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But, of course, it was too late. Party guests were pummeling up the stairs like a herd of buffalo. Dr. Talwar (the wife) came into the room. “Oh, dear, what’s happened? Is that her blood? Where is she hurt?”
“She’s not,” I said, but my words were lost as Hannah’s dad bellowed, “Honeybun!” and collapsed to his knees beside her. More people crowded into the room.
“Should we start compressions?” someone asked.
“She does not need compressions,” said Dr. Talwar (the husband).
“I’m fine,” Mrs. Grimaldi said weakly. “I fainted, that’s all.” She looked around the room, saw me, and passed right out again.
“Call the police!” someone called. “There’s been an assault.”
“No!” I yelled. “No one’s been assaulted.”
I was abruptly aware that my pants were around my knees, my face was bloody, and my girl parts covered by a teeny scrap of deep green silk. Also, there was an unconscious woman next to me.
And yes, here came the sirens. I closed my eyes, scootched backward to the far side of Hannah’s bed. “Mom?” I called. “Can you get me a towel and help me get my pants back on?”
My pants were not back on by the time the Stoningham Fire Department, D Platoon, arrived at the Grimaldis’. To be fair, our response time is one of the best in the state. By then, Mrs. G. was sitting up and nursing a glass of whiskey her husband had pressed into her hand. I was still hiding on the far side of Hannah’s bed, sneaking looks at the scene. Mom had found a unicorn-printed fleece throw in Hannah’s closet, so at least I was covered. She Mom stood over me, shaking her head and patting mine simultaneously.
“Merry Christmas,” came Cupcake’s voice, so named because of his perpetually foul mood (we firefighters like irony). “What have we got here?”
“Oh, it’s not me,” said Mrs. Grimaldi. “I just faint at the sight of blood. Samantha Lewis, though, she’s got a massive head wound.”
“No, I don’t,” I called. “I’ll be fine. Maybe a couple stitches, but my mom can—”
“Samburger,” said Jake, the lieutenant. He appeared over me, grinning. “What happened, kid? Drink too much?”
“Not enough, actually,” I said. I could hear James, another D platooner, asking Mrs. Grimaldi what day it was.
“You’re quite a bleeder,” Jake said, kneeling in front of me. “You a Romanoff or something? What happened?”
“Well, my pants got stuck when I was in the bathroom, and I was jumping around, trying to pull them up and I fell and hit my head. Mrs. Grimaldi saw the blood and fainted.”
He bit down on a smile. “A wardrobe injury, then?”
Yep.” I pulled up the throw at my ankles to show him the tight pants. “You try getting these off.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“It is not.” I cracked a smile. Jake was a decent guy, happily married with four kids, but he was good at flirting, too.
“Might need the Hurst tool for the pants.” He lifted the towel from my eye and grimaced. “Yikes. Good thing you’re already ugly.”
“Thank you. In my time of pain, truly, thank you for your kindness.”
“Yeah, yeah, your poor baby. This’ll teach you not to wear tight pants.” He stood and gestured to the guys. “We’re gonna transport you, Samburger. Already got the stair chair.”
I glanced over my shoulder to see the three other guys—Fumble, so named because he once dropped a fully charged hose and had to chase after it as it whipped around—Legend (pulled a kid out of a burning building) and James were all there, grinning like kids seeing Santa. “Absolutely not. No transport. Fumble, put that phone away, you idiot, or I will sue your scrawny ass.” I looked back at LT. “I can drive myself. Or my parents can drive me.”
“Actually, honey,” said my mother, “we’ve had a little bit too much to drink. Candy cane martinis, Jake. Have you ever had one? Delicious.” She’d been his piano teacher.
“Just come with us,” Legend said. “It’s faster.”
I looked at Jake. “I’m wearing a thong,” I whispered.
“Me, too,” he whispered back. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you covered.”
With a sigh, I gave in. “Fine. But I’m walking down those stairs.”
