Free Pretending to Dance by Diane Chamberlain Page B

one’s there!” I jumped up and ran after her. She’d already pushed the door open. Once I was outside with her, she shut the door and stood against it, pressing her body against the door so whoever she thought was inside wouldn’t be able to get to us.
    â€œSeriously!” she said. “Someone was under your bed!”
    â€œThat’s insane,” I said. “No one would even fit under those beds. They’re too close to the floor.”
    The owl picked that moment to start its eerie howling again and Stacy yelped.
    â€œI want to go back to your house, Molly!” she said. “Please! Really. I’m scared. And don’t tell me to pretend! Someone is in there. They must have come in while we were at that stupid latrine.”
    She was being ridiculous, but I could tell I wasn’t going to win this time. “Your backpack is still in there,” I said.
    â€œWe can get it tomorrow. I’m not going in there again.”
    â€œI’ll get it.” I started to reach behind her for the doorknob, but she grabbed my arm.
    â€œNo! Don’t leave me out here alone.”
    â€œAll right.” I gave in. I pictured our long walk home in the dark, down the winding loop road, then inching our way down the Hill from Hell. But it looked like I had no choice.
    Stacy hung on to my arm as we made our way along the path in the dark. She kept turning to look behind us and I nearly tripped over her feet a couple of times. I was relieved when we finally made it to the loop road. Almost immediately, though, I stopped walking. The beam of my flashlight had landed on something shiny on the road ahead of us.
    â€œWhat’s that?” I whispered.
    â€œWhere?” Stacy held my arm so tightly it hurt.
    I took a step closer and knew exactly what I was looking at: the spokes on my father’s wheelchair. The chair was parked next to the bench my grandfather had built. My father sat on the bench, sound asleep, but he was not alone. Amalia sat sleeping next to him, her head on his shoulder, her hand wrapped around his where it rested on his thigh.
    Stacy caught her breath. “That’s not your mother,” she whispered.
    I nodded. “It’s Amalia,” I said quietly. “And look. They’re sitting here to watch over us. To be sure we’re safe.” I smiled to myself, touched that my father and Amalia had done this. “And we are safe,” I added, “so let’s go back, okay? They’re right here if we need them. I absolutely swear to you, there’s no one in the springhouse.”
    â€œBut…” She looked perplexed that I wasn’t finding the scene in front of us the least bit upsetting. That I seemed to actually find it a comfort. And I did. “She’s not your mother,” Stacy said again, “and she’s sitting with him like—”
    â€œIt’s okay,” I said. And I turned back toward the springhouse, glad when I heard her begin to follow me.
    She grabbed my arm. “But that’s not your mother!” she said again. “Aren’t you even a little bit upset?”
    I stopped walking and looked at her. “Actually,” I said, “that is my mother.”

 
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    Back at the springhouse, Stacy stood outside the open door while I showed her that it would be impossible for anyone to hide beneath our beds. I lifted the dusty bed skirt on one of the beds and shined my flashlight on the wooden platform that was no more than two inches from the floor.
    â€œI could have sworn I saw fingers coming out from under your bed,” she said sheepishly as she inched her way back into the building.
    We sat on the beds, our backs resting against the cool stone walls, and I told her about Amalia.
    â€œShe’s my birth mother,” I said. “She lives in the slave—” I caught myself. “She lives in this cool cabin between here and Nanny’s house. She’s