by Betsy Haynes
I really felt sort of important lying there in spite of the fact that I had just thrown up in front of Mr. Neal, Mrs. Lockwood, and the whole fifth-grade class. The truth is that I've never broken any records or done much to distinguish myself unless you count my third-grade napkin. Mom says that I'm probably the only kid in the world who carried the same paper napkin in her lunch box for an entire school year and never got so much as a smudge on it. But then nobody but Mom and me ever knew about that.
Still, I guess I was glad to be in the nurse's office because I knew that at that very moment everybody was reading my essay.
All the same, but I couldn't stay there for the rest of my life, and I had started getting antsy when Mom walked in wearing her "worried-mother" look. She felt my forehead and cheeks about every two seconds while she waited for the nurse to get back.
I was feeling perfectly fine by the time we got home, but I didn't let on. Mom might have sent me back to school. Instead, I pretended to feel awful, and I got my pajamas on and went to bed as soon as I could. Mom got out the thermometer and the Pepto Bismol, and I let her go through her hospital routine and then told her that I was sleepy. She said that sleep would do me more good than anything and that she'd go make some Jello. She always feeds me Jello when I'm sick.
The moment my bedroom door closed, I sat up. What in the world was I going to do? Throwing up in school had only made things worse. How had I gotten myself into such an embarrassing situation?
I was sorry that I had asked myself that question. The answer was too terrible to be true. If he hadn't invited me on a two-week vacation out west, none of this would have happened. I wouldn't have written that stupid essay and gotten so nervous that I'd thrown up in front of the whole fifth-grade class.
It was probably his fault that I was flat-chested, too. Probably all the women in his family clear back to prehistoric times had been flat-chested. Mom wasn't flat-chested. Poor Mom. I almost cried, thinking of her out there in the kitchen making Jello for me and taking care of me all by herself. I could sure see now whose fault it was that they got a divorce. I didn't know why she always told me he was so great. Maybe she didn't want me to know the awful truth.
I knew that I had to do something. I couldn't just let my father get away with a thing like that. If I didn't do something, he'd go on forever thinking that he had me fooled. But what could I do?
Then I got this great idea. I knew that I was a pretty good writer. Hadn't I written the best essay in the whole fifth grade? I'd write him a letter, and in it I'd tell him about all the humiliation and misery that he had caused. It would be a masterpiece, even better than my essay. When he read it, he would feel terrible. Maybe he would even cry. And he would call me up long distance to tell me how bad he felt and say that he was going to make it up to Mom and me.
I tiptoed to my desk and got my stationery and a pen and then crawled back into bed. I remembered what a hard time I'd had starting that letter to him before and how I had sealed it without going back and putting the "Dear" part in. I knew exactly how I wanted to start this one. I could already see the words inside my head, and I began to write as fast as I could so that I wouldn't forget anything before I got it all down on paper.
"I can't start this letter 'Dear Father' because you've never been much of a father to me, and after all the trouble you've caused, I don't think you're very dear!"
I went on to tell him how Mom had always said that he was a super person, but that now I knew the truth. I told him how disappointed I had been not to go on a two-week vacation out west after he had asked me to go and about my essay and about throwing up on my shoes. I wrote on and on until I had three pages. Surely now he would see what he had done.
I sealed the envelope and flopped back onto my pillow. I was exhausted, but there was one more thing that I had to do. I had to talk to Mom. I knew she'd feel better when she understood that I already knew the truth about my father. I lay there and practiced a speech for a while. It sounded pretty good in my head.
She came in later to check on me, but I pretended that I was still asleep. I hadn't finished practicing my speech. I couldn't take a chance on goofing it up.
Finally I got so hungry that I couldn't lie there any longer, and I got up and went into the kitchen to see if the Jello was set. It wasn't. Mom said I could have some tea and crackers because they were good for an upset stomach, too.
Tea and crackers were just about the last thing I wanted. I had seen some leftover spaghetti when I opened the refrigerator to check the Jello. I could have gobbled that spaghetti down in just about half a second, even cold, but I knew that I had to play the role.
Mom started making the tea, taking care of me again, and I decided that the time had come. "Mom," I said.
"Hmmm?" she said without taking her eyes off what she was doing. She said it the way she does sometimes when she isn't really listening.
I swallowed hard and tried to remember my speech. I had been whispering it to myself for more than an hour, but my mind was blank. What was the matter with me? I couldn't even remember how it started. I looked at Mom. She was stirring the tea as if there were nothing more important in the world.
"Thanks," I said before she had even handed me the cup. It was the only thing I could think of to say.
She smiled and went to the refrigerator, and right before my eyes she got out the leftover spaghetti. "I haven't had any lunch yet so I think I'll warm this up," she said. "I hope the smell won't upset your stomach again."
I knew it would be torture to sit there and watch her eat spaghetti, so I grabbed a handful of crackers.
"I'll go back to my room just in case," I said.
As soon as I closed my bedroom door, my speech came bobbing back into my head. I started to go back to the kitchen to say it before I forgot it again, but the thought of that spaghetti changed my mind. Instead, I went to my desk and wrote it down as fast as I could. I folded the paper and stuffed it into my pajama pocket.
Tonight, I promised myself. At suppertime.
I must have checked that pocket sixteen times before I went into the kitchen for supper. The paper was still there.
Mom had made macaroni and cheese for me because she said that would be easy on my stomach. I tried not to eat too fast so she wouldn't get suspicious, but it sure tasted good. Even the Jello tasted good.
When I knew Mom wasn't looking, I slipped the paper with my speech on it out of my pocket and laid it on the paper napkin in my lap. I unfolded it and read it over a couple of times. This time it wouldn't matter if I forgot it. I'd have it right there in front of me.
Mom usually has a cup of coffee after supper. I decided that that would be the best time to talk to her. She's usually pretty relaxed then.
I was beginning to think Mom was going to eat all night. I don't remember her ever eating that slowly before. Finally she got up to pour herself a cup of coffee. Just as she did, the phone rang, and she went into the living room to answer it.
"Jana. It's for you," she said. "I think it's Beth." What a time for her to call. Beth is so long-winded that I supposed Mom would already be in bed before she hung up. I wrapped my napkin around the piece of paper with my speech on it and left it in my chair.
"Hello," I said weakly. Maybe if I sounded really sick, she wouldn't talk so long.
"Jana, no matter how sick you are, don't say anything, just listen."
All I needed was another crisis. I closed my eyes and clutched the receiver, waiting for the blow to strike.
"Taffy Sinclair is up to something."
"What?" I asked.
"I don't know, but I'm sure she's up to something."
"Well, what did she do?"
"She didn't do anything . . . yet."
"Then how do you know that she's up to something?"
"Well, it's hard to explain."
"Try," I said. I was beginning to get a little bit tired of the whole conversation.
"It's just that all afternoon she's had this funny
look on her face every time she looks at one of us. It's as if she has some secret plan, or something."
"She knows that my essay is a lie, and she's going to tell Mr. Neal!" I cried.
There was silence for a moment. "Yeah," said Beth. "That's what I was thinking, too."
I was going to be exposed. I knew it. Through the door to the kitchen I could see that Mom was clearing the supper table. She picked up the paper napkin in my chair and threw it into the wastebasket. There went my speech. But that could wait. I had more important problems now.
"What are you going to do?" moaned Beth.
"I don't know," I said. "Do you think she's already told him?"
"No. She's waiting. You can tell by that look on her face. She's waiting for something."
Tingles raced up and down my back. "She's waiting for me to come back to school. That's what she's waiting for. Then she's going to raise her hand and tell him out loud in front of me and the whole fifth-grade class."
There was another pause. "Yeah," said Beth again. "That's what I was thinking, too."
"Well, one thing's certain. I've got to figure out what to do by morning. I know Mom won't let me stay home another day."
"What's the matter with you, anyway?" Beth asked.
"Nothing. I just got nervous about my essay. Mom doesn't know that, though. She thinks I've got the flu or something."
"If I get any ideas, I'll call you," Beth offered.
"Thanks," I said. "What did the other kids think of my essay? Do you think anybody else knew it was a lie?"
"Naw. Everybody was saying how great it was. Hey, I almost forgot. All my news isn't dismal. We made enough money selling brownies to order the Milo Venus Bust Developer and give Katie back her fifty-eight cents."
"Swell," I said halfheartedly. It didn't seem quite so important now.
"I filled out the order blank as soon as I got home, and I'm going to mail it on my way to school in the morning. There's just one more thing."
"What?" I said, almost afraid to ask.
"I ordered it in your name since your mother is never home and you get the mail. We can't take any chances on our parents' finding out about it."
"Good idea," I said. At least there was something in my life to look forward to.
I hung up the phone and had just barely gotten back into bed when Mom came into my room. She had the thermometer and the Pepto Bismol again. I acted as weak and sickly as I could just in case she might decide that I needed to stay home from school for another day. I really felt like a rat faking and worrying Mom but I needed all the time I could get.
Mom looked at the thermometer and smiled. Then, as if she had read my mind, she said, "I'm sure you'll be able to go back to school tomorrow. Your temperature has stayed normal all day."
She kissed me good night and said to call her if I needed anything. Then she tiptoed out of the room and closed the door.
I was glad I wasn't very sleepy. I would have to stay awake until I thought of a way to stop Taffy Sinclair, even if it took all night. My mind was blank. I got out of bed and touched my toes six times. Maybe if I pumped some fresh blood up to my brain it would help.
Nothing happened for a while. I was beginning to think it hadn't worked, but then I got this great idea. I would go to Mr. Neal myself and confess. I would appeal to his sympathy. He had such kind eyes. I knew he was a sympathetic person. I would tell him how we were too poor to go on a vacation and how I had spent the summer all alone in our apartment while my mother worked to keep food on the table. I wouldn't tell him about my father. I would just say that I had always dreamed of going on a two-week vacation out west and that was why I had made up that story for my essay.
He would understand. I knew he would. And he would feel sorry for me, and then when Taffy Sinclair told him that my essay was a lie, he would see her for the mean, spiteful person she really is.
It was going to be so easy that I wouldn't even need to practice a speech, so I snuggled down into my covers and went to sleep.
CHAPTER NINE
The next morning I watched Mom write a note to Mr. Neal saying that I had been absent on Wednesday because of illness, and I thought how silly some rules can be. Mr. Neal knew I had been absent because of illness. He had seen me throw up.
But rules are rules, and since I had left school the day before in too big a hurry to bring my book bag, I stuck the note in my jacket pocket along with the letter to my father and headed for school. I could hardly wait to get there and put my plan to work. I had decided to go straight to the fifth-grade room and confess to Mr. Neal before the bell rang. Taffy Sinclair was doomed.
I hurried to school as fast as I could. I only stopped once and that was to mail the letter. I even ran the last two blocks. I was huffing and puffing so hard that I was almost to the playground before I noticed who was standing beside the gate. It was Taffy Sinclair, and she seemed to be waiting for somebody. Waiting. That was the word Beth had used. She had said that Taffy Sinclair looked as if she were waiting for something. I had the awful feeling that it was somebody instead of something, and that the somebody was me.
"Hello, Jana," Taffy said. She was using that icky-sweet voice that she used when she talked to Mr. Neal.
"Hi," I said. What could she possibly want to talk to me about? It could be only one thing. She was going to say she had already told Mr. Neal the truth about my essay. I could feel my ears turning red.
"That was really a super essay you wrote. I didn't realize that you had such an exciting summer."
Here it comes, I thought. The bomb. "Thanks," I mumbled, and started through the gate. I had to get out of there. I couldn't give her the satisfaction of telling me what she had done.
"Oh, by the way. I found something of yours," she said.
I stopped dead in my tracks and turned around. My heart felt as though somebody had hold of it and were squeezing it. "What?" I asked.
She waited a minute before she answered. Then she shrugged and said, "Oh, just a notebook."
I thought I'd die. There was only one notebook in the whole wide world that Taffy Sinclair would make a big deal over finding. She had found my Against Taffy Sinclair Club notebook with all the awful things about her in the front and my bust measurements in the back. Maybe she had even stolen it out of my book bag while I was absent from school.
But the worst was still to come. "I found it yesterday after you had gone home sick. I didn't know when you'd be coming back, so I gave it to Mr. Neal for safekeeping."
I couldn't believe what I had just heard. I couldn't believe that anybody could do a thing like that. Not even Taffy Sinclair. But she had done it, all right, and she was enjoying my misery. She was just standing there grinning. She was grinning so wide that I could almost see her crooked bicuspid.
My knees felt as if they were going to buckle. That would be the very last straw—if they buckled in front of Taffy Sinclair. "Thanks," I said in a shaky voice.
I left her standing there beside the gate with that stupid grin on her face, and hurried toward the school. On the front steps I stopped. What was I doing? I couldn't go in and confess to Mr. Neal now, not now when he had seen my Against Taffy Sinclair Club notebook. It was bad enough that Taffy had seen it, but Mr. Neal! How was I ever going to face him?
I tried not to imagine Mr. Neal looking inside my notebook, but the picture in my mind wouldn't go away. I could just see him thanking Taffy for being so considerate and then casually flipping open the cover expecting to see math problems or something like that inside. Of course he would read it when he saw what it really was. Then he would frown, which he hardly ever does, and think what a dreadful person I am. And he would think that I was jealous of Taffy because she's so pretty and that I was picking on her and being mean and spiteful.
But then he could never see her for what she really was in a million years. He was too blinded by her beauty.
The pictures kept on rolling through my brain like a runaway movie. The harder I tried to st
op them, the faster they came. I held my breath as he turned to the last page, where my bust measurements were written. Surely he wouldn't laugh. Not Mr. Neal.
"Oh, Jana. There you are. I've been looking all over for you," said Beth. Her words stopped the pictures like a director calling "Cut!" "What's the matter? You look like you just saw a ghost."
"I just saw Taffy Sinclair."
"Bad, huh?"
"Worse than we thought. She found my Against Taffy Sinclair Club notebook . . . or stole it."
"What!" shrieked Beth.
"That's only half of it," I said. Then in a high-pitched voice imitating Taffy, I cooed, "I didn't know when you were coming back, so I gave it to Mr. Neal for safekeeping."
Beth was speechless, which she hardly ever is. In fact, I can't remember even one other time. She stood there with her mouth open staring at me for a full two minutes. "She what?"
"You heard me. What am I going to do? How am I going to face Mr. Neal?"
"How are you going to face Mr. Neal? How am I going to face Mr. Neal? How are any of us going to face Mr. Neal? All of our names are in that notebook!"
I hadn't thought of that before. All of our names were in the book. Secretly, I felt a little relieved that I wasn't completely on my own, but I couldn't say that to Beth. Besides, my bust measurements were the only ones there, and that was the most embarrassing thing of all.
"At least you didn't throw up in front of him yesterday," I said.
Beth gave me a semi-sympathetic look and sighed.
Just then the first bell rang. When we went in, Mr. Neal was rummaging around in the top drawer of his desk and not paying the slightest bit of attention to the students. I took a deep breath, dropped the note from my mother on the corner of his desk, and scooted to my seat.
He hadn't looked up. So far, so good. I tore a sheet of paper out of the spelling section of my spiral notebook and scrawled a quick explanation of the notebook situation on it. I handed it across the aisle to Melanie, who turned white and quivery when she read it. Christie reacted pretty much the same way. Only Katie shrugged as if it didn't matter, but after that she slouched down in her seat behind Clarence Marshall.