Mallory Hates Boys (And Gym) (9780545767811)

by Martin, Ann M.

  Finally, Kristy took the batteries and threw them out the window into the yard.

  The rest of the evening was no better. Andrew and David Michael were like a terror tag team. While one gave Kristy trouble, the other thought up new ways to make more trouble.

  By the time the adults got home all the kids were asleep — including Kristy who had conked out on the couch. She said she couldn’t remember ever being so tired or frazzled in her life.

  Kristy told us this story at our Monday afternoon meeting. I sat on Claudia’s rug, listening, glad to hear about somebody else’s troubles. It stopped me from thinking about my own. And I sure had enough of them to think about.

  That afternoon I’d finished washing the pinnies at about four-thirty. I was in such a hurry to get home for the BSC meeting that I almost forgot to check the mailbox to make sure it didn’t hold a detention notice.

  I was halfway up the stairs when I turned back for the mail. My heart almost stopped. There was no mail. The box was empty.

  Maybe there was just no mail today, I told myself hopefully. And even if there had been mail, there might not have been a detention notice.

  By five o’clock, I had almost convinced myself there was nothing to worry about. I’d changed my clothes and was running a brush through my hair when my mother walked into my room. One look at her face told me that the worst had happened. The detention notice had arrived.

  Mom sat on my bed. “Mallory, what’s this all about?” she asked, spreading the letter out on my quilt. “It says this is the third time you’ve been to detention.”

  “Today makes four,” I admitted dismally. “You’ll be getting that notice in the mail in a few days.”

  “What is going on?” she asked.

  I sighed and plopped down on the bed. It was time to tell her the story. “And so,” I said as I finished up, “it’s like I’m under attack. Ms. Walden yells at me, the kids on the other team try to cream me with the ball just so they can win. It’s horrible. And today Ms. Walden made me wash all the stupid pinnies … and some boys stopped to watch and were making fun of me and …” My voice cracked, and the next thing I knew I was crying.

  Mom put her arm around me, which only made me cry harder, but it felt good. I hadn’t wanted to admit, even to myself, how much these last two weeks had upset me. It seemed easier to act tough. But I was surprised at how good it felt to tell her; how good it felt to cry.

  “This really is a problem, isn’t it?” Mom said seriously. I brushed away my tears and checked to see if she was kidding me. She wasn’t.

  Mom and I sat on the bed together, thinking. “Maybe you could try talking to Ms. Walden,” Mom suggested. “Ask her if one of the other kids could give you some pointers.”

  “She’d probably assign Helen Gallway,” I said with a groan.

  “You don’t have to love Helen Gallway,” Mom said. “Just let her give you some help. And maybe she could ask the other team to give you a break.”

  “She wouldn’t do that. Anyway, it’s mostly Chris Brooks who’s the problem,” I said.

  “Could you talk to him?” Mom asked.

  “I don’t know him, really. I suppose I could try.”

  “Give it a shot,” said Mom. “Then come back and tell me how it goes. If it doesn’t work, we’ll think of something else.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I said as she stood up.

  “Sometimes we have to do things we don’t like, Mal,” she said. “Unfortunately, it’s just part of life. Usually it’s better not to run away from those things — although there are times when we’d like to.”

  “What things would you like to run away from?” I asked.

  My mother smiled grimly. “Right now, I’d like to run away from making dinner, but it has to be done.” She picked the paper off the bed. “And I don’t want to see any more of these. Understand?”

  “I understand,” I said.

  So, by the time I reached the BSC meeting I’d had an exhausting day. I was glad to sit back and listen to everyone else talk.

  “I’ve been thinking about this boy thing a lot,” said Claudia. “What could be causing it?”

  “It’s just a coincidence,” Stacey said confidently. “It’s like cards. You have a run of bad luck, then you have a run of good luck. It’s mathematical, in a way.”

  “Leave it to our resident math whiz to see the problem in terms of math.” Dawn laughed.

  “But it is a math problem,” Stacey insisted. “It has to do with odds and statistics.”

  “Statistics?” Jessi repeated.

  “Yeah. Mr. Zizmore was talking about it today in class. Statistics can’t always be trusted. Say, for example, a scientist surveys only people who support his theory and excludes people who don’t support it. Then he could say one hundred percent of all people interviewed think this, but really he’s only included in the survey the people who think a certain way to begin with.”

  “I get it. I think,” said Claudia. “But what does that have to do with boys?”

  “It means that we’ve come up with a theory that boys are a problem, but we’re only looking at the cases in which they are a problem. I mean, look at the good time Mallory had sitting for the Hobart boys. And the other day. I sat for the Kormans. Bill was fine. And Dawn, you sat for Norman Hill. He was okay, right?”

  “Yeah, he was,” Dawn admitted.

  “See? They don’t fit into our theory, so we’re not talking about them. We’re skewing the statistics, as Mr. Zizmore would say,” Stacey concluded.

  “That does make a lot of sense,” said Kristy.

  Maybe, I thought. Stacey made it sound very convincing. But I wasn’t convinced. I liked my theory better. Boys from Stoneybrook had had their minds warped by gym class and were the weirdest creatures on earth. Now that was a theory which made sense to me.

  After the meeting, Jessi asked me how the pinny-washing had gone. I told her the whole story, including the part about my mother finding the detention notice. “Wow,” she said. “You’re having some bad day.”

  “I was glad to talk to Mom, though,” I told her. “She had some good ideas. But I don’t know if they’ll work.”

  “Ben was looking for you after school,” Jessi said. “He wanted to hear how gym went.”

  “Did you tell him?”

  “No. I figured you’d want to tell him yourself.”

  I looked across the street at Ben’s house. “I’m going to go see if he’s at home,” I said to Jessi. “See you tomorrow.”

  Jessi waved good-bye as I crossed the street.

  Ben answered the Hobarts’ door. “Hi,” he said, letting me in. “How did it go today?”

  “Not so good,” I replied, and told my story again.

  “Robbie Mara is such a jerk,” Ben said sympathetically when I got to the part where the boys teased me in the home ec room.

  As I finished my story, Johnny, James, and Mathew came into the living room. They greeted me happily. “What are you guys up to?” I asked.

  “We have to clean our rooms tonight,” Mathew said. “They haven’t been cleaned in two days.”

  “Two days!” I cried, impressed. “My brothers haven’t cleaned their rooms in two months!”

  “Boy, I wish I lived at your house,” said Johnny.

  “I wish you did, too.” I laughed. “I’d love to trade brothers with Ben.”

  “You keep saying that, Mal, but I don’t think you’d really want to,” said Ben.

  “I’m not kidding,” I insisted.

  “Let’s do it then,” said Ben. “Let’s trade brothers.”

  “If only we could.”

  “We can. For one night, anyway. You send your brothers here, and I’ll send my brothers to your house.”

  “Yeah! Cool!” cried James.

  “It’s a deal!” I said. “I’ll have one whole evening of peace and quiet in my house. It’s going to be great!”

  The Brother Switch was on! That Wednesday the schools were closed for
a teacher’s conference, so Tuesday night seemed the perfect night to try out the switch. (I didn’t want to stick Mrs. Hobart with the job of getting my brothers off to school. That was asking too much!)

  At first my parents thought the idea was strange. “Why are you doing this?” my father asked that night at the dinner table when I brought up the idea.

  “Ben and I thought it would be an interesting experiment,” I said. It didn’t seem wise to tell the whole truth — that I also wanted to get rid of my brothers for a night. My parents might not have appreciated it, and it was certain to make my brothers uncooperative.

  As it was, they loved the idea. “Yipeee! Mrs. Hobart is a great cook!” Nicky cried happily. (My mother shot him a Look, but he didn’t notice.)

  “They have Game Boy, too,” said Adam, who had been complaining lately that we didn’t have enough Nintendo games.

  “And no sisters to bug us for one whole night!” Jordan yelled jubilantly.

  This time my sisters and I were the ones giving the Looks. “Bug you!” Vanessa cried. “You bug us!” (I was glad she said it, so I didn’t have to.)

  “We do not,” Jordan objected. “You’re always bugging us.” He scrunched up his face and imitated a girl’s high voice. “Stop it! Get out of here! You’re making a mess! You’re too loud! Ew, that’s disgusting!”

  “You are messy and disgusting!” said Margo.

  “You are!” Nicky replied.

  “That’s enough,” my father interrupted. “So. I take it you guys want to go to the Hobarts’ tomorrow.”

  The question was answered with resounding cries of enthusiasm. So, still looking a bit uncertain about the plan, my mother called Mrs. Hobart after supper. From what I could make of their conversation, Mrs. Hobart was equally baffled by this idea, but she said it was okay by her.

  After school the next day, I walked over to the Hobarts’ with Nicky and the triplets. Then I walked back to my house with James, Mathew, and Johnny, sure I was getting the best of the deal — dumping off four monsters and returning with three little gentlemen. It was too good to be true. I almost felt guilty. Almost.

  “Here we are,” I said, letting the boys in the front door. Margo, Vanessa, and Claire were bunched up on the stairs, staring and giggling at them.

  “These are my sisters,” I said. “You’ll get used to them.”

  Mom walked in from the kitchen and greeted the Hobarts. “Mal, take them upstairs and show them the boys’ room.”

  “Good idea,” I said, heading for the stairs. My sisters scrambled up ahead of us, still giggling. I stood aside and let the boys pass.

  “This was your idea. You’re in charge,” my mother warned as the boys ran upstairs.

  “No problem,” I assured her. “You’re going to love these kids, Mom. They’re like angels.” Then I ran up the stairs after the boys.

  “Bunk beds! Cooler than cool!” I heard James yell happily, when he reached the boys’ room. When I reached the room, I was a little surprised to see the boys climbing over the beds as if they were a jungle gym.

  “We’ve always wanted bunk beds,” Mathew explained.

  “Pick whichever bed you like,” I told them.

  That was a mistake. All three of them wanted the top bunk. Since there were only two tops, that presented a problem. Being the youngest, Johnny got stuck with the bottom. I felt bad for him, but figured it might be safer to leave him on the bottom. Still, this put Johnny in a pouty mood.

  “Come on down to the rec room,” I said to the boys.

  Mathew’s eyes lit up as if it were Christmas. “You have a room that you’re allowed to wreck?”

  “No, not wreck like that,” I said. “Rec as in short for recreation.” I was talking to myself, though. The boys raced down the hall and down the stairs, eager to find this room they could wreck.

  And they did.

  They found it and they wrecked it.

  My sisters helped a lot. They introduced the boys to the joys of bouncing on the furniture. Claire turned into a super clown — making faces, doing silly dances, pretending to be a dog and barking at everyone. The other kids became giddy and silly. Soon they were all barking and growling at one another.

  I sat on the stairs and watched this in stunned silence. What was going on? My angelic sisters meet the angelic Hobarts, and chaos breaks loose! This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. I realized I better step in.

  “Hey,” I said, “how about playing Operation?” I figured that game was something that would occupy them — quietly.

  “Okay,” Vanessa agreed, dragging the game out from under the couch.

  “Oh, man! Operation!” James cried. “I’ve always wanted to play this.”

  Bunk beds and Operation. So far James’s visit to our house was turning out to be a dream come true — for him.

  Soon the kids were happily playing Operation. I left them alone and went upstairs to the kitchen. “I’m going to run to the store and pick up a few things I need for supper,” Mom said to me. “Do you think you can handle things for about an hour?”

  “Sure. They’re playing a game downstairs,” I told her. Mom left and I spread my school books out on the kitchen table. I wanted to finish my homework so I could enjoy my day off tomorrow. (I felt like writing the principal a letter thanking him for picking a perfect day to have a teachers’ conference. Wednesday! It meant I wouldn’t have gym again until next Monday. Good choice, Mr. Taylor.)

  I began my English assignment and became pretty engrossed in it. After about forty-five minutes I decided I’d better check on the kids. I suddenly realized it was too quiet.

  When I entered the rec room, I sucked in my breath. The kids were gone and the place was … a wreck.

  Chairs were stacked on top of the couch, the Ping-Pong table was on its side, the stools were upside down with the throw cover of a chair draped over them. It looked as if the kids had been trying to build some kind of furniture city. Games pieces were everywhere — Operation bones, Monopoly money and cards, pieces from the game Mousetrap.

  Then I heard it.

  The sound of water running.

  I raced upstairs to the bathroom. The peels of hysterical laughter and high-pitched giggles that I heard while I was on the steps gave me a sinking feeling that something not-allowed was going on.

  When I reached the top of the stairs, I saw the kids running back and forth between the bedrooms and the bathroom. They were soaking wet and covered with strings of pink soap foam. The hallway was covered with puddles.

  You wouldn’t believe what I found in the bathroom. The tub was almost overflowing and Claire stood in it with her clothes on, shooting whoever came in with the can of foam. She zapped me as I stepped into the room.

  “I’m the foam-head silly-billy-goo-goo monster!” she cried gleefully as I turned off the water.

  “Vanessa!” I screamed, lifting Claire out of the tub.

  Sheepishly, Vanessa stuck her soaking wet, foam-flecked head into the bathroom. “Yes?”

  “How old are you? Two?” I shouted angrily. “Somebody could have gotten hurt, especially Claire. And look at this place. It’s a mess!”

  “We were going to clean it up,” Vanessa replied huffily.

  “How about starting with the rec room, then,” I suggested as I peeled off Claire’s shirt.

  “The boys mostly did that,” said Margo, sticking her head in beside Vanessa. “They thought we should play the Operation game in a pretend hospital.”

  “I don’t care what they thought,” I snapped. “Go get dried off and clean everything up.”

  Despite my big words, I wound up doing most of the work. If I’d left it to the kids it would never have been done before my mother got home.

  Suppertime was all right, if you didn’t mind a lot of giggling, poking, and under-the-table kicks. “Angels, huh?” my mother said skeptically as we cleared the table.

  “I don’t know what’s with them tonight,” I replied honestly. “It must be Vane
ssa, Margo, and Claire. The girls are making them nutso.”

  “It looks like the other way around to me,” said my father as he dried a frying pan.

  Things did not improve as the night wore on. None of the kids wanted to go to bed. But finally, everyone was settled in. My parents were downstairs watching TV and I was in my room reading.

  Vanessa was on her bed reading, too. She got up to go to the bathroom. Ten minutes later I heard the sounds of shouts and giggles coming from the boys’ room. When I checked on them, I found a full-fledged pillow fight being waged, with kids standing on top of dressers, jumping off the bunks, and darting in and out of closets.

  “Go to sleep!” I shouted at them.

  “We’re having a slumber party,” James told me.

  “No, you’re not,” I said. “Claire, Margo, Vanessa, back to bed!”

  I read for another fifteen minutes until I noticed that once again Vanessa had disappeared. That time I found her, and the rest of the kids, sitting in the dark. James held a flashlight under his face and was telling a scary story.

  “Come on,” I said. “Johnny and Claire will have nightmares. Besides, you’re supposed to be sleeping.”

  Margo made a face at me and stuck out her tongue.

  I stuck out my tongue back at her.

  Next thing I knew, all the kids were glaring and sticking their tongues out at me.

  I never thought I’d say it, but I couldn’t wait for the Hobart boys to go home!

  The longest night in human history finally ended.

  At about eleven-thirty, after stern words from my mother, and a special intimidating appearance by my father, everyone finally went to sleep. Half an hour later, Claire was up crying. Just as I predicted, the stories had scared her and she was having nightmares. No sooner was she asleep again, than I heard Johnny roaming the hall, whimpering. When I got out of bed to see what was wrong, he told me Mathew kept rolling around in the bunk above him and he couldn’t sleep. We went downstairs and drank warm milk together until he yawned and felt sleepy enough to go back to bed. By then it was almost twelve-thirty.

  At around three in the morning, I sat bolt upright. I’d been awakened by a loud thud. I met my parents and my sisters in the hall. They’d heard it, too. It had come from the boys’ room. We rushed in and discovered James on the floor. “Oooowwwww!” he howled. He had rolled out of the top bunk and hurt his shoulder.