"Are you going to buy me a new car?"

"No," Mom replied.

"A pony?"

"No," Dad replied.

"Well I hope it's not a raise, because I was going to demand one anyway."

"You'll get another raise as soon as business and the economy improve," Mom sourly replied.

"I've already lost interest."

"We're granting you three wishes," Dad said, trying to make it sound exciting. "Of course, there are some strict stipulations."

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"Essentially, you may make three demands upon Rae in exchange for the incident."

"Don't call it 'the incident.' Call it what it is."

"In exchange for locking you in a file room overnight--"

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. You may make three random demands upon your sister," Dad repeated.

"I'm not dropping the charges," I said defensively, thinking this was some sort of barter.

"No. This is in addition to her official charges. Okay?" Mom interjected.

"Really?" I replied as the evil machinations of my mind began working overtime. Sadly, all my early wishes were nixed on the spot. The nixed list follows: * I'd like her to shave her head.

* Move her bedroom into the garage.

* Make her audition for American Idol.

* Dreadlocks?

* A tattoo that says "Isabel rocks!"

* Five thousand dollars in an offshore account.

* Clean my apartment once a week until she goes to college.

* Make her watch Scared Straight! in a forty-eight-hour loop.2 * Twenty thousand dollars in an offshore account.

* A tattoo that says "I my mommy."3 By the time I'd listed my tenth wish and my parents said no, I had little faith that I would be able to come up with a trio of punishments that would a) be approved, b) make Rae suffer, and c) provide me with a satisfyingly sadistic pleasure. But after careful ruminations, I found my three. I hope you will approve; I did the best I could.

THREE WISHES.

My parents decided that I should have the pleasure of breaking the news to Rae. She already knew that it was coming and had been warned beforehand to treat me with calm respect. Actually, I think this time around Rae's contrition was not a face she put on but a real understanding that she had gone too far.

"Are you ready for my punishments?" I asked after I entered her room.

Rae took a deep breath and replied, "Yes. And once again I'd like to say how sorry I am."

"Number one: When you return to school, for one week straight you must wear a dress every day."

"I only own one dress," Rae replied. "And it's that black one from Uncle Ray's funeral."

"That still fits you?"

"Mom made me buy it big, just in case."

"In case what, someone else died?"

"I guess so. Do you want me to wear that one?"

"No. I'll have Mom pick out some things for you. She'll enjoy that."

Rae sighed with great sadness and held her tongue patiently.

"Number two," I said. "There's a bag of shredded paper in the basement. I want to know what it is."

"The time frame?"

"One week."

Rae took another deep breath, accepting her fate.

"What else?"

"That's all," I replied.

"Oh," Rae said, looking confused. She was under the impression I had a trifecta of punishments. I did but managed to convince the unit that my final blow had to be a blindside. It also required some careful planning and some hard labor. It would have to hold for a while.

I turned to leave; my business was done for now. But I remembered that there was one last thing nagging at me that I needed to know.

"What happened to you on the bus?" I asked. "I think you owe me that answer now, since you used your 'ride home' excuse to lure me into that trap. Tell me and we'll be mostly even."

Rae stared at the floor for a moment, but she was too beat to argue this time around.

"I was taking the bus home from Henry's--sitting in the back, minding my own business. A frat boy sits down next to me and the next thing I know, he vomits. All. Over. Me. Next to my night in juvie, it was the worst experience of my life."

"Thank you," I replied. I was thanking her for the insight and, frankly, for her new nickname. "I'll see you later, Barf Bag."

BACK TO WORK.

Tuesday night I parked in front of Shana Breslin's home and waited for the trash to be put out front. The garbage bins were already out, but the recycling was nowhere to be found. I got out of my car to see if maybe the bin was empty, but when I checked alongside the house, where the receptacles are stored during the week, the green bin was in plain sight and clearly stuffed with goods.

Even though opening the gate and snatching the bags would have taken less than ten seconds, it was out of the question. This basic law of garbology cannot be broken. It's been drilled into me from the start. The trash must be left out for the public. So I returned to my car.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement in a parked sedan approximately fifty yards away. I scanned the area, trying not to draw attention to my discovery. There was a man in a parked car and he didn't appear to be doing anything but sitting there. At eleven o'clock at night. And he just happened to have a clear view of the apartment and me.

I casually walked back toward my car and then abruptly switched directions and darted directly at the suspicious sedan, running at top speed. When the driver saw me coming, he immediately started the engine and pulled out of the parking space. It didn't matter. I was close enough to get his license plate number and I had a feeling that was all I'd need.

I didn't bother waiting any longer for the recycling. I returned home and went straight to bed.

At work the next morning my mother had the nerve to mention that she'd chosen a lawyer for my next date. I was certain being locked in a file room overnight would gain me at least a temporary reprieve. But she reminded me that appropriate restitution had been made and a deal was a deal. It occurred to me that I might be able to get out of lawyer dates if I informed my mother that Connor was officially Ex #12, but I still wasn't ready to reveal that information, so I continued to play her game. Although I was seriously toying with the idea of coming clean--about everything, including Prom Night 1994.

Midmorning, I went into the restroom and pulled the door closed behind me, linking my finger through the hole where the doorknob used to be. The piece of tape holding the latch shut must have broken, because I soon realized I had locked myself in. I went into an immediate panic and began pounding on the bathroom door and shouting, "Let me out of here!" over and over again. I am happy to report that Dad freed me within seconds.

"What is going on in this house?!" I impatiently shouted when I returned to the office and had both of my parents' ears.

Dad gave me a blank stare; Mom answered.

"We're thinking of replacing all the doorknobs and light fixtures," Mom said. "Only we can't decide on a design theme."

I turned to my father for his reaction. When he saw me looking, he chimed in.

"Decorating is hard," Dad said.

"This is ridiculous. I'm not buying a word either of you are saying," I said.

"Relax, Isabel," Mom said. "It's just a doorknob."

"Here's the thing, Mom. Doorknobs are useful and I like to come and go as I please!"

Mom promptly walked up to the whiteboard and wrote our next rule: Rule #58--Carry an extra doorknob with you at all times My dad then opened his desk drawer and handed me an old brushed-metal knob.

"Here" Dad said. "I have an extra."

"Me too," Mom said, pulling her own personal doorknob out of her desk, trying to make it all sound ordinary.

I snatched the doorknob from my dad and glared at him.

Then I returned to my desk and e-mailed my father the license plate from the previous night.

"What's this?" Dad asked.

"Probably nothing, but I need to check. The car was parked outside Shana Breslin's home the other night. I need to see if there's a connection."

"I'll get right on it," Dad replied, as if to appease me after the whole doorknob incident.

My father called in the plate number with his police source and the rest of the morning passed in silence until my dad turned to my mother and said, "Did you feed the prisoner yet today?"

"Al, of course I fed her. I'm her mother. I want her to suffer, not starve."

"When's the meeting with her lawyer?" I asked.

"On Friday," Mom replied. "She's going to plea out. We think she'll get bombed with hours of community service but no time."

"Good," I replied.

"I think some of the anti-Rae1 faculty at her school might notify the colleges where she applied. I think we can safely say that Yale is out. Berkeley might take her. They like students who have a cause, don't they?"

"Isn't it time for another room check?" Dad asked.

Mom looked at her watch. "Close enough," Mom replied. While Mom was looking in on the prisoner, Dad got a call back from his police source. He wrote down the information and then stared at the piece of paper instead of passing it on to me.

I cleared my throat to get his attention.

Dad looked at me with that quizzical expression I have grown so accustomed to and said, "The car is owned by Wallace Brown. Doesn't he work for Harkey?"

I was too busy turning this information over in my head to respond.

"Isabel?"

"What? Yes. He does work for Harkey."

"What's going on?"

"I don't know," I replied.

Then the phone rang. I turned to my father and said, "Your turn."

Dad answered the phone, leaving me to my thoughts, but only briefly. No one's allowed to think too long in the Spellman home.

Mom returned to report that the prisoner needed my ear.

"Did she actually use that phrase? 'Need my ear'?"

"Actually, yes," my mother replied.

"Are there any sharp objects in her room?"

"You're not as funny as you think you are," Mom said.

"So I've heard."

I climbed the stairs to my sister's cell and knocked, even though in a true jailhouse situation, there would be no pretense of privacy.

Rae politely opened the door. Inside, the floor, her dresser, and her desk were covered with an assortment of assembled pages from (I can only conclude) Shana Breslin's recycling.

"You've been busy," I remarked.

"It wasn't easy," Rae replied.