Kate the Great, Except When She's Not

by Suzy Becker

  “Dinner in fifteen!” my dad yells up.

  Rocky and I go downstairs. “Sounding very good, Champ,” my dad says. He is lighting the candles, which is normal at our house. We have candles every night, because according to Grammalolo, and according to my mother, who was raised by Grammalolo, candlelight makes children more peaceful at the dinner table.

  I make two tacos and bring them over. Fern and I are identical taco twins—we like meat, cheese, lettuce, tomato, and olives. Lots of olives. No avocado.

  Fern and I are the only ones sitting at the table, not counting Bob, who is technically sitting on the table between the two candles.

  Bob is not filled with fruit or salad or decorations, like normal bowls. Bob is filled with so-called conversation starters. My dad begs everybody to write down quotes or questions on little pieces of paper and put them in Bob.

  “Okay, Ferno,” my dad says once we run out of regular dinner-table conversation. He holds up Fern’s stinkbug. “Bob’s been waiting.…”

  “Why are they so”—Bob has to hold on another half minute until Fern stops laughing enough to say—“stinky?”

  Robin answers. “They don’t think they’re stinky. They make that smell when they’re scared or they find a good place to spend the winter and that is how the rest of their friends and family find them. Their real name is brown marmorated stinkbug.”

  “Oh,” Fern says. “Can bugs hear?” None of us know the answer. My dad writes the question down and tosses it into Bob.

  My mom goes next. “Other than stinking, they’re not bad as far as winter guests go—harmless in the house—but they’ve destroyed a lot of farmers’ crops.”

  “They came over from Asia,” I say before someone else does. “They’ve only been in the United States for fifteen years … same as Robin.” I really hadn’t been planning on saying the part about Robin; it came to me at the last minute. Both my parents laugh.

  “Ha-stinkin’-ha,” Robin says.

  My dad goes next. “A place in New Jersey is collecting stinkbugs. They want you to mail it in a pill bottle so it won’t get crushed.”

  “You can mail a stinkbug?” I want to make sure I heard that correctly. My dad nods.

  Dad passes Bob over to Fern. She closes her eyes and picks.

  Fern doesn’t open her eyes when I turn on my lamp. I am allowed to stay up and read until 9:15, which is what I am doing when my mom comes in and sits down on the edge of my bed. “Scooch over, Kate. We didn’t get a chance to finish talking about Mrs. Klein.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “When I saw Nora’s mom, she had some big news—Mr. Klein has to go away on a long business trip.”

  “Maybe he can take Nora with him.”

  “Kate, that’s not funny.” Translation: That is funny, but it’s not nice. “Mr. Klein is going to be working in Hong Kong until March. They’re hoping he can come home over the holidays, but Mrs. Klein is very concerned about Nora. This could have had something to do with her behavior today.” Yesterday AND today. “I volunteered—”

  “Mom, you volunteered—you can’t volunteer some-one else!”

  “I didn’t volunteer you. I suggested that Mrs. Klein sign Nora up for Junior Guides, and I said that I would talk with you. I think it calls for a little extra kindness—on the bus, in band, maybe introducing Nora to your friends at her first Guide meeting. That’s all.” That’s all?

  “Give it a chance.” She kisses my forehead and turns out the light.

  After my mom goes downstairs, I silent-walk to Robin’s room. She looks up from her desk and waves me in.

  After I shut her door, we sit in our usual spots on the floor in between the two beds.

  “Did Mom ask you to be extra-nice to Lexi?” I ask Robin. Lexi is Nora’s older sister.

  “Mom didn’t have to ask me to be extra-nice to Lexi. Everybody loves Lexi—well, everybody but Nora,” Robin says. “But imagine being Nora and being Lexi’s little sister. Lexi has a million friends. She’s a really good student AND a total sports star. Then there’s Nora.…”

  “Mom told me about Mr. Klein and Hong Kong. She probably didn’t think it was such a big deal. You like being nice to people—haven’t you earned a hundred of those school stars?” Robin asks.

  “I don’t like being nice to people who aren’t nice to me.” Robin doesn’t say anything. “Besides, Mom wants me to ‘introduce’ Nora to my friends. You can’t introduce someone everyone has known since kindergarten.”

  “You must do the thing you think you cannot do,” Robin says in a warbly voice.

  “That’s not funny.” Translation: That is funny, but it’s annoying.

  “You can do this. You’ll think of something. I have to finish my homework.” Robin squeezes my shoulders and spins me toward the door. “Oh, I remembered what we used to call Mrs. Staughton—Mrs. Snotten.”

  “Thanks, but Heather Staughton’s in our pod. And we don’t need a repeat of the Hurl Bag Incident.” I hug Robin good night.

  Gene is the World’s Best Bus Driver. 1) He plays our radio station. 2) He has a never-ending supply of mint gum in case you’re bus-sick or just need a stick of something to cheer you up. 3) He does not give assigned seats (except to kindergartners).

  I say hi to Gene—“Hi, Gene!” (get it, like hygiene?)—as usual when I get on the bus in the morning. Luckily Gene also has excellent hygiene.

  Then, as usual, I do not say hi to Nora, who is sitting in her self-assigned seat right behind the kindergartners on Gene’s side of the bus.

  “Was she still saving you that seat?” Brooke asks when I get off the bus.

  “Not funny.” Translation: That is funny, but it’s not helping.

  I explained Nora’s circumstances on the way into school.

  “Extra kindness, extra-creative kindness … we can come up with something,” Brooke says. She loves puzzles and she does not personally heartily dislike Nora Klein. (They are not on the same bus. They did not go to the same preschool. Their mothers did not make them have playdates.)

  After five minutes in homeroom, we have come up with exactly zero creative kindness ideas. “Can we please think about my birthday party instead?” I ask.

  “Slumber party, right? Friday or Saturday?”

  “Saturday.” My mom likes to collapse when she gets home from work on Fridays. “I get to have ten people since I am turning ten.”

  “Oh, that just gave me an extra-kind idea.” Brooke writes something on the list and hands it to me.

  I shake my head. “N-O-N-O-R-A.” When I go to erase “Nora,” Brooke grabs the list.

  “Wait!” Unfortunately, I have no choice; Brooke has the list and Mrs. Block has entered the room.

  Mrs. Block rings her little bell. It’s time for our morning meeting, the Share and Prepare part of our day. Peter Buttrick is sharing his Lego helicopter. In fifth grade, we are supposed to share ideas or current events, not Lego, but Peter’s Lego is special.

  Morning meeting ends early so Mrs. Block can have a word with Peter and dry off her desk. The rest of us have extra time for writing workshop, which actually makes me appreciate Peter’s helicopter. I writing workshop.

  Brooke brings the guest list out at lunch. We update Eliza on the Nora Project.

  “Do you think people would come if Nora—”

  “I’d come,” Eliza interrupts. “And I have no problem being nice to Nora for your birthday. Think about it. Nine out of ten guests, ninety percent, easily neutralize one out of ten, ten-percent Nora.”

  “But wouldn’t Nora think it was weird if I all of a sudden invited her to my birthday party?”

  “We have some time to figure that out,” Brooke says, and she slides me three Goldfish even though sharing food is absolutely not allowed.

  Therefore I do not know why I did what I did on the bus except that we did have gym last thing and exercise is known to affect your brain.

  Everyone else in the family was very inspired by Eleanor Roosev
elt’s words, not counting Fern, who already thinks she can do a lot of things that she should not. My dad wrote two pages of his novel. My mother agreed to be the first woman on the board of the Dunleigh Hotel Corporation. Translation: She will be going to even more meetings. Robin and her friend Grace decided to run in the Gobble Wobble on Thanksgiving.

  I might as well get it over with. “Sometimes you might be right and Eleanor Roosevelt might be wrong. Sometimes you can’t do the thing you think you cannot do. Or you maybe shouldn’t.” I tell what happened with Nora.

  Robin asks if I want to run with her and Grace, and I say no thank you. Running is not my favorite.

  My mom pushes her plate toward the middle of the table and says, “That Nora is a challenge.”

  “Mmm,” my dad agrees. “But it sounds like you gave it your best shot, Champ.”

  I lie awake after I’ve turned out my light. I didn’t exactly give it my best-best shot, but I think “It sounds like you gave it your best shot, Champ” makes a nice ending for my Nora story.

  Unfortunately, my mom does not. She pats the bed in the dark and finds a place to sit down. “Thank you for trying today, Kate. I really hope you—”

  “Mom, if you get to the fifth grade and you have no friends, there is probably a good reason why.”

  “Oh. What’s the reason?”

  “Nora doesn’t want friends.”

  “It’s possible. But it’s also possible that she doesn’t know how to have them. I just wanted to say, I know things didn’t get off to a good start, but I hope you won’t give up.”

  Only kidding. I’m planning to send e-vites anyway.

  I would like this No-Electronics Soccer Tournament Sunday to be over, but my systems are not cooperating. I cannot fall asleep.

  The main reason: Band tryouts are tomorrow. I am half-excited and half-nervous. Half-excited, two-thirds nervous.

  It’s just that I want to make section leader so badly.

  I give up on sleep and go to Robin’s room.

  “Why are you so nervous? Weren’t you section leader at the end of last year?” Robin says. She shuts her door and takes Human Biology out of her backpack.

  “That’s why! No one expected me to be section leader last year. Now I have to be or else Nora Klein will be.”

  “Oh, I forgot about Nora.” Robin reaches up to her nightstand. “Here, you can have Trolly for twenty-four hours. He’s gotten me through a lot of recitals.” Robin plays the piano.

  We both hear someone coming up the stairs. I crouch lower. “You considering bedtime?” my dad says to Robin. “There must be something on the benefits of sleep in your book.”

  “Almost,” Robin says, looking up from Human Biology. “Night, Dad.”

  I tiptoe back to my room. I sit Trolly on top of my flute case and get under the covers at 9:39. At 9:46, my dad turns on the TV in their bedroom, and the next time I look, it is 6:48, seven minutes until it’s time to get up.

  Mrs. Block is assigning “Colonial Buddies” for our new social studies project. I gasp when she announces that Allie and Ronan got Delaware. The gasp has nothing to do with Allie, Ronan, or Delaware. It has everything to do with Trolly, who is not currently in my pocket. He is lying, alone and helpless, on the reading chair in the Book Nook in the back of the library—that is, if no one has taken him.

  “Excuse me, Mrs. Block?” I raise my hand.

  “This will have to wait, Kate.”

  Hui Zong and I get Maryland, not Pennsylvania (everybody’s #1 choice), and even though she’s not Brooke (Brooke and Colin got Massachusetts), I’m happy that Hui Zong is my partner. I think she will do her fair share. After the thirteenth colony, Mrs. B. finally calls on me.

  “May I go get something very important that I left at the library?”

  “Sure, Kate.”

  Brooke looks at me with raised eyebrows.

  A thousand phews. Trolly is exactly where I left him. This could be my lucky day.

  “What did you forget at the library?” Brooke asks when we are finally on our way down to Mr. Bryant’s room.

  I show her Trolly. “Robin loaned him to me for good luck. Here …”I brush her cheek with what is left of Trolly’s good-luck hair.

  “I hope you get section leader.”

  “Flutes first, again. Oboes last, again,” Jacob Sweeney says. He has his reed in his mouth and is staring at the water, waiting for it to fountain. I would have felt sorry for him having to go last, but he was automatic section leader, if one oboe = section and being in charge of yourself = leadership.

  The schedule is on the whiteboard. It’s alphabetical order, as usual: Elsa Adler is first, I am fourth, Brooke is fifth, and Nora Klein is sixth.

  I put on my purple gloves, which people (not Brooke) may think is weird, but when my hands are a little sweaty, they play better.

  I do my whole warm-up routine, which I won’t bore anybody with here,* but it keeps me busy right up until Anna Foley (#3) calls my name.

  I take three deep breaths before I open the door to the tryout room. Mr. Bryant’s office smells like rosin and coffee and the peanut butter sandwich sitting on his desk.

  From the time Mr. Bryant says, “Ready, Kate?” until he says, “Well done, Kate!”—after I finished the sight-reading piece “Moment Musical” (European for “musical moment”)—it is exactly six minutes.

  I stall in Mr. Bryant’s doorway until Brooke gets there.

  “Good luck,” I say, and stuff Trolly in Brooke’s back pocket. Then I point to the peanut butter sandwich. “Dare you!” She picks it up, and I swear, I think she’s going to bite it, but she doesn’t. I hope I didn’t ruin her concentration.

  Approximately seven minutes later, Brooke is calling Nora’s name. She calls it a second time and a third. By then everyone in the whole band room is quiet. Except Nora, who is still practicing. I personally would have moved on to the next person, but Brooke goes and gets Nora, who acts more startled than grateful.

  “I was hoping she’d wear the earmuffs during her tryout,” I say.

  “They kind of match your gloves,” Brooke says, handing Trolly over.

  “That’s not funny.” Translation: It would be funny if it weren’t true.

  When Robin gets home from hockey practice (another too much running, not enough goals sport), I give Trolly back. She says, “Trolly, you look worn out. Did you do a good job?”

  “I think he did. I mean, I think it went well,” I say. “You don’t think saying it went well is a jinx, do you?” Because I had already said it three times—to Brooke, to my dad, and now to Robin.

  “Trolly offers expert jinx protection at no extra charge.” Robin makes an X on my forehead with Trolly’s hair. “I’m sure you did great, Kate.”

  It is a top-bunk night. The moon is coming up over the Wests’ roof across the street. I stick Bob’s quote on the wall.

  It’s hard to argue with a genius, but I personally don’t think you can go around deciding, unless you can change your mind. Sometimes the universe is friendly; sometimes it’s not. Nora Klein is proof.

  I replay Mr. Bryant’s three little four-letter words in my head.

  Good night, moon.

  My dad makes me pack my uneaten eggwich in my lunch bag. I get on the bus, say hi to Gene, and sit down two seats behind Nora.

  Brooke is waiting for me in the bus circle. We watch Nora head to her locker, which is in the opposite direction of Mr. Bryant’s bulletin board. “Hello?! Tryout results THIS way—could she possibly not care?” Brooke says. I am relieved because I don’t want Nora knowing the results before I do.

  I am really glad I did not eat that fried egg sandwich because it would be coming right back out sunny-side up.

  Brooke says, “I’d be happy if I was a section co-leader.”

  “With Nor—”

  “With me. Congratulations, Kate.” Nora is now standing behind us and I know I should say congratulations but all of a sudden my top lip weighs five hundred pounds and I
cannot get it to budge.

  “Congratulations, Nora,” Brooke says. There are now at least six more people crowded around us and we are trapped until Brooke does this extremely loud, extremely real fake sneeze and the crowd parts.

  “It’s just that whenever I don’t think that I did well—”

  “Which is most of the time,” Brooke interrupts.

  “I know, but this time I thought I did.”

  “And you were right. You’re section leader.”

  “Section CO-leader,” we both say.

  “Jinx, you owe me a Pellegrino!” Brooke said.

  “Morning, girls.” Mrs. Block looks up from her desk, then looks back down. “Everything okay, Kate?”

  “Me?”

  “Kate made section co-leader,” Brooke announces.

  “Well, congratulations, Kate! That’s wonderful.”

  “No, it—” And of all the stupid, embarrassing things, I start to cry. Mrs. Block stands up. “It’s okay,” I say. I have already stopped. “It’s just that, never mind—no offense, but you wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me,” Mrs. Block says, and she sits down on Peter’s desk.