by Christine Phillips

What I like about working for the IRS is that everyone must follow the rules. Ignorance is no excuse. Tax slackers whine, "But honestly, Miss Reece, I didn't mean to. I didn't know the rule. You're treating me like a criminal! It's not fair."

"It's just the opposite," I say. "The rules apply to everyone. No exceptions."

"Would you look everything over one more time, ma'am? Just to be sure?"

"As you wish." I flip through the forms and raise my eyebrows. "I do have a few questions about this vacation house in Colorado . . ."

Until I was ten, I broke a rule if what I wanted seemed worth the risk of a day's confinement to my room. I also believed that ignorance would not be punished. For example, because Uncle Jonathon didn't know that children must be watched every minute, I didn't anticipate his being blamed for our disappearance. And my friend, Numan, who recently arrived from Turkey, didn't know enough English to understand his new mother's instructions. I knew the no-quarry rule, but I took Numan to the quarry lake.

We climbed a mulberry tree and crawled onto a splintery diving platform that teenagers had hammered into the forking branches. Numan collected and tossed empty beer cans into the lake's black water. He didn't know the rules about littering, yet.

We stripped off our T-shirts and wadded the damp pillows under our heads. Spread-eagled on our backs, we admired the leafy canopy that protected us from the sun. The green leaves and blue sky fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. I tucked my head into the crook of Numan's neck; another puzzle piece snug in place. Numan was the first boy I ever liked.

The evaporating lake water formed crystal clear droplets, like healthy tears, on the underside of the broad mulberry leaves. When Uncle Jonathon cried, his sick tears trickled out black. Because I was ten, I thought bad germs, not make-up tinted his tears. Later, Uncle Jonathon had to follow the AIDS rule. There was also a rule against Uncle Jonathon, in general.

Ripe mulberries as big as my thumb brooded over our heads. I made a rule that we could only eat the ones we could reach without sitting up. When Numan caught a falling mulberry between his lips, the red juice splashed our cheeks. The squashed berry gore reminded me of the movie we'd just seen on TV.

"Let's play Terminator," My mother didn't follow the rules about movie ratings.

I straddled Numan's body and squeezed his neck, but not too hard. "Hasta la vista, Bebe."

He made choking noises and then closed his eyes and went limp. When I let go, he bugged open his eyes. "U'll be bock."

"No fair, I killed you for good."

He sat up and kissed my lips, then laughed when I wiped it off.

"Don't do that," I said. Uncle Jonathon didn't believe in mouth kissing. Too many germs. As soon as Numan learned English better, I planned to explain the rules about littering, kissing and dying.

"Nice Candy," he said in his funny English that came out nize condie. He even sounded like the Terminator.

Trailing a cloud of black rock dust, the Lisboa's black mini-van pulled to a stop under our tree. The exhaust from the van seeped between the warped planks. Holding my breath, I pressed my eye to a crack. I couldn't see through the tinted sunroof, but I knew Mrs. Lisboa lurked behind the steering wheel, because Mr Lisboa worked nights at the bakery and slept during the day. I wished on the Lucky Charms I'd eaten for breakfast that she wouldn't spot us. The mothers of our little Texas town agreed to enforce the no-quarry rule. The edge of the lake went straight down, like a cliff.

The Lisboa sextuplets yowled like stray cats. The babies were the most famous people in our town. When they were born, their mother said God would take care of them, but just in case, our town gave the Lisboas a house and a mini-van. Even though the sextuplets were now three years old, they were still babies, because they'd been born too early. Uncle Jonathon said the town would have to hire another special-ed teacher when the Lisboas started kindergarten.

I pitied the big brother, Santos, who had been an only child for ten years and now had to share his parents with famous babies. Uncle Jonathon said Mr. Lisboa had grown a third fist when the babies were born, but when I visited the bakery, I'd been disappointed to see that Mr. Lisboa had only two hands, just like everyone else.

My wish that Mrs. Lisboa wouldn't notice us was granted in a way I didn't expect.

The mini-van lunged forward, and like a careless teenager, belly-smacked into the lake. The black water foamed white, like a Coke poured on ice. The sun reflected on the roof just like it would if the van were safe in the Lisboa's driveway. Then a sextuplet popped out the passenger window, followed by the big brother.

Just as Santos scooped the baby to his chest, the black water closed over the van. The crying stopped. I wondered if I had imagined the van, but traces of foam and rippling waves insisted on telling the truth. Why was the sun still shining? Shouldn't that be against the rules?

Numan and I shimmied down the tree trunk. He stretched out his hands and took the baby from Santos. The swollen diaper slipped to the baby's ankles and I saw my first penis. Which baby was it? Had it been four minutes yet? At the pediatrician's, I'd read a Parents' Magazine article about water safety. After four minutes without air, the brain starts to die. Were the other babies even more retarded, now? The baby wiggled from Numan's arms, and crawled into the bushes. Santos pushed away from the ledge, but Numan grabbed his arm and hauled him from the water. The big boy's tears mixed with the water dripping from his hair. Then, like a worried mother hen, he followed the baby into the bushes.

Another cloud of black dust billowed toward us. A police car pulled alongside me, and Officer Carlson rolled down his window. "Candace Reece, I presume. And you must be Numan Rosen." The radio squawked and he said, "I found them. At the quarry. Notify the parents."

Numan pointed to the lake and blabbered in Turkish.

I translated, "Mrs. Lisboa drove her mini-van into the lake."

Soaking wet Santos, clutching the baby, broke from the bushes. Mr. Carlson's eyes bugged. "My God. Are you telling the truth? Who was in the car?" He lunged from his police car and gripped my shoulders.

"I couldn't see in the windows, but I heard the babies crying." I pulled away from his pinching hands.

"When? How long ago did this happen?" His arms spread to encompass us all.

"It's been more than four minutes."

Mr. Carlson herded us toward his car. "All of you. Get in the back seat so I can keep track of you. Do not leave this car. Got it?"

While we piled into the car, he called for help on his radio. "Divers, I guess. And a crane. Jesus, there's no skid marks."

I didn't know policemen cried.

Santos and I had the window seats. Numan and the baby were squashed in the middle. After he shut the doors, Mr. Carlson sprinted to the quarry's edge and dove into the water.

What would drowning feel like? Did it hurt? I wondered if they held their breath. I could only hold mine until I counted to thirty, but none of the Lisboa babies could count yet. Was it possible to cry under the water? The baby lodged between Numan and Santos was still wailing, but Santos had stopped. Teenagers weren't supposed to cry, so his fingers drew teardrops on his knees instead.

Uncle Jonathon's shiny red car pulled up next to us. I couldn't budge the door handle, so I pounded on the window. He yanked open my door, clutched my hands, and kissed my mulberry stained palms.

"Oh, those sticky little hands. Thank God you're all right." He peered into the back seat. "Come on out, boys." We all piled from the car.

Officer Carlson, dripping wet, ran toward us. "Who the hell are you? Get away from those kids."

Uncle Jonathon's ears burned red against his white scalp; even his diamond earring sparkled pink. "Candace is my sister's daughter. I'm the one who called."

Mr. Carlson glared at all of us. "I told you to stay in the car. Get back in there and don't get out until I tell you." We all climbed into the car.

I had never heard Uncle Jonathon raise his voice. "For crying out loud. You're not dealing with criminals. The kids are practically suffocating in there."

Mr Carlson opened my window, but only a crack. He pressed on the door locks, slammed the door and lowered his voice. "Do you know the parents of the little kid with the black hair?"

Uncle Jonathon smiled with his teeth, but not his eyes. "He lives next door. I'll take him home, too."

Mr. Carlson didn't smile back. "No, I'll contact them."

Uncle Jonathon's new smile disappeared. "Why? What do you think I'm going to do?"

When Mr. Carlson raised his eyebrows, the lines on his forehead looked like knife cuts. "Just get the girl's mother and bring her here."

Uncle Jonathon turned pink, again. "What for?"

"The Lisboa kids are in the lake. And these two saw it happen."

I stopped listening to the grownups because a bee hovered just outside my window. It smacked against the glass, then darted through the crack and bounced against my cheek. I scrambled to the floor of the car and cowered between Numan's legs. The bee followed me and buzzed furiously when I swatted at it.

Numan grabbed my hands. "Shhh. No move."

The bee danced over our sticky knuckles and I wished for it to sting Numan, so I would be spared. The rule was, after a bee used a stinger, it died.

When the bee lighted on Numan's mulberry-sweetened finger, I jerked my hands from his. He yipped like a puppy, and put his hand to his mouth. The dying bee fell between Numan's legs and disappeared inside the cuff of his shorts. My cheeks flamed with shame and power.

To hide my guilty face, I climbed back onto the seat and pressed my nose to the window. Uncle Jonathon drove away just as fire trucks pulled around us. The red lights reflected in the swirling rock dust that filtered through the cracked window and made me cough. The firemen grabbed equipment and gathered at the quarry's edge.

"It's been way longer than four minutes. After four minutes without air, the brain starts to die," I said.

Santos broke his silence. "Shut-up, little girl."

Numan made noises that sounded like when I sucked the last of my chocolate milk with a straw. His face smoldered bright red, like his whole head was a bee sting. Locked in the car, Santos and I pounded on the windows and hollered for help. The baby shrieked. Was this how it had sounded in the Lisboa van after it slipped under the water? The people gathered by the quarry didn't hear us. Numan slumped to the floor.
"Do you think on land it's the same rule? Four minutes?" I whispered.
Santos pulled Numan into his lap. He pinched Numan's nose and gave him a long kiss on the lips. He tried two more times, then lifted his head. "I don't think it's working."
"I didn't mean to," I repeated to myself until it was true.