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holding a hand over her heart. “I thought that crazy dog was killing you.”
    “I thought you said she doesn’t bark,” says Dad.
    “That’s what Nate told me. And technically, I don’t think that was barking. That was howling.” I point at the nearly full moon. “I think she might be a werewolf.”
    “Maybe we close the blinds,” Mom suggests.
    Tillie jumps up on the bed and stretches out across my feet as Mom and Dad look on, shaking their heads in disbelief at the latest plot twist of the soap opera that is my life.
    The doctor told me to stay out of the pool at least until Monday, so I actually have some unscheduled time on Saturday morning. After I take Tillie for a good walk and convince my mom that I’m fine, my nose is fine, and Tillie is fine, I head for Chinatown to meet Becca for some bubble tea and some of those steamed buns I love.Ever since Elizabeth Harriman discovered her incredible artistic talent, Becca has been part of a special program for gifted young artists at a gallery in Chelsea that’s owned by Elizabeth’s friend Alessandra. So, when we slurp up the last of the tapioca “bubbles,” we mosey on over to Twenty-second Street in Chelsea.
    We’re early, so we wander up the block, peeking in the windows of the still-closed shops. As we’re walking past a gallery a few doors up from Alessandra’s, I notice that the front door is open just a crack and one light is on. Three large canvases take up most of the back wall, each one a thick, swirling, angry storm of paint. Along the other walls, double rows of identically sized paintings stretch from corner to corner, and these immediately get my attention. When it comes to art, I’m a little old-fashioned. Sure, I like some of the modern stuff that Elizabeth has, but give me a nice still life any day. These thirty or so small canvases—each about twelve by fifteen inches—look like they belong in the Louvre.
    “Hey, do you want to go in for a few minutes?” I ask. “The cold is making my nose hurt.”
    Becca says, “I don’t know. It doesn’t really look like they’re open.” She stops, smiling mischievously at me. “But that’s never stopped us before, has it? The paintings look pretty cool, and there must be a bathroom, which I
really
need after that huge thing of tea you made me drink.”
    She gently pushes the door open and sticks her head inside. “Hello?” She looks at me with a shrug, and as weboth go in, a bell at the top of the door jingles softly. We stand there for a few seconds, waiting for someone to greet us, but no one appears.
    “Maybe they’re out getting coffee,” I say, choosing to believe that I’m not doing something illegal, and using the opportunity to get a closer look at the art.
    “Probably. You stay here; I’m going to look for a bathroom.”
    I watch her walk down the hallway, opening and then closing doors on the way. As she opens the third door, she freezes, then says, “Oh! I’m sorry! I was just looking for—”
    “Did you bring me my tea?” It is a young man’s voice—gentle, but insistent. “Is it nice and hot? When they bring it, it’s always cold. I do like my tea piping hot, don’t you? With lots of milk. But the milk has to be
hot
. And honey. And for heaven’s sake, in a china cup. Tea in a paper cup is a travesty.
They
bring me paper cups. Can you imagine?”
    “Uh, yeah, er, no,” Becca says, slowly backing up.
    “Won’t you join me for tea?”
    “Um, actually, I was just looking for—”
    From behind me, a voice booms,
“How did you get in here? What are you doing?”
    I try to talk, but my vocal cords are paralyzed again. I’m too scared to even get a good look at the guy; all I really notice about him is that his face is as red as a St. Veronica’s school blazer.
    “Get out! Both of you! Now! Or I’ll …”
    I don’t need to hear the rest of that, so I turn and run.
    Becca is one step behind me, and we don’t stop running until we are two blocks away,