by Meg Cabot
Mrs Hunter had finally gotten the envelope open and was reading what the scribbly writing said on the tiny card that had come inside it. She was standing so close to me that I couldn’t help stealing a little glance at the card as well. I didn’t mean to look.
But it was right there in front of me!
And even though I know it’s a rule that you should Never read other people’s private correspondence, it was like my eyes were just glued to that card. I couldn’t pull them away! I was just so curious about who had sent Mrs Hunter flowers in the middle of a school day.
Even though I sort of already knew. It had to be the man with the suitcase – the one who had thrown rocks at our windows.
But unfortunately I couldn’t tell what he’d said on the card. It just looked like a big old bunch of scribbles to me (I’ve never been very good at reading cursive by grown-ups).
The only word I could really read was the signature.
David.
David? Was David the name of Mrs Hunter’s old friend?
‘Well,’ Mrs Hunter said finally, looking up from the card. She had a big smile on her face. Whoever David was and whatever he had said in his card, Mrs Hunter definitely liked it. ‘I apologize for the disturbance, class. Excellent job, Allie.’ She patted me on the back. For a second I couldn’t figure out why. Then I remembered that I’d just finished my presentation. ‘Check plus plus!’
Well, I thought. At least Lenny will be happy.
Then Mrs Hunter picked up the giant vase of roses, staggered back to her desk with it, and called for the next group to give their presentation.
Just like that! Like nothing had happened at all!
Of course at recess, everyone came up to me and asked what the card had said.
And I had to admit to them that I didn’t know! Because I hadn’t been able to read the writing on it. Except for the name: David.
‘He asked her to marry him,’ Cheyenne said with her usual know-it-allness. ‘He had to have.’
‘That’s so dorky.’ I couldn’t believe her. She thinks she knows everything! ‘Who would send flowers asking someone to marry them at their job? Mrs Hunter would never marry a guy like that.’
Although the truth was, now that Cheyenne mentioned it, I realized the words on the card could have said Will you marry me? Very sincerely yours, David.
But they could also have said a lot of other things! Such as, Thanks for letting me stay at your apartment while I was in town visiting. I had a very nice time. You are an excellent hostess. Very sincerely yours, David.
They could very easily have said that. That would be a proper thing to say to an old friend who had let you stay on their fold-out couch.
Cheyenne rolled her eyes. ‘You’re such an immature baby, Allie. It was that same man with the suitcase who threw rocks at our window the other day. Her old friend. Mrs Hunter has obviously reconnected with an old flame, and he can’t stand to be away from her even for a second because he’s so very much in love with her. So he’s asked her to marry him. I think it’s very romantic.’
Joey Fields, who’d been hanging around listening to our conversation, which he often does at recess as none of the boys will play with him because he’s so weird and barks all the time, said, looking directly at me, ‘I plan on proposing to the woman I love exactly the same way.’
I rolled my eyes and suggested we go play Queens. Joey never follows us into the bushes because he’s afraid of leaves.
Later that day, when we were sitting on Erica’s bed at her house after school, I couldn’t help saying, ‘I just don’t like it.’
‘Why not?’ Erica cried, looking disappointed as she stood in front of her full-length mirror.
‘Not your outfit,’ I said quickly. ‘Mrs Hunter and this David guy.’
‘What don’t you like?’ Caroline asked.
‘If they get married,’ I said, ‘he’s going to make her move to wherever he lives out of town.’
‘Why would he do that?’ Sophie asked. ‘He could move here to live with her.’
‘We don’t even know they’re getting married,’ Caroline said. ‘Cheyenne just made that up. You know how she is.’
But I knew that Cheyenne was right. Because Mrs Hunter getting married and moving away was the worst thing that could happen.
And lately hadn’t all the worst things that could happen to me been what had happened?
‘We’re all going into fifth grade next year anyway,’ Caroline said. ‘So what does it even matter?’
‘But Mrs Hunter might teach fifth grade next year,’ I said.
‘What?’ everyone cried, looking at me.
Also, ‘Where did you hear that?’ they asked.
And, ‘I never heard Mrs Hunter was going to be teaching fifth grade next year.’
Well,’ I said slowly, ‘I don’t know where I heard that.’
I didn’t want to admit that I had just made this up because I liked Mrs Hunter so much that I couldn’t bear the thought of having some other teacher next year.
Kind of the way Cheyenne had made it up about Mrs Hunter and David getting married.
‘I’m just saying it could happen,’ I said. ‘Teachers switch grades sometimes, if they really, really like their students.’
Especially if it’s a student who is as much of a joy to have around the classroom as me.
‘But if she marries this David guy and he makes her move away to wherever he lives, it definitely won’t happen,’ I added.
‘I like Mrs Hunter,’ Caroline said. ‘But I wouldn’t mind having someone new for fifth grade.’
I couldn’t believe Caroline would say this. I wanted Mrs Hunter to be my teacher forever!
‘I don’t think Mrs Hunter is the kind of person who would do something just because a man asked her to,’ Sophie said. ‘I mean, unless David is a doctor for very poor people in some underdeveloped country without running water, and he asked her to go there with him to help teach the little orphans while he heals the sick. Then I could see her doing it.’
My mom says Sophie’s parents let Sophie watch way too much unsupervised TV
‘I don’t think Mrs Hunter would want her little boy to be in some country without running water, around very sick people,’ Erica said. ‘Anyway, what do you think? Do you think I look like a girl from the eighteen fifties?’
We all looked at the outfit she was wearing.
‘Totally,’ I said.
Because one of my rules is that It’s always better to lie if that lie makes someone feel better.
‘Definitely,’ Caroline said.
‘Well,’ Sophie said, ‘not really.’
Caroline and I shot Sophie a look. The look said, What’s wrong with you?
Because Erica had been freaking out all week about putting together her extra-credit period costume for the trip to Honeypot Prairie.
Now we were sitting in her bedroom playing fashion stylists (unfortunately without the help of a giant touch-pad screen like they had at the Barbie exhibit at the Children’s Museum), trying to find the perfect thing that a girl from 1850s America might wear, and we’d finally kind of come up with something we all had in our closets.
But Sophie had ruined it.
‘I’m sorry,’ Sophie said. ‘But no girl in the eighteen fifties would have worn jeans and a flannel shirt. That’s how boys dressed. Girls all had to wear long dresses. It was against the law for them to do anything else, like Allie said in her presentation.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘Mrs Hunter just said we had to try. She didn’t say we had to do it exactly perfect.’
‘Right,’ Caroline said. ‘And we can’t help it if things back in the eighteen fifties were totally unfair. I mean, the women had to work just as hard as the men – but they had to do it all in a long dress with no right to vote.’
‘This is so dumb,’ Sophie said in frustration. ‘I don’t know why we’re even trying. Those girls from Walnut Knolls – not to mention Cheyenne – are going to look
way better than we are no matter what we do anyway. At least based on everything Allie said about that birthday party!’
Sometimes I wished I hadn’t complained quite so much as I had about what had happened at Brittany’s birthday party A good rule is, If you went somewhere and had a terrible time, maybe tone it down a little when you’re describing it to people later, or they might blow it out of proportion, and then it could come back to haunt you.
‘But the costume thing is for extra credit,’ I pointed out. ‘And besides, Cheyenne’s cheating. Mrs Hunter said the costumes have to be home-made.’
‘Cheyenne isn’t still going to do that,’ Erica said. ‘I mean, not after Mrs Hunter said not to.’
We all just looked at Erica very sarcastically.
‘OK,’ Erica said, seeing our reflections in her mirror, ‘you guys can think I’m dumb, but I refuse to believe it. Even Cheyenne wouldn’t do something like that after Mrs Hunter came right out and told us not to.’
We just looked at her some more. Then Erica laughed.
‘Oh, all right,’ she said. ‘You’re probably right. And I guess I do look totally modern in this.’
‘What are you troglodytes doing?’ a voice from the doorway asked.
Rule #7
It’s Very Rude to Call Someone a Troglodyte
‘Please stop calling us that, Missy,’ Erica said. ‘My friends are not troglodytes.’
It makes Erica very upset that her sister calls us troglodytes, but it doesn’t really bother me since none of us lives in a cave (although the fact that none of us has a cellphone does make us a bit old-fashioned), and that’s the definition of troglodyte, which we’d once looked up – an old-fashioned hermit who lives in a cave.
Although It’s very rude to call someone a troglodyte. That’s a rule.
‘Whatever you say, Trog,’ Missy said. ‘Why are you wearing one of John’s flannel shirts?’
‘If you must know,’ Erica said stiffly, ‘it’s because we’re going to Honeypot Prairie tomorrow, and we’re trying to come up with some home-made period costumes so we can get extra credit—’
‘And that’s what you came up with?’ Missy sneered through her headgear. ‘Jeans and one of your brother’s shirts? Why don’t you come to me about these things, Trog? I’ve been to Honeypot Prairie, you know. It’s completely boring, but at least I know of a great homemade period costume that won’t make you look like a trog.’
We all stared at Erica’s sister. Missy was a very, very talented gymnast.
But as a teenager, she could also be a bit moody. Also, somewhat devious.
‘What?’ Caroline asked suspiciously.
Missy shook her head at us. ‘It’s called a nightgown. With one of Mom’s aprons over it. Right? Because nightgowns are like long dresses. And with an apron over one, you look exactly like one of those prairie ladies.’ Missy sighed. ‘What would you trogs do without me? I honestly don’t know.’
Then she did a back handspring out of Erica’s room and into the hallway.
‘I’m sorry.’ Erica looked at all of us with tears in her eyes after her sister was gone. ‘I don’t know why she’s so mean. My mom says it’s her hormones and we should just be patient. But honestly, I don’t know if I—’
‘Wait,’ Caroline said. ‘Her idea is sort of genius.’
‘A nightgown?’ Sophie laughed. ‘You can’t wear a nightgown to school. There are boys there. You can’t wear a nightgown in front of boys. That’s just wrong.’ That’s a rule.
Erica flushed. ‘Sophie’s right. I could never wear a nightgown to school.’
‘But the apron covers everything up,’ I insisted. ‘It’s not like anyone can see anything, or even tell it’s a nightgown.’
‘It’s a better idea than anything I’ve come up with,’ Caroline said mournfully. ‘But I don’t even own a nightgown. All I have are PJs.’
‘You can borrow one of mine,’ I said. ‘My grandma sends me a Lanz of Salzburg flannel nightgown every year for my birthday and Christmas.’ Not that this was what I had ever asked for. Grandma was just afraid I might catch a cold from a draught, because this was very common when she was a girl.
‘My mom doesn’t have any aprons,’ Sophie said.
‘My mom has tons,’ Erica said. ‘You can borrow one each.’
‘I can’t believe we’re going to wear nightgowns to school,’ Sophie said, grinning.
‘If we wear leggings under them,’ I said, ‘and T-shirts, it won’t be any different from regular clothes. So who cares?’
Erica took us downstairs to the kitchen, where her mom kept all her aprons. She did have a ton, and most of them did look pretty old-timey. After calling Mrs Harrington at her shop to make sure it was OK, we picked out the ones we liked most.
Then I went home to hunt through my closet for nightgowns that would look the most 1850s. I didn’t ask if Caroline wanted to come with me to choose one (Sophie and Erica both said they had their own nightgowns), on account of my house being a complete disaster area. That’s because Mr Johnson and all his roofing guys were there, stomping around on the roof, ripping up shingles. There were ladders leaning up against the house, and Kevin and Mark were running around the front yard, trying to ‘help’.
Only I don’t know how much ‘help’ they were being.
‘Allie,’ Kevin said to me, his hard hat, which was way too big for his head, all wobbly. ‘Don’t even bother asking Mom and Dad if you can go up on the roof. Because they just made that a new rule: No Finkle kid can go on the roof.’
‘Well, I have no desire to go on the roof,’ I said. ‘So that’s not going to be a problem.’
I went inside and upstairs to my room and started sorting through my nightgowns. I tried to think what I’d want to be seen in at school . . . and what I wouldn’t mind Mary Kay and those guys seeing me in.
It was kind of a hard decision. Especially with all the stomping coming from up on the roof. And my brain kind of distracted by the whole thing with Mrs Hunter and her boyfriend, which was still bothering me, at least a little.
I knew from the pictures we’d seen that girls’ dresses from those days wouldn’t be too fancy, like lacy and stuff, because all the early settlers were very poor.
An early settler, for instance, wouldn’t have been able to call to order a pizza for dinner when she was tired out from a long day of going to school and finding out her teacher might be getting married.
First of all because there were no phones (much less cellphones) back in the 1850s.
And second of all because there were no such things as pizza delivery men (or even pizzas) back then. The early settlers had to make all their own food. From scratch.
Teachers couldn’t even have had big bunches of roses delivered to them at school from their boyfriends back in those days. Because there were no flower delivery men. Or delivery vans.
The kids of early settlers were kind of lucky in that way.
I had finally settled on a red nightgown with blue stripes and yellow flowers on it for me, and a blue nightgown with red stripes and white flowers on it for Caroline when I realized something was . . . missing.
And it wasn’t the cellphone I, unlike the early settlers, had enough money to buy, but wasn’t allowed to have, either.
‘Mewsie?’ I said, looking around my room.
It wasn’t unusual for my cat, Mewsie, not to come right away when I called. Even though he’s an indoor cat (so far. He’d really, really like to go outside, but I made a rule that he wasn’t allowed to, and that everyone in my family had to be very careful not to let him outside, because he could be hit by a car or get lost), he sometimes wanders very far away from my room, and curls up and falls asleep in weird places, and doesn’t hear me when I call him.
But this time, when I went to look for him in all the usual places where he liked to sleep, like on top of my mom’s shoes in her closet or in the planter in the living room, Mewsie was nowhere to be found.
Suddenly all th
e bad things that had happened to me lately – like being called irresponsible and not being allowed to get the cellphone I’d always wanted; or that I was going to have to ride the bus to Honeypot Prairie with my ex-best friend Mary Kay; or that my favourite teacher might be moving away and getting married – seemed not to matter at all any more.
The truth is, Nothing else matters when you’ve lost the one thing you care about more than anything else in the whole world. That’s a rule.
Rule #8
Nothing Else Matters When You’ve Lost the One Thing You Care About More than Anything Else in the Whole World
‘Mom!’
I barged into the dining room, where Mom and Dad seemed to be having a serious talk. I could tell it was serious, because Dad was sitting down with his head in his hands, and Mom was standing over him.
‘Not now, Allie,’ Mom said. ‘You father and I are talking.’
‘But, Mom,’ I yelled, ‘Mewsie’s gone!’
‘Allie,’ Dad said to his lap, ‘I have a really bad headache, and you are not making it any better with all that yelling.’
‘But he’s gone!’ I couldn’t believe they weren’t seeing how serious the situation was. I ran around the dining-room table. ‘I can’t find him anywhere! I think he must have gotten outside. Maybe Mr Johnson or some of his roofing guys let him out. Didn’t you tell them the rule?’
‘Of course we did,’ Mom said. ‘Calm down, Allie. I’m sure Mewsie is around here somewhere.’
‘He isn’t,’ I cried. ‘I’ve looked everywhere! He has to have gotten outside!’
‘Well,’ Dad said, lifting his head from his hands, ‘go outside and look for him, then.’
I couldn’t understand how they could be so calm when the life of my cat could possibly be at stake. Didn’t they know the things that could happen to a cat who had gotten outside for the first time?
He could get confused and wander into some other neighbourhood and never find his way home again.