Jessi and I looked at each other and blurted out at the same time, “Casa Grande!”
We love Mexican food, particularly when it’s covered with sour cream and guacamole. Like the Super Burrito at Casa Grande.
“Casa Grande it is,” my dad said. “See you in two hours.”
The mall was crowded with kids. I grabbed Jessi’s hand and made a beeline for Stuff ’n’ Nonsense, one of my favorite shops. On the way, we passed the ear-piercing boutique (where Jessi and I had finally got ours pierced), and I started giggling.
“What’s so funny?” Jessi asked.
“I was just thinking about the time I took Margo and Claire to watch a girl getting her ears pierced. When the woman squeezed the trigger on the ear-piercing gun, Claire screamed as though she’d been shot. Then Margo announced to everyone within a hundred-mile radius that she was going to barf!”
Jessi laughed, too. “I wonder if those two will ever get their ears pierced?”
“Margo might. She likes putting on makeup and playing dress up. But Claire thinks it’s too painful-looking.” A pair of tiny pink bow earrings in a shop’s display window caught my eye, and I added, “Although I bet she’d think those were really cute.”
Just thinking about my sisters at home made me feel a little funny inside. Almost sad. I know they would have loved a trip to the mall.
As Jessi and I walked through the main concourse, we could hear music pounding from one of the center hubs. A small crowd was gathered around a stage where a pudgy boy was playing an electronic keyboard. A tall guy stood nearby at a microphone. In front of them was a cute blond boy demonstrating what looked like a board balanced on a ball.
“Look, Jessi.” I pulled her to the front of the crowd. “It’s like a skateboard. Boy, Nicky would practically pass out if he saw this.”
Jessi nudged me with her elbow. “Listen, they’re going to sing.”
The tall guy took the microphone off its stand and dropped dramatically to one knee, as if he were going to sing something really great. Instead, this is what came out: “The Teeter Streeter is really cool; you can play with it at home, or take it to school.”
“Teeter Streeter?” Jessi and I repeated, then burst out laughing. The singer heard us and gave us a dirty look, which made Jessi laugh even harder.
“Cut it out,” I said, poking her in the ribs. “He’s staring at us.”
“I can’t help it,” she gasped. “Teeter Streeter is such a dorky name.”
As the singer shouted, “You can hop, you can bop on the Teeter Streeter,” the boy demonstrating the toy performed a few dance moves in response to the lyrics. Then he fell to his knees as the singer crooned, “Do the flop and drop, no, it couldn’t be sweeter.”
Jessi was laughing so hard, she gave herself the hiccups. I hustled her along the concourse away from the stage. She stopped hiccupping as soon as we were out of sight of the band. But from then on, every few minutes one of us would sing, “The Teeter Streeter is really cool,” and then the other would make up a silly rhyme, like, “You’ll look like a geek and act like a fool.” Then we would start giggling all over again.
We finally reached Stuff ‘n’ Nonsense and headed straight for the earrings. “I’ve always wanted little pearl studs,” I said, twirling the rack.
“Giraffes and elephants,” Jessi cried in delight. She held up tiny carved animals that dangled on a gold hoop. “These are too cute.”
I hurried to her side and found a pair of pink flamingos that I thought were adorable. “Should we both get animal earrings?” I asked, holding them up to my ear and studying my reflection in the mirror.
“Yes!” Jessi cried.
We asked the saleswoman to ring up our purchases before we could change our minds. She handed us each a bright pink bag, and we moved on to the next store, which was called Eastern Standard. An hour flew by as we tried on sweaters and jeans and skirts. Jessi finally settled on a sweater, and I found a checked vest I liked. I have to admit, splurging on myself was fun. But it was time to put a stop to it. I was quickly running out of my hard-earned baby-sitting money.
“Where should we go next?” Jessi asked as we left the store.
I looked up and down the concourse. It almost made me dizzy. Music stores, restaurants, shoe stores, candy stores, card shops — you name it, Washington Mall has it. A shop caught my eye on the next level.
“Let’s check out Zingy’s,” I said.
Zingy’s is this really cool place that sells punk clothing. Not only are the clothes outrageous but the salespeople are bizarre. The guy who greeted us at the door was no exception. His black hair was dyed bright red on top, and a peace symbol had been shaved into the side of his head.
“Anything I can help you with?” he asked, resting a foot on the fender of a bright red convertible that sat in the center of the store. (It wasn’t a whole car, just the front of one.)
I was feeling pretty goofy, so I said, “My friend is looking for some leather boots. The really clunky kind.”
“No problem.” He motioned for us to follow him toward the back of the shop.
“What?” Jessi exclaimed.
I put my finger to my lips and shushed her.
“Look at those!” I pointed to a pair of heavy black leather work boots with metal-tipped toes. “They must weigh a ton.”
“Nah, they just look that way,” the fellow answered.
“My friend would like to try on a pair,” I said with a straight face. “Size six.”
The salesman disappeared behind a fake brick wall, and Jessi turned to me and hissed, “Mal, what are you doing? I don’t want any boots.”
“I know you don’t,” I said. “But I’ve always wondered what those shoes feel like.”
“Then why don’t you try them on?”
I was about to answer when my eye caught sight of the giant alarm clock hanging over the cash register. It said five minutes to twelve.
“Oh, no!” I shouted. “We’ve only got five minutes to get to Casa Grande and it’s way up on the fifth level.”
“What about the shoes?” Jessi asked, as I pulled her by the arm toward the front of the store.
“We’ll come back another time,” I replied. “Maybe …”
We raced for the escalators and rode up to the fifth floor, the food circus, which was brightly decorated with mirrors and neon lights. My parents were waiting patiently by the Mexican food restaurant.
“It looks like you bought out the mall,” my father remarked, smiling at the shopping bags we were hauling along.
“Yeah, it’s a good thing it’s lunchtime,” Jessi said, “or we’d be broke.”
While we ate our burritos, I told my parents all about our adventure at Zingy’s and the Teeter Streeter demonstration, which gave Jessi and me the giggles all over again. I was sipping my Coke when I started laughing and the soda fizzed up my nose and everybody laughed.
“That’s something Jordan would do,” my mother said as she handed me a paper napkin.
“You know, I feel really strange being here without everyone else,” I said as I dabbed at my chin. “First, I found these cute earrings that I know Margo would just love. And then when we walked by the bookstore window, I saw this display of Emily Dickinson’s poems and I thought about Vanessa. Do you think she’d like a copy of an Emily Dickinson book?”
My mother smiled, “I’m sure she would.”
I took the final bite of my burrito and a (careful) sip of my Coke. “I’ve got a little money left. Maybe I’ll get it for her. As a gift for surviving my grumpiness.”
I saw the look on Jessi’s face and added, “I know, I know. I should probably give everyone a present since I’ve been such a grouch lately.” Then a light went on in my head. “Hey, that gives me an idea!”
“What?” Jessi asked as we followed my parents out of Casa Grande and toward the escalators.
“I need to think about it a little more,” I replied. “I’ll tell you tonight.”
I did think about it, all the way back to Stoneybrook. And all the way through the movie we went to, and even while we were eating triple-decker sundaes at the ice cream parlor afterward. I realized that having my own special day was truly wonderful, but something important was missing. The rest of my family.
I know Margo and Claire would have liked to look at Zoo Animals, the toy store, and Nicky would have loved watching the Teeter Streeter demonstration, and the triplets would have had a blast at the video arcade. I realized that life may get pretty crazy doing things with ten people, but it’s always different and fun.
My parents dropped off Jessi at her house. When we got home, Mary Anne (who looked a little frazzled) met us at the door. She was surrounded by my brothers and sisters.
“How was your day?” I asked.
“Interesting,” was all she said.
Dawn, looking a little glassy-eyed, added, “And loud.”
I giggled. After Dawn and Mary Anne left, I gathered my brothers and sisters in the living room and told them I wanted to make an announcement. Claire crawled onto my lap. Nicky stood behind me on the couch, resting his elbows on my shoulders. The triplets sat cross-legged in front of me, and Vanessa and Margo knelt beside the boys.
“I had a great time today,” I began. “But something was missing.”
“Your mittens?” Claire suggested helpfully. She is always losing hers.
“No.” I gave her a squeeze. “What I missed was all of you.”
A funny look crossed Jordan’s face. “Us?”
“Really?” Byron asked.
“Yup.”
“We missed you, too!” Nicky said, resting his chin on top of my head.
I took a deep breath and said, “So I planned a surprise for you —”
“What is it?” Margo said, bouncing up and down. “Tell me, tell me, please!”
I ruffled her hair playfully. “If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise. Just trust me that it will be lots of fun.”
“When’s the surprise going to happen?” Adam asked.
“I can’t tell you that, either,” I said in my most mysterious voice. “Just know that it will happen …” I paused, then whispered, “soon!”
Young Authors Day. At last! I woke up Saturday morning feeling tingly. I was excited, scared, nervous, and happy all at once.
My story, “Caught in the Middle,” was lying on a display table at Stoneybrook Middle School. In just a few hours I would find out what the judges thought of it. After four weeks of hard work and frustration, I would finally find out who was the sixth-grade’s best overall fiction writer. Believe me, it was agony not knowing. As I dressed, I made myself concentrate on something besides the competition. Mr. Dougherty had planned a day of exciting activities, so I tried to keep my mind on them.
Getting dressed and eating breakfast was just a blur. About the only part of me working normally was my mouth. By the time my family piled into our station wagon to drive to the school, I was chattering away nonstop.
“Pamme Reed, the author of Bradley and the Great Chase, is going to talk to the assembly first,” I announced to anyone who’d listen.
Margo and Nicky were pinching each other, and the triplets were making faces at some kids in the car driving next to us, but Vanessa and my parents seemed to be paying attention.
“After that comes the awards portion of the program.” (My voice wobbled a bit when I said that. I hoped nobody noticed.) “After that, people can look at all of the entries on display, while some of us take the afternoon workshops.” (I had signed up for both of them.) “Then Pamme Reed will be autographing her books in the library. Isn’t that exciting?” I had brought along my copy of her newest book for her to sign.
“Look, it’s Jessi!” Nicky shouted as my father pulled into the school parking lot. She was standing on the curb, waiting for me.
“Let me out here, Dad,” I called over the shouts of hello from my brothers and sisters. Dad brought the car to a stop and I opened the door. Jessi ran to me.
“Mal, the auditorium is packed!” she reported. “Every kid in school must’ve brought their entire family!”
That was not exactly what I needed to hear. “Great!” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “Mr. D will be thrilled.”
“I saved a seat for us in the first row.” Jessi grabbed my arm. “Come on!”
“We’ll find a place in back so we can watch you get your award,” my mother called from the car.
“Go get ’em, honey!” my father added.
Boy, I wished I felt half as confident as my parents sounded. When we reached the auditorium, I realized Jessi hadn’t been exaggerating. (I almost turned around and ran.) As Jessi and I made our way down the aisle, several kids said hi to me, but I was too nervous to stop and chat.
The lights dimmed a few minutes after we took our seats. A couple of boys cheered and whistled. (One of them was probably Benny Ott. He can be such a show-off.) Then our principal walked onto the stage, followed by Mr. Dougherty and the rest of the English teachers at school. They sat down in a row of chairs behind the principal, Mr. Taylor, who stood at the podium.
“Welcome to Young Authors Day,” Mr. Taylor announced, and everyone applauded. I slumped down in my seat and tried to stop my heart from pounding. It felt like it was going to jump out of my chest.
Mr. Taylor made some general welcoming statements, and the next thing I knew, Mr. Dougherty was at the podium. “I have been given the great privilege of introducing our guest speaker,” he said. “She has received many awards for her work in children’s literature. I would like to say that besides being a terrific writer, Pamme Reed is also a wonderful person.”
“It sounds like Mr. Dougherty knows her personally,” Jessi whispered into my ear.
“I bet he does,” I said proudly. “He’s a very good writer himself.” I beamed up at my teacher and tried to imagine how it would feel to be a famous writer and be introduced in such glowing terms.
“So without further ado,” Mr. Dougherty continued, “let’s give a big hand for Ms. Pamme Reed!”
Everyone cheered this time, and a few more boys whistled. (This time I was certain the loudest one was Benny Ott.) Then the famous writer stepped onto the stage from the wings.
Pamme Reed looked like an artist in her Indian-print skirt, brushed leather vest, white blouse with puffed sleeves, and sleek boots. She had shoulder-length red hair, which fell about her shoulders in thick, beautiful waves. I decided then and there that, if by some miracle I survived the next half hour and didn’t keel over from nerves, I would try to look and dress just like Pamme Reed.
I have to admit it was hard for me to concentrate on her speech. Ms. Reed was saying some really interesting things about writing and about how she first got published, but all I could think about was my story and the awards ceremony.
“How are you doing?” Jessi whispered halfway through Ms. Reed’s speech.
“Fine,” I murmured back. “Why?”
“Um … you look kind of tense.” She pointed to my hands, which were folded in my lap. I was gripping them so hard that my knuckles had turned white. I tried to force myself to take a deep breath and relax. It didn’t work.
Ms. Reed finished her speech by encouraging us to keep writing. “I look forward to talking to you this afternoon at the book signing,” she added.
We applauded loudly as she sat down beside Mr. Dougherty. Then Mr. Taylor introduced Hand Jive, a puppet group from New York City. The group presented a short show about how reading can stimulate the imagination. I think I may have laughed harder than some of the other kids because I was so nervous, but the show really was funny.
When the show was over, Mr. Dougherty stepped up to the podium once more. He unfolded a piece of paper and adjusted his glasses, while a couple of the teachers set a small table beside him. Some rolled-up papers tied with ribbons were piled on the table. Jessi took hold of my hand and squeezed it hard. “This is it, Mal.”
I could
only nod and stare straight ahead. Mr. Dougherty started by announcing the winners from selected catagories, like Best Poem, Best Illustration, Best Science Fiction Story, and Best Short Play. Each winner ran down the aisle right beside me and climbed the stairs to the stage. The girl who won Best Mystery tripped going up and almost fell on her face. Some people laughed, and I was seized with a new fear. What if I won and then embarrassed myself by doing the same thing?
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Mr. Dougherty announced the category of Best Overall Fiction for the Sixth Grade. He smiled at the assembled students. “It was particularly difficult to pick a winner for this category,” he said. “The judges said they received quite a few excellent stories.”
“Uh-oh,” I mumbled, sliding down in my seat again. Jessi was still clutching my hand, but I could no longer bear to watch Mr. Dougherty. I squeezed my eyes shut and forced myself to listen to the rest of his speech.
“All of us agreed that the stories were very original and quite well written,” Mr. Dougherty continued. “But one story seemed to stand above the others —”
My heart was pounding so hard it sounded like a freight train in my ears. My stomach did flip-flops as I thought about Rebecca Mason, one of the girls in my creative writing class. She had turned in her story early, and then sat around all week looking smug while the rest of us frantically tried to get ours finished in time. Her cover looked as though it had been done by a professional illustrator. I had been the last student in my class to turn in a story. And my cover looked really homemade next to hers.
Suddenly it came to me like a flash. Of course! Rebecca was going to win. How could I even think I had a chance?
Mr. Dougherty was still talking, but his words sounded like a tape being played too slowly and I could barely understand him.
“That story was written by —”
I heard thunderous applause and I tried to put on a congratulatory face for Rebecca Mason. I turned in my seat, with a forced smile on my face, and watched for her to come down the aisle.
But no one was there. And suddenly Jessi threw her arms around my neck.