Taffy Sinclair 001 - The Against Taffy Sinclair Club

by Betsy Haynes

  Christie gave a disgusted look. "What are you really going to do?"

  I shrugged and sat down on a kitchen chair.

  "What if Mr. Neal finds out that it's lie?"

  "Could you get expelled for a thing like that?"

  "I'm sure glad that I'm not you."

  "We've got to go ahead and sell the brownies since we've already started making them."

  "Thanks a lot for cheering me up," I said. Looking embarrassed, all four of them turned around and quietly finished the brownies.

  Why is it that when you're looking forward to something, time takes forever to pass, but when it's something you don't want to happen, a whole day can go by in about half a minute? Before I knew it, it was time to go to bed. I lay there as long as I could, humming, reciting my multiplication tables, doing anything I could think of to keep myself awake because I knew that as soon as I closed my eyes it would be morning again. Doomsday.

  And sure enough, it was. I faced the breakfast table the way a condemned prisoner faces his last meal, and I had the awful feeling that the two eggs on my plate were staring at me. Even they probably knew that I hadn't spent my summer vacation out west.

  I had given up trying to figure out what to do. What I really wanted to do was to run away, but there was no place to go. I didn't have any money so I couldn't check into a hotel. My grandmother in Morristown, New Jersey, is the world's greatest worrier, so I couldn't go there. She'd be sure to turn me in.

  I even thought of hitchhiking to Poughkeepsie, where my father lives. That was the plan I liked best, but I couldn't make up my mind whether to barge right in on him or to shadow him for a few days and peek in his windows at him until I knew him a little better.

  When I was a lot younger I used to make up stories about what he was like. You see, when you don't really know someone, you can do a thing like that. You can make the person into anything you want him to be. Mostly I made my father into a spy who couldn't reveal his true identity even to Mom and me because he was constantly in mortal danger and didn't want us to be in danger, too. That was why he couldn't write much or even come to see me. The story always had a happy ending, though. He would retire from being a spy and come to live with us and tell us all about his adventures and show us his souvenirs and things.

  But deep down I always knew it wasn't really true, just the way, deep down, I knew I wasn't going to run away. Not even to Poughkeepsie.

  All through breakfast Mom kept chirping away about what a beautiful morning it was and how I'd better hurry so that I'd have time to enjoy my walk to school, but I waited as long as I could to leave. I stuffed my books into my book bag and almost forgot my share of the brownies, which I had stashed under my bed.

  All the way to school I kept thinking about what it would be like when Mrs. Lockwood delivered the school newspaper to our room and everybody read my essay. Mrs. Lockwood is sort of flighty and goes off on tangents a lot, so we never know exactly what time she'll bring the papers around. Anyway, you can always tell when she's coming before she gets there. She wears these clicky shoes and she walks fast, sort of skipping, so that it sounds as though she's tap-dancing up the hall. You can hear her a mile away.

  When I got to school I ducked into the girl's bathroom, partly because I didn't want to face anyone, not even my friends, and partly because I felt as if I were going to throw up. I went into one of the stalls and leaned against the door. It was made of metal and felt cool through my blouse.

  Pretty soon the first bell rang. I knew that if I was going to do anything, like run away, I only had five more minutes. After that, it would be too late.

  I closed my eyes, and a picture of Taffy Sinclair bobbed into my mind. She was holding the school newspaper and laughing like crazy. She almost never smiles big or laughs like that because she has one crooked bicuspid, which she doesn't like people to see. But there she was, laughing away, crooked bicuspid and all.

  I nearly shot over the top of the stall when the final bell rang. I knew I was jumpy, but that had really been a fast five minutes. My doom was sealed now, I would have to go to my room.

  Out in the hall everybody was tearing around and banging lockers and racing for their classes. Everybody but me. It would have taken a calendar to time me. The hall was quiet by the time I finally got to the fifth-grade room, and Mr. Neal was already taking the roll.

  I sort of melted down into my seat, trying not to be any more noticeable than I had to be. Mr. Neal kept on taking the roll. Naturally everybody in the whole fifth grade was present.

  Melanie passed me a note asking if I'd remembered to bring my share of the brownies. The thought of brownies made me gag, but I nodded to her that I had. All my friends gave me sympathetic looks. I knew they felt sorry for me, but it didn't help one bit.

  The first period of the day is always history. Usually I'm glad it's first because it's so dull and boring and I like to get it over with for the day, but today I almost couldn't stand it. We were studying the Battle of Fredricksburg in the Civil War. I sat there wishing that I had been in the Civil War, even the Battle of Fredricksburg, because if I had I'd be dead by now and wouldn't have to worry about anybody reading my essay.

  History period went on and on forever. I didn't think it would ever end. Once I thought I heard Mrs. Lockwood's clicky shoes in the hall, but it must have been something else. Finally it was ten o'clock, time to put away the history books.

  The next period was reading. Mr. Neal announced that today we would have free reading and a cheer went up from the class. Everybody likes free reading because you can write notes and stuff if you're careful while you pretend you're really absorbed in a book.

  I went back to the bookshelves in the reading center and took Cowslip off the shelf. I picked Cowslip because I had already read it three times and practically knew it by heart. That way if Mr. Neal asked questions about what we had read, which he does sometimes, I would be sure to know the answers.

  I slouched down into my seat and propped the book up in front of me so that Mr. Neal couldn't see my face. That way I wouldn't have to make my eyes go back and forth as if I were really reading. All I had to do was remember to turn the page once in a while.

  I closed my eyes and listened as hard as I could for Mrs. Lockwood's clicky shoes. I believe that a person can hear better with her eyes closed because she isn't distracted by all the things she sees. I explained this theory to my fourth-grade teacher once when she caught me with my eyes closed and thought I was sleeping, but I wasn't able to convince her. I've been careful about practicing my theory ever since, and so I opened one eye every few minutes to make sure Mr. Neal wasn't standing over my desk looking at me or something. I listened as hard as I could for the whole hour. I heard kids' feet scraping back and forth under their desks. I heard kids sharpening their pencils. I heard Beth Barry blowing her nose. I even heard pages being turned. But I didn't hear Mrs. Lockwood's clicky shoes.

  On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays we go to the music room at eleven. Our music teacher is Miss Crocker, only we're suppose to call her Ms. Crocker. She must weigh three hundred pounds, and when she plays a fast song on the piano the fat on the underside of her arms flops like crazy. It's really something to see. She sits on the piano bench with her back to the class playing and singing her head off. Sometimes she gets so carried away that she doesn't know the kids are fooling around instead of singing with her. Once a boy named Joey Roberts slipped out of the music room and sneaked all the way to a grocery store across the street from the school. He bought a big bag of cheese popcorn, which he brought back and shared with the whole class. Ms. Crocker didn't see a thing. She just kept right on playing and singing "When The Saints Go Marching In." You'd have thought she would at least have smelled the popcorn.

  The worst thing about being in the music room is that with all that racket it's almost impossible to hear anything going on in the hall. I tried to get a seat near the door so that I could hear better, but a bunch of boys beat me out. They alw
ays sit by the door since Music is the last period before lunch and they like to go tearing out when the bell rings so that they can be first in line at the cafeteria. I found a seat as close to the door as I could and pretended not to notice that my friends had saved me a place near the front and were waving like mad for me to come up there.

  As long as things were quiet, I was pretty calm. But as soon as Ms. Crocker started playing "This Old Man" I panicked. Mrs. Lockwood could burst in on us any minute and I wouldn't be prepared.

  By the fourth chorus I couldn't stand it any longer, and I got up and went to the door. I put my ear against it but all I could hear was the music, so I opened it a crack. Thank goodness the hall was empty. Mrs. Lockwood wasn't clicking yet. I slipped back into my seat just as the song was over and Ms. Crocker turned around. So far, my luck was holding out.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  When the lunch bell rang everybody piled into the cafeteria. The hot-lunch kids were grabbing trays and lining up by the steam tables. Mom is always raving that I should have a hot lunch instead of taking a cream-cheese-and-jelly-sandwich every day. She wouldn't say that if she had ever tasted the cafeteria food. Today, for instance, they were serving Alpo. That's what we kids call the corned-beef hash. Christie Winchell has a dog, and she tasted Alpo once. She says it tastes better than the corned-beef hash the school serves.

  Anyway, since I got out of the music room ahead of my friends, I got to the cafeteria first, too, and got us a super table in the corner by a window. I felt pretty relieved as I sat down. At least Mrs. Lockwood hadn't delivered the newspapers before it was time to sell the brownies. I was really thankful for that.

  While I was watching for my friends, Taffy Sinclair came into the cafeteria and got into the Alpo line. Mona Vaughn was tagging along behind her. Finally Christie, Melanie, and Beth came in and plopped their lunch sacks down on the table.

  "Where's Katie?" I asked.

  "She had to go back to Mr. Neal's room," said Melanie. "I guess she must have forgotten something."

  "Katie forgot something?" I said. "You've got to be kidding."

  A minute later Katie stepped inside the cafeteria door. She was really loaded down. Besides her lunch, she had her book bag and a huge piece of cardboard with brown grocery sacks Scotch-taped all over one side. She put everything down on the table nearest the door and started looking around for the rest of us. As soon as she saw us she started frowning and motioning like crazy for us to go to where she was.

  We all frowned and shook our heads and waved for her to come where we were. The table nearest the door is the worst one in the whole cafeteria and always the last one anyone sits at. The reason is that there is a large trash can right next to it where kids throw away their lunch sacks, milk cartons, and half-eaten sandwiches as they leave. That wouldn't be so bad except that lots of kids think that they're Wilt the Stilt and pitch their stuff from the middle of the room. Only about half of it hits the trash can, and most of the time at least some of it lands on that table. A person would have to be crazy to want to sit there.

  When she saw that we weren't going to budge, she left her stuff on the table and came storming over to us.

  "What are you doing in this corner?" she demanded. "We've got to be by the door if we are going to sell any brownies. We have to display our merchandise where everyone can see it, and every single person has to pass that table to get out of this cafeteria."

  There was no arguing with Katie. Besides we all knew she was right. With a large groan we gathered up our sandwiches, sacks, and junk and followed her to the table by the door. You would have thought that she was leading an army into battle, and she started giving orders before any of us could sit down.

  "Don't anybody take a bite," she said. "Some kids have already finished eating. We've got to get our merchandise out where they can see it, and we've got to do it in a hurry."

  Swell, I thought. I was beginning to feel faint with hunger and my stomach sounded like a thunderstorm, but I got out my share of the "merchandise" and shoved it across the table toward Katie.

  Everybody else did the same thing, but Katie was too busy to pay much attention. She was ripping the grocery sacks off the big piece of cardboard. It turned out to be a sign. In big red letters she had written, "Homemade Brownies for Sale—15¢." Underneath that was a big brown glob, which I guess was supposed to look like a brownie. Even if the artwork wasn't so hot, I had to admit that having a sign was a pretty smart thing.

  Katie propped the sign up against the table and then hit us with another bombshell. "Did everybody bring some change?"

  "Change?" asked Beth.

  "Hey, that's a good idea," said Melanie.

  "Of course it's a good idea," said Katie in a really disgusted voice. She opened her book bag and pulled out an empty egg carton and a change purse and began separating pennies, nickels, and dimes into different sections of the carton. "I brought fifty-eight cents out of my bank to help us get started."

  The rest of us looked at each other sheepishly. I could just picture Katie Shannon as the president of her own company someday. She'll probably run the whole thing singlehandedly. Of course her company won't make brownies. She'll probably own a refinery and make motor oil or something. There was no doubt about it, though, Katie was the real brains in our club. I was just about to tell her so when she started in again.

  "If women are going to take their rightful place in society, they're going to have to be more organized and take a more businesslike approach. Women are going to have to learn—"

  Just then Clarence Marshall spotted our sign and started to shout. "Hey, look, everybody! Brownies! They're selling brownies!"

  You would have thought that he had announced free samples from the United States Mint. Suddenly we were swamped with kids. They were swarming around us and dropping money onto the table and grabbing brownies as fast as they could. One sixth-grade boy even tried to buy my cream-cheese-and-jelly sandwich. I wouldn't have sold it to him for five dollars. I was practically starved.

  Mona Vaughn bought two brownies. Out of the corner of my eye I could see her giving one of them to Taffy Sinclair. Taffy looked at it for a minute as if she thought it might be poison, but then she took a bite. I couldn't help but grin. Taffy would die if she knew what that money was going for.

  We were out of brownies in just about half a minute, or at least it seemed that fast. We could have sold twice as many if we'd had them. Lots of kids were really mad that they didn't get one. We didn't care. From the looks of that egg carton we had plenty of money for the Milo Venus Bust Developer. We were so happy that we started giggling and hopping around and making so much racket that the lunchroom monitor had to ask us to settle down. We cleaned up the crumbs and pitched the sign into the trash can and finally sat down to eat.

  Just as I took a big, delicious bite of my cream-cheese-and-jelly sandwich, I heard Katie yelp. A big fat apple core was lying right on top of her baloney sandwich. I winced. Somebody had missed the trash can again. I ducked my head. I couldn't look at her. I knew I'd have that "I told you so" look on my face if I did. I sneaked a look at Melanie, Beth, and Christie. They weren't looking at her either.

  We just barely had finished eating when the bell rang. My heart nearly stopped. I had been having such a good time selling brownies that I had forgotten all about my essay and the school newspaper. Now it was time for math class, time to start listening for Mrs. Lockwood's clicky shoes again. Maybe she wouldn't get around to passing out the papers until late in the afternoon, just before it was time to go home, and the kids wouldn't have time to read them before they left school. It was too good to hope for, but I hoped it anyway. I hoped it all the way back to the fifth-grade room.

  Just as I was getting interested in the math lesson, which was the most relaxed I'd been in class all day, I heard them. I listened hard to be sure. It was them, all right. Mrs. Lockwood's clicky shoes. She was still a long way away, down at the other end of the hall. She was coming, though. There
was no doubt about it. Zero hour was almost here.

  Suddenly I started going numb. My arms and legs felt as though they were floating off in space. I touched my nose. At least I still had feeling there. The clicking stopped. She had probably gone into another classroom. Maybe she would stay in there and talk to the teacher for a while. Maybe the door would get stuck and she wouldn't be able to get out and they would have to call the custodian to take the door off the hinges. You could never find him when you needed him, so that could take all day.

  No such luck. She was clicking again. Was I going crazy? She was double-clicking this time! No, she wasn't. It was Mr. Neal writing a problem on the blackboard. She was in another classroom. She hardly stayed there long enough to hand the papers to the teacher. She must have pitched them in the door and run. The clicking was getting louder. It didn't sound so much like tap-dancing today. It sounded more like machine-gun fire.

  I cleared my throat and tried to concentrate on the problem on the board. Mr. Neal was explaining it, but his voice sounded far away, and I couldn't understand the words.

  Then the door opened, and Mrs. Lockwood came bouncing in. She had an armload of papers, and she gave me a big grin when she passed by. She sort of tipped the papers and pointed to my name right there on the front page.

  My stomach began doing flip-flops, and I had a puckery feeling in the back of my mouth. I started to raise my hand to ask to leave the room. I didn't even care if Mr. Neal thought I had to go to the bathroom. My lunch was rising toward my throat. I knew I didn't have time to raise my hand, so I just stood up and raced for the door. My lunch was racing, too, and the door was still five miles away. I knew I couldn't make it. That awful taste was in my mouth. I stopped, and then I threw up on my shoes.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The school nurse let me lie down on a cot while she called Mom at the newspaper to come for me. Then she excused herself, saying that if I'd be all right alone she would take care of some things in another part of the school. I don't think she really had anything else to do. I think she couldn't stand the way my sneakers smelled.