"Yoo-hoo!" My mother is calling up the front stairs, after a strained lunch, after my rushing upstairs to change out of church clothes. I had a plan. But of course the plan is thwarted. "Raleigh Ann? Are you there?" Of course. Instead of using the servant's stairs in back of the house, I was trying to sneak down the front, running out the main door onto Monument Avenue before anyone realizes I’m gone. But now, coming down the stairs, carrying my backpack, pulling on my St. Catherine's sweatshirt, I realize the best-laid plans are going to be laid to rest. She is running up the wide stairs toward me. Crying out, "No! Turn around!" I freeze. "Put on a skirt—a dress—something—anything else—hurry!" She pivots, calling downstairs. "Give her one moment, she’ll be right down." But in that one moment, the world tilts on its axis. I am here with my backpack full of geology equipment, and my manic mother and DeMott Fielding are standing at the bottom of our front stairs, smiling up at me.
