was one of sheer rage. Today she smiled happily and sang out winningly, “Hello, there, Harriet Welsch.” Things couldn’t be worse.
Harriet walked towards her tentatively, as one would towards a mad dog, trying to see Janie’s eyes more clearly, but Janie whipped inside the door. Harriet followed her in.
“What’s the matter?” Harriet whispered. They were standing in the little foyer off the living room.
“They’re after me,” whispered Janie, still smiling wildly.
“Who?”
“The Rat Pack.” This was what Janie called her mother, her father, her brother and her grandmother who lived with them.
“Why?”
“My mother says I’m going to blow us all up and that I have to go to dancing school. Come past here, then they won’t see us.” Janie was hissing through her outrageous smile as she led them up the back steps to what she called her lab but which was really her room.
One corner of her room had been stripped bare. The rug had been pulled back, exposing one corner where Janie had started to cut off the excess to get it out of the way, but which she had been stopped from doing by her mother in an hysterical fit. At that time there had been a large fight through which Janie grinned broadly, and her mother let her know that it didn’t make a whit of difference if they didn’t ordinarily have rugs in labs (“They catch fire,” Janie had said, which had set her mother off again), that Janie had a rug in her room that was going to stay there, and that the very best she could hope for was to have it rolled back. So it lay there in a roll at the end of the room.
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