As if to confirm this, he felt his left arm stinging and, reaching over, felt it sticky with blood. He raked back the bedding, worried about staining the sheet—worried his mother would see the blood—and sure enough there was a smear on the sheet. The pirate’s sword had caught him. The cut wasn’t deep, but it was five inches long and still bleeding a little. He jumped up. He’d worn his regular clothes to bed—a pair of cargo shorts and a Rays T-shirt—and he was dressed the same way still, including his Keens. His clothes were wet and, turning on a light and looking back, he saw that the bed was too.
Dang! Finn thought, considering the damage control necessary to put things right. He cleaned and closed the wound with two Band-Aids. He’d have to wash the top sheet, dry both sheets, maybe the mattress pad too, and remake the bed before getting any sleep. The dryer was in a laundry room by the kitchen. It would wake his mother. He frantically rubbed a wet face towel on the top sheet, combatting the bloodstain. He tried some soap and more water and got most of it out. He stripped the bed, made sure his bedroom door was closed tightly, then closed his bathroom door to make an effective sound barrier. He hung the sheets over the shower curtain rod and used his blow-dryer on them.
His clothes were a bigger problem. How would he explain to his mother that his clothes had gotten soaked while he’d been asleep? A year ago he might have invented some fairly believable story, but now both his parents watched him like hawks. The Kingdom Keepers had acquired legendary notoriety. There had been newspaper stories about “rumors” circulating around Orlando and on Internet chat sites that five kids had somehow “saved” the park. A book had been written. Their adventure inside Animal Kingdom had been witnessed by hundreds of park visitors, adding credence to the rumors. While most adults would not, could not, fully believe any of the stories, kids had no problem doing so. Finn’s parents fell somewhere in between doubt and fear. They doubted Finn could leave his room at night and enter the Magic Kingdom as his DHI; but they secretly feared it was true. More importantly they believed—falsely—that he sneaked out at night and violated his contract with Disney by visiting the parks.
They’d installed an alarm system, claiming the neighborhood had had some trouble; in fact it wasn’t to warn them if burglars tried to get into their house, but if their son tried to get out. He didn’t know the security code—the house was, in fact, an effective electronic jail. But if, without explanation, he dumped a pile of wet clothes into the laundry, questions would be asked that he couldn’t answer. He had sworn not to lie to his parents, a promise he’d made himself years before. He had no desire to break that promise, so he had to find creative ways to sneak around the truth without outright lying. He settled on an idea. His effort on the sheet had failed miserably: it looked as if he’d smeared ketchup on it.
The thought of ketchup steered him toward the kitchen and a possible solution. He loved potato chips with ketchup and his mother had long ago denied him permission to eat the combination in his room, because he always made a mess of it. So he made up a plate of it—ate some, since he was constantly starving—and put the plate on his bedside table. He then smeared some ketchup on his clothes and the sheets and bundled them up and put them into the washer. He set his alarm clock for ten minutes before his parents would wake up, and climbed into bed between a blanket and the mattress.
He slept soundly, woke with the alarm, and quickly started the washing machine.
Five minutes later his mother, wearing a knee-length pajama top, knocked on his bedroom door and entered. His mother didn’t look good in the morning. In fact, she looked kind of scary—her hair tangled, her face plain and pale, her eyes unable to open all the way. She scratched at her collarbone, rubbed her eyes with her knuckles, and yawned.
“What are you doing?”
“Laundry. Sorry.”
“You are doing laundry?” she asked. “So what’s going on?”
He made a point of pretending to try to hide the plate of chips and ketchup beneath a sheet of Kleenex tissue. It was such a lame attempt, he wondered if he’d overdone it—but she was not fully awake. She raised her voice.
“Ah, Finn…I thought we talked about that! You’re not allowed to bring food into your room.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I was famished.”
“You eat like a horse. You ate a gigantic dinner!”
“Sorry.”
“You know the rules.”
“I kind of…I dropped a couple of chips, but…I put everything in the wash.”