The question hit Jordan like an electric current. Her heart actually began to pound.
And the next thought lit her up even brighter: I should do that!
Figuring out how to be genuinely nice to that girl? Even if she got meaner and meaner and meaner? That would be pretty amazing!
At the very least, it would mean taking niceness to some new level. It would require something way beyond your average, everyday niceness.
Because managing not to slug Marlea, or not to rip out her hair, or not to turn her in to the guidance office for bullying—that wasn’t really being nice. That was just not doing things she still wished she could . . . most of the time.
No, this new niceness was going to have to be made of steel—industrial-strength niceness. Awesome niceness. Award-winning niceness.
But . . . wouldn’t this mean she’d have to forget about all those horrible things Marlea had been saying and doing all year long—truly forgive her?
That thought dumped a bucket of ice water on everything.
Jordan suddenly felt like the whole idea of being nice was dumb—like a crazy dream brought on by a fever. Maybe the only reason any of this had popped into her head was because it was so horribly hot today. . . .
But no matter how the idea had gotten into her mind, now it was definitely there. And all during the rest of gym class, she couldn’t stop thinking about it.
CHAPTER TEN
NICED
Gym class turned out better than Jordan had thought it would. Mrs. Nevins didn’t want anyone getting overheated or dehydrated, so she brought out equipment that she used with the really little kids—beanbag and ring-toss games, Hula-Hoops, and some foam Frisbees. She also wheeled out a cooler filled with little bottles of sports juice. There was no organized activity, so most of the kids just sat around on the mats and the bleachers, talking and sipping cold drinks.
Nikki had come rushing into the gym at the very last second—she was tardy a lot. She and Jordan ended up sitting in a corner near a big fan, tossing a beanbag back and forth.
Jordan thought about telling Nikki about her niceness idea. She tried to play it out in her head.
“So, I had this idea a few minutes ago.”
“Yeah? What?”
“No matter what Marlea Harkins says or does, I’m going to be nice to her.”
“Well, I think you should get the skinny little creep alone somewhere and tap her once, right on the nose—and I guarantee you, all these problems will stop. That’s how I fixed a bully problem I was having in second grade out in California. Worked fast, worked perfectly.”
Nikki had actually told Jordan about that—the way she’d dealt with a bully once. But she couldn’t see herself punching Marlea. So they just tossed the beanbag and talked about plans for the summer vacation. But in the back of Jordan’s mind, the new idea kept spinning.
By the time gym class was over, she’d decided that she’d creep up on this be-nice-to-Marlea thing—sort of phase it in over the next few days, maybe do a test or two to see if it had any chance of success—but only when contact with Marlea became unavoidable.
She still wanted to stay as far away from her as possible.
It turned out Jordan was not in charge of that.
She and Nikki had stayed after class to help Mrs. Nevins put away equipment, so when they got to the cafeteria, they grabbed trays and went to the end of the lunch line.
Thursday was pizza day. The ovens had heated the cafeteria a good ten degrees hotter than the rest of the school, but the pizza was always good—completely worth some extra sweat. Jordan just hoped it wouldn’t be all gone by the time she got to the serving counter. One thing she had learned about being late for lunch was that the milk down at the very bottom of the cooler was always the coldest, so that would be good.
As she slid her tray toward the food, a voice at her elbow whispered, “Hey, look! It’s the amazing Jordan Johnston, that kid who’s so great at babysitting!”
It was Marlea. She and Lindley were in line right behind her.
Marlea kept whispering. “Please—won’t you tell me some of your fabulous babysitting tips? Because that’s my dream—to get great at babysitting! Someday I want to be in the babysitting Olympics—because if you win a medal, you get a year’s supply of free diapers. Please, please, please—won’t you tell me the secret of all your thrilling babysitting success?”
The two of them were giggling and poking each other now because of how hilarious they thought Marlea was.
Jordan wasn’t usually good at put-downs, but a perfect reply flashed into her head: A secret? Here’s one: Never babysit for a completely stupid kid. Because once I had to deal with this really big baby named Marlea, and she got her huge head stuck inside the potty, and firemen had to come rescue her, and that sad little girl has not been able to say one nice word ever since—she turned into a real potty-mouth!
Jordan didn’t say that, but she knew if she wanted to test her niceness idea, she had to say something quick, before Nikki jumped into the mix.
Jordan turned to Marlea and smiled her warmest, sweetest smile. With her most sincere voice, she said, “You know, a lot of the things you say, they’re like creative writing. You should work on the school newspaper at the junior high next year—really!”
And then she smiled again, turned back to her tray, and nudged Nikki to move ahead. Jordan took two quick steps and pulled a bowl of orange Jell-O off a glass shelf.
Marlea assumed Jordan was making fun of her. “Oh yeah?” she sneered, still whispering. “Well . . . ”
But Lindley interrupted. “You should totally do that! Like, what if you made a gossip column for the paper—oooh, or maybe fashion!”
“Me?” Marlea said. “Don’t be stupid!”
But Jordan could tell she felt flattered.
By then, she had the rest of her food. She paid and hurried away, leaving Marlea and Lindley arguing about which was better, juicy news or hot fashion.
Jordan followed Nikki to a table far away from where the Cuteness Club had settled, which was good. She didn’t want Marlea to see her face. She knew she couldn’t hide how surprised she felt.
Could something as simple as being nice actually work?
Too early to tell.
But still, hot pizza and cold milk had never tasted better.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
FORTS
What was all that noise about babysitting?” Nikki asked. She had finished eating. She always finished first.
So Jordan told her about the three lists and how Marlea had gotten hold of them and what had happened in the girls’ room before homeroom.
“And babysitting was on my ‘Things I’m Great At’ list.”
“Hmm . . . ,” said Nikki. “Along with what else?”
Jordan wrinkled her nose. “Not much—actually, only gardening.”
“Well, that’s dumb!” Nikki said. “You’re great at lots of stuff.”
“Of course I am.” Jordan smirked. “Like what?”
“Well . . . like being a friend. And always being on time . . . and always doing all your homework, every single day. You’re one of the only kids I know who always does every little bit of every single assignment.”
“Except I get half of everything wrong,” said Jordan.
“No, ’cause if you really got half of everything wrong, you’d be getting Fs, and you mostly get Cs. You’re also great at taking care of animals. And horseback riding, too.”
Jordan thought about that. Her dad wasn’t a farmer, but they lived in an old house on about twelve acres of land a few miles outside of town. And they had a barn where they kept two ponies, Marge and Homer, and a quarter horse, a little mare named Cinders. They also had three sheep, four chickens, a rooster, and an old border collie named Shep. Most days, Jordan was the one who fed the animals, and she was the one who gathered up the fresh eggs almost every morning. She also groomed the horse and ponies, and she went out for a ride with Cinders at least o
nce a week. She’d never taken riding lessons, but her mom had taught her to ride Western style starting when she was eight. And Nikki was right—she was really good at it now.
But there was something Jordan wouldn’t say, not even to Nikki. She could barely think it to herself. None of the things she was great at mattered—at least not at school. The kinds of things she loved enough to be really good at? Those things didn’t win awards or make her popular or make boys notice her. And now sixth grade was almost over—only a week left. Back in September, she’d made a big plan for this year, a plan that would send her off to junior high school in a blaze of glory, a flash of triumph, a burst of superstardom. It was brutally clear now that nothing had worked. Her whole sixth-grade year was a total failure. It was all so . . . disappointing.
Jordan sighed, but not loud enough to have to explain anything to Nikki.
“Well, anyway,” she said, “because of those lists, Marlea thinks she’s got a whole bucket of mud to throw at me. But I’m not going to react. I’m going to be nice, no matter what.”
Nikki made a face at that. She had three brothers, two older and one younger, plus, she had moved to new schools four times since kindergarten. She had strong opinions about how a kid had to stand up for herself.
“So that’s what you were doing!” she said. “’Cause I was ready to smash a piece of cake into Snarlea’s face. And I’ll be happy to bonk her right on the nose for you anytime.”
“Yeah,” Jordan said, “and then get suspended. No, I want to do this my way. Or at least try it out enough to see what’ll happen.”
Nikki shrugged. “Suit yourself. I still think one good thump would do the trick.”
They dropped off their trays and went outside. It was eleven fifteen now, and the harsh sunlight made them blink. The classrooms had been hot, the cafeteria had been hotter, but the playground won the prize. A light breeze wafted across the blacktop, but it didn’t cut the humidity.
Walking toward the trees along the fence, Nikki said, “So, could you have answered that question Marlea asked? About secret tips for being a good babysitter?”
Jordan wasn’t sure if Nikki was joking or not. She thought a second before answering.
“I do have a secret weapon, especially when I’m sitting for a toddler: build forts.”
Nikki looked at her sideways. “Forts? That’s the big tip?”
Jordan nodded. “Kids love making forts. And then playing in them. A table and a blanket, a couple of big cardboard boxes, two chairs and a bedsheet—you can make one out of almost anything. This kid named Jason Shermer and I, we made this great hideout from a coffee table tipped on its side near the back of a sofa, with four raincoats spread out for the roof and walls. And at the Carvers’ house? There’s a tall post at the bottom of the front stairs, and it’s a perfect center pole for a teepee. So that’s my answer: forts.”
They sat under a tree, and the shade made the heat a lot more bearable. The grass was deep and soft from the recent rains, and Jordan lay back and looked up into the leaves overhead. She was tired of hearing herself talk, and she was pretty sure Nikki had had enough too. Talking took energy.
But she could have said a lot more about babysitting.
I really am good at it.
And that was something to be proud of—she was certain it was.
Babysitting took creativity. And kindness. And patience . . . and sometimes there were emergencies, like that time Bonnie Pershing started choking on a chunk of crayon. It popped out after one good whack on the back, but her lips had already started to turn blue. You really had to stay on high alert.
That night after the crayon incident she’d had trouble getting to sleep. Because what if Bonnie had kept on choking? And died?
No, babysitting wasn’t a joke. But . . . that wisecrack Marlea had made about winning a medal and getting free diapers? That was actually pretty funny. . . .
Of course, diapers were part of the job. And cleaning up other messes too. Like when the Gottschalk twins dumped out five pounds of flour and then rolled around in it like it was snow.
But forts were good that way too, keeping kids busy.
And after building one, you could crawl in and play board games or draw pictures or read a story with a flashlight. And at nap time, toss in pillows, a stuffed toy, and a blanket, and the crankiest toddler in the world turned into a happy little camper.
Building forts—best babysitting tip ever. Definitely . . .
But thinking about that took her back to the cafeteria. That niceness thing back in the lunch line . . . Did that really work?
Or had it just appeared to work because it caught Marlea by surprise? It seemed kind of too good to be true.
One thing she knew from science was that it takes a lot of successful experiments to prove a theory is actually true, and she wasn’t going to have much time for that. There was, after all, only one week left before vacation.
Still, there would also be all of next year to test the theory. Marlea wasn’t going anywhere, and neither was she.
Looking up past the canopy of the tree, the sky was the most brilliant blue, with just a few handfuls of puffy clouds way up high, moving fast.
The days were moving even faster. It was hard to believe sixth grade would be over so soon. Then no more elementary school. Ever.
And in just a week, no more Marlea for the whole summer. The big niceness test would have to be put on hold for three months.
Of course, plenty could happen in a week. For that matter, a lot could happen in a single day—tons.
CHAPTER TWELVE
UPDRAFTS
Those same high, puffy clouds that Jordan saw above the school playground had gotten Joe Streeter’s attention too. But he was looking at them in a different way. They made him worry.
Two things bothered him. First of all, any clouds at all could indicate a problem on a day like this. Clouds meant there might be updrafts—columns of hot, humid surface air being pulled straight upward.
The other thing he didn’t like was how fast the clouds were moving. There were basic weather factors at work here. The jet stream was up there at twenty-five or thirty thousand feet, a giant river of air flowing from west to east, and moving fast—a hundred and fifty or even two hundred miles per hour. Which wasn’t that unusual. But to have a polar jet stream dipping this far south right now? Not good. It caused instability in the upper atmosphere.
Plus, when you got up there four miles above the earth, the air temperature was about thirty degrees below zero. Cold air above, moving fast, and hot, humid air below—not really a problem, unless they started getting together.
Which led him back to those clouds. They might be evidence that columns of air had begun pulling heat and moisture aloft.
Joe had Warren’s number on speed dial. He pushed the button and waited. It rang seven times, then went to voice mail: “You’ve reached Warren Shane, chief meteorologist at the NWS in Lincoln, Illinois. Leave a brief message, and I’ll call as soon as I can.”
Joe kept his voice calm and friendly, almost cheerful. “Hey, Warren, it’s Joe again, over at WCZF radio. I wanted to get your take on those high cloud formations. The radar images aren’t very clear at the moment, and I wondered if you had any other data. So give me a holler when you can. Thanks a lot.”
Joe hung up and swiveled his chair back to the computer monitor, then clicked to refresh the radar image. During just the time he’d been on the phone, more clouds had bloomed.
No question about it. Conditions were changing.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
GUTS
Art class ended before Jordan had finished the banner she was working on. She had sketched out all the letters, but only the C, the O, and the N were painted in. She was doing her very neatest work.
Miss Terkins had let everyone take it easy, and not just because it was so hot today. She had slacked off all week. They were too close to the end of the year to start any new projects, so they had begun makin
g decorations for the sixth-grade graduation next Friday.
Sheesh—it’s not like graduating is some huge deal!
Still, Jordan felt like everything was coming to an end.
That was what today’s special after-school orchestra rehearsal was about too—getting ready for the graduation ceremony. The orchestra would play the march from Elgar’s Pomp and Circumstance, and then the principal and the school superintendent would say a few words.
“This is not an ending; it’s only the end of the beginning.”
Jordan was sure stuff like that would be part of somebody’s speech. She’d heard something similar at her sister Allie’s sixth-grade graduation and then again at her eighth-grade graduation.
Kind of corny, but true.
And after the speeches, the principal would hand a certificate of completion to each of the sixth graders—that is, to everyone except Edison Raingle. Everyone knew that Eddie had to repeat sixth grade.
On days when she felt especially terrible about school, all Jordan had to do was remember how hard everything seemed for poor Eddie Raingle, and suddenly her life looked pretty good. The guy had so many problems.
It had made Jordan feel awful to think that way about him. And it had made her feel even worse one day when it had occurred to her that there were probably some parents who told their daughters, “Now, you’d better get to work, young lady, or soon you’ll be worse off than that poor Jordan Johnston!”
So everyone except Eddie would be graduating.
And saying good-bye to all their teachers.
And leaving Baird Elementary.
Forever.
As Jordan washed out her brushes in the big sink, she realized that when she walked into the auditorium next Friday, she would look up and see CONGRATULATIONS! written in eighteen-inch-tall letters—letters that she had painted herself. It was sort of like baking the cake for your own birthday party.
When the bell rang for the next period, the sixth graders didn’t burst out of their classrooms like they usually did. They oozed into the hallway and then trudged to their next classes, like weary prisoners moving from one cell to another. There wasn’t much talking and almost no laughing.
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