A Retelling

It started on a wet and dreary Monday morning, the first day of October, and everything was grey and brown and damp. The mat of brown leaves on the sidewalk squished under my shoes as I walked, and the equally brown rosebushes draggling down the neighbor’s fence dripped with leftover rain. I smelled wet air and felt a muggy breeze on my arms.  

Going to school was a prospect that matched the discouraged landscape perfectly. Sitting in a stuffy classroom with whitewashed walls and dusty windows to learn all day did not appeal to my young and active mind; I thought I deserved to run and play. Why, even animals could run about as much as they wanted!  

I trudged up the slick lane to the one story brick building with the bent and moldy tin roof, labeled with the imposing label of “Murdleville Middle School” and the subtitle reading, “Where Your Child Learns the Love of Learning”. So far, I had not learned the love of learning and doubted I ever would. Maybe I could get my parents to relocate me to a school more suitable to my liking.  

With this happy thought in mind, I entered the building into the familiar white hall with the dingy white floor tiles that squeaked under my wet shoes. Pictures of the teachers hung on one wall, smiling big warm smiles down on me as though trying to convince me to like them. I thrust out my chin and strode past them, even though they couldn't really see my haughty expression. I would go to a different school someday, one that gave the students more reasonable amounts of playtime and a considerably higher vacation ratio. My parents could see to that!

Upon entering my classroom, Teacher Higgins’ sugary voice called out,

“Jenny Finks, you're late by five minutes! Sit down and get out your math book.”

I already knew what to do, but I acted like her advice was helpful and did as I was told. The girl in front of me, Ann Margery, turned to stare at me. She was much shorter and rounder than I, and I had noticed that she usually needed help with her Spelling.

“You're late! What happened?” she whispered to me.

Murdleville Middle School insisted on the absurdly old-fashioned rule of no whispering allowed, so I kept my mouth shut. There was no need to mention that I had walked slower than usual, or stopped to enjoy the scenery. Ma always said that I had an artistic eye; and artists always had to pause and soak things in. Being five minutes late to school was but a small price to pay.

I was the first to finish the math test, as was often the case. Of course I didn't brag about this fact, since it would have made my less gifted classmates discouraged. I didn't want to hinder their progress.  

Later that day, I joined the flood of students exiting the school and walking home. The streets looked much the same as they had when I saw them in the morning, but this time there was a golden tinge along the western horizon above the neighborhood. I hurried along, avoiding the worst puddles and looking forward to the steaming cup of cocoa that I was used to having after school.  

I had just turned onto the second to last street when an unusually cool breeze rippled my hair and a raindrop smattered onto the sidewalk. I quickened my pace as more rain began to fall from the misty grey sky. The last thing I wanted was to get soaking wet before I got home. I was wearing my best shirt!  

The rain thickened into a downpour and I started running, clutching my books tightly. Surely I was almost home by now.

But when I next looked up, I saw that there was a turn in the road when there shouldn't have been, and a large white house that I hadn't seen before. A green street sign read “Peachy Lane” —a street I'd never heard of. I stopped running, panicked and unsure. The rain made dribbling sounds as it ran down the gutter, and fresh puddles gleamed on the sidewalk. A gust of wind and rain hit my face as I stood there.

Now what?

I was pretty sure that I'd never been wetter before in my life, and I didn't like the feeling. I was missing my hot cocoa and my dinner. Worse yet, I was lost.  

I'd never been lost before and decided that I didn't like that feeling either. My parents had never told me what to do; I had naturally supposed that they relied on my superior direction skills. Of course, I had my share of resourcefulness as well, so I was better off than some. The first thing to do was get somewhere dry and warm, then I could see about finding a map to guide me home. I could read maps quite well though no one had taught me exactly.

The white house next to me seemed suitable to my present needs, though I saw that the siding was dirty and the roof sagged. Ordinarily, I wouldn't have dreamed of stepping onto the cracked and weedy porch, but my dampened state encouraged my movements, and up the front step I went, clinging to the slippery rail for support. The roof leaked, and as I saw with distaste, spiderwebs profusely adorned the beams overhead, but it was dryer.  

Out of the rain, the wind chilled me, and I decided that the porch would not be sufficient for one such as myself. I gave the door a firm knock. After a moment, the rain was still the only sound, and no one opened the door. Slightly disgruntled by this, I reached for the knocker once more, sounding three unmistakable thuds to the door’s surface. No one answered.

I glared angrily at the offending door. Were the people asleep? Out to dinner in this weather? Or was the house abandoned? Its less than perfect state suggested that that might indeed be a possibility. Well, there wasn't anything else for it, so I jiggled the doorknob and found it unlocked. Without hesitation I entered.

I found myself in a narrow hallway. My footsteps were muffled by an ancient, discolored white carpet. The smell of moldy siding disgusted me, but I continued into a small kitchen and living room. At least it was a bit warmer here.

The kitchen cabinets were white and dusty, and the counters were a reddish marble. The sink dripped. A listing coffee maker was propped up against a jar of what looked like pretzels. In the living room, I saw a few mismatched chairs and a wobbly end table stacked high with magazines.

I needed to find a map. The most likely place seemed to be the magazines, so I sat in the chair closest to the end table and began leafing through the stack. Seconds later, however, I leaped up and frowned down at the chair. It was as hard as rock. My parents never would have owned such a ridiculously upholstered thing. I moved to the adjacent chair, where the next magazine heading seized my attention.

“State University Demands Usable Atlas.”

This sounded promising; there might be a description of the atlas and perhaps a map of Murdleville! Hastily I turned the page, eager to read more, scanning for pictures of maps.

Unfortunately, before I saw anything, a distressing sinking feeling gripped me, and I looked up in time to see the room just disappearing behind the arm of the chair. I gave a startled yell and scrambled up, dropping all the magazines in a heap on the floor as I did so. I threw myself over the arm of the chair after them and landed on top of them on the floor, panting.

From my awkward position I gave that sinkhole of a chair a disgusted look. No wonder the house was abandoned; who could stand living with such cheap furniture?  

I sighed and looked down at the pile of magazines. My search would have to start over, since I had no idea which magazine I had been looking at. Eyeing the third chair warily, I lowered myself thereon with infinite caution, clutching a handful of magazines, but to my mild surprise it was quite comfortable.

The magazines refused to yield anything useful to me, and the minutes dragged by. The rain drummed the windows ceaselessly, and I soon began to wonder if I would die of hunger before I found any maps. My stomach rumbled; I was used to a small cookie or a candy bar before dinner, not even counting the mug of cocoa. It was high time I had something to eat. I was growing; I needed plenty of nourishment to keep me healthy.

My thoughts moved to the jar of pretzels I had seen earlier. I hurried to the kitchen and saw something I hadn't seen before: a mug of coffee underneath the coffee maker!

Sometimes after school I would have some coffee instead of cocoa. I knew my parents would let me, so I tipped the mug into my mouth, expecting a yummy sensation. Almost instantly I stopped drinking. Disgusting! It had apparently gone stone cold, besides tasting something like dust. I dumped the rest of the aged coffee down the sink and set the mug back under the machine. I knew how to work coffee makers.

When the brown coffee streamed, steaming, into the mug, I was even hungrier than before. Eagerly I grabbed the mug and poured the contents down my throat. But what was this? I emerged from the mug spluttering madly. The coffee was scalding hot, and the flavor—! What kind of coffee did these people use, anyhow? Even the coffee Ma burned tasted better! I pulled the cover off the coffee deposit in the coffeemaker and wrinkled my nose. The grounds were damp and sticking together in slimy clumps. Hastily I pushed the old grounds off onto the counter and rifled the cabinets in search of more, but found only a small bag of vanilla flavored coffee—a flavor I usually disliked. Deciding it was better than nothing, I poured it into the maker and brewed myself a third mug.

I actually found the vanilla flavor quite tasty once it was done. I supposed I had never been this hungry for anything before, though. Sipping contentedly, I meandered back to the chair where I had left the magazines, munching on a stale pretzel as well. I was actually beginning to think that things weren't working out too badly when I saw something that gave me a dreadful shock: the windows were dark and slicked with rain. I could never walk home in the dark.

For a minute I stared, a queer scared feeling seeping into my heart. Suddenly the old house seemed like a big and terrifying place. . . Every creak seemed magnified. My heart jumped at every noise. I had never been away from my house at night.

Moving quietly, I walked down the hall in search of a bedroom, knowing that I had to get some sleep at least. I was tired, and the stressful day had drained me. I would find the way home later.

I turned a corner and found myself facing a huge antique four-poster that was almost as scary as the house, but I climbed in anyway. The quilt was rougher than the blankets I was used to, but even still I hardly had time to feel sorry for myself before I drifted off to sleep.

Later, in the night, I sat bolt upright, rubbing the back of my neck. What was wrong with this ridiculous bed? I would have bruises for weeks! It was like sleeping on rocks! Yawning, I rolled to the other side of the bed, which was so beruffled with lacy pillows there was hardly any room for me, but it was softer, so that was a relief.

I did not sleep for long. Past midnight I awoke, startled, to find nothing on either side of me but large sloping hills of feather-bed, slowly oozing up around me. I sat up, feeling horribly claustrophobic, and attempted in a sleepy daze to pull myself over a mound of bed. Two seconds later, there was a strange sliding sensation as the bed sprang back into position behind me, ditching me neatly over the side onto the floor.

Thoroughly awake now, I stood and brushed myself off, rumpled and angry. The owners of this house might have extreme abnormal tastes but I did not. They could sleep on rocks and quicksand. I would find something better.

Still frowning, I marched away and up a creaking staircase to the attic, where I saw a little bed about my size, with a soft blanket pulled neatly up to the pillow. After checking the roof supports for spiders, I bounced into the bed and wiggled around until I was comfortable. No new incidents assaulted my slumbers this time.

The pinking sunrise woke me in the morning, streaming through a gable window beside me. I lay still and smiled up at the blue sky, forgetting my troubles for a minute. Today was a new day. Anything could happen.

But I was in for another shock: heavy footsteps and the murmur of voices downstairs gave me the distinct impression that the owners of the house had returned after all. I could only lie there and hope it had been my imagination. No, there it was again. And worse; they seemed to be coming upstairs.

“Sitting in chairs—drinking coffee—sleeping in my bed!” grumbled a voice.

“All my lace is rumpled and tousled! Most of my vanilla coffee is gone!” said another voice. I jumped out of bed and looked for a hiding place but there was nowhere but under the bed. Who knew how much dust and spiders were under there. . .

A squeaky voice spoke, almost right behind me. “Someone has been sleeping in my bed too—and here she is!”

I whirled round to see a girl my age, thinner than I was, with big surprised eyes glowing in her sharp little face. We stared at each other for a long moment.

What happened next I can never quite be sure of; I remember grabbing for the window latch and thrusting it open; then a rush of warm, damp, fresh air rushing at me and the shingles of the roof hot and rough on my hands. There was a swishing clatter, and I landed in a tangle of ivy and lattice. Another moment and I was running down the road as fast as my legs could carry me.

“Jenny, there you are!” 

I skidded to a halt beside a red car, suddenly realizing that the voice belonged to my Ma. 

Sure enough, Ma leaped out of the driver's seat and grabbed me in a hug.

“We were so worried!” she announced. “Tell me what happened.”

I did, but my parents could never find that house, and I never saw that big-eyed girl again; but something about my experience would stick with me to the end of my days. I thought twice about taking things that didn't belong to me from that day onward, you can be sure. And when my Ma gave me a cold salad for lunch on Monday, I didn't demand another; even though hot salads were my favorite.

The End.