Free Squishy Taylor and the Bonus Sisters by Ailsa Wild

Baby is on the change mat, pooey and kicking. Dad looks flustered. ‘Please, Squishy,’ he asks me, ‘can you get the baby wipes? They’re in the car.’
    Squishy Taylor to the rescue.
    I spin and grab the car key, ducking out our front door to pause in the hallway. Lift or stairs? Which is more fun? Stairs, of course – all eleven flights of them. I bolt past the other apartments to the stairwell, then leap down the steps like a ninja-gazelle .

    I slow down at the bottom before I get to the car park. It’s always been a bit dark and creepy down here. Our car is right at the far end, with the other cars from the eleventh floor. To get there I have to pass under a flickering light that’s more off than on.
    That’s when I hear the noise. A kind of rustling, scuttling noise – but big, way bigger than a rat. I stand still, with my heart all racy-fast . The noise is near our car. I take a deep breath and tiptoe down the last five steps and out into the car park.
    The fluorescent light buzzes and flickers off and I’m walking through the dark. There’s that rustle again. I freeze. By now I’m nearer to the car than the steps. I make a bolt for it, pressing the unlock button so the car beeps and flashes just before I get to it. I haul open the back door, scramble over Baby’s capsule and slam the door behind me.
    I’m sitting on the baby wipes, listening to myself breathing. Whatever was out there knows I’m here.
    A movement, a few cars away, catches my eye. A dark, shadowy, dodging movement. Like someone trying to hide. It reminds me of something. There it is again, ducking away behind another car. I realise what it reminds me of: myself, sneaking through the car park just now.
    I watch. The flickering light comes on again and I see the person running. I grin. It’s definitely a little kid, a kid darting away from me.
    For some reason, that makes me want to give chase. I jump out of the car and the kid bolts . I run between the cars. There’s the sound of a door closing and then nothing.
    I look around. ‘Hey! Where’d you go? Come out!’ I call.
    Nothing. Jeepers , this kid must be scared.
    ‘My name is Squishy Taylor,’ I shout. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’
    After another silence, a door I hadn’t noticed creaks open and a voice says, ‘What kind of a name is Squishy?’
    It’s a boy. I can see his sunburned face and dirty jumper.
    ‘It’s a good kind of name,’ I say. ‘It’s like the gangster, only better.’
    There was once a gangster called Squizzy Taylor, but that’s not why I’m called Squishy. Mum and Dad gave me the nickname when I was little, because I used to squeeze between them when they were hugging. I’d wriggle in, yelling, ‘Squish me! Squish me!’ They got divorced ages ago, but they both still call me Squishy.
    It could be an embarrassing name, so I’m lucky about the gangster.
    The boy is in a cleaning storeroom, which I’ve never seen used before. As he steps out, I get a glimpse over his shoulder of a school backpack and a sleeping-bag laid out neatly on the floor. He pulls the door closed behind him.
    ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.
    ‘Nothing,’ he says.
    ‘That’s not true,’ I say.
    ‘Well,’ he shrugs, ‘your real name’s not Squishy.’
    It’s not. It’s Sita, after my grandma, but Sita is only for the serious-in-trouble times. This boy doesn’t need to know that.
    We stare at each other.
    ‘Have you got any food?’ he asks.
    ‘Well, dinner’s nearly ready,’ I say, but I know that’s not what he means and he looks so sad that I feel sorry for him. ‘You want me to sneak you some, later?’ I ask.
    He nods hard.
    ‘How about we make a deal? I bring you food, and you tell me what you’re doing.’
    He looks torn, then says, ‘Only if you promise not to tell anyone .’
    I grin. ‘Course!’ I say. ‘You’re the best kind of secret there is.’
    I remember something. I run to our car and grab the half-pack of rice-crackers (and