November 16

Chelsea strides in to deliver my homework. Though I'm glad to see Chelsea, I brace myself for a barrage of questions.

She watches me closely. Maybe she's starting to believe the worst of the talk - that I've gone crazy. I'm not surprised that Dr. Mixter's opinion - that I dreamed the attack - spreads around. Not that they would have heard it through Dr. Mixter; plenty of neighbors must have witnessed me shriek about Steve's mask as I was carried to the ambulance.

In my attempt to break the scrutiny, I push my dinner tray nearer to her. "Do you want the eggs?"

"Why?" Chelsea inquires. "Are you on a diet or something?"

"I don't like eggs. They're disgusting," I inform her. "But the hospital serves eggs for every meal. It's like they don't think I can digest real food."

"Yes, I'm sure they're gross. Especially now that they've been sitting on your tray for an hour and now are all cold and rubbery. Thanks, but no thanks."

Chelsea sits down on the plastic visitor's chair. She relaxes her arms against her knees, letting her backpack slump to the floor.

"Everyone at school's talking about you." But Chelsea does not go into details, which is unlike her.

"So the consensus is . . ." I trail off.

"The consensus is people are idiots. Has everyone completely forgotten that there's a psycho killer on the loose? I mean, besides Principal Garrick. He sent out a newsletter, strongly suggesting to parents that they enforce a curfew. Like a curfew would have been much help to you."

"I guess not," I agree.

"So this sleepwalking," Chelsea says. "That's new. You never sleepwalked before."

"So I'm told." It is affirming to hear Chelsea say that. I've known her since kindergarten and we've had hundreds of sleepovers at each other's houses. Though she missed the times I hid in the closet from the Boogeyman, but that was just a short phase.

The conversation lulls. The TV in my room drones, weakly filling another awkward silence.

"I've got an idea," Chelsea begins. "Suppose I take over the baby-sitting at the Wallaces until you're better."

"You want to do that?" I ask, wary. Chelsea has no interest in baby-sitting or kids. "Why?"

"I could use the money. And Lindsey's not that difficult. It's her mom that's the problem, right?" Chelsea shrugs.

"You want to interrogate her about Halloween," I shoot back.

Chelsea tenses in her chair. She has not expected such a venomous response.

"Not interrogate," she tries to reassure me. "But maybe she's not as averse to talking about it as you believe. I mean, she should talk about it with someone. It's not healthy to pretend like it didn't happen."

She utters more excuses, all of them without the force of conviction. Finally she lets them die out.

"You can't badger Lindsay about what she went through."

"I wouldn't be badgering," Chelsea huffs. "I'd be polite. I wouldn't push her."

"No. It's still badgering. Don't you think Lindsey has enough problems without her baby-sitter pumping her for details?"

"I wouldn't be as crass as that," Chelsea sighs. She says it hollowly, as if she is unable to summon the spirit of her argument.

Defeated, she asks, "If I promise not to badger, can I take the job?"

"If you promise," I repeat.

"Like I said . . ."

"I mean it, Chelsea. Don't turn Lindsey into one of your free speech crusades. Save those for ones who haven't lost all the stable people in their lives."

"I know," Chelsea agrees. "I'm not entirely heartless."

I nod, relaxing against my bed. Chelsea is trustworthy, but sometimes her noble pursuit for the truth takes priority and she inadvertently tromps over other peoples' need for privacy and dignity. I need to drive in that she could not do that with Lindsey.

"I'll call Mrs. Wallace tonight," Chelsea declares.