What on earth had I been thinking? The last time I visited New York (I mean, apart from day trips we’d taken to the hospital when Stacey was sick) I’d been scared to death. I don’t know why I’d thought this time would be different. You know what’s wrong? I keep remembering all those horror stories I read about crime and danger in New York City. Stacey says that’s not fair. She says we can find crime and danger anywhere, even way out in the country (thanks a lot, Stace), but that New York has a bad reputation.
Well, I’m sorry. Maybe good old NYC wouldn’t have such a bad reputation if so many awful things didn’t go on there … and if newspaper reporters didn’t eat up each grisly story as if it were a piece of candy. I just couldn’t help reading news about New York for a few days before we left on our trip. I had to know what was going on in the city. And what did I read about? Robberies, snipers, muggings, bank holdups, that’s what.
“Not fair!” exclaimed Stacey. “Didn’t you read about any of the culture? The museums or the theater or street fairs —”
“There was an article about a street fair,” I interrupted her. “It said how this gang of pickpockets ripped off fifty-nine people. They’re just like the Artful Dodger in Oliver Twist. They can take a wallet out of your pocket, or even a watch off your wrist, without your feeling it.”
Stacey sighed. “I’m not going to argue with you, Dawn. I’ll just ask you this. Did anything bad happen the first time you visited me in New York?”
I grinned. “We all got into a huge argument.”
“How about when you visited me when I was in the hospital?” (Not long ago, Stacey was at her dad’s for a weekend and got really sick with her diabetes and wound up in the hospital. That’s when the rest of us came to visit her.)
“Nothing happened,” I admitted.
“Okay, then,” said Stace, as if she had solved all my problems.
“But something could happen. Anytime. Anywhere.”
“You mean like something could fall off a building that’s under construction and conk you on the head?” Kristy asked.
“Let’s stay away from scaffolding and construction,” I said.
Stacey had given Kristy a Very Mean Look.
Anyway, I was pretty proud of myself when I got on the train in Stoneybrook without hysterics, and then actually enjoyed the ride — until we got to Grand Central. Mary Anne was chattering away about Little Italy and Chinatown, and I was getting excited. (At least, I thought I was.) The next thing I knew, we were in that dark tunnel. The tunnel makes New York seem like some other-worldly place that you reach by hurtling through space and time. Then you step off the train and into hordes and hordes of people — including police officers, and men and women sleeping on the floor or on benches in the waiting room. That’s what I saw when we reached New York. Claudia saw every ice cream stand and every possible source of junk food. And Mary Anne kept thinking she saw movie stars.
As we made our way to the information booth, where we were supposed to meet Mr. McGill, I looked down at the floor. And that was when I spotted … a cockroach the size of a dollar bill.
“Aughh!” I screamed.
“Grab your pocketbooks!” cried Mary Anne.
“What’s wrong?” asked Stacey.
“It’s not my pocketbook, it’s — it’s that.” I pointed. “That roach. It’s the biggest one I’ve ever seen. I am not walking by it.”
“Dawn, get a grip,” said Claud. “That’s a candy wrapper.” Leave it to Claud to identify a candy wrapper from ten feet away.
“Are you sure?” I was trembling.
“Is this enough proof?” asked Claud. She marched over to the roach and picked it up. “See? Three Musketeers…. Boy, I could do with a Three Musketeers bar right now.”
We met Mr. McGill and emerged into the sunshine unscathed.
I drew in a sigh of relief. “Made it,” I muttered, just as a POW rang out and reverberated off the buildings around us.
“Duck!” I shrieked. “It’s a car bomb!”
I heard laughter next to me. “Dawn,” said Claud, “would you relax? You’re going to give me a coronary. And we’ve only been in New York for five minutes.”
“Well, what was that?” I asked shakily.
Stacey pointed across the street. “Construction. Those workers just blasted something open. And they —”
“Aughh!” I screamed again.
“What now?” asked Mr. McGill, but he didn’t sound impatient.
“Look! Look at that guy at the magazine stand.”
“The guy with the glasses?” asked Jessi. Everyone was peering at the stand.
“No, not him. The one with his back to us,” I said.
“He is on New York’s Ten Most Wanted list. I saw something about him on TV last week. He escaped from prison.”
“How can you tell it’s him?” wondered Kristy.
“I just can. See that cap he’s wearing? It’s —”
Just then the man turned around.
“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 Cummingses’. We were probably safer in a pack.
* * *
Boy. It seemed that all during Saturday 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. Rowena 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 classes.”
“What about you, Dawn?” asked Stacey.
I glanced at Mr. McGill. “Um, 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 lunchtime she appeared at Mr. McGill’s, saying, “Okay, Dawn. Here I am. Your personal baby-sitter.”
