by Barbara Dee
Just then. Cat felt she was being watched. She looked up. The Queen’s scheming Chief of Protocol, Sir Mullvo Clausebiter, was lurking by the feather pillows, with his customary sneer.
“Lady Catrain,” he remarked sarcastically. “Whatever are you doing sitting there, mindlessly shooting at pillows? I thought you were out defending the realm!
Cat looked up at him for just a moment. “I was,” she said simply. “Now I’m not.”
“Pity,” Sir Mullvo sneered. “It seems like such a waste for a young lady with your famous Gift. Would you rather be doing something exciting and meaningful, Or something totally boring and meaningless?”
“It’s just temporary, “Cat replied evenly, though she felt her cheeks becoming as fiery as her hair. “Now if you will excuse me, I have work to do.”
“You Certainly do,” Sir Mullvo hissed as he practically slithered away. I hate him, I absolutely hate him, Cat thought.
Daeman watched Sir Mullvo exit the chamber. “Cat?” the little boy whispered. “Should you have spoken to him like that? Won’t he get angry, and maybe even tell the Queen?
“Don’t you worry about him,” Cat said. “Let ’s just finish this target practice. Now watch closely as I aim for the Center.
Cat carefully positioned the practice bow so that it was balanced just right in her arms.
Just then she heard Gloriana shreik (shriek?).
“The Mystyck Beast! It’s scorching the castle gate! Run!”
“Cassie? Can I tell you something?” Jackson was standing in the doorway of my room.
“Yeah, what?”
“What’re you doing?”
“Homework!”
“Oh.” Sniffle.
“You okay, Jackson?”
“Yeah. But the TV is making a funny noise and I can’t get it to stop.”
Oh, great. Just what I needed right now. “Define funny.”
He shrugged. “Like it’s buzzing. Like bugs. It did yesterday, but it stopped, but now it’s not stopping.”
I sighed. “Listen, Jackie, I’m too busy to deal with this right now. Go tell Miranda.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because she left.” Now Jackson came into my room, thrusting a note at me. “This was in the kitchen. Look.”
cass:
I’m at madison’s studying chem for test tmrw. Be back at 6 (STILL YOUR TURN TO COOK!!!!!) Don’t worry, I went shopping!!!!!
Be good,
Randa
P.S. If Adam klein calls, PLEASE call me at mad’s: 555-0198. Thanx!!!!!
Great. So she was leaving me to babysit for Jackson until six, at which point I was supposed to cook supper. Wonderful, perfect, fabulous. I hated her.
Jackson sank down on my bed. He looked tiny all of a sudden. His blond hair stood up stiffly, like it hadn’t been combed in a while. Come to think of it, when was the last time he’d had a decent shampoo? And why in the world was it my problem?
I dialed Madison’s number. On the first ring, some girl answered. “’Lo,” she said casually.
“Hello, this is Cassie Baldwin. Is my sister Miranda there, please?”
She must have handed the phone to Miranda, who must have been just sitting right there, probably waiting for this Adam person to call her.
“Yes?”
“First of all, Miranda, you could’ve asked if it was okay if you went to Madison’s, instead of leaving me to babysit all afternoon.”
“Who is this, please?” she asked pseudosweetly.
“You know exactly who this is. And what’s wrong with the TV?”
“How should I know?”
“Jackson says it’s buzzing. He says it sounds like it’s full of bugs or something. I don’t know. Did you notice anything yesterday?”
“Of course not. You think I have time to watch TV?”
“I think you have time for whatever you want, Miranda.”
“Well, I don’t. For your information I’m studying Chem, not TV repair, and I really can’t chat with you on the phone right now.”
“Yeah? Well, so sorry to disturb you.”
“You’re excused. Did Adam call?”
“Uh, no.”
“Then, bye!” she said cheerily, and hung up.
Great. Just great. Now what was I supposed to do with Jackson until six o’clock if he couldn’t even watch TV? I was not in the mood to play Power Rangers with him, that was for sure.
“So, Jackie boy,” I said. “Would you like a snack, maybe?”
He nodded. Well, that should kill some time, I thought.
We went into the kitchen, where Mrs. Langley’s care basket was still taking over the table. It was such a big basket that it seemed like a piece of furniture. We’d probably end up keeping it forever, always having to look at it to remind ourselves how “short of cash” we were. The milk and cream cheese were in the fridge, and the pastries were gone, but the apples, bananas, and oranges were all still there in the basket, looking suspiciously fresh, like poisoned fruit in a fairy tale.
I wouldn’t eat any of it if you paid me.
But Jackson would. Anyway, it was different for him. “I want a banana,” he announced.
“Please.”
“Okay. Please.”
I halfway peeled the banana, and then handed it to him.
“Thank you, Cassie,” I reminded him.
He thrust out his lower lip. “Why do I have to say all that? You’re not Mom.”
“No, but I’m your evil omnivorous big sister, and I’ll eat you if you’re not polite!” I made my hands into claws and hovered over him like a raptor. Then I swooped down and started tickling his chest. But he just sat there, not giggling, not acting like a cute little brother.
I sighed. “Okay, Jackie boy, what’s wrong?”
“My book report!” he blubbered.
Uh-oh. “That’s right, you have a book report,” I said. I once read somewhere that kids like to hear their negative feelings acknowledged, so I was “acknowledging” Jackson’s.
It didn’t work.
“When’s Mommy coming home?” he wailed.
“Later. I’m not sure.”
“Call her and ask!”
I hesitated. Mom kept telling us to call her at work “anytime,” but she was hardly ever at her desk, and I felt funny about having her paged to ask her stupid stuff like, Where did I put my library book? Can you check my Math homework? So I hardly ever called, unless it was a total emergency. She would usually call us around five to “check in” and tell us she’d be missing supper, like it was late-breaking news. Of course she’d be missing supper; she always missed supper. Now it was only four fifteen. Could I stall Jackson for another forty-five minutes? Not likely. Besides, Miranda’s not being here made this qualify as an emergency, didn’t it?
I dialed Mom’s number.
“Hello, this is Anne Baldwin. I’m not at my desk, but if you leave your name and number, I’ll return your call. Beeeeeeeep.”
I hung up.
“Mom’s on the phone, Jackie. She’ll call us back in a few minutes.”
“Call Mrs. Patella!”
“No way.” We were supposed to knock on Mrs. Patella’s door if there was a fire or a burglar or an earthquake or something, but the truth was, if there was any kind of real emergency, the last person I would ask to help was Mrs. Patella. All she seemed to do all day long was smoke cigarettes and panic. If she was waiting for a UPS delivery and it was a day late, she would knock on our door stinking of cigarettes and ask us a whole bunch of worried questions like, Were we here at three forty-five? Did we see the UPS truck go by? Were we sure it was the same driver? Were we sure we didn’t receive it by mistake? Mrs. Patella was definitely a little crazy, but at least she didn’t have Yorkies with bladder problems.
“But what if Mommy’s working late again tonight?” Jackson demanded.
I groaned. “Jackie, listen. We’ll do your book report, I promise. Just give me a minute
while I call Miranda.”
I dialed Madison’s number again.
“’Lo,” Madison repeated casually, like she was sitting by a pool.
“Hello, this is Cassie again. May I please speak to Miranda again?”
Miranda got on the phone, breathing loud. “He called?”
“What? Who?”
“Adam.”
“No! No! Listen, Miranda, Jackson’s really upset about this stupid book report thing. I tried calling Mom but she’s not at her desk, and I don’t know when she’s coming home tonight, do you?”
Big dramatic sigh. “No, Cassie, I don’t.”
“Well, somebody’s got to help Jackson. He’s really upset.”
Long pause. “Cassie, I told you I’m studying for this big Chem test tomorrow. Can’t you just do it? It’s a first-grade book report, how hard can it be?”
“It’s not that it’s hard, Miranda! I didn’t say it was hard. But I feel like lately I’m doing everything around here, and I’m getting pretty sick of it. I mean, I have work too, you know!”
Another big sigh, but now a different tone of voice. Softer, more “reasonable.” Ha! “Look, Cassie, I realize that I’ve been incredibly busy lately, but I’m in the middle of this huge academic crunch right now, and I really have to stay here and study. Really. Please, please, if there’s any way you can just do this thing with Jackie today, I’ll owe you big-time, I promise.”
What did I expect? That she was actually going to leave Madison’s and the chance to sit on her butt and yak on the phone with this Adam person if he ever actually called? That she would come home to do a book report with her blubbering six-year-old brother who could barely even read a book, much less report on it? Yeah, right. That would, like, so happen.
By now it was pretty obvious I was dealing with one of those phony “choices,” like the kind Mr. Mullaney was always giving us. Either
I. I could insist that she come home, which would either
A. not work, or
B. result in her actually coming home but being too attitudey to work with Jackson, who (whom?) I’d end up helping anyway;
OR
II. I could do the stupid book report with Jackson myself, and let her owe me “big-time,” whatever that meant.
“Okay, Miranda,” I said finally. “Okay. But this is the last time I’m letting you off the hook. I mean it. Starting tomorrow, you’re staying here and watching Jackson like you offered to, or you are totally dead, I swear it.”
“Deal,” she said. “Okay, Cassie, gotta go now. You’ll still call me if Adam calls, right?”
“Oh, sure, of course I’ll interrupt your precious ‘studying’ to tell you something so incredibly important!” I slammed down the receiver. That was about the best I was going to do here, I realized.
I took a deep breath. “Okay, Jackie boy, now let’s go get your book.”
Farmer Joe’s Busy Week
Farmer Joe has a big farm.
He has pigs.
He has cows.
He has sheep.
He has a horse.
And he has a dog.
He feeds the pigs on Monday.
He milks the cows on Tuesday.
He shears the sheep on Wednesday.
He rides the horse on Thursday.
He walks his dog on Friday.
On Saturday he goes to town with his family. They go to the store.
What a busy week for Farmer Joe!
Great. Just monumentally great. “Jackie, what exactly is the assignment? Did Mrs. Rivera give you a sheet or something?”
He dragged his Spider-Man backpack into my bedroom, then handed me a crumpled sheet:
Book Report #3
Sometimes we want to change what we read. If you could change your book, what changes would you make? Be specific!
“Book report number three? You mean you’ve already done two of these?”
He shrugged. “Sort of.”
“What does that mean?”
He shrugged again, his lower lip going into pout formation. I wasn’t about to let him launch into full melt-down mode again if I could help it, so I quickly changed my approach.
“Okay, Mr. Baldwin. So, you’ve already read this thrilling bestseller, about to be made into a mooovie, get it?”
He chuckled, in spite of himself.
“So, let’s quickly reread it, just to refresh our memory, okay?” I patted my bed, and he snuggled beside me, almost like a cat. Then I pointed to each word, and helped him read, slowly, sloooowly. He missed, like, ninety-eight percent of the words, no exaggeration. This shocked me. I mean, I knew he was having trouble with his reading, but I didn’t know it was that bad. Then I wondered: Did Mom know about this? Did his teacher? And why was she giving him a stupid book report when the poor kid couldn’t even get through this stupid book? I mean, if he couldn’t read it, how was he supposed to “change” it?
“Okay, sir,” I said, all businesslike. “Now, if you were turning this blockbuster novel into a major motion picture, what changes would you make?”
He shrugged. “Everything. I hate movies like that.”
Movies like that? Name one. “Would you, um, make the book more exciting? Add a villain, or a tornado, or something?”
Shrug, head shake.
“Maybe a monster stomps all over the farm? Or a dinosaur?”
“Cassie, you know what? I don’t think that’s allowed.”
“Listen, Jackie, just relax. I’ll help you write this. You can write, can’t you?”
“I guess.”
What was his teacher doing all day? One thing I could say about Mr. Mullaney: At least he worked, even if everything he did was pointless and mind-numbing and evil.
“I have a question,” I said. “Does Mrs. Rivera ever spend special time with you, to help you like this?”
“Not really.”
“Never? She never sits down, just the two of you, and helps you sound words out or anything?”
“Maybe once. I don’t remember.” Big shrug up to his ears. The poor, poor kid. How could she just ignore him like that? Didn’t she even care about him? Didn’t she have any clue about what was going on in his life, how everybody (except me) kept abandoning him, flying off to Kraków, moving to Florida (maybe), leaving him behind to “study Chem” all the time? I was starting to get really angry now.
“Well, Jackie boy, I’ll make sure Mrs. Rivera pays you some attention, don’t you worry! Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll tell you what to say, and you’ll write the letters. You know your ABCs, right?”
Half-shrug. “Sort of.”
Sort of? Things were definitely worse than I’d realized. I wrote out the alphabet for him, nice and big, uppers and lowers. “Now I’ll spell it out slowly, and you write the letters, okay?”
“Okay.”
I dictated: “My first thought was that Farmer Joe’s Busy Week would benefit from the addition of conflict. For example, maybe a fire-breathing dragon could incinerate his crops. But then I realized: I didn’t need to invent a villain. The story already had one: Farmer Joe himself! This guy is a total psycho! He feeds his pigs once a week, milks his cows once a week, walks his dog once a week, etc.??? If I could change anything about this book, I’d have Farmer Joe prosecuted for animal cruelty!”
Jackson was clearly flagging in the writing department when the phone rang. It was Mom, “checking in,” even though by now it was five forty-five.
“Sorry I couldn’t call at five,” she said breathlessly. “I was at a big crisis meeting.”
“Another one?”
“Yes, another one. This place is nuts. Don’t ever become a lawyer. Promise me, Cassie.”
“I promise.”
“Good. Everything okay?”
“Yup,” I said. “I’m just finishing helping Jackson with his book report, and now I’m about to start supper. You sound like you’ll be late tonight.”
“Unfortunately, yes, sweetheart. Where’s Miranda?”
<
br /> “At Madison’s. She’ll be back any second.”
“You mean she’s been there the whole afternoon?”
“Oh, no,” I said, then immediately kicked myself. Why in the world couldn’t I just tell on Miranda? Was it to shield Miranda (who totally didn’t deserve one ounce of my loyalty), or was it to shield Mom (who did)? Was I afraid Mom would just give up and rehire the strange women babysitters who made Jackson cry all the time? Or could there possibly be another reason I didn’t even get myself?
“So, let me get this straight,” Mom pressed on. “Miranda came home first?”
“Yeah,” I said, pretty sure that was technically the truth. “But she forgot her Chem book, so she went to Madison’s for a minute to borrow hers. She’ll be right back.”
“Hmmm. Really. Tell Miranda we’ll be discussing this when I get home. Where’s Jackie? Can you put him on?”
I handed the phone to my little brother, then went to the kitchen to start microwaving two frozen boxes. By the time Jackson hung up, the “suppers” were practically radioactive, and we ate them without talking, both of us wiped out from all that book reporting. Then we played Go Fish and I let the poor kid win, until Miranda finally walked in the door at seven twenty-five (“NO, HE DIDN’T CALL” is all I said to her). I gave Jackson a bath and a strawberry-and-banana-scented shampoo, got him into his Power Ranger pj’s, and put him into bed. Then I stared at some Science for a quiz tomorrow, and then finally I got into my own bed, conveniently prewarmed by Buster and Fuzzy. It was only when I was 98 percent asleep that I realized I’d never had time to finish writing in my journal, but I figured, oh well, there’d be plenty of time for that tomorrow.
Mr. Mullaney sneered. “Today, ladies and gentlemen, is a Double Day of Reckoning. Who knows why?”
“Quiz on relative pronouns?” guessed Zachary Hogan, this smirky little hairball, who was always either bragging about his test scores or sucking up to every single teacher we had.