“I’m the one who should get twenty dollars,” Bean said. It was about the fifth time she had said it. “Putting up with you. Teaching you how to be a babysitter. God!”
“Don’t say God,” Nancy said. She was reading a magazine.
“You’re not in charge of me!” Bean huffed.
“Actually, I am,” Nancy said. But she didn’t say it in a mean way. Bean had been trying to make Nancy mad ever since their parents left, but she hadn’t been able to. Nancy was being mature. It was driving Bean bonkers.
Bean rolled over and breathed into the rug. She might smother. If she smothered, her parents would feel really bad. Bean picked some rug fuzz out of her mouth. She knew she wasn’t going to smother. She also knew that Nancy wasn’t going to tie her up and stuff her in the attic. Neither of those things was the problem. The problem was Nancy being her babysitter. That meant that Nancy was the grown-up, the one who got to decide everything. And it meant that Bean was the little, boring, poopy baby who didn’t get to decide anything.
Bean couldn’t stand it anymore. She got up.
“Where are you going?” asked Nancy, looking over her magazine. “You’re not supposed to go out.”
“What is this—jail?!” huffed Bean. “I’m not a criminal, you know. I can go in the front yard!”
“If you do, I’ll tell, and you’ll get grounded for a week,” said Nancy calmly.
Bean pressed her hands against her cheeks, rolled her eyes back in her head, and opened her mouth as wide as it would go. But Nancy wasn’t even looking.
Bean stomped up the stairs as loudly as she could. Nancy didn’t say anything. Bean slammed the door to her room. She waited. Nothing. Stupid Nancy.
She flung herself down on her bed. She was a prisoner in her own home. Treated like a criminal by her own flesh and blood. “By my own flesh and blood,” muttered Bean. It sounded good.
After a few minutes, she stopped being mad and started being bored. She looked around her room for something to do. She could knit. Except that she liked the idea of knitting more than she liked knitting in real life. Besides, her yarn was in a big knot. She thought about painting, but her watercolors were all the way downstairs. She could make a potholder, but she had already made about thirty of them, and the only colors left were brown and gray. Bean’s grandmother loved everything she made, but Bean didn’t think even her grandmother would want a brown and gray potholder.
Bean flopped into her basket chair. Ouch. She got up and looked out her window. She had never been so bored in her life. She squeezed all the way to the edge of the window and found out that she could see Sophie W.’s yard.
The mound of dirt was smaller than it had been in the beginning. There was muddy water running down the driveway and into the street. Bean pressed her eyebrow against the glass. Sophie S. had the hose. She was shooting water straight into the sky. Ivy was off to one side, hunched over a pile of rocks.
Bean frowned. Some friend. She should sense that Bean was in trouble. She should feel it in her bones. Ivy picked up a rock and splatted it down in the mud. Bean squinted and saw that Ivy’s lips were moving. She was talking to herself. For some reason, that made Bean feel better. Ivy wasn’t really having a great time with the other kids. Ivy was just playing by herself. In fact, Ivy was probably missing her right this minute.
Bean tapped her fingers against the window, thinking. Ivy would come to her rescue if she knew that Bean was imprisoned. Bean was sure of it. Somehow, Bean had to let Ivy know what was going on. Then Ivy could help her escape. Hey! Wait a minute! Bean felt an idea landing in her brain like an airplane. An escape! She was in jail, but maybe she could escape. She had heard of prisoners digging tunnels under their jail cells. Too bad her room was upstairs. If she dug a tunnel, she’d fall right into the kitchen.
Then she looked at the window—that would work! Bean pictured herself climbing out the window on a rope ladder. She pictured Ivy hiding in the bushes below, waiting to help Bean to freedom. A rope ladder. A daring escape. Cool!
