"I know," Petra replied.

"Won't she know it's missing?"

"Maybe. But that's not even a fourth of what she had."

"I didn't know your mom was a pothead."

"She's been under a lot of job stress lately and she's got this new boyfriend. It could be his."

"We totally scored."

Fifteen minutes later, flanked by giant trash bins behind the cafeteria, Petra and I took a few hits before history class. We thought it might make the Declaration of Independence a little more interesting.1 While I fought back a coughing fit, Petra had an idea.

"You should search your parents' room."

"My dad's an ex-cop. There's no way he has any contraband in his room. No way."

"You're probably right," Petra replied.

The bell rang, Petra put her pipe away, and we headed to class.

That night, my parents went to a movie. David was studying at a friend's house and I was babysitting my three-year-old sister. I read from the Encyclopedia Britannica as her bedtime story. I chose the entry on photosynthesis and she passed out within minutes. I watched some television, tried to pick the lock on the liquor cabinet, and then considered that maybe my parents kept some booze in their bedroom. And then searching their room didn't seem like a bad idea at all.

There was no booze to be found (and believe me, if it was there, I would have found it). I explored every inch of that room. But I didn't leave empty-handed. In the bottom dresser drawer, under my father's old police uniform, I found his badge. And I took it.

Flash-forward two weeks: Petra arrived at my house in a red velvet evening gown that was cut in such a way that it appeared the shoulders had made a run for it, as if in direct protest to the massive shoulder pads of the eighties. I was in an unfortunate forest-green number that my grammy Spellman had bought for me a month earlier. Wearing the dress was my punishment for some minor curfew infraction.2 One picture was taken, which I later destroyed.3 Before I left, my mom said, "Isabel, please stay out of trouble."

Her voice had a pleading tone. But that never stopped me.

Petra and I had no intention of going to prom. She picked me up at seven P.M., and we stopped at Mel's diner, had French fries and Cokes, and changed into street clothes in the bathroom. A few hours later, we were crossing the bridge to Berkeley. Petra had learned of a college party that night. And we were going to crash it.

The thing about college parties is that not everyone at them is in college. The house was easy to locate--revelers spilled out onto the sidewalk like sloppy drippings from a sundae. It was the parking that was impossible. Petra eventually settled her car in a red zone three blocks away and we hoped for the best.

We fought our way through the crowd and located the booze. A guy named Scott was doling out shots of Jagermeister. After we sank our first drink of the night, Petra switched to beer, since she was driving. I poured myself a tumbler of vodka, ice, and lemonade and we worked our way out onto the balcony.

I finished my vodka drink and filled the tumbler with beer from the keg, since it was parked right in front of me. At some point a guy named J. T. approached the two of us. He was attractive in a one-weekend-only kind of way. The sleaze factor would get old after a while. But I remember he was fine entertainment for the night.

"You ladies got some ID on you? Because I think you look like jailbait."

The last thing we wanted was to be pegged as high school students. I pulled my father's badge from my pocket, flashed it, and said, "Run along, now."

J. T. didn't run along. He held out his hand and identified himself, or his initials.

"You got a name?" he said.

"Nope," I replied.

"My kind of girl," J. T. said.

Now here is where things get fuzzy. Petra met a guy on the lawn bowling team. She'd never met anyone who actually played that sport and was taken with him immediately. Then she vanished, as far as I knew. J. T. kept filling my tumbler with a wide mix of alcoholic beverages and telling me tall tales of his travels in Europe. He was an art dealer, a talent scout, and briefly a spy. All lies, I knew.

I woke up in an empty bed in a cheap Oakland apartment, having almost no recollection of the night before. My clothes were scattered about the floor. I dressed quickly, despite the throbbing pain in my head, and made a quick escape. I never set eyes on J. T. again.

Without a cell phone or any other means of contacting Petra without phoning parental units and incriminating myself, I found my way to the closest BART station. I reached into my pocket for my wallet and was pleased to find I had enough cash to return home. When I reached into the other pocket, a jolt of adrenaline and fear shot through me. My father's badge was gone.

I arrived home and climbed through the window. On my bed was a note from my mother that informed me I was grounded for the next three weeks. I took a shower and got into bed. My mother took a boom box and a CD of Rae's sing-along tunes and planted my sister as a steady source of pain right outside my door. She stayed all morning.

I lived in fear for weeks, not knowing when, how, or in what form the discovery of my father's missing shield would take place. I decided that outright denial was my only option and I mentally prepared for my defense. It never occurred to me that the badge would turn up again.

Exactly four weeks after Prom Night, I returned to my bedroom and found my father's police badge on my pillow, accompanied by a note in my mother's hand: I own you.

And this is where it becomes my mother's story.

The day before, Mom had caught a call from the Redwood City Police Department. A man named J. T. Schaeffer had been arrested for possession of a controlled substance and impersonating a police officer. Schaeffer's record gave the arresting officers leverage, and Schaeffer agreed to cooperate, telling a tall tale of some fresh-faced, brown-haired woman selling him the badge for fifty dollars.

My mother arrived at the station and asked to speak with Schaeffer. He gave her a description of the woman; my mother filled in the blanks--including the blank that I probably slept with a stranger and he nicked the badge after I showed it off. She knew I wouldn't sell it. Or at least she knew I'd ask for more than fifty bucks.

To keep my father out of it, my mom suggested to Schaeffer that he plea out on the drug charges and turn informant for the PD. She then tactfully asked the arresting officers if they could keep this incident quiet. She was vague about her reasons but persuasive, as she always is, and besides, cops like to look after other cops. No one ever knew what happened besides me, my mother, and J. T. Oh, and Petra. Because I told her.

For six months following the incident, I was on my best behavior. And when I started to slip again, my mother had other tools of coercion and we never really brought up Prom Night again.

Now, sixteen years later, I was ready to come clean. Turns out my mother wasn't.

"Hold on a second," Mom said, after I said I was going to tell Dad the truth. "You're not going to tell your father anything."

And this, my friends, is when the leverage in the relationship shifted. It never occurred to me before, but my mother's secret was far worse than mine.

"I really want to tell Dad the truth," I said. "It would feel good to get this off my chest. But I'm willing to negotiate."

THE $500 PAYBACK.

What would have been extremely hard but satisfying labor for a single person ended up as a two-man job. Rae was at school and then gardening probation, which gave us a window of eight hours. We shopped for the necessities the day before, managing to stay just within my budget--$479.84, when you added up the receipts.

For two women with little experience in decorating--especially decorating out of their aesthetic--I think we did a brilliant job. My third and final attack on my sister would be realized that evening.

I sat in the living room, drinking a beer and watching television. My mother, wiped out from the day's labor, sipped a cocktail and put her feet up. Rae returned home, spirits crushed after a long afternoon of commingling with nature, and climbed the stairs to find solace in her own personal space.

The scream that emanated from upstairs was one of the most satisfying sounds I had ever heard in my life. As predicted, footsteps racing down the stairs followed the scream. Then Rae stood in front of me and Mom and gawked at us with a look of disbelief.

"What have you done?" she said.

Let me tell you what we had done: We painted Rae's bedroom canary yellow; we replaced her navy-blue corduroy comforter with a lacy pink duvet with ruffles and hearts. We plastered boy-band photos all over the walls; we hung mobiles with glitter; we painted her desk white and did a hideous decoupage with a mermaid theme.

There were tears in Rae's eyes.

"How am I supposed to sleep in that?"

"Guess what?" I said. "The fairies on the wall, they glow in the dark. You don't need a night-light anymore to find the bathroom."

Rae went to the kitchen and poured herself a ginger ale. My mother followed her in and laid out the parameters of the punishment.

"You live in it for two weeks. Then you can restore it how you wish. I saved your duvet and all your wall art."

Rae didn't talk to anyone for the rest of the evening. In the morning, she phoned me. I was prepared for a deluge of abuse. Instead, all I got was this: "I'm sorry, Isabel. I'm really, really sorry."

CASE CLOSED?.

That afternoon, as I drove to the Winslow mansion to check on all things butler related, my cell phone rang. It was Connor. Or it was someone else calling from the Philosopher's Club. I let the call go to voice mail. But I had to admit: I missed that bar.

After I parked in the circular driveway, I listened to the message.

"Is-a-bel. It's me again.1 Pleeaase call me back this time. I miss ya. I'm sorry. Ya know, one of those women I kissed before we were officially together and the other one was just crazy and attacked me. I wan' ta talk to ya. I wan' ta see you again. Please. Call me back."

Instead, I deleted the message and entered the Winslow home.

"I'm afraid none of the applicants we have met so far are suitable for this position," Mr. Leonard said after we sat down for excellent tea and a chat in the butler's quarters.

"Did you use the domestic service that I recommended? I got the number from the rich old lady across the street. She's got a whole crew in that house and doesn't seem to run into any trouble."

"Well, Mr. Winslow's needs are very particular. He has a great love for the arts and he simply cannot abide having a cultural crude in his employ."

"Len, you've got to let this job go. It's not for you. Did you get the paperwork I asked for?"

Len rolled his eyes and handed me an envelope. "Yes. Here is Mr. Winslow's latest will. It took forever for us to locate it, as apparently his attorney is on vacation. You will be interested to learn that Winslow provided generously to the valet previously known as Mason Graves."

"What's 'generously'?"

"Five hundred thousand dollars."

"That's definitely generous. Anything else in here I should know about?"

"Yes. He bequeathed approximately fifty thousand dollars to Mrs. Enright."

"He scowls every time she enters the room. Why would he leave her any money?" I asked.

"Apparently Mason was quite fond of her. On numerous occasions Mr. Winslow considered firing her and Mason always convinced him against it."

I honestly couldn't get a handle on that Enright woman; something funny was going on and I was missing it.

"That's all for now, Len. I'm giving you two weeks' notice."

"Only Mr. Winslow can do that," Len replied.

"Who pays your checks?"

"You do, but--"

"No buts. You're out of here in two weeks. Mark my words."

I should have left bread crumbs as I wormed my way through the Winslow home. As I traveled through the mansion maze, I got lost and ended up in an entirely separate wing, which held a separate, more modest kitchen, which I suppose was where most of the staff consumed their meals. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught the back of Mrs. Enright's head. She was eating a sandwich--an innocent enough act. As I turned to find my way out, my coat rustled against the wall. Mrs. Enright twisted around in her chair and stared right at me.

"Excuse me," I said. "I seem to have gotten lost. How do I get out?"

"Ms. Spellman, can I help you?"

"I said, 'I'm lost,'" I replied, louder than before.

"You're what?" she said, competing with me for sheer volume.

I would have repeated myself again, only I was tired of the ruse. If she could hear fabric brush against a wall, she could hear me say at full volume that I was lost.

"Forget it," I said. "I'll find my way out."

That night I phoned Len and Christopher's house to get a status update on the dialect wars and to find out something else.

Christopher answered the phone in his regular English accent, which I would have taken as a fortuitous sign if it weren't for the content.

"This. Is. All. Your. Fault," Christopher said, long-jumping over all forms of pleasantries.

"If I had a dime for every time someone used that line on me . . . forget about the dime. I'm going to start charging people for saying it. Five bucks a pop. Listen, Christopher, I gave your boyfriend a job--not just any old job, an exciting acting-slash-spying job that most jobless people would shave their heads for. It's not my fault he took to it like Krazy Glue on . . . well, anything. Besides, there's something else going on that you haven't told me. Len isn't dedicating himself to this role just because he's found his calling in butlering. So either fess up or keep it to yourself."

There was a pause. You could even call it a lull.

"He's bartering," Christopher reluctantly replied.

"For what?" I asked.

"A move to New York or Los Angeles so that he can actively pursue his acting career."

"I've always thought Benson2 was ripe for a feature film adaptation."

"You're not as funny as you think you are."

"I'm funnier, aren't I?"

"I'm going to hang up now."

"Oh, you're just cranky because you hate packing."

"Won't you miss us?" Christopher asked.

"You haven't gone anywhere yet."

"You'll miss us when we're gone."

"So you are moving?" I asked, suddenly saddened by the prospect of yet another friend skipping town.