Mary Anne — the girl who covers her eyes during movie fistfights — wasn’t grossed out one bit. She said the whole thing looked like a big game.
After the show, Marilyn and Carolyn were bouncing around the room, firing questions:
“Can we do that stuff on our computer?”
“How did Mary Poppins fly?”
“Did Old Yeller really die?”
“What about the Wicked Witch, when she melted?”
Mary Anne did the best she could. She knew about the witch dropping through a trap door. She also knew that the actor who played the Tin Man was a replacement because the first guy had a skin reaction to the silver paint.
“The wizard was a special-effects guy, too,” Marilyn announced. “Dorothy was so dumb to think the big head was real.”
“He had a computer behind the curtain,” Carolyn said smugly.
Mary Anne just nodded.
After awhile, she fixed them a snack, made them brush their teeth again, and put them to bed.
Guess who went right to sleep that night?
With only a night-light, too.
“Surprise!” I sang out. As Peaches opened her front door, I held out a beautifully wrapped box. In it was the diaper bag I’d bought at the Washington Mall.
I’d brought it to school that morning in my bike basket, then stored it in my locker. That way I could go straight to Peaches’ after school. It was Thursday, my last chance to see Lynn before my trip to Philadelphia on Friday. I needed maximum time.
“Oh, how sweet!” Peaches said. “A going-away present from the one who’s going!”
“Open it,” I said, stepping into the living room.
Peaches and I sat on the sofa. She eagerly ripped open the wrapping and lifted out the bag.
“It’s adorable!”
I took it from her and unzipped it. “I know you already have one, but this one is more useful. It has three separate compartments, plus a removable changing pad. In here I put a bunch of stuff you’ll need. For rashes, the zinc oxide works better than the ointment you have. Also, you’ll want to switch to these contoured nipples, which will help Lynn’s teeth grow straighter, even though they’re latex, which wears out faster than plastic. I put in this soy-base formula, which you should try in case her fussiness is related to lactose-intolerance —”
“She’s not lactose-intolerant,” Peaches said.
“The way to tell is to switch for a few days and —”
“She’s not lactose-intolerant,” Peaches repeated. “I’ve been through this with the pediatrician, Claudia.”
“Oh. Well, I can return it. Anyway, I found that the aloe baby wipes were irritating, but I’m not sure if it was because of the aloe or the scent, but you can throw them out anyway because I included some regular, unscented wipes.”
“Thanks, Claudia. This is wonderful. Really —”
“And how is the cutest baby in the world?” I hopped up and headed for the nursery.
“Well, actually, she’s —”
I opened the nursery door. Lynn was snoring away in the bassinet. As I walked in, my foot came down on a plastic rattle.
Crrrunch!
“EEEEEEEEEE!”
“Oh, my lord!” Peaches moaned. “She was sleeping!”
“Sorry,” I said.
“I just put her down a minute ago. She was up at the crack of dawn and I didn’t sleep last night, and —”
“I’ll put her back to sleep.” I lifted Lynn onto my shoulder. With each cry, her whole little body clenched up.
“Oh, so sad, so sad, little girl,” I purred.
I could have said the same to Peaches. Her face was crumbling.
I bounced Lynn up and down and started to sing, “Wynken and Blynken and Nod one night …”
“EEEEEEEEEE!” screeched Lynn.
“That makes her worse, Claudia,” Peaches said.
“What? The song?”
“No!” Peaches grabbed Lynn out of my hands. “The bouncing! You don’t know everything!”
She spun away, carrying Lynn into the living room.
My mouth dropped so fast it almost hit the carpet.
She’s stressed, I told myself. Post-partum depression was the technical term. I’d read about it. I’d seen clients go through it.
I was not going to take it personally. I marched into the living room with a smile on my face.
Peaches was changing Lynn’s diaper on the sofa, using the diaper bag pad and a small diaper I’d packed.
“Turn the pad over,” I suggested. “The other side is smoother.”
Peaches did not respond. She did not turn the pad over, either. I could see her shoulders tense up.
“I’m just trying to help,” I said.
Peaches sat on the sofa. Lynn was now quiet and dry and resting on her lap.
When Peaches spoke, it seemed as if she had to pry her teeth open. “I know you’re trying to help, Claudia. And I didn’t mean to snap at you, but —”
“I’m thinking of Lynn, that’s all,” I said.
“Well, yes, of course. But Lynn isn’t the only one in this house, Claudia.”
“I know that. That’s why I’ve been cleaning up and cooking and doing stuff around the house. And telling you about all the techniques I’ve learned.”
“And I’m grateful. Really. But I’ve picked up some techniques of my own, you know. Russ and I know Lynn pretty well, I think. We have a good routine now, with housework and shopping and cooking. We’re pretty independent.”
I was taking the hint. It felt like a sledgehammer over my head. “So you’re saying you don’t want me around anymore?”
“All I’m saying is this: If you want to know what I really need now, it’s some quiet evening time with my little family.”
“Right. And I’m nothing but a nuisance who breaks coffee machines and gives too much advice.”
“Claudia, please —”
“Mom’s been talking to you, hasn’t she? I can tell. She made you think I was spending too much time here.”
“That’s silly,” Peaches retorted. “Russ and I haven’t talked to her at all about this.”
“Oh, great. You decided I was a nuisance on your own. That makes me feel so special!” I grabbed my backpack and stomped toward the front door. “Well, you ought to be happy now. You won’t see me for a whole weekend!”
“You’re being unreasonable, Claudia —”
“At least Lynn appreciates me!”
WHACK! I let the screen door slam behind me.
“EEEEEEEEEE!” cried Lynn.
Boy, did I feel rotten.
* * *
That night Peaches called our house and asked for me. I refused to take the call.
Not because I was angry. I mean, I was, but that wasn’t the main reason.
The main reason was clothes.
I had packed too many of them. My suitcase would not shut. At the moment Peaches called, I was sitting on my suitcase, trying to pull the zipper around. If I stood up right then, my entire wardrobe might have exploded all over the room.
“Rrrrrr … rrrrr …” I grunted.
This was ridiculous. Keeping my hand on the zipper, I bounced a few times. Each time I came down, I yanked.
That earned me another five inches or so. I was now more than halfway there. A huge bulge of clothing stuck out where the top and bottom didn’t meet. It looked as if the suitcase were grinning at me in triumph.
I know. It was only one weekend. But think about it. It was May. Cold at night, warm during the day, good chance of rain. I brought a fuchsia cotton sweater for one night, a light cashmere one for the other, so I wouldn’t repeat. I packed my summer-weight clothes, but they didn’t go with either sweater, so I stuffed in a jeans jacket. Then a couple of heavier-weight outfits (in case of cold) and a nice dress (in case of fancy dinners), and appropriate footwear: sandals, sneakers, loafers, dress shoes.
The rain gear and boots, I think, were what really clogged things up.
Rrrrrrring! went my phone.
I tensed. All my fury at Peaches welled up. I just knew she’d try me at this number.
I slid off my suitcase on the seventh ring. Rrrrip! went the zipper as it opened.
(Grrrrr.)
“Hello!” I barked.
“Are you taking a hat?”
“Who is this?”
“Melissa. I heard it’s cold in Philadelphia.”
“Well, it’s south. If you don’t wear one here, I don’t think you’ll —”
“I am soooo stupid.” Melissa laughed hysterically. “Okay, see you!”
Click.
I couldn’t believe it. For that dumb question, I had to lose the war of the zipper?
I returned to the Great Gaping Mouth. I dropped it on the floor and jumped on it.
Rrrrrring!
“Hello?”
It was Melissa the Pest again. “I forgot to ask. Will there be toothpaste and soap and shampoo at the hotel?”
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“Hmm. I’ll bring some. Thanks. Ooh, I’m so psyched!”
Click.
Duh.
I moved the phone right next to my suitcase, in case Melissa called to ask about toilet paper.
Then I went back to work.
* * *
If my suitcase hadn’t had wheels, I think I’d be dead now. Mom drove me to school the next morning, but I alone had to take the suitcase to my social studies classroom.
It was like dragging a sleeping rhinoceros.
Ms. Bernhardt let us store our luggage for the day, so we could leave straight from school. I spent most of the day massaging my aching arms.
After the final bell, you could tell who were Ms. Bernhardt’s students. They were stampeding down the hall.
Good old Abby helped me wheel the rhino outside.
“What’s in here?” she asked.
“Just clothes,” I replied.
Abby let out an exasperated sigh. “Claudia, how many times did I tell you not to pack your suit of armor?”
Melissa came running up behind us. “Can I help?”
“We’re fine,” Abby said.
“No. Let me.” She grabbed the strap, forcing Abby to step aside. Her foot clipped the side of the suitcase.
Thoomp! Down it went, sending up a cloud of dust.
“Aaaa-choo!” sneezed Abby the Allergic.
“Oops,” said Melissa.
(Thank you, Melissa.)
Somehow, without renting a crane, we managed to load my suitcase onto the first of two buses marked with Philadelphia signs.
When I saw Stacey’s two valises in the cargo area, wrapped with leather belts, I didn’t feel so bad.
Stacey and I sat together, gabbing excitedly. Abby sat behind us, and Melissa plopped down next to her.
By the time Ms. Bernhardt gave instructions to both bus drivers and lectured us all on behavior, it was ten to four.
As we pulled away from SMS, everybody was singing, playing games, and chatting nonstop. The bus was huge and comfortable, with high-backed, soft seats. Which came in handy on the four-hour trip.
Especially after all my friends had dozed off.
As we trundled down the New Jersey Turnpike in the dusk, my mind was racing.
All I could think about was my argument with Peaches.
Pest. Claudia the Pest.
I could just imagine Lynn at age six or so, looking out the window as cousin Claudia drives up to visit. Is she excited to see me? Noooo, because Peaches has told her what a pest I am.
Maybe Russ and Peaches chose the wrong person to be Lynn’s godmother. Maybe they should have asked Janine. Perfect people aren’t pests.
I stared out the window. Rain was beading on the pane, then dripping slowly downward.
Or maybe it was the reflection of my tears. It was hard to tell.
“We are now passing under the Benjamin Franklin bridge,” the bus driver announced. “To your left is the Delaware River — and directly in front of us is Philadelphia, Pennsylvania!” My face was plastered to the window. So was Stacey’s. Two little breath-circles were forming on the glass.
Outside we could see the lights of the Philadelphia skyline. Along the river, boats chugged slowly.
Now Ms. Bernhardt had the bus driver’s mike. “We are approaching Penn’s Landing. This is where the young Benjamin Franklin came ashore from Boston, penniless and homeless. He would one day become the definer and tamer of lightning, the founder of the first lending library, the first postmaster general …”
As I was about to doze off, the bus turned, and Ms. Bernhardt pointed out the Liberty Bell a block away (I couldn’t see it) and Independence National Park (I was busy checking out a mall called the Bourse).
We pulled to a stop near a big luxury hotel that overlooked the park. A brightly lit sign advertised a health club, pool, sauna, twenty-four-hour room service, award-winning restaurant, and nightly entertainment.
My heart leaped. I squeezed Stacey’s hand.
When the light turned green, the bus kept driving.
Sigh.
Parts of Philadelphia were pretty cool. Out the window I spotted a little cobblestoned alleyway, no wider than a horse and cart. Brick houses faced each other on either side, so close you could open your window and have a quiet chat with your across-the-street neighbor.
I felt a little shiver. I expected a girl in an eighteenth-century dress to come out one of the front doors with a butter churn.
The next moment — whoosh — the wrinkle in time had disappeared. We were on a street that reminded me of present-day New York City.
The bus pulled up to a six-story brick building next to a small diner. “Last stop, the Pepperidge Inn!” the bus driver called out.
“I call the Jacuzzi first!” Stacey said.
Abby was groggy and achy from her nap. “I need some time in the pool.”
“Let me at the refrigerator,” I added.
We piled out of the bus. The hotel’s electric doors whisked open and a team of concierges charged out. They took all our luggage, while we retired to our luxury suites overlooking the river.
I wish. (Fooled you, huh?)
We had to drag our own luggage through the front doors. The art on the walls was atrocious and the carpet clashed with the lobby’s color scheme. We were greeted by a gray-haired man eating a ham sandwich at the front desk.
“You the Stoneybrook contingent?” he asked.
When Ms. Bernhardt said yes, the man slapped a little bell. A sleepy guy in a polyester uniform appeared from around the corner and scooted behind the desk to pull keys from a pegboard.
Okay, so the Pepperidge Inn was not exactly the Plaza. But you know what? None of us cared. We were chattering away happily. I don’t know what it is about overnight class trips. I guess being away from home makes everything exciting.
A moment later, Ms. Bernhardt shushed us and began calling out room numbers. Abby, Stacey, and I were on the second floor, Room 204. Melissa and Lily were in Room 217.
“Can’t we be in, like, two-oh-six?” Melissa cried. “Ms. Bernhardt, can we switch into the room next to Claudia?”
I cringed. Abby rolled her eyes. Lily looked embarrassed.
“Melissa, please,” Mrs. Bernhardt hissed. Then she turned to the crowd and announced, “Listen up. A parent chaperone will be staying on each floor. Make sure you know what room he or she is in. In fifteen minutes, at exactly eight o’clock, we’ll gather in a large meeting room, where a buffet supper is being set up. So get cracking!”
Our chaperone was Lily’s mom. She helped us lug our suitcases onto the elevator. We rode up to the second floor and found our room.
I pushed the door open and turned on the light.
How was our room? Well, fabulous, if you like industrial carpeting and worn-out olive-green bedspreads and TVs that are chained to the wall.
Abby darted into the bathroom. “Ugh, no Jacuzzi.”
“Jacu
zzi?” Stacey cracked up. “How about running water?”
Psssshht! went the tap. “Yup! We’re in luck!” Abby walked out, smiling. “I love old, funky places.”
“Didn’t Ms. Bernhardt say it was a historic hotel?” I asked.
“I think Ben Franklin was the last guest,” Stacey remarked.
Honestly, it wasn’t that bad. We were just in a goofy mood.
I unzipped my suitcase. The top sprang open and hit the wall with a thud. My clothing, grateful to be free, bounced up as if it were alive.
“Aaaugh!” Abby shrieked. “The wardrobe that ate Philadelphia!”
“Hurry and claim some drawer space,” Stacey warned her, “or you’ll be sorry.”
The mad dash was on. We yanked clothes out of our suitcases and stuffed them in the drawers. Shirts, pants, jackets, bras, hair driers, it didn’t matter. In they went.
In two seconds we were on the floor, howling with laughter.
In mid-howl, I turned to see Melissa staring at us. “Hi. Uh, your door was open.”
“HOOOOOO-HA-HA-HA!” Why did that statement seem so funny? I have no idea.
Melissa started laughing, too, for no reason. Somehow, that made us laugh even more.
I don’t know how we made it to the meeting room in time, but we did. With Melissa right behind us, totally ignoring Lily.
I raced to the buffet table. Unfortunately, Alan Gray threw a body block and grabbed a plate before me. “Oops! Squeeze me,” he said with his typical goony laugh.
What a dork.
I made sure to avoid anything his hand brushed against. I sampled all the regional cuisine, including an exquisite cheesesteak hoagie (which was really a big roast beef sub with onions and cheese), but I avoided something labeled Phamous Philly turtle soup. (The thought was revolting.)
Abby, Stacey, and I found four seats together at the end of the table. We sat in three of them.
Melissa, who was looking for a table with Lily and her mom, ran over to us and took the fourth seat.
“Melissaaaa,” Lily complained.
“Sorry, Lily, not enough room.” Melissa grinned at me, then pointed at a roll on Stacey’s plate. “Do you want that?”
“Melissa, you were just on line!” Stacey reminded her.
Claudia and the World's Cutest Baby Page 6