Part 2 (1/2)

”It's a police officer's hat/' Kristy finished triumphantly.

Sure enough, The guy was a policeman.

I decided to keep my mouth shut for awhile. And I did. I didn't comment on our taxi ride to Mr. McGill's apartment. I didn't say how relieved and surprised I was when every one of us and every piece of luggage was safely inside the apartment.

And I certainly didn't ask Stacey's father why his apartment wasn't protected by an alarm system.

Then came the time to decide who was going to stay at Mr. McGill's and who was going to travel across town to Laine's. I almost asked, ”Does Laine's apartment have a burglar alarm?” But I didn't. I knew the Dakota had excellent security - guards and all - and that Mr. McGill's building didn't even have a doorman. But I was afraid to go out again. Besides, I wanted to stick with Stacey. I felt safer with her.

Wouldn't you know - just my luck - everyone (except me) wanted to go to Laine's to help Kristy, Mary Anne, Jessi, and Mallory settle in. I thought about asking Mr. McGill if he wouldn't mind a little company that afternoon, but before I could say anything, he announced that he needed to run errands. I quickly decided to go with my friends to the c.u.mmingses.' We were probably safer in a pack.

Boy. It seemed that all during Sat.u.r.day I would just start to feel sort of safe somewhere - and we'd leave. After my friends had unpacked their things at Laine's, we returned to Mr. McGill's apartment. We were there long enough to gulp down sodas (or in my case, orange juice with seltzer in it; I like to eat healthy), and then Mr. McGill took us out to dinner. The restaurant seemed reasonably safe, especially since I positioned myself against a wall, facing the door, and watched who came in and went out. But of course we couldn't stay there all night.

”How about more coffee?” I kept saying to Stacey's father.

After his third cup he smiled and said, ”I'm going to float away. Stacey, do you want to signal the waiter for our check?” (Stacey just loves doing that. It's as if she and the waiter know a secret code.) Ten minutes later we were outside again. And soon Stacey, her father, Claud, and I were back at Mr. McGill's.

”Where do you guys want to sleep?” asked Stacey. ”There's a futon in my room that unrolls into a pretty comfortable . . . bed. Well, mattress. And the couch in the living room opens into a double bed.”

”I'll take the futon/' said Claud. I knew she thought that she was doing me a favor. But I didn't want to sleep alone in the living room.

”Oh, that's okay. I'll take the futon,” I told her grandly.

”No, really. You sleep on the bed.”

”Come on, guys, don't argue about it,” spoke up Stacey.

So I ended up on the sofa bed. All alone in New York City. Sleeping right next to a window that opened onto a fire escape.

When I had stayed in Stacey's other apartment - the one she and her parents lived in before the divorce - I hadn't been nearly as scared. That apartment had been in a nice, big doorman building, on a very high floor, with indoor fire stairs. There were no fire escapes at the windows, which in my opinion was a blessing. As far as I'm concerned, a fire escape is an open invitation to a burglar. It says, ”Hey! Come on in. Crawl right through the window. Take our VCR and our CD player. Help yourself.”

I glanced uneasily over my shoulder at the window. I nearly screamed. Was that a figure standing outside? No. Just a shadow.

Ker-thunk. What was that? I listened. I heard crashes and banging in the street' below. I could hear everything: voices, car horns, sirens, a screech of brakes, a car alarm going off. The alarm didn't ring like most normal alarms. Instead, a mechanized voice growled over and over, ”Burglar, burglar, burglar.” (The crashes and banging turned out to be a garbage truck.) What a dreadful night. I barely slept.

And guess what happened in the morning. My friends deserted me.

When breakfast was over, Stacey jumped up from the table and said, ”Well, gotta go. Ro-wena and Alistaire are waiting.”

Claud jumped up, too. ”I'll ride over there with you. I think I'll see what Laine's up to today. Are the stores open on Sunday?”

Stacey giggled. ”Some of them are. Shopping already?”

”I've only got two weeks - and a whole city full of stores. Besides, starting tomorrow, I'm going to be really busy with cla.s.ses.”

”What about you, Dawn?” asked Stacey.

I glanced at Mr. McGill. ”Urn, I don't know.”

”I've got to put in a few hours at the office,” said Stacey's father. (He's a workaholic.) ”So come to Laine's with us, Dawn,” said Claud.

”Oh . . . that's all right. I think I'll stay put.” I couldn't bear to go outside again.

In the end, I was left alone. But not for long. Kristy took pity on me. Around lunch-time she appeared at Mr. McGill's, saying, ”Okay, Dawn. Here I am. Your personal babysitter.”

Stacey.

Chapter 5.

I just love waking up in New York City. I love the noise. I love the sound of dogs barking and the breeze rattling the Venetian blinds. I love trucks rattling down the street, and children calling to each other and laughing. I'm not being sarcastic. I really do love these sounds. When I'm in Connecticut, I like the quiet. But when I visit New York, I appreciate the noise.

Swish, swish, swish. I opened my eyes just as a street cleaner whooshed by Dad's apartment building. I ran to the window. ”Good morning, New York!” I called.

On the floor beside me, Claudia stirred. ”Close the window,” she mumbled.

”It's too hot. You'll melt,” I told her. ”Go back to sleep.”

And she did. I tiptoed out of my bedroom, down the hallway, through the living room (where Dawn was sound asleep, even though she said later that she hadn't slept a wink because of the fire escape), and into the kitchen.

”Morning, Dad,” I said.

His face lit up. ”Morning, Boontsie.”

”Ugh. Dad, I'm much too old for that baby name.” But I gave my father a hug. ”How long have you been up?” I asked him.

”Just long enough to make coffee,” he answered.

Dad and I sat down at the little table in the kitchen.

”This is nice,” I said.

”What is?”

”This.” I gestured around the room. ”Everything. It's early, we're the only ones up, the coffee smells great. . ; . We can have a private visit now.”

Dad smiled. ”What are you and your friends up to today?”

”I'm not sure about everyone else, but Mary Anne and I are going to take care of Alistaire and Rowena.”

”So you'll be busy most of the day?”

”Probably. Why?”

”I thought I'd go to the office for a few hours.”

”Again? On Swnday? Dad, can't you take some time off? You work too hard.” Dad was pouring himself a cup of coffee, and I was slicing a bagel.