Stuck

The key in the lock is bronze. The lock is bronze, and old, and the keyhole is too big. When I take the key and turn it, it wiggles. I know no one is going to come in - I’ve closed the door - but I turn the key anyways, two turns. The lock clacks.

The lock clacks, blocks clack, trains clack on tracks. Grandpa said not to fiddle with the lock. I am big now. The lock is small. Grandma’s toilet seat has a wicker cover. Is this normal on Long Island? At home we do not have a cover. I go to the sink to wash my hands. Grandma likes to buy soap in interesting shapes. This bar is a scallop scented violet. At the beach near home the shells smell like salt.

The key is in the lock still. I turn it left. I pull the door but the door stays shut. I turn the key again. I am waiting for the clack. It does not clack. I turn, no clack. The key rattles a little in the too-big space, but it does not switch the lock. I shake the door. I want to leave now.

“David? Are you all right?” I hear on the other side of the door. Mom must be worried otherwise she wouldn’t ask. I am big now. I don’t want help. Do I need it? I sit down on the bumpy toilet seat.

“Yes, I’m all right,” I say and get up again. I turn the key again - no clack. I shake the door some more. “David?” I hear again. “I’m stuck!” I say. “You’re what?” she says. “Help!” I say.