My parents insisted on a preview of the show, which we gave them. They thought it was great.
I hoped the Dollies agreed.
A big embellishment. But I had to do it. Kristy makes us write in that BSC notebook. I couldn’t just tell the truth about our job. No one would believe it.
Let me start from the beginning.
You know how it is to sit for siblings. No matter how wonderful they are, they always manage to fight about something. Food, toys, tapes, TV shows, whatever. With three siblings, it’s even worse. Four? Forget it.
Now try to imagine seven.
That’s what it’s like in the Pike house, twenty-four hours a day. You’ve heard of the Seven Dwarfs? Well, Mal’s brothers and sisters are the Seven Terrors: Chaos, Disaster, Ruckus, Racket, Pandemonium, Turmoil, and Noise.
I usually take a bullhorn and a shield when I sit for them.
Okay, I’m exaggerating (a little). They’re actually great kids. Besides, Mr. and Mrs. Pike always make sure to have two sitters. And Mal is usually one of them.
I was getting ready to go over there the day after the Follies committee meeting at my house. I was in a fabulous mood.
It’s a good thing I was. Otherwise my sister would have driven me crazy — even before I went to the Pikes’.
I was still in my pj’s when she ran into the kitchen. “Are you leaving yet?”
“No, silly,” I said with a laugh. “Not dressed like this.”
“Oh. Oops. Can I go with you?”
I took a box of cereal from the cabinet. “Well, I don’t know if Mr. and Mrs. Pike would want that —”
“They would! They like me.”
“I know they do, Becca. But when they’re away from home —”
“Can’t you call them? I’ll call them! Come on, Jessi. I need someone to play with today!”
I let out a sigh. “What about going over to Charlotte’s house?” (Charlotte Johanssen is Becca’s best friend.)
“She’s going to her grandparents’.”
“All right,” I said. “I’ll call the Pikes as soon as I finish.”
Becca’s face lit up. “All riiiight!”
Now, only Nicky Pike is Becca’s age, and he hates girls. Becca is friendly with a couple of his sisters, but not exactly best buddies.
So why was she so excited? I didn’t know. But Becca was excited about a lot of things these days. Maybe she was going through a stage. And I guess the idea of a weekend afternoon without a playmate must have seemed pretty awful.
I did call Mr. and Mrs. Pike. They said they were happy to have her over. And my parents agreed, too.
That was how I ended up walking to Mal’s house with Becca the Jumping Bean.
She did not stop asking questions.
“When are your auditions for the Follies?”
“Monday, after school,” I replied.
“After school? Can I watch?”
“Sorry, Becca. It’s for sixth-graders only.”
“Can you do that singer’s voice again?”
“You mean Dolly Parton?”
“Yeah.”
“Not in the street!”
“Please?”
By the time we got to the Pikes’, I was singing “Nine to Five” in my best Dolly Parton voice.
Becca was cracking up. Neither of us noticed Nicky and Claire Pike at the side of the house.
But they noticed me.
“You stink,” was Nicky’s greeting to me.
I immediately stopped singing. “A-hem. Thank you.”
Nicky is eight. He thinks everything stinks, except karate and whatever else boys at that age like.
Claire, on the other hand, is five. She thought I was great. “More! More!” she insisted.
Mr. Pike poked his head out the front door. “Hello, girls!”
“Hi!” Becca and I called out.
Crassshhh!
“Uh, excuse me.” Mr. Pike ducked back into the house. A moment later I heard him yell, “Adam Pike! How many times have I told you not to climb on the kitchen counter?”
Thump - thump - thump - thump - thump! “What happened?”
That was Mrs. Pike, charging downstairs.
“I guess I’d better go in,” I said to Becca.
I ran inside. Mr. Pike was picking up broken pieces of a bowl off the floor while Adam followed behind him with a Dust Buster and a sponge. A pool of milk was spreading, where a carton had fallen.
At the table, Jordan and Byron Pike were snickering at their brother. (Adam, Jordan, and Byron are ten-year-old triplets.)
Just beyond the kitchen, the back door swung open. Mallory flew inside, followed by two of her sisters, Vanessa (who’s nine) and Margo (seven).
The three of them spoke at once:
“Hi, Jessi!” said Mal.
“Becca!” cried Vanessa.
“Adam, you are such a klutz!” exclaimed Margo.
Adam lunged at Margo with the Dust Buster. “Rrrraagghhh!”
“Stop!” Margo shouted. She stepped in the milk puddle and fell.
Jordan howled. “Who’s the klutz?”
Mrs. Pike was leaning against the kitchen wall, shaking her head. “Welcome to the mad-house, Jessi,” she said.
Needless to say, the Pike parents were gone within minutes (with relieved smiles on their faces). Mal and I prepared for the worst.
But the strangest thing happened. Becca took over. Yes, Becca, my little nuisance sister.
“Let’s go outside,” she suggested.
“Nahhh,” Byron said. “I want to work on my model.”
“Okay.” Becca sighed. “Too bad you’ll miss out on all the fun.”
“What fun?” Byron looked skeptical.
“You won’t know unless you come with us,” Becca replied.
Mal and I followed them out. We took a couple of lounge chairs and put them in the sun. It was one of those perfect, cool days when the sun feels just right.
“Jessi,” Mal said, “you have to read this new book. It is so cool …”
We gabbed and chatted, chatted and gabbed. I don’t know how long it was before the revelation hit us.
We had actually had an entire conversation without one interruption.
Not one complaint. Not one injury. Nothing.
We looked over toward the garage. Becca and the Pikes were huddled in a rough circle, talking. Margo was laughing hysterically about something. Adam had that boy look — you know, that sneer that says, “I’m not interested at all. Tell me more!”
“What are they doing?” Mal asked.
“Let’s move closer,” I suggested.
We nonchalantly picked up our chairs and put them back down within earshot of the group.
Becca whispered something. All of them moved to the farthest corner of the yard.
Before long, Carolyn and Marilyn Arnold wandered by. (They’re twins who live in the neighborhood.) “Hi!” Marilyn called out. “What’re you doing?”
Becca waved them over. “Come on!”
Mal and I talked some more. When the kids all darted into the front yard, we shrugged and followed them.
We saw the triplets racing off down the street.
“Hey!” Mal called out. “Where are you going?”
“To the Barretts’!” Adam replied.
“Matt and Haley’s!” Jordan and Byron called out. “To invite them over!”
Now, the triplets are ten, and those families are all in the neighborhood — but this was too sneaky for comfort.
“Thanks for asking,” Mal snapped.
“Sorry,” Adam shouted. “We’ll be right back.”
A few minutes later, the triplets returned, along with Buddy and Suzi Barrett, and Matt and Haley Braddock. Twelve kids altogether — ay-yi-yi!
But you know what? Becca had them enthralled. Mal and I had no idea what she was doing. When we were inside, they went out. When we were out, they went in.
We kept hearing giggles and laughs, though. And we didn
’t have to do a thing besides pour an occasional glass of apple juice.
It was the easiest sitting job I’d had in a long time. And I began wondering if the BSC would accept Becca as a junior-junior member.
A sitter-in-training, maybe? She could accompany me on all my jobs.
Mal laughed at the idea. She said the day was a total fluke. Next time they’d be at each other’s throats.
Oh, well, it was worth a thought, wasn’t it?
When I walked to school Monday, there was a tennis ball in my throat.
Well, that was what it felt like. Big and scratchy and stuck.
“Hrrrr … hrrrr,” I grunted.
“Jessi, we are approaching school,” Claudia said. “Please behave yourself. If you toss a clam on the sidewalk while everyone’s watching us, I swear I’ll never speak to you again.”
Mallory burst into giggles.
“A clam?” Stacey said with a grimace.
“Yes,” Claudia replied. “She sounds like she’s about to spit her guts out.”
Thanks goodness Mary Anne the Kind and Generous was with us. She said in a concerned voice, “Are you feeling all right, Jessi?”
“Fine,” I said. “Just a little sore throat.”
Strep. Mumps. Pneumonia. Those were the words that flew through my brain.
But I tried to block them out. Today was a big day. First of all, I was going to help run auditions for the Follies.
Second of all, I was going to audition, myself.
I wished the two Dollies hadn’t asked us committee members to try out for parts. I mean, they said it was just a formality — but please. What if I really blew it?
I knew I’d do well in the dancing department. But we each had to recite something from memory, like a poem or speech. And, worst of all, we had to sing.
Do you know what my singing voice sounds like? It peels wallpaper. It make dogs howl. It makes Jerry Lewis sound beautiful.
Okay, I’m going overboard. Once upon a time I thought I was a pretty good singer. But I’d learned the truth about my voice the hard way. Remember I told you about my triumph as the crocodile and the dog in Peter Pan? Well, I hadn’t auditioned for those parts. I had tried out for the role of Peter. I was so sure I’d get it. Sigh.
Ever since then, I’ve been insecure about my singing. (I still think I might have gotten the part if only I could carry a tune better.)
And now it didn’t help that on my big audition day a family of glop had decided to rent space in my throat.
“Hrrrrr … hrrrr. …”
We were entering the school now. Claudia rummaged in her purse and pulled out a paper packet. “Here, take one of these.”
“What are they?”
“Special candy, guaranteed to clear your throat.”
I ripped open the packet. It was filled with teeny black pellets. “How do they taste?” I dumped a few in my hand and popped them in my mouth.
Claudia’s eyes grew about three sizes. “No! I said one!”
Too late. The troops had landed. I felt as if a small army with licorice-tipped sabers had invaded my mouth. My sinuses blew open. My eyes swelled with tears.
Mary Anne thrust a couple of tissues in front of me. I put them to my mouth and spat. “Augghhhh!”
“Are you okay?” Mallory asked.
“Yuck!” I gasped. “These are horrible!”
Claudia let out a low whistle of awe. “You won’t have another sore throat until you’re twenty-seven.”
I ran to the nearest water fountain. It didn’t help much. The cold water just irritated my throat. I didn’t know if I’d ever talk again.
But at least the tennis ball was gone.
“I’m — I’m all right,” I lied as I stood up from the fountain.
“Will you be able to sing for your audition?” Stacey asked.
“When I open my mouth I’ll knock them out with the licorice smell,” I replied. “They won’t be able to hear a thing.”
They laughed. We said our good-byes and headed for our lockers.
Sanjita was at hers, just closing up.
“Hi,” I said. (Ooh, those H words tickled.)
She gave me a huge smile. “It’s all set.”
“What is?” I asked.
“You know. The toupee thing.”
Duh, said my face.
Sanji sighed with exasperation. “Today’s the day we’re going to find out if Trout-Man is wearing a rug. Weren’t you there when we planned it?”
I remembered that Sanji and a few other kids had been gossiping after class last Monday, but I hadn’t joined them.
“I guess not,” I said.
Sanji giggled. “It’s perfect. We’re going to expose him in the middle of class.”
“No! You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, come on, admit it, Jessi. You’re dying to know about his hair.”
“Well, yeah, but isn’t this a little … mean?”
Sanji’s smile disappeared. “Don’t do anything to spoil this.”
“But Sanji, how could they do something like that?”
“I’m not kidding.”
I’d never seen Sanjita so serious. She was glaring at me.
“You know, I didn’t have to tell you, Jessi. I trusted you.”
What was the use? Class had already gotten so out of hand. If they didn’t do this to Mr. Trout now, they’d just try it again some other time.
“Okay, okay,” I said with a sigh.
* * *
I worried through homeroom. I worried through first and second period. I barely noticed the “good luck” note Mal passed me in class. If I wasn’t thinking about the audition, I was thinking about the plot to dehair Mr. Trout.
By Short Takes I was numb. It didn’t help that every single person in class was on his or her best behavior.
Somehow, that was the creepiest thing of all.
People took notes and listened. Everyone was smiling. Mr. Trout must have thought he’d discovered the secret to Discipline by Doing Nothing. He actually tried to crack a joke or two, I think. (I don’t know for sure. With him, it was a little hard to tell.)
I had no idea what this plan was. Sanjita hadn’t told me. I just sat, expecting the worst.
About halfway through the class, Mr. Trout began erasing the blackboard. “All right, I need a few volunteers to write a simpler version of the program we just did.” He gestured toward the blackboard. “I’ll add two points to your grade-point average if your program has the fewest steps.”
Six kids jumped up from their desks. Mr. Trout’s eyes practically popped out. Suddenly he looked completely different. I realized it was because I was seeing him smile for the first time.
“Uh, three at a time, please,” he said.
Jimmy, Sandra, and John grumbled as they sat down. But they all had these sly little smiles I didn’t trust.
Craig began writing on the left side of the board, Renee in the middle, and George on the right. Mr. Trout watched over their shoulders carefully.
His back, of course, was to the classroom.
After a couple of minutes, Mr. Trout stepped forward, to explain something to Renee. I noticed that Craig and George immediately stopped writing. Both were stepping back from the board, hands on chins, as if they were viewing their own work.
Craig stepped toward the corner, where a long, hooked wooden pole lay against the wall. He took the pole and tiptoed back.
I held my breath. Craig wouldn’t do something really stupid, like hit Mr. Trout. Would he?
He raised the pole high and slipped the hooked end into the handle of a rolled-up world map directly above Mr. Trout. As Craig slowly pulled, the map rolled downward.
George was pulling something from his pocket that looked like a fish hook. When the map was in reach, he grabbed its handle and clipped the fish hook onto it.
Craig gently set down the pole, as George guided the other end of the fish hook into Mr. Trout’s hair.
“So you see,” Mr. Trout
said to Renee, “those two steps may be combined —”
My heart stopped. He wasn’t noticing a thing.
With a sharp flick of the wrist, George released the map. It slid upward into its metal tube with a smack.
Dangling from the hook was a limp patch of stiff, black fur.
The room fell silent. I caught a glimpse of shock on Craig’s face. I closed my eyes. I couldn’t bear to look at Mr. Trout.
Then the giggling started. It began with Maria and caught on.
When I opened my eyes, I saw the real Mr. Trout.
Wow, did he look different.
He had a ring of grayish-black hair that went up to the level of his ears. Above that, his scalp was as shiny as a pink mirror.
“Well.” Mr. Trout was blushing. Above him, the toupee was bobbing around like a little lost animal. Craig, George, and Renee were gaping at it.
It was horrible. It was cruel. It was the worst prank I could possibly imagine.
But it was hilarious.
Maria was guffawing now. All around me, my classmates were red-faced with laughter. Someone called out “Conehead.”
A laugh started out in my stomach, like a tickle. Then it began to spread through my body. I tried to keep it in, but I couldn’t. It exploded out of me like a bomb. I was rocking in my seat, sick with laughter.
And then, just when I though I was getting it under control, Mr. Trout began jumping up to try to grab his toupee. It seemed to be avoiding him, squirming out of the way. That just made everybody worse.
Finally he managed to grab it. “Well,” he repeated, placing it back on his head. “Quite a humorous … interlude. You three may sit down.”
As Craig, Renee, and George went back to their seats, Mr. Trout took an eraser and turned to the blackboard.
I collected myself. I reminded myself what a serious situation this was. I tried to think of it from Mr. Trout’s point of view.
And then I caught a glimpse of something shiny on the back of the toupee.
It was the fish hook, swinging back and forth.
Forget it. The whole class was going, going, gone.
* * *
Well, news of the Balding of Mr. Trout spread the school like wildfire. By the end of the day, everybody was talking about it.
My BSC friends wanted to hear every detail. They laughed at my description but agreed the trick was mean. Mary Anne was especially horrified. Kristy insisted that Mr. Trout “brought it on himself,” and Stacey couldn’t believe he didn’t discipline anyone.