The Rizzlerunk Club

by Leslie Patricelli

  Jill starts talking with her silly accent, pronouncing every word slowly. “Leave Lily be, you cheeky little monkeys. Don’t you have anything better to do? You’re all right idiots. Now go! Get back to your little games!”

  Everyone runs away, except for Mrs. ’Stache, who waddles up behind Jill. “What’s going on here?” she shouts, spit flying from her mouth.

  “Oh, it’s just a tiny kerfuffle, Mrs. Rash,” Jill tells her sweetly. “No worries.” Mrs. ’Stache smiles. I’ve never seen her do that before.

  “Okay, then,” she says. “Just have a good recess and stay out of trouble.” Wow, Jill can charm anyone!

  “Well, enough of that,” Darby says. “Come on, Jill. Come see our Rizzlerunk clubhouse. It’s invisible!”

  “I can hardly see it if it’s invisible,” Jill says.

  But she follows us and pretends to step inside. I sit in the dirt.

  “I’m not sitting on my bum in the dirt,” Jill says. “I don’t want to dirty up my uniform.”

  Jill’s wearing the same uniform she wore yesterday.

  “On the topic of uniforms,” she says, “the Rizzlerunks need uniforms. Don’t you agree?”

  “We have uniforms,” I tell her. “They’re invisible.”

  “Well, that simply won’t do!” Jill says. “You need proper uniforms — like mine!”

  “But I like our invisible uniforms,” Darby says. “And I’m the president!”

  “President?” says Jill. “That’s so . . . American. We should have a queen! And since I actually saw Queen Elizabeth in London, I should be the queen. It just makes sense.”

  Darby looks at her but keeps quiet. I don’t know why she’s not arguing.

  “Right,” says Jill. “Now that we’ve settled that, let’s get on with the uniforms. All you need to do is make your parents buy you a uniform like mine. You can get them online. You need a white shirt, blue skirt, blue vest, red tie, long blue socks, and patent leather shoes. Plus you should both grow your hair out. Lily, you look like a boy with short hair. How’s your eyebrow, by the way?”

  Jill reaches over and pulls off my Band-Aid.

  “OW!” I shout.

  Jill starts laughing at my eyebrow. Then she drops my Band-Aid in the dirt, and it loses all its stick, so I can’t put it back on.

  Why is Darby friends with this girl?

  Neither Darby’s nor my parents agree to buy us uniforms, and we can’t actually make them do it, like Jill told us to, so we decide to create our own.

  After school we go to Darby’s house. Jill has horse-riding lessons (English-style riding, of course), so she doesn’t get to hang out with us after school. I don’t mind that one bit.

  After we eat some Pop-Tarts, Darby takes me to her mom’s room and goes to her bottom dresser drawer where she keeps all her sewing stuff. She gets some scissors and Darby hands them to me.

  “You’re right about Jill being bossy,” I say.

  “I know,” she says.

  “I can’t believe you let her be the queen of our club,” I say. “Why did you do that?”

  “I don’t know,” Darby says. “Why did I do that?”

  “Maybe you’re just used to her being the boss of you,” I say.

  “No, she’s not the boss of me,” Darby says. “I decide to do what she says.”

  “Well, why do you decide to do whatever she says?” I ask.

  “I don’t know!” Darby says. “It’s just easier that way. Okay?” She stands up and opens the closet to her dad’s side, which is mostly empty, except for a suit jacket and a few neckties. “Oh, good. He left his ties,” Darby says. “Writers don’t wear many ties.” She picks out a striped tie and a polka dot tie and hands me the striped one.

  Then she starts digging through more drawers. She finds a couple of navy blue T-shirts of her dad’s that we can make into vests. One says “Paranormal Is the New Normal!” and the other one has a drawing of a wolf on the front.

  “I call the wolf!” says Darby.

  We cut off the sleeves of both shirts, then cut the collars to make V-necks.

  “Now we need skirts,” Darby says.

  “Can’t we just wear jeans?” I ask her. “You know I hate wearing skirts.”

  “Nope,” Darby says. “Not if we’re going to look like Jill.”

  Darby only has two skirts, and neither of them fit her. She chooses the navy blue plaid one with the elastic waistband and gives me the other. Darby’s skirt is so short, it shows her legs almost to her underwear. Mine is blue, with little yellow butterflies on it. It’s itchy and the waist is too tight. At least it’s not frilly, though.

  The next day, I call Darby in the morning to make sure that she’s going to wear her uniform. Then I get dressed. I have to borrow Mom’s long socks, and she only has black argyle knee-highs, so I put those on. My dress shoes are way too small, but I squeeze my feet into them.

  “Wow!” Mom says when I come upstairs. “That’s an interesting outfit. Look at you in a skirt! I’m not sure about the rest of the outfit, but I like the skirt!”

  Oh, no, Mom commented on my skirt twice already. I don’t want this kind of attention. I wish I were wearing my turtle shell.

  “What does your shirt say?” Dad asks me.

  “Paranormal Is the New Normal,” I tell him.

  “Uh-oh, Lily, are you starting to believe that stuff Darby tells you?” Dad asks. “I heard about what her dad writes. From what I was told, it’s hilariously unscientific and not credible by all accounts. I hear he’s a nice guy, though!”

  “Yeah, he’s nice.”

  “Okay,” Dad says. “Just don’t believe everything you hear.”

  At school I feel like I’m wearing nothing. That’s how uncomfortable I am. Everyone looks at me when I walk into the classroom.

  “Nice outfit,” says Sonja.

  “It’s just like Darby’s!” Gabriella says. “Copycats. You guys are trying to look like Jill, aren’t you? Well, I don’t think you did such a good job! It looks like you bought your outfits at the dump!”

  I see Darby already sitting down. Her skirt is so short that I can see a little bit of her underpants. She holds her legs together. When she sees me looking, she puts her jacket over her lap.

  Jill comes in next. I can’t believe it! She’s not wearing her uniform today! She shrugs.

  “My darling kitty was napping on my uniform this morning, and I couldn’t bear to wake her!” she says.

  After SHTV and roll call, Mrs. Larson introduces exponents on the SMART Board. I’m too distracted to pay attention, until Mrs. Larson adds a Superman icon next to the number two. Then she writes a tiny number two on his chest where the “S” should be.

  “This is an exponent,” she explains. “Exponents have superpowers! For example, in this equation, two to the power of two is four.”

  “What’s so super about that?” asks José.

  “Just watch, José, and you’ll see,” she says, erasing the two on Superman’s chest and writing a three in its place.

  “Two to the power of three is eight,” she tells us.

  “NUH-UH!” shouts David. “Two times three is six!”

  “That’s correct, David. But, this number is an exponent — a supernumber, and it tells us to multiply the two three times.” She writes out an equation on the board.

  23 = (2 × 2) × 2 = 8

  “What if it was two to the power of googolplex?” asks José.

  “That would be a big, big, BIG number, José,” Mrs. Larson says.

  Then she asks for a volunteer to come up and write out a new exponent problem on the board. Immediately, I remember what I’m wearing and try to look uninterested, but Darby raises her hand! I would give anything to not go up in front of the classroom any day, and here’s Darby volunteering on a day when we’re dressed like crazy people. She stands up and everyone starts laughing. Darby doesn’t seem to care. She walks to the front of the class. I see Mrs. Larson look at her skirt and raise an eyebrow. />
  “Darby, lower your arms to your sides, please,” Mrs. Larson says.

  Darby lowers her arms and looks up at Mrs. Larson, probably remembering the dress code at the same time I do: shorts or skirts have to go below the fingertips. Darby’s skirt hem is about wrist-length.

  “Oops,” she says.

  “Darby, you will have to go to the office and find something more appropriate to wear,” Mrs. Larson tells her.

  When Darby comes back into class, she’s wearing some olive-green high-water cords. Jill is laughing so hard, she’s crying! I get the feeling she knew exactly what would happen when she told us we had to wear uniforms to school.

  “Brilliant trousers!” she says to Darby.

  Everyone laughs, including Darby! It’s like she doesn’t even care what she’s wearing! I watch the snap at the top of her pants pop as she sits down. She looks at me and shrugs. I wish I felt that comfortable all the time.

  Darby and I decide to never wear our uniforms again, but Jill has been wearing hers every day.

  “Don’t you ever wash your uniform?” I ask her as we sit down in our invisible clubhouse.

  “Don’t be silly, Lily,” she says. “I have five uniforms. One for every day. Mummy and Daddy would go absolutely batty washing clothes every night of the week, and Suzy only comes on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

  “Who’s Suzy?” I ask.

  “Our housemaid,” she says, rolling her eyes.

  I realize that not only does this mean that Jill lied about her kitty sleeping on her uniform and that she didn’t wear hers on purpose to make us look stupid — but also that she could have let us wear one of her extras instead of suggesting that we get our own. She is so sneaky! I’m never going along with one of her ideas again.

  “Anyway,” she continues, “I’ve decided that today is the perfect day for our official Rizzlerunk initiation!”

  “We already had an initiation,” Darby says.

  “Rubbish! I wasn’t there, so it doesn’t count.”

  “It counts for us,” Darby says. “You’re the one who needs to have an initiation.”

  “No, no. We all need a new initiation to make it fair,” Jill says. “And I have a brilliant idea for one.”

  “What?” Darby asks.

  “I think our climbing frame is a bit dull . . .”

  “Climbing frame?” I ask.

  “Right,” Jill says. “You call them monkey bars. Anyway, they’re a bit dull, don’t you think?”

  “Monkey bars are fun!” I say.

  “I know, but they’re the most boring color — beige,” Jill says. “But we can fix them! Yesterday I noticed that the janitor’s closet door was open all day, and it’s open again today. I took a gander inside this morning and guess what I saw?”

  “Mops?” I ask.

  “Yes, mops,” she says, rolling her eyes again. “And loads of paint — in brilliant colors! They must have been used for the mural. So I propose that we make our climbing frame a bit more exciting!”

  “You’re going to paint it?” I ask her.

  “I’m not going to paint it, silly Lily — you are!” Jill says. “You’re the artist. You are such a talented painter, I know you’ll make it look absolutely brilliant. And have you ever painted anything so big before? Imagine how fun it will be!”

  I can’t believe that Jill already noticed that I’m a talented artist! But I’m not going to do it. I said I wouldn’t.

  “Anyway, since I’m the newest member, I have to do the dangerous job and be on lookout. You get to do the fun job and paint. Plus, I’m the best lookout, because if anyone sees us, I’m a brilliant fibber.”

  “I don’t like to fib,” I agree. “And . . . I do love to paint. But, no! We could get in tons of trouble!”

  “Plus, everyone at recess is going to see us,” Darby says.

  “Don’t be a twit, Darby. We won’t do it at recess,” Jill says. “We’ll get a library pass during reading and do it then. This is the best idea we’ve ever had! It’ll be fun! Right, Lily?”

  I imagine painting cartoon characters all over the bars and nod yes.

  Every day before third recess, we have quiet time for reading. That’s when Jill raises her hand.

  “Yes, Jill,” says Mrs. Larson, looking a little annoyed. (It’s no secret that Mrs. Larson loves our quiet reading time. It’s when she gets to grade papers and fun stuff like that.)

  “Mrs. Larson,” Jill asks, “may Darby, Lily, and I please go find some new books in the library?”

  Immediately, everyone in the classroom besides Darby and me raises their hands. They want to go, too, but Mrs. Larson lifts her eyebrow and gives them a teacher stare. They put their hands down.

  “Yes, Jill,” Mrs. Larson says. “You may go. Please be on your best behavior. You know the rules: no noise, no messing around in the library. Watch the clock and be back by 1:05.”

  Mrs. Larson hands Jill a library pass and lets us leave.

  I’m feeling extremely nervous. I know that I should turn back. But I’m also feeling excited, like the feeling I get in a haunted house when I don’t know what’s around the corner but I keep moving ahead. We follow Jill to the janitor’s closet, where we see a bunch of small paint cans. Darby and I each pick three colors, then grab brushes and put them into our pockets.

  “We need a screwdriver or something to open the cans,” I say.

  I turn around, and Jill already has one in her hand, along with a mixing stick.

  “I just watched my room get painted,” she says. “You’d better go, or we’re going to run out of time. I’ll stand here and keep watch.”

  Darby and I run as fast as we can to the monkey bars. We wedge the screwdriver under the lid and push down to open each of the paint cans. I look at my brush.

  “I thought that we could paint cartoons and stuff,” I say. “But these brushes are too wide.”

  “We can paint stripes!” Darby says.

  We start painting turquoise and yellow stripes. There are a lot of bugs and dirt and stuff on the monkey bars, but we paint over it. The paint is drippy, and soon the colors mix together into a pretty shade of green. We cover the ladder, then run to the other side, which we paint pink and orange — but it’s not as pretty since our brushes already had green on them.

  When the ladders are finished, we decide to do the top of the monkey bars. Suddenly, I realize why people paint the tops of things first. We’re getting paint on our shoes from the wet ladders. We rest our paint cans on top of the bars, and then Darby accidentally knocks one over and it falls down to the ground and spills.

  “Oops!” she says. “There goes the pink!”

  I look at Jill. She’s facing the other way, keeping watch.

  We both start painting the top, Darby on one side of the bars, me on the other. I’m painting with bright orange. I love the way it covers the bars when I pull the brush along. We paint until we meet in the middle, then realize that we’re trapped on top of the last unpainted bars, surrounded by wet paint.

  “Now what?” I ask.

  “Let’s just paint around each other as much as we can,” Darby says. “When we’re done, we can jump off.”

  She starts painting around my shoes. I reach over and start painting around her, too. That’s when we hear a terrible, terrible noise.

  BRIIIIIING!

  “Why’s the bell ringing?” I say, looking up.

  But I don’t have to ask. Kids are running out to recess. In the middle of them, I see Mrs. ’Stache — with Jill!

  Mrs. ’Stache marches underneath the monkey bars, then stands, looking up at us. Her face is as red as a dodgeball. It’s so red that I can’t even see her mustache! Darby and I are as still as ice sculptures. Unfortunately, we’re more like melting ice sculptures. A drip of paint falls from my brush onto Mrs. ’Stache’s face. She wipes it, leaving an orange streak across her cheek.

  “Wh-what?” she stammers, spit flying from her puffy lips. “What the . . . What the !*@&%!# is
going on here?”

  Mrs. ’Stache covers her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide. Nobody says a word, until Billy Snitch breaks the silence.

  “Did she say ‘!*@&%!#’?” he asks. “I’m telling!”

  He turns to run toward the office, but Mrs. ’Stache grabs his arm.

  “Don’t you tell on me, Mr. Billy Ditsch, or your recess will never be the same again. Got it?”

  Billy nods, terrified. She glares at the other kids.

  “The same goes for every single one of you,” she says.

  All the kids are staring at her with eyes so wide, they look like a bunch of bush babies. Mrs. ’Stache looks back up at Darby and me.

  “Get down from there this instant!” she says. We jump. We run. Fast.

  “I thought you were watching out for us!” I say to Jill.

  “I was!” Jill says. “But I thought it would look dodgy if we were all gone for so long. I was going back to class when the bell rang.”

  “But you were showing Mrs. ’Stache what we were doing!” Darby says.

  “I wasn’t!” says Jill. “I was trying to distract her, so you could get away.”

  “Well, it didn’t work,” says Darby.

  I am so scared to go back to class. I’ve never been in trouble like this. Not once. I was a good girl — before Jill came back.

  I can’t believe it, but even though we have dots of paint on our shoes and pants, Mrs. Larson either doesn’t see it or ignores it, because she doesn’t say anything about the monkey bars. The rest of the day, I expect to be called to the front of the room or sent to the RTC, but we never hear a word about it.

  “Well, that’s a bit of luck!” Jill says. “I think Mrs. ’Stache didn’t tell anyone about what happened because she cursed at you. I suppose she figured that if she tattled on you for painting the bars, you would tattle on her for cursing, and she’d be rumbled!”

  “Rumbled?” I ask.

  “In trouble,” Jill says. “Sorry, it’s bonkers how British I’ve become in such a short time! So . . . Lily, I thought you said you were an artist! The monkey bars look dreadfully messy.”