My mind tells me one thing. Go.
And so I do. I race past my grandmother, who has pushed herself, terrified, against the wall like I might knock her down, too. And I burst through the front door and rocket down the street, my feet pounding as hard as my heart as I run all the way to Diane’s house.
When I arrive at the back door, I’m still catching my breath. As I knock and wait for Diane to answer, I find myself pressing my fingers to my cheek where my mother slapped me. I press my fingers into where her fingers were. I press and press instead of letting myself cry.
‘Evie, is that you?’ Diane’s voice slides through the door.
‘Yeah, it’s me.’
Diane opens the door and I walk in.
‘I’m so glad you ca—’ she says, but I interrupt her. Before I can lose my cool. Before I can break down.
‘Give me the letter,’ I say to Diane. ‘The one you’re giving to Betty.’
‘What? Why?’ Diane wrinkles her brow. Looks at me uncertainly. ‘Evie, are you all right?’
‘Just trust me.’
Diane has a knapsack by her feet, and from one of its pockets, she slides out the cream-colored paper she showed me earlier at the park. She hands it to me.
‘Do you have something to write with?’ I ask, my voice insistent. Bossy.
‘Why?’ Diane asks, frowning now.
‘Please. Just hand me something.’
Diane doesn’t push back at that. She finds a pencil on the cluttered kitchen counter and gives it to me. I open the letter, make room on the counter, and press the pencil tight between my fingers. In the space underneath Diane’s signature, I add my own words, pushing the lead into the thick paper as if that somehow makes them extra true.
The words are easy to write because I’ve been rehearsing them all afternoon and all evening. Ever since I left the park. Ever since I saw Juanita’s niece sucking on a Lemonhead and ever since I ate Grandma’s tuna casserole and ever since my mother’s hand hit my face and I ran and ran down Coyle Street like I was being chased by the devil himself.
I know just what to say.
Everything Diane Farris has written is completely true. She was protecting me from Preston Fowler, who was trying to hurt me. She didn’t mean to kill Preston. Please release Johnny Treadway. He didn’t do anything. I swear to God all this is true.
Then at the bottom I sign my full name, Evelyn Ann Barnes. For good measure I add Evie in quotes. I hand it to Diane and give her a moment to read it. She lifts her face from the paper and looks at me.
‘Now there can’t be any question,’ I say.
Diane nods, her eyes wide.
‘And Diane, there’s one more thing I need you to know,’ I tell her. ‘I’m going with you.’
‘Of course you’re going with me,’ Diane says, confused. ‘You’re going with me to Betty’s.’
‘No,’ I say, and my voice is firm even if my heart is pounding, ‘you don’t understand. I’m going with you when you leave Betty’s. You’re my friend, Diane. And I’m going with you to Mexico. To the moon. To anywhere. I’m going with you like that.’
Diane opens her mouth to speak, then closes it and squeezes her eyes shut for a moment.
‘Oh, Evie,’ she whispers at last. ‘Evie, thank you.’
My hand is tucked inside Diane’s as she leads me, silently, around the back of Betty Howell’s house. She glances over her shoulder, flashes me a serious look, and holds one finger up to her lips to remind me to be silent.
As if I’d even dream of making a noise.
Even though I’m anxious, I try to take in my surroundings. River Oaks. It’s as grand as the black-and-white pictures in the society pages have promised, only now it’s here, in color. Under the cast of moonlight it’s not as vivid as it must be during the day, but even in the dark of night I can spy the manicured lawns and flower beds, the sprawling homes, the shimmer of backyard swimming pools rich people must enjoy during the waning days of a long Texas summer. Our shoes sink into a lawn so thick it looks like carpet, and evening dew kisses my ankles.
Diane stops us and lets go of my hand. She points up at a second-story window, black shutters jumping out against the palatial white brick house, the biggest house I’ve spied on Chevy Chase Drive. Inside the lights are off.
‘How many bedrooms does this house have?’ I whisper, unable to stay silent any longer.
Diane shoots me a look, then rolls her eyes and holds up two hands and six fingers.
I gape, but Diane ignores me. From the pocket of her skirt she pulls out a handful of pebbles. She takes one in her right hand and rolls it up and down her fingers, taking a deep breath. She glances up at the window above us and chews her bottom lip.
I reach over and take the pebble from her.
‘Let me,’ I say, sure I have better aim. Last spring, Connie taught me how to knock empty beer bottles off the back of Ray Swanson’s jalopy with my eyes closed. ‘Is that her bedroom window?’ I ask. Diane nods, and all I can think is six bedrooms.
My tongue firmly pressed in concentration against my teeth, I leap and toss. The pebble makes contact with the glass, but I know it will take more than one to get Betty’s attention.
If she’s even in there, I think to myself. Suddenly this plan seems completely nuts. But I suppose it’s all we have.
Diane hands me the rest of the pebbles, and I keep flinging them, one after another, each pebble hitting Betty Howell’s window with a small but distinct plink. Finally we run out, and Diane and I can only stand and hold our breath.
Just when I’m about to give up hope, the window lights up and a small, brown-haired head pops up like a jack-in-the-box. Diane reaches over and grips my hand again, squeezes it tight. I squeeze back.
Above us, there’s the sound of a window squeaking open, and the brown-haired head leans out, peering down.
‘Diane?’ Not a whisper. Not even the sound of surprise. Just a calm, clear voice saying, ‘Diane?’ Like a teacher taking roll.
‘Yes, Betty, it’s me!’ Diane whispers as loudly as she dares. ‘Can you please come down here? Please?’
‘Wait one moment,’ says Betty, her voice still as calm as you please. ‘I’ll be right there.’
Betty takes the time to carefully shut the window, and I notice the light turning off inside. How long would it take a person to walk the thousands of miles from that bedroom (six bedrooms!) to the front door of a palace? Two full minutes, it turns out. I count the seconds silently in my head as Diane chews on her bottom lip and stares at the perfect hedges surrounding Betty’s enormous backyard, trimmed as level as a switchblade.
At the two-minute mark Betty appears around the back corner, and Diane and I jump. She’s appeared as silently as a ghost, but she’s very much alive, her freckled cheeks pink even in the moonlight. Her dark brown eyes widen, carefully taking us both in. I recognize her from Winkler’s, but instead of a sweater set, she’s wearing a peach bathrobe tied tight around her, and the ruffled lace collar of her white nightgown is peeking out. I bet it’s real lace, too.
‘Diane Farris, my God,’ she says. ‘It’s really you.’
‘Shh,’ Diane says. ‘I don’t want to get caught.’