Don't Stay Up Late by R. L. Stine

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    â€œDefinitely,” I said. I wanted to jump up and down for joy. I couldn’t wait to tell my mother the good news. “Definitely.”
    â€œHarry is quiet and very self-sufficient,” Brenda said. “He’ll let you do your homework. What year are you, Lisa?”
    â€œJunior,” I said.
    â€œHave you started to look at colleges?”
    I hesitated. “Well … my mom and I have had some bad luck. I think I’m going to have to work for at least a year before I can go away to school.”
    She nodded, her dark eyes locked on mine, studying me. “Well, I hope this job helps,” she said. “You’ll like Harry. He’s a little moody at times, but he’ll be very little trouble.”
    I gazed around the living room again. I still didn’t see a single clue that an eight-year-old boy lived here.
    â€œCan I meet Harry?” I said. “Is he home?”
    â€œHe’s the kind of kid who needs his rest,” she said. “I try to put him to bed early.” She climbed to her feet. She adjusted the short skirt over her tights. “Come up to his room with me. I’ll introduce you.”
    I followed her to the stairway. The old wooden steps creaked and groaned under our shoes as we climbed to the second floor.
    Harry’s room was at the end of a long, dimly lit hall. The carpet was thin and torn in places. I heard the soft drip drip of water from a small bathroom as we passed it.
    Harry’s door was closed. We stopped at the door and Brenda knocked softly.
    No answer.
    She pushed the door open slowly. To my surprise, the room was totally dark. No light of any kind.
    â€œHarry, are you in here?” Brenda called softly. “Harry? Are you here?”

 
    16.
    Silence.
    Then a lamp flickered on, and I could see the boy sitting up in his bed, blinking in surprise.
    My first thought: He’s adorable.
    He was round-cheeked and blond, his hair tousled over his broad forehead. Squinting into the lamplight, I saw that he had big, blue eyes and a sweet angelic smile.
    He didn’t seem surprised to see a stranger in his room. Brenda led the way to the side of the bed. Despite the warm night, Harry wore flannel pajamas with Star Wars characters all over them.
    â€œHarry, this is Lisa,” Brenda said.
    â€œWere you asleep? Why were you sitting in the dark?” I blurted out.
    He brushed his hair off his forehead. “I like to make up movies in my mind,” he said. He had a funny, scratchy voice.
    â€œI like movies, too,” I said, eager to ingratiate myself.
    â€œDo you like scary movies?” he asked.
    â€œNot really,” I said. “I get too scared.”
    â€œMe too,” he said, pointing a finger at his chest. “I don’t like to be scared.”
    â€œLisa is going to stay with you when I’m at work,” Brenda said, straightening his striped quilt. “Would you like that?”
    Harry’s eyes grew wide. “Will you sing my favorite song to me?” he asked me.
    I blinked. “Your favorite song? What is it?”
    He grinned. “Eensy Weensy Spider.”
    â€œHuh? But that’s a baby song!” I said.
    His smile faded. “Not if it’s about a real spider ,” he said in his scratchy voice.
    Weird.
    I turned to Brenda. “What is he talking about?”
    â€œHarry likes to make jokes—don’t you, Harry?”
    â€œNot really,” he said.
    â€œSo Lisa will pick you up at Alice’s and take care of you when I’m at work,” Brenda told him.
    Harry turned his blue eyes on me. “Can we stay up late? Can we?”
    Something about the desperate way he asked made me laugh.
    â€œWell? Can we?” He really wanted an answer.
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “We’ll see.”
    He tossed his fists in the air as if he’d won a victory. “Yessss!”
    â€œTime to go to sleep,” Brenda