Seven Stories Up (8 page)

We made it about twenty feet in the darkness, then collapsed onto a pile of what felt like wooden crates. “Sit,” I wheezed at Molly. “Get … those … off!” I leaned over for a minute, hand to chest, to catch my breath.

“I—I didn’t mean to,” she stammered, tears in her voice. “It was my first time. I didn’t know.…”

“Don’t … cry. And don’t … 
worry
. Just get … those off.”

Molly began to pull off the skates, which were clamped to her shoes. I could hear her fingers scrambling at the buckles. As each skate hit the ground, it made a clattery metal noise.

“Done,” Molly said at last. “Done.” She leaned against me. “I—only wanted to try them.”

“I know,” I said. I had caught my breath again. “And now you have. It’s fine.”

“Fine? It’s not fine. All that glass? The
police
?” she said. “What will happen?”

As though in answer to our question, a police officer ran by the entrance to our tunnel at that very second, his club waving, his feet beating the pavement. He paused briefly to squint down our way. We held our breath, both of us. Silent.

“Anyone there?” he shouted into the darkness. “Hello?”

We waited, frozen.

At last he ran on ahead and I let out my breath, gasping painfully for air. Molly did the same. Then we stood up. “Okay,” I said. “Now we scram. Home?”

“But—we stole the skates! And all those lamps broken! We have to go back.”

I thought that over. “We will,” I said. “When we have the money.”

“But …”

“Look, we
can’t
talk to the police. The minute they know who you are, they’ll go to your dad for the cash.”

“Oh,” said Molly. “I hadn’t thought about that. You’re always right, aren’t you?”

“Usually,” I said.

Molly smothered a laugh.

I didn’t want to pop back out into the street, where people were on the lookout for two girls in a hurry. So we headed the other way, back between the row houses, deeper into the tunnel, which grew narrower and danker. Beneath our feet the ground was sludgy.

Somewhere, something squeaked.

Our tunnel ended in a splintery wooden door, but when we creaked it open, we found our way blocked by a clump of overgrown bushes. I squinted and pushed through the scratchy foliage. Molly followed, and we both stumbled into a small fenced yard.

Full of chickens!

The birds were as bewildered to see us as we were to see them. They jumped and rustled and clucked. Most of them ran to the other side of the small dirt patch. But one huge bird separated itself from the rest. Fearless, he flew at me, screaming. Screaming!

I froze.

Molly yelled, “AGHHHHH!”

The rooster turned when it heard her and charged. He jumped at Molly’s head, squawking and scrambling his feet in the air.

“AGHHHHH!” Molly yelled again, hands over her head, body bent double as claws and feathers raked the air around her curls. The big bird leaped straight onto her head.

“AGHHHHH!” she screamed again as he ran down her back, flapping his wide wings. He stretched himself.

“Go, go, go!” I shouted at her. “Stand up! Run, Molly! MOVE!” I dashed over and waved my arms at the bird on her back. “GET!” I shouted at him. “SHOO!”

“BRAWK!” he shouted back, mouth open. He had lizard eyes.

“FRIED CHICKEN!” I bellowed, slapping at his chest. “EXTRA CRISPY!”

He screamed, “RAHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Finally Molly shook herself and ran for the back of the yard. The rooster sprang away as she dashed, and the two of us pushed through the other birds. “MCNUGGETS!” I shouted as I ran, waving my arms and kicking my feet to keep the chickens off me. I pushed open the latch on the gate and we ran through.

We collapsed on the gravelly ground of an alley and leaned against a garage wall. Molly, pale and panting, looked over at me with the hugest eyes I’d ever seen. Her neck was scratched.

I couldn’t help it. I started to laugh. Then I couldn’t stop.

“It’s not funny,” Molly said. “That was horrible.”

I only laughed louder. “Ha—ha—ATTACK CHICKEN!” I shouted.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, it didn’t scratch
you
, so you don’t know how it felt. It
hurt
.”

I wiped away a tear from laughing. “Heh. Sorry. It was pretty funny from where I was standing.” I stood up and did an imitation of her, bent over, the chicken dancing on her back. “AGHHHHH!” I shouted.

Molly smiled.

Then she grinned.

I reached out a hand to pull her up. I looped my arm through hers as we walked down the alley.
“That,”
I laughed, “was quite an afternoon. You sure made up for lost time.”

Molly grimaced. “I feel terrible about the lamps.”

“It was worth it for the crash.” I grinned. “And you should have seen yourself on those skates.”

“But, Annie, we
stole
them.”

I shrugged. “We didn’t
mean
to, and we’ll pay for everything, right?”

Molly nodded slowly. “I suppose so,” she said. “Yes, of course we will.”

“Then it all works out,” I said. “No reason to feel too bad. Okay?”

Molly didn’t answer me. Instead she pointed to something behind my head. “Look at that,” she said. “Now
that’s
something to do!”

I turned and saw the sign:

The poster’s writing was in orange and purple. It had a picture of a Ferris wheel and dancing girls. “Hey, neat!” I breathed. “See, things get better if you just wait a minute.”

“That does seem to be true,” said Molly. “We’ll have to do that tomorrow, when we have some money!”

“But …,” I said, frowning, “tomorrow I might not be here. Can’t we go home and get some money now?”

“It’s getting late,” said Molly. “And Nora will be coming with supper. In fact, we should really get home.”

“I guess you’re right,” I grumbled.

Together we hustled along the alleys, making turns here and there, with our eyes on the church spire. We were almost home when Molly stopped and put a finger to her lips. “Hush!”

“What?” I listened but heard nothing.

Molly was standing still, with her hands out beside her like a doll. “Don’t you hear it?” she hissed.

“No. And why are we whispering?” I hissed back.

“Shhh!” said Molly.

I stood there another minute as Molly walked in a circle, listening carefully at garage doors and trash cans, but I still had no clue what she’d heard. It was like she was entranced. Suddenly she gave a sharp cry and whipped the lid off a dented silvery can that had been set out in the alley. She gripped the lip of the can in both hands and tried to tip it over. It was too heavy.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Just help me,” she said, panting. “Don’t you hear that? It’s awful. Oh, help!”

“Help
what
?” I asked. “I don’t hear anything.” Still, I began to tug at the other handle. It didn’t budge. “What am I supposed to hear?”

In answer, Molly plunged her thin arms into the gross slop in the can and began hauling out fistfuls of trash. I
gagged at the smell, but Molly didn’t even seem to notice it as she reached for rotting potato peels that oozed through her fingers and old rags, soaked and stained. At last I could hear it too. A faint cry.

Molly leaned deeper into the can until her legs were dangling off the ground, and when she emerged, she was clutching what looked like a dead chipmunk. The chipmunk uncurled itself, squeaked, and turned into the smallest, skinniest, wettest, most pathetic kitten I’d ever seen.

Molly stared at the revolting treasure, and then up at me. Her eyes were huge and bright. She cradled the thing in her arms.

“Oh!” I said. “Oh, Molly.” I reached out to pet the creature, with its pink translucent ears, its wet face like a skull, its shivering rib cage. “How did you hear it? How did you know?”

She stared at me. “How did you
not
?”

We walked the rest of the way along the alley and tiptoed up the fire escape stairs as cautiously as we could. Molly was in the lead this time, cradling the kitten in one arm and holding the railing with the other. She was climbing hundreds of feet into the air with gobs of trash sticking in her curls, but she didn’t appear to notice. When we got to the top, she gave me the smelly handful of fur,
which shivered and flinched at my touch. Molly crawled into the bathroom. I passed back her slimy bundle, then climbed in after her.

Tenderly Molly washed the kitten with a bar of soap lathered onto a washcloth. All the while she sang softly to the pitiful creature in a lullaby voice: “The way your smile just beams, the way you sing off-key, the way you haunt my dreams. No, no, they can’t take that away from me.…” I didn’t know the words, but it sounded familiar.

The kitten showed his appreciation by crying piteously and trembling the entire time, but Molly didn’t look like she minded. At the end she washed the inside of his ears, muttering, “Ouch, I know, shhh,” and wincing with his mews as though she was in pain.

Once he had been rubbed dry with a towel, the kitten shook himself out into a fluff ball and crawled onto Molly’s shoulder. There he began to purr loudly. Dry, he turned out to be a sort of golden color, with big dark leopard spots and incredibly long whiskers. He looked half wild.

“You know, cats are bad for your asthma,” I said.

Molly shook her head. “How could I care about that? Poor thing, in the dark, all alone. Just think what might have happened if the trash collector had come. But we found him, didn’t we?”

Molly held the kitten up to her face and kissed his
tiny nose. “You’ll stay with me, and I won’t let anything hurt you, ever.
That’s
a promise.”

The kitten blinked his yellow eyes. He’d stopped purring.

Molly added, “Unless you don’t
want
to stay, of course. I wouldn’t keep you here if you didn’t like it. You can come and go as you like. All right?”

As if he understood, the kitten squinched up his face at Molly. “Mew.”

Molly and I cracked up. Our laughter echoed against the tile walls.

“You should call him Lucky,” I said. “Because that’s what he is, lucky.”

Molly shook her head. “No, I’m going to call him Friend. Because he’s that too.”

Later, when we were in the bedroom with Friend and the light outside the window was fading, we heard Nora open the door. Molly set the sleeping kitten down on her pillow and crooked a finger at me. Quietly we left the room, closing the door on our secret. By the time we sat down, dinner was on the table.

“How was your afternoon, miss?” Nora asked politely.

Molly beamed, setting her napkin in her lap. “It was wonderful, Nora, really wonderful,” she said. “How was
your
day?”

Nora looked startled, but then she smiled back and said easily, “Why, it was good enough, I suppose. Ordinary, but good enough. Kind of you to ask.”

Molly nodded pleasantly.

“Thanks for dinner,” I added.

“You’re most welcome, miss.”

I watched Nora move around the room. She set a tall glass of cloudy liquid on the side table for Molly and cleared the dishes. Then she waved goodbye.

Molly and I ate our dinner: chicken in a cream sauce. After a little while, Friend emerged, nudging the door open with a tiny paw. We fed him small bites of chicken, which he snapped up gently. After that we listened to music on the radio for a while, and though it was much earlier than I ever went to bed at home, the day felt done. Molly walked over to the glass of cloudy water and drank it down, gulping it all at once. She made a face.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Medicine,” she said. “To help me sleep.”

“Oh.”

Molly began to look drowsy right away. When she stumbled into the bedroom, I followed. I didn’t want her to fall down on the floor.

We changed into nightgowns, then climbed into bed. Molly lay with her eyes open, staring at me glassily. “I’m
glad you’re here,” she said. “I didn’t know it was you I was wishing for, but you were exactly what I wanted.”

“I’m glad too,” I said. My voice came out soft, whispery, just like Molly’s.

“And I’m glad”—she yawned—“I’m glad we went outside. What a day! We just need to puzzle out the lamps.” She yawned again, more deeply. “The morning. We’ll think about it in the morning.” She paused before adding, “It’s funny, to have something to think about in the morning. I can’t … remember … the last … time.…” Then she was asleep, whistling faintly through her nose.