The next morning, I went through my rituals—brushing teeth, checking my hair, staring warily at the ceiling—feeling exhausted but resigned to another day of academic normalcy. I went downstairs, expecting the usual frantic rush, but the atmosphere was surprisingly buoyant.
I was pouring myself a bowl of cereal when I overheard my parents speaking in the kitchen, their voices low and excited.
"Did you call the Millers back?" my mom, Claire, asked. "Are we confirmed for the party tomorrow night?"
"Confirmed and RSVP'd," my dad, Mark, replied cheerfully. "It's the firm's big Silver Anniversary Celebration—mandatory appearance for senior partners. It starts at seven and probably won't wrap up until past midnight. It'll be nice to have a night out."
I froze, spoon halfway to my mouth.
Tomorrow night. A formal party. Past midnight. My parents, dressed up and distracted, were miles away, leaving the house completely empty. It was not just a window of opportunity; it was a cathedral-sized, gold-plated, neon-lit billboard of a chance.
My internal monologue: A Silver Anniversary Celebration? Thank you, corporate America! That is the single most boring, time-consuming, and mandatory event possible.
No sneaky midnight tiptoeing required. No squeaky floorboards to worry about. I can just walk right up to the attic door at 7:01 PM.
The surge of excitement was immediate and intoxicating. My earlier confusion and fear vanished, replaced by the calm, focused concentration of a strategist. My new plan formed instantly, cleanly, and completely unlike yesterday.
Mental Preparation:
Yesterday's mistake was lack of preparation and impulsive action. That wouldn't happen again.
Phase One:Reconnaissance. Before they leave, I need to know exactly where the attic door is and if there are any immediate obstacles—is there a light switch? Does it require a ladder? I haven't been up there since I was little.
Phase Two:Gear. I need a flashlight (my phone battery is unreliable), a small bag for carrying any relics, and maybe a pair of gloves, just in case there's dust or, you know, ancient, sacred metal remnants.
Phase Three:The Alibi. The most important part. I need a rock-solid, unquestionable reason for staying home alone and not answering their check-in calls. The new math test was my perfect excuse.
My mental plan for the alibi: "Oh, I have to study for the Algebra II makeup! I need total silence and zero distractions. I'll turn off my phone to avoid temptation and focus completely. Don't worry, I'll lock the doors and order a pizza!"
This plan was airtight. It was logical, it appealed to their relief over my renewed academic focus, and it created the vacuum I desperately needed. They wouldn't dare interrupt me if I was "studying for the big exam."
The key in my sock drawer no longer felt like a burden; it felt like a ticket.