At 8:00 on Saturday night I yawned. “I’m tired,” I said.

“So early?” Sharon asked.

I shrugged. I felt guilty about what I was planning to do. But I was also angry because I felt as if, somehow, it wasn’t entirely my fault. Not logical, but there you have it.

My father said, “Stay up. There’s a great old movie coming on at nine.” He and Sharon had been engaged in an endless game of Scrabble in the den. Sharon kept beating my dad. I’d been pretending to read.

“No,” I said. “Thanks anyway. I’ve had about all the Saturday night excitement I can stand.”

My father frowned. Before the fire, I’d been sarcastic about once in my life. Now guilt was making me sarcastic. Cokie was making me sarcastic. My father was making me sarcastic.

The new Mary Anne was making me sarcastic. The old Mary Anne wanted to apologize. The new Mary Anne said, “Good night. See you tomorrow.”

I gave my father a good-night peck on the cheek, gave the same to Sharon, and headed for my room.

I waited a few minutes. Then I got dressed. I opened the door to go to the bathroom to brush my teeth — and heard Sharon’s footsteps in the hall.

Quickly I closed the door. If Sharon had seen me, she would have known something was up. I had no good explanation for changing out of sweatpants and one of her ratty old work shirts into my best new jeans and new favorite striped shirt.

I took off my jeans, grabbed my bathrobe, and wrapped it around me.

Sharon passed me on my way into the bathroom.

“Sleep well,” she said.

“You too.”

I brushed my teeth and put on my makeup. I opened the bathroom door — to find my father standing there.

“Dad!” I squeaked.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you. I was about to knock. Just wanted to make sure everything’s okay.”

Could he see the makeup? Smell the perfume? “I’m fine. Really,” I said stiffly. “ ’Night.”

“ ’Night, Mary Anne.”

I practically dove back into my room. Then I collapsed onto my bed and thought.

I had two choices: I could go out the window — and climb down the maple tree outside it. Or I could sneak down the hall, down the stairs, through the living room, then into the kitchen and out the kitchen door without being heard or seen.

Be sneaky, I told myself. Think like a spy.

After several minutes of deliberation, I slid my window open and dropped my shoes and socks out of it, trying to make sure they landed away from the rosebushes directly below.

Then I rolled up the legs of my jeans, tightened the sash of my bathrobe, and picked up the water glass by my bed. If Sharon or my father caught me, I’d say I was going to the kitchen for some water.

I walked boldly downstairs and through the living room. I hovered outside the den door. I heard the murmur of voices and then I heard Sharon say, “Oops. I dropped one.”

“I’ll get it for you,” my father said.

Sharon snorted. “And see what letter it is? I’ll get it.”

I heard the laughter in my father’s voice as he said, “No. I insist.”

Deciding that both Sharon and my father were looking down at the floor for a Scrabble piece instead of toward the door, I took a giant step across the den entrance.

I stopped and held my breath.

“Got it!” Sharon was triumphant.

“Yes, but it’s my turn,” my father answered.

I tiptoed into the kitchen, clutching the glass so tightly it’s a wonder it didn’t break.

I slipped the extra set of house keys off the key rack and cautiously unlocked the door.

Footsteps sounded in the hall.

Without thinking, I threw myself into the tiny space between the refrigerator and the wall, wedging myself in with the mop and broom. The broom slid forward. I grabbed it and yanked it back just as the kitchen light went on.

“Diet Coke or regular Coke?” my father’s voice said.

“Regular,” I heard Sharon call back.

I sucked in my breath and stood, panicked, holding the broom in one hand and the glass in the other. How would I ever explain what I was doing folded between the fridge and the wall?

Cabinet doors opened. Kitchen glasses clunked against the countertop. The refrigerator door swung back and I saw my father’s foot beneath the bottom edge of it.

He took out ice trays and bottles and closed the door. I listened to the clink of ice against glass and the fizz of soda being poured over it. I heard him run water into the ice tray. Then he opened the door again, reloaded the ice tray, and put the bottles back inside.

It took forever and a day.

At last he walked out of the kitchen. I was about to leap out to safety when he muttered, “Uh-oh.” Footsteps came back and then the light flicked off.

Then my father left the kitchen.

I waited a long, long time to make sure he wasn’t coming back.

Finally, cautiously, I peered out. When I didn’t see anybody, I bolted out (making sure the broom and mop didn’t bolt with me), put my glass on the counter, opened the back door, and made my escape.

My heart was still pounding like the heart of a prisoner escaping from jail when I met Kristy and Abby a few minutes later on the corner of Cokie’s block.

“You made it,” Kristy said.

“Of course,” I replied with a calm I didn’t feel. I’d had trouble finding one of my socks and finally had to go sockless. My bathrobe was hidden in the rosebushes. I hoped I could disentangle it when I got home.

Maybe I could wait until daylight….

“Flashlight, salt, and plastic ants,” said Abby, holding up her pack. “I do not come unprepared.”

“Plastic vomit,” Kristy said, looking sheepish. “Also, Vaseline. I have plans for the toilet seats, if we decide action is necessary.”

“Great.” I was forgetting about my Great Escape. “But not unless I say so.”

“It’s your party,” said Kristy.

“Yeah. Only Cokie doesn’t know it yet,” Abby added.

“Then, let’s go.” I boldly led the way into the house of the enemy.