Quinny & Hopper: Partners in Slime

by Adriana Brad Schanen

  Her computer password is PASSWORD. I type it into the keyboard later that morning while she’s down in the basement doing laundry.

  The school bus pulls up to our stop, and Daddy says something shocking.

  “Remember you’re going home with Victoria today.”

  “What?”

  “For the playdate. And then Mom or I will pick you up before dinner.”

  “But you never even told me that—I made plans with Hopper for after school.”

  The bus door opens and the driver smiles good morning out at us.

  “I told you earlier this week,” says Daddy. “She invited you over to her house.”

  “No, you didn’t. Because if you told me, I would have said no way!”

  “Quinny, stop it. I’ve been pretty busy lately, in case you haven’t noticed. Now, it’s rude to cancel this late unless you’re sick—you’re going on that playdate.”

  Daddy’s been too busy lately. And way too cranky. His main job is taking care of us at home while Mommy goes to her main job over at a college in the town next to Whisper Valley (which is called a name I can’t remember right now). But all of a sudden Daddy has decided to get a second job, which is called starting his own business, and that is definitely interfering with his main job. For example, today he let Cleo suck on her Binky all morning, even though Mom wants her to stop using it during the day. And he packed me moldy grapes in my lunch box (luckily I replaced them with an extra serving of cookies). And then he had no idea that Piper wasn’t wearing any clothes until I pointed it out.

  “Quinny, go,” Daddy says. “Victoria’s sitter will pick you up from school.”

  “What about Hopper?”

  “You’ll play with him some other time. Have-a-good-day-I-love-you-now-go.”

  The bus is waiting for me to get on it. Even Piper is already on the bus, and people are kind of looking at me now, waiting.

  Grrrrr. I stomp onto that bus. The thing that stinks about being a kid is you can make plans, but you usually need a grown-up to make those plans happen. Which is very, very, extra-very unfair.

  I spend the whole day at school knowing I have to go home with Victoria.

  It’s not the happiest thing I’ve ever known, let me tell you.

  But then a miracle happens to almost cheer me up. Mrs. Flavio pulls me aside and says no more recess detention, so I can join my class on the playground from now on. I’m so happy I almost try to hug that meanie sub, but she puts her hands out to stop me. “Calm down, Eleanor. Control yourself.”

  Then she tells me something else that is even better news than the recess miracle.

  “I’ve been giving it some thought, and…since you and Hopper have already done a lot of work on the how-to project, I will make an exception.”

  “You mean, we can do our tonsils book together and you won’t give me a zero?”

  “That’s right.”

  Two miracles in a row! There’s no way Mrs. Flavio is getting away without a hug now. I throw my arms around that meanie sub, even though her horrified voice is huffing and puffing for me to stop.

  However, during recess I end up wishing I wasn’t even at recess.

  Because Victoria is talking about her animal shelter fund-raising party again.

  “McKayla, you’re good at decorations. You’ll work on those,” says Victoria. “Kaitlin, you’re good at drawing. You’ll help with the invitation flyers. And, Quinny, you’re good at…”

  Victoria pauses. A really long time.

  “Eating. You’re good at eating food, I guess, so you can help design the menu.”

  “There’s a menu for the party?” I ask.

  “Not like a restaurant menu. It’s just a list of all the food that we’ll serve.”

  “How about cheese and crackers? Oh, and chicken wings—”

  “Ugh. Quinny, sometimes I wonder if you really moved here from New York.”

  “Of course I did.” I have no idea why that girl would wonder something so silly.

  At the end of the day, all the big yellow buses rumble over to the front of the school and wait for us kids. But Victoria is not a busser. She gets picked up in a shiny black car by a lady in big black sunglasses, who tilts her head at me instead of saying hello. The lady tells me her name is Masha, and she gives us snacks to eat in the backseat. Two bento boxes full of avocado and cucumber slices on sunflower-seed crackers, which is a really strange but delicious and fancy snack no one has ever given me. (I think Disco and Cha-Cha would love these crackers, so I save a couple in my pocket.)

  “Wow, Masha’s such a great sitter,” I say to Victoria, my mouth full of avocado and crackers. “I’m lucky if I get stale pretzels after school.”

  “Masha’s not my sitter.”

  “Oh, okay. You mean, she’s a relative…?”

  “She lives with us since my father travels so much for his job. She’s just…my Masha.”

  Victoria’s Masha drives us to Victoria’s house.

  I’ve never been to it before, but I’ve seen it. Everyone has.

  Most of the town of Whisper Valley is actually in a valley, but a small part of town is on a big hill above that valley. And Victoria lives in the biggest house on that big hill.

  My mouth hangs open as we pull into the driveway, because up close this place looks even more like a fancy wedding cake, with the swirliest frosting I’ve ever seen.

  Victoria’s wedding cake house > my barn house

  Victoria’s wedding cake house > Hopper’s gingerbread house

  Victoria’s wedding cake house > the White House (probably)

  “Oh, look, they’re here!” Victoria bursts out of the car and runs onto her front porch, which is roomier than my whole living room (and has more furniture, too). She tears open a big envelope. “My new business cards! I designed them myself. Aren’t they stunning?”

  She shows them to me. They look like her old business cards, only fancier.

  “But, Victoria, didn’t you already have a bunch of business cards?”

  “I gave myself a promotion.”

  Victoria used to be president of her company, ViP Fashions. Now she’s CEO. “Because a CEO is a much higher-level job than a president,” she explains.

  Even though Victoria is bragging, I have to admit her cards are kind of cool. They change color when you move them. They’re textured and shiny and bright.

  Also in Victoria’s mail is a catalog for Halloween costumes and decorations.

  “Let’s go inside. We can flip through this while we have our snack,” she says.

  “I thought we had our snack in the car—but okay, sure!”

  “That was just the appetizer. Now, Quinny, pay attention. I’ve organized the playdate into three parts. First, snack, because I know how much you love food. Second, a tour of my house, because it’s amazing. Last but not least, we’ll have another party-planning meeting, because we still have lots of work to do.”

  I feel like asking Victoria why there is no time to play on her playdate, but then her Masha brings out a big platter of fruit and cookies, and I forget to ask. We sit in the kitchen and flip through the Halloween catalog while we eat. Victoria marks the things she wants in it with a black marker. And, wow, she marks more things she wants for Halloween than I’ve ever even put on my Christmas list.

  “What are you going to be for Halloween?” she asks me.

  “Oh, I don’t know yet.”

  That’s not true—probably a chicken, but I don’t want to give Victoria any ideas.

  “Since my animal shelter party is right before Halloween, I’ve decided it’s going to be a costume party for the animals and people,” she says. “You can dress to match your pet, or for those sad people who don’t have any pets, just wear any old Halloween costume.”

  Boy, I wish I had a pet to bring to Victoria’s party. (Maybe Mrs. Porridge will lend me Cha-Cha?) Also, I wish I could be in two places at once, so Quinny #1 could go to her party while Quinny #2 goes with Hopper to the
Brain Expo. For a second, I’m actually kind of jealous of those bully twins who live next door to me.

  After we finish our snack, Victoria gives me a tour of her house. And it’s a loooong one. The list of things I learn on her tour is very, very, extra-very fascinating, plus a bit sad:

  1) Victoria’s great-great-grandfather built this house and started the town of Whisper Valley in 1872. There’s an old picture of him with a twirly mustache by the living room fireplace. “He was a mountain climber, a champion poker player, and a genius at business,” she says. “He’s my role model.”

  2) Victoria is actually named after her house, which is her mother’s favorite style of house: a Victorian.

  3) I should say, it was her mother’s favorite style of house, because Victoria’s mother is dead. She died when Victoria was little, but there are pictures of her everywhere, and I can tell she was even more elegant than Victoria is.

  4) Victoria also has a dead cat. It was her mother’s cat, which was white and fluffy and which didn’t die until last year, and its name was—

  At this point in the tour, I get really sad.

  “Quinny, get that mopey look off your face.”

  I swallow my sniffle. I didn’t know Victoria has a dead mother and a dead cat.

  “Stop it.” She moves her face closer to mine. “Don’t you dare feel sorry for me.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Put those tears away.”

  Victoria says that her charming, wise, brilliant, generous mother always kept her chin up and never felt sorry for herself, because it was a waste of time, and a person should never waste time on things that are a waste of time.

  “Victoria, what a coincidence—Mrs. Porridge says the same thing sometimes. She must be related to your mother?”

  “She’s my father’s aunt. That’s why we have the same last name. Now, pull yourself together, Quinny, and come check out the house organ.”

  The house what?

  “You’re going to love this.” Victoria opens a set of big, wide doors that disappear.

  “Whoa, wait—where did those doors go?” I ask.

  “They’re pocket doors,” she says. “The walls are hollow, so they slide right inside.”

  “Neat!”

  And then she shows me a piano. Which is actually an organ. Which is actually part of the house. It was built with musical pipes that go all the way through the walls, so when you press the organ’s keyboard, it sounds like the whole house is singing.

  I play the first few notes of “Imagine” by John Lennon on that organ. It sounds powerful and everywhere. And the best part is, it sounds kind of like my accordion at home.

  “Victoria, I had no idea you lived inside a big, giant accordion.”

  “I told you my house was amazing.”

  After that, she shows me the kitchen dumbwaiter (it’s like an elevator for food), and a secret tiny closet inside the coat closet, and a fireplace big enough to fit both of us inside it. She shows me her basement, which has sparkly lights, a Ping-Pong table, a pinball machine, an old-fashioned popcorn popper, and a whole second kitchen.

  And all that’s just the downstairs.

  Upstairs, Victoria shows me her bedroom, which has a bed with its own lacy roof.

  And her playroom, which has lots of dolls I’m not allowed to touch.

  And her office/workshop—where she runs her company, ViP Fashions, and makes her fabulous fashion creations on not just one but TWO sewing machines.

  All I can think of is that tiny room I share with Cleo. And the tiny kitchen my family eats in, and Daddy’s office-in-a-closet that blocks the hallway so we have to step over him.

  “You’re so lucky,” I tell her. “I had to switch rooms, and now I share a little room with icky-sticky-screamy Cleo because Piper can’t even—”

  But I stop myself before I blab our private family business to Victoria.

  “Because Piper can’t even what?” she asks.

  “Nothing. Never mind.” I change the subject. “What’s behind those doors?”

  Victoria shows me—and it’s her own personal bathroom, which has the prettiest bathtub I’ve ever seen. It looks kind of like a dressy lady’s shoe. I don’t tell her that all five of us in my family share one bathroom, which is smaller than hers. I can’t believe there are more bathrooms living in Victoria’s house than there are people.

  Eventually, we run out of things for Victoria to show me. She leads us back down to the kitchen and pulls out a notebook.

  “Now, about the party menu…Quinny, what are your ideas?”

  “Well, we should have lots of food, for sure. Like cheese and crackers. And pizza!”

  “Pizza? Everyone always has pizza. And I’m allergic to dairy, don’t forget. Let’s do something more special. What kind of food do they have in New York City restaurants?”

  I actually didn’t go out to restaurants very much when I lived back in New York. The food we ate there is pretty much like the food we eat here: grocery-store food that my parents cook. But Victoria is waiting for a more interesting answer. I try to think of one….

  There’s dim sum in Chinatown. We only do that once a year.

  Italian tacos from that food truck by the subway museum. They sure smelled good, but Daddy packed me lunch for that field trip, so I didn’t get to try any.

  There’s that Korean barbecue restaurant I went to once with Mom when it was Take Your Kids to Work Day. Everything I tasted there was super savory and salty.

  There’s that wacky restaurant downtown that has a million colorful Christmas lights up year-round. I forget the name of it, but I went there for a birthday party once.

  But my favorite NYC food place is the guy with the hot dog cart by the Central Park Zoo.

  “Ooh, that’s a fun idea—we should get him to come to the party,” says Victoria.

  “Really?” I feel shocked whenever I impress Victoria—it almost never happens.

  “Sure. It would be unique. What’s his name? I’ll have Masha take care of it.”

  Wow. I wish I had a Masha. She’s like a parent, but without all the yelling and no’s.

  “You’d better stay for dinner,” says Victoria. “We still have lots of work to do.”

  “Oh, Victoria, I’d love to, but I can’t. I have to go see—” I stop my mouth from talking.

  Victoria stares at me hard. “Hopper?” she guesses.

  “Sorry. It’s just, we’re on a deadline—the tonsils book we’re writing is due Friday.”

  “Mrs. Flavio said our projects aren’t due until next week,” says Victoria.

  “Oh right—well, I meant the book publisher wants it by Friday. Yeah, that’s it.”

  “What’s the name of your publisher?”

  I freeze for a moment. “ENT Books Corporation,” I finally reply.

  Victoria looks at me some more. “I’ve never heard of that publisher.”

  “Well, they publish mostly doctor-type books.”

  I don’t know why I’m making things up to Victoria. Once I start, it’s hard to stop. The more I lie, the worse I feel. Finally, I change the subject to something that isn’t a lie.

  “Hey, Victoria! I was wondering, can you be the guest judge for our hospital-gown-design contest? That’s one of the things we’re doing in the book, where kids can design hospital gowns and send in a drawing, and we decide which designs are the best.”

  Victoria looks at me like I’m not making any sense.

  “Because, you know, sometimes hospitals only have one kind of kids’ gowns, and not everyone likes to wear bunnies? And you know about clothes a whole lot, so I thought…”

  “Well, that is true.” She smiles a little, but then her face gets serious again. “I’ll have to check my schedule. What’s the salary for this job?”

  I have no idea what salary means.

  “And is your book more like a magazine or is it a real book?” she asks again.

  “Kind of in between. Like a combination magazi
ne, book, and comic book.”

  “Well, if it’s a magazine, you should put advertising in it, to make some money.”

  “Oh, we’re not doing it to make money. We’re just trying to help cheer up kids—”

  “How about ads for ice-cream brands, since kids eat lots of ice cream after getting their tonsils out? Or hospitals could advertise, since there are lots of them to choose from.”

  I never thought of that. Don’t people just usually pick the closest hospital?

  “You could even advertise eggs for sale from your poopy, stubborn chickens.”

  “They haven’t laid any eggs yet. We’re just going to give the eggs away anyway.”

  Victoria snorts. “Quinny, grow up. No one gives away stuff they could actually sell.”

  “But people gave us lots of stuff back in the city,” I say. “Like we got a Pack ’n Play® from our neighbors upstairs. My parents used to give stuff away all the time, too.”

  “Well, that explains why they don’t have any money for a bigger house, and you have to share a room with that icky-sticky-screamy baby sister.”

  Victoria’s sentence feels like a kick in my chest. It hurts so much I can’t even talk.

  But she acts like nothing bad happened and just keeps on having a conversation.

  “Quinny, are you listening? I asked for the name of the hot dog cart owner.”

  “I have to go to the bathroom.” I run out of the kitchen.

  Then I run right back into the kitchen and ask, “Where’s the closest bathroom?”

  “Just around the corner. Third door on the left.”

  In the bathroom, I try to catch my breath. I do call my sister icky-sticky-screamy Cleo sometimes, but that doesn’t mean Victoria can. Hands off my baby sister!

  I always knew there were mean people in the world. But I never realized that a friend could be so mean, and then just keep going on with her life, all la-la-la, like she didn’t even do the meanness that she just truly did.

  I know I promised Mrs. Porridge that I wouldn’t give up on Victoria, but right now I can’t remember why that girl and I became friends in the first place. Victoria loves dressing up, being admired, and bossing people around. I love dogs, cheese and crackers, Hopper, my family (most of the time), playing my accordion, and kicking soccer balls with the bully twins (but that last one might upset Hopper if I admitted it out loud).