Seven Stories Up by Laurel Snyder

Molly’s picture.
    “Does your dad have a yellow flower?” I whispered.
    “Yes,” she said without looking. “He always wears that, so everyone will know him.”
    “He doesn’t
look
mean,” I said, shaking my head. “He’s smiling.”
    Molly shot me a funny look. “I never said he was mean. What gave you that idea?”
    I shrugged. “Sorry. I don’t know. Honestly, I don’t know much about dads in general. They mow the lawn, right? And play golf? Or go bowling?”
    Molly shook her head. “Not mine. He just works. Then he works some more. And more.”
    A few minutes later, the music faded and the crowd went silent. A large cake was wheeled into the room on a cart. The bride and groom came together to cut it, and my stomach growled. “There’s the cake,” I whispered. “I wish
we
had a piece—”
    “Ooh! I know something!” shouted Molly suddenly. Her voice rang out above the now-quiet hall.
    I froze.
    Several people glanced up at the ceiling.
    I ducked back behind the curtain.
    Molly stood with her hand to her mouth. Her eyes went wide. “Do you suppose they heard that?” she hissed.
    “Umm, I think it’s highly possible,” I said.
    “Should we go? We
should
go, shouldn’t we?”
    “Probably,” I said. “But why’d you ooh?”
    “It was just—I had an idea. I wanted to—” Then she added, “Oh, fiddle! Let’s try it anyway. We’ll be quick, come on!” She dashed away from the curtains and back over to the wall, where she stood in front of a painting of an unsmiling woman holding a bouquet of flowers. I followed, then gasped when Molly gripped the picture frame and tugged at it. The frame swung out from the wall, revealing a hole. It was a dumbwaiter, like the one in
Harriet the Spy
!
    “Cool! I wish
we
had one of those,” I said.
    “You don’t? I feel sorry for your maids.”
    “Yeah, well, we don’t have any of those either,” I said.
    “Cross your fingers,” Molly said as she pulled on a thick rope inside the dumbwaiter.
    “For what?” I said.
    “Cake,” said Molly. “Didn’t you just make a wish?”
    After a minute of pulling, a tiny platform arrived from below. Molly reached up to grab the tray in it, but when she lifted the silver dome, it was—
not
cake.
    “Ugh,” said Molly as she stared at the plate in her hand. “Bad timing. Liver and onions?”
    I held my nose. The odor in the room was meaty and spoiled. “It smells like the
opposite
of cake,” I said. “Send it back! Gross.”
    “Okay!” She reached up to set the plate in the dumbwaiter. That was when we heard footsteps, someone walking up the stairs.
    I froze, but Molly moved fast. She set the plate down on the floor at her feet and hoisted herself up, first onto the table, and then into the dumbwaiter. “Hurry,” she said, poking out her head. “Get in!”
    “There’s no room!” I said. I searched around for another place to go, but the laundry chute was over next to the doorway.
    “I’ll
make
room.” She wiggled around.
    The footsteps were close. Loud.
    In a panic, I scrambled up onto the table, then tried to climb in with Molly. I crammed my body in beside her backward. “Oof!” I said, jamming my rear end in and sitting down. My legs still dangled below me.
    “Come
on
,” she said. “In. Now!” The footsteps were
there
.
    I pulled my knees up to my chest, squished myself in, and wrapped my arms around my neck. “Now,” I whispered. “Now!”
    Molly pulled the heavy door, but it didn’t quite close. She took a deep breath and gave one final tug, and it locked with a smooth click.
    We were hidden now, but squashed like sardines in a can and pinching our noses against the vile smell of the liver. “What will happen if we get caught?” I whispered, catching a mouthful of her curls.
    “They’ll call Papa.” Molly’s voice trembled in my ear.
    “What will
he
do?” I asked.
    She didn’t answer me. But I heard the wet sound of Molly chewing her nails. I shifted around, trying to