by Julie Bowe
Five rows: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday.
Three columns: Snack, Game, Craft.
Rachel pokes in for a look. Then she runs inside.
“See?” Jenna says, pointing to the first row on her chart. “Today is Monday, so that means our snack is peanut butter toast. Our game is a scavenger hunt. And our craft is wind chimes. I already made maps for the game. The boundaries are marked in red.”
Jenna sits on the steps and shuffles three maps to the top of her clipboard. “If you go out of bounds, you automatically lose.”
“Nice,” I say, sitting next to her and pinching up one of the maps. “Very organized.”
“I know,” Jenna says. “It’s one of my talents.”
“Not mine,” I say, reading all the notes Jenna has written on the map. “Does it really take fourteen giant steps to get from my porch to the edge of my front yard?”
“Mmm-hmm,” Jenna replies, straightening the papers on her clipboard.
“Huh,” I say, studying the map again. “And I had no idea poisonous snakes potentially live under the bushes by my sandbox.” I glance at Jenna. “Thanks for letting me know.”
Jenna nods. “That’s why I’m here,” she says. “To keep you safe.”
She takes the map back and clips it under her activity chart.
I do a little smile. There are things about Jenna I’d like to change. Her bossiness. The way she treats Rachel sometimes. Her grudge against Brooke. But there’s one thing I wouldn’t change. Jenna knows her talents and she isn’t afraid to tell you.
“Wind chimes are cool,” I say, looking at the chart. “My grandma has some that are made out of seashells.”
“Ours won’t be,” Jenna says, pulling a tangled lump of sticks and string from the bottom of her backpack. Shiny nuts, bolts, and screws dangle from the string as she untangles everything. “We’re making our wind chimes just like this one. I made it last summer at camp.”
The more Jenna untangles, the more I hear a sound I recognize.
Clink . . . clink . . . rattle . . . clink . . .
The same sound I heard coming from the crooked path in her little woods.
I study Jenna for a moment. “Grandma May hangs her wind chimes on her porch,” I say. “Where do you hang yours?” “Um . . . by my . . . door,” Jenna says.
“Really?” I say. “I’ve never noticed them before. Back door or front door?”
“Neither,” Jenna mumbles, running her tongue across her lips. She quickly sets the wind chimes by her backpack, grabs her clipboard, and stands up. “Come on, or we’ll get behind schedule.” She heads inside before I can ask any more questions.
Mom listens patiently while Jenna explains the activity chart to her. Then she points to the toaster and gets out of the kitchen.
“Ida, get the bread,” Jenna says. “I’ll run the toaster. Rachel can spread the peanut butter.”
“I want jelly too,” Rachel says, setting George on the counter. She folds a paper towel into a triangle and tapes it on him like a diaper.
“No, Rachel,” Jenna replies. “The snack for today is peanut butter toast, not jelly toast.” She taps her schedule with a butter knife.
Rachel cradles George and crinkles her nose. “Creamy or chunky?”
I toss a loaf of bread onto the counter and pull ajar of peanut butter out of a cupboard. “Chunky,” I say, reading the label.
Rachel stomps her foot.
“We’ve got jelly too.” I set the peanut butter next to the bread. “Should I get it?”
Rachel nods and bounces George to her shoulder. She pats him on the back and peeks inside his diaper.
Jenna huffs. She unclips a pen from her chart and writes And jelly next to Peanut butter toast.
“But this is the only change you’re allowed,” she says, frowning at Rachel.
“Thank you,” Rachel replies. Then she does a fake burp. “Good boy, George!” She hugs my monkey tight. “I love George!” she cries. “Even more than jelly.”
“He’s the best monkey around,” I say. “The only one, actually. I’ve had him forever.”
“Then him and you are forever friends,” Rachel replies.
I nod. “Just like you and Jenna.”
Rachel laughs. “We’re not friends. We’re sisters.”
Jenna puts two slices of bread into the toaster. “Rachel’s right,” she says. “Being sisters is different than being friends. Harder. Especially when you’re the big sister.”
“Being friends is hard too,” I say. “Especially when they don’t stick together.” I’m thinking about Jenna and Brooke, but I’m also thinking about me and Stacey. Lately, we haven’t been as sticky as we used to be.
“That’s what I mean,” Jenna says. “When you’re sisters, you have to stick together no matter what. When you’re friends, you can ditch each other. Especially when the other one stabs you in the back.”
She doesn’t mention Brooke’s name, but I bet that’s the stabber she’s thinking of.
“Nu-uh, Jenna,” Rachel says, shaking her head. “When you’re forever friends you can’t ditch each other. It’s almost as bad as being sisters.”
The toast pops. Rachel spreads peanut butter on one slice and jelly on the other. We split it three ways.
It doesn’t take very long to find everything on Jenna’s scavenger hunt list. Sticks. Rocks. Worms. Dead bugs. We meet on my porch after the hunt and set the stuff we found by the boxes of baby flowers my dad bought yesterday. He’s going to plant them in the big clay pots that sit on our porch steps every spring. Me and my mom painted the pots when I was little. Bright flowers. Rainbows. Butterflies.
Jenna checks off Monday’s snack and game on her chart and then hands out the sticks we collected and the screws and string and other stuff she brought along for making wind chimes.
“Tomorrow we play hide-and-seek,” Jenna says, tying a long silver screw to a knobby stick. “Rain or shine. And our craft will be seed collages.”
“Yay!” Rachel says as she slips donut-shaped nuts onto her string like beads on a necklace. “Seed colleges are my best craft!”
“Collages,” Jenna says, correcting her. “But you have piano lessons tomorrow, so you can’t make one. If we don’t start right away the glue won’t have time to dry.”
Rachel slumps. Nuts spill off her string and pitter-patter down the steps. “No fair,” she grumbles.
“We could wait until my mom’s done giving Rachel her lesson and let the collages dry overnight,” I offer.
Rachel straightens up. “Yeah, we could do that! Because I really want to make a seed college. For my baby’s room!”
“The baby already has enough stuff in that room, Rachel,” Jenna says.
“Yeah, but Mommy says the smaller you are, the more stuff you need.”
“Listen, if you stuff one more thing in that kid’s room, the door won’t shut.”
“But Mommy says—”
“Mommy says . . . Mommy says . . .” Jenna mocks. “Stop bugging Mom about every little thing. No wonder she’s sick.”
Rachel blinks at Jenna for a moment. Her throat clicks. “Mommy’s sick?”
“Duh, Rachel,” Jenna replies, tying another bolt to her string. “Why do you think she has to ship us off to Ida’s house every day? Because the baby is making her sick. And your pestering doesn’t help one bit. It only reminds her how much she wishes things would go back to the way they used to be. Before the stupid baby came along.”
Rachel’s eyes go bright with tears. She grabs George and jumps up. “My baby’s not stupid!” she shouts at Jenna. “You are!” Then she stomps across the porch and into the house. Nuts and bolts roll away.
Jenna doesn’t say anything.
I set down my wind chimes and stand up. “We’d better go talk to her.”
“I’ve got nothing to say,” Jenna replies, scooping up Rachel’s scattered nuts and bolts.
I frown. “How about ‘I’m sorry’?” I suggest.
Jenna looks up. “Sorry for what?” she asks. “I told her the truth. You want me to apologize for that?”
“No, not for telling her the truth. For the way you told her. Your voice was mean.”
Jenna laughs. “I didn’t choose my voice, Ida. It came with the rest of me. Package deal. I can’t help it if I’m not all sparkly and sugar-coated like Stacey.”
I sigh and go looking for Rachel.
I find her in the backyard, talking to George and digging holes with a faded plastic shovel in the sandbox my dad built for me when I was little. It’s been so long since I’ve played in it, weeds are growing around the edges.
“You’re lucky, George,” I hear Rachel say as I walk toward her. “You don’t got a sister. Just Ida.”
“What are you doing?” I ask, crouching next to her.
Rachel looks up. Her eyes are red. A streak of snot shines on her cheek. “Making a garden,” she grumbles. “Not a seed college. Tomorrow, I’m planting my seeds here.”
I watch Rachel turn over the sand again and again with the shovel. Then she pats it smooth.
“Sometimes I help my dad plant stuff,” I say, glancing at a purple patch of flowers in a shady corner by my house. “But never in the sandbox. I think mostly just weeds grow here.”
“I don’t care,” Rachel says. “I’ll plant my seeds even if they grow up to be weeds.”
Rachel stands and brushes sand off her fingers. “Do you got any water?” she asks.
I nod.
Rachel helps me get a watering can from the shed and we fill it with a hose.
Then we lug the water to the sandbox and start pouring it out like rain.
A minute later, flip-flops snap up behind us.
“What’s she doing?”
I glance back at Jenna. “Making a garden,” I say.
“A garden?” Jenna huffs. She crosses her arms and watches Rachel drown the sandbox. “Flowers don’t grow in sand, you know.”
Rachel keeps watering and humming.
“She knows,” I say. “But she’s planting them anyway.”
Jenna huffs again and taps her flip-flop against the edge of the sandbox. “Stop it, Rachel,” she says. “You’re being stupid.”
I give Jenna a frown.
She sighs. “I mean, your idea is stupid. Nothing grows in sand.”
Rachel looks up, but she doesn’t say anything. She takes the empty watering can back to the hose and starts filling it up again.
“So what if nothing grows?” I say to Jenna. “It doesn’t hurt to try.”
Jenna gives me a squint. “Yes it does. It hurts a lot when things don’t go your way. I should know.”
“Lots of things go your way, Jenna,” I say.
“Like what?”
I think for a moment. “You only got one wrong on our spelling quiz today. That was second-best in the whole class.”
“Tom didn’t get any wrong. That was first-best.”
“Stacey gave you her brownie at lunch.”
“She didn’t give it to me. She offered it to everyone. I only got it because nobody else likes walnuts.”
I think some more. “Brooke chose you first for kickball.”
“Duh, Ida,” Jenna says. “She wanted her team to win. If Randi hadn’t been captain of the other team, she would have chosen her first, not me.”
“Still, you’re the second-best kickball player in our class.”
“Who wants to be second-best?” Jenna says. “I’m not first-best at anything.”
“You’re Brooke’s first-best friend,” I say. “At least, you used to be. And you could be again if you’d tell her you’re sorry.”
“For what?”
“For whatever you two are fighting about. What are you fighting about? Do you even know?”
“Of course I know,” Jenna replies. “I’m not stupid. And I’m not apologizing. She should.”
“Maybe she would, if you went first. Then you’d be the first-best apologizer.”
I do a clever smile.
Jenna does a squint.
Her flip-flops snap away.
Chapter 4
“Did my mom call your mom yet?” Stacey asks on Friday morning when we sit down at our friendship circle. “Pleeease say yes!” She clutches her hands to her chest.
“Pleeease don’t spit,” Dominic says, wiping his glasses.
I smile at Stacey. “Yes,” I say. “She did.”
Stacey squeals. “So can I spend the weekend with you?” she asks, butt hopping. “Pleeease say yes again!”
Dominic scoots away.
“Yes again!” I reply.
Stacey butt hops like crazy. “Lucky us!” she cries.
“Lucky me,” Dominic grumbles.
“Yep,” I say. “We’re luckier than . . . spiders!”
“Spiders?” Jenna walks up to our friendship circle. She slips off a sandal and swings it over Dominic’s head. “Where? I’ll get them!”
Dominic ducks. “Hey!”
“No spiders!” I tell Jenna, waving my hands like windshield wipers. “I was just saying we’re lucky because Stacey gets to spend the whole weekend at my house!”
“Oh,” Jenna says, dropping her sandal.
Dominic sighs.
Jenna sits down. She looks at Stacey. “How come?” she asks.
Stacey stops bouncing. She picks up her gel pen and doodles a flower on her math book cover. “My mom has to work.”
Jenna’s jaw shifts. “So why don’t you go to your dad’s house?” she asks. “Or Brooke’s?”
“Pick me, pick me!” Brooke bubbles from her friendless circle. It’s right next to ours.
Stacey smiles at Brooke. Then she shrugs at Jenna. “I can’t go to my dad’s. Something came up. And I went to Brooke’s house last time, so it’s Ida’s turn.”
“No fair, no fair.” Brooke pouts.
Stacey’s dad lives in another town because he and her mom got divorced. Stacey’s supposed to stay with her dad on the weekends, but sometimes he’s too busy to take care of her, so she gets to stay here instead.
“Yippee for me,” I say, and do a butt hop.
Stacey smiles and does one back.
Brooke joins in.
“Here we go again,” Dominic says. “Butt hop city.”
“Sit still and listen up,” Jenna says to us, slipping her sandal back on. “Merry-go-round good-byes at recess. Ida, tell Randi. Stacey, tell Meeka. I’ll remind Jolene.”
All week, Jenna has been marching us around the playground to say our last good-byes to the old equipment that’s going to get taken down to make room for the new stuff. Monday, we officially said good-bye to the swings. Tuesday, the slides. Wednesday, we did ceremonial grunts and armpit scratches on the monkey bars. And yesterday, we chanted our last round of Buster, Buster, Buster Brown, what will you give me if I let you down? on the teeter-totters. Today, it’s the merry-go-round. Monday, the bouncy horse and seal.
“Like we don’t already know, Jenna,” Brooke sasses. “You handed out flyers yesterday.”
Stacey nods. “And the day before that.”
Dominic snorts. “And the day before that.”
Jenna squints. “Girls only, Dumbinic.” She pulls more flyers out of her desk and hands them around. “Tell the others to meet at the pigpen, like always. I’ll begin the procession from there.”
The pigpen is what everyone calls a circle of hedges on our playground. Mr. Benson, the school custodian, trimmed them to look like hogs. Hedgehogs . . . pigpen. Get it?
Brooke looks over her flyer. She wrinkles her nose. “These would look a lot better if you added some sparkly stickers, Jenna. And you should have outlined the words with a fluorescent marker. That’s what I would have done.”
“Me too,” Stacey chimes in.
“You’re not in charge of this ceremony, Brooke, I am,” Jenna says. “No sparkles or fluorescent anything. Nothing broken. No one shoved.”
Brooke stiffens. “If anyone
is in charge of shoving, it’s you, Jenna.”
“Ooo . . .” Dominic says, perking up. “Fight . . . fight . . . fight . . .”
“What time, exactly, do we meet at the pigpen?” I ask quickly. I already know the answer, but it seems like a good time to change the subject.
“Same as always,” Jenna says, glancing from Brooke to me. “Morning recess. Read your flyer.”
“Do we have to wear the crepe-paper crowns again?” Stacey asks. “Please say no.”
“Yes,” Jenna replies.
Stacey slumps.
Brooke groans. “It would be one thing if they were real tiaras, Jenna. But crepe-paper crowns? We’re only going to wear them for so long before we all start saying . . . ‘So long.’ Understand?”
“Perfectly,” Jenna replies, counting out three more flyers for Randi, Meeka, and Jolene. “Send me a postcard.”
Brooke rolls up her flyer like a baton and taps it against her chin. “You talk big, Jenna Drews, but if I wasn’t here, you’d be nobody.” She points the baton around the room. “Randi . . . Meeka . . . Jolene . . . all the girls. They like me best. If I go, they go.”
I look around. Randi is joking with Rusty. Meeka and Jolene are playing with the hamster. Stacey has gone back to doodling on her math book.
Do they like Brooke best?
Maybe.
Do I?
No.
In fact, lately, I like her worst.
“So are you coming to the pigpen at recess, or are you turning in your crown now?” Jenna asks her.
Brooke taps her chin again and thinks for a moment. “I’ll play along for today. But only because I get to say good riddance to that stupid scary-go-round. Who would ever invent a ride that ties your hair and stomach in knots? Some boy, probably.”
“Brooke’s right,” Tom says, walking past us just as the bell rings. “The earliest version of a merry-go-round was used by soldiers to train for battle.”
“See?” Brooke says, shaking her baton at Jenna. “I’m no tinsel brain. I’m as smart as Tom. Smarter even, because he was dumb enough to be a boy.”
Brooke laughs at her own funniness.
Tom frowns.
“Now who’s talking big?” Jenna says to Brooke. “Tom’s smarter than you. Everyone knows that.”
“Thank you, Jenna,” Tom says. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”