I glanced helplessly at my mother.
“David Michael,” she said.
“Mom,” he replied.
Emily knocked over her cup of milk.
I put my forehead in my hands.
And Karen jumped up, ran to a window, and exclaimed, “Hey, it’s really snowing!”
I was one of the BSC members who would have had to miss the Wednesday meeting if Kristy had decided to hold it. My ballet lessons are very important to me. And so are the productions I dance in. I’ve performed parts in The Nutcracker many times, but this was the first year I was cast as the King of the Mice. Usually, a boy plays that part, but I didn’t mind doing it — once.
The Wednesday rehearsal was crucial. Opening night was less than a week away, and every year The Nutcracker is the best-attended ballet put on by my school. By my ballet school, that is. The special dance school I go to in Stamford. My teacher is Mme Noelle, and she works her students hard. There’s no fooling around in Madame’s classes.
That was how I managed to concentrate so well on Wednesday. I wanted to think about Quint. And under any other circumstances, I would have done so, nonstop. I couldn’t believe that in a few short hours I would be seeing him again. And the visit would be a major one.
I guess I should back up a little. (I’m even confusing myself!) Quint and I met in New York when the members of the BSC were there for two wonderful weeks of summer vacation. Quint is a ballet dancer, too, and we met at the ballet. We had each gone to this special matinee performance of Swan Lake at Lincoln Center. We had gone alone — and we wound up sitting next to each other. Then we wound up talking. And finally we spent some time together. I met Quint’s family, and I learned about Quint’s dilemma. This was the thing. Quint is such a good dancer that his teacher thought he could be accepted at Juilliard, which is the performing arts school in New York City. Not just anyone can get into it. You have to audition and you have to be good. Quint didn’t want to audition; not because he thought he wouldn’t get in, but because he was afraid he would get in. See, the guys in Quint’s neighborhood had been giving him a hard time about taking ballet lessons. (Quint used to sneak off to lessons with his shoes and things stuffed into a bowling ball bag.) Anyway, Quint and I talked a lot while I was in New York, and finally he decided just to see if he could get into Juilliard. So he auditioned, he did get in (naturally), and he decided to go. The guys still give him a hard time, but he just puts up with that. He doesn’t even bother to use the bowling bag anymore.
I am extremely proud of Quint. And I miss him. I haven’t seen him since we said good-bye in NYC. (Oh, by the way, Quint kissed me then. My first kiss. That is, my first meaningful kiss.) We’ve kept in touch, though, mostly by mail. We write to each other almost every day. Not necessarily a long letter, but a note or a postcard. Or sometimes I’ll find a cartoon or an ad or anything funny, and I’ll just drop it in an envelope and address it to Quint. We’ve spoken over the phone, too. That was how we’d made the arrangements for Quint to come to Stoneybrook for the first time.
And to be my date the night of the Winter Wonderland Dance.
While I was at the Wednesday rehearsal for The Nutcracker, Quint was on a train roaring toward Stamford. The train was supposed to get in just a few minutes before the end of my rehearsal. My dad was going to pick up first Quint and then me. After that, Quint was going to come back to Stoneybrook with us and stay until Saturday. We would go to the dance and still have time for a good long visit, and for Quint to get to know Mama and Daddy; my little sister, Becca; my baby brother, Squirt; and my Aunt Cecelia (Daddy’s sister, who lives with us).
With the prospect of seeing Quint at the end of rehearsal, are you surprised I was able to concentrate at all? I was surprised. But Mme Noelle is very compelling. She really captures your attention. Even so, my mind wandered a few times, and I found myself hoping that my carefully laid plans would be carried out without any trouble. I hoped Quint’s train would be on time. I hoped my rehearsal would end on time. I hoped Daddy wouldn’t get delayed on his way into the city. Ordinarily, Daddy works in Stamford. (That was why we moved to Connecticut in the first place. The company Daddy works for transferred his job from New Jersey to Connecticut. Soon after we moved, I met my friends in the Baby-sitters Club.) On that Wednesday, however, Daddy had to go to a meeting in Stoneybrook! He planned to return to Stamford, though, after the meeting and pick up Quint and me.
“Doncers! Eyes to the front!” demanded Mme Noelle. She stood before us in the big rehearsal room at our school. Several assistant teachers were spread among the “doncers.” (In case you couldn’t tell, Mme Noelle is French, and she speaks with an accent.)
The doncers straightened up. But a couple of the younger children were having some trouble concentrating for so long.
I nudged one of them, an eight-year-old girl named Sadie something. (I don’t know the younger dancers all that well. They’re not in my class, so I only see them at rehearsals or performances.) “Pay attention,” I whispered to Sadie.
“But it’s supposed to snow,” she replied.
“Not a chance,” I told her.
“The weatherman said.”
Someone nudged me. “Jessi! Mme Noelle is staring at you.” It was Katie Beth, a friend from my ballet class.
I braced myself for the sound of “Mademoiselle Romsey!” But it didn’t come. The school secretary had tiptoed into the room and was whispering to one of the assistants, Mme Duprès. Mme Duprès frowned, nodded, signaled for Mme Noelle’s attention, then whispered something to her.
Around me, Sadie and three other eight-year-olds (playing mice who fight alongside me, the Mouse King) sat on the floor, giggling.
“Come on, you guys. Stand up,” I said. “The rehearsal isn’t over.”
“But my feet hurt,” said Sadie.
“Mine, too,” complained Danny.
“Mine, three,” added Marcus and Wendy at the same time.
I couldn’t blame them. The rehearsals had been growing longer and longer. The Wednesday rehearsal wasn’t going to end until early evening. (So that no one would faint from starvation, the school kitchen had been stocked with crackers, packages of instant soup, and bags of dried fruit.)
Mme Noelle and Mme Dupres finished their conversation. Mme Dupres stepped back. I noticed that the secretary was still hovering in the doorway.
“Mesdemoiselles et monsieurs,” said Mme Noelle, clapping her hands for attention. (I guessed I was off the hook for having talked to Sadie during class.) “I have jost been eenformed zat eet eez snowing —”
“Yea!” shouted Sadie. She struck at the air with her fist and added, “Yes!” Then she realized that the rest of the class was silent — and staring at her. “Sorry,” she said, and glanced helplessly at me.
“Apparently,” Madame continued, “zee snow eez falling hard. Several of your parents have phoned to say zat zey are on zee way, or zat zey are trying to be on zee way, but zat zey have been delayed.”
“Huh?” said Danny.
“Who’s delayed?” asked Wendy.
“Can I see the snow?” cried a six-year-old. Without waiting for an answer, she streaked out of the room and across the hallway to a window, stood on her tiptoes, and peered out. “Ooh, it is snowing!” she exclaimed. “I can’t even see the street.”
I glanced at the clock in the back of the room. We were supposed to rehearse for almost another hour. Even so, parents of some of the younger dancers would have arrived by this time, planning to watch the end of rehearsal.
But no parents were here yet.
Forty-five minutes later, still no parents arrived, although several more had called, saying that they were stuck somewhere, were held up, etc. One of the parents who had phoned was Daddy. His meeting was over, he said, but he was having trouble getting out of the parking lot. (Something to do with a stalled car.) He would be here as soon as he could.
At this point, Mme Noelle must have sensed that she was losing our attention,
especially the attention of the younger kids. “All right. Rehearsal eez over,” she announced. “You may change your clothes.”
We scrambled for the changing rooms. (No parents showed up.) We changed our clothes. (No parents.) We stared outside at the whirling snow. (No parents.) Quint’s train must have reached Stamford by now, I thought. And Daddy probably wasn’t there to meet it. What was Quint doing?
I shivered. Suddenly I had a very bad feeling about the snow.
What I mean is, it was off to school for me, too; it’s just that it wasn’t off as usual. “Off as usual” would have meant waking up in my own room and leaving from my own house. But on Wednesday, I left from the Pikes’, having woken up jammed into the bedroom that Mallory and Vanessa share.
It was very early. I woke to the sounds of people trying to be quiet. There is nothing quite as disturbing as people who are trying to be quiet so they won’t wake up other people, the ones who are sleeping. Mr. and Mrs. Pike were up long before the rest of us. They got up even before their alarm went off. Since Mal and her brothers and sisters and I didn’t have to get up until after the Pikes had left, Mr. and Mrs. Pike were trying valiantly to let us sleep. Consequently, I could hear lots of whispers. Things like, “Shhh! Don’t disturb the kids,” and, “Turn down the radio. You’re going to wake the whole neighborhood.” Then I heard somebody tiptoe, tiptoe, tiptoe, and crash! into something he couldn’t see because he hadn’t turned on a light.
I never did go back to sleep. I lay on the cot and listened to the sounds of Mr. and Mrs. Pike making coffee, then warming up the car in the chilly garage, and finally leaving for the train station. I listened to Vanessa snoring lightly. I listened to Mal, who kept turning over and over in her bed. (She sleeps like an eggbeater.) Finally I heard the clock radio go off somewhere in the house. Then another one. Seconds later, a third went off practically in my ear.
“There she was just a walkin’ down the street,” blasted the radio.
“Oh,” groaned Mal.
Vanessa woke up smiling. “Do-wah-ditty-ditty-dum-ditty-do,” she chimed in with the song.
“ ’Morning, Vanessa,” I said. “Hey, Mal. Come on. Let’s get going.”
“Do-wah,” said Mal.
Apparently, the Pikes had tuned all the radios in the house to the same oldies station. By the time I knocked on the door to the boys’ room, a new song had come on. Nicky swung open the door and burst into the hallway, holding a hairbrush to his mouth, singing, “Who put the bop in the bop-shoo-bop-shoo-bop?” Seconds later, from the third bedroom, came the sound of Margo and Claire belting out, “Who put the ram in the rama-lama-ding-dong?”
By breakfast time, the eight kids and I were singing, “Lollipop, lollipop, ooh-la-la-lolli-lolli-lollipop, lollipop, ooh-la-la …”
“That’s what I’d like for breakfast,” said Margo, sliding into her place at the kitchen table. “A big orange lollipop. No, a purple one.”
“Well, today’s breakfast is toast and cereal and bananas. We don’t have any lollipops. Sorry,” I said.
“Bummer,” replied Margo.
“Can I have a Popsicle?” asked Byron.
“A Popsicle?” I repeated. The Pike kids are allowed to eat pretty much whatever they want, but chocolate ice cream for breakfast? “I guess so,” I said anyway. I looked at Mal, who shrugged.
“That’s okay,” said Byron. “I don’t really want one. I just wanted to know if I could have one.” He glanced out the window. “Some snow we got,” he added.
“We’re never going to get any snow,” whined Vanessa.
“You say that every year,” said Adam.
“Let’s listen for a weather report,” suggested Jordan.
When one came on a few minutes later, Mallory snorted. “Heavy snow?” she repeated. “Now they’re saying heavy snow?”
“Maybe it will start this morning,” said Nicky hopefully, “and school will close early and we’ll get to leave before they assign homework.”
“Maybe,” I said, but when Mal and I left Claire, Margo, Nicky, Vanessa, and the triplets at Stoneybrook Elementary School, the sky was as relentlessly snow-free as ever, although the air was colder and damper than usual.
We said good-bye to the kids and Mal called, “Remember, Claire. Two sessions of kindergarten today. Stay with your teacher until we come for you in the afternoon.” (Ordinarily, Claire goes to morning kindergarten, but that day she would stay for the second session as well, and then Mal and I would pick her up at the same time we picked up the other Pike kids.)
* * *
Nicky did not get his wish for an early closing of school. By the time the Pikes and I reached their house that afternoon, Mallory was actually laughing at the weather forecasters. “They said heavy snow developing quickly and starting before noon,” she said, giggling. “Well, it’s after three now.”
“So the guy’s a few hours late,” said Jordan. “It could still snow.”
“Yeah,” agreed Byron, “especially if we do a snow dance.”
“A what?” I asked.
“A snow dance. You know, like a rain dance. Only to make snow come.”
“Let’s do one now!” cried Vanessa.
“But you guys just took off your coats,” said Mal.
“We’ll put them back on,” replied Adam.
A few minutes later, Mallory and I were standing in the backyard, watching her sisters and brothers stomp around, chanting, “Hey, come on, make it snow! Make it snow! Dowah-ditty-ditty-dum-ditty-doe!”
At four o’clock, we called them inside. “Time to begin your homework,” I said.
The triplets made faces. “I know we’re not going to have school tomorrow,” said Byron, but he didn’t look as certain as he sounded.
Nevertheless, the boys began their homework, the radio playing in the background.
“Couldn’t you think better with that off?” Mal asked them.
“We’re listening for school closings,” Jordan told her.
“But it isn’t snowing,” said Mal.
“But it will be,” Nicky replied through clenched teeth.
Mallory sighed.
By six o’clock, we had finished our homework.
“Dinner!” Mal announced.
“What are you making?” asked Margo.
“Sloppy joes. You guys set the table while Mary Anne and I cook, okay?”
By the time we sat down to eat, the kids had finally given up on the snow. They sat glumly around the table, pushing their food back and forth across their plates.
Claire got up to pour herself another glass of milk. As she passed the window, she let out a yelp. “It’s snowing!” she exclaimed.
“Very funny,” mumbled Adam.
“No, really! It is snowing. Honest.”
Every single person in the kitchen jumped up and joined Claire at the window. Sure enough, tiny flakes were falling. They were kind of hard to see, though.
“We’ll probably get two inches,” I said.
“Do they close school for two inches?” asked Nicky.
“No, dork,” Jordan said witheringly to his brother. “Anyway, I bet it’s just a flurry.”
The snow was still falling when we began to clear the table.
“You know, it’s starting to fall harder,” I said to Mal.
“It’s sticking,” she added.
“Can we play in it?” asked Nicky. “Before it melts?”
“Why not?” replied Mal. “Your homework is done.”
Once again, the kids dressed to go outdoors. Only now they added boots and snowpants to their outfits. I turned on the light in the backyard. “Stay away from the road, you guys,” I called as the Pikes hurtled outside.
The snow was not only sticking, it was beginning to pile up. And it was falling thickly. I couldn’t see very far in front of me. “Do you suppose the weatherman was finally right?” I asked Mal.
“I guess he had to be sometime,” she replied.
“Yum, tasty snow!” exclaim
ed Claire. She was walking around with her tongue sticking out, catching flakes on it. “Mm. Mint-flavored.”
Vanessa stuck out her tongue, too. “Mine’s cherry. Very cherry.”
“You girls are crazy,” pronounced Nicky. Then he shouted “Crumble!” to Claire, who obeyed.
Pow! A snowball exploded against Nicky’s back.
“No snowball fights!” yelled Mallory.
“Darn,” replied Adam. Then he turned to his littlest sister. “Hey, Claire, did you know that if we get enough snow, the Abominable Snowman appears?”
“He does?” answered Claire.
“Yup. He rises out of the snow in the yard. Then he comes in the house and turns children under six into Popsicles.”
“Oh, yeah?” replied Claire. “How can he come inside? He’d melt.”
“Not the Abominable Snowman. He’s magic,” Adam told her.
“You mean like Frosty?”
“Yes. Only Frosty is nice and the Abominable Snowman is … a monster.”
“Yikes!” shrieked Claire.
“Okay, okay. I think it’s time to go in,” I said. The snow wasn’t showing any signs of stopping; besides, I didn’t want the Abominable Snowman story to get out of hand. “Come on, everybody.”
Inside, Mal and I helped the younger kids take off their wet clothes. We draped damp mittens and hats around the laundry room. Then we threw wet socks in the dryer. After that, Mal made hot chocolate and we sat around the kitchen table, steaming mugs in front of us.
“You know, school might be closed tomorrow, after all,” I said.
“We did our homework for nothing then,” said Nicky, pouting.
“For nothing?! Hey, you’ll have a free day tomorrow,” Mal told her brother.
“Well, I didn’t have any homework anyway,” said Claire smugly.
“That’s good,” replied Adam, “because the Abominable Snowman also steals homework.”
When I arrived home from school on Wednesday, I found my mom in a nervous state, which is not comforting to a thirteen-year-old. I knew something was wrong when I walked through the door and came upon Mom dusting the living room. The fact that she was at home during the day wasn’t what was weird. Mom works, but she’d told me earlier that she had arranged to take this day off. The weird thing was that she was dusting. My mom is not a cleaner. Or a washer or a cooker or a sewer (that’s as in “person who sews,” not as in “smelly underground tunnel”). She can do those things all right, but she would prefer not to. Mary Anne’s dad is the organized, domestic adult in the family. Mom is a scatterbrain who would rather do just about anything besides pick up a dust rag.
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