The Classy Crooks Club by Alison Cherry

the doorjamb and the door, then slide it down so it’s resting right on top of the bolt. Then—this is the tricky part—I tilt the edge of it toward the doorknob and jiggle it. It takes a little while, and my sweaty hands aren’t helping, but I finally feel the card slide in a little farther. When I force it back the opposite way, the bolt pops open. I turn the knob and push against the door, and it gives.
    I’m in.
    I leave the door mostly closed for a second so I can grab my flashlight and skateboard from the floor; if someone in there really does have a knife, I don’t want to face him without a weapon of my own. Then I call, “I’m coming in, okay? Please don’t attack. I am on your side .”
    I take a deep breath, brace myself, and push the door open.
    The first thing that hits me is the weird smell—sort of like wet cardboard and sawdust and rotting fruit. I feel around for a light switch, but I can’t find it, so I do a quick sweep of the room with my flashlight to see what I’m dealing with. I’m expecting a cage full of terrified prisoners or maybe some ankle shackles like they used to have in medieval dungeons, but the only thing my light hits is a bunch of boxes, some stacks of newspapers, and a half-upholstered armchair. There are also some tall wooden stands with branches sticking out in all directions. Are those torture devices? And where are all the people ?
    â€œHello?” I call quietly. “Can you say something so I know where you are? Don’t be afraid.”
    And then a voice very, very close to my head says, “Ahoy, matey! Walk the plank!”
    I gasp and flinch, whacking my elbow against the wall and dropping my flashlight, which winks out. I’m so startled by the nearness of the voice that it takes me a minute to register what it said. Did he just tell me to walk the plank ? Was that the same voice that was talking about the knife? Is there more than one guard in here?
    â€œHang on,” I say. My voice is trembling, but I try to keep it away from total hysteria. “Let me find the light switch, okay? Then we can talk this out.”
    â€œ Walk the plank! Walk the plank!” the voice screeches again, followed by another irritated “Knock it off, Tommy,” and a shrill, earsplitting scream.
    I fumble desperately along the wall next to the doorframe with both hands, so scared and confused now that I feel like screaming myself. Finally my fingers land on a switch, hidden underneath some sort of wall hanging, and the room explodes into light. I blink quickly to help my eyes adjust to the brightness, and wheel around.
    And then I blink a bunch more times, because what’s in front of me makes absolutely no sense.
    Scattered around the room, perched on the wooden stands and the backs of chairs, are about fifteen parrots . The light and the screaming must’ve disturbed them, because they’re all rustling around, shaking out their feathers and looking at me with their glassy, unblinking eyes. They’re all different colors—red and green and blue and gray and white—and they’d be superpretty if they were in a picture. But close up, they all have razor-sharp beaks and scaly dinosaur feet with claws that could easily gouge out my eyes. None of them are in cages. I stumble back until I’m pressed flat against the wall, and knowing there aren’t any birds behind me makes me feel a little better, but not a lot. I hold my skateboard up in front of me so I can swat them away if they try to fly at my face.
    But the weirdest thing is that I’m definitely the only person in the room. Where’s the guard? Where’s the screaming girl? As I struggle to calm down and make sense of everything, a big gray parrot with red tail feathers cocks its head, stares right at me, and opens its beak.
    â€œLet me introduce you to my trusty knife,” says a familiar raspy voice.
    And then the bird