the following words:
Y OU ARE THE CHOSEN ONE .
I F THE R OMANS CATCH YOU ,
THEY WIN THE GAME .
“It says not to get caught,” I tell Neil, remembering Savannah’s warning. “I have to go back, you know. I promised Savannah.” And I want my promises to mean something.
He sighs. “Since I don’t have a pair of handcuffs handy, I guess I can’t stop you. But I have to lock the door you came through. It’s too dangerous, open like that.”
“But isn’t this a safe house? I didn’t think the Romans could get to us once we’re here.”
“They can—if they can get in. That’s why there are angels guarding the main doors. They only let you in if you have the right password.”
“Right, but they won’t see me if I come back through the tunnel. Couldn’t you let me back in?”
“But how do I know it’s you?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know. Can’t we make up a secret knock or something?”
“Good idea.” Neil starts tapping on the mat, sometimes with the flat of his palm, which makes a long sound and sometimes with his fist, which makes a short sound. “So try this.” He slaps the mat three times with his palm, taps twice with his fist and then slaps one final time with his palm. “Long, long, long. Short, short, long. Morse code for O and U . ‘Open up.’” He grins. “Spelling out ‘open’ would be too long.”
“Where’d you learn Morse code?” I’m sure he has a nerdy explanation.
“In Eagle Scouts. For my signaling merit badge.” Yep, nerdy.
“I was a Girl Scout for a year. Juniors. In fourth grade. I got a badge for selling the most cookies.”
“Just a year?”
“Yeah, I got kicked out,” I admit. “My mother was scandalized.” It makes me almost nostalgic now to think back to a time when getting asked not to return to Girl Scouts was the blackest mark on my record.
“Kicked out, huh?” He looks like he doesn’t believe me.
“The troop leader’s daughter told her mom that I stole her boyfriend. So . . .”
“Did you?”
“No way! I only said, like, two words to him when I stopped by his house to deliver his family’s cookie order.” I start to giggle, the absurdity of this conversation getting the better of me. “Apparently, afterward he told her I was cute.”
“Such a heartbreaker.” He says it softly, seriously.
I sober, fast, and change the subject. “So like this.” I tap out our new secret knock. Long, long, long. Short, short, long.
“That’s it.”
“Then I guess I’m ready.” I stand up.
“I guess you are.” He stands up too.
We walk in silence across the gym and then stand in front of the open door to the tunnel. But once I see it stretch out before me, I find I don’t want to leave Neil.
“Why haven’t you been at church much lately?” I blurt, trying to stall the inevitable.
Neil grins. “Play practice at school. We’re doing Our Town .”
“Seriously?” I guess I shouldn’t be too surprised. It’s a popular work.
“Why?” He laughs. “You thought I’d only do musicals, right? I do sing one song at least.”
“No, it’s not that. We read Our Town last semester. At my old school.” I omit the abysmal grade I got on my paper. “Which part did you get?”
“George Gibbs.” He pulls at the collar of his polo shirt.
Sounds about right. I wonder who gets to play Emily. Who gets to kiss him. “That scene at the end, where George lies down on Emily’s grave . . . it’s tragic.”
“It is.” His gaze roams over to the flickering candlelight and then to the front doors of the gym. “But the part that always gets me is when ghost Emily chooses to relive her twelfth birthday.”
“Yeah, that was so . . . emotional.” I regret not reading the play more closely. If I had, I would know what he’s talking about and be able to answer more intelligently. No better time to get going, I guess. Sighing, I step into the tunnel. “Well, see you back here in a few.”
“Don’t get caught,”
Lynette Eason
In The Kings Service
John A. Daly
Jeanne Barrack
Richard Flunker
Katherine Cachitorie
Owner
Ed Gorman
S. M. Butler
Gregory Benford