The Only Girl in School

by Natalie Standiford

  “You see, Henry,” I said, still talking spookily, “we’ve had a wonderful life together. A lifelong friendship. You wouldn’t want to throw that away, would you?”

  It was working, Bess. I swear it was. His eyes were wet, or at least wettish. He opened his mouth and was about to say something. But then there was a crash from the stage.

  “Pay no atteeeennntion to that,” I said to Henry. I wanted to keep his attention on our friendship. “It’s prooobbbably just Mr. Haaaarrperrrr.”

  “Cut the ghost voice, Claire,” Henry snapped.

  He stood up and walked slowly out of his dressing room, down the hall, to the wings of the stage. I followed him reluctantly.

  The stage was dark.

  “See, it’s nothing,” I whispered.

  Henry reached for the stage lights and flipped them on.

  A rope lay tangled in the middle of the stage. It hadn’t been there before. It seemed like it had fallen from the sky.

  We looked up. Another rope dangled from the rafters.

  “It must have fallen somehow,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Henry said. “But how?”

  I guess Henry was spooked by my ghost show because he stared up into the dark and shouted, “Who’s up there?”

  No one answered.

  I wanted to say, “It’s Smuggler Joe,” but I bit my tongue.

  Mr. Harper walked out of the wings. “I thought I turned these lights off.” He reached for the switch and flicked the stage lights off. “Let’s clear the premises, kids. Time to go home.”

  “In a minute,” I said. My slide show had an amazing finish and Henry hadn’t seen it yet.

  “No, now,” Mr. Harper said. “It’s late.” Then he peered at my face under the Ghost of Christmas Future hood. “Claire? What are you doing in Webby’s costume?”

  “Nothing—”

  “Put it away right now and let’s get out of here. Mr. Jones wants to lock up the building.”

  I looked at Henry, but he wouldn’t meet my eye. The opportunity was lost.

  I put the robe away and the three of us left together. Henry’s dad was waiting to drive him home, and my dad was waiting to walk me home.

  “See you in the morning, kids,” Mr. Harper said as he got into his car.

  “Bye, Henry,” I called.

  “Bye,” he said.

  Dad and I started walking home. It was cold out. I wished he’d picked me up in the truck.

  “How was rehearsal?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll find out tomorrow.”

  “Why is that?” He sounded puzzled, but I didn’t feel like explaining.

  I’ll explain to you, though, Bess, even though I know you already understand.

  When we got home, I went to my room and watched the end of the slide show, the part Henry didn’t get to see. There’s a picture from last summer, me and Henry sharing the big box of saltwater taffy he brought back for me from Ocean City. We each took a long striped piece and plastered it over our front teeth, so it looked like we had taffy braces. He thought that was so funny.

  The last shot shows me and him at age three, sitting in a baby pool in his backyard. We’re both wearing swim diapers and he’s got his little baby head on my little baby shoulder. It’s a real heart tugger.

  If only he’d had a chance to see it.

  Tomorrow morning I will wait to see if my Ghost of Henrys Past slide show softened Henry’s heart at all. I will wait to see if he stops by my house to pick me up.

  Good night, Bess.

  Claire

  Dear Bess,

  It was bright and sunny and cold this morning. I bundled up in my winter coat and sat on the front porch, waiting to see if Henry would stop to pick me up. To see if the old pictures of us had had any effect on his frozen heart.

  Gabe said he’d wait ten minutes—inside, not out on the porch—and then he was walking to school without me. Mom said she didn’t want Gabe walking to school by himself and she didn’t want either one of us to be late, so I had to leave with Gabe in ten minutes.

  I sat on the steps, watching my breath puff out of my mouth like frosty smoke. I studied the road for something moving on the horizon, a black dot in the distance, any sign that someone was coming. A truck roared past with a load of fish in the back. A car drove by and didn’t stop. Mom came out of the house with Gabe, handed me my lunch, and said, “Get going.”

  I kept glancing over my shoulder as we walked to school, expecting to see Henry running after us to catch up. I felt sure my Ghost of Christmas Past slide show would remind him how much fun we used to have. I hoped it would change his mind about me, about being friends. I should have waited five more minutes, I said to myself. Five more minutes and he would have come. I just couldn’t believe my plan hadn’t worked.

  Henry was already at school when I got there, telling Webby how a rope fell from above the stage last night, all by itself.

  “Nobody was there,” Henry was saying. “It had to be a ghost.”

  “It could have been an accident,” Webby said. He didn’t sound spooked at all.

  “It was Smuggler Joe!” Henry swore. “Claire said—I mean, I’m pretty sure it was. Who else could it have been?”

  He wouldn’t even admit that he’d been with me!

  My plan was a total failure.

  He’s got a heart of stone.

  What changed him, Bess? I think I know.

  Henry’s change of heart is the fault of one person: Webster Peterson.

  Webby stole Henry! He convinced him not to be friends with me anymore.

  I should give up on Henry. I’ll live without friends. It’s okay. I’ve got food, water, shelter, all that stuff. Parents. I’ve got brothers, even if they’re worse than useless. I’ve got Bruno and Starshine. Animals. I’ll be friends with the animals. Who needs people? Not me. I don’t need people, especially not BOY people.

  Your friendless friend,

  Claire

  P.S. I’ll get that Webby if it’s the last thing I do.

  P.P.S. Time for a new plan.

  Tonight was the opening night of the play. Here is the Foyes Island Foghorn’s review:

  Henry Long stars as Scrooge in the Foyes Island Elementary School Production of A Christmas Carol

  By Edward Strickland, Foghorn Theater Critic and FIES Art Teacher

  Fifth grader Henry Long made his stage debut last night in Foyes Island Elementary School’s all-male production of A Christmas Carol. Correction: almost all-male. The show featured one actress, fifth grader Claire Warren, as the Ghost of Christmas Past, Fan, Belle, Mrs. Fezziwig, Mrs. Cratchit, Fred’s Wife, and Scrooge’s Housekeeper. She did an admirable job of changing costumes in record time, though she did forget to remove Belle’s bonnet before reverting back to playing the Ghost. A minor quibble about what was, overall, a very fine show.

  As Scrooge, Henry Long showed his range from grouchy and mean to happy and generous. Webster Peterson was a standout as two terrifying Ghosts, Marley and Christmas Future. When he pointed his bony skeleton finger at Scrooge’s tombstone, silently menacing in his death-dark hood, he made the audience shiver with cold fear of the grave.

  There were a few moments that struck this reviewer as odd choices made by the director, Matthew Harper. For instance, when Marley’s Ghost appeared to Scrooge, dragging long, heavy chains behind him, chains representing the sins Marley had committed when he was alive, Claire Warren, as the Housekeeper, trembled appropriately, but then yanked on the chain several times until Marley tripped and fell on his knees, yelping in pain. The Housekeeper then said, in what I assume were ad-libbed lines, “How can your knees hurt if you’re a ghost? Huh? Huh?”

  The audience laughed, which spoiled the spooky mood of the scene. Still, it must be said, Miss Warren’s cockney accent was not bad for a girl who has never been to England.

  It’s not like I planned it, Bess. It just happened. I guess that’s called an ad-lib.

  But back to
the review.

  Another deviation from the original play came during Act III, when the Ghost of Christmas Future, again played by Mr. Peterson, was showing Scrooge the heartbreak at the Cratchit home caused by the death of Tiny Tim. As the Cratchit family sobbed over the empty hearth and Tiny Tim’s useless crutch, the Ghost of the Future suddenly began to twitch. At first it was hardly noticeable, but after a moment it became clear that the Ghost was scratching himself very enthusiastically. He was soon wriggling and squirming in his long black robe, scratching as if bugs were crawling on him. It was an unconventional way of showing the Ghost’s own bad feelings about the sad scenes he was showing to Scrooge. At least, that’s how this critic understood the actor’s choice.

  Most of the cast seemed taken aback by this behavior but stayed in their roles. However, Mrs. Cratchit (played, as noted, by Claire Warren) did not seem a bit surprised and could not stop laughing, breaking character. In fairness, she may have broken character on purpose, as a way of showing the broken heart of a mother who has lost her child, and the madness caused by that heartbreak.

  This critic has seen many productions of A Christmas Carol in his fifteen years at the Foghorn—FIES seems to do it about every other year—but he’s never seen one like this. If you’re looking for a fresh, experimental take on a holiday classic, give this year’s Christmas Carol a spin. 3 Stars

  Mr. Strickland gave us 3 out of 5 stars! Not bad.

  Yes, I put itching powder in Webby’s Ghost costume.

  That was not an ad-lib.

  Yes, Mr. Harper figured out that I did it.

  (I probably shouldn’t have laughed so much. But it was just. So. Funny.)

  Yes, I got in trouble for it. Mr. H. wanted to fire me from the play, but they couldn’t replace me at the last moment because

  (1) nobody else knows my lines

  (2) there are no other girls to play the girl parts

  (3) all the boys would probably refuse to dress up as women to play the girl parts.

  The play will run the rest of this weekend. As punishment, Mr. H. gave me detention every afternoon until Christmas break and is making me write an essay about The Dangers of Pranking.

  It doesn’t matter. At the end of the play, as the curtain went down, the audience was on their feet clapping and cheering. Sure, they were parents cheering for their own kids, and they would have stood and clapped if we’d sung “Mary Had a Little Lamb” fifty times in a row, out of tune. But it felt good.

  Your friend,

  Claire the Dangerous Prankster

  Dear Bess,

  It’s that time of year again. Spring.

  With spring comes—

  (1) my birthday

  (2) the Square Dance

  But not in that order.

  Remember that guy they hired to call the square dance last year, Hee Haw Higgins? He kept saying, “Gents, bow to your partner! Ladies, curtsy to the gents!” and made half the boys do curtsies?

  Sure you do. People don’t forget traumatic experiences like that.

  He’s coming back. Two weeks from today.

  Yes, it’s Foyes Island Elementary’s Famous Spring Square Dance. Attendance required.

  Mr. Unitas announced the return of the dance today at Assembly as if he expected everybody to jump up and down and cheer. Instead: groans. He would have gotten more cheers if he’d announced that we were getting all our teeth pulled out—attendance required.

  Mr. Unitas loves his traditions. When he heard the groans, he said, “Aw, come on now! Foyes Island El has had a square dance every spring since 1967! We had it when I was a student”—back in the last century—“and, doggonit, we’re going to have it this year—whether you all like it or not.”

  More groans.

  “Don’t you understand?” He wouldn’t let it go. “If we stop one of our great traditions now, we’ll never start it up again. And then it will be dead! Gone! No more square dance. Forever!”

  THAT made everyone cheer. RIP Spring Square Dance! Let’s put it out of its misery.

  “Now, boys,” Mr. Unitas said, “and Claire …”

  That’s how he always addresses us now, as “Boys … and Claire.”

  “I know we’ve only got one girl in the school this year, so you’re all going to have to dance with each other. But that’s okay in square dancing! It’s more about hopping around than anything else. It’s practically a sport. Why, when I was a pup, they used to teach square dancing in gym.”

  Nobody was convinced.

  This is terrible.

  But … maybe not that terrible. Because I have an idea. I could use the square dance to make things better between me and Henry.

  Yes, I know, I know, Henry again. I gave up on him. That’s what I said. I decided to live a life without friends.

  But Bess, a life without friends is very hard.

  Maybe you don’t remember what winters are like here in the East, now that you live out there in Weather Heaven. They’re cold. The wind blows off the water, and it’s no fun to ride Starshine or walk through the woods with Bruno. Dad and the other watermen still go out fishing and oystering, of course, but it’s too cold for sailing.

  This past winter, the inlet nearly froze over. I went skating on Perry Pond with Gabe and Jim a few times. I read a lot of books. Other than that, winter was three whole months of bored and lonely.

  A few of my classmates had bowling parties, but they didn’t invite me. One Saturday I took Gabe to Bay Lanes. It happened to be Zach M.’s birthday party.

  I’m not saying I didn’t know that before we went. Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t. It’s a free country, and Gabe and I have as much right to go bowling as anybody else, birthday or no birthday.

  We got a lane right next to the party and bowled all afternoon, just me and Gabe. I got a few strikes too. I creamed Gabe. He kept getting gutter balls and was close to tears most of the time.

  First graders. They’re not good for much.

  My point is: I was standing right next to Zach and Henry and Webby and those guys for three hours, and they didn’t even say hello. Gilbert would have, if he’d been there, but he hadn’t been invited either. The boys acted like they didn’t see me. They were whooping and hollering and slapping each other’s hands as if it were the Super Bowl.

  I tried to catch Henry’s eye. Once, after I bowled a strike, I jumped up and down like the boys were doing, and slapped Gabe’s hand and shouted, “All right! Yeah!” At first Gabe got excited too but pretty soon he figured out it was all pretend, and when I raised my hand to slap his again, he pretended he didn’t notice.

  I glanced over at Henry to see if he was admiring my great bowling skills. But he never seemed to be facing in my direction. It was like he refused to turn his head to the left, which wasn’t easy since it meant he couldn’t look at half the bowling alley.

  That’s what it’s been like all winter, Bess. I don’t understand what Henry’s problem is. I’ve decided to call a truce. I surrender. I’m going to make a peace gesture.

  My peace gesture will be: to ask Henry to the square dance. I figure, since everyone in the school has to go, and there is only one girl for the boys to dance with—me—all the boys will want to go with me. I’m expecting a lot of boys to ask me to go with them. Being with me at the dance will be like a status symbol. I can grant this status upon any boy I choose, like a genie granting wishes or a queen touching a boy’s shoulder with a sword and making him a knight.

  That’s what I’m thinking.

  I hope Henry will appreciate my peace gesture. I further hope that we will have a good time acting goofy at the dance, and from then on we will be friends again.

  Your bowling queen,

  Claire

  Hi Bess,

  I’m writing to you from the clubhouse. Someone has vandalized my wall once again!

  Somebody broke in here and drew a picture of me at the bowling alley. It shows me with my arm out, having just thrown the ball, which is in the gutter. There�
��s a speech balloon over my head saying, “Missed again!”

  It’s not true! I got three strikes! I’m a good bowler!

  I’m very upset.

  Whoever is drawing on my wall had to be at the bowling alley on the day of Zach M.’s birthday party. That leaves five suspects: Zach M., Henry, Webby, Cal, and Kevin.

  My money is still on Webby.

  I made a big X through the drawing. I’ll paint over it later. In the meantime, I added some new drawings of my own. It’s my wall and it should have my pictures on it.

  Spring is here. A hopeful time. I drew my favorite willow tree, the big one by the water in our backyard. It’s starting to get green. And the dogwood in the front yard will bloom soon, I think. I drew the tree as it is now, with little green buds sticking off the branches.

  As soon as I leave the clubhouse, I’m going to find Henry and ask him to the dance. I’m tired of fighting. I want peace.

  I did it. I made my peace gesture.

  I found Henry at lunchtime, leaving the cafeteria with Webby.

  “Henry,” I said, making my voice sound like we talk all the time, “can I talk to you for a minute?”

  He looked surprised. And before he could answer, Webby said, “See ya,” and grinned obnoxiously.

  Now Henry looked uncomfortable.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  Not a very encouraging start.

  I cleared my throat. I felt like I was stepping off a cliff.

  Be brave, I told myself. You’ve got nothing to lose.

  “Henry, you know how the square dance is coming up? It’s lame, I know, but we have to go, right? So I was wondering if you would like to go with me. We can laugh and make fun of it together, like we did with Bess last year.”

  A little knot of boys clustered at the end of the hall, watching us. Henry’s eyes darted toward them. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again. He looked at the floor, looked at the wall, looked at the ceiling … everywhere but at me.