My alarm woke me promptly at 7:00 o'clock in the morning from a surprisingly deep sleep. I opened my eyes and realized I hadn't stirred once during the night. As I dragged myself out of bed, I decided that one possible reason for my uninterrupted slumber was that I'd turned off the ringers on my phones. If my newly-acquired nuisance of a prank caller had tried to disturb me, I was certainly unaware. That still didn't mean I felt well-rested. My sleep-laden legs slowed me, and I crept along sluggishly down the hall to the bathroom.

Once there, I proceeded with my morning ablutions. Feeling a little more refreshed after I'd dressed for the day, I felt ready to face the one thing I was almost dreading: my answering machine.

Sure enough, the message light was still blinking.

Twenty-five messages?! Not possible!

With a grunt of frustration, I felt an urge to smash the machine. When I'd come in the previous night, there had been only five messages – the ones I'd refused to check. That meant that sometime between turning off my ringers and this morning, some person or persons had called twenty times. It was unlikely someone would be calling on a business-related matter in the wee hours of the morning, and certainly friends and family knew better than to call at such inconvenient hours.

I did a quick run through of the caller ID registered on the first eight or so calls. Not surprisingly, 'Unknown Caller' came up those eight times.

And I'll just bet all freakin' twenty-five of them are 'Unknown Caller', too. I really don't need this kind of garbage right now...

After I'd taken a few really good, deep breaths to steady my rising temper, I reminded myself that I should concentrate on more important things, like eating breakfast and moving on to Glenda's daycare to continue the job. That was the more important task at hand; that was where all my mental and creative energies ought to be directed. I could deal with the messages later. On the now unlikely chance there truly was a legitimate message of a business nature awaiting my response, it would have to wait.

I forced down a bowl of unappetizing cereal with my morning cup of coffee, locked my door and headed out to my truck. On the driveway, I stopped in my tracks. Something looked odd about my truck in the morning light. It looked sunken and off-kilter. With a cry of dismay, I dashed forward and saw that all four tires had been slashed.

I don't know how long I stood there, staring; mouth agape, at the scene in front of me. Finally, I snapped out of my funk, and with sinking spirits, returned to the house.

I couldn't believe what had happened, but knew I'd have to immediately get in touch with one of my crew to ask for a ride to Glenda's place. I also knew I should probably contact Glenda to let her know I'd possibly be delayed.

I called a familiar number, and felt surprisingly calmer when the voice I was expecting answered.

“Nick, you're not going to believe this,” I said, dispensing with the niceties, “but some vandal slashed all my tires on my truck sometime last night.”

“What!” Nick exclaimed. “Are you okay? You didn't hear anything or see anyone last night, did you?”

“Not that I recall,” I said reflectively. “And yes, I'm fine; just a little ticked off. Look, don't worry about the possible perpetrator right now. I need a ride because Glenda Beauregard will be expecting us shortly.”

“Of course,” Nick responded, picking up on the urgency in my voice. “I can be there in... fifteen minutes.”

“Great. I'll give Matt and Roger a call. In the interest of saving time, I'll tell them to pick up the supplies from the shed and to meet us at the daycare.”

“Okay,” Nick said. “I'll see you soon. And Simone, I'm really sorry someone did this to your truck. Do me a favor and at least call the police to report this, will you?”

“That was my next call,” I said.

“Good,” he answered.

“'Bye, Nick,” I said, and hung up.

My next call wasn't the police. I decided I'd better take care of business first, and dialed the daycare.

When I asked to be put through to Glenda, I was thoroughly unprepared for what happened next.

“Don't you people ever answer your phones?!” A highly irritated and flustered Glenda fumed when she spoke to me.

Greatly taken aback, I stammered a response. “What are you talking about? What's the matter?”

“I mean I've been calling you non-stop since early this morning, and all I got was an answering machine at your office and your home number! Don't you even check your messages?!”

I pursed my lips, and cursed under my breath. Glenda's the one who's been trying to reach me this morning?!

“Oh, I'm so sorry, Glenda,” I said contritely, deciding that I'd tolerate her snide attitude for the time being and roll with the punches. After all, it was my own stubbornness and stupidity for ignoring my messages. “It's just that I've been having an issue with some prank caller-”

“Skip it,” she snapped. “I need you down here ASAP.”

“Why? What's wrong?”

“Well, someone's gone and spray-painted all over the mural! I've had to keep the kids inside, which is a challenge because of the rooms your people have been re-painting with those primary colors. Everything is a total mess on that outside wall. Some of the parents are absolutely appalled. All manner of lewd and obscene things have been painted and written everywhere. It's thoroughly sickening and despicable!”

My head was spinning. First my truck, and now the mural? This was starting to feel like an all-out attack.

“Okay, I'm running a bit behind today,” I said sheepishly. “You're not going to believe this, but someone slashed all my tires last night. I'm being picked up in about fifteen minutes by one of my staff. We should be able to be there in forty to forty-five minutes – traffic permitting.”

“Well...” Glenda sniffed, “I suppose I'll have to settle for that. Just get here as soon as you can and fix the damage that's been done.”

“Of course,” I said, itching to reply that none of this had been remotely my fault, and that acts of vandalism of this nature were common. I just hated it when my precious work was the target.

ooo

When Nick arrived, I got into his Honda wordlessly. He leaned over and gave me a quick peck on the cheek.

“Are you okay?”

I nodded.

“Want me to take a look at the truck before we go?”

“No,” I said. “I mean, it wouldn't make any difference.”

“Did you call the police?”

“Yes. I'll have to go to the station to fill out a report.”

“Simone, are you sure everything's okay? You're not even looking at me when I talk to you...”

“I talked to Glenda,” I said, “and she says there's been some vandalism done to the mural.”

“You've got to be kidding,” Nick replied, shock registering.

“No, I'm not kidding. We should go. See what the damage is and get it over with.”

“It's probably not as bad as it sounds,” Nick said encouragingly as we drove. “Glenda's probably over-reacting.”

“I sure hope so,” I replied doubtfully.

But when we finally arrived, it wasn't as bad as Glenda had made it sound. It was worse.

With dismay, I surveyed the damage as Glenda prattled on and on about her shock at finding the graffiti, how upsetting the whole thing was, and how several parents were already complaining about it.

She'd led Nick and I to the playground and gestured angrily at the wall we'd been painting less than 24 hours ago. Stark, red spray-paint marred the surface of the incomplete mural. My fists involuntarily curled up into fists as I viewed the crudely-drawn images of certain anatomical parts, and sexually-suggestive words and phrases.

“You see? See how disgusting the whole thing is?” Glenda ranted. “I want it fixed. Now. I don't care what you do; I just want it gone. It's embarrassing enough as it is. Thank God this wall doesn't face the road...”

Without even waiting for a response, she stomped back inside.

“How juvenile can you get?” Nick asked, shaking his head at the graffiti.

“I don't know.” I said morosely. I'd turned my back on the wall, not wanting to look at the filth any longer. “I don't care. When Roger and Matt get here, we'll just go over the whole thing with primer and start from the beginning.”

I walked around the building to the parking lot to wait for my colleagues. Nick joined me, and put his hands on my shoulders. They felt warm and strong and comforting.

“Hey,” he said lightly, sensing my despondency. “Come here.”

Reluctantly, I moved closer to him. He encircled me in his arms and kissed the side of my head; stroked my hair. His presence felt so reassuring.

“We're going to fix this,” he said confidently. “Glenda's probably going to file a complaint with the police, and maybe we'll get lucky; catch the vandals red-handed.”

When I didn't respond, he said, “Red-handed. The vandals used red spray paint. That was a joke, Simone.”

I looked at him dubiously. “That was pretty lame, Nick. You need to work on your material.”

“Ouch,” he said, pretending to be hurt by my reply. “Tough crowd! Look, it's probably some punk kids who have poor parental supervision. Don't let it get you down.”

He was right, of course; I shouldn't let it get me down. But it wasn't just the desecrated mural.

“You're right,” I said, giving voice to my thoughts. “I guess it's just the combination of the surprise of finding my tires slashed this morning and the mural and...” I stopped myself from mentioning the phantom phone calls.

“And what?”

“Nothing. I guess I'm just frustrated that nothing's gone right this morning.”

When I was in a Girl Guide troop many years ago, our motto was 'Be Prepared'. I don't know if anything could have prepared me for the events of the following weeks, because I never imagined things could get any worse than they already were...