Your friend,
Gilbert
Dear Bess,
Gilbert and I took the boat out after school today. There was a stiff breeze from the south. The first time we tacked I called, “Ready about!” and he leaned over and tried to kiss me. The boom swung around and smacked us both into the water.
I bobbed up for air and spit out the water in my mouth. I screamed at him, “I told you the first rule is No Kissing!”
“No you didn’t,” he said. “You said the first rule is No Slobbering.” And then he spit a long stream of water at me through his braces.
He’s got nerve.
We climbed back aboard and tried again. The next time we went about he leaned too far over and we capsized. Good thing the water isn’t cold yet. I spent the whole afternoon soaking wet.
“You’re the worst crew who was ever born,” I told him. I was clinging to the hull of Swifty, trying to figure out how we were going to push her right again.
“I think you’re cute,” Gilbert said.
That’s his answer to everything.
Webby and Henry sped by on the Hot Streak. They saw Swifty bobbing upside down in the water and pointed and laughed at us as they zoomed by.
“Wow, they’re really going fast,” Gilbert said. “I don’t see how we’ll ever beat them.”
I wanted to leave him floating in his life jacket out in the middle of the inlet and let him swim to shore by himself. I GUESS he knows how to swim. But I needed him to help me tow Swifty back to the dock so we could bail her out and set her right again.
I have a bad feeling about this, Bess. I’m telling you.
Wish you were here,
Claire
Dear Bess,
Everyone kept saying I’d get used to being the only girl in school. “Give it a few weeks,” they said. “After a while you won’t even notice the difference between you and the boys.”
It’s been over a month, and I still notice the difference. I hear the boys horsing around without me in their locker room after gym. They have all these in-jokes and signals that I don’t understand. Say Zach M. makes a V with his fingers and points it at Webby and Webby nods meaningfully. If I ask, “What does that mean?” they laugh and say, “It’s a guy thing.”
Except that, whatever it is, I’m pretty sure it’s not a guy thing. Probably it’s just a stupid thing.
I miss you more than ever. I wear the Neptune necklace you gave me every day. It’s great writing to you and video-chatting but I wish you were here to live through these school days with me. I wish you were here so you would know exactly how I feel and exactly what I’m talking about. Sometimes Jim says I’m whining, like, “So you’re the only girl, what’s the big deal? Boys are more fun anyway.”
Sometimes I hate Jim.
I’M LONELY and I MISS YOU. And I’M MAD. Because the one thing I had for myself, my one safe place in the whole school, was our bathroom clubhouse. Every day I draw on the wall, a little scene of something that happened to me.
But now somebody’s invaded our clubhouse!
I was out sick yesterday, and today when I got to school I went to the clubhouse first thing. I felt right away that something was wrong. I scanned the room until I spotted it.
Somebody had drawn something on the wall! With markers.
Permanent markers.
It wasn’t a good drawing either. It was kind of a cartoon of me—you could tell it was me because, first of all, it was a girl, so who else could it be? She was wearing the Foyes Island soccer uniform, and she had a long brown braid like mine. Without the braid, actually, you could hardly tell it was a person. It might have been a cat. That’s how bad the drawing was.
So what? you might say. So someone drew a picture of you in your soccer uniform. That doesn’t sound so bad.
I know. But that’s not all. The picture showed me falling down in a big muddle puddle. With an action bubble that said SPLAT! Which is exactly what happened on the first day of soccer practice. I drew my own version of it! I’m not sure the invader even noticed that. Mine didn’t say SPLAT! though.
It’s humiliating. And it is not what really happened that day.
Webby is the one who tripped me. That’s why I’m 99.99999% sure WEBBY is the one who broke into the girls’ bathroom and drew on my wall!!!!
I HATE WEBBY!!!!!!!!!!
I told Mr. Unitas that some boy went into the girls’ bathroom and drew on the wall.
“How do you know it wasn’t a girl?” he asked.
I stared at him for a second and he took it back.
“My mistake.” Then he couldn’t help it. He just had to add, “Maybe it was Smuggler Joe!”
I gave him a look, like, Don’t toy with me.
“Well, who do you think did it?” he asked, more serious now.
“I have a theory but I don’t know for sure.”
“I don’t want to hear your theories. But if you have any proof do let me know.”
I said I’d get back to him.
I’m going to set a trap in the bathroom and catch Webby in the act. And then I’m going to get my revenge. I’m researching bathroom traps right now. I’ll let you know when I figure out how to do it.
LT,
Claire
Well, Bess, today was the day. Regatta Day. I could tell you how I finished the race now and save you the suspense. I know how you hate being kept in suspense. But I’m not going to spare you! No. Bwa ha ha! You have to read through this entire thing to find out what happened! Trust me, it’s better that way.
Yesterday I scrubbed Swifty’s hull till it sparkled, then I went to bed early for a good night’s sleep. I made sure to wear the Neptune necklace you gave me for good luck.
This morning I woke up early. Bruno woke me, licking my face till I sat up. I think he was afraid I’d oversleep and miss the race.
It was dark out, with big gray clouds looming over the horizon and a stiff easterly breeze. One of those days that feel like a storm’s coming all day long. It doesn’t come and it doesn’t come and the tension builds up and you’re just waiting for it. Then finally it comes, the clouds open up or a bolt of lightning splits them open and everybody runs for cover.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
I went into the kitchen and poured myself some cereal. Dad came in a little while later and started making pancakes. We were all racing, except Gabe. Dad was crewing for Uncle Eddie on the 14, and Jim was crewing for Mom.
You know what race day is like at our house. Everybody was quiet. The only sound in the kitchen was chewing. Even Bruno chewed. I think chewing is a gross sound—smack smack smack—so I tried not to listen. When Dad got up to clear the table he said, “You ready for your race today, Claire?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I said gloomily. I didn’t feel ready at all.
“You, Tessie?” Dad asked Mom.
“We’re good and ready,” she answered. “You and Eddie better watch yourselves.”
Mom patted Jim on the back.
“Long as somebody beats Lloyd Peterson,” Dad said.
“And Webby,” I chimed in.
My dad nodded. “Both father and son. They’re going down. I don’t care who takes them down, as long as they don’t win this thing.”
Mom laughed. “I know you, John Warren. You want to win bad as ever. You want to beat all of us. Even your own wife and son.”
“All right, I admit it. I want to beat the pants off you two. But I do hope you’ll come in second. Does that make you feel better?”
“I’ll wave to you from the finish line, Dad,” Jim said.
“Son, your mom’s a crack sailor, but I know all her tricks.”
“I know all yours too, John,” Mom pointed out.
“Not all of them. Claire, you show that Peterson boy what the Warrens are made of.”
“I’ll do my best, Dad,” I promised.
What else could I say? With Gilbert as my crew, I figured we had no chance. Okay, a tiny chance. But
only if he didn’t punch a hole in the bottom of the boat or steer us to China. Which he was 98.8% likely to do.
Dad loaded Swifty onto his trailer and we piled into the car and drove to the marina. Oxford Road was a parade of cars and pickups, all headed to the inlet. People were hanging out the car windows, yelling and hooting and hollering.
Gilbert was waiting for me in the junior clubhouse. He handed me a plastic cup full of some kind of thick green liquid.
“What is this gunk?” I asked him.
“Kale smoothie,” he said. “For energy. Drink up.”
“No way.” I almost tossed the drink on the ground and threw the cup away. But then I pictured how it would look like an alien had barfed on the parking lot. Plus, I sensed I would need the extra energy. I wasn’t dying to drink alien barf, but I shut my eyes, tilted my head back, and gulped it down quick before I could taste it.
Yeee-ech.
When I opened my eyes, Gilbert was grinning hopefully at me. “Not bad, right?”
“Not good,” I said. “Come on. Let’s go.” Gilbert helped me and Dad pull Swifty to the launch. We rigged her up.
There were eight boats competing in the twelve-and-unders this year. Webby’s tough but you should see Harold Beame. This is his last year in the twelve-and-unders, thank goodness—he looks about seventeen. Mom says he hit puberty early. He’s about five eleven and already shaving, with shoulders as broad as I am tall. Jake Weiss was his crew, and he’s pretty big now too. He had a growth spurt over the summer.
“Hey, punk,” Harold said to me. “You’re not going to win this year. Just letting you know now so you won’t be disappointed later.”
“We are too going to win!” Gilbert piped up. I threw him a sharp look that meant Please don’t talk, but I don’t think he got the message.
“That’s what you said last spring, Harold,” I said.
“Last spring was a fluke. Last spring I didn’t have these.” Harold flexed his new biceps, which look like baked potatoes. “And that’s a pretty hefty breeze out there.”
He was right—the wind was coming strong out of the east, and it takes more strength to handle a boat in a strong wind. The wind was pretty light last year when we won. I hated it when people said we won because we were the lightest boat. First of all, that isn’t true: There were three boats with skinny little boy teams who were lighter than us. Second of all, it doesn’t matter how little you weigh—if you can’t sail, you’re not going to win a race.
Maybe I’m not as strong as Harold and Jake, but I’m smarter than both of them put together, even if you subtract Gilbert’s brains.
But Webby’s smart too. Not just smart: Crafty. Sneaky. And he had Henry in his boat. Henry, who has sailed with me since we first learned how. Henry, who knows all my tricks, just like Dad knows all Mom’s tricks. Webby and Henry were rigging the Hot Streak, listening to Harold and me and not saying anything.
Mr. Peeler—he’s the fleet captain this year—called us together to go over the rules of the race:
Sail out past the second buoy, the red one in the middle of the river, and back, three times.
No cheating.
“The committee boat will be watching,” he said.
Gilbert and I left Swifty alone for a few minutes to hear Mr. Peeler’s instructions—just five minutes. But that was enough.
We returned to our boats to start the race. I rechecked the riggings, and Gilbert and I launched Swifty into the water. She felt a little heavy, but I didn’t think much about it.
We sailed around the first buoy once. The dark clouds kept rolling in. It was really windy. Almost too windy, I thought. I was having a hard time keeping the mainsail in line. When we zipped past the committee boat, I felt like I was going to blow away.
But they didn’t cancel the race. Kevin and Zach R. capsized before we even started. They righted themselves pretty fast, but they were the last to cross the starting line and they never caught up to the rest of us. Kevin was screaming at Zach, who looked like a wet raccoon.
The Hot Streak crossed the starting line first. Gilbert and I were right behind them. Then Harold and Jake passed us. It was pretty much our three boats the whole race. I ordered Gilbert around and he did everything right. We were riding back in a close third, so I told him to pull in the jib to give us a little speed—Swifty felt sluggish. We couldn’t catch Webby. I didn’t get it. In practice we could usually catch him in a strong wind. But not now.
“Something feels wrong,” I told Gilbert.
He shrugged and said, “You’re the boss.”
Not very helpful.
I wished you were there. You would have sniffed the air with that bloodhound nose of yours and found the problem right away. Nobody sniffs out evildoing like you, Bess.
Two circuits round the buoy and we were stuck in third and falling behind. The wind was dying, so we should have been pulling ahead, since we were lighter than the other teams. I kept wondering what was wrong. Maybe the jib has a hole in it, I thought. I crawled up to check and my foot hit something under the bow. There wasn’t supposed to be anything there. I bent down and found …
Two sacks of potatoes stuffed way up under the bow and hidden under a couple of extra life jackets!!!!
Who could have put them there?
(I’m asking sarcastically, of course.)
I yelled to Gilbert and pointed out the sacks. “Throw them overboard!” I ordered. I took the tiller while he threw the potatoes into the water. Right away we sped up. It felt like an engine had kicked in.
“All right!” I shouted. “Now we’re cooking!”
We pulled up alongside the Hot Streak. Webby was screaming his head off at Henry, telling him to let out the jib, then pull it back in, lean out, trim the mainsail, anything to stop us.
I hope Henry enjoyed being yelled at.
Just as we were pulling ahead, Webby tacked in front of us from the left—he tried to cut us off! We almost collided. I yanked the tiller and we just missed them.
“Nice try, cheaters!” I called to them.
“Yeah, eat brackish water!” Gilbert yelled.
I looked at him. “Eat what?”
He shrugged again. He’s always shrugging. It’s a terrible habit.
The only boat ahead of us now was Harold and Jake’s boat, Godzilla. The wind was really easing up, so we glided along on top of the water, light as can be, and they were lumbering like … well, like a big lizard. I saw the committee boat ahead and the finish line just past it. Mom and Dad and Gabe and Jim were on the shore, yelling and screaming, “Come on, Swifty! Go, Claire!”
Gilbert pulled in the mainsail just a little and we sped past Godzilla and over the finish line in first place.
Yeah, that’s right, Bessie! Swifty won again! That’s two races in a row.
Here’s a picture of me and Gilbert with the trophy:
Of course, you know what the trophy looks like, since we won it last spring. Your name is inscribed right under mine on the cup. I wished so hard that you were there instead of Gilbert. I would have given you the biggest, happiest hug. Instead, I had to hug my mom and dad. No way was I going to hug Gilbert, even if he did hold out his arms like he was waiting for it. He also jumped up and down, shrieking, “We won! We won!”
I kissed the Neptune charm on my necklace. It was the next best thing to having you there.
Godzilla came in second. Webby and Henry had to settle for third. Cheaters.
I would have reported them for cheating, but I had no proof. Somebody put those potatoes in our boat, and we almost lost the race because of it. I’m pretty sure it was Webby. It could have been Harold and Jake, but frankly, I doubt they’re smart enough to think of a prank like that.
There’s not much I can do without proof.
I just have to catch Webby at something else …
Your race partner forever,
Claire
Dear Bess,
Guess what? They announced the holiday play. It’s A Chri
stmas Carol. Mr. Harper is the drama teacher this year and he told me if I want to be in the play I don’t even have to try out. They picked A Christmas Carol because all the main parts are for boys. Mr. H. said I can have any of the female parts I want. I can even play all of them if I can handle it.
I want to play Scrooge. I told him that.
Mr. Harper sighed and looked at me like I was the Ghost of Christmas Never.
“Okay,” he hemmed. Then he hawed, “But if you want to play Scrooge, you’ll have to audition.”
I thought about taking the girl parts. Because if I don’t, I’m not sure anyone else will, except maybe a teacher. It’s not fair—but this whole year is unfair, right?
The girl parts are:
Scrooge’s sister, Fan
His girlfriend, Belle
Old Mrs. Fezziwig
Mrs. Cratchit
Scrooge’s housekeeper
Scrooge’s nephew Fred’s wife
And the Ghost of Christmas Past, maybe
The Ghost of Christmas Past is the most interesting part, and it could go either way. Mr. Harper said they might give that part to a boy if they don’t have enough boy roles to go around.
So I get to be married three times, I get to have a lame brother and a horrible boyfriend, AND I get to clean up after the meanest boss who ever lived. All in one hour.
That’s a lot for one girl.
But I figure it’s not worth the trouble auditioning for Scrooge. He’s an old man, so it’s easier to give the role to a boy.
And he’s a jerk. So there are plenty of boys in my class who could play him really well.
You know who I mean.
And if I’m being honest, there’s also the real reason: When it comes to acting, I’m not that great. I like being in plays, but it’s not my dream to be an actress or anything. My audition is not going to blow everybody’s mind and make Mr. Harper say, Girl or no girl, the part of Scrooge must be played by Claire!
A few of the boys are way better actors than me, so let them play the lead. I’m happy being the two-time junior regatta champion.
The Only Girl in School Page 3