Ding-dong! Our doorbell rang at 7:45.
“I’ll get it!” I shouted.
“Rawf! Rawf!” barked Shannon (the puppy, not the human).
She was the first to reach the door. The rest of the Brewer/Thomas herd followed in approximately this order — me, Mom, Watson, my brothers, Karen, Andrew, Nannie, and Emily Michelle.
I yanked the door open. “Hi!”
“Aaaaa-choo!” was Abby’s response.
“Gesundheit!” Watson said. “Come on in.”
The Stevensons stepped into the living room. Anna was holding the platter Mr. Papadakis had given them, and Abby and her mom carried overnight bags. I noticed Abby was missing her glasses. I hoped she hadn’t sneezed them off.
“I don’t know how I can begin to thank you —” Mrs. Stevenson began.
“Rawf! Rawf!” Shannon jumped on Abby, wagging her tail.
“Down, girl!” David Michael ordered, grabbing Shannon by the collar.
“YEEEEEAAA-CHOOOOO!” Abby sneezed.
“That’s some cold,” Mom remarked.
“It’s dot,” Abby replied, sniffling.
“She’s allergic,” Anna explained. “To dogs and dust and certain foods.”
“Goodness,” Mom said. “David Michael, put Shannon out back. Sam and Charlie, take the platter into the kitchen and the bags into the guest rooms.”
The boys obeyed. (They were on their best company behavior.) “Abby’s allergies aren’t usually so bad,” Anna explained. “They’re worse during times of stress and hay fever season.”
“Allergies, asthba, I’b a bess!” Abby said, rubbing her eyes.
“I don’t know why you wore your contacts,” Anna murmured, as Mom led everyone into the house.
“The sabe reason you did,” Abby retorted.
Before an argument could start, Mrs. Stevenson exclaimed, “What a lovely house!”
“Daddy’s a millionaire,” Andrew said.
Karen poked him in the ribs with her elbow. “Ssshh!”
“Ow!” Andrew exclaimed. “What’d you do that for? He is.”
The rest of us politely ignored him. As Mom took the Stevensons from room to room, my brothers joined us. Soon all thirteen of us were moving through the house together, like a herd of cattle.
Abby was having a rough time. She tried not to complain. But she sneezed again in the kitchen, and then even louder in the den.
When we showed her the room she’d be staying in, she sneezed so loudly I thought her head would fly off.
We quickly retreated to the hallway. “We have a cat,” Nannie said. “Could that be it?’
“Doe,” Abby replied. “I’b dot allergic to cats, just kitty litter.”
“Then stay out of the bathroom at the end of the hall,” I suggested. “That’s where we keep the —”
“Aaaaa-choooo!” Abby smiled. “See? Eved the thought of it gets me goig.”
The caravan moved on. I ducked back into the guest bedroom and ran my fingers along a dresser top. Dust galore.
Quietly I mentioned this to Sam and Charlie. As Mom continued the tour, we went to work. Charlie and I removed the guest room curtains and then dusted. Sam rolled up the throw rug, took it to the attic, then vacuumed.
By the time we were done, the room was dust-free and ready to go.
“Dinner’s ready!” Watson called from downstairs.
“Dinna wehhhd!” Emily Michelle echoed.
We bolted downstairs. Actually, dinner was almost ready. I helped Mom prepare the last couple of portions of the pasta. “Leave one without marinara,” Mom said softly. “Mrs. Stevenson told me Abby’s allergic to tomatoes. She likes soy sauce and olive oil. On the side.”
Yuck. I almost gagged. But I didn’t. Obediently I took the ingredients out of the refrigerator and served Abby.
As we sat, gabbing away, Watson swept in with two steaming trays. “Clams à la Watson!” he announced, pronouncing his name Wat-SONE, in a dumb French accent. “Specialty of the house.”
“Eeeeew!” Andrew cried.
“Yummm!” said almost everyone else.
Abby’s tan took on a greenish tinge.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Fide,” she said with a tight smile.
“What other foods are you allergic to, dear?” Nannie asked.
“Shellfish,” Abby replied, and she excused herself from the table.
“The sight of them makes her a little queasy,” Anna explained softly.
* * *
Well, the clams were quickly hidden away in the fridge. Abby returned and continued dinner.
We talked about school, the BSC, and Stoneybrook. The Stevensons told us about the town in Long Island where they had lived. Abby’s voice slowly began to clear up. She did an imitation of her middle school principal, who spoke with a British accent, had a huge pot belly, and twisted his hair into knots whenever he spoke. That was funny.
But then she continued. She imitated three teachers. And a couple of students. And a neighbor who spoke like Daffy Duck.
Everyone was cracking up. Me? Well, I hadn’t exactly expected the Abby Stevenson comedy hour. I couldn’t get a word in edgewise.
At one point, David Michael asked, “When’s your dad coming?”
Anna took a deep breath. “Well, he died,” she replied matter-of-factly. “When we were nine.”
That kind of hung in the air a moment. No one knew what to say.
“I’m sorry,” Mom finally said in a gentle voice.
“How did he die?” David Michael pressed on.
I could tell Sam was giving him a kick.
“We don’t have to —” Watson began.
“It’s okay,” Abby said. “It was a car accident.”
“Ohhhh,” I said. (I meant to say something sympathetic, but it came out as a groan.)
Mrs. Stevenson spoke up. “The last few years have been a struggle, as you can imagine. But life goes on. I was recently made executive editor of a publishing house in New York, which was a wonderful opportunity, but it’s made our lives absolutely insane. My girls have been fabulous, thank goodness. They do so much work….”
We chatted on. After dinner the twelve-and-over set moved into the living room for dessert (pastries from the Papadakises) while the kids wolfed down ice cream in the kitchen.
Anna headed for the piano. “Wow, a parlor grand! Is it a Steinway?”
“Looks like a piano to me,” Abby replied.
“Ha ha,” Anna said under her breath.
“Yes, it is,” Watson said. “Do you play?”
Anna turned red. “A little. Violin is my main instrument.”
“Play the Grieg piece for us,” Mrs. Stevenson said. “You do that so well.”
“Oh, okay,” Anna said with a sigh, sitting down.
I could not believe my ears. The “Grieg piece” was fantastic. Even the kids filed in to listen. I was so impressed, I led a “two-four-six-eight” cheer for her.
Anna laughed. “You guys are sweet,” she said.
I liked Anna a lot. After the concert, we sat together and talked nonstop. Well, I talked. I couldn’t help it. Anna kept asking me questions about school, the BSC, the Krushers. She seemed genuinely interested in everything.
Not Abby, though. The moment she wasn’t the center of attention, forget it. She just wandered off without a word. Moments later I saw her and the kids in a pile on the floor, giggling hysterically.
Okay, this may sound stupid, but all I could think about was whether or not she was imitating me.
Ridiculous, I know. She wouldn’t have done that right in my house.
But I kept an eye on her, anyway.
Funny how sisters can seem like people from two different planets.
“Mo-o-o-om, where’s my Batman plate?”
“The French toast is ready!”
“Yuck, I hate cinnamon!”
“My sock has a hole!”
“Andrew spilled his orange juice!”
“Nannieeeee, Emily Michelle wants Cheerios!”
“Well, go find the sponge!”
“Hey, someone wiped his dirty face on my towel!”
“Aaaaa-chooo!”
“… It’s sixty-six degrees in downtown Stamford this morning, and we’ll see a high of eighty-one today …”
“Who ripped the cover off I Am the Cheese?”
“Teeeeez!”
At the Brewer/Thomas house, breakfast for ten is no big sweat. When Karen and Andrew are at their parents’, we’re down to eight, and it’s positively peaceful.
But thirteen? The place was a zoo. Absolutely out of control.
It was so much fun.
Abby entered the kitchen wearing a striped shirt and a paisley skirt. She looked shell-shocked. “What was I thinking when I packed these last night?”
Anna and I burst out laughing.
A hunk of buttered bagel flew through the air. Emily Michelle started giggling uncontrollably.
With a splat, the bagel landed on the floor (butter-side down, of course). And you know what happens to a buttery bagel on the floor, every time …
“Who-o-o-o-oa!” Sam was the lucky person who stepped on it. He went flying. As he landed, I saw his big toe protruding from the hole in his sock.
“Are you okay?” Mom asked.
Sam couldn’t answer. He was cracking up.
As Watson cleaned up the bagel, David Michael screamed. “Look! It works!”
Before our eyes, his new green cereal bowl was turning blue. “It’s magic!” he said.
(It wasn’t. The bowl reacts that way to cold liquids.)
David Michael took his bowl to the sink, dumped the cereal out, and poured hot water in.
I let Mom take care of that one.
I don’t remember much more of that breakfast. Just a lot of arms reaching for French toast and syrup, a couple more spills, and a trip to my bedroom to lend Abby another shirt.
Soon it was time to leave. For me, that usually meant waiting alone for the bus in front of my house. (When we moved to Watson’s, my mom arranged for me to continue going to Stoneybrook Middle School, even though our house is out of the district.)
But guess where Mrs. Stevenson had enrolled the twins? Yyyyyes, SMS! Neither Stoneybrook Day School nor Kelsey Middle School (which is in our district) was large enough to have an orchestra for Anna to play in.
Boy, did it feel good to have company. As we waited for the bus, Anna said, “Thanks for dust-busting our room last night. You did a great job.”
“No problem,” I replied. “Did you sleep all right, Abby?”
“Not bad,” Abby said.
“You sound better,” I remarked.
“The rrrrain in Sssspain falls mmmainly on my brrrain,” Abby pronounced.
I laughed. (Even though I didn’t get it. Actually, a thank-you would have been just fine.)
Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a Little League baseball skittering down the street. “Can you get that?” I heard Amanda Kerner call out.
She, Al Hall, Jacqueline Vecchio, and Karl Schmauder (all Kelsey Middle School kids) were trying to play catch while walking to school.
I crouched to field the ball.
Abby darted in front of me. She scooped it off the ground, spun around, and fired the ball to Amanda.
Amanda didn’t even have to move her glove to catch it. “Thanks,” she said.
I closed my open jaw. “Good throw.”
“My sister is such a jock,” Anna remarked.
“I am not!” Abby shot back.
“All right, all right, a natural athlete,” Anna said. “Sorry.”
I was not aware of this distinction, they seemed to have had this discussion before.
“Want to play?” Amanda called out. “Al has an extra glove.”
“Okay,” Abby replied.
Al tossed Abby his glove. (Did anyone toss me one? Noooo.)
The ball started flying from person to person.
“Over here!” I called out, gloveless.
Not a smart move. I sure needed a glove for Abby’s throw. A bulletproof vest would have been nice, too.
“Yeeow!” I cried as the ball smacked against my hands and bounced out.
“Oops, sorry,” Abby said. “Are you okay?”
“Sure,” I said through gritted teeth.
The bus trundled around the corner. Abby returned the glove, called out a “Thanks!” and grabbed her backpack.
As we climbed onto the bus, my palms were numb. I didn’t start regaining feeling in them until we were halfway to SMS.
I sat next to Anna. I thought Abby might try to squeeze into the seat next to us, but she didn’t. She sat next to someone I didn’t know and started gabbing away.
“Do you like sports, too?” I asked Anna.
“I guess they’re okay,” she replied. “But I’m not like Abby. You should see her in gym class. She’s always the best, and she doesn’t even try hard.”
“I’m sort of like that, too.”
“But Abby would never dream of actually playing on a team.”
She’d rather just show off and let everybody think she’s a natural, I thought.
But I kept that to myself.
“I thought you guys were supposed to be identical,” I said.
Anna laughed. “Sometimes it feels like we’re the same person. We can be in different places, and I’ll think, Abby needs me. Then two seconds later the phone will ring, and it’ll be Abby. It happens all the time. To her, too. But in other ways, we’re like strangers. I mean, Abby would never sit and practice violin for two hours.”
“Two hours?” The idea was revolting. Sort of like being stuck in a room with a screaming tomcat.
“I love the violin. Even more than the piano. I lose track of time when I’m practicing. Even if it’s just scales.”
“I sort of feel that way about Krusher practice. Especially if the kids are paying attention.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The Baby-sitters Club, too. We have sooo much fun. Sometimes we laugh all the way through the meetings.”
Anna nodded, smiled, and looked out the window.
“You know, the SMS orchestra is pretty good,” I said.
“I hope so,” Anna replied. “I’m playing for the music teacher at the beginning of lunch period today.”
“Great.”
End of conversation. We both looked out the window.
Across the aisle, Abby and four other kids were screaming with laughter.
Anna was nice. I liked her a lot. I just had to think of more things to say to her. Things she’d be interested in.
Oh, well, I guess I’d be quiet, too, if I’d grown up with a sister like Abby.
* * *
Anna was in my math class. Abby was in my English class, which was the period before lunch.
Abby and I walked to the cafeteria together, talking about our assignment: What I Did Not Do This Summer, but Would Have Loved To.
“Hobework wasd’t so weird id by old school,” Abby remarked. “I bead, what do you thik Bister Fiske wadts?”
I shrugged. “I guess you’re just supposed to use your imagination. You know, like, ‘Last summer I would have loved to play with the New York Mets,’ or something.”
Before Abby could answer, Trevor Sandbourne and Austin Bentley raced down the hall.
“Hi, Abby!” shouted Trevor.
“Hey, Yabby dabba doo!” shouted Austin.
“Hi!” Abby replied with a cheerful wave.
Yabby dabba doo? How did she know two of SMS’s coolest guys already? And well enough to be called by a nickname?
I guess baseball wasn’t Abby’s only skill.
Abby took a small bottle of nasal spray from her shoulder bag and sniffed from it. “That’s better,” she said. “I don’t think you should write about the Mets, Kristy. That teacher seems like such a bookworm. I’d write something like, ‘I wish I had read Shak
espeare books and Scarlet’s Web this summer.’ ”
I laughed. “Scarlet’s Web?”
“You know. Whatever.”
Claudia, Mary Anne, and Stacey were already sitting at our usual table, grinning at us. (I had called them the night before and told them about the twins.)
Abby and I went through the lunch line, then sat with them.
“Everybody, this is Abby Stevenson,” I said.
Abby smiled. “Hi.”
That was the last sane part of the conversation. Everyone started speaking at once. Abby ended up telling her life story again.
But she didn’t mind at all. In fact, she loved it. Once she was going, you couldn’t stop her. She acted out the previous day’s events. She imitated her mom and the movers. She imitated Ms. Steinert, gaping and stammering. And Mr. Papadakis, with his huge platter. And herself when Shannon jumped on her. And Watson, with his tray of clams. (I know, I just know, she would have “done” me if I hadn’t been there.)
Everybody was roaring.
The truth? She was okay, but let’s just say Robin Williams has nothing to worry about.
I was glad when Anna showed up. After another round of introductions, I asked her about her orchestra audition.
“It was okay,” she said.
“Are you in?” I asked.
She gave me a funny look. “Well, yes. This was more for seating. I’m going to be first chair.”
“You must be pretty good,” Claudia said.
“Anna wins competitions,” Abby piped up. “She even played a solo with the high school orchestra in our old town.”
“Abbyyyy!” Anna blushed.
“She plays piano, too,” I added.
Anna was busily twirling her spaghetti and meat sauce, looking very embarrassed.
“We love music,” Claudia said.
“Mostly pop and R&B,” Stacey added. “Not so much heavy metal.”
“My dad listens to classical at home a lot,” Mary Anne said. “Did you have the EZ Lite Listening station in Long Island?”
Anna gave her a polite smile, as if she’d just swallowed a dead fly and didn’t want anybody to notice. “Not that I know of.”
What was so bad about EZ Lite? I didn’t know a thing about it. But I did know it was time to change the subject.
We discussed Druscilla, who was starting to cheer up a little. We talked about the upcoming World Series game (the Krushers’ first as a sponsored team). We gossiped about different SMS teachers.
Kristy and the Dirty Diapers Page 5