A Teenager and a Tower of Pots

I was already alert when I heard the crash in the kitchen. I never could relax while babysitting. I couldn’t settle in on another family’s couch knowing that the parents could come home any moment and find me binging on their Doritos (they always said “eat anything”) or find me asleep and drooling on their pillow. Or, if not the parents, then my real fear: An intruder. I imagined men scoping out the house, waiting for signs of someone leaving, assuming it was empty and then finding me inside. And when they did find me inside, I had a plan. I would bring my phone (always in my pocket) to a hiding place and quietly call 911. Although, in my imagination I was never successful, and the next scene always involved the phrase, “Well, who do we have here?” 

This relentless fear inspired me to develop an alarm system of my own. Once the kids were asleep, I’d stack up about 8 kitchen pots in front of the back door. If the parents said they’d be home around 11, I’d always take my tower of pots down by about 10:30. A 30-minute window created just the right mix of feeling safe(r) without taking on too much extra risk of embarrassment for being discovered as the 14-year-old wimp that I was. Tonight was the first time my alarm system had ever “gone off.”

I heard the crash in the kitchen off to my right. I startled upright on the couch and quickly scurried left into the dining room and crouched under the dining room table, phone in hand. I was glad I had scoped out this hiding spot in advance; the table cloth went nearly to the floor and what home invader would look for valuables under a table?

Next part of plan: dial 911. But, here I hit a snag. There was only silence in the house. The kids had been sleeping for the last two hours and apparently still were. And there had been no noise from the kitchen since the tower of pots had crashed. If I did call, my voice would be the loudest thing in the house, aside from my pounding heart. So I waited. New plan: As soon as I heard the next sound from the kitchen, I would definitely dial. I tucked the phone inside my sweatshirt to muffle any sound from my phone and waited. 

And waited.

Silence. 

Fifteen minutes later I was still crouching under the table, thighs burning, wondering if an intruder could be this patient, this silent. I had also arrived at the 30-minutes-before-parents-said they’d-be-home mark. Did I want them to find me under the table and pots scattered all over the kitchen floor? I wasn’t a total fool, by this time I had entertained the possibility that my tower had toppled for another reason, although I was quite confident in it’s construction (pots upside down, largest on the bottom, duh), and there were no pets in the house. Still, this was one very silent, very patient intruder. I decided to take a look.

I crawled out from under the table, tiptoed out of the dining room and crossed the family room. I slowly peeked my head around the door frame to peer into the kitchen. I had my phone in my right hand and a candlestick from the dining room table in my left. I could see some of the pots splayed across the kitchen floor, and I could see that the back door was closed with the deadbolt still locked. I leaned in further and took in the entire kitchen. Empty. 

I pocketed my phone and kept the candlestick in hand while I quickly put the pots away. I shouted, “I know you’re here and I have a gun!” Seemed better to do that than nothing. Then I returned to the family room and took my place on the couch. The kitchen was to my right with the door a bit behind me. I kept the candlestick in hand. I took out my phone and started scrolling through Insta, staying alert in case that patient, silent (and invisible) intruder gave himself away. 

My phone buzzed, startling me so that I nearly threw the candlestick blindly out into the room to hit the intruder (who wasn’t there). 

“Hello?” 

“Hi Kelly, we just wanted to let you know we’ll be home in about ten minutes. Didn’t want to startle you. Everything go okay?” It was Mrs. Allen.

“Yep, just fine, see you soon. Thanks for calling.”

I returned to my scrolling on the couch and tried to slow my breathing down. It was comforting to know they were on their way, but Mrs. Allen had been off with her estimate. I sat on the couch for 20 minutes before the headlights from the Allen’s car panned across the wall in front of me as they pulled in the driveway. Suddenly, I felt ridiculous. Of course nobody had tried to break into the house. I instantly decided I wouldn’t mention it. I just wanted to get paid and get home. Although I probably gave myself away when I accepted Mr. Allen’s offer to walk me home despite living just three doors down. 

As I walked into my silent house, parents sleeping upstairs, I still had the feeling someone was inside with me, watching me. Although this particular flavor of paranoia was familiar to me, I often felt this way when I was awake later than the rest of my house. I booked it upstairs to my bedroom, switched on my lamps and did a quick check in my closet and under my bed. My breathing finally slowed, I felt silly but safe in my bedroom and closed the door. I took off my sweatshirt and jeans and went to sleep in my t-shirt. 

The next morning my mom knocked on my door, waking me around 9 am. 

“Honey, did everything go okay babysitting last night?” she asked. 

“Yeah, why?”

“Mrs. Allen just stopped by. She asked if you had been playing outside with the kids before bed, maybe had to rush in the house with your boots on? Apparently she found some muddy footprints on the carpet in the family room. They were mostly behind the couch, between that and the picture window. Any idea how that happened? Perhaps you should go over and chat with her, offer to help it clean it up.”