by Julie Bowe
I wait until Brooke’s sparkly headband and Stacey’s dark curls and Jenna’s bobbing braids disappear behind the trees.
Then I turn and squint down the crooked path.
“It must go somewhere,” I say to myself, “or there wouldn’t be a path.”
I take a step and squint harder, but I can’t see very far because of all the trees.
“C’mon, Ida!” I hear Jenna shout from far away.
I turn back toward the main path, but I stop again when a breeze catches my bangs and a tiny sound catches my ears.
Clink . . . clink . . . rattle . . . clink . . .
Something clinky is down that path.
Something rattly.
Like finger bones. Ones that are still wearing rings.
A moment later the breeze is gone and so is the sound.
But it stays inside my head. Right next to the idea that Jenna has a secret at the end of that crooked path.
A secret that Brooke knows about.
“Ida!” Jenna calls again.
I hurry to catch up.
Everyone is ready to leave when we get back to Jenna’s house. I help my mom load up the punch bowl and cake containers, and wave good-bye to Jenna and Rachel.
“There’s something I need to ask you,” Mom says as we drive home.
I flick my sparkly earlobes. “I’m all ears,” I reply, and do a clever smile.
Mom glances at me. “Mrs. Drews needs extra rest until the baby’s born, so she’s wondering if Jenna and Rachel can come to our house more often.”
I stop flicking. “How often?”
“After school for starters. Weekends if Mr. Drews can find some extra work.” Mom glances at me again. “Is that okay with you?”
If Mom had asked me that question a year ago I would have said “No way.” Jenna used to be supermean to me until I finally stood up to her. Then things got better. Not perfect, but better.
“Will it help the baby?” I ask.
Mom nods. “It’s a complicated pregnancy, so it’s important that Mrs. Drews can rest as much as possible. She even asked Brooke’s mom to take over as chairperson of the school auction and carnival.”
My chin drops. “Brooke’s mom is in charge now?”
“Mmm-hmm,” Mom says. “Why? Is that bad?”
I close my mouth and lean back, thinking about how Jenna will feel when she finds out her mom isn’t in charge anymore.
And how Brooke will feel when she finds out her mom is.
“It’s only bad if you’re Jenna Drews,” I mumble.
Mom pulls into our driveway and turns off the car. “So is it okay with you? Jenna and Rachel coming over after school?”
I shrug. “I guess.”
“Good,” Mom says. “Because we start on Monday.”
Chapter 2
“I should warn you,” I say to George on Monday morning. “Jenna and Rachel are coming over after school.”
The last time they were here, Rachel put an old doll dress on George. Tied ribbons to his tail. Snapped barrettes on his ears. He tried to be a good sport about it, but even a sock monkey has his limits.
“I could hide you . . .” I say, picking him up.
George brightens.
“But that’s no good. They’ll be coming over every day for weeks and weeks. You can’t live under my bed forever, George. Besides, you have to face your fears, remember? That’s what you’re always telling me.”
I set George on my bed and straighten his tail. “See you after school?” I say.
George gives me the silent treatment.
I look around my room. Then I gather up all my barrettes and shove them into my underwear drawer.
I turn back to George. “I took care of the barrettes,” I say. “But I can’t make any promises about ribbons and doll dresses.”
George just glances away.
I sigh and head out the door.
Sometimes nothing you do for a friend feels like enough.
“We have a lot going on between now and the end of the school year, so I made a list,” Mr. Crow says as Jolene and I finish feeding Spud, our class hamster, later at school. Jolene is my favorite partner for this because she knows furry creatures with beady eyes scare me a little. She catches Spud. I change his food and water. Before she puts him in his cage again, she always remembers to hold him extra tight so I can pet his back.
I sit down at my friendship circle. Stacey, Jenna, and Dominic are in my circle too.
Jenna straightens up and smiles as Mr. Crow points to the chalkboard. She loves lists.
• Make quilt to sell at school auction
• Class trip to Laura Ingalls Wilder Museum
• Help with games at school carnival
“Each friendship circle will help with one of the carnival game booths,” Mr. Crow explains after reading the last item on the list.
“Ooo . . . dibs on dart throw!” Zane shouts.
“Rifle range!” Quinn adds.
“Dunk the principal!” Randi tosses in. She stands up and does high fives with Quinn and some of the other boys. She’s practically one of them.
Mr. Crow holds up his hand. “The PTA will be choosing the games and organizing the booths. So no darts. No rifles. No dunks.”
Everyone slumps.
“Great,” Randi mumbles, plopping into her chair again. “Duck pond. Clothespin drop. Lollypop pull.”
“Will the prizes be any good?” Rusty asks.
“Of course they will,” Jenna pipes in. “My mother already bought them. She’s in charge of the entire auction and carni—”
I give Jenna’s knee a nudge. But it’s too late.
“Um . . . hello?” Brooke waves her hand at Jenna. “Your mom isn’t in charge anymore. My mom is.”
She counts off on her fingers. “The auction. The carnival games. The prizes, thank goodness. All your mom got so far are pencils and butterscotch candies. Ugh. With my mom in charge we’ll have fake tattoos, lip gloss rings, jawbreakers . . . the list goes on and on.”
Jenna sits back and steams.
“Yeah, listen to Brookey,” Joey says, making puppy-dog eyes at her. “She’s always right.”
“Ugh-ugh!” Rusty nods and pounds a freckled fist against his chest. “Me love tattoo! Me love jawbreaker! Me love Brookey!”
Everyone giggles.
Brooke sits back and steams too.
“As I was saying,” Mr. Crow continues, “we have a lot to do. Quilt, starting today. Class trip next week.”
Everyone slumps again.
The fourth-grade class trip is the same every year. Tour the Laura Ingalls Wilder Museum in Pepin, Wisconsin, and see the Little House in the Big Woods where she was born.
Supposedly, it’s not the real log cabin where she lived with Ma, Pa, Mary, and baby Carrie. That one wore out a long time ago. The cabin we’ll see is called a replica. It sounds like a cool dinosaur name, but really it’s just another word for fake.
No one is exactly excited about seeing Laura’s fake log cabin. Or touring a museum. We heard from Brooke’s older sister, Jade, that it’s almost as boring as a tour of the Purdee State Bank. That’s where we went in second grade.
The bank tour was boring, even though they gave us souvenir coin purses. The plastic kind that smell like Barbies when you pinch them open. Before she moved away, Elizabeth, my last best friend, and I used to pretend that ours were toothless pet sharks. We’d take them swimming and let them gum our noses to death.
But there are no souvenir coin purses at the Laura Ingalls Wilder Museum. Jade said there are only old pots and pans and faded quilts and worn-out boots that you are not allowed to touch.
Mr. Crow glances at the clock above his desk. “That’s enough chatter for now,” he says. “Let’s get our work done this morning so Mrs. Eddy can start teaching us how to make a quilt this afternoon.”
“We already made one,” Randi says, looking around at all of us. “Remember? In first grade.”
Tom nods. “A constructi
on-paper quilt,” he says. “We colored it with crayons and stapled it to the bulletin board.”
Jenna huffs. “Construction-paper quilts are for babies.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Tom says, blinking at Jenna. “They’ll chew it up.”
Jenna groans. “Duh, Tom. I meant that we would be babies if we made one in fourth grade.”
“Technically, we’re almost in fifth grade,” Tom replies.
Jenna groans again and gives up.
Tom grins. He used to be afraid of Jenna, like me, but lately he’s figured out that he has a secret weapon. I call it The Twister. That’s because Tom can take anything Jenna says and twist it around until it means something else. Which gets Jenna all twisted up too. Still, she has a secret crush on him. I’m the only one who knows. And she’s the only one who knows about my secret crush on Quinn. That’s something we’re both good at. Keeping secrets.
“Mrs. Eddy is an expert quilter,” Mr. Crow says. “She’ll help us make a real quilt out of cloth, not paper.”
Meeka sits up. “With needles?”
“And scissors and thread,” Mr. Crow says, nodding.
Meeka smiles. She loves things that poke and cut because she wants to be a doctor someday.
“My mom helped me sew a quilt for my dolls once,” Jolene puts in.
Quinn grunts. “Girly.”
“Yeah,” Dominic adds. “My grandmother sews quilts.”
“This project is for everyone—girls and boys,” Mr. Crow says, crossing his arms. “And it will mean cooperating, not complaining. The nicer our quilt, the higher the bid. And the more money we raise at the school auction, the sooner we’ll get our new playground equipment.”
Everyone nods. We can’t wait to have new loopy slides and a climbing wall and even a swinging bridge that will be perfect for running across with your best friend.
Dominic lifts a shoulder. “I’m in,” he mumbles. “But it still sounds girly.”
“Move up!” Quinn shouts from the playground pitcher’s mound later, at phys ed. He waves to his teammates in the outfield.
Jolene hurries toward the baseline. So does one of the Dylans. Rusty ditches third base and stands in line with Quinn. “C’mon, Ida!” he calls, holding out his hands. “Right to me!”
I give Rusty a squint as I walk toward home plate. I hate this part of kickball. Not the kicking part. I like hearing the thunk! Feeling my foot sting. Running as fast as I can.
But I hate how everyone assumes I won’t kick it very far. Not that I ever have. But that doesn’t mean I never will.
“Do it, Ida!” Randi shouts as she rocks back and forth in her sneakers, guarding first base. She’s captain of the other team. “Show us what you got!”
I give Randi a grin. She’s the kind of player who wants her team to work for a win.
“Yeah, you show ’em, Ida!” Stacey calls from the grassy sidelines where our team is sitting. She gives me a quick smile, then goes back to making dandelion chains with Brooke.
I feel a tug on my arm. “Just don’t pop it,” Jenna says, coming up behind me. “And don’t kick it to third, or Zane will never score.”
I glance at third base. Zane leans toward us, a dandelion tucked behind his ear and his sneakers revving up for a quick dash home.
“Will this be our last out?” Brooke asks loudly as I step up to the plate and Jenna heads back to the sidelines. “I hope so. Ginormous ants are crawling all over me! Someone should get me a chair. I am the team captain.”
“A chair?” Jenna replies as she sits on the grass a few feet away from Brooke and Stacey. “I thought witches preferred sitting on brooms.”
“You can sit on my lap, Brookey,” Joey says, stretching out his bony legs and patting his scabby knees. He bats his eyes at Brooke.
“I’d rather sit on Ant Mountain,” Brooke snips. She throws a dandelion at Joey. Stacey pitches in.
Rusty snort-laughs from the infield.
“Ready, Ida?” Quinn smiles at me from the pitcher’s mound.
“As I’ll ever be,” I say.
Quinn tosses the ball. Slower than he did for Zane. Less bouncy.
I run a few steps and kick.
Thunk!
The ball pops right over Rusty’s head and bounces toward third. Just what Jenna told me not to do.
“Run, Ida, run!” Jenna shouts.
So I do.
So does Zane.
So does Rusty, chasing after the ball.
“Safe!” Ms. Stein, our phys ed teacher, shouts a moment later as Zane beats Rusty to home plate. “Game’s tied. Three to three.”
Randi pats my back when I get to first. “Told ya you could do it.”
I glance at Jenna. She gives me a nod.
“You-hoo! Ida!” Meeka calls from second base. She crouches down and dusts off the white square she’s guarding. Then she picks a dandelion and holds it out to me. Meeka likes to make you feel welcome when you stop by her base.
“I’ll be there in a minute,” I call back.
And I am.
Then Joey kicks me to third.
And Jenna kicks me home.
“Safe!” Ms. Stein shouts as I cross the plate. “We’re out of time. Team Morgan wins. Four to three.”
Brooke and Stacey do a victory dance. Meeka and Jolene join in, even though they didn’t win.
My back tingles from all the friendly slaps. My ears ring from all the squeals. My neck itches from the dandelion necklace Stacey put on me.
I can’t stop smiling. Not even while I’m eating Mrs. Kettleson’s goulash at lunch with the other girls. I’ve eaten it lots of times before, but never with a smile.
“That was the first kickball score of my whole fourth-grade life,” I say to Jenna as we carry our trays up to the dish room window.
“I know,” Jenna replies. “Do it ten more times and you’ll be as good as me.”
When we get back to our classroom, Mrs. Eddy is waiting for us. Quilts are draped over the desks in each of our friendship circles. My group’s has a pretty pattern of squares and triangles.
Mrs. Eddy walks around the room and tells us about each of the quilts. One looks like a big colorful star. Another one has flowers everywhere. It’s called a rose quilt. One is a jumble of different shapes and patterns and colors. There’s stuff sewn on it too. Lace. Buttons. A tiny silver spoon.
“This was from my wedding dress,” Mrs. Eddy explains, running her crooked fingers over the lace that’s sewn on the jumbled-up quilt. “The buttons came from my husband’s old army uniform. And the spoon belonged to our son when he was a baby.”
“What’s that in the corner?” Stacey asks, pointing to the quilt. “It looks like—”
“A spider!” Jolene cries excitedly. She loves animals. Even the creepy kind.
“That’s right,” Mrs. Eddy says, pointing to a little spider made out of black thread that’s sewn to a silvery web.
“Ta-ranch-u-la!” Joey says, wiggling his fingers.
Everyone laughs.
“Yuck,” Brooke says. “Who would want a spider on their quilt?”
Mrs. Eddy smiles at Brooke. “Spiders are a sign of good luck,” she says.
Brooke huffs. “Bad luck, if you ask me.”
She glances at Jenna.
Jenna glances back.
It makes me wonder if they know something about spiders that the rest of us don’t.
“This type of quilt is called a crazy quilt,” Mrs. Eddy continues. “Can anyone guess why?”
Joey raises his hand. “Because girls made it?”
All the boys snort.
“Yeah, all quilts are crazy because they’re all made by girls!” Quinn puts in.
All the girls grumble.
“Actually,” Mrs. Eddy says, “in some ancient cultures it was the men who made the quilts.” She gives Quinn a look over the top of her glasses.
“Huh?” Quinn says.
Mrs. Eddy opens a big book she brought along. “And medieval sol
diers wore armor made from quilted fabric.” She holds up a picture of a knight riding into battle.
“Cool,” Dominic says, sitting up higher in his chair.
“Quilts were used to wrap dead bodies for burial when coffins weren’t available,” Mrs. Eddy continues, flipping to a picture of pioneers in covered wagons.
“Ew,” Brooke says.
“Awesome,” Randi adds.
“And then, of course, there’s the Kentucky Graveyard Quilt,” Mrs. Eddy says, closing the book and hugging it to her chest. “But you wouldn’t be interested in that.” She glances at Quinn.
“The Whoyard What?” Quinn asks, scrambling to his knees.
A smile flits between Mr. Crow and Mrs. Eddy. She flips open her book again.
“The Kentucky Graveyard Quilt was made by a woman named Elizabeth Roseberry Mitchell in 1843 to keep track of the deaths in her family.” Mrs. Eddy shows us a picture of the quilt. “She sewed little coffins along the edge,” Mrs. Eddy explains, pointing to the picture. “One for each member of her family. When someone died, she moved his or her coffin to the graveyard.” Mrs. Eddy taps on a fenced-in square at the center of the quilt.
Quinn’s jaw drops.
“Creepy,” Randi says. “I like it.”
Mrs. Eddy walks around the room, giving everyone a closer look at all those coffins. “Are quilts still too girly for you, young man?” she asks when she gets to Quinn’s desk.
Quinn gulps and shakes his head. “No, ma’am,” he says. “I’m dying to make one.”
Mrs. Eddy chuckles. “Good,” she says. “Because I’ll be back next week to get you started.”
“Awh,” one of the Dylans says. “Can’t we start today?”
“Yeah, let’s do the graveyard one!” Joey puts in.
“No,” Mrs. Eddy replies, closing her book. “I have another design in mind. It’s called a friendship tree.”
Jenna suddenly straightens up. “Did you say . . . tree?”
Mrs. Eddy nods. “And friendship. You’ll see what I mean next week.”
Chapter 3
“I’ve got the whole week scheduled out,” Jenna says, pulling a clipboard from her backpack when we get to my front porch after school. A chart is clipped to the front.