It was one of those lonely, middle-of-the-night nights. You know what I mean, Gussie. Like when we lived in that tiny apartment in Hollywood.

Sometimes I would wake up in the middle of the night for no reason at all and there you would be sitting up in bed staring in front of you and smoking in the dim darkness. The fire at the end of your cigarette would brighten and the numbers on the clock would glare 3:30 or 4:30 or 5. You would sigh, and I would know that there was something wrong.

Yes, it was one of those nights. This was the waiting time. Waiting for the Boy to come. He had called earlier in a panic. He had this crazy idea. I didn't want to agree to it. But then I had agreed and now it was too late. It involves lying to Grandpa. Something I never do. Of course, I wouldn't exactly be lying. Just sneaking out in the middle of the night.

I stared guiltily at the mound of pillows in my bed. I stuck them under the covers to make it look like someone was sleeping there. And so now I have to wait.

The middle of the night and here I was all dressed in my jeans, tee-shirt and raincoat. Waiting at my writing desk. I took a deep breath of air and looked up at the full moon through the attic window and thought, "The game is afoot." Sherlock Holmes said that.

The moon shined through the rain and the clouds, its beams of light glistening on the lake. I let my eyes stray around my attic room, high above the trees, and I am flooded with gratitude. The complete Sherlock Holmes stood on a shelf alongside my Nancy Drew books, "Jane Eyre" and "The Count of Monte Cristo." My friends. You can never be lonely as long as you have a good book. And of course, there was Grandpa ­my beloved Grandpa. He saved me, Gussie.

But right now, all I could do now was wait for the Boy. It's funny, I always think of him as the Boy because of that first time I saw him.

It was morning and I was in my tree house writing in my journal. All of a sudden I heard the echoing of a beautiful sound. It was deep and resonated throughout the forest. It sounded like a musical instrument of some kind-too low for a trumpet and too high for a tuba. There was no melody, just the deep beautiful notes.

I followed the sound to a creek trickling among gigantic trees and made my way to the water's edge. And there he was: A golden Boy-high up on a boulder above the stream with the sun slanting though the trees, his red hair glistening in the sunlight. He was playing a trombone. Then he stopped playing and stared solemnly ahead. All of a sudden he smiled. The Boy had a spirit that was pure joy.

I took the memory of that smile and hid it away like one of my treasures. His name is Frankie. We have since become friends.

Memory evaporated into air. There was a tapping on the windowpane. Quickly, I unlocked the latch on the window and swung it open. He fell into the room, dripping water all over the place. He was all business, dressed in a black raincoat. It contrasted nicely with my pink raincoat covered in yellow daisies.

"Are you ready?"

"All ready," I answered.

"Let's get going."

Nancydrew, whining, jumped on him. He leaned down to pet her and said, "A black-and-white mutt. They're the best."

I really liked him for that. He had time to pet my dog. Even with all the serious business at hand.

"Let's talk to Grandpa about this," I suggested.

"I told you no."

"You don't trust adults, do you?"

"No. Why should I?"

Well, who could blame him?

"You love your grandfather very much, don't you?"

"Yes.

"I don't have anyone like that, except Mr. Perkins."

That shut me up.

I fastened my galoshes over my tennis shoes. Then I motioned Frankie to follow me down the stairs. We tiptoed as quietly as we could, our hearts stopping at each creak of the floorboards. The game is afoot, indeed.
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