Mom leaned stiffly against the doorjamb. “I’m all ears.”
“I — I —” A million thoughts swam around in my head. I was humiliated. I was embarrassed. All I could say was a feeble, “I’m sorry, Mom.”
“I accept the apology,” Mom replied. “But a rule is a rule, Kristy, and I’m grounding you for the weekend.”
“Grounding?”
“To your bedroom, except to use the bathroom. Until Monday. And I am removing your TV.”
I wanted to scream. This was so unfair. I didn’t plan for this to happen. I didn’t sneak Bart into the house. I hadn’t even been expecting him.
“It wasn’t my fault!” I said as I bounded out of the den.
I clomped up the stairs to my dungeon. With each step, I thought of a new way to destroy Bart Taylor.
Boiling in oil.
Hanging by the toes.
The rack.
Being force-fed steamed lima beans.
Each torture method had the same basic flaw. It was too kind to Bart.
How could he do this to me? The thought was like a throbbing sore in my brain. It kept me awake that night.
I hadn’t asked for any of this to happen. Bart was the reason for my prison sentence. Bart had ruined my family life.
Bart, my pushy, thoughtless, former-sort-of-boyfriend-who-wanted-to-be-a-real-boyfriend-but-is-now-dead-meat-instead.
And then, after I thought the night couldn’t possibly have been worse, the Mets lost (I listened to the game on my clock radio).
Boy, did my room look small in the dark. Tiny. As I lay there, gazing at the four walls, they seemed to be crowding in. I thought about my activities for the upcoming weekend. Reading. Thinking. Reaching for the phone. Maybe taking a walk to my closet every once in awhile. Jogging to the bathroom.
What fun. I would emerge on Monday, shriveled and pale. Blinking in the unfamiliar sunlight. Baffled by the outside world.
Like E. T.
E. T. T. Extraterrestrial Thomas.
And what about Saturday’s tournament? What was I going to tell Karen and Andrew and David Michael? Not to mention all the other neighborhood kids. They were all counting on me.
I could just hear them screaming. Crying. Holding a protest march outside my window. Chanting, “Free Kristy! Free Kristy!”
Fat chance.
Abby would have to take down the records all by herself. Ugh. Then I had an even worse thought: What if she had some strange allergic reaction? What if that many kids were just too much for one girl to handle? I could see her collapsing to the ground, helpless.
Sunday’s headlines would read NEIGHBORHOOD BABY-SITTING ENTREPRENEUR EMBROILED IN KISSING SCANDAL: IMPLICATED IN FRIEND’S CRITICAL COLLAPSE!
Of all the horrible moments of my life, this had to be right there on top of the list.
I turned onto my stomach. I tried to think peaceful, sleepy thoughts.
The last image I remember before fading into sleep was of Bart, dressed in turn-of-the-century clothes, tied to a train trestle while an approaching steam engine smoked in the distance. Chugging ever closer.
* * *
Saturday morning I awoke at seven-thirty. Or I should say I was awakened, by Andrew screaming “I want waffles” at the top of his lungs.
Ha. Normally I’d slump downstairs and rustle up the morning grub. But not today. Mom or Watson would have to do it. They weren’t going to have Kristy to kick around for a while.
See? If you look close enough, you can find a bright side to everything.
I still wasn’t sure how I was supposed to eat during this cruel incarceration. (Like that word? Alone for two whole days in a room with a thesaurus, I learned a lot of cool prison-related words. Here are some synonyms for jail: gaol, hoosegow, the slammer, and the clink.)
I also hadn’t been told whether I was allowed to use my phone. However, I had an excellent idea what my mom’s answer to that question would be.
The problem was, I desperately needed to call Abby.
Well, as long as I hadn’t actually asked, then no one had officially said no. Right?
When I heard grown-up footsteps thumping downstairs, I sat up. If I was going to call, this was the best time to do it.
Unlike Claudia’s, my phone is only an extension. Carefully I lifted the receiver off the hook and held my fingers over the buttons.
“… we really took a beating on those growth funds, and I’m not bullish these days …”
Oops. Watson-talk. I put the receiver down gently.
About five minutes later, I heard Watson shuffle downstairs.
I grabbed the phone and tapped Abby’s number. After about ten rings, I heard, “Haaarrbbbsh?”
“Abby?” I said.
“Hrrrm … chhhk …” Abby cleared her throat. “Who is this?”
“Me, Kristy!”
“Am I late or something?”
“Nope.”
“Good. It feels like minus one in the morning. See you in a few hours.”
“Don’t hang up!” I quickly told Abby what had happened with Bart and how I’d been punished.
Her response? “All riiiiight, Kristy! Kissing Bandit! Whoooo!”
It wasn’t what I had expected.
“You don’t understand,” I said. “We promised the kids a tournament. Can you do it alone?”
Silence.
“Abby, are you still there?” I asked.
“I think I’m about to have a nervous breakdown.”
“Don’t. Look, we can figure something out.”
“I can call the kids and cancel,” Abby suggested. “But I’ll be itching the rest of the day from all their voodoo-doll pins.”
“I have a better idea,” I said. “Gather them at my house, just the way we planned. Then I can help you.”
“Kristy, look, I know your room is pretty big —” Abby began.
“Not in my room, in the yard! I’ll coach you from my window.”
“Can you do that?”
“I’ll still be in my room, right? That was what —”
I heard my door open. “Uh, excuse me?” my mom’s voice said.
“ ’Bye!” I blurted out, quickly slamming the receiver down.
Mom was walking toward me with a breakfast tray — cereal, toast with jam, and orange juice. “No phone calls, Kristy,” she said sternly, shaking her head. “In or out. This isn’t meant to be pleasure time.”
“Okay, Mom, sorry.” I smiled. “The waiter service sure is good, though.”
“Well, you see, you can find a silver lining in every cloud.”
Just what I would have said.
* * *
Jug. Can. Cooler. Coop. Pokey. I ran my finger down a page of my thesaurus.
House arrest.
That was the best one. That described exactly my plight.
Kristy Thomas, under house arrest. Political prisoner. (Okay, I’m going overboard. But it does sound good.)
Around noon, I heard a tap at my window. I looked out and saw Abby standing in the driveway, holding a spiral notebook with one hand, rearing back as if to throw a pebble with her other hand.
I opened the window and discovered it was warm, sunny, and breezy outside. “Hi!” I called out.
“Reporting for action,” Abby said. “What should I do?”
“Mom and Watson already know about the tournament. The kids have been talking about it all week. Just ring the bell and say you’re ready. Then bring the kids here. Piece of cake.”
Abby followed my instructions. In a few minutes, Karen, David Michael, and Andrew came racing onto the lawn, with Emily toddling along behind.
“Kisss-teeee!” Emily screamed, reaching as if she could pull me down.
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!” Karen shouted up to me.
“Kristy’s being punished, Kristy’s being punished,” David Michael sang.
I stayed calm. I was not going to let any teasing get me down. “Okay, guys, it’s a nice day, so I thought we
could do a few athletic events —”
“Kristy and Bart, sitting in a tree,” David Michael chimed in, “K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”
How did he know? That little sneak. He was probably spying on us the night before.
I kept my cool. “First event,” I said, “is how many kids can tickle David Michael at the same time.”
“Yaaaaay!” They all ran after him, including Abby.
Then they settled down to business. First was the Backward Jump contest, which was won by …
Linny Papadakis!
Yes, as soon as the festivities were underway, the rest of the neighborhood piled into our yard — Linny and Hannie, Bill and Melody, Scott and Timmy.
Abby did a great job. She measured everyone’s jump distances, wrote down the records, calmed a fight, made the kids laugh. (Except for Andrew. Everyone jumped farther than he did.) Then she conducted a Keeping-a-Volleyball-in-the-Air event, which lasted thirty-three hits.
Andrew didn’t fare too well with that one, either.
Next, Timmy Hsu wanted to do a Long-Distance Off-the-Porch Leap.
“A feat of great danger and skill!” I shouted. “Let’s line up for the challenge.”
“All kids who have had eggs for breakfast first!” Abby announced.
“Me! Me!” shouted Scott and Timmy.
“Pancakes next!” I said.
“Yyyyyes!” cried Linny.
“How about liverwurst with onions?” I called down.
“Ewwwwww!”
I was about to say something else ridiculous, when I noticed I was being watched.
By Mom. She was standing just under my window, with her arms tightly crossed. “Ahem,” she said.
“I’m in my room,” I reminded her.
“I see I need to be a bit more explicit with you, Kristy,” Mom replied. “You are not to speak to anyone on the phone or through your window.”
“Yes, Mom.” I sank back onto my bed, away from the window.
I could tell when Mom was gone, because all the kids started giggling.
I couldn’t talk? What a horrible fate. What was I supposed to do? Just sit and rot, with no human contact?
Bing! Another idea.
I popped back up into the window and waved until I had everyone’s attention. Then I continued to coach.
By pantomiming.
I demonstrated the proper form for the jump, then pointed to the porch. I cheered the kids on by clapping.
It was the clapping that brought Mom back.
“Correction,” she said. “You may not be seen by anyone through your window. Do you understand?”
Grumbling, I pulled my shades down.
As I heard my mom’s footsteps walking back down the driveway, I thought of a great idea for an event.
Hmmm …
I wrote it down on a sheet of looseleaf paper. Carefully I folded it in half lengthwise. Then I folded it a few more times, into a perfect airplane shape.
I pulled back the shades ever so slightly. With a flick of the wrist, I sent it flying onto the lawn.
Not one person saw me. And that’s the truth.
As it turned out, the Saturday tournament was the high point of the weekend. Everything afterward was downhill.
Mom managed to find one of the airplane messages and was not amused. I’m surprised she didn’t clap me in irons. (That’s an expression I remember from one of the gazillion books I ended up reading over the weekend. It means “put me in chains.”)
Charlie and Sam both knocked on my door, laughing, wanting every detail of what I’d done. Instead, I unleashed my secret weapon. I told Charlie I knew he’d brought Sarah to the house when no one was home, and if he ever bothered me again I’d tell Mom.
That made quick work of him.
After the neighborhood kids and Abby left, I paced around the room like a caged animal. Then I grabbed every book off my shelf that I hadn’t read, and I began going through them.
I became so tired of reading silently, I started reading aloud. I was in the middle of a wild passage from Shiloh, using a booming voice and an accent to boot, when I heard a giggle from outside the doorway.
It was David Michael, eavesdropping.
“Go away, you sneaky little rat!” I cried.
“Who’re you talking to, Kristy?” David Michael taunted me. “Your boyfriend?”
“David Michael, when I’m finally out of here, you will be so sorry —”
“Kristyyyyyy!” Watson called out from downstairs.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Upstairs he came.
I listened to my nine thousandth lecture of the weekend. This time, I was told I could not talk through the door.
I went back to silent reading until my eyes felt numb.
I listened to tapes.
I drew.
I napped.
I did situps. Pushups. Jumping jacks.
By dinnertime, I, Kristy Thomas, was out of ideas. All I could think about was eating.
At six o’clock Mom entered. With spinach croquettes.
My appetite flew out the window. I could not believe my mother, who once loved me, was forcing these foul-smelling, putrid globules on me. I seriously considered chucking them out the window.
Longest Distance, Yucky-Dinner Hurl.
I went to bed that night with a growling stomach. At least I could look forward to sleep.
Or so I thought.
I was wide awake. Flying.
I read some more. I turned out the light and counted sheep. I counted fly balls. I counted flying sheep. I tried to focus on one area without blinking.
Nothing worked.
And then I thought about Bart.
I won’t even mention some of the things that shot through my mind. They made boiling in oil seem kind in comparison.
The longer my insomnia continued, the more diabolical my thoughts became.
Somehow that made me happier. I finally managed to doze off.
The next morning, however, Mom practically had to pry me out of bed with a crowbar.
Then, of course, I had to face Sunday. I do believe it was the absolute worst day of my life. The pits. I ran out of books to read, so I made up songs, usually with lyrics along the lines of, “Row, row, row your boat, roughly over Bart’s head; merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, look out, Bart, you’re dead.”
To pass the time, I constructed some of my own puzzles. These word changes, for example:
Do you think I was being a little hard on Bart?
I know, I know. I was obsessed. Immature. Childish. Morbid.
But you try being locked in your room for two days and see how it feels.
I thought Sunday would never end. But when it did, I had made a big decision.
I knew exactly what I was going to say to Bart Taylor.
* * *
On Monday morning, I practically flew out my bedroom door. Freedom! What a feeling. Things I had taken for granted seemed so glorious. I chose my own cereal. I saw the interior of the refrigerator. I used the downstairs bathroom.
I felt like Jimmy Stewart at the end of It’s a Wonderful Life, when he finally discovers how fantastic his humdrum life really is.
I even kissed my little brother good morning.
“Yuuuuuck!” David Michael cried out.
“My, you’re chipper today,” Watson said with a chuckle.
“I trust we won’t have to go through this again,” Mom said softly.
“Yeah, no more smoochy-smoochies,” David Michael said.
Charlie and Sam thought that was hysterical.
Me? I laughed, too. I didn’t care. I had big plans for the evening.
To tell you the truth, I had never been so happy to go to school in my life. When I sat with Abby on the bus, I might as well have been on a plane to Disney World.
“Are you okay?” Abby asked.
“Fine,” I replied cheerfully.
“Did your mom make you quit the BSC?”
“Nope. My punishment is over.�
��
“I guess you’ll have to, you know, do stuff at Bart’s from now on, huh?”
“Whaaaaaat?”
“You know, since your house is off-limits now.”
“Abby, it’s not like that!”
“Okay, okay. I’ll mind my own business.”
Even Abby’s comments didn’t bother me. Nothing did that day. School, the BSC meeting, dinner. Everything went smoothly. I even managed to think of an alternate plan for our Record Wreckers show, in case it rained. We’d have it in Mary Anne’s barn (if her parents agreed).
Around seven-thirty, when I knew Bart would be sitting down to the pre-game ceremonies of another televised spring training game, I went into my room and shut the door.
Then I tapped out his phone number.
“Hello?” Good. It was Bart.
“Hey. Haven’t heard from you in awhile.”
“Kristy! Hi! Wow, I tried to call you Saturday, but your mom picked up.”
“Oh, what did you guys talk about?”
Bart let out a deep breath. “Not much. I mean, I kind of hung up when I heard her voice.”
“Well, it’s just as well. She wouldn’t have let you talk to me, anyway. I was quarantined for the weekend.”
“Oh, no. You were sick?”
“Nope. Grounded. Put in my room for two whole days. All alone. Ignored. Like the crazy wife in Jane Eyre.”
“Who?”
“It’s a book, Bart. One of the many I read over the weekend. That’s about all I could do.”
“Oh, wow, Kristy. Look, I’m really sorry. I guess we kind of got carried away.”
“We?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, I couldn’t believe your parents came home so early. I almost died.”
I think that was what Bart said. I’m not sure. My brain was sparking. Misfiring. I could barely see straight.
“We?” I repeated. “We didn’t get carried away. You did! I was all set to watch TV alone. Did I invite you? No. Did you ask? No. You could have warned me about your plans when we were at the Argo!”
“I didn’t know then,” Bart replied. “And I didn’t think dropping over would be such a big deal. If I had known about that no-boyfriend rule, I wouldn’t have stayed. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought you just wanted to watch the game. I thought you were coming over as … as a baseball fan. Not as a boyfriend!”
Kristy + Bart = ? Page 5