When we reached school, Mrs. Dawes let us out by the front walk. She watched Nancy and me until we were safely inside the building.
Guess what Nancy and I saw when we entered Ms. Colman’s room. We saw Bobby and Ricky playing lip tag.
It was a new game.
Ricky had invented it.
Lip tag is a kind of Kleenex tag. You have to tag the person on the lips with a piece of Kleenex. At least, that was what Hannie thought. Hannie had gotten to school early. She had been watching Ricky and Bobby.
Nancy and I watched them, too. The three of us stood in a back corner of our classroom. While we watched, Bobby ran away from Ricky and the Kleenex. He ran by someone’s desk and tripped over a pair of boots. When he landed on the floor, Ricky tackled him.
“Gotcha!” he cried. He fluttered the Kleenex over Bobby’s lips.
I looked at Hannie and Nancy. “Boys … are … dumb,” I announced. I told them what had happened at the big house on Saturday.
Just as I was finishing my story, something sailed across the room. It hit Hannie on the head.
“Ow!” she exclaimed.
She had been hit by a paper airplane. Bobby and Ricky were finished playing lip tag. Now they were folding paper airplanes. Somebody’s aim was not too good.
“Sorry!” yelled Ricky.
“That’s okay,” replied Hannie. But she did not look like she meant it. The next thing she said was, “Do you know what Linny did yesterday?” (Linny is Hannie’s older brother.) “He went through my best Bobbsey Twins book. He drew glasses on all the girls, and mustaches on all the boys. He used ink. He thought he was being so cool and funny.”
“You know what?” I said suddenly.
“What?” asked Hannie and Nancy.
“We should start a boy-hating club. We could call it the We Hate Boys Club.”
“Yeah!” exclaimed Hannie.
“Okay,” said Nancy. “No boy has done anything mean to me. But if you guys are going to start a club, I want to be in it.”
“Good,” I replied.
I had been speaking loudly.
Pamela and Jannie and Leslie were standing nearby. I knew they had heard what I said. And I did not care.
“What will the We Hate Boys Club do?” Nancy wondered.
“We will not talk to any boys,” I replied at once. “Not even to our fathers or boy pets. I am already not talking to boys. That is because Ricky and my brothers are awful, crazy dumbbells with barf-breath.”
“But I’m not mad at my daddy,” said Hannie. “Or at Noodle the Poodle.”
“I’m not mad at my daddy, either,” said Nancy.
“Okay. We will change the rules,” I said. “How about if we don’t talk to any boys in school, but outside of school you can do whatever you want?”
“Great,” replied Hannie.
“Fine,” said Nancy. “I just hope we don’t get sent to the principal’s office. The principal is a boy. How could we not talk to him?”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Hannie. She crumpled up the paper airplane and threw it at Bobby.
The We ♥ Boys Club
Once, Linny Papadakis told Hannie that a long time ago, American Indians lived where Stoneybrook is now. Ever since, Hannie and Nancy and I have spent about one recess period each week looking for arrowheads. We dig around in the dirt. We have not found any arrowheads. But we will not give up.
We had been searching for arrowheads for about ten minutes on the day we formed the We Hate Boys Club, when suddenly I stood up.
“Yuck! Gross!” I exclaimed. “Look at my hands. It’s too muddy to dig for arrowheads today. I’m going to the girls’ room to wash up.”
“I think I’ll stay here,” said Nancy. “I feel lucky today.”
“Me, too,” said Hannie.
So I went to the girls’ room by myself. There are only two stalls in the bathroom. Both of the doors were shut. That was okay. I just had to wash my hands. All I needed was the sink, some towels, and a lot of soap.
I turned on the water. I was rubbing soap onto my hands when I heard a voice behind me say, “Leslie?” It was Pamela! Leslie and Pamela were in the stalls. And they didn’t know I was in the bathroom. I decided to eavesdrop until the toilets flushed.
“Yeah?” Leslie replied.
“Did you hear about the We Hate Boys Club?”
“That thing Karen Brewer was talking about this morning?” said Leslie. “Yeah. I did. It is so lame.”
“Plus, Karen has a big mouth. She wouldn’t be able to stop talking to anyone. Not even boys.”
“Besides, the boys are just going to get more mad at the stupid Three Musketeers,” said Leslie in a singsong voice. “The We Hate Boys Club isn’t going to help at all.”
“Well, I have an idea,” said Pamela.
“Oh, goody!” (Leslie likes all of Pamela’s ideas.)
“We should start,” Pamela said, “the We Love Boys Club. Only we’ll draw a heart instead of writing the word love. And then we’ll call our club the We Heart Boys Club. That sounds good. It’s sort of like ‘we hate boys,’ only it is much, much nicer.”
“Cool!” exclaimed Leslie. “I’m sure Jannie will want to join. What will our club do?”
“First we’ll just watch Karen and Nancy and Hannie. We’ll see what they do. Then we’ll try to make the boys feel better. When the other girls won’t talk to them, we will. And when — ” Pamela suddenly stopped speaking. “Ooh, I just thought of something!” she cried. “If Karen and Ricky aren’t speaking to each other, and Ricky and I are, then maybe Ricky will divorce Karen — ”
“And marry me!” squealed Leslie.
“No, me,” said Pamela.
“Oh. Okay.”
I could not believe it. Had Pamela just said that she wanted Ricky to marry her? Had she really said that? What a gigundo stupid-head!
I dried my hands quickly. Then I left the girls’ room. At Stoneybrook Academy, you are not supposed to run in the halls. But I did anyway. I ran all the way outside. I ran to Hannie and Nancy. (They had not found any arrowheads.)
“You guys!” I cried. “Guess what.”
“What?” said Hannie.
“What’s wrong?” asked Nancy. She looked worried.
“Pamela and Jannie and Leslie are going to start a club against ours! They are going to call it the We Heart Boys Club. And Pamela is going to try to steal Ricky from me.” I told my friends everything I had overheard.
We were so mad that we were madder than gigundo mad.
Buttons and Banners
The We ♥ Boys Club was pretty bad. In fact, it was so bad that the members of the We Hate Boys Club could not think of anything worse. But when Hannie and Nancy and I got to school the next day — guess what. We found something that really was worse.
Pamela and Leslie and Jannie were already in our classroom. They were dressed alike. And they were wearing buttons that looked like this:
“Oooh,” said Nancy softly.
My friends and I glanced at each other.
“They actually formed a club,” said Hannie.
“And they look like it,” added Nancy. “Anybody could tell they are in a very special club. They look like they belong together. But nobody would know that we belong together, too.”
I looked at our clothes. Nancy was wearing a blue plaid dress. (It was new.) Hannie was wearing a yellow sweater and a yellow-and-red skirt. I was wearing my unicorn sweat shirt and blue jeans.
I narrowed my eyes at Pamela. (She did not see me.) How dare Pamela make her club better than ours? The We Hate Boys Club did not seem like a club at all. Boo.
But did I say that to Hannie and Nancy? No. I did not want them to know what I was thinking. Instead I said, “You know, everyone is going to make fun of the We Heart Boys Club. Everyone will laugh at Leslie and Jannie and Pamela. You’ll see.” I stared at our enemies.
“Why will everyone laugh at them?” Hannie wanted to know.
“Because they are
saying they love boys. Dumb old boys.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Hannie.
“We might as well pick a fight,” I went on. “You guys do what I do.”
I stepped closer to the We ♥ Boys Club. I began to sing, “Pamela li-ikes boys! Pamela li-ikes boys!”
Hannie and Nancy joined right in. So did Natalie and the twins.
But Pamela and her friends did not seem upset.
Neither did Ricky. In fact, he looked pleased. And he certainly did not make fun of Pamela.
When Nancy, Hannie, Natalie, and the twins and I stopped singing, Ricky said, “I’m glad somebody likes us.” Then he gave me a Look.
Uh-oh. I guessed that Look was because I was not speaking to him.
“Okay. So not everyone hates boys,” I said to Nancy and Hannie. “But we do. And we have good reasons.”
“Yeah,” said Hannie and Nancy.
“But you know what?” I went on. “I think we have some work to do. We should seem more like a club.”
“How about making buttons of our own?” suggested Nancy.
“That would just be copying,” replied Hannie.
“Posters? Banners?” I said.
“Nah. The boys would rip them down,” Nancy pointed out.
“Oh, brother. We have to do something,” I said. “Let’s work on this at recess. Okay, you guys?”
“Okay,” replied Nancy and Hannie as Ms. Colman came into the room.
“We Hate You Boys and Always Will”
At recess on Tuesday, Hannie and Nancy and I did not jump rope. We did not play hopscotch. We did not look for arrowheads.
What did we do? We held a club meeting. We stood in a corner of the playground as far away from everybody as we could get.
“I had an idea this morning,” I announced.
“Goody. I was hoping you would,” said Hannie. “You always get such good ideas. What did you think of?”
“A club song,” I answered.
“Great! How does it go?”
“Well, I didn’t write it yet. I was hoping that you and Nancy could help me. It would be fun to write a song together.”
“A club song,” repeated Nancy thoughtfully. Nancy just loves to sing and dance. She wants to be an actress one day. (I would not mind being an actress myself.) “Let’s see,” Nancy went on. “I think the song should start out with something about hating boys.”
“We hate you boys!” cried Hannie.
“And always will,” I added.
“We hate you boys, you’re such big pills!” sang Nancy.
“That is a very good beginning,” I said proudly.
When we finished our song, this is how it went:
We hate you boys, and always will.
We hate you boys. You’re such big pills.
It doesn’t matter if you’re Ricky or Bill.
We hate you boys, and always will!
“Next,” I said, “we need a secret boy-hating sign. It will be our club symbol.” I knelt on the ground. I found a stick. Then I stopped. I frowned.
“Draw a circle,” Nancy suggested.
So I did. That gave me a great idea. This would be our sign:
“One last thing,” I said. “How about a hand signal?”
“I know one!” Hannie exclaimed. “Watch.” She held her index fingers in front of her and crossed them. They made an X.
“Perfect!” I cried. “Okay, let’s sing our song.”
Nancy and Hannie and I sang “We Hate You Boys” at the tops of our lungs. But no one heard us. That was because everyone in the second grade was watching the boys play football. My friends and I ran over to our classmates. We sang our song again.
But guess what? Pamela and Leslie and Jannie began screaming at the tops of their lungs. They cheered, “Two, four, six, eight. Who do we appreciate? Boys, boys, YEA!” Then they smirked at Hannie and Nancy and me.
My friends and I sang our song again. Even more loudly.
The members of the We ♥ Boys Club cheered their cheer again.
So I shouted, “Woo-woo! You love boys!”
And Pamela shouted, “Stupid-head, dumbbell, you hate your own husband!”
And Nancy shouted, “You guys think you are so cool!”
And Pamela shouted, “In case you haven’t noticed, we are not guys.”
And Ricky shouted, “Would you girls shut up? I can’t concentrate.”
But the bell rang then. Recess was over. Ricky would not need to concentrate on his football game after all.
Pamela’s Note
Maybe Ricky was mad at Pamela during the football game. But he was not mad at her after the game. I know because I heard Pamela say to him later, “Ricky, please don’t be mad at Leslie and Jannie and me. We didn’t mean to bother your game.”
And Ricky answered, “That’s okay, Pamela.” He smiled at her. She smiled back.
“Gross,” I said to Nancy and Hannie.
* * *
The next day, my friends and I got to our classroom early. In huge letters, we wrote on the chalkboard: BOYS ARE STUPID.
Ricky saw the message as soon as he got to our room. He picked up an eraser. He wiped away BOYS. In its place he wrote: GIRLS. Now the message read: GIRLS ARE STUPID.
I frowned. Hmm …
Just then Pamela came into the room. She saw the message. She saw Ricky holding a piece of chalk. She said, “Ricky, you don’t really think all girls are stupid, do you?”
Ricky looked worried. “No,” he said. So he wrote MOST in front of GIRLS. The new message read: MOST GIRLS ARE STUPID.
Under that Pamela wrote: ESPESHIALLY KAREN, HANNIE, NANCY.
“You can’t even spell!” I cried. I erased KAREN, HANNIE, NANCY, and wrote: PAMELA, THE STUPIDEST OF ALL.
While we were busy at the board, Natalie Springer had been hanging around the door to our room. Suddenly she whispered loudly, “Here comes Ms. Colman!”
By the time Ms. Colman reached our room, the board was clean. And we were sitting quietly at our desks.
* * *
On Thursday I left a package in Ricky’s desk. It was small and wrapped in tin foil. I put a note on top. The note said: From the We ♥ Boys Club.
When Ricky opened the package, he found a hunk of mud inside.
To prove that she had not made the mud brownie, Pamela brought Ricky a whole boxful of real, chocolate brownies the next day.
“Gee, thanks!” exclaimed Ricky.
“Oh, gross,” I muttered.
* * *
At the little house, Seth and Andrew tried to trick me into talking to them. Once, we were watching TV after dinner. Andrew pointed to the wall over my head. His eyes grew very round. “Uh-oh,” he said.
And Seth added, “Karen, watch out! There’s a big spider!”
They knew that I knew they were tricking me. They expected me to say crossly, “There is not any old spider!” But I kept my mouth shut. I just stared at the TV.
Seth and Andrew shrugged at each other.
* * *
On Friday, another bad thing happened.
We were writing in our math workbooks. Ms. Colman was busy in the back of the room. I heard someone whisper, “Pssst! Ricky!”
Ricky turned around in his seat. “What?” he whispered. He sounded annoyed.
I looked over my shoulder. I looked just in time to see Pamela pass a note to Ricky. Ricky unfolded it quietly. While he read it, I remembered something. I remembered Pamela talking to Leslie in the bathroom. She had said that maybe Ricky would marry her.
Oh, boy. Did this note mean that Pamela and Ricky liked each other? Would Pamela marry Ricky now?
My stomach began to feel funny. Maybe the We Hate Boys Club had not been such a good idea. What had I done?
Ricky finished reading the note. He turned around again. He and Pamela grinned at each other.
Oh, no. Oh, no-o-o-o-o.
Football
I was back at the big house. Two weeks had gone by since Charlie and Sam had said
I could not go to the movies with them. So I had not spoken to my brothers or my daddies (or Midgie or Boo-Boo or Goldfishie) for two weeks.
The night before, when Andrew and I had arrived at the big house, everyone was there to greet us.
“Hi, Kristy! Hi, Emily! Hi, Elizabeth! Hi, Nannie! Hi, Shannon!” I cried. I kissed them.
“What about us guys?” asked Charlie.
I turned to Kristy. “Tell him,” I said, “that I am a member of the We Hate Boys Club. I do not talk to boys.”
“I’m not deaf,” Charlie said to Kristy. “I heard that.”
“Good,” replied Kristy. “Because I’m getting tired of talking for Karen.”
“Yeah, you’re just being silly, Karen,” added David Michael.
“How long are you going to keep this up?” Elizabeth asked me.
“As long as I have to,” I answered.
“Well, I hope you don’t need anything from your father or from one of your brothers,” said Kristy.
“What if I do? I’ll just ask you to ask for it.”
“Maybe I won’t do that,” replied Kristy. “And maybe my mom won’t do it, either. And maybe neither will Nannie.”
“I’ll ask Emily Michelle then,” I said.
“Try asking her to say something right now.” Kristy was challenging me.
“Okay. Emily?” I said. Emily looked up at me. “Tell Daddy I want my allowance.”
“No,” said Emily.
“Say, ‘Daddy, Karen wants her allowance.’ ”
“No,” said Emily again.
“See? It’s the Terrible Twos,” Kristy told me wisely. “Emily says no to practically everything these days. Your only hope is to teach Shannon to talk.”
I scowled. “Hmphh,” I said.
* * *
On Saturday, the big kids came over again. Three friends of Charlie and Sam. This time the boys did not hang around trying to decide what to do. They already knew what they wanted to do.
“Play football,” said Sam.
I was spying on the boys from the front hallway. I groaned. Football again.
The next thing I knew, the boys were putting on their coats. Sam left to find the football. I sat on the bottom of the stairs and watched the big kids. David Michael sat down next to me and watched them, too. (I moved as far away from David Michael as I could get. I did not even look at him.)