Allie Jo
Tara and I are in the tunnels, dank passageways that crawl under the hotel in every direction. Crumbling bricks line the entrance tunnel, hidden from public view by sloping gardens. Gliding underground into the semidarkness, I feel something like a runaway myself. Mist from the springs wraps around me, making my skin dewy. A slight mildew smell floats in the air. I hear the drip, drip, drip of a leak.
When we hit the service area, the tunnel splinters off into a bunch of different smaller shafts. Rough wooden staircases start up, then turn; you can’t see from the ground where they lead to. Tall, skinny doors shut off some paths. Workers still use these tunnels, but mainly as a shortcut to get to the parking lot or the springs. That’s why I’m walking on my toes. If anyone is down here, I want to hear them before they hear me.
When we reach the service tower, I motion for Tara to follow me. I expect her to look scared, like Melanie does when I bring her down here at night, but Tara slides her hand along the wall and her face is full of wonderment.
Well, of course she wouldn’t be scared. She’s been staying in a maid’s closet upstairs where there are no lights—she’s obviously not afraid of the dark.
We head up the tower stairs, which are wide on account of the porters having to carry those trunks through here and deliver them to the proper rooms, all without being seen. I stick my head up to the porthole on the first-floor landing. All clear.
I turn to Tara. “Stay here,” I whisper. My heart’s beating faster than a hummingbird’s wings. I turn the knob, wincing at its metallic click, then scamper across the hall to the front desk and pull a little key from under the countertop. The front desk closes at ten, so Clay and Dad are gone. Even so, I hurry. I unlock the wide cedar cabinet behind me; more than half the keys hang inside. Which room? I lift the key for 201. Being on the north corner, it’s got two views of the parking lot. I’m pretty sure no one’s got reservations for it.
“Freeze!” someone barks. The voice is commanding enough that I do. I am a frozen statue, my heart pounding like a kettledrum. Then he laughs.
I purse my eyebrows. “Chase, that’s not funny.” I stalk past him.
He falls in behind me. “Where you going?” He’s holding two cans of soda. “Why are you all wet?”
“Shh!” For all my sneaking around, he’s talking right out loud, about to give me up without even knowing it.
His voice is surprised when we slip through the door of the service tower. “Tara!”
She at least has the good sense to say hello quietly.
The darkness in the tower covers our movements. We tiptoe close to the rails so no creaks can give us away.
“What are we doing?” Chase whispers.
How did this get to be we? “I’m putting Tara in a room,” I say. “Now be quiet!”
I check for all clear on the second-floor landing, motion to Tara and Chase, and cut to 201.
“Whoa!” Chase glances around once we’re inside, then looks at Tara. “Your own room! Cool.”
I say, “Well, at least for tonight.” Even one night seems risky, but she deserves the comfort. “Is that root beer?” I ask him. “I sure am thirsty.”
He glances down at the root beer, then reluctantly hands it over.
I pop it open and drink a big swig.
“May I have some?” Tara asks. “I’m thirsty too.”
She wrinkles her nose as she lifts the can to her mouth, then takes a small, careful sip. “What spirits are these?”
“What?” Chase and I say together.
“This drink—it bubbles and boils.” She looks at us plainly. “What spell does it cast?”
My lips part in confusion.
“Watch and see!” Chase grabs the can from Tara, downs about half of it, then lets out a huge belch.
“Gross!” I say and throw a pillow at him. He laughs. I turn to Tara. “Don’t you drink soda?”
She shakes her head. “We don’t have soda where I’m from. I don’t think I like it.”
Chase heads for the door. “I gotta get going. My dad’s waiting on this pop.”
“Don’t let anyone see you,” I say. “Look through the crack first.”
He waves me off. “I got it,” he says, then slips out.
I’d better get going too; Mom and Dad will be wondering where I am. Quickly, I show Tara how to use the TV and the shower. I set the TV to a program I like, something that might make Tara laugh.
When I get back to my own suite, Mom and Dad are sitting on the couch, watching the same show.
“Have a nice time?” Mom asks, then leans back. Her mouth drops in horror, the kind of horror only moms can have. “You’re all wet!”
Dad whips his head around. He stares at me, waiting, like Mom.
“I … went swimming.” What else can I say?
Mom’s horror intensifies. “At night? Were the pool lights on? Was anyone else there?”
They think I went in the pool. “I’m sorry.” I feel like I’m lying, but I’m not. I never said I jumped into the pool.
She comes around the couch and stares at me with mom eyes. “You didn’t ask us if you could go swimming. What if something had happened?”
Coarse and bristly shapes dart through my mind.
Mom puckers her eyebrows. “Allie Jo?”
“Nothing happened,” I say, almost pleading, because I don’t want to talk about this anymore. “I was safe.”
“You know better than to swim at night without someone around.”
Someone was around, but I can’t say that. I look straight at her. “I’m sorry.” I try to emphasize it. I am sorry, but at the same time, something happened tonight, something bigger than me swimming at night without permission. I want to be left alone so I can think about it.
Dad steps up. “Well, go take a shower and put your pj’s on,” he says, sighing. “And dry up that puddle you’re making.”
I look down and, sure enough, water trickles from my clothes, down my legs, and onto the floor. I pull the towel from around my shoulders, sop up the water, and dash past Mom and Dad to the bathroom. My bones feel loosey-goosey, like noodles. No wonder, after all the excitement tonight.
I face the shower, let the hot water pour over me. For all that batting around, there’re no scratches on my arms. Sea cows, I think, and try to laugh like Tara did. But I can’t. I’d been terrified. If she hadn’t dived in when she did—I don’t even want to think about it. I turn my back to the water and close my eyes.