Alice's Umbrella

Eight Years Later

The closet was dark and musty, the dust tickling her nostrils. Alice had to squeeze her nose shut to stifle a sneeze, lest she alert anybody to her presence. God, when was the last time anybody had cleaned up in here? She knew Mr. Matthews was a single dad who had a son to raise and a coffee shop to run, but how much time did a quick dusting require, really?

She huffed quietly, trying to clear her nose of any pesky air particles, but she froze when she heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. Holding her breath, she tried to follow the path of the steps; they were getting closer, moving down the hallway.

"Where did you say it was?" Elliott's voice boomed from the hallway, and Alice heard his father's muffled response, though it was too quiet to decipher. When a large body blocked the light filtering through the small crack in the door, she knew he'd been directed to the right place. Her entire body tensed as she readied herself for the attack.

The closet door swung open then, and she launched herself through the opening immediately. Her palm connected with his chest. "Tag! You're it!" she crowed triumphantly.

Elliott yelped in shock, stumbling backward. The look of terror on his face sent her into a fit of hysterics, and she doubled over from the force of her laughter. When she looked back up at him, even through her tears, she could make out the scowl on his face.

"Damn it, Alice!" he cried; his father's admonishment was immediate, and this time Alice could hear it.

"Watch your language!" he yelled up the stairs, though amusement laced his voice.

Alice laughed harder, and Elliott glowered at her. "He was in on it, wasn't he?" he asked drily, and she nodded, swiping at her tears. "I should have known; why the hell would he need granddad's old cane?"

She shrugged, resting her hands on her hips. "Your dad loves me. You know he'd do anything for me."

He rolled his eyes. "You play dirty, you know that, right?"

She scoffed. "Right, and who was the one who hid in the trunk of my car last time just to tag me?" she reminded him, and he smirked as he recalled. She and Elliott had been playing a neverending game of tag that had started when they were in elementary school. One day in third grade, recess had ended before she'd had the chance to tag anybody. And she hated losing. Greatly. So the next time she'd seen Elliott, on their walk home after school, she had slapped him on the back and taken off running. Eight years later, and they were still playing the game. It was just the two of them, which made the game a little tricky, but they had long ago established one ground rule to follow: no tag-backs for at least a day. Other than that, anything was fair game. The two of them went to great lengths just to tag each other-sometimes, they languished for days or weeks at a time with no attempt on either side. She'd even fallen asleep in the bushes outside his house one night when she was hiding, not realizing he'd gone to a friend's house after wrestling practice; she'd woken the next morning when he'd nudged her awake with his shoe.

She'd tagged him, anyway.

"Well, that'll teach you to give me an extra key to your car, won't it?" Elliott teased.

"Yeah, you can give that back to me anytime now," she huffed, but when she realized he was advancing toward her, her eyes widened. "What are you-you know you can't tag me back!" she warned, stepping back into the closet.

"I know," he agreed, then he grinned wickedly. "But there's nothing that says I can't tickle you." He lunged at her then, his hands finding purchase on her sides. She squealed, his hold on her keeping her from falling backward, but she squirmed wildly against him as his fingers poked and prodded her stomach.

"No, stop!" she gasped, shrieking with laughter when he moved his hands up to her armpits. "Elliott, please, you know I hate being tickled!"

"I know," he laughed, and he grunted when she wriggled against him, her hands trying to push his arms away. "Why do you think I do it?"