I want to stop here a second and make sure this is clear.
I’m not prone to “flights of fancy” (Mum’s term) or “hysteria” (Dad’s). That’s why I’m a “blessing” (Mum, Dad and most of the neighbors). They could always count on me to be “reasonable” and “no trouble.” They know that one day I’ll grow up to be a scientist or a librarian or some other boring thing that won’t involve bailing me out of jail or apologizing to a whole bunch of people all the time. They don’t say so—but I know they were kind of happy that my language arts assignments were always so blah. People with “vivid imaginations” write funny stories and commit crimes or come up with other ways to make their parents’ lives miserable.
What I’m trying to say is that I’m not the type to believe that a hunk of foam rubber with eight fingers and a bright yellow Albert Einstein hairdo would talk to me. It just would never cross my mind.
So I knew there had to be a logical explanation for what seemed to be happening now. I told myself that, with the possible exception of Bess, there was a reason for everything.
There had to be. I knew it.
I just had to focus. Stop panting and focus. I could see for myself that a puppeteer wasn’t behind this. There were no electrical cords or wires coming out of Bitsie, so he wasn’t a robot. We were definitely alone. And Candid Camera skits don’t go on this long.
I ruled out any obvious trick I could think of. So maybe there was something about me that was making this happen.
But what? What did I do differently that day—other than, like, everything, that is?
Something must have happened. Did I hit my head? Did I inhale poisonous fumes? Was it something I ate?
Of course!
Why didn’t I think of that before?