Don't Give Up, Mallory

by Ann M. Martin

  “I understand your concerns, Mallory,” he said in his deep voice. “But unfortunately you’re right. That money was spent on building repairs.”

  “Why?” Lisa asked. “When it was specifically earmarked for the student lounge.”

  “Because …” Mr. Taylor took a deep breath. “You may not remember it, Lisa, but that year we’d had a particularly harsh winter. The roof needed replacing, pipes had to be fixed. It was a tough decision, but we felt we needed the building repaired more than we needed to save for a student lounge in the library.”

  “But what about now?” I asked. “The repairs have been done. Couldn’t the school create the lounge now?”

  Mr. Taylor shook his head. “Costs have risen over the last five years. Even if we had that thousand now, we would need a whole lot more.”

  We left Mr. Taylor’s office with slumped shoulders.

  “Well, that’s that, then.” Sandra sighed. “I guess we should just forget the whole thing.”

  “No way!” Justin exclaimed. “The fact of the matter is, the school was not supposed to use that money for repairs. They were supposed to give it to the library for a student lounge. There has to be some way that we can convince them to give it back.”

  “Why don’t we talk to Mr. Counts?” Lisa suggested. “He may be able to give us some advice.”

  Sandra started to protest, but I put my hand on her arm. “Listen, Sandra, this is really important. We’re doing this not just for our class, but for every sixth-grader who follows us.”

  “Well … okay,” said Sandra. And she grinned.

  When we talked to Mr. Counts, he told us that the library staff still wanted a student lounge. “The costs may have gone up,” he admitted. “But maybe not as much as Mr. Taylor thinks.”

  A bell went off in my head. “You mean, if some extra money were contributed, say from our class, the library might still be able to have the lounge?”

  Mr. Counts peered at me over the top of his reading glasses. “If we had the original thousand dollars plus your donation, I’d say it would be very doable.”

  Justin frowned. “No good. That thousand was spent five years ago.”

  “Yeah,” I muttered. “It was borrowed from the sixth grade’s donation.”

  “If it was borrowed, maybe it could be returned,” Mr. Counts interjected. “The school maintains an account for situations like this. It can’t be used for building maintenance. It’s for special projects. It’s called a discretionary fund.”

  Justin draped his arms over Lisa’s and my shoulders. “I think we need to talk to Mr. Taylor again. Like right now.”

  We raced back to Mr. Taylor’s office.

  After some intense discussion, he finally agreed to draw money from the discretionary fund. “But you’re going to have to raise the thousand first,” he said, pointing a finger at the four of us. “Then SMS will match the money you raise, dollar for dollar.”

  My eyes grew huge. “You mean, two thousand dollars would go to the student lounge?”

  He nodded. “If you raise the first thousand.”

  “Whoa,” I whispered to the others. “That would make our class the biggest contributors in SMS history.”

  Justin touched my arm. “It’s up to you, Mal. You’re heading this year’s fund-raiser. Do you think we can do it?”

  I thought about the kids who’d signed up to work the booths for the coming week. They were hard workers and very enthusiastic.

  I nodded my head confidently. “We can do it!”

  I was still flying high when I walked to Mr. Cobb’s class. We’d scored a major victory with Mr. Taylor, and Justin and the other officers were behind me one hundred percent. If all went well, the students at SMS would finally have a lounge in the library.

  But the second I entered Mr. Cobb’s room, my confidence seeped away. I was like a balloon, bright and cheery one second, and the next — limp, completely out of air.

  “Dinosaurs!” Mr. Cobb pointed to a display of book covers on the side bulletin board and read a few of the titles out loud. “Dinosaurs and How They Lived, Dinosaur Discovery, Dinosaurs A to Z, Dinosaur Bob, Dinotopia.” He turned to the class. “Why do kids go crazy for dinosaurs?”

  My brothers and sisters love dinosaurs because they seem like big friendly monsters. But did I raise my hand to say that? No.

  “Dinosaur books are definitely a boy thing,” Benny Ott declared. “I don’t think my sister has ever read one.”

  “When I was a kid that’s all I would read,” Robbie Mara added.

  “Tyrannosaurus Rex was practically my first word,” Glen Johnson joked.

  My sisters have always liked stories about dinosaurs, so I don’t think it’s a total boy thing. But I didn’t raise my hand to say that.

  “I was a dinosaur fan,” Mr. Cobb said with a chuckle. “My room was covered with posters of dinosaurs, and I must have put together fifteen plastic models of dinosaur skeletons.”

  “Last summer my little brother and I watched Jurassic Park four times in a row,” Jimmy Bouloukos said.

  “That was incredible!” Chris Brooks declared. “They looked so real, didn’t they?”

  I wanted to mention the Barney TV show as an example of the amazing popularity of dinosaurs with tiny children, but Mr. Cobb, Chris, and Jimmy seemed to be doing just fine without me.

  “When do you think this dinosaur craze hits boys?” Mr. Cobb asked, continuing the discussion.

  Age two was my answer. All my brothers and sisters were fascinated with dinosaurs that early.

  Mr. Cobb had moved to my row and was looking right at me. I should have spoken up, but I panicked. I dropped my pencil so he wouldn’t call on me.

  When I finally straightened up to a sitting position, Mr. Cobb had called on someone else.

  That was the way the entire class went. Every time Mr. Cobb even glanced in my direction, I either dropped my pencil or rifled through my backpack. Anything to avoid having to speak.

  When the class finally ended, I looped my pack over my shoulder and hurried toward the door. I hated spending any more time in that room than necessary.

  Unfortunately, Mr. Cobb blocked my way. “Mallory, could I speak with you for a moment?” he asked, fixing me with those pale blue eyes.

  “Um, sure.”

  He sat on the edge of one of the desks and said quietly, “I was wondering how you were doing.”

  How was I doing? In life? Great. In Mr. Cobb’s class? Terrible. But I didn’t tell him that. Instead, I plastered a smile on my face. “Fine,” I said in a cheery voice. “Just fine.”

  He cocked his head. “Because if there’s anything you’d like to talk about, we could arrange to have a conference after school.”

  A conference! The last thing I needed was for Mr. Cobb to think I was having some sort of problem with his class.

  “I’m doing great,” I said. “I really don’t think a conference is necessary.”

  I could just see it. I’d meet with Mr. Cobb and freeze up. Nothing intelligent would come out of my mouth, so he’d think I was an idiot — and there would go my straight-A average.

  “Are you sure?” he asked again.

  I nodded firmly. “Positive.”

  On Wednesday afternoon, I watched the digital clock on Claudia’s desk change from 5:29 to 5:30. The Baby-sitters Club meeting was officially starting, and I was officially on time. Even Kristy noticed it.

  “This meeting is called to order,” she declared, tapping her pencil like a gavel on the arm of Claudia’s director’s chair. “And as the first order of business, I would like to congratulate Mal for being early.”

  Everyone applauded and I blushed. (Of course.)

  Then Jessi raised her hand. “And I’d like to congratulate Mal for talking to the principal.”

  Stacey, who was sitting on the bed, leaned over the side and gave me a high five. “What did Mr. Taylor say?”

  “He said they would be willing to refund the money they used on build
ing repairs if we could match it with our fund-raiser.”

  “Can you?” Mary Anne asked.

  “We’re sure going to try,” I said with a grin.

  Abby folded her arms across her chest and leaned back against Claud’s dresser. “I have to hand it to you, Mal. You don’t look the least bit worried. I’d be chewing my nails off.”

  “The fund-raiser should be easy. It’s Mr. Cobb’s class that’s hard,” I confessed.

  “Mr. Cobb?” Mary Anne asked. “That new teacher?”

  “The heartthrob?” Stacey added. “With the baby-blue eyes?”

  “He’s my Short Takes teacher,” I explained.

  “Lucky you,” Stacey cried.

  “Unlucky me.” I groaned. “The class has been a disaster.”

  “No way!” Kristy gasped. “I thought Short Takes was focusing on children’s literature this time around.”

  I nodded miserably.

  “And isn’t that, like, your favorite subject on the planet?” Stacey cut in.

  “It was,” I murmured. “Until I landed in Mr. Cobb’s class.”

  I hadn’t really planned to complain about the class — in fact, I’d been afraid to — but once the door was opened, it all just poured out of me. In between calls for sitting jobs, I told my friends everything.

  “I know it must be my fault,” I said. “But nothing seems to go right in his class. Mr. Cobb is grading us on our participation, and I can barely put two words together.”

  “You’re kidding,” Claudia said.

  “It doesn’t help that several of the guys are major big-mouths,” I continued. “They never raise their hands. They just shout out answers whenever they feel like it.”

  “Mr. Cobb lets them do that?” Mary Anne asked.

  “Mr. Cobb thinks everything they say is so funny or so smart. You’d think the rest of us didn’t exist.”

  “But why don’t you speak up?” Kristy asked.

  “Mr. Cobb hardly ever calls on me. The few times he has, I felt so rattled that I said stupid things.”

  “Are you the only one having a problem with his class?” Mary Anne asked.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I’ve noticed that Jen Corn and even Lisa Mannheim have to struggle to be heard. Whenever they talk, Chris Brooks or Robbie Mara cut in, as if the girls don’t even exist.”

  Jessi leaned forward. “I heard Sandra Hart tell Wendy Loesser that she loves Mr. Cobb.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You should see how Sandra acts in his class. Like a total goon.”

  “What does she do?” Claudia asked, passing around a bag of chocolate stars (for us) and a bag of pretzels (for Stacey).

  “She never expresses her own opinion. She always waits to hear what Mr. Cobb or one of the guys says, and then she agrees with them.”

  Jessi frowned. “Sandra never used to be that way. What happened?”

  I shrugged. “Sandra’s decided that it’s dorky to be smart. She thinks boys won’t like her if she acts like a brain. So she just goes along with whatever they say in class.”

  Kristy wrinkled her nose. “That’s terrible.”

  I leaned my head back against Claud’s bed. “At least she talks in class. I used to try to speak up. But now I don’t even raise my hand.”

  “Why?” Abby asked. “You’re smart. You made straight A’s on your progress report.”

  “That’s part of the problem,” I explained. “When word leaked out about my grades, people started teasing me, calling me a Know-it-all. So now, I’m afraid that if I do manage to give the right answer, people will think I’m showing off. But if I say the wrong answer, I’ll look dumb. So I just don’t say anything.”

  “That must be frustrating,” Mary Anne murmured sympathetically.

  “I feel so mixed up.” I ran my hands through my hair. “I don’t even know what I know anymore. But if I don’t do something soon, I could fail this class.”

  “Fail!” Jessi gasped. “But Mal, you have a straight-A average.”

  “Had,” I said. “I’m sure Mr. Cobb’s class is going to blow everything.”

  “That’s not right,” Kristy cried.

  “Mal, you can’t let a couple of obnoxious boys intimidate you,” Abby said, raising up on her knees. “You know how smart you are.”

  “You’re in charge of the entire sixth-grade fund-raiser,” Claudia said, patting me on the back. “That’s a huge project.”

  “You discovered that accounting error from five years ago,” Stacey added. “Only a clever detective could have figured that out.”

  “And only a real leader would have been able to talk Mr. Taylor into putting that money back into the library fund,” Kristy said. “You did that, Mal, all by yourself.”

  Jessi draped her arm over my shoulders. “See? Everyone in this room thinks you’re smart and clever and terrific. And so does the whole sixth grade. That’s why we elected you class secretary.”

  It’s amazing what a difference friends make. I’d walked into Claudia’s room feeling like a loser. But my friends reminded me of things I already knew about myself. And now I felt like a winner again. I was grinning so hard my cheeks hurt.

  Rrrring!

  Luckily the phone rang before I got a swelled head.

  Abby answered it with her own flair. “Baby-sitters Club, Abigail Stevenson at your service.”

  Abby listened for several seconds, nodding. Then she said, “One sitter for Saturday while you take Sari to the doctor. We’ll call you right back, Mrs. Papadakis.”

  Mary Anne was ready with the record book when Abby hung up. “One sitter for two at once,” Mary Anne said. “Let’s see … Kristy and Claudia are available.”

  “Oops,” Claudia said. “I forgot to tell you that I have an art class from one to five this Saturday.”

  Kristy pushed her baseball cap back on her head. “Then I’ll take it. That will give me a chance to help Hannie and Linny practice for the parade.”

  “Speaking of the parade,” Stacey said, raising one hand and wiggling her fingers, “I really think we should discuss this instrument thing.”

  Claudia nodded. “We had a blast making drums and our own weird instruments, but have you guys heard how they sound?”

  Mary Anne winced. “Like a bunch of kids banging on Kleenex boxes.”

  “Well, that’s what they are,” Abby said with a shrug. “We can’t change that.”

  Kristy drummed her pencil on the arm of her chair. “Maybe we can. We just need to be clever.”

  It’s rare to hear silence at a Baby-sitters Club meeting, but this was one of those moments. Everyone was thinking hard.

  I twisted a strand of hair around one finger and thought about all of the orchestras we’d formed at my house. Sometimes we blew through paper-towel tubes. Sometimes we actually played instruments like harmonicas or plastic ukeleles. And sometimes —

  “I know!” I shrieked, breaking the silence. “Kazoos. We could give all of the kids kazoos!”

  Everyone turned to stare at me.

  “Kazoos are cheap and easy to play,” I explained. “All you have to do is hum.”

  “Brilliant idea, Mal!” Abby cried, clapping her hands together. “The kids can hide them inside their cardboard instruments —”

  “And make them sound like real instruments,” Claudia finished.

  Stacey fell back on the bed with one hand draped dramatically across her brow. “Saved by the Mal!”

  Mary Anne giggled and flopped backward across Stacey, adding, “I thought we were going to have to die of embarrassment.”

  “But not anymore,” Abby said, joining the heap. “The kids will actually play tunes.”

  Claudia took one look at the group on the bed and yelled, “Pile on Stacey!”

  I thought Kristy would disapprove, but she was the first to leap. Then Claud. Then Jessi and me. Before we knew it, every member of the Baby-sitters Club was on Claudia’s bed, giggling.

  It was Kristy’s big idea (surprise, surpr
ise) to ask all the sitters to bring their charges to Brenner Field to practice for the Memorial Day parade.

  “Do you have the kazoos?” Kristy called to Abby as they met by the big rock on the edge of the field.

  “No.” Abby was carrying Marnie Barrett on one hip and holding Suzi’s hand while Buddy ran ahead of them. She set Marnie down on the ground. “I thought you had them.”

  Kristy folded her arms across her chest and spoke very deliberately. “No. You were supposed to pick up the kazoos at Stacey’s house.”

  “Stacey wasn’t home,” Abby replied with a stiff smile. “I thought she must have given them to you.”

  Kristy and Abby have a habit of bumping heads. It may be because they are so much alike — athletic, outspoken, and stubborn.

  “I have the kazoos,” Jessi called from behind them.

  She and Becca had ridden their bikes to the field. Squirt was in the baby seat attached to the back of Jessi’s bike.

  “Stacey had to go to three stores, but she was able to buy twenty with the funds from our treasury envelope,” Jessi explained as she parked her bike and unbuckled her helmet. “She was running late, so she dropped them at my house.”

  Kristy took the bag from Jessi and handed a kazoo to Hannie and one to Hannie’s nine-year-old brother, Linny. “Here, hum a few bars of something.”

  Hannie, who is seven, thought hard for a second. Then she put the kazoo in her mouth and hummed “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” Linny joined her.

  Kristy raised an eyebrow. “Good humming, you two. But we need something a little perkier for our marching song.”

  “Okay.” Linny lowered his kazoo and sang, “Be kind to your web-footed friends, for a duck may be somebody’s mother —”

  Abby snapped her fingers. “John Philip Sousa, right?”

  Linny gave her a confused look. “It’s Raffi.”

  “But Sousa wrote the song,” Abby’s twin sister, Anna, said as she joined the group. “It’s really called ‘The Stars and Stripes Forever.’ ”

  Abby had decided that since they were going to have band practice, a musician should come along. So she had invited Anna to join them.