“Quinny, please.” Mom walks over and rudely interrupts us. “You’ve had enough excitement for one day.”
“Mom, can you drive us to the store? Hopper and I need to get school supplies.”
“You need to eat dinner and get ready for bed. Come on.”
Instead of going to bed feeling sad that we didn’t catch Freya, I go to bed excited about getting that school letter and being together with Hopper in Ms. Yoon’s class in just two more weeks. All that excitement rolls down a hill inside me into a bigger and bigger ball of happiness.
The next morning I persuade Daddy to take me shopping for back-to-school supplies.
“Can we ask Hopper to come, too?”
“Quinny, please.”
Unfortunately we do have to take Piper and Cleo along because Mom’s working. Piper’s extra crabby since she has to wear clothes out in public. Cleo’s extra gassy since she ate a green bean smoothie for breakfast. I’m squished between the two of them in the backseat as Daddy drives us to a big, giant school-supply supermarket two towns away.
This place has a parking lot and sliding glass doors and shopping carts, just like the grocery store, but instead of apples and cereal and two-percent low-fat milk, the aisles are filled with pencils and notebooks and folders. (The store also has grown-up school supplies, which are called office supplies.)
I get a twelve-pack of pencils plus three folders plus a ruler plus a big thing of glue sticks.
“Quinny, do you want a notebook with flowers on the cover, or hearts?” asks Daddy.
“I’d like a notebook with a chicken on the cover, please.”
But they don’t have any here. They do have erasers that look like tiny burgers and fries. Those look like they work much better than the basic rectangle kind.
Then I push our cart past a big pile of backpacks. “Hey, I need a new backpack, too!”
“Indoor voice, Quinny,” says Daddy.
“Remember how my backpack got ripped last year back in New York when it got stuck in the subway door that time we were running late for school and—”
“How could I forget?”
But the only backpacks in this store are plain blue or plain brown or plain red.
“My favorite color is green with orange polka dots.”
“Really? I hadn’t heard,” Daddy says.
“If we can’t find green with orange polka dots, I also love orange with green polka dots.”
“That’s good to know, Quinny. We’ll keep looking.”
We turn into the next aisle, and then I see something that is even more exciting than school supplies. It’s a big, blank bright-white poster board. Big enough for someone to draw a life-size picture of Mr. McSoren on it…which I’m sure Hopper can do since he’s an artistic genius. Then we’ll put his big drawing of Mr. McSoren right inside my kitchen and leave the door open so Freya sees it, and she’ll be so excited to see him again that she’ll hop inside, and then we’ll sneak up on her with the net and finally—
“Quinny? Hello, earth to Quinny?” Daddy looks down at me. “Let’s keep moving.”
“Oh, Daddy, I just have to get this poster board! Please? Freya’s life depends on it.”
Daddy sighs.
We get in line to pay. Piper begs for candy by the cash register. Cleo grabs candy without begging. When Daddy takes it away from her, she cries so hard that the tuba in her diaper plays a fart again. We make a big mess and a big ruckus and a big stink in that store, and people stare big-time.
“This is why you should have left them at home,” I tell Daddy as I plug my nose. It’s a good thing I didn’t run away back to New York City. I’m the only normal, well-behaved child this poor guy’s got.
I carry my poster board and my wonderful, swingy bag of school supplies out to the car. On the ride home, Cleo screams and spits up. Piper picks her nose. My sisters are driving me nuts. I can’t wait until I get to spend all day every day in Ms. Yoon’s beautiful, lovely third-grade classroom with Hopper, who doesn’t spit up or share his boogers with the world.
We get home and I’m about to run over to Hopper’s house and show him the exciting poster board that we’ll use to finally catch Freya, but then I notice a box in the corner of my garage. A big, new box, and it looks like it could be for me.
“What in the world is that?” I ask Daddy.
“Only one way to find out.” He winks at me. Which means it is for me!
I tear open the box and find a backpack, and it’s green with orange polka dots. But wait, there’s more: inside the backpack is a matching lunch box, and it’s orange with green polka dots.
“My favorite colors! Daddy, how did you know?”
“Wild guess.”
I hug Daddy thanks, and I grab my amazing new backpack and that big white poster board, and I run out the garage door and over to Hopper’s house.
“Hopper, Hopper, Hopper!” I bang on his front door.
Hopper’s dad answers the door.
“Hopper’s dad, look what I just got! Plus I need to talk to Hopper.”
“That’s a snazzy backpack, Quinny,” he says. “He’s in the kitchen.”
I find Hopper sitting at the kitchen table staring at a cauliflower sandwich.
“Hopper, why are you staring at that sandwich? Did you find out if your other friends are in Ms. Yoon’s class, too? Plus guess what, I went shopping for school supplies and saw this giant poster board, and I figured out a way for us to catch Freya! Oh, and check it out: here’s my exciting new backpack! It’s so roomy I can fit all my school supplies in here!”
Hopper looks at the poster board and then at my backpack. He doesn’t look too excited. He just shrugs and walks upstairs. So I rush up after him.
But Hopper won’t come out of his room. He won’t let me into it, either.
I knock. I wait. I knock again. “Hopper, please open the door.”
“Go away.”
“Come on, let’s play. Wait till you hear how we’re going to catch Freya! All you have to do is draw a big picture of Mr. McSoren on this poster and then—”
“I don’t care.”
“What?”
“Just leave me alone. I don’t want to play.”
“Why not?”
“Stop it.”
“C’mon Hopper, please?”
“I said go away and leave me alone!”
“But—”
“Are you stupid? Don’t you get it? It’s over!”
Hopper booms this very, very, extra-very loud, which startles my ears. A lump bumps up in my throat. Then I ask a question that I am almost too afraid to ask.
“What’s over?”
“Everything!”
Twenty-four
Quinny is no good at taking no for an answer.
She stands on the other side of my door, huffing and puffing, please-ing and why-ing.
But I don’t want to see her right now. I don’t want to play, or draw Mr. McSoren on a poster, or hear about her new backpack. I don’t even want to think about school supplies.
So I use my biggest, most awful voice to make her go away.
From my window, I watch Quinny shuffle home, dragging her new backpack and that poster behind her. I know I hurt her feelings. I should have told her that Trevor and Ty are coming home from camp today. That’s why I can’t play. My brothers will be home any minute. But that’s not the whole truth of why I can’t play. It’s just half.
The other half is worse.
I guess she’ll find out soon enough. Everything will change in a couple of weeks. And not just because my brothers will be home. When fall starts and school starts and the whole truth starts, Quinny will see the real me. And she won’t want to be friends with that person.
Nobody does.
Twenty-five
Maybe I am stupid. I thought that boy was my friend.
What did I do wrong? And what does he have against my new backpack, anyway? I’m not going to sniffle about it, that’s for sure. No matt
er how leaky my nose feels.
As I walk home, a big, shiny black car whooshes past me on the street. Its windows are so dark that I can’t even see who’s inside. The car stops in front of Mrs. Porridge’s house and out steps a girl wearing the glitteriest pair of sneakers ever, plus sparkly silver tights and a swishy pink and black striped dress. She stands there for a second, like she’s posing for a camera.
It’s Victoria. And this time I don’t accidentally spray her with a freezing water hose. This time I just stare. Did I mention she’s carrying a purse made of pink feathers?
I guess Victoria has forgiven me for soaking her with the hose, because she actually walks over to me. “Good morning,” she says. “Quinny, right? What are you doing with that poster?”
I glance down at my blank poster and then back at Hopper’s house. “Nothing, I guess.”
“Could you give it to me, then? I need it for something important.”
Before I know it, Victoria swoops the poster right out of my hand.
“Thanks a bunch,” she calls out as she walks back toward Mrs. Porridge’s house.
That big, shiny black car zooms away now, without even saying good-bye.
I follow Victoria a little. “Hey, wait…what are you going to do with my poster?”
She makes a mysterious little half smile. “You’ll see.”
Then she goes right into Mrs. Porridge’s house and shuts the door behind her.
So I guess I won’t see.
But a moment later the door opens, and Victoria sticks her head back out. “By the way, I like your backpack.”
“You do?” I feel my whole face smiling now.
“It’s not pink,” she says. “But it’s supercute anyway.”
“Thanks. Sorry I soaked your dress with the hose.”
Walter the cat hisses at me from Mrs. Porridge’s front steps.
“You too, Walter. Sorry I soaked your fur.”
“I just got that dress,” Victoria sighs. “It was a special present from my dad.”
It was? I had no idea.
“He bought it in London,” she adds. “From a store they don’t even have here.”
“I’m very, very, extra-very sorry.”
“That’s okay,” says Victoria. “Maybe you could make it up to me by doing something nice, and then we can be friends.”
I nod eagerly.
“That watermelon barrette you’re wearing is really cool,” she says next. “I’ve been looking for a barrette just like that for a long time.”
I touch the watermelon barrette that’s up in my hair. Santa stuffed it into my stocking three years ago. It still smells like watermelon, and it’s so comfy that I wear it all the time.
But the way Victoria is looking at it now makes me nervous.
“You’re so glamorous,” I tell her. “Isn’t this fruity barrette kind of babyish for you?”
“Not at all,” says Victoria. “It’s fun and retro. And it’s my favorite shade of pink.”
I have no idea what retro means, but I do know something about colors.
“Hey, Victoria, you know, this barrette isn’t even pink,” I point out. “It’s red.”
“Watermelon insides are reddish-rosy-pink, which is still pink,” she insists.
She’s wrong about that. But I want Victoria to know I’m sorry. I want to find out what she’s going to do with my poster and where on earth she got a purse made of pink feathers. I want us to be real friends.
So, very sadly, very slowly, I take off the watermelon barrette and hand it to her.
Victoria clicks my barrette into her own hair, then pulls a mirror out of her feathery purse and admires herself. “Thanks! I knew this would look fantastic on me!”
Being generous is supposed to make you feel good. But all I feel right now is confused. Without my favorite barrette, my hair zigzags down in front of my eyes. I try to push it back behind my ears, where it doesn’t like to stay for long.
Victoria admires herself for a long time and then snaps her mirror shut, which makes a really loud noise that startles me. “Okay, now we can play,” she says.
Fabulous! Except Victoria doesn’t want to help me catch Freya. “Who cares about a crazy old chicken?” She doesn’t want to play fortune-teller, either. She doesn’t even know what a smelling bee is, poor thing, and when I tell her, she says, “Gross!”
Victoria wants to play fashion show.
“We’ll start by pulling together some outfits,” she says. “Then we’ll set up chairs and make a runway. My great-aunt said you’re from New York, right? Let’s go check out your closet.”
“I’ve got a better idea. Let’s dress Walter up for a cat fashion show! I bet that would cheer him up. C’mon, my mom’s got some goofy hats we could use.…”
I take Victoria’s hand and lead her toward my house.
“My great-aunt would never approve of that,” she says.
“Or we could have a zombie fashion show! Paint our faces green and walk around moaning and snarling—”
“It’s not even Halloween.”
“I know—that’s the great thing! People will think we’re real zombies and be extra scared!”
As we walk up to my front door, Piper pops out from behind a tree, like she always does. Barefoot, shirtless, dirty, and with a finger up her nose.
“What’s that?” Victoria asks.
“That’s my little sister Piper.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“She’s four.”
Piper follows us into the house. And up the stairs, toward my room.
Victoria looks back at Piper like she’s a walking germ. “On second thought, let’s go back to my great-aunt’s house,” she says. “We’ll have more privacy there.” Then she calls out, “Mrs. Bumble, Quinny wants to come have lunch with me!”
I do? Victoria sounds so sure, but I don’t remember her even asking me.
Mom’s busy on the phone, but she waves back a yes. Victoria grabs my hand and pulls me down the stairs. “Come on, I have a surprise for you, too.”
“A surprise?” Piper asks, all excited, as she follows us. My little sister loves surprises.
“Sorry, no babies allowed,” Victoria says with a sniff.
“Yeah.” I smile down at my filthy little twit-ster.
Victoria pulls me along some more. I turn back and see Piper’s disappointed face watching us walk away.
I don’t know what Victoria’s surprise is, but here is another surprise that is truly surprising: seeing Victoria be rude to Piper doesn’t feel good.
In fact, it almost makes me want to go back and hug my little sister. Almost.
On our way to Mrs. Porridge’s house, Victoria and I pass by Hopper’s house. I look up at his window. No one looks back out at me. So I pause for just a second, in case he is about to look out. I think about juggling. And feet. And that beautiful-weird picture book of body parts Hopper likes so much. I think about Freya. Who will help me catch her now?
“Quinny, hurry up,” calls Victoria.
One of my feet wants to keep following Victoria toward the exciting surprise, but the other foot wants to go find out why Hopper was being such a crabby-pants before.
“Victoria, wait, I have a better idea.…”
But before I can explain, a minivan pulls into Hopper’s driveway, and Trevor and Ty burst out of it. Those beastly bully twins are back from summer camp! They run into their yard and pull that soccer goalie net out from behind the garage.
The one that broke, all by itself, when Hopper and I turned it into a hammock.
Uh-oh.
I turn and run to catch up with Victoria. Spending the afternoon safe inside Mrs. Porridge’s house suddenly sounds like the best idea after all.
Twenty-six
My brothers get home from camp, all rough and loud and covered with mosquito bites. They’re furious about their broken soccer net. They’re curious about who broke it. Which means they find me (hiding under my bed) and swin
g me around by my ankles.
But I keep quiet. I’m not tattling on Quinny, no matter what.
Mom finally comes in and makes them stop.
“Boys, that’s enough. Sometimes things just break,” she says, looking at me like she knows how this particular thing broke. “That’s called life. Now stop this nonsense and come downstairs for lunch.”
“We know it was you.” Trevor pokes me in the chest.
“This isn’t over,” hisses Ty.
It never is.
“Lunch. Now,” Mom reminds us.
“I want pigs in a blanket!” shouts Trevor.
“I want chicken nuggets and fries!” roars Ty.
Mom serves them turkey sandwiches and carrot chips instead. My brothers are so busy whining about the healthy lunch that they forget to keep bothering me. I sit all the way at the other end of the kitchen table. I finish eating my cauliflower sandwich and look out the window.
That’s when I notice Quinny walking down the street with Victoria Porridge.
Wait a second.
Victoria only talks to people she can boss. I didn’t think anybody could boss Quinny. I watch the two of them walk away. It looks like they’re headed toward Mrs. Porridge’s house. It looks like they’re friends now.
I think I just lost my appetite.
Victoria Porridge never says hi to me, but she’s being nice to Quinny. Most people are nice to Quinny, I think. She makes friends wherever she goes. She’ll be fine without me when school starts. I’m the one who won’t be fine without her.
Because the whole truth is this: I have no friends at school.
None, as in zero.
I used to have a friend, Owen, who I met in kindergarten. Owen built birdhouses out of toothpicks and ate cauliflower sandwiches for lunch and never went anywhere without his pocket dictionary. But he moved away after first grade. And then in second grade, I didn’t find anyone else to like who also liked me back.
Of course, there were some friendly grown-ups at school. My second-grade teacher, Mrs. Santos, was kind. The librarian and the lunch lady always said hi. And some of the kids were okay. But there is a big difference between finding an okay kid and finding a true friend. A true friend saves you a seat at lunch, and no one did. A true friend asks, “Where were you?” if you were absent, and no one did. A true friend invites you to his birthday party, and no one did (except for Liam Crewson, who invited the whole class because his parents made him).
Quinny & Hopper Page 6