Think quick, butter brains. You’ve got to clean this mess up before they see it. And you’ll have to sneak those shears back into the office without getting caught.
First thing, I found a pillowcase and stuffed as many of the loose feathers into it as I could. They were hard to grab and it took forever, but finally the room looked as if only two or three chickens had been fighting, not a million like before.
Next I put the toys and models away, and unknotted my clothes, and put everything back where it was supposed to be. I found another pillow in the closet and hid the one that had been cut up.
All the time I was wondering if maybe Steve had snuck up and done this just to scare me. Was that his idea of a practical joke? Was he just getting even with me for giving him a scare at the lake?
I was going to find out first thing tomorrow, first thing.
Getting the shears back into the office turned out to be not so hard. I put them in an empty shoe box and carried the box downstairs as if I didn’t have a care in the world. If anybody asked, I’d say it was my baseball card collection, and everybody was so sick of me making them look at the cards they’d never want to see what was inside the box.
Downstairs I waited until Mom and Dad were both in the kitchen, and then I ducked into the office and closed the door softly.
It was dark in the room and I didn’t dare turn on the lamp. Enough light came in the windows from the night sky so I could find my way around. Dad had set up his drafting table, and there were blueprints unfurled on just about every flat surface. Mom’s computer was on the desk—you could see the little green warm-up light. All the drafting tools were laid out on the worktable, right where the cutting shears should have been.
I had just put the shears back in place when the lamp snapped on.
“Jay? Looking for something?”
It was my father. He was standing in the doorway, staring at me.
“I, ah, need some rubber bands,” I said. “For my card collection.”
I held up the shoe box.
“How were you going to find them in the dark?” Dad asked.
“I couldn’t find the light switch.”
Dad looked at the shoe box and then at me, and he sort of smiled. Like he didn’t want to know exactly what I was up to.
“Here,” Dad said, handing me a package of rubber bands. “That’s enough for ten card collections.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I said.
I was sweating like a pig from relief. Whew! That was a close one. I decided to get back up to my bedroom and make sure all the feathers were cleaned up.
I was passing by Sally’s room when I heard her chatting happily.
It sounded like she was talking to someone, but hers was the only voice.
A chill went through me.
I stopped and put my ear to the door. There were pauses as if she was listening and then giggles as if what the other person said was funny.
I tried to shake off the eerie tingle that crept up my spine.
Sally often talked to her dolls, I reminded myself. It sounded just the same. Well, almost the same.
I opened the door as quietly as I could.
Sally was sitting on the floor in front of a coloring book. As I watched, she selected a crayon, held it out, then returned it to the box.
Sally glanced up and smiled when she saw me. “Bobby doesn’t like red,” she said matter-of-factly.
“Oh, really,” I said, stepping into the room. There was a second coloring book, I noticed, set out beside Sally’s.
“Is that Bobby’s book?” I asked.
Sally nodded, blond curls bobbing. “He’s a good colorer, isn’t he? And he’s never even seen a coloring book before today or even a crayon.” Sally giggled as if this was amazing, more amazing than her friend’s invisibility.
I leaned over to look at the two books—and caught my breath in shock.
Sally’s book looked like her pictures always did—wide swatches of color, none too careful about the lines. The other book showed very careful, short strokes neatly inside the lines.
Someone else had been there, coloring in her book.
16
I snatched up the two coloring books and ran downstairs. Dad was in the living room, reading a magazine. I put the coloring books down on the coffee table and stood back and said, “Look!”
Dad raised his eyes at me. “Some of your handiwork?” he joked.
“Look at them,” I insisted. “They were done by two different kids!”
Dad looked from one to the other. He nodded. “One’s very controlled, subdued colors. And this one—obviously Sally’s usual wild flamboyance. Very interesting.”
“Then you believe me?”
“Believe you?” Dad looked puzzled. “It’s not a matter of believing anything, Jason. I can see they’re different. Obviously, Sally’s imaginary friend is so important to her she’s devised a way to make him seem real by coloring in a style that’s almost opposite her own inclinations.” Dad rose from his chair. “I’ve got to show these to your mother. Amazing.”
I gritted my teeth and pounded my fist on the back of the now-empty chair. What would it take to make them believe me?
But wait. Why should they believe me?
What if I was wrong and they were right? My father’s explanation made perfect sense. And I hadn’t actually seen a crayon moving through the air by itself, had I?
But what about this morning, when I’d seen the bunny hanging in midair?
What if my eyes were playing tricks on me? Maybe Sally really had been holding the stuffed animal up somehow, pretending she was giving it to Bobby.
But what about the bursting pipes? Was it so strange that
