So I put together his bag.
Then I put Antoine on his leash,
and our family went downstairs together.
To wait for the doggie camp van.
It was supposed to arrive at 10:00 that morning.
But we were still waiting at 10:18.
“I hope they haven’t forgotten,” my mom said.
“I hope they have,” I said.
A squirrel ran by,
and I had to keep Antoine from chasing it.
Then he said hello to Duchess,
the giant poodle
that lives in the apartment below us.
Finally,
a white van pulled up.
It had these words painted on the side:
YIP-YAP U
A COLLEGE FOR CANINES
“We’re sending Antoine to college?” I said.
“They’re just being clever,” my mom said.
“He won’t go to Harvard until he’s eighteen,”
my dad said.
“Everyone is being clever,” my mom said.
And then a tall man with very curly hair
hopped out of the van.
“You must be the Kanes,” he said to us.
“I’m Pete.”
After the grown-ups shook hands,
Pete crouched down in front of Antoine.
I wanted Antoine to growl at him.
Maybe even nip.
Instead, he wagged his tail.
Especially when Pete started feeding him treats.
That’s cheating, I thought.
I glared at Pete, the big fat cheat,
who’d come to take my dog from me.
But he didn’t notice.
He was too busy rubbing
the little space between Antoine’s eyes.
“We’re going to be good friends, aren’t we?”
he said to Antoine.
Then he stood back up
and glanced at his watch.
“Traffic,” he said, shaking his head.
“It’s already set me back,
and I have two more dogs to pick up.”
“Here you go,” my dad said,
handing over Antoine’s bag.
Pete slung it over his shoulder
and scooped Antoine up with one hand.
“Put him down!” I wanted to say.
I hadn’t even said good-bye!
Maybe Pete understood,
because he said to Antoine,
“Give everyone some love.”
We all gathered around
and said a quick good-bye.
“We’ll miss you, little guy,”
my dad said, rubbing Antoine’s neck.
“I want you to have fun,” my mom told Antoine.
And I said, “Don’t be scared.”
Then Pete put Antoine’s bag
and Antoine
in the van.
“Don’t worry,” he said.
“I’ve got him in a doggie seat belt.
Very safe and comfy.”
I could see Antoine through the van window,
sitting on the seat,
all buckled up.
Looking confused.
I hated that we were giving him to a stranger.
“What’s your last name?” I shouted at Pete
as he walked around the van.
He shouted back something
that sounded like “Pain!”
“We don’t know anything about that man,”
I told my parents.
“Please don’t worry,” my mom said.
“Everything will be fine.”
Then Pete Pain climbed into the van.
And we all watched
as he drove my dog
farther and farther away.
“I’m having bad memories,” I said.
“I’m remembering Bibi,
waving good-bye.”
“Me, too,” my parents both said, together.
Because when I was eight,
my very special babysitter, Bibi,
rode off, too.
In the backseat of a cab.
And moved to Florida, forever.
“Antoine will be back,” my mom said,
“in two short weeks.”
“He might have to escape from Pete,” I said.
I imagined Pete with a mask on,
carrying Antoine in a sack.
And Antoine struggling to get out.
“He will not have to escape from Pete,”
my mom said.
“I give you my solemn promise.”
“So do I,” my dad said.
He put his arm around me,
and I decided to believe both of them
as we all went upstairs together.
When we walked into our apartment,
I knew exactly what I wanted to do.
I wanted to hear Bibi’s voice.
So I picked up the phone,
and I called her.
I didn’t even have to ask my parents for her number.
Because I know Bibi’s number
and her mailing address
by heart.
“My Ellie!” she said,
as soon as she heard my voice.
(Ellie is Bibi’s nickname for me.
I don’t let anyone else use it.)
“How are you?” she asked.
“I’m terrible!” I said.
I told her all about Antoine leaving.
“I wish I could call him, like I’m calling you,” I said.
“Or write to him.
But he doesn’t talk or read!”
“He’ll be home soon,” Bibi said.
“Then everything will be fine.”
“Definitely not everything,” I said.
I told her then
how I’d lost my Mondays and Wednesdays
with Pearl.
And how I had to be a singing rabbit
because of Pearl.
And,
worst of all,
how my feelings had been hurt by Pearl.
“I know my dad doesn’t sing well,” I told Bibi.
“And maybe I could be better with Antoine.
But why did Pearl have to say that to Ainsley?”
Bibi was quiet for a second.
Then she said,
“Sometimes it’s hard,
keeping thoughts to ourselves.”
I tried then
to remember times when I’d had trouble
keeping thoughts to myself.
I couldn’t think of a single one!
And I knew I wouldn’t have had any trouble
keeping my thoughts from Ainsley,
if I’d been Pearl.
I wanted to say,
“It’s not hard at all!”
But I didn’t want to tell Bibi she was wrong.
So I changed the subject instead.
We talked about her dad
and how he wasn’t sick anymore.
And we talked about
how much we missed each other.
Then we hung up.
And it was only days later that I realized:
I’d been wrong,
not Bibi.
Because sometimes
I did have trouble—
lots of trouble—
keeping thoughts to myself.
When I got to school the next morning,
I sat on a bench in the lobby.
I figured I’d sit there reading
until the warning bell rang.
Because I didn’t want to see Pearl.
Only,
before I could even pull out my book,
Pearl walked into the lobby
and saw me.
And
before I could decide whether to hurry away,
she headed straight over
and sat down beside me!
“Hey,” she said.
Very quiet
ly, for Pearl.
I didn’t answer—
I hadn’t figured out what to say.
That’s why I’d been trying to avoid her.
She looked worried.
Then she said, “Did I do something bad?
Or say something wrong?
I know you’re mad at me.
But I can’t think of why!”
I hesitated.
Then I said,
“You talked to Ainsley about me.
I don’t like that.”
Pearl looked confused.
“I must’ve said good things,” she said.
“No, you didn’t!” I said.
“You said I’m too nice to Antoine
and my dad sings like a garbage truck.
She told me that!”
“Oh,” Pearl said,
covering her mouth with her hand.
Obviously remembering.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“I wasn’t trying to be mean!
I was just telling her about you.
Because you’re my best friend!”
“How could ‘garbage truck’ not be mean?” I said.
“And how could it not be mean
to say I’m bad with my dog?”
“It came out wrong!” Pearl said.
Her voice was quivery.
Then she said,
“I don’t want you to be mad at me!
You’re as important to me
as paper is to pencil!”
“You hurt my feelings,” I said.
My voice was quivery, too.
We both sat there,
very miserable.
Then Pearl sat up a little straighter.
I could tell she’d had an idea.
So I said, “What?”
And she said,
“How about if I tell you something about Ainsley?
Would that make things fair?”
“What do you mean?” I said. “What kind of thing?”
Pearl looked to her right
and to her left,
like a spy.
Then she whispered in my ear,
“Ainsley has a crush on Adam.”
“She does?” I said,
too loudly.
I’d never dreamed of anyone ever
having a crush on Adam.
Pearl nodded, then whispered,
“She thinks he’s cute.”
“Adam?” I said,
making sure I’d heard right.
Adam was a nice person.
And smart, too.
But cute?
“Shhh,” Pearl said with wide eyes.
“You have to promise never to tell anyone.
It’s a secret.
I swore I wouldn’t tell.”
“I promise,” I said.
We smiled at each other
for the first time in forever
as the warning bell rang.
Then we hurried together to class.
I watched Ainsley later that day, in gym,
as she dribbled the soccer ball
through cones.
And I did a lot of wondering.
I wondered what it would feel like
to have a crush on someone.
I wondered how she knew she had a crush.
I wondered if she wanted to walk down the street
holding Adam’s hand.
I wondered how she could possibly want that.
I wondered if she liked gum as much as Adam does.
Or if she liked the way his hair sticks up in the back.
I wondered whether he liked her humongous bows.
And then I had to stop wondering.
Because it was my turn to dribble the soccer ball.
And I am very bad at that.
So I had to focus.
Ainsley did a funny thing
after gym.
She came up to me while I was at my locker.
She had one hand behind her back.
“I want to give you something,” she said.
Then,
while I stood there, confused,
she held out
a folded pale pink sweatshirt.
“That’s for me?” I asked her.
She nodded. She looked a little shy.
“My mom designs sweatshirts,” she said.
“I noticed you like stars.
So this one reminded me of you.”
I unfolded it.
That sweatshirt was covered
with stars of all sizes,
all made out of rhinestones.
“Wow!” I said. “It’s so sparkly!”
The truth is,
I would never have picked that sweatshirt out
for myself.
But still.
It was very, very nice of her
to think of me.
I felt bad
that I hadn’t thought of her at all,
except for my upset thoughts
about her and Pearl.
I tried to think fast.
I had an idea that I knew was stupid,
but I said it anyway.
Because it was all I could come up with.
“Um,” I said.
“My mom raises money for hospitals.
Would you like one of her brochures?”
My mom had stacks of those colorful things
in her office.
“No thanks,” Ainsley said,
laughing a little.
“I don’t want anything, really.
I just thought you’d like the sweatshirt.
My mom’s making one for Pearl, too.
But not exactly the same.
It’ll be pale pink with sparkly stripes
instead of stars.”
I grinned at her.
I couldn’t believe how nice she was being.
Still,
a tiny part of me was thinking,
I don’t like sweatshirts covered in rhinestones!
And I know Pearl doesn’t, either!
We had our first rehearsal that afternoon.
Mrs. Quaid asked us to sit in a circle
with our scripts
on the stage in the auditorium.
I sat on the smooth wooden floor next to Katie
and tried not to look out
on the rows and rows of audience seats.
I tried not to think about parents and kids
filling those seats
and watching me.
I focused on Mrs. Quaid instead.
She was sitting across the circle,
between Nicholas and Adam.
“I brought us a snack,” Mrs. Quaid said.
“Carrot sticks and carrot juice.
Rabbity favorites!”
I don’t like carrot sticks,
and I would never drink carrot juice—
it smells disgusting!
So I just waited,
and wished that rabbits loved brookies,
while other kids ate and drank.
When they’d finally finished, Mrs. Quaid said,
“For this first rehearsal,
we’ll read through the script.
Pay no attention to the songs, for now.
Just read your lines
loudly and clearly.”
She put on her glasses and opened her script.
Then she looked at me and asked,
“Ready to start us off?”
I nodded
and cleared my throat
and started to read.
In the first scene,
I, Mama Rabbit, get arrested
and thrown in the bunny dungeon
because the Hop Cops think—
wrongly!—
that I’ve robbed a Hare Salon.
I read the lines in that scene loudly and clearly.
Because they’re not embarrassing at all.
Nicholas gave me a big thumbs-up
at the end of the scene.
Which was nice of him.
But after that,
I got quieter and quieter,
and I mumbled more and more.
Because my other lines
were ridiculous.
I call Nicholas
(my bunny son)
“Honey Bunny”
and “Sweet Honey Bun”
and “Oh, Angel Mine.”
I say things like,
“Without me to care for you,
Honey Bunny,
how will you survive?”
And
“Your sweet honey bun fur
is as soft as marshmallow Peeps.”
I couldn’t look at Nicholas after those lines.
Or anywhere near him.
But I was pretty certain
he didn’t give them a thumbs-up.
Other kids giggled.
Someone made smooching sounds.
And all I wanted
was to crawl behind the curtains
at the back of the stage.
Then
Katie said,
“Eleanor? Are you blushing?”
And freckly Ben said,
“Yes! She’s practically purple!”
And Nicholas said,
“Leave her alone.”
That should’ve been a good thing.
Nicholas was being so nice.
But
for some reason,
it made me blush more.
Which made me feel worse.
And then
came the most embarrassing moment of all.
The moment when the script says
I have to hug Nicholas.
Ben sang out,
“Eleanor and Nicholas,
sitting in a tree,
K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”
Mrs. Quaid made him stop
before he could start the “first comes love” part.
“I expect more from you,” she said
to all the laughing kids.
But everyone kept laughing.
I wanted to crawl behind the curtains and
pull them down on top of me.
I guess I’m not mature, I thought.
And then I thought,
I can’t stand another second of this.
Luckily, I didn’t have to.
With that hug, we’d finished the script.
“See you Wednesday!” Mrs. Quaid said.
I leapt off the stage then
and ran up an aisle of the auditorium
and out the door.
All through breakfast
and my whole walk to school the next morning,
I hoped, hoped, hoped
that everyone had forgotten
the K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
Like Carrot Juice on a Cupcake Page 4