As you can imagine, in the trunk are costumes like you'd expect to see only in the fanciest toy store. So David Michael suited up in a pretty impressive bellman's uniform, and then Karen directed the others in their costuming.
"Now," she began, "I will be playing Mrs. Kennelworth, a very, very rich lady who is going to stay at the hotel. Emily, you will be my little girl. Andrew, you will be my pet monkey." "What?" cried Andrew.
Karen ignored him. "David Michael, you go downstairs and get ready in the living room. Stacey, you go with him and make sure you have a pad of paper for our guest book." "Okay," agreed Stacey. She and David Michael went into the living room and waited for the others to arrive.
A few minutes later, "Mrs. Kennelworth" made her entrance. She was very dressed up.
Karen had found a long, fancy-looking dress, silver high heels, a sequined hat, a fake-fur muff, and plenty of necklaces and bracelets.
"Good evening," said Karen. "I am Mrs. Kennelworth, here for the night with my - " (she turned around and pulled Emily and Andrew into the living room) " - with my little girl, Perdita, and my little monkey, Spunky." In came Emily wearing her Sunday best - a white dress with pink ribbons down the front and her black Mary Jane shoes - and Andrew wearing a hat with ears on it, mittens for paws, and a realistic-looking tail.
"I'm sorry," said Stacey, the desk clerk. "No monkeys allowed in the hotel. Only people." "But my dog - my Mexican shorthair - came last time," replied Karen. "Besides, I am very, very rich, and anyway, where are my lovely little girl and I going to stay tonight if we can't sleep here? We're on our way to Istanbul, you know. . . . Bellman, take our bags. Here's a one hundred-dollar tip." Stacey pretended to look agitated. "Very well then, Mrs. Smellyworth - I mean, Mrs. Kennelworth. Sign the register, please. Sign in Perdita and Funky, too." "Spunky," Karen corrected her. She turned to Emily. "Say, 'Thank you, nice lady,' " she instructed her.
Emily loves being included in the game. "Fank oo, nice wady," she repeated proudly. (She has no idea what she's saying when she repeats these things.) "Say, 'My, but what a beautiful hotel,' " Karen went on.
"My booful tell," said Emily.
The game continued. Karen registered at the hotel as a witch with her ghost and black cat, as an old lady with her grandchildren, and as several more characters. She was dressing for the part of a professional tennis player on tour when I returned.
"The Felders came home early," I explained, as Andrew and Emily threw themselves at me, hugging my legs.
"Oh," said Stacey. "Well, my mom can't pick me up for another hour. I'm stuck here. I hope you don't mind." "Not at all," I replied.
Stacey and I sat on the couch in the living room.
"David Michael," I said, "why don't you be the desk clerk for awhile so Stacey and I can talk." "Goody," replied my brother. "This uniform is hot." "How was Susan?" Stacey asked as soon as we sat down.
I shrugged. "The usual. You know what makes me mad? I told her mother about James saying Susan was his friend, but Mrs. Felder didn't seem to care. She's still sending Susan away to that new school. I wish she could let Susan try living at home. That's where kids belong, 1 think. You know, I plan to show Mrs. Felder just how 'normal' Susan can be. I want her to change her mind about the school." "I know you do," answered Stacey. "Just don't go overboard." "I won't," I sighed. "You know, even I have to admit that Susan is one of the most handicapped kids I've ever seen. She wouldn't let me touch her tonight. I couldn't get her pajamas on her, and she kept screaming." Stacey sighed, too.
And at that moment Emily, wearing a huge hat, long gloves, and high heels, came over to us and said, "Scooze me. I have dance?" (Karen was standing behind her, grinning.) "Of course you may," I replied.
And I forgot about Susan as the grand Hotel became a grand ballroom.
Chapter 9.
"Susan . . . Susan . . . Susan?" Guess where I was. At the Felders' again, of course. Susan's mother had just left for the afternoon, and Susan was lost in her world of piano music.
For the life of me, I could not attract her attention.
I thought of putting my hands over hers, as I had done before, and stopping the music, but her mother had said she'd had a good day so far. She'd eaten breakfast and lunch, she'd behaved herself on a walk, and she had only just begun playing the piano.
Besides, for the first time since I'd started sitting for Susan I noticed a look of absolute rapture on her face as she played. She was still staring off into space, her head cocked, but she was smiling beautifully and she looked relaxed. (Usually she's wound up tighter than a tick, as Watson would say.) So I let Susan play.
I was sitting in the living room with her, about to begin my homework, when the doorbell rang.
Maybe, 1 thought excitedly, it was James Hobart, coming to play with his new "mate." 1 dashed to the Felders' front door, peeked out the window, and saw a boy there. He was not James. In fact, he was one of the kids who'd been teasing the Hobarts. He was the short Bob-or-Craig.
1 opened the door, frowning, "Yes?" I said. Maybe he had a paper route and the Felders owed him money or something.
"Hi," said the boy nervously. "Can I come in? I'm here to see Susan." "You are?" I could hardly believe it. Still, it was great! Another friend! "Come on in," 1 told him.
"Thanks." The boy stepped inside. "Where is she?" I pointed to the piano.
"You mean she plays the piano, too?" he asked incredulously.
"Yup. She can play almost anything. Do you have a favorite song? She - she takes re- quests," I added grandly, as if Susan were performing at a party or a wedding.
The boy stepped over to the piano. "Play 'Way Down Upon the Swanee River,' " he said, clearly expecting Susan not to know the song.
Susan switched flawlessly from whatever she'd been playing to "Swanee River." She played and played.
"Doesn't she ever stop?" asked the boy.
"I don't know," I replied. I hadn't heard Susan play anything but classical music up until now (her mother said it was her favorite) and all classical music seems long to me.
"Okay," said the boy. "Okay. Hey, Susan, play 'Monster Mash.' " "Monster Mash"? That was a silly old rock-and-roll song. Susan would never kn - But she did know it. She switched from "Swanee River" to "Monster Mash" without missing a beat.
"Wow," said the boy, awed.
"Listen, what's your name?" I asked the boy. "I mean, what is it really? Are you Bob or are you Craig? If you're going to be Susan's friend I should know, so I can tell her your name, and talk to her about you." "Oh," said the boy, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "Well . . . well, the truth is I'm Mel Tucker." "Mel," 1 repeated, smiling. "I'm Kristy Thomas, Susan's baby-sitter." Mel just nodded. Then a grin lit up his face as he regarded Susan at the piano again. "I know!" he exclaimed. "1 just saw The Music Man. That was a good movie. We rented it and I watched it three times before we had to return it. Hey, Susan, play that song about Marian, the librarian." Again, Susan began the new song, only this time Mel's eyes nearly fell out of their sockets when Susan began to sing, too. She knew every word of the entire song. When she finished it, she began again. 1 had a funny feeling Susan knew every song from the movie.
"She has a pretty voice," said Mel, which was probably the highest compliment he could muster.
"She does, doesn't she?" I replied, and wondered why Susan couldn't use that voice to talk with people instead of just to sing songs she'd memorized and to give dates.
"I guess," Mel went on, "that Susan knows lots and lots of songs." "Just about any one you can think of," I bragged.
"And I guess she can sing to all of them?" This was a question, not a statement.
"No," I replied. "Not all. But when she does know a song, she knows the whole thing. She's even memorized some songs in other languages." "You mean she can speak Spanish and Italian and stuff?" "Not really. It's just that if she hears a song sung in a different language, then that's how she memorizes it." "She just memorizes things?" asked Mel. "How f
ast?" "First try, sometimes. I mean, she hears a piece, she can play it. She hears a song, she can sing it. Sometimes it does take more than one try, though," I admitted. "That's what her mother said." "Gosh, Susan is amazing. I was at a circus once and I saw a chicken that could play this little piano with its beak. I thought that was amazing. But this is even better. Susan is really amazing." I smiled. "Yeah. She's special." "She should go on one of those TV shows about incredible people," Mel continued. "Really. She should." "I don't know . . ." "Well, I have to go now," said Mel abruptly. Then he added, "How often do you baby-sit for Susan?" "Three times a week," I replied. "Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays after school." "Okay. Well, 1 better be going. See you around!" Mel let himself out the front door.
"Susan!" 1 squealed, running to the piano. I sat next to her on the bench. "You have two friends now! Do you understand? Two friends. Two people who like you. Well, make that three friends, since I like you, too. Your friends are named James, Mel, and Kristy. I'm Kristy. I'm Kristy. Me," I added, pointing exaggeratedly to my chest.
"Susan, you can stop playing that song about the librarian now," I said, changing the subject. "You've played it practically forever. Let's go outside." Susan continued playing.
The doorbell rang again.
I answered it. This time James Hobart was on the front steps.
"Hi, James!" I cried.
"Hullo. Can Susan come out and play?" he asked.
Talk about music. Those words were music to my ears. "Sure she can," I answered. "But come on inside for a few minutes first." James followed me into the Felders' house. Immediately, he said what Mel had said just a little while earlier: "You mean she plays the piano, too?" "Yup. But it's time for her to stop," I said, thinking that if I heard Susan sing, "I love you madly, madly, Madame Librarian, Marian," again 1 would scream. "Sometimes stopping her is a little difficult," I informed James.
I placed my hands over Susan's and tightened them until she couldn't play freely anymore.
"I - I don't want her to stop playing if she doesn't want to," said James.
"Don't worry. I don't think she does want to, but if s more important for her to make friends." "That's true," said James as I coaxed Susan into her sweater. "I know exactly how Susan feels." "I thought you might." I took Susan by the hand, and without being asked, James took her other hand. We led her into the backyard and sat under a tree.
"In Australia," said James, "I have lots of friends. I have two pen friends, too." "Pen friends?" I repeated.
"Oh, um, here in America you call them pen pals. Now they're the only friends I have left, and I've never even met them. One lives in England and the other lives in Canada. Oh, well. At least we can write letters." "A real friend would be better, though, right?" I said.
"Right," agreed James. "Someone I can ride bikes with and go skateboarding with. Someone who could show me around Stoneybrook. Someone who could teach me what American kids say." James looked so lonely that I put my arm around him. Then he put his arm around Susan, who didn't pull away. But something was wrong, I thought. I couldn't put my finger on it, but something was wrong.
The three of us sat under the tree for nearly an hour, James and 1 talking, Susan clicking her tongue and staring at something no one else could see.
Chapter 10.
"Attention, please! Attention, please! There will be an assembly in the auditorium immediately following homeroom. Everyone is expected to attend. Thank you." I sighed. I had just gotten to school. It was early in the morning, I was tired, school assemblies are usually boring, and my locker smelled. The only funny thing was that our public-address system wasn't working too well, so the announcement sounded like this: "A-ention, ease. A-ention, ease. . . . will be an ... embly in the au-i-orium mediately fol-ing ome-oom. Every-nn is ex-ted to a-end. -nk oo." Luckily, the PA system had been working like this for quite awhile, so I understood the announcement perfectly.
"Darn," said Mary Anne, running down the hall and leaning dramatically against the locker next to mine. "What do you think this assembly will be about? The dress code? The food fight the seventh-graders had last week? Or . . . dum da dum-dum . . . student government?" "Good morning, Mary Anne," I replied.
Mary Anne grinned. "Good morning. Sorry about that. It's just that assemblies - especially ones about student government - are - " "Boring? Dull? A brain-numbing waste of valuable time?" "That's it!" cried Mary Anne. "A brain-numbing waste of valuable time." She began to laugh.
"1 agree," I said. Then, "Ew. ... 1 wonder what this used to be." I pulled a plastic baggie out of the back of my locker. Something in the bag was very mushy and very moldy.
"Oh, disgusting!" exclaimed Mary Anne, who is easy to gross out.
"So that's what smelled so bad," I said. "I thought it was my gym suit." Mary Anne looked like she might barf if I went on, but she was rescued by the first bell for homeroom, which rang then. She darted away, calling over her shoulder, "See you in the brain-numbing assembly!" "Okay," I called back.
Thank goodness we don't have to sit with our classes during assemblies. The members of the BSC like to sit together, and we hardly have any other chances to do that at school because of Mal and Jessi. They're in an entirely different grade, so we don't even get to eat lunch together.
There's just one group at SMS that stays together always - in assemblies, at lunch-time, anytime. They don't even change rooms during the day. That's the class for handicapped students. A bunch of the kids in the class are retarded, and the others have different kinds of problems. Guess where the BSC sat during the assembly? Right behind the special class. The kids in that class took up exactly one row, plus three kids who sat in the aisles in wheelchairs.
Mary Anne had been wrong about the assembly. It wasn't about our dress code, the food fight, or student government. As a surprise, to celebrate something going on at school called Kids' Week, our principal had organized a program for us. For once, it was fun. First a really famous author talked to US about the books she writes. She had traveled all the way from Arizona just to come to SMS.
That made me feel sort of important. Then a songwriter sang a song he had composed about our school. Finally an artist called five teachers onto the stage and drew funny caricatures of them.
Did I pay attention to any of this? Barely. And why wasn't 1 paying attention? Not because the program was brain-numbing. For once, it was fascinating - but I couldn't pay attention because I was so busy watching the kids in the class in front of me.
At one end of the row were two of the kids in wheelchairs. (Their chairs were placed one in front of the other so as not to block the aisle and be a fire hazard.) The kid sitting in the front chair couldn't even hold herself up straight. She was strapped in everywhere - her arms strapped to the armrests, her feet to the footrests. Her head was even strapped to the back of the chair. And somehow, she managed to slump anyway. I'd seen her around school before. She tries to talk sometimes but she's harder to understand than our PA system. Her eyes don't focus on anything. She looks like she doesn't have a bone or a muscle in her body. Somebody once told me she has cerebral palsy.
The boy in back of her didn't need to be strapped in so much. He could sit up, but he was mostly paralyzed (I think). He couldn't even talk. Once I'd passed his class and looked in. I'd found out how he communicates. He holds a special stick in his mouth and uses it to tap out messages on a computer keyboard. Guess what. He can make pictures by holding a paintbrush or a pencil in his mouth. Claudia says his pictures are good, and she should know.
The first three kids in the row next to the ones in the wheelchairs were all retarded. They have Down's syndrome. I read about that in a book. Down's syndrome people have sort of slanted eyes and flattish faces, and are usually docile, affectionate, and friendly.
Next to them was a boy who was so hyperactive that on his other side sat a teacher's aid whose only job was to keep him still and quiet during the program. I'll tell you something. That kid was paying a lot more attention to
the program than I was. That was what he was excited about. He kept pointing to the stage, or trying to jump up, or turning to the teacher and saying, "Oh, neat! Oh, neat!" The girl on the other side of the teacher was deaf and blind. The boy next to her was deaf. (How, I wondered, did the teachers teach so many different kinds of kids all in one classroom? The deaf boy probably wasn't retarded. The blind and deaf girl probably wasn't either, but 1 bet she learned a lot differently than the deaf boy did, and both of them must have been much more advanced than the retarded kids.) Anyway, it was the kid in the second to the last seat in the row - next to a teacher who was between him and the third kid in a wheel-chair - who really attracted my attention. Guess why. Because the boy reminded me so much of Susan. Every now and then he would clap his hands together for no apparent reason. (Nobody else was clapping when he was.) A couple of times he waved his right hand back and forth in front of his eyes. But what was most interesting to me was that sometimes he would stare off into space - and talk. Mostly, he spoke quietly, so I couldn't hear him, but a few times he spoke more loudly. Once he said, "How old are you?" and another time he said, "Stop it, Jerry." They were meaningless sentences (or else just out of context), but at least he was talking. That was impressive enough, but my jaw dropped wide open when he turned to his teacher and said, "Go home, please? Go home?" "No, Drew," replied the teacher patiently. "Not yet. Later." "No, now," said Drew. "Go home now." Drew could carry on a conversation! It was wonderful. I was certain he was autistic. But if Drew could talk, I thought, so could Susan. Furthermore, Drew did not attend some fancy away-from-home school. He had made more strides than Susan had, and he had probably made them right here in the Stoneybrook public schools. So why, why, why, did the Felders have to send Susan away? Why couldn't they do what Drew's family had done? Keep Susan at home - and let her learn in a familiar environment. Drew seemed to be way ahead of Susan. Maybe that was because he'd been kept at home.
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