“You working on some homework?”
I slide my arm over the paper and lie. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good girl,” she says. “Night, baby.”
“Night, Mama,” I whisper as she shuts the door behind her.
As the house quiets for the evening, I text Mitch and ask for a favor before reading over what I’ve written one last time.
Mama,
First, I haven’t run away. Don’t panic. I like your cooking way too much. But I’ve gone to do something important, and I’ll be gone for the next day or two. I know I’ve been all sorts of trouble lately, but I want you to know that this thing I have to do isn’t for my own sake. It’s for Millie. She was there for me when I didn’t even have the senseto know I needed her, so now it’s my turn to be there for her.
You can be mad at me. You can punish me when I get back. I’ll spend the whole summer cooking dinners to your liking if I have to, but I gotta do this one thing. I promise to text and let you know that I’m safe.
xo,
Callie
Millie
Thirty-Five
I lie perfectly still in my bed, holding my breath. The light scratching on the window doesn’t stop. It’s been happening for about five minutes now. Someone is outside my bedroom window.
I’m going to die. I’m going to die at the hands of a window-scratching killer.
“Millie,” a voice whisper-shouts.
Then comes a light knock on the window.
“Millie!” the voice says again.
This time I sit up and tiptoe to my window before yanking the curtains to the side and jumping back into a boxing stance in one swift motion. What am I going to do? Box the window-scratching killer from inside my room? Well, at least Uncle Vernon might be proud.
My eyes adjust to the moonlight as the figure in my backyard melts into focus. “Callie?”
She motions to the window, and I step forward and slide it up.
“What are you doing? How did you get here?”
“Mitch dropped me off,” she says.
I gasp. “Are you two, like, a thing? Oh my gosh. I’ve missed so much.”
She smiles just a little. “Are you going to let me in or what?”
I step back and she crawls through the window gracefully.
“You’re good at that.”
She shrugs. “If the Shamrocks left me with anything, it was balance and leotards.” She sits down on my bed. “We need to talk.”
I pull on my fuzzy pink robe and plop down beside her. “I’m so glad to see you,” I say. “And I’m so sorry I never—”
She shakes her head. “First, you really don’t have anything to apologize for. Second, we’re gonna have to save the heartwarming reconciliation for later, because we’re on a time crunch.”
“What?”
