by Linda Crew
My head snapped up.
On the screen were a lot of people at some sort of meeting.
“This has gone too far,” one woman was telling the official-looking people up front. “These are our children!”
Another woman was crying, telling how her baby had been taken away and she wanted him back.
My heart started pounding. “Dad, what is this?”
“Hmm?”
“This news story. What are they talking about?”
“Oh. Well …” He watched for a moment. “Social workers, I guess. Whether they’ve been going overboard lately, taking kids away from their parents.”
My mouth went dry. “Have they?”
“I don’t know. These folks sure think they have.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off the screen. Little prickles were zipping up and down the back of my neck.
“But why?” I said. “They don’t say why they took the kids away.”
“Yeah, well, that’s TV news for you. Sound bites, they call it. A quote here, a quote there. You don’t begin to get the whole story. About this, the timber controversy, or whatever it is. Makes it hard to know which side to take. Or if there’s something somewhere in the middle.”
“Well, do you think that if—”
A horrible shriek. It was Mom, standing in her studio door.
Dad and I jumped up and followed her into the studio. The busy babies had struck again. They’d got into the tubes of watercolor paints. Little purple and blue fingerprints were everywhere.
Mom moaned, holding up her newest original. Ruined.
She whirled on me. “Robby, I’ve told you a million times to close the door. Just look at this!”
“But Mom, I—”
“You were the last one in here. Wasn’t that some of my sketching paper you had out there?”
“But I closed the door.”
“Not tight enough, obviously!” She wadded the wrecked drawing, hurled it into a wastebasket, and marched out. “Do you realize how many hours of work I just lost?”
“But why’s it always my fault?” I yelled after her. “I’m not the one that smeared paint around!” I stomped out of the studio and threw myself on the sofa. I felt like bawling, but now that I’m nine, of course I had to act mad instead.
Freddie and Lucy had stopped their magazine trashing and stood up, scared by the commotion.
Mom glared at me. “The babies are too little to know any better.”
“No they’re not,” I said. “Look at her.”
Lucy whipped her stained hands behind her back with a guilty grin.
“Stop arguing,” Dad said. “The damage has been done.”
“But why’s it always MY fault. No matter what happens, it’s MY fault. When they’re nine and I’m …” I paused to count … “sixteen, everything’ll still be my fault. I guess it was just my fault I was born first, huh?”
“Okay,” Dad said. “Mom doesn’t need this now.”
“Hey, I feel bad her picture got wrecked too. But Dad, I’m sure I closed the door.”
“Right.”
“I did! Why won’t anybody believe me?”
“Robby, that’s enough!”
I went up in my loft and I didn’t come back down. I lay there the rest of the evening trying to read, but mostly thinking mean, mad thoughts.
I halfway wished Children’s Services would take me away. Then Mom and Dad would be sorry. They’d think of all the things they’d been unfair about. I hoped they’d feel real guilty. Maybe they’d even be on TV, pleading to get me back. I pictured their tear-streaked faces. Yeah, I might kind of enjoy that.
If only I knew for sure they’d get me back.
12
Great Whopping Lies
I had never understood how Mrs. Van Gent knew so much about our family—the twins, my mother going back to work, my dad staying home.
Now, sitting in class again on Monday morning, looking at Amber’s empty desk, I worried. Did Mrs. Van Gent have secret ways of finding out about all the arguing and yelling at our house?
And Mrs. Perkins—I just hated having to give her Dad’s note saying I’d been sick. She probably guessed the twins were sick too. Probably figured it was because of the apple bobbing.
Well, I’m no dummy. I could see where all this was heading. I had to do something about this, and quick.
I went up to Mrs. Perkins’s desk. I watched her frown as she stamped each math paper with a smile face.
“Mrs. Perkins? Today’s the day Mrs. Van Gent comes, isn’t it?”
Stamp. Flip. Stamp. Flip. “That’s right. Why?”
I lowered my voice to a whisper. “I was wondering if I could talk to her.”
She stopped stamping and slowly raised her eyes to mine. “You want to talk to her?”
I nodded.
“But your father made such a point of saying you didn’t have to.”
Hoo-boy. I looked away from her, then back. “Well, I changed my mind about it. And my parents don’t mind if I see the counselor if I want to.” I added this part in case she was still thinking they were trying to hide something.
She sighed and shook her head. “I sure do have a hard time keeping up with you, Mr. Hummer.”
“Well, Robby, this is so nice to see you again.” Mrs. Van Gent gave me her most encouraging smile. “Your teacher says you wanted to talk.”
“Uh, right.”
“Did you think about the things we talked over last time?”
“Yes, I did,” I said, trying to sound confident. “I know you were worried about me, so I just wanted to let you know that everything’s going better for me. I’ve been playing outside at recess. Games. Regular sports.”
“And how is it?”
“Not so bad.” This was the truth, anyway. “I thought people would make fun of me, but they didn’t.”
“I’m so glad to hear that.”
I nodded, rubbing my shin with my heel, trying to think how to plunge into the not-so-true stuff.
“Um, you might have heard about a picture I drew. Just a silly thing where I’m falling down the stairs with the babies. I didn’t want you to worry about that because it’s not true. We don’t really do that. My folks would never let us. It’s just sort of a fantasy—you know, like unicorns.”
“Oh. Well, actually, no, I hadn’t heard about that.”
“Oh.” A lie for nothing. “Uh, things are going great at our place. My dad’s spending lots of time with me. And he’s really cleaned up his act. The house is … just perfect now. Clean. Everything where it’s supposed to be. One day last week when I got home he had fresh chocolate chip cookies right out of the oven for me.”
“Mmmm. That sounds nice.”
“Uh huh. And uh …” I cast around for more good stuff to say. “Oh. My parents are never fighting. No yelling, ever. And the babies, they’ve been great. The other day, right out of the blue”—I snapped my fingers—“they potty trained themselves!”
“Really.”
Mrs. Van Gent was starting to look skeptical. Maybe the potty lie was too much. Well, great. She didn’t believe me when I told the truth and she wouldn’t believe me when I lied either.
But I was in too deep to back out now.
“The other good thing,” I said, “is that my dad has a new job.”
“That is good news. What kind of a job?”
“Uhhh … a carpenter’s job. Yeah … he’s going to build houses.”
She was smiling now. Maybe she did believe me.
“You know, you’re a very special boy, Robby. I hear all the kids’ problems, but not many would take the trouble to let me know when things start going better. I appreciate that.”
Now it’s rotten when somebody says you’re bad when you’re trying to be good—like my mom yelling at me about leaving her studio door open when I know I closed it—but it feels even worse when somebody heaps praise on you for being good when you don’t deserve it.
I guess that’
s why my stomach was doing funny things right then. Mrs. Van Gent just sitting there, looking so pretty, smiling at me so nice.
“By the way,” she said, “my husband and I are really looking forward to the gourmet dinner your dad’s doing for us. It’ll be a great chance to meet your parents.”
My stomach knotted. Check on your parents, that’s what she meant. I swallowed hard and nodded.
“My dad’s really a good cook,” I said. Then I added the biggest whopper of all. “Of course my mom’ll have to help him.”
13
A Heck of an Honor
On Wednesday, just after recess, Mrs. Perkins called me up to her desk.
“I’ve got some exciting news for you, Robert. All the teachers have looked over the dioramas. They’ve looked over the art projects from the other grades too. Everyone thinks yours is the best.”
“Gee.” Some kids coming in were overhearing this, so I felt pleased and embarrassed at the same time.
“We all agree you’ve completely captured the feeling of Nekomah Creek.”
“Really? Oh, I don’t think so at all. I wanted to, but how can you without sounds? I mean like the wind in the trees, and the way the little creeks sound rushing down the—”
“Of course, of course,” she said, “but we all think it’s so cute, the way you even used those bitty electrical bulbs for lighting. Now, you know Mrs. Appleman?”
I nodded. She was the sixth-grade teacher and pretty old.
“Well, she’s retiring and we thought it would be so special to give her something to remember Nekomah Creek by.”
“Yeah …?”
“So your project is the one we’ve chosen!”
I stared at her. “You want to give my diorama to Mrs. Appleman?”
“That’s right. Aren’t you proud?”
“Uh, I guess so, but …” I looked around. I wished Orin’s desk wasn’t so close. I lowered my voice. “I was planning to give it to my dad.”
“Oh, you can always make another one for him. And just think, this is quite an honor. We’ll give it to her at an all-school assembly.”
Mrs. Perkins was smiling at me like she never had before. Somehow I couldn’t look at her. I rubbed my shin with the heel of my other shoe.
“I have to admit,” she said, “I’m really proud it’s one of my students whose project was picked.”
I nodded, not knowing what else to do. Then I went back and dropped into my seat.
Maybe all this should have made me feel good, but it didn’t. Nice that the teachers liked my diorama, but taking it away from me didn’t seem like much of a reward.
And what would I do about a birthday present for Dad? I didn’t have time to make another diorama. Besides, anyone knows you can never do something like that the same way twice. Even if I could, I didn’t have any more of the lights from my robot costume to put in a new one.
I buried my face in my hands. If I had any guts I’d have told her to forget it. But I couldn’t do that, not the way things were. I had to stay on her good side.
“Oh, too bad,” Orin said to Darrel Miskowiec. “It was for his daddy.”
His voice was right at my ear now, close enough I could feel his breath. “If it’s for your dad,” he said, “how come you didn’t put him in it? You coulda stuck him out front of the house there in his apron, hanging up the laundry.”
“Shut up,” I muttered.
“Boo hoo,” Orin said. “Boo hoo.”
I felt something poking my arm. I moved my hand away from one eye.
“Here’s a little horsey to cheer you up,” Orin said. “Since you like girlie things so much.”
I stared. He was nudging me with a little lavender pony. It had a flowing mane and tail.
It wore a purple bridle studded with rhinestones.
“Orin Downard.” It was Mrs. Perkins. “Please get back in your seat and keep your hands to yourself.” Then she came around from behind her desk. “What’s that you’ve got there?”
Orin hid the horse behind his back. “Nothing.”
Wordlessly, she held out her hand.
“Just somebody’s stupid ‘My Little Pony,’ ” Orin said, giving it to her.
“Where’d you get this?”
Orin kept his eyes on the floor. “Amber Hixon’s desk.”
“You took it from her desk?”
“Well, she’s gone, ain’t she? Don’t look like she wants it.”
Mrs. Perkins held the little horse in her hands. She looked sad as she gave the flowing mane one long, thoughtful stroke. Then she turned on her heel.
“We’ll see Amber gets this,” she said, and put the pony in her desk drawer. “And you,” she said to Orin, “had best keep your hands off of other people’s things.”
Orin slid back into his desk, surprised that Mrs. Perkins seemed so upset about the toy horse.
Well, it upset me too, somehow. I kept thinking about that purple bridle, about those rhinestones …
14
Please Pass the Kazoos
“Great news!” Mom said when she burst in after work Friday night. She picked me up and swung me around. She hugged the babies. Then she threw herself at Dad.
“Galaxy Greetings accepted the card ideas I sent them!”
“They did? Beth, that’s terrific! That’s the big company in Ohio, right?”
“Uh huh, and listen to this.” She tossed her jacket on the sofa. “They want me to develop an entire line for them!”
“Well, hey!” Dad said. “This calls for a celebration.”
“You better believe it. We might be talking about a lot of money.”
“Sorry I don’t have any champagne on hand. Will this do?” He started pouring apple juice into wineglasses for everybody. We clinked them, even the babies, and Dad said, “To Mommy!”
“To Mommy!” I said.
“To Mommy, to Mommy,” Freddie and Lucy echoed.
Then Dad served up the pot roast.
“Do you all realize what this means?” Mom said. “I can stay home more, work in my studio. I’ve talked it over with Lynn. It’s okay with her if I only come into the shop two or three days a week.”
“I thought you wanted to work full time,” Dad said.
“So did I, but it’s been driving me crazy. I’m tired and I’m cranky and besides, I miss you guys.” She looked at Dad. “I didn’t go to all that trouble to have these kids just to miss out on all the fun stuff.”
Now everybody was in a good mood.
When Mom was all talked out about the greeting card business, Dad started telling about the stuff he’d bought for his gourmet dinner next week. His plan was to get everything ahead except for the things he had to buy fresh.
“I’m not worried about the food,” Mom said. “But what about the house? I think we need a week just to clean it up.”
I glanced around. Disaster City. Even by our standards, this was a real low. Toys, food crumbs, you name it—it was all over the floor. A lot of the stuff looked like it’d been in the garbage at least once already before somebody—two little somebodies, I should say—flung it out. One of my socks trailed down in front of the TV screen.
“It’s on my list.” Dad headed for the sink with his plate. “Tomorrow morning, major shovel-out.”
“Whatever you say,” Mom said, like she’d believe it when she saw it and not before. Then she went over and started cleaning up the kitchen.
Dad blew the animal crackers off the record player and put on Raffi. Then he kicked back the braided rug and some of the toys, passed out the kazoos and we started dancing around. Freddie blew shrieks from an old bicycle horn that had lost its rubber squeezer. When we got to our favorite number, “Let’s Make Some Noise,” we ripped into the pots and pans cupboard and started banging away, letting that calypso beat blast the whole house.
Dad led a screaming conga line past the kitchen sink, picked up a dish towel, and snapped Mom’s rear.
Now this is the sort of thing your mom might a
ctually kind of like if your dad does it, but don’t try it yourself. I did once and got a that’ll-be-the-last-time-for-that look.
What my dad gets from her is pretend mad with a twinkle in her eye.
“Forget the dishes!” he said now. “We’re celebrating!” He stuck the kazoo back in his mouth and grabbed her.
Then he broke away and put on the “William Tell Overture.” In his stocking feet, he started running across the room and sliding on the wood floor. We’d chase after him, trying to get the hang of it.
He’d get a long slide going, then pretend to crash into the wall, arms and legs flying. “Kerblam!”
Mom was laughing, but she kept saying, “Be careful!” and shutting her eyes like she couldn’t stand to look.
The babies thought Dad’s stunts were great. By the time the music got to the thunderstorm part, we were all totally whipped up.
Then I slipped and hit the wall.
“Will you please take it easy?” Mom said. “I’d hate to be trying to explain this at the emergency room. ‘Gee, officer, we were just teaching the kids how to slam into walls …’ ” She shook her head. “We’d get hauled in for child abuse so fast …”
Get hauled in … I stood up, shaky from more than the crash.
“Your mom’s right,” Dad said, winded. “We better calm down.” He started peeling out of his flannel shirt. “I’m hot!”
“Hot!” Freddie said.
“Hot!” Lucy peeled out of her shirt. Her hair stood up in tufts.
Freddie’s shirt got stuck on his head. He looked like Lawrence of Arabia.
Mom made a face at Dad’s T-shirt. “That should have been in the rag bag six months ago.”
Dad always wears his T-shirts until they have these big holes in them. This one was definitely a prime candidate for my favorite game.
“Mom?” I said with a hopeful look, glad to forget about police officers and school counselors.
Mom pretended to give this serious thought, then she said our special signal words. “Sure could use some new dust rags around here.”
“Yippee!”
Right then the Lone Ranger part of the music started. Dad took off. I followed.
“Now watch this,” I shouted to the babies over the music. “You gotta learn how we do this!”
Dad vaulted over the sofa and I scrambled after him. He was still making noises on the kazoo, trying not to laugh, his eyes wide, his red cheeks puffed out like a picture of the North Wind.