There is something about hearing a rustling in the dark that makes you nervous, even when you are as old as twelve. At first, I ignored it. I was lying in my bedroom, about to fall asleep. No problem, Ricky Kidd, I told myself, it's only your imagination. The noise was probably branches against a window.

So I lay there, wondering about New York City. Actually, dreaming about New York. Our class had set a goal to go there for a field trip at the end of the school year.

We had washed cars nearly every weekend in September, October, and then in April. We had also done a bottle drive once a month throughout the school year, snow-shoveling marathons, garbage clean-ups, and massive chocolate-bar-selling campaigns. By then, I'm sure the entire town of Jamesville wanted our class to go to New York, just so we would leave them alone. Every grown-up in town had a sparkling clean car and a closet full of chocolate bars to replace their long-gone empty bottles.

Our teacher, Mr. Evans, had said if we didn't get enough money, he would cancel the trip and use the funds to paint the school. After we nearly broke his hearing aid by groaning so loud, he said he was only joking. What would really happen was we would go on a field trip to the state capitol instead of to New York City. In other words, it was time to definitely raise another four hundred dollars.

In the dark, though, I didn't lie awake worrying about not getting the money. My friends Mike Andrews and Ralphy Zee had helped me come up with a plan. Lisa Higgins contributed too, but it's not like we want to give her too much credit -- smart girls either drive you nuts or make you blush.

Anyway, at the end of every school year, our school puts on a program to make all the parents happy. I'm not sure it does. I mean, who are we fooling? Singing songs and reciting the answers to mathematical questions isn't exactly great entertainment. I guess it's supposed to prove the teachers are doing their job in teaching, we kids are doing our job in learning, and the parents are doing their job in showing interest.

So we came up with the Great Theatrical Money-Making Bonanza.

Since the parents were going to be trapped there anyway, we had thought, why not hold a fund-raising play on the same night? Finish the program, put on a play, and then collect donations instead of admission. My hunch was that if we showed a lot of effort, people would think it was a good cause and give more than they would simply pay with an ordinary admission price.

I had spent hours and hours memorizing my lines, so I wasn't worried about actually being in the play. Besides, it was more fun lying in the quiet darkness and dreaming about New York City than it was to worry.

It had skyscrapers, subways, movie stars, and professional baseball players. Someone might see me and Mike and Ralphy together, take one look, and decide we were the three to fill the roles of an upcoming Disney movie. For that, I'd even let them put makeup on me and curl my hair.

If not Disney, I'm sure we would settle for doing some commercials. I could imagine the looks on faces in Jamesville when people saw us on television.

Or maybe I would end up taking a photograph of some awesome news story that would sell to papers all across the world. We could be walking down the street, maybe, and two guys would come running out of a bank with guns in their hands and money bags over their shoulders. I would snap a couple of photos, capturing the desperation on their faces and the terror on the faces of the bank customers. Then I would calmly toss my camera to a girl standing nearby and briefly catch the adoration on her face before dashing off to track them down. Mike and I would grab skateboards from nearby kids and hook a ride behind the get-away car, holding the bumper and riding the boards and dodging bullets until the car stopped and we tackled the hoods.

There was no telling what could happen. But whatever happened, Mike and Ralphy and I would make the most of it, catching our big break and fearlessly --

When something rustled again, I sat up, not quite daring to believe I had actually heard it. It was nothing, I told myself. Twelve is too old to be worrying about monsters under the bed. How ridiculous.

It came again. A clicking and rustling. OK, I told myself, you have two options. Put your head under the covers and get to sleep right away. Or carefully make a run for the door.

The trouble was that the noise came from under my bed. The covers reached all the way to the floor. Even with the lights on, I couldn't see underneath without getting on my knees, lifting the covers, and exposing myself to danger.

Another click and rustle. I spoke into the darkness. "Boy, oh, boy. I can hardly wait to go to the shooting range and practice with my dad again. Last time I was nearly perfect. Maybe tomorrow I'll hit every single target. It's sure nice of Dad to let me sleep with three guns under my pillow."

You can never be too safe with night noises.

There was nothing for a long time. I lay back in bed, but New York would not get into my head again. The noises must have been a branch, I told myself.

I told myself that eight more times, but it didn't work. So I slipped out of bed without turning on the lights. No sense giving warning, I told myself. I grabbed my baseball bat from the far corner of the room, kneeled next to the bed, and gave a couple of little pokes underneath.

Nothing.

What a fool I was. Imagining that branches against the window was maybe a burglar under my bed, waiting for me to sleep. Ha, ha, ha.

Ooops. Something pushed back at the bat. I think my hair stood straight up. Then the bat was pulled out of my hands.

Nothing like finding a monster under your bed and then arming it.

I shuffled back slowly. Fortunately I know where everything is in my room. I can find anything blindfolded. In the darkness, I confidently took another step to grab the doorknob and yank open the door. Instead, I confidently banged my head into the edge of the door. It was like shooting a dozen flashlights into my eyes.

I nearly fell backwards into the hallway, then started staggering towards my parents' room for help.

Then something else hit me -- the thought that the door had been opened. Whatever was under my bed had come from the hallway. And only one person could do it quietly enough for me not to notice. My six-year-old brother Joel.

When I snapped on my bedroom lights, pulled the covers off the bed, and looked underneath, Joel blinked at me. His teddy bear, a battered brown with gray-white paws and white button for the left eye and black button for the right eye, was beside him.

"Good books you have," he said, shining my flashlight at the open pages of the library books on New York. My bat was in front of him. "Go with you to pretty city?"

"Don't even think about it." There was no use yelling at Joel about privacy. He can't comprehend the concept. "You cannot go with our class. I repeat. You cannot go with our class. Never. Never. Never. Not in a million years. Understand?"

What a nightmare that would be. Joel in New York City. I rubbed my forehead. Already a bump was rising. "Besides, pretty city couldn't survive you. Now get back to your room."

I snatched my flashlight from him as he began to walk away.

"And next time, knock."

It was too late. He had already disappeared.