I jerked my chin toward Mrs. Roosevelt. “Something more important popped up, remember?”
But that wasn’t the whole reason.
I peeked around the First Lady.
Out on the field, the new kid on the team, Heather Lynne, double-scissor-stepped down the field and blasted an arcing shot that hung in the air just long enough for the entire team to gasp before it landed in the goal.
For a kid, Heather is the best soccer player I’ve ever seen.
She makes me feel like the worst.
I’d never felt that way until two weeks earlier, when she’d turned up to play on the team.
“So, Heather Lynne,” C. J. McCabe said, smirking, that first day. “What makes you think you’ve got the moves to play with the Pests?”
“Well, I was the striker on my last team,” she’d replied matter-of-factly.
Eloise Dunlop elbowed me in the ribs. “Sounds like she’s after your position, Nolan.”
Not if I can help it, I thought.
C.J.’s smirk grew bigger. “Let’s show her who’s really got the moves, huh, Stanberry?”
Coach threw the ball in the air.
Thwup!
I bounced it off my knee the way my dad had taught me. Before the divorce, we used to practice our moves in the backyard all the time.
“Nice,” Denzel Sweeney said.
I puffed up my chest. Dad would have been proud.
The ball landed on the ground, but before I could get to it, Heather made a deadly pivot kick that shot past me.
“She’s fast, Stanberry!” called out Giancarlo Cuellar.
“Yeah, Nolan, better watch out!” added Eugene Stickney.
I charged after the ball.
“Girls rule!” yelled Eloise.
Oh, no they don’t! I shouted in my head. Out of my way, Heather!
“Good hustle, Stanberry!” shouted the coach.
Cutting to the center, I hoofed the ball toward the goal, then wound my leg back for a cannonball kick and…missed. My legs flew out from under me. A second later, my butt was in the grass.
C.J. held his stomach and busted out laughing. “You…you…fanny flopped!”
I gritted my teeth, the bats flapping away in my belly.
Heather strolled over and stuck out her hand. “Need help up?” she asked in a calm voice.
“No, I do not need your stupid help!” Smacking her hand away, I stood. This was it. If I didn’t prove my moves now, Coach would make her the team striker.
Huffing and puffing, I ran at the ball again. But Heather just back-heeled it between my legs, then stepped on it. She looked at me, her face set and determined. “Ready?” she said. I knew there was no stopping her. It was in her eyes: she was going to slam it into my chest. She lifted her foot to kick the ball.
I ducked and covered.
And Heather tapped the ball to Denzel.
He booted it into the net.
“Goal!” cried Coach Filbert.
C.J. went into another fit of hysterics.
By this time I felt totally sick. All I could do was watch as my teammates and Heather began practicing passes, shouting and calling to one another. And…this is sort of hard to explain, but I swear I felt myself shrinking. Turning into a teensy-weensy nobody on the team. And it was all hotshot Heather Lynne’s fault.
Anyway, that was the real reason I was hiding behind the First Lady.
“Please, pleeease don’t let anyone from my team notice me,” I mumbled to myself.
Just then, Olive started shouting. “GOOOOO, PESTS!”
Geez, could she be any more obvious?
She waved her arms wildly and hopped up and down. “KICK IT! KICK IT! KICK IT!”
Yes, she could.
Heather Lynne turned and spied me hiding behind Mrs. Roosevelt. She raised a hand in the air.
I closed my eyes and wished the ground would open up and swallow me.
As usual, the ground didn’t.
I had to get away. Grabbing Olive’s flapping arm, I tried to drag her back the way we’d come. It wasn’t easy. Olive is squirmy.
“Lemme go!” she hollered, shaking off my hand.
Mrs. Roosevelt stepped between us and put her hands on her hips. “What is all this tussling about?”
“Olive won’t go home,” I said. My voice sounded nervous and squeaky. I could feel Heather Lynne’s eyes boring into me from across the soccer field.
“But that’s not the way home,” said Olive. She pointed across the field. “This is.”
“My way is…um…uh…a shortcut,” I said.
“No it’s not,” she said.
“Just come on, okay, Olive?” I said through clenched teeth.
Mrs. Roosevelt looked at me curiously. Then she said, “Let us go where Nolan leads.”
“But it’s waaay out of the way,” whined Olive.
Mrs. Roosevelt snapped her fingers.
“Lead on, Nolan,” said Olive.
We were turning the corner onto Sherwood Lane when I bent and pretended to tie my shoe. I glanced at Heather out of the corner of my eye.
She was bouncing the soccer ball off her head.
I felt myself shrink a little more. Basically, I was the size of a raisin.
I DON’T GO DOWN Sherwood Lane too often, mostly because none of my friends live there. Most all the houses on the street are made of brick and have two stories and these giant porches that go almost the whole way around. I guess that’s why Rolling Hills calls it the historic district. I just call it old.
Fala trotted ahead to pee on stuff—a picket fence, an oak tree, a sign with bulldozer-shaped helium balloons tied to it.
From the house came sounds of laughter and conversation.
Mrs. Roosevelt stopped in her tracks and stared.
I knew what she was thinking. “Nuh-uh. Oh, no. We can’t,” I said.
“We must,” she replied.
“What are you guys talking about?” asked Olive.
“We can’t just waltz into the mayor’s party uninvited,” I insisted.
“Another party?” squealed Olive. “Two in one day? Oooh, I hope the mayor serves those little meatballs. You know, the ones wrapped in bacon? Mmmm, I love meatballs with bacon.”
“Arrr-woof,” said Fala.
“We cannot crash this party!” I said again.
We crashed the mayor’s party.
Although, to be honest, there was no crashing involved. We all just walked in through her open front door. Even Fala.
The place was crammed with grown-ups, standing around and balancing little plates of toothpick-speared appetizers.
“Bacon meatballs!” exclaimed Olive.
“Arrrf!” barked Fala.
They raced for the refreshment table.
Right away, I spotted Mrs. Bustamante, the library director. She was chatting with Mr. Treble from the music store and Ms. Lacy, owner of Tattoo You. The Long John Shivers ice cream guy was there too, although it took a second for me to recognize him. I’d never seen him without his eye patch before.
I grabbed Mrs. Roosevelt’s arm. “There aren’t any kids here.”
“Act like you belong, and no one will doubt you,” she replied.
To prove her point, she turned to Mrs. Delacruz, president of the bank. “How lovely to see you,” gushed Mrs. Roosevelt.
Mrs. Delacruz gasped. “You…you have a spider on your forehead.”
“It is a hairnet,” explained Mrs. Roosevelt.
“I like it,” said Mrs. Krosoczka.
Mrs. Krosoczka is the school lunch lady.
“Can you tell me where I might find your hostess?” Mrs. Roosevelt asked.
“Mayor Selff?” The lunch lady scanned the crowded room. “She�
��s around here somewhere….”
“Citizens of Rolling Hills!”
“Oh, right there!”
At the front of the room, a dark-haired woman wearing a red, white, and blue sweater with a matching navy skirt shouted to get everyone’s attention.
“She looks like a flag,” Olive said through meatball-greasy lips. “She looks like the Fourth of July.”
“Arrrf!” said Fala. He’d been giving Olive the Treatment. And it was working. I could tell by the bits of bacon in his whiskers.
“What a joy it is to see the civic and business leaders of our fair community gathered together for this celebration of growth and change,” said the mayor. She pumped a fist in the air. “Progress is now!”
Beside me, Mrs. Roosevelt muttered, “Stuff and nonsense.”
“Can I get some more meatballs?” asked Olive.
Fala licked his chops.
“Tomorrow morning at ten o’clock we will break ground at Pewey Park in a public ceremony,” continued the mayor. “I hope all of you will be there to witness the historic moment when Rolling Hills steps into the future.”
“But what about the present?” Mrs. Roosevelt called out. “What about today’s needs for fresh air, exercise, and recreation?”
The guests murmured and started shuffling their feet, like they were suddenly uncomfortable.
“Who said that?” asked the mayor.
I put out my hand to stop her, but Mrs. Roosevelt pushed her way to the front of the room. “I did, Madam Mayor. I have come to speak with you about this parking lot business.”
Mayor Selff frowned. “Do I know you?”
Mrs. Roosevelt shook her head. “We’ve never met. Still, I—”
“So you’re a party crasher!” exclaimed Mayor Selff.
I groaned. I knew it. This was a bad idea. A very bad idea.
Mayor Selff beckoned to someone in the back of the room. “Officer Nittles, this woman is trespassing. Kindly escort her to the door.”
Not Officer Nittles! She was the policewoman who’d driven Olive and me home after our…um…little stunt involving Ben Franklin and a fire truck. Geez, she was going to think I was a juvenile delinquent or something.
Officer Nittles moved toward the First Lady.
Mrs. Roosevelt raised her chin. “I will not be silenced.”
“Hear her out!” someone shouted. An old guy with white hair and a cane shuffled forward.
“Really, Dad?” said the mayor with an exasperated sigh. “You’re taking her side?”
He moved closer to stare into Mrs. Roosevelt’s face. Then he turned to the mayor. “I think you should listen to this woman, Darlene. I believe she will have something extraordinary to say.”
“Fine,” said the mayor, sounding like a sulky teenager. “But make it quick.”
“I shall do my best,” said Mrs. Roosevelt. She faced the crowd. “Friends,” she began, her voice fluttering. “Sometimes change is not the important thing. Sometimes we need to appreciate what we already have.”
The crowd stirred, then quieted and leaned forward to listen.
“Allow me to tell you a story,” she said.
And just like before, her words formed pictures in my head.
I was surprised at what a good storyteller Mrs. Roosevelt was. I guess just because a person wears a hairnet doesn’t mean she’s totally boring. So it was strange that only Olive and I clapped when she finished. The mayor’s father showed his appreciation too. He put his fingers in his mouth and whistled like a train. I have to admit, it was pretty impressive.
“Honestly, Dad, get a grip,” said the mayor. She flashed a fake smile at Mrs. Roosevelt. “Thank you for that…er…interesting story. But sentiment cannot be allowed to stand in the way of progress. Rolling Hills is a little town with a big future. Progress starts now.” She started chanting, “Progress! Progress! Progress!”
Her dad’s expression was stony, like he would have grounded her if he could. Too bad the mayor was so ancient. I bet she was at least thirty.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Officer Nittles coming toward me. I snaked my way to the front of the room. “I think we should go,” I said to Mrs. Roosevelt.
“Indeed, there is nothing more to be done here,” she agreed.
We headed for the door.
“Hold up a sec!” cried Olive. She snagged a couple more meatballs off the refreshment table.
We were already on the front porch when the mayor’s dad called out, “Wait a moment, won’t you?” He trundled out after us. “I want to thank you for your inspirational words…Mrs. Roosevelt.”
“Hey, somebody does recognize you!” Olive piped up.
Oh, geez, no, this could not be happening. I stammered, “Er…uh…you’ve made a mistake. This is our…um…babysitter.”
He shook his head. “Anyone who’s ever met Eleanor Roosevelt couldn’t possibly forget her.”
The First Lady took his wrinkled hand in her gloved one. “We’ve met?”
He nodded. “You were older than you are now. It was 1959, and you spoke at my high school graduation ceremony. Afterward, I was lucky enough to have my picture taken with you. It was one of the greatest days of my life.”
“I hope you will forgive me for not remembering,” said Mrs. Roosevelt. “Your graduation day is still years in my future.”
He nodded his understanding.
Oh, no, no, no, no, no! “I…I…think you’re confused,” I said to the mayor’s dad. “That’s not—”
“I know what I know, young fella,” he said. “That is Eleanor Roosevelt. How she got here and why she came remain mysteries, but ‘there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio…’ ”
Horatio again? Who was that guy?
Fala made a weird noise.
The mayor’s dad went on. “I’ve lived a long time, and with age comes wisdom. I know the impossible is possible. But don’t worry.” He laid a hand on my shoulder. “I won’t tell a soul who she really is. Heck, folks would say I’d gone senile if I did.”
And here’s the crazy thing. I looked up into his kind brown eyes and…I don’t know why…but I believed him. I truly did.
“And what is your name, sir?” asked Mrs. Roosevelt.
“Howard Selff,” he replied with a salute.
Fala made another weird noise.
Mayor Selff came out onto the porch. “Are you still chatting with these party crashers? Honestly, Dad!”
Just then, Fala walked over to where the mayor was standing and threw up on her shoe.
“Oopsies,” said Olive. “Too many meatballs.”
AFTER THE MAYOR SLAMMED the door in our faces, Mrs. Roosevelt wheeled around and strode briskly down the sidewalk. The First Lady, I was discovering, didn’t do anything at old lady speed. Olive and I practically had to run to keep up.
It didn’t take long to get home. In the kitchen, the crystal radio still sat on the counter, dark and silent. I groaned. I’d been hoping the radio would turn on when we walked in the door.
The three of us peered down at it for a few long moments.
“I guess we didn’t learn anything today,” I finally said.
“Stuff and nonsense,” replied Mrs. Roosevelt. “We learn by living. Every day is an opportunity to make discoveries.”
“Like you can’t call Mrs. Roosevelt Ellie,” Olive piped up.
“Precisely,” said Mrs. Roosevelt.
“And that Scotties and meatballs don’t mix,” added Olive.
Mrs. Roosevelt nodded.
“And that clown dolls are really scary.”
I ignored her and turned to Mrs. Roosevelt. “But we didn’t learn the right things. The things that will send you back.”
“Then we shall continue living and learning unt
il we do,” said the First Lady.
“What about the park?” asked Olive.
“We shall keep fighting for it, naturally.”
“We’re not quitting?” I said.
“To quit would be to abandon our principles,” declared Mrs. Roosevelt. “No, Nolan, we must raise our voices even louder. We must protest…at tomorrow’s groundbreaking ceremony.”
A knot formed in my stomach.
“P-p-protest?” I stuttered. “Honest, Mrs. Roosevelt, I don’t think kids are allowed to do that.”
“All Americans—even children—have the right to peacefully protest,” she replied.
“Huh?” said Olive. “Who says?”
“The United States Constitution,” Mrs. Roosevelt replied
“No way! Really?” Olive let out one of her dolphin squeals. “Ooooh, I love protesting. I’m supergood at it too. Listen.” She started shouting. “No, I will not pick up my mermaid dolls! No, I will not brush my teeth! No, I will not eat those garbanzo beans!”
Oh, brother!
Mrs. Roosevelt smiled. “The Constitution only gives people the right to protest against their government, Olive, not against their parents.”
Olive put her hands on her hips. “Whose stupid idea was that?”
“The Founding Fathers’,” said Mrs. Roosevelt.
“Which would include Ben Franklin,” I added.
Olive shook her head sadly. “Oh, Benny, why? Why?”
“Even if it’s not against the law, we shouldn’t be protesting tomorrow,” I went on. “Think about it. There will be lots of people at the groundbreaking ceremony. What if somebody else recognizes Mrs. Roosevelt? You know, somebody like Tommy Tuttle or Officer Nittles? Somebody who can’t keep a secret?”
“But we have to live and learn, Nolan,” Olive said.
I hesitated. “I don’t know….”
Buh-dop! My phone interrupted my thoughts.
I picked it up off the counter.
Eleanor Roosevelt's in My Garage! Page 5