Your friend, Quinny
“Hopper, I know you’re in there,” calls Quinny from the hallway. “Hurry up and open that envelope, and also, please forgive me? Plus did you know that tonsil cake downstairs is chocolate-chocolate. Doesn’t it sound delicious?”
I lean against my door, just in case Quinny decides to barge in here without my permission. I don’t want to open this envelope in front of her. I don’t like audiences.
“Hopper?” She pushes on the door. “Oh, Hopper…”
I push back. She pushes harder and grunts. Finally, I step away, and the door whips open and Quinny tumbles in with a gasp.
“Sneaky!” She laughs.
“Quinny, why are you wearing a shower cap?”
“So nobody catches my fleas. My head laid some flea eggs, so Nurse Mira sent me home early.”
I shrink back from her.
“Don’t worry. I’m pretty sure Daddy killed them all with mouthwash. Open the envelope! I was saving it for your birthday, but I heard you need some emergency cheering up. And then tell me all about the animals on that field trip, please!”
Before I can say anything, Quinny keeps talking.
“Tell me: How many dogs did you see? What kinds? Were they all in cages? Did any of them look perfect for me? Wait—OPEN THE ENVELOPE FIRST!”
“Okay, okay.” I tear it open.
Inside is a paper in the shape of a brain. Two paper brains, actually, and each says:
I stand there and read the paper brain again. I can’t breathe I’m so excited.
“Happy birthday in advance!” says Quinny. “The best part is, I’m going with you! It’s on a Sunday afternoon in New York City in just a few weeks, and we’re going to touch a real brain, which is the weirdest thing ever!”
I can’t think of any words to say to this. “Thank you, Quinny,” I finally whisper.
“But wait! There’s more! We’re also going to Central Park, which used to be my backyard, and the Hungarian Pastry Shop, my favorite place for treats in New York. They have cream puffs and poppy seed Danish and soft, flaky cherry strudel that’s way better than Toaster Strudel, and hey—you see what I’m doing here? I bet you haven’t thought about your tonsils once since I got here. I bet all this talking is making you hungry. You’re starving for some cake, aren’t you? Let’s go grab some before those bully twins eat it all!”
“No thank you. Could you please stop trying to cheer me up now?”
“Okay, I’ll stop.” Quinny takes my hand. “C’mon.”
Just because a person goes downstairs doesn’t mean he really wants to.
Just because a person eats tonsil cake doesn’t mean he’s actually enjoying it.
Just because a person forgets he’s upset for a moment doesn’t mean he’s cheered up.
But that cake is pretty good, I have to admit. My brothers wolf it down, with crumbs dribbling from their mouths. Quinny groans as she eats hers, like she’s dying of happiness.
“Nice work.” Trevor boxes Quinny’s arm.
“We didn’t think you could pull it off,” says Ty, licking his plate.
“It was a piece of cake!” Quinny laughs, but then stops when I frown at her.
Afterward, Mom wraps up some cake for Quinny to take home.
“Two pieces only,” Ty tells Mom.
“Three, please. A deal’s a deal,” Quinny says. “Mrs. Grey, can Hopper walk me home?”
Quinny doesn’t need someone to walk her right next door, but she grabs my arm and pulls me along before I can point this out. “Let’s take the long way!” she suggests.
We zig through my yard, zag through hers, then walk toward her back door. I slow down because I don’t want this night to be over. Just because a person is quiet doesn’t mean he always likes keeping his feelings inside.
“You’re lucky you don’t have to go to the hospital tomorrow,” I say to Quinny.
“You’re lucky you’re getting all this attention,” she says. “That cake was yummy!”
But I don’t have any room in my head to feel lucky. It’s clogged with what-ifs.
“What if my tonsils are so big the doctor can’t get them out of my throat?” I ask.
“Easy. He’ll just slice and dice them up like stir-fry!”
“What if they’re so slippery he drops them down my throat by mistake? What if I wake up in the middle of the operation? What if I don’t even get to the operation because the hospital bed crushes me, like Alex Delgado said?”
“You mean Alex.”
“What if the hospital is so big that my parents get lost and can’t find me? What if—”
“What if we go have a dance party RIGHT NOW?” Quinny pulls me into a run.
“Quinny, no.” But her hand won’t let mine go.
“C’mon, you didn’t see them at all this morning—they miss you! Hey, do you think chickens like cake? There’s only one way to find out!”
The minute we walk onto Mrs. Porridge’s screened-in porch, Disco and Cha-Cha start brrrrr-ing and bipp-ing. Quinny turns on the porch light, and they jump off their mini-roost.
Walter the cat comes over, too, and growls. He sleeps out here to protect Cha-Cha. He’s never glad to see us.
Quinny shows off the tonsil cake. “Who wants a piece of me?”
The chickens flap and flutter. Walter stays by Cha-Cha. When Disco gets close to them, Walter hisses. “Hey, kiddos, play nice!” says Quinny. “No cake for meanies.”
Mrs. Porridge comes out onto the porch in her robe. “What is this racket? Didn’t anyone ever tell you children it’s polite to knock before riling up a neighbor’s chickens?”
“Hi, Mrs. Porridge. Hopper’s worried about his tonsils, so we’re cheering him up.”
“Hopper, I knew Dr. Merkle’s mother. She raised a fine son,” Mrs. Porridge tells me. “You’re in good hands. Everything will be fine tomorrow.”
“You don’t know that,” I say. “Bad things happen all the time. I watch the news.”
“You’re too young to be watching the news,” Mrs. Porridge says. “And, Quinny, put that cake away. It’s not good for chickens.”
“What about dancing? That’s good for chickens. Mrs. Porridge, turn on some music!”
“Oh, please, it’s too late for that nonsense.”
“Just one song and we’ll get out of your hair. ‘Twist and Shout’ by the Beatles?”
Mrs. Porridge snorts. Quinny begs.
I finally find the guts to say my biggest what-if out loud. I touch Quinny’s arm to get her attention. “What if I don’t wake up from the operation?”
Quinny doesn’t answer right away. I wait for her to make a joke.
“Then I won’t have anyone to go to the Brain Expo with,” she says quietly. “So you just have to wake up, or those tickets will go to waste. Okay?”
I look at Mrs. Porridge, who shrugs. “The girl makes a lot of sense.”
“Okay.” I shrug, too.
Then Mrs. Porridge puts on “Twist and Shout,” and Quinny twists and shouts and wiggles with those chickens. Last year, Victoria Porridge did ballet for our school talent show. (I wasn’t in the show, but Mom took me to go watch.) Quinny’s dancing is the exact opposite of that. The whole time, it looks like she’s about to lose her balance and fall down, but she never does. I watch her dance, and it really is okay. Between the cake and the chickens and Quinny and Mrs. Porridge, I actually feel better than okay.
But when I open my eyes the next morning, I feel scared all over again.
It’s still dark when we leave the house. Dad tries to carry me to the car in my pj’s, but I tell him I’ll walk. I’m no baby. (I wish I were, though; then it would be okay to cry.)
I hold on to my blanket during the ride, even though I know it can’t protect me.
The hospital parking lot is empty. Like we’re the only people left on Earth.
Inside, I sit in a hard chair in a row of empty hard chairs. My parents fill out forms at a counter. A bracelet snaps onto my w
rist and won’t come off no matter how hard I tug.
My parents walk me to a small room, and there is a skinny bed where I have to get undressed and put on a hospital gown with bunnies on it. I don’t even like bunnies. I wish they had a hospital gown with fish on it. Or chickens. Or Quinny’s face.
No, not Quinny’s face. That would be weird.
We wait in this small room. A man with spiky hair and a name tag that reads NURSE CHUCK comes in, and he’s nice, but I don’t have the energy to be nice back. He gives me a paper hat to cover my hair. Then a tall lady in a white coat walks in and tells me her name is Dr. Parva, which is also on her name tag. She has a gentle face and a steady voice, and she says it is her job to make me sleep during the operation and wake up afterward. It’s not the same kind of sleep you do at night; it’s a deeper kind, where you breathe in from this mask to fall unconscious. I’ve never done that before. Dr. Parva says it won’t hurt. She says I won’t remember any of it, and when I wake up, my parents will be there with me. She offers me the mask, and asks if I want to try it out, just to see what it’s like.
“No thank you.”
But then I change my mind. I put it near my face, just for a second.
She also tells me that when I wake up, there will be a thin little tube called an IV sticking out of my arm, which is supposed to keep my body from getting thirsty during the surgery. She says that won’t hurt, either, and they’ll take it out before I go home.
Dr. Merkle comes in next, too friendly as usual. He says he’s delighted to see me and cracks a joke with Nurse Chuck that I don’t understand. He asks if I have any more questions. He says, “Okay, let’s get this show on the road.”
And then I realize my bed has wheels, because it’s moving.
Bars pop up on both sides of it, to keep me from falling out. Or maybe from escaping.
The sun is coming up through a hallway window. Normal people are just waking up now, and I wish I were one of them. Nurse Chuck’s eyes crinkle at me as he pushes the bed. I don’t know what’s going to happen next, but it keeps happening anyway. The bed is moving fast. I grab the bars and we pass through doors that swing and squeak after us. The walls are different now—the light is different. Mom squeezes my hand. Dad nods, even though I didn’t say anything for him to agree with. We leave him behind and keep rolling.
The operating room is too bright. It smells too cold. It’s crowded with humming, beeping machines that look mean and complicated. There are more people here—masked people in sky-blue ninja-pajama outfits. Everyone has just half a face: eyes and a forehead. Are they all here for me? I don’t like this. I don’t like audiences. I want to run away.
Dr. Parva is here and she tells me to breathe deeply into the mask. Mom squeezes my hand so tight now that it hurts. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, but I’m not going to cry, because then she’ll cry. I squeeze Mom’s hand back. I don’t want her to let go of me, ever. I don’t want that mask to come down on my face, ever.
But here it comes.
SCREEEE SCREEEEE SCREEEEE.
A weird, screechy cackle wakes me up. It’s not Piper, because we don’t share a room anymore. (One thing I don’t miss about our old apartment in New York: Piper’s slobbery snores.) I can’t tell what that noise is, so I go and open my window.
SCREEEEEEE. It’s coming from the air itself, like it’s everywhere.
But then it stops. Huh.
After breakfast, I walk over to do my chicken chores, and I hear the noise again.
“Mrs. Porridge, there it is—the noise that woke me. It’s coming from Disco’s face!”
Mrs. Porridge is drinking coffee on her porch steps. She looks tired. “No kidding.”
“Do you think she’s sick?” I ask.
“I don’t think so.”
I look down at Disco, all scruffy and hyper, hopping around on her giant, scaly starfish feet. “Did you lay your first egg and you’re spreading the news?”
“SCREEE CREEEEE ZEEEE.” Disco puffs out her chest and lifts her tail.
I check the cardboard henhouse, just in case. Nope, no eggs.
“Are you mad about something?”
“Ooop erp CREEEEEEEEEE.”
Disco is bossy and kind of loud in general, I’ve noticed. She goes especially bonkers whenever Cha-Cha jumps onto Walter for a kitty-back ride.
“Maybe Disco’s just doing a chicken burp,” says Piper.
I look down at her and roll my eyes. Piper is here helping me today because Hopper is at the hospital. Normally, he and I feed, water, and clean up after the chickens five mornings a week: Tuesday through Saturday. It’s a big responsibility, but it’s really, truly, absolutely the best part of my day (despite the poop). Plus, if we didn’t do it, Mrs. Porridge promised she’d let them starve. (I think she likes to say things just to shock us sometimes.)
“Do you know what’s going on with Disco?” I turn to Cha-Cha.
“Wrrrr-bup.” Cha-Cha dips her petite pokey head. Then she jumps onto Walter.
The more I take care of these birds, the more I understand what they’re saying. They’re pullets now—which means teenager in the chick-tionary—and the way they talk is somewhere between baby-chick chirping and grown-up–hen clucking.
“So if Disco isn’t sick or mad or excited about an egg, then what is it?” I ask Cha-Cha.
“It sounds like Disco has decided he’s a rooster,” answers Mrs. Porridge.
“I don’t think so. Roosters say ‘cock-a-doodle-do.’ This noise was different.”
“Quinny, roosters have their own way of saying ‘cock-a-doodle-do’ that’s different from the way American humans pronounce it.”
“Well, we’ll just have to talk her out of being a rooster and back to being a hen!”
“Don’t hold your breath. Won’t be long before that birdbrained bag of feathers starts waking up the whole neighborhood with his crowing—he’s gotta go.”
“Mrs. Porridge, no! This is Disco’s home! I’ll get her to stop—”
“Him. Roosters are male, Quinny—”
“Him, her, whatever. I’ll make Disco stop crowing and promise to never do it again.”
“Good luck. We are what we are. No amount of conversation’s going to change that.”
Later that morning, Daddy takes me and Piper by Nurse Mira’s office at school.
She checks both of our heads with her giant magnified eye. I cross all my fingers and toes until she finally says, “All clear, no bugs. Good job, Mr. Bumble.”
“Yay!” Piper and I jump and hug at the same time, which is really painful for my chin.
“Ow!”
Nurse Mira gives my chin an ice pack. She gives us both bandannas. “You girls may want to wear these for now. Keep your heads covered to lower the risk of re-infestation.”
The risk of what? “You mean the bugs are still out there, Nurse Mira?”
“Better safe than sorry,” she says. “A bandanna a day helps keep head lice away.”
I tie the bandanna on, but my hair bursts out on the side. I try again, but my hair boings out the other side. Hmmm, I think my head is just too much for this measly bandanna.
At the lockers, I see Victoria. Even worse, she sees me.
“Well, that’s a look,” she says. “Why didn’t you get the cool braids, like McKayla?”
“Argh,” says Caleb. “Quinny, you look like a pirate.”
I giggle. “Arrgh!”
After Hopper, Caleb is my second-favorite friend at school. He’s new this year, just like I am. But he doesn’t let Victoria bother his feelings, like I do.
“Halloween isn’t for a few more weeks,” Victoria reminds us. “Hey, Quinny, too bad you missed the field trip yesterday. You wouldn’t believe how many dogs were at the shelter, including the cutest puppy I’ve ever seen. I’m probably going to adopt it.”
“What?”
“But I can’t decide between a puppy or a kitten.”
“Lucky duck!”
&nb
sp; “Maybe I’ll get one of each. Or an Angora rabbit. Too bad your sister is allergic.”
Then Victoria smiles, like she is so happy she isn’t me. How can a person be such big buckets of mean with one single smile? Grrrrr. I adjust my bandanna again. If I were a real pirate with a real hook, Victoria’s life would be in danger, that’s for sure.
After morning meeting, we go back to our desks and Ms. Yoon starts talking about our how-to writing assignment again. It’s time for us to turn in our topics.
“But first let’s each share with the class the topics we’ve chosen. It will whet our appetites for the final pieces, which we’ll celebrate at our publishing party next month.”
Ms. Yoon calls on people, starting from the left side of the room. And everybody stands up and says the title of their how-to topic. Some of the topics are fun, like when Caleb stands up and says he’s doing How to Stand on Your Head Without Falling Over. Some are dull, like when Kaylee says she’s doing How to Make French Braids. Bor-ing.
When it’s Victoria’s turn, she stands up and says, “My topic is How to Raise Chickens in Your Backyard—and Start a Business Selling Eggs.”
And I just sit there, frozen. Because that is my how-to topic, too. I told Victoria about it earlier this week. I was so happy to figure out a topic that wouldn’t hurt Piper’s feelings.
“Quinny? Quinny…your turn. Would you like to share your topic?”
I look at Ms. Yoon and a lump bumps up in my throat. I don’t want to seem like a copycat. That’s what people will think if I say the same thing as Victoria.
“I need more time,” I whisper. “I’m sorry, Ms. Yoon. I don’t have a topic ready. Can I have just one more day? I’m really sorry.”
Ms. Yoon looks disappointed, but nods. “Let’s move along, then. Alex?”
I don’t even hear what Alex says because my head feels swollen with shock about what Victoria just did. Those chickens were my topic. And she knew it.
Science is next, and Ms. Yoon hands out a sheet called MONARCH BUTTERFLIES: BEAUTIFUL BUT POISONOUS. She talks about how those butterflies are born, how they grow and live. How birds know not to eat them because they’re filled with poison. Even baby birds know.
Quinny & Hopper: Partners in Slime Page 3