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By Root 382 0

living room. Say I were a thief, I think: what would I take? I would want the grandfather clock, the rocking chair. I would want the pillows on the sofa and the sofa, too. I would want the coffee table, the magazines on it, the sweet potato plant my mother started on the kitchen windowsill that now has overtaken the table at the side of the sofa. I would want the curtains, the air conditioner, the radio next to my father’s chair. I would want the floors, the ceiling, the pattern of the shadows made by the setting sun. The Egyptians had a good idea—take it with you. Get buried with all you can, just in case.

I sit on the sofa, breathe in deep. I am not tired at all. I believe I will stay up all night, something I have never done but have always wanted to do. At some point, day and night are exactly equal. I want to see when it is neither one.

I do fall asleep, though, because a noise outside wakes me. I sit up straight and extra-alive. There is the screen door, then a slight creak as the front door opens. This is a real thief, and here I am sitting right in his aim. I swallow, bite my lips. “Don’t think about taking anything,” I will say. “I am right here, with a gun.” Then I will yell for my father, loud. I am a little worried about this part. In dreams, whenever I need to yell, nothing comes out.

But it is only Diane. She is on tiptoe, moving slowly toward the staircase. “Hey, Diane,” I whisper.

She stops in her tracks, grabs her chest, spins around. “What are you doing?” she asks. “What are you doing?”

“Shhhhhh!” I say.

“Never mind! You scared me to death!”

I shrug. “Sorry.”

“What are you doing down here?” she whispers.

“What are you doing?”

She comes closer, sits down beside me. “Well, what do you think?” She sighs, shakes off the last of her scare. The clock strikes three.

“I guess you’re sneaking in again,” I say. “You haven’t gotten caught one time.” Three o’clock in the morning, and she’s coming home! You can’t help but admire Diane.

She leans her head back, undoes her ponytail holder, shakes out her hair, and then looks at me, thinking something over. Then, “I’m just here to pack. I’m leaving again, Katie. I’m not coming back this time.”

I start to laugh. This is too familiar. And it doesn’t work. “You can’t.”

“We’re leaving right now for Mexico. Dickie went to get his things. He’ll be back in about twenty minutes.” Her whisper is so quiet but it seems to me to echo around the room.

“Oh,” I say. And then, “I won’t tell.”

“I know you won’t.” She pushes my hair back from my face. “Will you be all right?”

“Yeah!” It is too quick. We have both heard it.

“Why don’t you come?” she asks. “Go pack some things; I’ll take you with me. I’ll take care of you. I’m going to get a job down there. It’s cheap to live. Come on, you can come.”

“I can’t,” I say.

“Yes, you can.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Well,” she says, “I’m going. I’ve got to pack.”

I watch her go upstairs, and then I go up to pack, too. Sometimes these things happen. You are walking along with only your legs saying where to go.

I creep into my room, turn on the light, find my suitcase at the back of my closet. I put it on my bed, open it. Then I stand still, listen. How can he sleep?

I put in some underwear, a clean pair of jeans, three tops. What else? I put in my toothbrush, a hairbrush, some barrettes, my mother’s perfume, my poetry notebook, and the book I am reading. But then, since it is from the library, I take it out.

Mexico! I believe it is orange and yellow there, the good smell of corn in the air. We will live in a house made of stone, with multicolored rugs and a fireplace stove. We will have lots of silver bracelets. Dickie will work and Diane will keep the house and I will go to school and speak Spanish. Whenever our Mexican phone rings, it will be a fresh new friend.

I hear Diane leaving her room, and come out into the hall to meet her. “I’m coming,” I whisper. She puts her finger to her lips, nods, points downstairs. Yes. I will meet her there. We are experts now at something we’ve never done. I go into my room to close my suitcase,