Page 80 of Mad Mabel

“Who is in there?”

It was hard to know whether to be relieved or even more terrified. It was the voice of Brother Stanislaus—our principal. I pulled my skirt down and tucked myself around the side of the basketball cage in the couple of seconds it took for Brother Stanislaus to open the door.

“Oh,” he said. “Is it you making all that racket?”

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Loukas replied. “I was just trying to grab a basketball so I can shoot some hoops at home. But the cage is locked.”

It was quiet for long enough that I was worried. I pictured Brother Stanislaus’s disbelieving face. “The cage is always locked. If it wasn’t there’d be no balls left.” He chuckled. “Strictly speaking they’re for use on school grounds but I’ll make an exception.”

I heard Brother Stanislaus’s shoes on the concrete floor and I scrambled back as far as I could go. I held my breath. I didn’t know that I could hold my breath for so long. Truly. I thought I might explode by the time the key jangled in the cage. A few moments later, the pair vacated the shed, and I finally let my breath out.

Then the keys jangled again and my heart ceased to beat. Brother Stanislaus had locked the door. With me inside.

I assumed Mr. Loukas would come back for me. I knew he didn’t have a key, but I thought he would return to see if he could help in some way or help me construct some kind of excuse to tell Cess as to why I was going to be so late.

It was dark outside before I accepted that once again, I was on my own.

The shed was old and cobwebbed and made from tin, the walls of which had seen better days. I crawled the perimeter, kicking at the curled edges of the tin to see if it would bend. It didn’t take long for me to bash a corner out. The hockey sticks came in handy for that. The noise of wood against metal wasn’t insignificant, but no one came to investigate it. I’m not sure why I was surprised.

I was covered in dirt and sweat when I finished crawling through the gap. I didn’t know the time, but it felt like early evening. I should have gone straight home. But my legs had another plan for me. I headed to his house.

I wasn’t going to chide him for leaving me there and not returning, I decided. I was going to let him explain. There would be a reason he’d left me there, I was certain of it. Once he saw me, he’d be relieved that I was okay and we could share in the scandal of almost being caught by Brother Stanislaus. Talk about crazy!

I must have looked a fright when I knocked at his front door. I made a rudimentary attempt to brush the dirt off my clothes and rake my hands through my hair. I was still trying to disentangle my fingers from my hair when the woman came to the door.

“Yes?”

She was a pretty woman. Mid-twenties, burgundy circle skirt,crisp white shirt. Dark brown hair cut into a pageboy. She wasn’t unfriendly so much as curious. As if she’d never seen a human girl before. But it only took a couple of seconds for her expression to morph from curious to suspicious.

“Are you looking for someone?”

“Yes,” I said uncertainly. “I was looking for…”

I hesitated. He’d told me never to tell anyone about what we did.

Her brown eyes pinned me in their stare. “Who are you looking for?”

Later I realized I should have made something up. But at the time I thought I had no choice.

“I’m looking for Mr. Loukas,” I said.

50

NOW

Bailey Andrews, Joan’s nephew, drives me home from the police station.

Bailey has a very nice car—a Range Rover—with cream leather seats and individual temperature control. He asks me several times if I’m too hot or too cold, and shows me how to adjust it. I feel like I’ve arrived at a fancy hotel. Joan sits in the backseat with me and Bailey drives, which feels a little odd, as if we have a chauffeur.

Bailey is not a criminal lawyer, he explains to me, though he knows some defenders who could represent me if it is required. In the meantime, the most important thing to remember is that I don’t have to speak to the police, and I shouldn’t speak to them, unless I am under arrest. Even then, I only have to tell the police my name and then I can request a lawyer.

“I highly doubt it will come to that,” he says. “I spoke to the detectives and all the evidence they have is circumstantial.”

“Thank you,” I tell him. “I appreciate your help more than I can say. I am interested, though, in why you are helping me.”

Bailey meets my eye in the rearview mirror. “Because,” he says, “my aunt told me to. And I am terrified of my aunt.”

I glance at Joan, who chuckles. “Quite right too.”