"Where do you think you're going, you little weasel?" my Aunt Beth screeched out the window at my retreating figre. I froze, wincing at the sound of her hawk's shriek. I was caught, but today I didn't care. I'd been waiting far too long to escape her and her wretched ways, and being caught wasn't going to stop me. Instead, I got an idea to stop her form letting anyone know I was gone. Her huge, bulky figre could barely make itthrough the house, let alone to another person's, so she communicated by telephone alone. Lifting the garden clippers, I stealthily climbed the telephone pole and snipped the telephon ewire. After about one tomorrow, she'd figure that I went to a friends house after sneaking out to a party. She'll wait for about a week, then call my friends' houses, sounding