No answer. I throw a pebble up at his window, just a tiny one. Still no answer.
So I go around to his front door. His mom says he’s still resting. She thanks me for respecting that, again. “But, Mrs. Grey! Victoria got slimed by chicken poop. You should have seen her face. I need to tell Hopper. Also, I need to give him the stuff I made—”
“I can make sure he gets it, Quinny.”
“Can’t I just come in and hand it to him? I promise I won’t say a word.”
“Maybe later this afternoon. We’ll see how he’s feeling.”
Maybe later = Probably never.
On my way home, I see the bully twins wearing their soccer stuff and getting in their van.
“Hey, Big Mouth,” says one of their heads, looking at me. “Come with us.”
“Yeah, come watch the game,” says the other head. “You can meet our coach.”
Their father, who’s in the driver’s seat, nods like it’s okay with him and says I can run home to ask. I’m tempted for a second. But then I look up at Hopper’s window.
“No thanks,” I tell those two talking heads. “I’m waiting for Hopper to finish resting.”
“We’re gonna cream Riverdale. You don’t want to miss it.”
“They won’t know what hit ’em. It’s gonna be a bloodbath.”
Hmmm…I don’t know what a bloodbath is, but it does not sound boring. I run home and find Daddy, and he says yes, so I run back and jump in the van and go to my very first soccer game of all time.
Saturday afternoon Quinny comes to see me. She brings balloons, a get-well card, and an ice-cream word search.
“Sorry they didn’t have tonsil-shaped balloons,” she says. “But I put PISTACHIO in the word search twice, because I know it’s your favorite flavor. Now, tell me everything!”
“My throat,” I whisper.
“Oh, I forgot you’re not supposed to talk. So just tell me the important parts. Like about your tonsils and the hospital! And when are you coming back to school? Because Victoria is being awful, and Ms. Yoon is gone and we have a meanie sub—”
“Ms. Yoon is gone?”
“She disappeared! But don’t worry. Principal Ramsey said I’ll be the first to know when they figure out what happened. Now, tell me all about the hospital!”
I don’t want to talk about the hospital. I tell her about my weird dreams instead.
“You weren’t dreaming,” Quinny says. “I really did play soccer with the twins. They even forced me to go to a soccer game with them, while you were sleeping.”
“They forced you?”
“Yeah, well, sort of…It’s a long story.”
But then she doesn’t tell the story. She acts quiet, like she’s hiding something.
Quinny’s never usually quiet. “Quinny, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Oh! By the way, also, Piper really was in my room last night, going bananas. You didn’t dream that, either. We had to switch rooms ’cause my parents said so.”
That’s a bummer. I’m used to having Quinny’s room right across from my bedroom window. I guess I missed a lot over the last couple of days.
“Why did they make you switch rooms?”
“That’s Piper’s personal business and I’m not allowed to talk about it, even though Mom says there’s nothing to be embarrassed about since a lot of kids wet their beds.”
Then Quinny turns red and says, “Oops! Can you forget I mentioned that part?”
“No problem.”
“Anyway, I’m so glad your mom finally let me see you. Now, show me those tonsils! Where are they? Did they measure them? Will you make it into the world-record book?”
“I didn’t get to keep my tonsils.”
“What? Why not?”
“I just didn’t.”
“But they belong to you! Like a tooth or a scab—they ARE you.”
I shrug. She’s right, in a way.
“You should get to take them home from the hospital. And shellac them, like in art class, or keep them in a jar, along with all your other body parts, on the shelf.”
“Quinny, none of those are real. They’re just anatomy models.”
“I know that, silly. But that’s what makes your tonsils so special! Why should the hospital get to keep all the good stuff?”
“I’m pretty sure they just threw them away.”
“No! I bet they’re in the lost and found….Hey, let’s go check! I’m free right now.”
“Why would I want them back? What could I do with leftover tonsils?”
Quinny looks at me and then snorts. “Are you kidding? A ton of stuff! Like…I don’t know. You could scare away bullies. Or invent a new game for gym called tonsil ball.”
“Yeah, right.”
“You could put them in Victoria’s lunch box for a slimy Halloween surprise. Or offer the chickens a really, really unique snack!”
That’s disgusting. I try not to laugh.
“Wait, I know! You could erupt a tonsil-cano at the school science fair!” she says. “Or you could hang them from your minivan’s rearview mirror.”
“Like slimy dice?” I laugh.
Mom comes in to make sure everything is okay. It is. She smiles and goes away.
“You could surprise your mom with two-of-a-kind earrings for her birthday,” says Quinny, rolling over and giggling, and pulling me down with her. “Eeeeewwwww.”
Laughing hurts, but it also helps me feel better. Being with Quinny helps, too.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
“For what?”
“You always know how to cheer me up.”
Quinny’s face beams. “You’re right. Hopper…Oh, wow, that’s it! That’s it!”
I don’t get what she’s saying.
“You just solved the biggest problem of my life! Oh, thank you!”
She throws a hug onto me, rougher than she’s supposed to, and then runs off.
A second later, her head pops back into my doorway. “Wait here! I’ll be right back!”
How to Cheer Up a Friend
By Quinny (not Eleanor) Bumble
1) If your friend is sick, make a cheery get-well card and go visit him, ASAP.
2) Bring Popsicles, his favorite ice cream, or a special treat, like cheese and crackers.
3) Tell a joke to make him laugh. If the first one doesn’t work, keep trying.
4) Drag your friend to a chicken dance party! I suggest any song by the Beatles.
5) A whoopee cushion is another good idea, but make sure it isn’t broken first.
6) If your friend is extra sad, do something silly, like a fishy face or crossed eyes so he forgets his blues.
7) SMILE and be in a good mood—because Ms. Yoon said a good mood is contagious, which means you can catch it from other people like a barfy stomach bug!
I run back to Hopper’s room. “It’s just a rough draft so far, but what do you think?”
Hopper looks at it for a moment. His serious face doesn’t change.
“I thought you were going to write about how to raise chickens,” he says.
“Oh, I was! But then Victoria stole that topic. But she can’t steal this one, because she has no idea how to cheer up a friend! What about you? Did you think of a topic yet?”
“Probably how to juggle. Ms. Yoon is giving me extra time because of my operation.”
“Hmmm…you’re the best juggler, Hopper. That’s true. But…”
“But what?”
“Maybe you can think even bigger.”
Think bigger? I don’t know what Quinny means.
Not at first.
But then I think about the last couple of days. I look over at my favorite book, on the floor by my bed: Frank H. Netter’s Atlas of Human Anatomy. It has just a few pictures of tonsils in it. When I was having my tonsillectomy, I wanted to see more. And learn more. I wanted to know everything.
I get out my charcoal pencils and my sketchbook. I write at the top of a page:
How to H
ave Your Tonsils Out
I show Quinny. She picks up a pencil and changes it to:
How to Have Your Tonsils Out
WITHOUT FREAKING OUT!!!
And she’s right. That’s what I had the most trouble with—the feelings part. It’s harder to figure out feelings than it is to figure out facts.
“You could make it like a comic book! Like a story with pictures and everything!”
I could.
“And there could be activities to learn about the operation, and true information about the hospital. Almost like a magazine mixed with a comic book to—”
“To help other kids not worry so much,” I say, finishing Quinny’s sentence.
“Right! And we could have fun stuff in there, too, so we don’t bore people to sleep. Like a word search! Oh, oh! We could also do a crossword puzzle and a coloring sheet….”
Quinny keeps saying we. Then she stops and looks at me with big eyes.
“Hopper, what if we did this together? I have a million ideas.”
I do, too. This could be interesting.
“You’ll draw it, and I’ll do the words,” says Quinny. “Let’s start by me interviewing you—tell me everything!”
“I’m not supposed to talk yet, remember?”
“Then let’s start with the title. Every book needs a title.”
She’s right. I open my sketchbook and write:
HOW TO HAVE YOUR TONSILS OUT
WITHOUT FREAKING OUT
By Hopper Grey and Quinny Bumble
“Wait a second. Why does your name go first?” she asks.
“Because.”
“It should be alphabetical order. And Bumble comes before Grey.”
“But I’m the one who had my tonsils out.”
We make a compromise. My name will go first, but Quinny’s name will be BIGGER.
She also thinks we need some exclamation points. I add one, just to quiet her down.
“Now, let’s make a table of contents,” she says. “Every book has one of those, too.”
Actually, no, some books don’t—but I think ours could use one.
Making a table of contents is harder than it sounds because it means we have to figure out all the stuff that’s going to be inside the book.
We get to work on it. We work our brains out.
When I look up, it’s dark out. My room is a mess.
Time flies when you’re figuring out what to do with leftover tonsils.
Quinny’s father shows up and says she has to leave. Mom is with him in the doorway and says I have to rest. She threatens to take away my charcoal pencils and all our paper.
“What are you kids doing in here, anyway?”
“No, don’t look!” Quinny blocks our pages from Mom’s eyes. “It’s a top secret tonsils project. Believe me, Mrs. Grey, when we have news to share, you’ll be the first to know.”
Mom looks at Quinny suspiciously now.
“You have my word,” Quinny adds.
“Drawing is okay, talking is not,” Mom says to me. “You need to rest your throat.”
But the more time I spend with Quinny, the better my throat feels. And the less rest I need. She’s like magic that way, I think.
On Sunday, Mrs. Porridge calls me after lunch, right when I’m about to go back to Hopper’s house to work some more on our top secret tonsils project.
“I could use your help, Quinny. Guess who’s coming back this afternoon?”
It takes me just one try to guess.
“Correct,” she says. “I think the headache I’ve had all morning is about to get worse.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Porridge. Help is on the way. I’ll be right over.”
This time, Victoria shows up in her rubber rain boots. Plus plastic gloves and a doctor’s face mask. That girl is ready for those chickens.
Walter growls at her. I don’t think he recognizes Victoria in her new outfit. Then Disco screeches at Walter, and they start having a debate, but not exactly like civilized human beings. Mrs. Porridge scoops Walter up and puts him in the house.
Then Cha-Cha jumps onto Victoria’s shoulder as she’s bent over cleaning the feeder.
“No! Off, chicken, off!”
Cha-Cha obeys and hops off Victoria’s shoulder—and onto her head.
“Nooooo! Off!”
“Hey, Victoria, you forgot to bring a helmet.” I laugh.
That chicken flaps her happy feathers, all excited, like a mountain climber who just reached the top. Victoria’s head wiggles and shakes and shrieks some more.
“Get off me! OFFFFFFF!”
“Aww, Victoria, I think Cha-Cha likes you. The only other person she ever jumps onto is Walter, and she loooooves him.”
“GET THAT CHICKEN OFF ME RIGHT NOW!”
That’s when Cha-Cha does what chickens sometimes do, wherever they happen to be standing. Mrs. Porridge was right. There is no such thing as a magic invisible chicken toilet.
This time, the screaming sounds like an opera singer falling off a cliff while holding a microphone.
I stop drawing and look out my window. But I can’t see through all the trees.
A few minutes later, Quinny shows up at my door, breathless. She was supposed to come over right after lunch to work on our tonsils book.
“Where were you?” I ask.
“Don’t be mad. Mrs. Porridge needed my help, and then—you’ll never believe what happened—Cha-Cha pooped in Victoria’s hair! Ha, that’s what she gets for stealing my chickens. She’s taking a shower right now in Mrs. Porridge’s bathroom. I’ve never even been in Mrs. Porridge’s bathroom. Have you? By the way, what are you drawing?”
“I’m drawing what you see when you look up from the operating table.”
“Good idea. But maybe make it less scary? So you don’t scare people?”
It did feel a bit scary. I don’t want to lie, or to forget, because I’m proud of myself for surviving it. “I still don’t understand how they made me sleep and then woke me up.”
“Hey, Hopper, I think your voice works better today! Can I interview you now?”
“Mom says I can’t talk until next week.”
“But you’re talking right now. Plus, if we do it quietly, your mom won’t even hear.”
So I let Quinny interview me. I whisper about the hospital. About Dr. Merkle and Dr. Parva and Nurse Chuck. And the freezing-cold operating room filled with evil-looking machines that weren’t really evil. And how sick I felt afterward from the anesthesia, but how my family was there. And how I’m starting to feel better now. A lot better.
I take a breath because that is a lot of talking I just did.
And then I think of something else to tell Quinny.
“The Brain Expo. Those tickets you got for my birthday—I bet the scientists there can explain it.”
“Explain what?”
“How doctors make your brain fall asleep with anesthesia. And then wake you up. Why your brain obeys the anesthesia.”
“Oh.” Quinny has a funny look on her face now.
I start to write down questions.
How do you know everyone’s brain works the same way?
What if some people’s brains have a certain part missing or in a different place?
How can you tell how much falling-asleep medicine one person needs versus another person? Is there a formula? What if the medicine doesn’t work on everyone?
I’ll need a notebook for all the answers. Or maybe Mom will let me use her phone to record people saying the answers.
“Maybe you can help me talk to the scientists there?” I ask Quinny. “You’re good at interviewing people.”
Quinny doesn’t say anything. Her eyes stare down at the ground.
“Maybe.” She says it so softly I can barely hear.
“Thanks for getting those tickets. I can’t wait for my birthday.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Quinny?”
“Hey, I just remembered I promised Piper I’d read her
a pitcher book—I mean, a picture book. Gotta go.”
And she races out of my room.
Something’s wrong.
“Quinny, what’s wrong?” I call out the window.
But she runs across the grass and into her own house without answering me.
Nothing’s wrong. But I wish Hopper wouldn’t talk so much about that Brain Expo. Because I told Victoria I’d go to her party, which is on the exact same Sunday afternoon in a few weeks, and I still haven’t quite figured out how to be in two places at once.
Maybe I can give Caleb my ticket and he can go with Hopper. But then Hopper would be sad, since those tickets were a birthday gift from me. I saw that his mom even wrote it on their kitchen wall calendar in bright red marker: Oct 24 h’s bday—brain expo w quinny.
I should’ve told Victoria I already have plans during her party. But I love pets, costumes, and food—it’s like that party was made just for me! The other thing is, I’m a little scared of seeing a brain that isn’t in someone’s head. But Hopper thinks the human body is fascinating, and I’ll never forget the look on his face when I gave him those Brain Expo tickets. I made him happy. Not a lot of people can do that. It’s practically a superpower.
Monday morning at school, lots of kids are absent. And lots of kids who are here are wearing braids or bandannas, or have slimy, slicked-back hair.
At morning meeting, Mrs. Meanie Sub tells us some new rules. No hugs. No sharing personal items, like barrettes or hats. And stay away from people, especially their heads.
People’s heads = lunch for hungry lice.
But staying away from people is not one of my strengths.
“It’s an epidemic,” says Victoria on the way back to our desks.
“A what?”
“Get away from my head,” she says. “And go read a dictionary.”
In the hall on the way to gym, I notice a line of glum kids waiting by Nurse Mira’s office. I see extra ladies in there with combs and magnifying glasses and frowny faces.
Wow. That’s the biggest head-check line I’ve ever seen.
Principal Ramsey is also nearby, talking to some other grown-ups I don’t even know.
Quinny & Hopper: Partners in Slime Page 6