Ruby Goldberg’s Bright Idea

by Anna Humphrey

  I couldn’t stand it anymore. It was bad enough that Penny and Grandpa were mad at me—and that I’d been so mean to Dominic, who didn’t deserve it one bit. I knew I was a bad friend, and a bad granddaughter . . . but now I had to hear about how I was a bad sister, too? “I’m sorry!” I shouted. “Just leave me alone, okay?”

  Sarah held up her hands like she was stopping traffic. “Okay, okay,” she said. “Sheesh. I know you already promised. And you gave my shoelaces back. I was just kidding, okay?”

  The microwave beeped, and I pulled it open and handed Sarah her plate. Her snack looked amazing and smelled even better. I replaced it with my plate of plain soda crackers and processed cheese, then slammed the microwave door shut and hit the thirty-seconds button.

  “Here,” Sarah said, handing me a Melba Toast. I sat down at the table and started to nibble miserably at one corner. It was depressingly delicious. “Seriously. What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” I answered, looking down at the table.

  “It’s not nothing,” she said reasonably.

  “Okay, fine. It’s Penny.” I told Sarah about how I’d missed the dress rehearsal for her peacock dance, and how she was mad at me because all I ever talked about was my Rube Goldberg machine. And once I’d started talking, I couldn’t stop. I also told her about how disappointed in me Grandpa had been—and about how he thought I’d been trying to replace Tomato with a machine, and how I’d been mean to Dominic because I was just so frustrated. “But I didn’t mean to ruin everything and make everyone mad!” I wailed. “I just wanted to help Grandpa. It’s the only reason I took your shoelaces and your coat hangers too. I wanted to make the best machine possible. What’s so wrong with that?”

  By then the microwave had long since finished. I opened the door and grabbed my plate. My cheese slices had melted into a lake of orange grease, and the crackers were soggy. Great! I couldn’t even make a snack right.

  Sarah took one look at my cheese mess and handed me another Melba Toast.

  “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to make the best science fair project possible,” she said, then chewed thoughtfully for a while. “You just need to remember that it’s not the most important thing.”

  Easy for her to say! She was so good at everything that she never needed to worry. She could win the Rachel Halloway Lloyd Award for Excellence in Science, get an A on her English essay, and still find time to hang out at the mall with her friends, all while creating amazing snacks using foreign melted cheeses and fresh herbs.

  “I mean, if you don’t win the gold medal, who cares?”

  I cared! I cared a lot! And, based on the huge fuss they’d made over Sarah’s stupid science award, so did Mom and Dad.

  “Penny definitely won’t care. And neither will Grandpa,” Sarah said. “They care more about you spending time with them . . . and taking an interest in their lives once in a while.”

  “I’m interested in their lives,” I answered defensively.

  “Are you?” Sarah asked, not unkindly. “What’s Penny doing for her science project?”

  “I . . . ummm.” For the first time it occurred to me that I honestly didn’t know.

  “And have you ever asked her to show you part of the dance she’s working on?”

  “Well, no . . . but . . . she’s told me about it.”

  “How about Grandpa? What has he been doing all day without Tomato these last few weeks?”

  “Sleeping, I think.”

  Okay, so maybe Sarah had a point.

  “Look at Rube Goldberg,” she went on. Sarah had heard as many Rube Goldberg stories as I had growing up. Probably more, since she was older. “He designed amazing machines, but he was also a cartoonist, and an engineer, and an inventor. And he had kids and he was married. He gave lots of things and lots of people his attention.”

  I sighed. She was right, of course. I wanted to win the science fair so badly, but there were other things that mattered more. If I lost my best friend and hurt my grandfather’s feelings along the way, was it worth it?

  “Okay,” I admitted. “I get it. But how do I make them forgive me?” Sarah had tons of friends. She was good at this stuff. “Maybe I could make Grandpa an album out of old photos of Tomato,” I suggested. “And if I could find an old dog footprint someplace in the backyard, I could cast it in plaster of paris and mount it in a frame. And Penny likes dancing, right?” I went on, getting one idea after another. “Maybe I could get some kids together and do a big choreographed routine? We could surprise her in the school yard. It would have to be a song about how sorry I am, and I’d lip sync it to her. Do you know a good song? Can I borrow your iPod?”

  Sarah smiled. “You know, Ruby, I think that might be part of your problem.”

  What? That I didn’t have my own iPod?

  “You don’t always have to make simple things so complicated. Why not, for once, do something the easy way? Just say you’re sorry.”

  “But I already tried calling Penny to say I was sorry!” I wailed. “She wouldn’t even talk to me.”

  “Well, try again,” Sarah said. She passed me the plate with the last Melba Toast on it. I took it, ate it, and then got up to scrape my plate of cheese goo into the organic waste bin.

  Just say I’m sorry? I thought as I watched the goo plop into the bag. It sounded so easy. Too easy, almost. But maybe Sarah was right. Doing things the complicated way didn’t seem to be getting me anywhere lately. And just saying I was sorry had worked with Dominic.

  “Trust me, okay?” Sarah said. I did. “And if it still doesn’t work, I’ll help you with the dog book and the dance routine, okay?” she promised.

  I grinned. Sarah was all right, I guessed. I was pretty lucky to have a sister like her.

  For a second I started considering ways to show her how much I appreciated her advice—maybe by running upstairs to make her a pop-up thank you card or an “I will clean your room for one week” gift certificate out of construction paper with glitter glued around the edges—but then I thought better of it. “Thanks,” I said simply.

  Sarah smiled. “You’re welcome.”

  Chapter 8

  But even though saying “I’m sorry” to Penny sounded simple, it was actually pretty complicated. First of all I had to track her down, and then I had to keep up with her.

  It was later that day—mere hours before her big dance show—and if I thought the life of a scientist was demanding, well, turns out it’s got nothing on the life of a dancer!

  I rode my bike over to her place at three, but her dad said she wasn’t home. “She and her mom went to pick up a few things,” he explained when I knocked on the door. “She should be back in a little while, if you want to come in and wait. Unless . . .” He pulled some kind of schedule out of his back pocket and consulted it. “Wait. That’s not right. She’s got a hair appointment at three fifteen at Ingrid’s Salon. Apparently you need a professional to get the peacock headband on just right.” He smiled. “I’ll tell her you stopped by, okay?”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “Maybe I can catch her at the hair place.”

  So I rode my bike downtown and parked it outside the salon. The beauty shop was packed with peacocks—along with swarms of little girls with their faces painted to look like butterflies and bumblebees. It took me a while to find her, but I finally spotted Penny sitting in the reception area. She was holding her feathered headband in her lap, waiting her turn. I tapped on the glass to get her attention, and two butterflies ran over. One of them smushed her face up against the glass.

  “Kimmy!” her mother shrieked, pulling her away. “You’ll ruin your makeup.” Sure enough, the girl left a big wing-print behind on the windowpane. While the mother led Kimmy back to a makeup chair, I tapped again. This time Penny turned her head and saw me, but looked away just as fast.

  I wasn’t about to give up that easily. I opened the door and stepped into the salon.

  “Hi there.” The receptionist gave me a glowi
ng white smile. “Are you with the Downtown Dance Studio?” I shook my head, and her smile vanished. “Sorry,” she said. “We’re booked up right now. Big recital this tonight.”

  “But I just needed to—”

  “Sorry,” she said again, cutting me off. “Come back next week, or call to book an appointment, okay?”

  “But could I just talk to—?”

  She came around the desk, put a hand on my shoulder, and led me to the door. “Sorry, sweetheart,” she said. “Another day, okay?”

  I sighed and stepped out onto the street, discouraged but not defeated. If they wouldn’t let me in, well, then, I’d just have to talk to Penny from outside. Thinking quickly, I ripped a garage sale notice off a telephone pole and flipped it over, then wrote in big block letters on the back using a stubby pencil I’d had in my pocket.

  I went back to the window, held up my sign, and knocked again. This time a little bee buzzed over. She looked about four or five—too young to read.

  “What does that say?” she asked.

  “It says ‘Sorry, Penny!’ ” I shouted.

  The little girl shrugged like she couldn’t hear me. “Tell Penny I’m sorry, okay?” I said, mouthing the words clearly, so she’d get it. “Penny!” I shouted, then pointed to where Penny was sitting.

  “Okay,” the little bee said, and skipped off. But if Penny ever got the message, she didn’t seem to care. A minute later she got up and went for her turn in the hairdresser’s chair, not even glancing in my direction.

  So I waited. . . . First I practiced standing on one foot. Next I named the pigeons that were sitting on the roof of the grocery store across the street—which was a lot harder than it sounds. They kept moving, making it practically impossible to remember which one was Bob, which one was Maurice, and which one was Raphael. After I gave up on pigeon naming, I started picking litter up off the sidewalk to be a good citizen. I found a coffee cup, some rusted paperclips, and a plastic streamer, and I was just about finished rigging them up to make a working elevator for the ants in one of the flower boxes, when Penny’s mom came out to see what I was doing.

  “Ruby!” she said, sticking her head out the door. “Would you like to come in and sit down with us?”

  I looked over her shoulder into the hair salon and saw Penny scowling at me from the hairdresser’s chair.

  “I don’t think so, Mrs. Parker,” I answered. “The receptionist already said I can’t go in. Plus, Penny probably wouldn’t like it. She’s pretty mad at me.”

  “Hmmm. I heard something about that. Don’t worry,” she whispered. “I think she’ll come around.” She was holding a cookie tin in her hand, and when she saw me notice it, she held it out to me. “These are for the dancers,” she explained, “but would you like one?”

  They were granola snacks—kind of like the ones Penny had given me to taste test before, except not as crumbly. Since I hadn’t had an afternoon snack yet, I was pretty starving.

  “To keep your strength up!” Penny’s mom said, smiling at me as I took one. “Don’t give up, okay?” She winked at me, then disappeared back into the salon.

  So I sat on the edge of a planter box and ate, sharing a few crumbs with Bob, Maurice, Raphael, and the ants. And when I was done, my strength was definitely renewed.

  A half hour later Penny came out of the salon in full peacock hair and makeup. I hid behind a bush until her mom’s car pulled away from the curb. Then I followed on my bike.

  Instead of driving home, they went halfway across town to pick up Penny’s little cousin. Then they stopped at the dance store, where Penny’s mom bought her a new pair of ballet slippers. I parked my bike out front and went in, pretending to be browsing for leotards.

  “Psst! Penny!” I whispered, peering through a spinning rack of sparkle tights.

  She looked up.

  “I’m sorry!” I whispered.

  She half smiled, and for a second I thought that meant she was about to forgive me, but then she tapped her cousin’s shoulder to get his attention. Come, she signed to him, and they went off to find her mom at the cash register.

  Next they stopped at Fabric City to get some yellow thread. Then it was back to Penny’s place for a final costume adjustment. I was exhausted from so much pedaling and groveling, but I was not going to give up.

  The show was starting at seven, and I didn’t want to disturb Penny, so I stopped home for dinner, then got back onto my bike and headed over to the concert hall to wait. I spent the next half hour on the lawn in front of the auditorium, picking every dandelion I could find—and there were plenty! Still, I was first in line when they opened the door, which meant I got the best seat in the house. Front row, center.

  The little bees danced first—well, most of them. Two just stood in the center of the stage holding hands, looking shocked by all the lights and people. The butterflies were up next with a number where they flapped and pirouetted around the stage to classical music. The little kids were cute, of course, but the real professionals were the peacocks. You could tell by the hush that came over the room when they stepped onto the stage. Their costumes were so beautiful, and Penny—the lead peacock—was the most stunning of all.

  I waved my arms wildly to get her attention, which made the people behind me grumble about how I was ruining their video recording, but I didn’t care. For a split second before the music began, Penny looked right at me.

  Sorry, I signed, by making a sign language S and moving it across my chest. Then I held up one hand and karate chopped it with the other from underneath and touched the base of one palm with the side of my other hand. Kick bottom, I mouthed.

  Penny’s face broke into a wide smile, and I didn’t think it was just for the audience. Or at least I hoped it wasn’t. And I knew it for sure after the show when she came to find me in the lobby.

  “These are for you,” I said, handing her the football-size bouquet of dandelions I’d picked while waiting outside the concert hall. “You did an amazing job! When you did those peacock hands . . .” I tried to do it, but even when I was making my best effort, I still looked more like a drowning chicken. “It seemed so real! And I loved the part where the other peacocks were waving the feathers around you.”

  “Thanks,” she said, almost shyly. Then she added, “I’m glad you came.”

  “I’m glad I did too,” I answered. “And I’m sorry about missing the dress rehearsal yesterday.”

  “I know,” she said. “You sort of mentioned that a few times today, in a few different ways.” She laughed, and then she brought me over to meet her dance teacher, Miss Leung. And just like that everything was back to normal.

  Just say you’re sorry, I thought to myself, as I biked home from the recital. So it really could be that easy. I just hoped it would work for Grandpa, too.

  • • •

  And you know what? It turns out it did work! What’s more . . . you could even apologize over the phone! Because I had a ton of homework the next day, I decided to call Grandpa after school instead of going over. I said the words the second he picked up.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Ruby?” Grandpa said.

  “Yeah. It’s me. Ruby,” I told him. “I’m calling to apologize.”

  “I’d gathered that last part,” he said.

  “I never meant for my science project to replace Tomato. I just wanted to cheer you up. And help you with your slippers and newspaper.”

  Grandpa sighed a little. “I’m sorry too,” he said. “I overreacted when you showed me your Rube Goldberg machine, and I’ve been ashamed of myself ever since. I’ve just been sad. And a little lonely. But I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.” He cleared his throat, like he was embarrassed. “As much as I appreciate your efforts, I think it’s time I started to get my own paper, don’t you? And I haven’t been on a walk since Tomato died. It’s probably time I got back out into the world. In any case,” he went on, “I assume you’ll be coming by after supper to pick up this impressive p
iece of machinery. The science fair opens tomorrow, if I remember right. You’ll need to get this giant contraption to the gym so they can award you and Dominic your gold medal on Wednesday night.”

  It made me smile to think that grandpa believed in my project so much, and I hoped he was right about the gold medal. But at the same time the Tomato-Matic didn’t feel quite as important anymore. After all, a really good science project shouldn’t just be an impressive chemical reaction or a series of observations. It should improve people’s lives somehow. The whole point of the project had been to make Grandpa feel better about losing Tomato, and that hadn’t exactly worked out.

  Of course, I didn’t realize until later that night that—in the roundabout way Rube Goldberg machines have—the Tomato-Matic 2000 was about to help me help Grandpa in a way I never could have expected.

  • • •

  When we got to Grandpa’s house that evening, my dad stayed in to help him change a few lightbulbs, and I went straight to the shed. Dominic had finished making the coat hanger and bricks brace, just like he’d promised. It looked pretty solid. I went back to the car to get some of the collapsed boxes we’d brought for packing the machine, and I was carrying such a big stack of them to the shed that I could hardly see where I was going.

  “You again?” Mr. Petrecelli said, making me jump.

  “Hi, Mr. Petrecelli.” I put the boxes down on the grass. With all the hurt feelings and misunderstandings I’d just sorted out, I really wasn’t in the mood to have any more fights that day, so instead I tried an entirely new approach. “How are you tonight?” I asked in my most pleasant, least insolent voice.

  “How do you think I am?” he snapped. “With this unseasonable heat we’ve been having!”

  “Hot, probably.” It seemed like a safe guess. We stood there in silence. “That cross is for Tomato,” I said after a while. “In case you were wondering. That’s my grandpa’s dog that died. Grandpa called him Tomato because he used to love to eat tomatoes from the backyard. He also loved to chase croquet balls . . . and lick crumbs off the floor. Grandpa hardly ever needed to vacuum.”