Tom screwed an eye up at Joey and
me. "I think," he said, "a pair of little pranksters had
something to do with it."
But who, I wondered, had called the
police?
I glanced at the living-room window.
Joey and I had forgotten to draw the curtain over it. Across the courtyard
stood Neil Preston's apartment. I pictured the bully at his window, spyglass in
hand, looking in on us.
After Tom had untied her, slipping
the last turn of rope from around her ankle, Kristina stood up and stretched
her limbs, all four of them. "Oh, it feels good - good to be free
again!"
He caught her wrist in the air.
"What's this?"
"My wrist!" she pulled it
back.
"I mean THIS!"
He led her to the sofa, holding her
wrist, making a great show of examining the skin around it. "It doesn't
hurt, does it?"
She laughed.
They sat down together, she leaning
against him, not much but more than she absolutely had to, her hair against his
cheek.
"Look! There's more!" he
bent down and ran a hand over her leg. She let him massage it.
"Rope marks, silly!" she
giggled. "What do you expect? I've been tied UP!"
I suppose the excitement of the
night had unnerved Tom to a degree that surprised even him. Turning on the
sofa, he now gazed at the face of the woman in front of him, enraptured,
starry-eyed, and near bursting with suppressed desire.
"Tom?" she gazed back,
amused but also alarmed, like one situated next to a volcano about to erupt.
"You dear, dear, dear sweet
girl!" his feelings broke loose at last.
Suddenly, in a most uncharacteristic
manner, he threw his arms around her. I ran to pull the curtain over the
window. Planting his cheek against Kristina's, Tom pushed forward, she leaned
back, his leg came over her knees, and one of her stockinged feet rose off the
floor.
"Oh, Tom!" She seemed to
wilt in his embrace. He nuzzled her neck. She sighed.
Joey and I exchanged glances.
Charlotte stared in wonderment.
"This is…" Kristina
gasped. "This is…"
"This is what?" Tom
chuckled. "Better than being tied up?"
"Yes!" she laughed.
He squeezed her hard.
"Oh!" she gasped.
GROWN-UPS!
Joey and I frowned at each other.
"Let's order a pizza!" I
exclaimed and picked up the phone I'd brought in from Mom and Dad's room by
means of the extension cord.
"Yeah!" said Joey.
"I'm hungry!"
The lovebirds disengaged, brushing
their tousled hair back.
"It... it sure has been a
strange night!" Tom observed, tucking his shirt in.
"It sure HAS!" Charlotte
agreed. "And I'm gonna tell Mommy and Daddy EVERYTHING!"
Joey and I looked at each other,
nonplussed. So did Tom and Kristina.
"Oh, heavens!" the
babysitter laughed. "Now we're ALL in a bind!"
The End!!!!!!
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