by Tish Cohen
His tiny hamster mouth drops open. “What? Are you sure?”
“Positive. And to undo the damage you did with the cookiegram, I’d suggest ignoring her until three days before the dance. And even then, ask her all casual-like. As if you’re bored by dances, and if she is, too, you might as well go and be bored together.”
He sniffs. “Three days?”
“Three days.”
It’s at this very moment I get to see Handsome Mr. Lindsay on a Thursday—a rare treat. Math tools jangling, he walks toward me and Ian. Only instead of waving and walking straight by, he stops and does a laughing little gunfight thing with his fingers at us.
“Hey there, pardners,” he says. “Better get back to class, or I’ll run you out of town for loitering.”
Ian doesn’t like cowboy talk any more than I do and is up and gone in about one and a half seconds.
If Mr. Lindsay were any less handsome, I’d reconsider my plans for him. I’m not entirely sure I could stand cheeseball comments like that coming from a lesser face. Especially when they come with freaky cowboy gunplay.
What I’d really like to know is whether or not Handsome Mr. Lindsay has a wife, without making him too suspicious. So, as he follows me upstairs (I don’t know what he ever did to deserve the classroom right beside the music room), I casually say, “Is Mrs. Lindsay a math teacher, too?”
He smiles at this and pulls a picture out of his wallet. “How did you guess?” Stopping at the landing, he looks at the photo and shakes his head. “She’s the reason I went into teaching in the first place.” And he hands me the photo.
I take it, but cannot bring myself to look at it. I’m too busy wallowing in misery. He’s not only got a wife, but he loves her so much he became a math teacher for her. Imagine loving someone so much you’d do math every day for the rest of your life, just to make them happy!
I sincerely hope when I get married, Riley doesn’t need me to do any math, because that would be a deal breaker.
“She’s a wonderful person,” he says. “Still does all her own gardening.”
Finally, I glance down. Whoa. She’s really very beautiful. A little wrinkly, but all glamorous with her makeup and her fluffy light hair. Also, she’s hugging a horse’s nose, so I know she rides horses, too. Or at least she hugs their noses.
Teaches math, does all her own gardening, is beautiful, and isn’t afraid of horses.
My mom has killed every houseplant we’ve ever owned, is too tired to wear lipstick, and is terrified of anything with hooves. Not only that, but I once followed her advice about long division and failed my math quiz.
This horse race was over before it ever got out of the starting gate.
Sorcerer’s Stands Require Written Permission
The Snow Ball Planning Committee meeting is on the library floor beside the fake fireplace. It’s after school and there should be, like, zero chance of us spilling any food on the new lemon-yellow floor pillows.
So far it’s me, Laurel, Susannah, Smartin, and the two LameWizards. But they don’t count. They never look up except to groan when they lose a match to a goblin or something.
“Psst,” Susannah pssts. She leans close and says, “I’ve got major news.”
“Yeah?” I crawl farther away from the LameWizards so they don’t hear.
“I just heard from a Sixer, Jack Muldoon, that your Man-on-One-Knee, Riley, spent two weeks’ allowance on an antique gold necklace. He’s planning to give it to you when he invites you to the dance.” Susannah sniffs and rolls her tongue around in her mouth to clear out the Major news.
“Gold?” I ask. “Wow. But wouldn’t that cost a whole lot more than two weeks’ allowance?”
Susannah snorts and explains, “By antique, Jack might have meant, you know, thrift store. And I never said the gold would be real. Oh, and Riley’s going to insist you wear it to the dance so you can be Fred and Ginger.”
“Who?” Laurel asks.
“Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. They’re some famous dancing couple from the olden days.” Susannah shrugs. “My mom watches them in old movies and then yells at my dad for never taking her dancing.”
Just when I’m thinking maybe Riley and I could become a famous dancing couple, in comes Maisie with Brianna Simpson, eating chocolate cookies that probably contain zero butter.
“Hey, Zoë,” Maisie says, holding out her cookie. “Want a bite?”
“Thanks, no,” I say, smiling.
Brianna starts giggling and bumping shoulders with Maisie. “That totally reminds me, Maisie. Remember…Bite? Bite yourself!” And they both crash to the ground laughing. Personally, I don’t see what’s so funny. Also, I don’t see how these two could possibly have an inside joke yet, when it hasn’t even been two whole days since Brianna became Maisie’s number one BFIS.
Unwritten Rule #7. Inside Jokes Require a Minimum of Eight Days of Friendship.
So they’re rolling on the floor laughing, spewing butterless cookie crumbs all over the new floor pillows, when I decide, as the Snow Ball Planning Committee chairgirl, that it’s time to take control.
“Ahem.” Chairpeople should always begin an announcement by clearing their throats. Even when their throats feel perfectly clear.
Maisie and Brianna look at each other, burst out laughing, and flop even more on the lemon-yellow pillows.
The nerve! Just when I’m wondering if my chairgirl status allows me to send flopping people to the office, Handsome Married Mr. Lindsay walks in.
“Okay, troops,” he says with a whole bunch of hand rubbing. “Let’s plan ourselves a dance, everybody. What do you say?”
We all shrug and mumble, “Okay.” Inside, I pray he doesn’t do the finger bang-bang thing again.
He puts a hand to his ear and says, “What? I can’t hear you.”
We say, “Okay,” a bit louder.
“I can’t he-ear you!”
“OKAY!”
Then Mrs. Kettleby, the librarian, scoots out of her office and goes, “Shhhhh!” and some of us glare at Handsome Married Mr. Lindsay. But not me. I try not to look at him much anymore, because of the whole being-married-and-therefore-no-longer-eligible-to-apply-for-the-husband-job thing.
“Sorry, Mrs. Kettleby,” he says. When he plops down onto a pillow, sharpish math tools scatter all over the carpet, and we hurry to pick them up before someone loses a toe. “Let’s go around and each person can give an update on their progress this week. Maisie, how are your plans for the decorations coming along?”
“Pretty good. Zoë says I should paint some snow-covered trees and cover the gym in cotton balls and silver glitter so it looks like a winter wonderland. But it won’t be cheap…”
“Shouldn’t be a problem. We’ve got plenty in the budget. Laurel, what’s cookin’ over in refreshments?”
Laurel sits up taller. She glances at me before saying, “After we considered everyone’s dietary requirements, we’ve narrowed our food selection down to a short list. A very short list. And by the way, Zoë, I thought of two more restrictions. Nuts and pesticides.”
I beam at her to show what a good job she’s doing. How did I miss nuts?
“That’s what I call teamwork,” Mr. Lindsay says with another big clap-and-hand-rubbing event. “And, Martin? What kind of music will we be dancing to at the Snow Ball?”
“The musical stylings of none other than the Brainweeds. My mother hired them for my Bar Mitzvah next year. They’re stupid good.”
“Stupid good.” Handsome Married Mr. Lindsay sticks his bottom lip out and thinks about this. “Stupid good is all right with me. Richard? How about ticket sales?”
Richard is one of the LameWizards. For the first time maybe in the whole school year, he looks up and we can see he actually has a very nice face. His eyes seem to be having trouble focusing on us, though. Maybe he’s surprised to see how much bigger and better-looking we all are than his electronic goblins and pixies and tree people.
“Tickets for the danc
e will go on sale Friday morning at the Sorcerer’s Stand.”
Everyone is quiet except for the new BFIS couple—they’re just giggling harder.
I was never informed of any Sorcerer’s Stand. Hobgoblin items like Sorcerer’s Stands require written permission, which I can practically guarantee I will not grant. “We don’t have a Sorcerer’s Stand.”
“We do now,” Richard says, running behind some bookshelves. “I made it last night out of a refrigerator box.” He drags out a huge blue foil-covered box with a window in front and a door in back. It’s crawling with drawings of serpents and two-headed dragons and the roof has coat hangers arranged like a giant antenna. Below the window is a sign saying RICKS COVEN DANCE TICKETS $3.
Handsome Married Mr. Lindsay whistles his approval.
“Who’s Rick?” I ask.
The LameWizard smiles, “It’s my nickname. Rick.” He says “Rick” with a deep voice. Like he’s a movie star instead of a LameWizard guy.
Laurel raises her hand even though hand raising is not required at Snow Ball Planning Committee meetings. “My cousin’s nickname is Huntie.”
“Huntie?” asks Handsome Married Mr. Lindsay. “Unusual. What’s it short for?”
“Eliza,” Laurel says. This sends Brianna and Maisie into hysterics. They both fall off their floor pillows and onto their backs. They’re laughing so hard no sound is coming out.
At this point, I really have to say that Maisie and Brianna are having way too much fun for a planning-committee meeting. I mean, Maisie never laughed this hard with me, not even once, and she thought I was her BFIS for two whole weeks! She was wrong, but still! Not only that, she hasn’t asked me once today to tell her what Unwritten Rule #10 is. And the whole time I’ve known Maisie, she’s asked me about it seven thousand times a day and I tell her, “All in good time” because I don’t want to rush her training.
The whole thing is very vexing. Which means it’s very possibly starting to drive me crazy.
If I really think about it, maybe getting Maisie a new BFIS wasn’t such a good plan. She’s completely lost focus on what’s really important—her training. With me. I don’t want to say I’ve made a mistake exactly, but I’m going to have to find some way to undo this little…slipup.
“I wish I had a nickname,” says Maisie. “I’d love to be called Mimsie.”
Handsome Mr. Lindsay nods his handsome head. “Mimsie? Interesting. I like it.”
He likes it? It’s the worst nickname I’ve ever heard. First of all, it can’t be a nickname if it has the exact same number of syllables as your real name. A nickname should be shorter. I think I’m beginning to see Maisie’s biggest problem.
Her inner thoughts are all messed up.
I know exactly what needs to be done. “Maisie,” I whisper. She scoots back from the group and leans closer to me. “I was going to save Phase Two of your training until after the winter formal, but I’ve suddenly found a hole in my schedule. Are you interested?”
Maisie’s eyes light up. “There’s a Phase Two?”
There wasn’t until about two seconds ago. I smile and put my hand on her shoulder, patting it a little. “Sometimes these things develop as we go along. I now see Phase Two is essential.”
“Can Brianna do it, too?”
“No,” I say really quick. “Phase Two can only be entered into by one client at a time since it involves an enormous amount of work on the part of the instructor. Which would be me.”
“Wow,” says Maisie. “Sounds exciting.”
“It is.” I slide closer to her and squint. “I need to know what’s going on inside you.”
Maisie looks confused. “You mean what’s in my stomach?”
“No. Your thoughts. Your innermost thoughts. You do have innermost thoughts, don’t you?”
Nodding fast, Maisie says, “Yes. Tons of them.”
“Good. I want you to start writing them down.”
A smile spreads across Maisie’s face. “I can do that. When do I start? Ooh, and can I write about wanting to become an Olympic runner? Because that’s my life ambition. Life ambitions are pretty good innermost thoughts, don’t you think?”
I seriously don’t want to read about running. I’m getting tired just thinking about reading about running. If I never have to run again in my life, I’ll die a happy walker. “No. Life ambitions are goals and goals aren’t private enough. I want you to give me your innermost thoughts on…” I chew on my cheek and look around the room. Then my eyes rest on Brianna, who is chewing off her thumbnails. “On what it means to be a best friend. One hundred words, and you can start tonight. Okay?”
She bounces up and down. “Okay. First I’m going to say that every girl needs a best friend because—”
“Shh!” I say, and make a zipper motion across my closed mouth. “Write it down. And have it on my desk first thing tomorrow for editing.”
“Editing?” Maisie squints and tilts her head to one side. “You’re going to edit my innermost thoughts? Is that even legal?”
I open my eyes wider and blink. Then I shake my head sadly. “Well, if you don’t want to enter Phase Two…”
“I do!” Maisie says. “I so want to enter Phase Two.”
“Good.” I smile. “One hundred words—”
“I know. On your desk first thing tomorrow morning.”
Toward the end of the Snow Ball meeting, to get my mind off the gigantic hole in Martin’s sock and the filthy black slime coating his foot underneath, I turn to Handsome Married Mr. Lindsay. “Does Mrs. Lindsay have a nickname for you?”
His face gets all red and he rubs his cheeks with his hands. “As a matter of fact, yes. She still calls me Barfy, because I used to throw up when she fed me oatmeal in my high chair.”
“Whoa,” I say, trying to picture how Handsome Mr. Lindsay could have fallen in love with someone who tried to force-feed him oatmeal and made him do math. “Your wife must be way older than you if she used to feed you in your high chair.”
“What wife?” He laughs. “I was talking about my mother.”
Handsome Married Mr. Lindsay is suddenly not so married anymore!
Yes!
What he doesn’t know is that he just lost one of his nicknames. He’s gone back to plain old Handsome Mr. Lindsay, which is so much easier to say anyway.
He Who Swipes the Last Butterscotch Square Has Got to Go
After school the next day, I race the whole way home. I need to go somewhere where I can be truly alone and have a good long look at Maisie’s innermost thoughts about being a best friend.
Once I’ve run into the apartment, said hello to Grandma, and filled my hands with cookies, I crawl under my bed with Maisie’s essay, flick on my flashlight, and pull a thick red marker out of my pocket.
What It Means to Be a Best Friend by Maisie Robbins
Right away, I cross out the extra b in Robbins, because I think it should be spelled like the bird. As in, “A flock of graceful robins sits atop the garden gate.” That’s much better.
Then I take a bite of cookie and read on.
To me, being a best friend is the most honored profession in the world. I will be so loyal to my best friend that I won’t tell anyone her deepest secrets, not even if I get tortured or worse.
I scratch out this last line. If Maisie expects to move on to Phase Three one day, which I just this very minute invented, I’m going to have to know Brianna’s secrets. All of them. They’ll be part of the Phase Three collage.
I now understand it is impossible to have more than one number one BFIS, but that I’m allowed to have a number two one day But under no circumstance can someone ever have a number three BFIS, since it makes the first two look like losers.
I smile here. Sounds like my little Maisie’s growing up.
It’s an invisible rule.
Rolling my eyes and slumping with despair, I cross out “invisible” and write, I prefer “unwritten.”
I plan to invite only my number one BFIS t
o my birthday party next month. My mother says we can have a three-layer chocolate chip birthday cake and french fries with gravy and stay up late to watch scary movies.
Hmm. Chocolate chip birthday cake and fries. Sounds like a good time. I chew on the end of my red marker for a minute and then draw a big question mark over the entire sentence. At the side I scrawl, See me after school!
Inviting only one person to a birthday party seems a bit extreme, even if that person is a number one BFIS. I mean, how much cake can the two of them possibly eat?
All in all, Maisie did a decent job. It was more than a hundred words, but the kid’s a bit nervous, this being her first assignment and all. Smiling with pride, I fold up her note and slip it into my pocket. Then I realize something. I should have made a photocopy of her essay before editing it. Once I give this back to her, I’ll have nothing for my files.
I crawl out from under my bed and climb on top of it. Just as I’m finishing my third cookie, I’m thinking about how it’s too bad I’m not a little kid anymore. When you’re younger, moms are in and out of the school all the time—to carry your 3-D Princess-in-a-Tower project, to settle you down if another kid brought balloons for his birthday, to take you home if your nose gets too runny and your teacher’s a big wienie about germs. There were plenty of teacher-meeting opportunities back then.
If only I hadn’t been too brainless to know I’d need them.
Stuffing the rest of the cookie into my mouth, I uncap my red marker again and pull out a pad of paper to make a list. If I’m going to get Handsome Mr. Lindsay to marry my mother, it’s going to take a little planning.
Husband-Snaring To-Dos
Do something about Mom’s hair. Her ‘do makes her look like someone’s secretary. And even though she IS someone’s secretary, that doesn’t mean she has to walk around advertising it to every single person she could possibly end up marrying.
Do something about Handsome Mr. Lindsay’s pocketful of math tools. After further consideration, a sharpened circle-making thingy pricking my mother between the ribs could really put a damper on the goodnight kiss.