Me and Katie (The Pest)
Ann M. Martin
For
MYRIAH LEIGH PERKINS
and
GABRIELLE ANN PERKINS
With Lots of Love
Contents
1. Katie (the Pest)
2. Real Live Horses
3. Peanuts
4. The Pest Strikes Again
5. Sky High
6. A Horse of My Own
7. “Happy Birthday to You”
8. A Home for Peanuts
9. Ways to Keep Peanuts
10. Getting Even
11. August
12. Hasty Acres Horse Show
13. Sniffles
14. The Guinness Book of World Records
Acknowledgments
A Personal History by Ann M. Martin
1.
Katie (the Pest)
PLUNK, PLUNK, PLUNK. PLUNKETY-plunkety-plunk, plunk. Bam, bam, bam, bam. Plunkety-plunkety-plunk.
I yawned. Another piano recital. My little sister Katie was up on the stage in the recital room of the Riverside School of Music. She was playing a piece that I knew by heart. I knew it by heart because Katie had been practicing it at home for weeks.
Plunkety-plunkety-plunk.
I looked at my watch.
I squirmed.
I squinted my eyes to read the program. I wanted to see how many more kids had to perform before the recital was over.
Bam, bam, bam, bam.
I yawned again.
My mother poked me. “Pay attention, Wendy,” she whispered. I pinched myself a couple of times and sat up straight.
Plunkety-plunkety-PLUNK!
Katie finished her song with a dramatic crash. She scooted off the piano bench and curtsied the way her music teacher had taught her. Then she smiled sweetly at the audience and ran off stage. She knew she’d win another award.
Katie is always winning awards. She has so many they make her bedroom sag. They cover her walls. If she wins an award today, it will be her fifth from the School of Music. And she’s only eight and a half years old. She has four spelling medals, two science fair ribbons, and a second prize award from the place where she takes art classes. Plus she has a certificate for writing the best composition in all the third grade on why it’s important to be a good citizen. She won a hundred dollars for that, too. (Mom and Dad made her open a savings account with it.)
Katie’s been mentioned in our town paper twice this year. Next year, she’ll probably win the Nobel Peace Prize or something.
I’m ten. (Well, actually nine years and eleven months.) I won a medal once. It was for having the cleanest desk in second grade. Big deal. The walls in my room are bare.
I’ve never been in the paper, except for when I was born. That doesn’t count.
Here are the things Katie’s good at:
playing the piano
spelling
science
writing
drawing
arts and crafts
being a gigantic Pest
Here’s what I’m good at:
baseball
acting
talking
taking out the garbage
I yawned again. I couldn’t help it. The last little kid was at the piano now. He was six years old, playing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.”
When he finished, the audience clapped politely.
Then Mr. Neusome, Katie’s teacher, said, “And now I would like to announce the winners of the awards for our Summer Piano Concert. Students?”
Katie and the rest of the music students filed on to the stage. They stood behind Mr. Neusome in an uneven line.
Mr. Neusome announced the winners in Class I (the beginners), then Class II, Class III, and finally Class IV, the most talented kids. Katie was in Class IV. She was the youngest one. And she won first prize. First prize.
Geez.
Another medal.
Someday her room is going to collapse under the weight of all those awards.
I slumped down in my seat. But everyone else was standing and clapping. Dad hauled me to my feet so I could join in.
Hooray. Yay.
When the excitement was over, Mom, Dad, Katie, our five-year-old brother Scott, our housekeeper Miss Johnson, and I walked outside to our cars. There were three of them. Cars, that is. This was because it was a Thursday morning and Mom and Dad had to go back to work. So Mom hugged Katie, got in her blue Chevrolet, and drove off. Then Dad hugged Katie, got in his red Ford, and drove off. Then Miss Johnson hugged Katie, herded us kids into the yellow Volkswagen Rabbit, and drove us home.
It was summer vacation, so we were free. I was freest of all. Katie was taking art lessons, piano lessons, and creative writing classes. (Her idea.) Scott was going to day camp three times a week. (Miss J.’s idea.) But I didn’t have anything planned. (Nobody’s idea. I just didn’t know what to do with myself.)
Miss J. parked the car in our driveway. “Lunch time!” she said. “Fruit salad and yogurt.”
Miss J. only feeds us healthy food. Most of the time it’s okay. But sometimes I wish for Twinkies and Ring-Dings and Big Macs and Lucky Charms and Dr. Pepper. (Miss J.’s idea of a really terrific dessert is cheese wedges with apple slices.) Mom says we are very lucky to have Miss J., and not to complain. And I love Miss J. I really do. It’s just that sometimes I get tired of Health.
Miss J. let us eat lunch at the picnic table in the backyard. While we were eating she went inside to watch “Love and Life” on TV. She takes a break every day at “Love and Life” time. (We never watch “Love and Life” with her because it’s very boring. Just a lot of people talking and smooching.)
I was starving and finished my fruit salad before anyone else. Katie caught me eyeing this big strawberry that was in the middle of her plate.
She picked it up. “Mmmm,” she said, licking her lips. “Mmmm.” She took a teeny tiny bite out of it. “Oh, yum. That is soooo good.” She closed her eyes.
I ignored her.
“Weren’t your strawberries good, Wendy?” she asked. “Too bad you don’t have any left.”
I stuck my tongue out at her.
Katie took another nibble. “Mmmm. Mmmm.” She waved it in front of my eyes. “Too bad you were a pig”
I snatched at the strawberry and knocked it out of her hand. It fell under the picnic table.
“Meanie!” shrieked Katie. “Now it’s covered with germs.” She ran inside, probably to tattle.
I told you she was a gigantic Pest.
“Here, Wendy,” said Scott. “You can have mine.”
Scott is not a pest. (Usually.)
After lunch Miss J. made me stay in my room for a half an hour because I was mean to Katie. When the half hour was over, I ran next door to Sara Holland’s house. Sara is my best friend. She’s quiet and shy and thoughtful. And she doesn’t have any brothers or sisters. Only cats. Their names are Star and Lucy. Sometimes I go to Sara’s just for the peace and quiet.
I went in her back door (we never bother to knock) and found her where I knew I’d find her. Cuddled up in the den, reading. She was reading Charlie and the Chocolate Factory for the third time. Star was asleep in her lap.
“Hi!” Sara said. She put a bookmark in Charlie.
“Hi,” I said glumly.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“Katie,” I replied. “She’s being a gigantic Pest again.” I told her about the strawberry and the punishment.
“And you know what else?”
Sara shook her head.
“She won another award today.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. At the music school. Her fifth for piano. It was a first place.”
“Wow,” said Sara. “Gosh.” Then she added, “I’m sorry, Wendy.”
See, Sara knows how I feel about Katie and her awards and being a gigantic Pest. And I know how Sara feels about being shy. Last month she had to be in our class play. I thought she was going to die! But I helped her with her lines and she survived.
“You know what?” said Sara, moving Star gently off her lap. She stood up.
“What?” I asked.
“You could win an award.”
“Me? What for?”
“I don’t know. Do something. Something important. There must be something you can do better than Katie.”
“Oh, sure. I can take out the garbage better than she can. I can reach my tenth birthday faster than she can. I can—”
“Oh, come on. You know what I mean. … Well, we can think about it.”
“All right.”
“Hey, let’s work on the saga. Then you could be in The Guinness Book of World Records. Katie hasn’t done that yet.”
Sara and I and Sara’s cousin Carol who lives across the street are writing “The Saga of Barbie and Ken.” It’s the story of Barbie and Ken and their adventures and their seventeen children. The saga is over three hundred and ninety stanzas long. When we reach four hundred stanzas, we’re going to send it to The Guinness Book to see if it breaks a record. We’re sure it’s the longest poem ever written by kids.
So we went over to Carol’s house to work on the saga. But I knew my mind wouldn’t be on writing and rhyming. I would be thinking of what I could do better than Katie.
There had to be something.
2.
Real Live Horses
“Look!” cried Ken.
“It’s the dapple gray,
a fabulous steed!
We’ll ride away
and find that crook
and he’ll be sorry
about everything he took!”
“DO YOU THINK THAT last line is okay?” asked Carol.
“It sounds sort of funny to me.”
Sara chewed on her pencil. “I don’t know…”
“The Saga of Barbie and Ken” was very exciting. It was stanza #392, and Barbie and Ken were about to catch a wicked bank robber. He had stolen millions of dollars in cash, and had run through the countryside, scaring people right and left.
I pictured the dapple-gray horse in my mind. He was galloping across a wide field, his mane flying. And I was riding him bareback. I was bumping along with the wind in my face.
I liked horses. A lot. Recently I had started collecting horse things. I had two tiny china horses and six bigger horses and almost every single horse book Marguerite Henry ever wrote. My favorite was Misty of Chincoteague. I wished I were Maureen Beebe with a pony of my own. I would ride it every day.
“Hey! That’s it!” I shrieked. I jumped off of Carol’s bed. “That’s it! That’s it!”
“What’s it?” asked Carol.
“I know something I can do that Katie never could!”
“What?” asked Sara excitedly.
“I can take horseback riding lessons! I love horses. But Katie’s scared of them. She wouldn’t get within two miles of one. And even if she did, she couldn’t get on a horse’s back. I mean, mount a horse,” I corrected myself. “She’s too uncoordinated.”
This was true. Katie couldn’t catch a football or hit a baseball. She couldn’t stand on her head or do a backward somersault. It had taken her months just to learn to ride a bicycle.
“That’s a great idea!” cried Sara.
“Oh, boy! I can’t wait to ask Mom and Dad!” I settled down on Carol’s bed again, and tried to concentrate on the saga.
“Only eight more stanzas to write, and we can send it off again,” commented Carol.
We had sent it off once before when it was just three hundred fifty stanzas long. Only we made a big mistake. We had wanted to send the saga to The Guinness Book of World Records. The author of The Guinness Book is Norris McWhirter, but I had told Carol and Sara that Norris McWhirter was a pen name for Sir Alec Guinness, the movie star. So we sent the saga to him. I was positive that Sir Alec Guinness wrote The Guinness Book. I mean, the names were the same and everything. But I was wrong. Very luckily, Sir Alec was nice enough to return the saga. He even wrote us a letter and said he thought we would be poetesses one day. We had decided to add fifty more stanzas to the saga, as long as we had it back. Then we would send it to The Guinness Book for real.
Now there were just eight stanzas to go. We had been working very hard. Maybe we could finish it tomorrow.
That night I had to wait forever before I could ask Mom and Dad about riding lessons. First Dad called Miss J. to say he’d be home late. Then Mom called to say she was stuck with one of her clients. (Mom is a lawyer.) When they finally got home, Miss J. wanted to serve dinner right away.
But at last I had Mom and Dad all to myself. Miss J. was in the kitchen, and Katie and Scott were getting ready for bed.
Mom and Dad were in the living room, reading the paper.
“Can I talk to you?” I asked them.
“Of course,” Mom said, putting the paper down.
“I thought of something,” I said. “I thought of something I’d really like to do this summer.”
“Oh, what?” asked Mom, her eyes shining. I knew Mom had been worried because I didn’t have any summer plans.
“I’d like to take horseback riding lessons. I really would. I—” I was going to add how much I loved horses and wished I were Maureen Beebe. But I didn’t have to.
“That’s a wonderful idea!” said Dad.
Mom smiled. “I took riding lessons when I was your age. It was lots of fun. I’ve even got my old riding hat. Of course you can take lessons.”
“Oh goody, goody, goody! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I cried. “Real live horses! Where will I take lessons?”
“I’ll find out tomorrow,” said Mom. “We’ll get you enrolled as quickly as possible. Since it’s already the beginning of July, classes may have started. But that shouldn’t matter much.”
The next day seemed like the longest day of my life. I couldn’t wait for Mom to come home. I wanted to call her at the office and ask her if she had signed me up for lessons, but I didn’t want her to think I was bugging her.
So I went over to Sara’s. I found her roller skating on the driveway with Carol.
“Hey, you guys!” I yelled.
They rolled over to me.
“Guess what?” I cried.
“What?” asked Sara and Carol.
I practically exploded with my news. “I can take riding lessons!” I squealed. “Mom said so. She’s finding out about them today.”
“That’s great!” said Sara.
“Yeah!… Do you want to get your skates?” asked Carol.
“No, let’s finish the saga. Please, please, please? I’m getting nervous about riding lessons. Working on the saga will take my mind off waiting. Besides, we’re so close to finishing.”
Carol and Sara sat down and began unlacing their skates. When they had their running shoes back on, we went over to Carol’s house. She got the saga from the hiding place in her closet. Then we dashed back to Sara’s and closed ourselves into the den.
We sent Barbie and Ken off to the Mojave Desert for the last couple of stanzas. There they uncovered a cache of stolen rubies, and then were reunited with their seventeen children who had been kidnapped when their bus was hijacked. Ken rented nineteen horses, and they all rode off into the sunset for a happy ending.
“I don’t believe it!” I cried, as Sara wrote the last word and threw her pen down. “It’s finished! … Again.”
Carol giggled. “Yeah. Four hundred stanzas. We did it!”
“Well, let’s send it off,” said Sara.
“Only this time we’ll be more careful,” I added. “First, we have to Xerox the whole saga.”
“Okay,” she agreed.
So we took our time. We wrote
a letter to The Guinness Book people. Then we Xeroxed the saga at the library. We packaged it up carefully and took it to the post office.
Afterwards, I crossed and uncrossed my fingers seven times, hoping for good luck.
When Mom came home that evening, I pounced on her. “Did you call? Did you find out about lessons?
Mom smiled. “You’re all set,” she said. “You start on Tuesday.”
“Oh, Mom!” I cried. I threw my arms around her. “I can’t believe it! Thank you!”
It turned out that I would be taking lessons just outside of Riverside at stables called Hasty Acres. The Larricks owned the stables, and Mrs. Larrick and her daughter Paula gave lessons every day. Mom had enrolled me in a beginners’ class. It met Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. I’d missed two lessons, but Mrs. Larrick said it didn’t matter.
“There’s even bus service,” said Mom. “Mrs. Larrick’s son Charlie drives a minibus. He’ll pick you up right here at the house and bring you home after each lesson.”
I nodded.
“Oh, and tomorrow,” added Mom, “we’ll go shopping. You’ll need riding boots and jodhpurs. Maybe we’ll get you a new shirt, too.”
I was so excited I couldn’t speak.
In just four days I, Wendy Matthews White, would ride a real live horse!
The next day, as she’d promised, Mom took me shopping. We bought a red and white plaid shirt, a pair of jodhpurs (special riding pants), and a pair of leather riding boots.
I looked at the riding hats. There was a gorgeous green one I wanted very badly.
Mom checked the price tag. “I’m sorry, honey,” she said. “This is just too expensive. We’ve spent a lot of money already. If you like the lessons, maybe we can get it for your birthday. For now, you can wear my old hat. It’s in the attic somewhere, I’m sure.”
“Okay,” I said.
As soon as we got home, I tried on the entire outfit. Mom’s hat was sort of battered and dirty, but I didn’t care. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and decided I looked like a real horsewoman. I looked professional.
While I was admiring myself, Katie appeared in the mirror behind me. For a second she just stared. I could almost see her thinking.