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get you. He can probably be there in, like, five minutes."
"We ... we ... can't." Emma started crying harder. Amy got back on the phone.
"If we call Dad, we'll get in trouble. We're not supposed to be here."
"Why don't you just call a cab and come home, then?" I suggested.
Rather than comforting them, my suggestion sent both Emma and Amy into a fresh round of
sobbing. By now all they could say was "We can't," and "We're scared," and "Lucy, please come get us." They sounded so plaintive I almost forgot how annoying they usually are. By the third
time Emma said, "We're scared, Lucy," I started to worry that maybe they really did have
something to be scared about.
"Okay," I said finally. "Look, I'll come get you."
My saying that only made them cry harder, though in between sobs one or the other of them
managed to say "Thank you, Lucy" a few times.
"Look, just stay where you are," I said. "I'll be there as fast as I can."
I hung up and dialed the Glen Lake Cab Company.
Eighteen Mill Road turned out to be a Tudor-style mansion set way back from the road. An
enormous beech tree with gnarled branches towered over the front lawn, and I felt a flicker of
anxiety as the cab turned into the circular driveway and pulled up to the dark, creepy
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house. What if the girls were in some kind of trouble that I couldn't handle? I told the driver I'd
be right out and asked him to wait.
I tried to see in one of the small side windows by the front door, but in addition to being about
seven feet off the ground, it was stained glass. I rang the bell. No response. And again. It took
three more rings before a voice finally asked, "Who is it?"
I squeezed my hands into fists. This was it. "Open the door," I said firmly. Nothing happened for a few seconds, and then the door swung open.
Standing before me was a skinny boy in baggy jeans who couldn't have been more than thirteen.
Seeing him made me feel ridiculous for having been scared about what I'd find in the house, but
seeing me obviously didn't have the same effect on him. His face grew instantly paler. He held
the door, nervously toying with the lock.
"I've come to get Emma and Amy," I said. My voice sounded parental even to me, and the boy
stepped aside to let me pass.
"I think they're in the back," he said.
"Fine." I started to walk past him authoritatively before I realized I didn't actually know how to get to "the back." A hallway branched off to the left, and I followed the sound of pulsating rap until I found myself in a dimly lit room.
The air was thick with smoke. Empty bottles were scattered around the floor along with what
looked like
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shards from a broken glass. On the sofa a girl was sitting on a guy's lap, kissing him. Her legs
were around his waist, and his hands were up the back of her shirt. In the corner, three guys and
a girl sat around a glass-topped table on which a ball of tin foil sat beside a razor blade.
The whole thing was so gross I felt sick. Was this what seventh graders were doing for fun
nowadays? What was wrong with a little spin the bottle?
Baggy Jeans came up behind me.
"We're just--" he started to say.
I held up my hand to stop him. "Save it," I said. "I don't want to know." He jiggled some loose change in his pocket nervously. "Just find my sisters and tell them to meet me by the front door."
When Emma and Amy met me in the entryway, they wouldn't look me in the eye. "See you,
Bobby," they said as we stepped outside.
"Yeah, see you," he said, closing the door and locking it.
"Hi," I said as soon as we were alone. Neither of them said anything; they just examined the
gravel at their feet. "Are you okay?" I asked finally.
They nodded, still not looking up.
Finally Emma spoke. "It wasn't supposed to be like that," she said. "It wasn't supposed to be just eighth graders." Instead of looking at me, she stared at the cab.
"Those were eighth graders?"
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Amy winced, misunderstanding my tone. "Are you mad at us?" she asked.
I said. "I'm mad at them." I turned toward the house. "They're all such ..." But remembering how Emma and Amy had cried into the phone earlier made me doubt they were in need of a major
anti-drug lecture. Maybe this was one of those times to leave well enough alone. "I'm not mad at
you," I said firmly. "And I'm glad you called me."
"Thanks, Lucy," Amy said. Suddenly she took a step toward me and threw her arms around my
waist. A second later, Emma did the same.
"We thought you'd be really mad," Emma explained.
"But we didn't know what to do," Amy added. "We didn't know who to call."
"Then we thought of you," Emma said. "We left you like a million messages."
"And then you answered." They both still had their arms around me. When I tried to walk, I felt
like I was in a three-legged race.
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Chapter Twenty-live
It had been a long time since I'd woken up on a Saturday morning without one of Connor's
perfect kisses from the night before running through my mind. But instead of thinking about his
imperfect kiss, I found myself thinking about Emma and Amy. I was in shock--they had been so
... nice. Right before they went upstairs to bed, they'd each given me a huge hug, and Emma had
said, "You're the best, Lucy." Then Amy said, "Yeah, Lucy. We're so lucky to have you as a big sister."
I got out of bed, brushed my teeth, threw on some jeans and a T-shirt, and headed to the kitchen,
actually looking forward to breakfast with my family.
The first thing I heard when I pushed open the door of the basement was Emma and Amy's dad.
"The only lesson you'll learn from that is how you can get away with doing whatever you want."
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I stepped into the kitchen. Mara was standing up, leaning against the sink. Emma, Amy, and their
dad were sitting at the kitchen table, Emma and Amy on one side, their dad on the other. Mr.
Gilman was wearing white shorts and a white-collared shirt, and as he sat there he bounced a
racket against his knee.
Emma's face was tear streaked. "No, Daddy, that's not true," she said.
You didn't have to be psychic to put two and two together. I wanted to help, but it occurred to me
that maybe the story they'd told their parents diverged from the truth; the last thing they needed
was me "defending" them by blurting out salient details they'd chosen to omit. I nodded hello to Mr. Gilman, went over to the fridge, and took out the orange juice.
"Lucy, I'd like to talk to you about this," said Mara. "The whole thing is quite upsetting to me."
I looked toward my stepsisters, but their eyes were down. I felt really bad for them. "Well, I
know it's none of my business, but I think you should go easy on them." I walked over to the
cabinet and got a glass. "They had kind of a rough night."
"That's very generous of you," said Mara. "But I think Amy and Emma need to pay for what
they've done. And I'd like to know more about the role you played in their little ... adventure."
I put the glass and the container down, totally confused. Why did I suddenly feel like a suspect
on CSI: Long Island?