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I’m huddled in the broom closet in the kitchen, scared for my life. I hear these footsteps, but they only last for a few seconds before there’s silence again. This is the worst part, I think—the silence. Because we have a really long hallway leading o the front door, and those five or six footsteps are not nearly enough to lead that robber out of the apartment. And although I picked up the butcher knife before jumping into the broom closet, I’m not too confident. Even if I could surprise him and maybe get a whack at him or something, the way my hands are shaking, I’m not so sure I’d do him any harm. I shut my eyes and make a promise to God that if he lets me live, I will try my best to be a better person. I won’t say things under my breath to Mama, and I’ll even try not to wish I had a different mother altogether. If he lets me live, I will figure something out to make up for what I did to that old woman. I don’t know what, but something. With my winter coat and knit hat on, and with the radiators humming with steam, I’m starting to get overwhelmed. I can feel a bead of sweat drip into my left eye. And another. But the broom closet is so narrow I just barely fit into it, so I don’t dare try and take the coat off. I don’t dare move an inch. And I’m wondering if this was how that old lady felt when we were in her home. Was her heart beating the way mine is now? Did everything she had ever done in her life come rushing forward, Speed Racer fast? Every good thing? Every bad thing? And so I try to go to my calm place. I try to think of Michael Jackson again and the words to “Billie Jean,” but all that comes to mind are the ones to “Thriller.” It’s close to midnight and something evil’s lurking in the dark. . . Man, that is not the right song for this moment. Revenge Of A Not-So-Pretty Girl/ Random House-Delacorte http://www.randomhouse.com/teens/catalog/display.pperl?isbn=9780385742863&view=oonline