If there was a record for fastest consumption of a plate of cookies, I think we would have broken it that afternoon. But in the midst of all of that munching, we still managed to schedule four sitting jobs. Just before the meeting ended, Claudia passed around glasses of apple cider.
Stacey raised her cup. “I’d like to propose a toast to Dawn, whose body is in California with the We Love Kids Club, but whose spirit remains here with the BSC in Connecticut.”
I raised my cup, my eyes starting to brim with tears. (I forgot to mention, I’ll cry at anything.) “To Dawn.”
Kristy raised her cup and smiled at me. “And to the Baby-sitters Club: the best friends a girl could have.”
That did it. I cried.
On Thursday the halls at SMS were rowdier than ever. Every time I stepped out of class I wanted to cover my ears.
Sometime after English, and before Social Studies, someone slipped me a note in the hall. I didn’t even see who it was. I just felt someone touch my arm and a piece of paper was tucked into my hand. Things were so hectic I didn’t remember to read it until last period. Here’s what it said:
I couldn’t help smiling. Amelia and others were already hard at work on our English project. This was going to be fun.
After the final bell rang, Claudia and Stacey met me at my locker. Claudia was carrying a huge cardboard carton.
“Are you on trash patrol today?” I asked as I eyed the rusty tin can, twisted coat hanger, and green rubber boots with funny buckles inside the box.
“Trash?” Claudia gasped in mock horror. “Bite your tongue. These treasures are going to be part of my new invention.”
“Invention?” Stacey repeated. “Since when did you become Mr. Science?”
“That’s Ms. Art to you,” Claudia said. “And my class assignment is to create a Rube Goldberg invention.”
Stacey and I gave Claudia our blankest stares.
“Hello?” Claud snapped her fingers in front of our faces. “Anybody home? You’re supposed to ask me who Rube Goldberg was.”
Stacey and I exchanged glances and shrugged. We asked in unison, “Who was Rube Goldberg?”
“He was a cartoonist who made wacky inventions,” Claud replied. “Rube Goldberg created those funny contraptions. For instance, a Ping-Pong ball rolls down a tube, runs into a domino that falls against a button that starts a water wheel that knocks over a few other things, then runs into an army boot that kicks a bucket. All of this to turn on a lamp or something.”
Stacey and I looked at each other again, trying hard not to laugh. “Oh, that Rube Goldberg,” I said.
Of course we burst into giggles, which made Claudia huffy. “Well, for your information, he was very famous, and sculptures of his inventions are at museums around the world and are worth millions.”
“I believe you,” I said, struggling to keep a straight face. “It’s just that the idea of an old army boot kicking a bucket being famous and worth lots of money makes me laugh.”
Claudia thought about it for a second. Then a smile crept across her lips. “You’re right, it is funny. In fact, it’s ridiculous. That’s why I love it.”
Gordon Brown popped his head into our group. “I hope you’re not discussing our English project, because words like ridiculous make me nervous.”
“Don’t worry, Gordon.” I gestured toward the box Claudia held in her arms. “We were discussing art.”
“Oh.” Gordon nodded. “That makes sense, then.”
On the front steps we met Amelia, who patted a package wrapped in green plastic under her arm. “I had to promise Josh on a stack of Bibles that I wouldn’t lose his Timetables of History book. He made me put it inside this plastic trash bag, just in case we had a blizzard or freak thunderstorm.”
Gordon gestured with his thumb over his shoulder. “My chart’s in my backpack.”
“The chocolate-filled brain food is in here,” Barbara said, holding up a plastic lunch pail decorated with Casper the Ghost.
I pointed toward the direction of my house. “Onward and upward.”
Stacey and Claudia walked part of the way with us, planning the most outrageous Rube Goldberg invention of all, using kids’ discarded toys and food.
Once inside my house, Barbara broke out the cookies. I made some tea and poured everyone lemonade, and then we settled down to work.
It was amazing how well we worked together.
“Barbara thought up the title, William Tells All,” Gordon said as he unfolded his timeline on the carpet in front of the fireplace. “I think it’s perfect.”
Amelia took a bite of cookie and nodded. “Sounds very cool.”
“We could do a timeline of events that happened when Shakespeare lived,” I suggested. “Or we could put together a scrapbook, or —” I didn’t realize that while I was talking, I had been looking around the room. My eyes fell on yesterday’s edition of the Stoneybrook News. “Or we could make a newspaper.”
“Ummpph!” Amelia spit cookies everywhere (the second crumb spray in two days). “Great idea, Mary Anne!”
I told you that Kristy is usually the great idea person, so I was particularly happy to hear Amelia say that.
Barbara waved her hands excitedly. “If it’s called William Tells All we could have a gossip column about who’s dating who, and we could have a theatre review of one of his plays.”
“Yes!” Gordon pumped one fist in the air. “And we could have news from the foreign correspondent, with the latest update on Sir Francis Drake’s voyage around the world.”
“And we could have a police report,” I added, “and list who Queen Elizabeth arrested, and who she put in the tower, like Mary Queen of Scots.”
“And a poet’s corner!” Barbara cried. “We could print one of Shakespeare’s sonnets and maybe one of Edmund Spenser’s poems.”
“And we could even do an Elizabethan Hints from Heloise,” Amelia exclaimed. “With advice on how to repair a thatched roof, or what to do if you get a run in your tights.”
Everyone was so excited that we were literally shouting our ideas at each other, but I didn’t mind at all. In fact, I loved it.
“We’ll have a Dear Ann Landers–type column,” Gordon said.
“And horoscopes,” Barbara added.
“We could even write the classifieds, selling old wagons and harpsichords.” I was so excited my voice squeaked, which made everyone laugh.
“This is going to be so much fun,” Amelia said, when she’d stopped giggling. “I wish we didn’t have to go to any other classes.”
“Me, too,” I said, thinking about math class in particular.
“We better write these brilliant ideas down now,” Barbara said, “before we forget.”
I grabbed my pen and yellow pad. “Ready.”
“Why don’t we look at the timeline,” Gordon said, gesturing toward his chart, “and write next to each category what events happened, and in what year.”
Amelia wiped her hands on her napkin and reached for Josh’s book. “I’ll check the timetables.”
Barbara uncapped her pen. “Why don’t I keep track of who wants to write what articles?”
We worked intensely for the next hour or so. We probably would have gone on longer if Amelia hadn’t had to leave.
“Sorry, you guys,” she said, carefully rewrapping her brother’s book in the plastic trash bag. “Mom and Dad are taking us out to this new Italian restaurant that’s on the way to the mall. It’s called Pietro’s.”
“Italian food?” Gordon suddenly looked as if he might be a little hungry.
Amelia grinned wickedly. “Spaghetti with meatballs, three-inch-thick lasagna, fettucini alfredo, cannelloni —”
“Stop!” Barbara ordered. “If you mention one more thing, you’re going to have to take us all with you.”
Amelia’s eyes widened. “I wish you could come. That would be fun.”
“Not me,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s my night to make dinner. I promised to make che
ese enchiladas.”
“Besides, we couldn’t all fit in your dad’s little car,” Barbara pointed out.
We laughed. Amelia’s father owned a tiny old Volkswagen Bug that he’d restored to mint condition. It was his pride and joy, but definitely not a crowd-carrier.
“It was just an idea,” Amelia said with a good-natured shrug. “Anyway, I promise to give a full report tomorrow.”
We agreed to have our next meeting over the weekend. As the group walked out my front door, Amelia turned around and smiled. “I’m really excited about this project. You guys are the best!”
After they left, I had that little butterfly feeling of excitement inside me. I felt good about the project, and good that I was being more outgoing and making new friends. I hadn’t just sat quietly listening to everyone else’s ideas; I’d tossed in several good ones of my own.
I flipped on the radio and danced around the kitchen while I prepared dinner. Prepared is kind of an exaggeration — the enchiladas were frozen, so all I had to do was put them in the oven and whip up a salad.
That night Dad and Sharon and I ate dinner in the dining room. I even set out placemats and lit the candles.
“What is this?” Dad asked, smiling at me in the glow of the candlelight. “Some sort of special occasion?”
I smiled back. “Nothing special,” I replied. “I’m just happy about school, and — well, everything.”
Dad reached across the table and patted my hand. “I’m happy you’re happy.”
Across the table Sharon was beaming and I took her hand, completing our circle.
After dinner, I went to my room and finished my homework. Then I snuggled under the covers of my bed with Tigger, whose motor was going full tilt. I put my pillow on my lap, pulled out a piece of pale yellow stationery from my bedside table, and started a letter to Dawn.
As I put pen to paper, I heard the distant wail of an ambulance siren, on the other side of town. Sirens always sound eerie at night, and a twinge of apprehension made me shiver. I shook my head to get rid of the unpleasant feeling, then turned my attention back to Dawn’s letter.
I couldn’t wait to tell her about my English project, Claudia’s art project, and the great time I’d had with Gordon, Barbara, and Amelia.
Beep-beep. Beep-beep. Beep-beep.
In my dream, a car was beeping at me underwater. Then the images swirled and it became the timer on the oven. Had I forgotten the enchiladas? Finally the images swirled once more and I surfaced.
It was my alarm clock. It had been beeping for nearly a half hour.
I tossed back the covers and leaped out of bed. “Why didn’t someone tell me?”
If Dawn had still been living with us, she would have yelled from my doorway, “Rise and shine, sleepyhead.”
But Dawn was in California. And I was in Stoneybrook, about to be late for school. Where was Dad? Usually he would flip my light switch up and down in that irritating way. But not today.
“Sharon? Have you seen my navy blue socks?” I heard Dad call from the hall. Then he ran past the door of my room in his navy blue suit and bare feet, and pounded down the stairs, which is not his usual style.
Dad must have overslept, too.
I ran into the bathroom, hopped in the shower, and squealed as the first freezing cold drops hit my shoulders. Too many seconds later, the cold turned lukewarm. Old houses and their plumbing can make you nuts.
After the shortest on record, I raced back to my room, threw on the first things I could find — a jean skirt, red cotton sweater and loafers — then made a beeline for the stairs.
“In conclusion, I would like to say it has been a pleasure working on this project. The research I’ve done has only made me be more — no. After having done the research, I feel that I’m — no.”
I stuck my head in the kitchen. Sharon was standing in front of the kitchen window in her burgundy suit and heels. She held a piece of toast in one hand and a glass of orange juice in the other and was smiling at her reflection.
She saw me and said, “My big presentation is this morning. Which do you like better: ‘This product has a new fan in me’; or, ‘After all the research I’ve done, I’ve become a big supporter of this product’?”
I wasn’t really awake but I gave the best answer I could. “The short one is better,” I replied, hurrying to the cupboard for a bowl and the box of cereal. “But I like what you said in the second one.”
Sharon took a bite of her toast and chewed vigorously. “You’re right.” She turned back to face the window. “In conclusion, I’d like to say this product has my total support!”
“Much better.” I poured the milk on my cereal, eyeing the clock. I had about two minutes to eat, brush my teeth, grab my homework, mail my letter to Dawn, and be on my way to school. Impossible!
I didn’t even bother to sit down, I just picked up the bowl and spooned the cereal into my mouth as fast as I could.
“Mary Anne!” Sharon gasped, suddenly noticing what I was doing. “You’re going to make yourself sick. Slow down.”
“Can’t!” I yelled, racing from the room. “Gotta run.”
I managed to accomplish everything on my list and then bolted out the door, just in time to meet Mal and Stacey at the corner.
“Did you listen to the radio this morning?” Stacey asked.
“No,” I said, trying to fluff my hair, which was still damp from the shower. “I overslept, and then Sharon was rehearsing her speech for a big presentation at work. What happened?”
“I guess there was a car accident outside of town last night,” Stacey replied. “But I only caught the tail end of the report. I didn’t hear any details.”
Mallory pointed to Claudia, who was waiting for us at the next corner. “Maybe Claud heard. She always listens to the radio.”
I grinned. “Yeah, in hopes that school will be canceled due to snow, or rain, or —”
“Or a heat wave,” Logan added, running up beside me.
“How long have you been there?” I asked in surprise. “I didn’t even hear you.”
“That’s because there’s shampoo in your ear,” Logan said, swiping at a patch of bubbles that had dried on my cheek.
I could feel myself blush down to the roots of my hair. “I was running late,” I confessed. “I must not have rinsed completely.”
Normally Logan would have cracked a joke at my response, but by that time we’d reached Claudia, and the look on her face stopped him.
“Did you hear?” she asked. “There was a terrible accident by the highway just outside of town. One person was killed. A thirteen-year-old from Stoneybrook.”
We all gasped.
“Did they give the name?” I whispered, afraid to hear the answer.
Claudia shook her head. “They said they’re waiting until the relatives have been notified.”
“It might be someone from our school,” Stacey said. “Or maybe from Stoneybrook Day.”
Normally my friends and I laugh and joke while we walk to school. Not today. Just the thought that someone we knew might have died put a dark cloud over everything.
The main building of Stoneybrook Middle School loomed in the distance, and my heart started thudding faster. I think everyone’s did.
Logan voiced what we all were thinking. “The teachers must know who it was. We’ll probably find out this morning.”
“The other kids may know right now,” Stacey murmured. “I mean, look at the schoolyard. Usually everyone’s laughing and talking, and running around. But everything seems so still.”
Stacey was right. It did look different. Kids stood together in tight little groups. Every so often someone would glance over her shoulder at the building. But there wasn’t the usual joking chatter. There was barely any sound.
Jessi was the last to join us. She hurried to us with the same grim look on her face. “The TV said there was a car accident across town last night, by the overpass, and someone was killed.”
“A t
hirteen-year-old,” Claudia repeated.
My heart rate suddenly jumped up a notch. Most of my closest friends were walking beside me, alive and well. But not my best friend, Kristy.
What if the dead student were Kristy? She lived across town and rode the bus to school. Maybe Charlie had been driving her somewhere in the Junk Bucket last night, and …
I held my breath for the last half block until we reached the school grounds. Standing next to Abby, wearing her standard uniform of jeans, turtleneck, and baseball cap, was Kristy. I was never so glad to see anyone in my life.
“Kristy!” I threw my arms around her and gave her a big hug. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you.”
“You, too,” Kristy said, hugging me back hard. I knew in that second that she had been worrying, too.
Before we could say any more, Emily Bernstein, the editor of the SMS Express, entered the school grounds in tears and ran up the steps.
Kristy looked at me and murmured, “Emily knows who it is.”
Even though the warning bell hadn’t rung, we followed Emily into the building. The halls were packed and I could only catch snatches of conversation.
“A drunk driver ran a stop sign and broadsided them,” Pete Black, the eighth-grade class president, was saying to some friends.
“Who was hit?” Abby demanded.
“I don’t know.” Pete gestured to the school office, where the outlines of several people were visible through the frosted glass. “The teachers are meeting in Mr. Kingbridge’s office right now. I’m sure they’ll tell us soon.”
Mallory and Jessi had gotten another report. “Benny Ott told me he heard it was a family of four in the car,” Mallory said, “but only the daughter was killed.”
“So it’s a girl,” Claudia said in a shaky voice. Outside the cafeteria, I could see several girls sobbing and hugging each other. I watched as Trevor Sandbourne put his arm around his girlfriend, who wept into his shoulder.
Part of me wanted to ask them to tell me what they knew. But another part of me didn’t know if I could bear the news. Clearly, whoever had been killed had a lot of friends at SMS. Was I one of them?