by Bob Krech
Saying hi to Stewart didn’t work out today. Even though I’m compelled. So I’m sitting here on my bed, figuring out ways I can say hi tomorrow in class. It’s not so easy even though we’re in the same classroom, because I don’t want him to think I want to say hi or let Lynne and Becky see it.
I got a postcard from Gina. The Blast won eight games in a row so far this season. Because of the “voltage problem” we couldn’t bring our computer for e-mail, and the phone is too expensive, so I am reduced to communicating with her on postcards, like in the frontier days. I tried to write her back about Stewart but couldn’t figure out how to explain it all on a postcard, so I just said I missed her and that school is “interesting.”
Again! I couldn’t work the hi in today, either. I guess I’m sort of waiting for something to happen, like in the movies where you get trapped in the elevator with somebody and then you’re forced to talk to them. Dunnotar Academy doesn’t have an elevator though.
Day three of this! I’ve tried for three days to make myself say hi to Stewart.
The real problem is every time I get ready to do it, I think the same thing—what if I stutter? And maybe the only reason he said hi in the first place is that I was in his way in the coat closet and he wanted me to move.
After dinner Mom drops me off at TGFC practice. When I jog out to the field, Lynne and a couple of other girls yell, “Hey! Andy!”
That feels good. It feels good to be playing on a team and having people cheer at you when you show up. I have a good practice. At the end, Lynne’s dad taps me on the head and calls me “Our little ’merican star.”
When I get back I have to do homework, and I get my dad for the math part. Maybe he can help with something else, too. “Hey, Dad. Completely private question. Not to be discussed with anyone else under any circumstances including torture, okay?”
Dad gives me an appropriately serious look. “Okay.”
I rearrange my papers. “Well. How do you talk to people you find it hard to talk to?”
“Is there a boy involved?”
“Dad!”
“That’s what I thought. I already told you no boys till you’re forty-five.”
“Dad! C’mon!”
“Okay. Okay.” He fiddles with his pencil for a minute. “Try to think of it in the simplest terms. Like fractions. I always figure, what’s the worst that could happen? I talk to them and what happens? They walk away? They ignore me? They laugh at me. If that’s what they’re like, why would I want them as a friend?”
“Yeah, I guess, but you know . . .”
He comes around the table, puts his arms around me, and gives me a hug. “No. Definitely. Anybody who doesn’t appreciate a great kid like you probably isn’t worth talking to.”
“Dad, you’re a little prejudiced.”
He kisses my head. “Maybe.”
It’s typical Dad advice. Totally unrealistic. No help at all. But nice to hear anyway.
17
SERENDIPITOUS
Finding valuable or agreeable things not sought for.
DURING math this morning Gordon suddenly leaps out of his seat and yells, “Check it out! More snow!”
Stewart, Joseph, and Ian leap up with him, pumping their fists and going, “Woo! Woo! Woo!” Heavy white flakes are falling out of the gray sky. Thank goodness the school is warm and so is Ingleside. Poor Mr. Dryden.
Stewart leans into Joseph and says something. I tried to say hi again today, but I just couldn’t. Even though I thought about fractions, I just couldn’t. I am like a big, dumb brick wall around Stewart. It’s, like, impossible for me to even make a sound let alone actually talk to him.
Mrs. Watkinson talks to us in this exaggeratedly calm voice, “Sit down, please. It’s only snow. You’ve all seen snow before.”
After everyone sits down, she says, “If you wish, you may write about the snow later.”
Mrs. Watkinson is nice, but this was very weak—“Write about the snow.” We want to get in the snow, and at lunch recess, we do. In New Jersey if there’s a flurry, you have indoor recess. It’s like you would melt or something.
They only let us out for about ten minutes because they don’t want everyone completely soaked. Me, Lynne, and Becky play snow soccer. Just as we put our wet stuff in the coat closet, Mr. Dryden gets on the intercom. “Your attention, please, staff and students. We will be having a one o’clock dismissal today due to inclement weather. Please be prepared for early dismissal at one. Thank you.”
There’s a big cheer. Mrs. Watkinson shushes us. “You heard the announcement. We have forty minutes left. You may write about the snow now or—work on your homework.”
Everyone’s homework is done by the bell. Buses come up the drive and kids are piling on—yelling and slipping all over. Lynne stops next to me on her way to her bus. “Come on over for sleddin’.”
“Okay. Great!” She raps me with TGFC knuckles and jogs to her bus. It is so cool having friends again.
Faith is hanging around with some kids, making a snow fort. A snowball whizzes by my head. I look in the direction it came from and there’s Jasmine by the swings, grinning and packing another one.
I look over at Mr. Dryden. He’s looking right at us and he’s smiling. I guess maybe he doesn’t care because it’s after school, so I throw one back at Jasmine.
I really start getting into it. I’m chucking them one after the other and really plastering Jasmine. She has an arm like a noodle. Then Mr. Dryden yells, “Look out!” in a friendly kind of way, and he lobs a snowball over at me. It plops down next to me in the snow. He chuckles and waves to let me know he’s messing around.
Not thinking a lot about it, I lob one back to Mr. Dryden, only he’s not looking anymore. It hits him in the bald part of his head! Snow runs onto his glasses and what hair he has is dripping wet. Jasmine falls down in hysterics. The two teachers standing with Mr. Dryden put their hands up to their mouths.
Mr. Dryden marches directly over, straight at me. I mean, marches. His face is red and his eyes are bugging. He takes me by the elbow and guides me inside through the front door. He doesn’t say anything except “Wait here for yer father.”
Then he goes out and I’m alone sitting in a chair by the secretary’s desk. Now I’m in trouble. How am I going to explain hitting the principal with a snowball? Then I hear something.
The bathroom door in the hall opens. I look down. It’s probably a teacher. I don’t think they like to see you watching them come out of bathrooms.
“Hey. What are ye up to?”
I look up. It’s Stewart! It’s like being stuck in the elevator! Now this is what Word Power calls serendipitous, which is a great word for really, really, lucky! I summon all my brain power to put together an answer. I can’t blow this. “I’m waiting—for—my d-d-d—father.”
He walks over to the couch against the wall, pushes his backpack and coat over, and sits down. It gets quiet. He looks out the window. I look at the floor.
Finally he says, “Why are ye waitin’ in here?”
Keep breathing. Remember to breathe. There’s no use trying to cover it up. He’ll find out once crazy Jasmine blabs it all over. I mumble as low as possible. “I hit—Mis-ter—Dryden—with a snowball.” It sounds soooo stupid!
“Ye didn’t.” He laughs.
Another deep breath. Focus on my shoes. Slow. Slow. Careful. Careful. I tell my brown Gore-Tex hiking boots, “He threw one—and I threw one back—only he w-w-wasn’t looking.”
Then he smiles right at me. His eyes crinkle up and his nose, too. “That’s a rip,” he says.
When I see that grin I have to smile, too. We are just staring at each other, smiling all goofy, and then I think about my dad coming. That is not a rip.
I look down again. There’s a long, quiet pause. I’m thinking, Don’t say anything else,but I want to talk to him. I just don’t want to have to look at him at the same time.
Stewart leans back on the couch. He fiddles with his backpac
k straps for a while. Then he finally says, “I’m going skiing this weekend up at Aviemore.”
I risk a peek at his face. The freckles across his nose look like someone scattered cinnamon. What was the last thing he said? Something about skiing. The sport with the skis and snow. “That’s neat, freckles—I mean skiing!”
I want to sink into the floor! He just gives me a funny look though and says, “Yeah. Especially with the new snow.”
I’ve got to say something else! Something to show him I’m not a total idiot. Something—“Um. I saw you play s-s-s-soccer.”
Stewart looks surprised. “What?”
I swallow and begin again. “Soccer. I saw you. In a game.”
“Oh. Football ye mean. Ye did? Where?”
“Um. Hazelhead.”
Stewart leans forward, his hands together. “Last week against Tristen Green?”
I nod.
He grins. “How was I, then?”
“You . . . um . . .”
The front door opens. It’s my dad and Mr. Dryden. They’re laughing and talking loud. Mr. Dryden says, “Yes, right in the head. Amazing shot, really. Heh, heh.” He points at me. “Real talent there, Andrea.”
I don’t think I should say thanks, so I just look down. Mr. Dryden walks by and up the stairs to his office. “Thanks, Peter,” my dad calls after him. “Andrea, do you want to say something to Mr. Dryden?”
I stand up. Slow. Loose jaw. “Sorry, sir.”
He keeps walking up the steps. “Not at all, Andrea. Have a good weekend.”
Well, at least I’m not in trouble with him. You could tell he’s already pretty much forgotten about it. My old principal, Mr. Mastrolino, would have strangled me with his bare hands in front of a school full of witnesses.
Dad notices Stewart sitting there and says, “Hello.”
Stewart stands right up and says, “Hi.”
Dad looks at me. “Would you like to introduce your friend, Andrea?”
“He’s not . . . I mean—” Total brain freeze!
Stewart suddenly reaches out and shakes my dad’s hand. “Pleased to meet you, sir. I’m Stewart McCombie. Eileen is my sister. She’s in one o’ yer classes.”
“Oh, you’re Eileen McCombie’s brother? How about that? Nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you, too, sir.”
I didn’t know he knew about my dad. What else does he know?
Stewart suddenly starts to get red and talk fast. “Eileen tole me yer quite funny. Y’know, humorous and all. I like that sort of thing. Monty Python and all, y’know.”
Dad smiles and laughs. “She’s a good student. Tell her hi for me.”
Stewart is rubbing his hands together and looking around. “Okay. Right. Will do.”
“Good. Nice meeting you, Stewart. We should go now, Andrea.”
I can tell Dad is trying to hold back a lecture so Stewart won’t hear it. I’ve got to give him credit there. Some parents wouldn’t think twice of bawling out their kids in front of somebody. Some even like to have an audience—you can tell.
On the way out the door, I glance back. Stewart gives me a little wave. Kind of quietly he says, “Bye. Andrea.”
Electricity shoots through all my vital organs. He said my name! A person said my name and I got automatic goose bumps. Tons of people have said my name millions of times in millions of places, and my arm hairs have never, ever stood up. I nearly walk right into the door. Only at the last second do I remember you have to walk through the open space.
When we get in the car, Dad starts in. “How did you manage to hit Mr. Dryden with a snowball?!”
Faith sits next to me beaming while I explain how it all happened. Dad launches into a three-point lecture about being responsible, making a good impression, and snowballs knocking out people’s eyes. I sit there nodding, looking appropriately ashamed, thinking about Stewart McCombie’s incredible freckles. And right away I know I have a big problem. Several problems, actually.
I like a boy.
I think he likes me.
I’m scared to death to actually talk to him.
And my two best friends cannot find out any of it.
18
PIQUANT
Agreeably pungent or sharp in taste or flavor.
HUGE piles of snow are everywhere, but school is open. And for the first time in my life, I’m glad I don’t have a snow day because I can’t wait to see Stewart. He was nice. He’s cute! (I can’t believe I said that.) He talked to me! I talked to him! And I didn’t stutter. Not much, really.
But I’m not sure about Stewart. I did stutter a little. It might be that he just feels sorry for me. I mean, he’s very good-looking, and I’m . . . okay, I guess. I should probably just forget it. But I can’t. I am back to being compelled.
One thing I am very, very, very lucky about though. Lynne and Becky ride the E bus. They always get into school last and leave first. That means they are not usually around when most of us put our stuff in the coat closet in the morning. And that’s my chance.
I walk in the closet and hang my coat up as slowly as I can. He’s not in yet. I am wearing an ironed white dress shirt and have pinned my skirt up another half inch. I rehearsed this all weekend in front of the mirror in my room. My heart is pounding. Deep breath. Hold it for a three-count. Let it out slowly. Deep breath. Hold if for a three-count. Let it out slowly.
“Did ye get in any trouble?”
I spin around. It’s Stewart! “Y-y-yes. I mean, no! Not really.”
He grins and runs a hand through his hair. “Well that about covers it all, ay?”
Now! Now is the time for my rehearsal line. I say it as casually as I can. “How um, uh, was—skiing?”
I have to lean on the wall to keep myself up because my knees are rubber. He smiles big. “Great. What did ye do this weekend?”
I can’t tell him I spent the weekend in front of a mirror practicing how to say “How was skiing?” I have to say something that will make me seem like a fascinating and intriguing kind of girl. Someone he will be dying to get to know.
“Uh, I, um . . .”
Mrs. Watkinson calls to the class, “Let’s get started on morning work.”
Stewart shrugs his shoulders and says, “Well, here we go.”
I cleverly reply, “Yep.”
We walk to our seats, where I collapse. I’ve had about all the conversation I can handle for today when Lynne suddenly appears at my desk. “This stinks,” she says.
“What?” I squeak. Did she see me with Stewart?!
“This snow. We can’t get a game in.”
Relief washes over me. I nod happily. “Oh. Right. Yeah.”
She gives me a look, like, why are snowed-out games making you so happy?
I make sure I’m in the coat closet early again this morning and I mess around in there till Stewart finally arrives. I’m going to say hi. I can do it. I brush my hair while I’m waiting. He comes in with his cheeks all red from the cold. He sees me and immediately smiles and says, “Hi.”
It’s tough to look at him, check for my friends, and talk at the same time, but I come close. I make my mouth move. “Hi.”
Then we stand there facing each other. He begins to turn red. He looks down and pulls his binder out of his backpack. “Well, here we go again.”
I nod.
He gestures for me to go first. I nod again and walk. Yikes! I hope he’s not starting to think I’m simpleminded.
Even so, putting my coat away has replaced soccer as the highlight of my life. The rest of the day I just do my class work, play soccer at recess, and stare at Stewart whenever I can manage it undetected.
At the end of the day, we are packing up to go home when Margaret announces, “I’ve the new Madness CD if anyone would like to come over for a listen.”
No one says anything. Margaret says, “How about it, Joseph? Ye like the new tunes, ay?”
“Ah’ve football practice after school. Sorry.” He looks a little sheepish.
Everybody is looking somewhere else, not at Margaret. She suddenly looks rounder and very alone. “Ah, well,” she sighs. She is trying to shrug it off.
I never thought about actually doing anything with Margaret before. But do I really want to hang out with a fat kid who acts goofy? Then my good angel or somebody raps me hard and says, Hey! Be nice to her. You know how hard it is to make a friend. So she goofs around and is not the ideal weight. Are you perfect?
“Hey, um, Margaret,” I say.
She wheels around and looks.
“I could, I mean if . . .” I start.
She smiles big. “Really? Ye wanta come over?”
“Um, yeah.”
“Super! I live on the same road as ye, not far ’tall.” she says.
It turns out be a ten-minute walk to Margaret’s house. It is a stone row house. When I get there, she is sitting on her front steps. The name of the house is on a post—MERRYWELL.
She spots me and her face lights up. “Hwr’ye, Andrea?”
When I see that I am really glad I came here. “Hi.”
She stands up. “Ye wanta take a walk inta town a bit?”
I shrug. “Okay.”
We walk down North Donside Road.
“How ye likin’ school so far?” Margaret asks.
“It’s okay.” I look at all the stone houses, all close together here, side by side, but so neat. Everyone has a little lawn. Like the size of our kitchen, but perfect, green, trimmed, with flowers on the edges.
“Yer a good footballer. I seen ye playin’ with Lynne and Becky.”