There’s nothing like riding the team bus home after a big win over your rival high school. I don’t think I ever felt closer to my teammates. I wished the night would go on forever. But it was late and up ahead was our high school parking lot where our parents were waiting to drive us home.
Quickly, we said our good-byes and headed toward our cars. I searched the dimly lit parking lot for Mom’s blue car. It wasn’t anywhere. Halloween was a few days away and an eerie wind blew leaves across the lot.
One by one, the parking lot emptied. A teammate spotted me. “Do you need a ride?” she called from her parents’ car.
“No, I’m okay,” I said. “My mom’s on her way.”
The teammate smiled. “You sure?” We were good friends. At the meet that evening, I had won the mile race and she had won the 440-yard dash.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I said. She held her index finger high, signaling that we were number one. I waved good-bye. She and her mom drove off. The last thing I saw was my friend’s big grin. When her car disappeared into the darkness, I was alone.
I looked at my watch. 10:45 p.m. Mom was already half an hour late. I sat down on the front entrance to our high school. You’ve never been this late before. In fact, you’ve never, ever been late. This was long before cell phones.
I sat alone in the one pool of light, by the front entrance, for another half-hour. The parking lot was dark. So was the school, except for a dim row of lights that lit the main hallway. The night was growing chilly. I pulled my team jacket around me, but it didn’t give much warmth.
The street out front was pretty quiet. I could hear as cars approached. A car drove by, filled with kids, probably out cruising. A second car passed. A big, white luxury car. Where is Mom? I wondered. Now I was worried. Did something happen?
I heard a third car approach. I looked up, hoping. Wait a minute, I thought. That’s the same white luxury car that passed here a few minutes ago. I heard voices, male voices I didn’t recognize. What are they doing?
The car slowed as it passed the school. It drove up the street and then turned around and drove slowly past again. I knew they were looking at me. When they cruised beneath the street lamp at the school entrance, I saw three grown men inside.
Keep calm, I thought. Walk out of here. You don’t want to get trapped in the dark alone.
My cousin lived a few blocks away. When the car had rolled past, I headed to the street. As soon as I hit the sidewalk, I started to run toward her house. To my horror, the white car had turned around. It pulled up beside me. The passenger window rolled down.
“Hey, you,” one of the men called. “You need a ride?”
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“Leave me alone,” I said. I backed off the sidewalk, trampling a line of yellow mums planted along the fence. Maybe the people who live here will let me inside, I thought. But the house was dark. So was every house on the street.
“Did you hear that, boys?” the man in the car cackled. “She wants to be left alone. Well, I don’t think we can do that. Leave you alone.”
I couldn’t see what the man looked like, other than he had dark hair and a look on his face that frightened me. Before I knew it, he was out of his car, running toward me. He grabbed my jacket. I pulled loose and ran.
I was near the end of town, running down a street that ended in woods. I raced past house after house, all of them dark.
The last house on the street belonged to Mr. Garrison, the high school geography teacher. He was tough as nails. But the men were back in the car, following me. Mr. Garrison was the only person on the street I knew. I didn’t want to disturb him. But what choice did I have?
We lived in a quiet town, one where many people left their doors open. God, I prayed, let Mr. Garrison’s door be open. If I can just get inside, those men will think I live there and go away.
I raced to his house, leaped the stairs to the porch, placed my hand on the doorknob. Closing my eyes, I turned it. The door opened. I stepped inside. Out in the street, the car sat for what seemed like a long time, then drove away.
I’m safe! Then it hit me—I was in Mr. Garrison’s front hallway. I’d let myself in, uninvited. I stood there for a few minutes till I collected myself. Then I tiptoed out the door and onto the porch. The white car was gone.
I ran full speed to my cousin’s house, a few blocks away. I called home, trying to locate Mom. Turns out her car had broken down in the country. She had been stranded in the dark, herself. She had been worrying about me, asking angels to keep me safe.
Back in school on Monday, I passed Mr. Garrison’s classroom. He was sitting alone at his desk. I summoned all my courage and told him what had happened.
“I was home, but I was in bed,” he said. “I didn’t hear a thing.” His brows furrowed. “And I never, ever leave my door unlocked. You couldn’t have been in my house.”
I repeated his house number and described some of the things in his front vestibule: an old grandfather clock, a deep-red Oriental rug, the hardwood floors. He didn’t know what to say. “My door is always locked,” he said. “Always.”
“I’m sure you did lock it,” I said. “Just as I’m sure something heavenly opened it for me.”
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