Ellie hasn’t even glanced at me. The full power of her smile and her popularity is focused on one thing: poor Brooke. And I can tell Ellie’s charm is working, exactly the way it worked on me more times than I can count.
Also, I’m pretty sure that Ellie has never invited Brooke for a sleepover, not until now. So this invitation? It’s just a bargaining tool—this is sleepover blackmail!
Which seems totally unfair—a lot more unfair than me having all these buttons that Grampa gave me!
But right now the main fact is, I have the pinwheel button clamped in my fist. And I am not giving it up.
I look Ellie right in the eye. I keep my voice calm…and friendly, too. Which isn’t easy. But I’m not using smiles or popularity like she just did—only sharp, cold logic.
“Sorry, Ellie, but if Brooke didn’t say ‘Deal’ to you, then it’s pretty clear that she was still thinking about trading. And she did say ‘Deal’ to me, and now I’m saying it back: Deal! So, that’s that!”
There are seven or eight kids around us now, and they’re nodding in agreement. With me.
Before Ellie can say one word, I hand my bag of buttons to Brooke.
“You can take your time picking out the ones you want, okay?”
Brooke gives me sort of a worried smile.
“Um, okay.”
If I had known that this was going to be tough on Brooke, I might not have jumped in. And if it hadn’t been for Ellie’s little sleepover trick, I might have backed away.
But it still feels like I’m doing the right thing here.
I reach over to Brooke’s wrist, unhook the red ribbon bracelet, and hold it out to Ellie.
“This is yours.”
She glares at me, and the edges of her nostrils are flared out wide—like a horse that’s about to kick someone’s head off. I’ve seen this look before, but it’s never been aimed at me. I feel like I’m going to shiver, and during that split second I almost hand over Brooke’s button and start apologizing.
Almost.
Ellie grabs her bracelet, and as she turns away, the first bell rings.
Walking to my desk, I don’t even glance at the pinwheel button—I just slip it into the front pocket of my jeans. And I gulp once or twice.
Because the stuff that just happened? Most of it wasn’t about buttons.
Did I just lose my best friend because of a button?
It’s a good question. Also scary.
Sitting in homeroom Friday morning, I don’t know the answer.
I mean, I do know how much Ellie hates it when she doesn’t get her own way. And I just made that happen.
So, does she hate me now?
As I keep thinking about this, I have to ask myself a second question, and this one’s even scarier: Has Ellie ever been my best friend—for real? And what does that even mean?
With a math question, an answer is correct or incorrect, true or false. When I ask, Is two plus two four? the answer is, Yes! Two plus two is four!
And that’s the end of it.
These questions about Ellie and me? I don’t see an end.
* * *
—
The best thing about school today is that there’s no chance to sit around and make myself unhappy. Mrs. Lang has us doing a combined math and science unit about measurement and averages, and during first-period science, we each get a wooden polygon to measure. Then in fourth-period math, we’re going to have to work together and find the average surface area of all of them.
Mrs. Lang has only been a teacher for one year before this one—Dad told me. He checks on things like that. He’s a structural engineer, which means he does the math to make sure that buildings and bridges don’t fall down. Which is probably part of why he’s such a worrier.
The first week or so, I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to deal with Mrs. Lang. She was always tense. But I’m starting to understand her. Mostly, I think she’s nervous because she’s still pretty new at her job. She’s got this lesson-planning program on her laptop, and I’ve seen it open on her desk. She has to describe what she’s going to teach in both science and math, and plan out every minute of every class. Mrs. Porter tiptoed into the back of the room one day during math, and then again two days later during science. I can tell Mrs. Lang doesn’t like it when the principal comes, so when that happens, I always ask her a hard question. Mrs. Lang is really smart, and when she starts explaining stuff, it’s like she forgets that Mrs. Porter is even in the room.
First period goes by fast, and the principal doesn’t arrive, and I’m feeling relaxed because Ellie’s not here.
* * *
—
It’s almost lunch before Brooke gets a chance to give me back my plastic bag. Which is good timing. Because of my trade with her, tons of kids know that I’ve got a bunch of nice buttons to bargain with. Lunchtime could be good.
And maybe I can talk with Ellie and explain how I went wild about buttons, and sort of apologize.
Hank catches me in the hall outside the cafeteria.
“So…did you hear about Ellie’s table?”
“What do you mean—what table?”
“Ellie’s table, in the cafeteria. She doesn’t want you to sit there anymore.”
“Oh.”
That’s all I can think of to say.
I have been right next to Ellie at lunch every school day since my first week of second grade. It never occurred to me that I was sitting at her table!
But, of course, what Hank said is true. All that time I thought I was eating lunch with my best friend? I was just a temporary guest.
And Ellie just shredded my invitation.
Hank gives a little cough and shifts from one foot to the other. “Um, we’d better go get in line before they run out of pizza, okay?”
“Right.”
As we walk into the cafeteria, I feel a blush creeping up my neck, and it makes me mad. I’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about, not one thing! But I still feel like kids are watching me, especially from Ellie’s table.
And already it seems like the most natural thing in the world to call it that—Ellie’s table, Ellie’s table, Ellie’s table!
But I grab hold of my thinking, and I force it to move off of Ellie. Which is a lot like wrestling.
Then Hank rescues me, just by talking.
“I guess you already figured this out, but I’m really getting into buttons. Which sounds stupid, because half the kids in the whole school are into buttons right now. Except I think it’s just a fad with most of them. But I’ve been doing a lot of research, and I think buttons are almost as interesting as butterflies and moths. And there might be even more different kinds—pretty amazing for something made by humans. Because there are more than a hundred and eighty thousand different species of lepidopterans.”
Lepidopterans is the scientific name for butterflies and moths—Hank has already educated me. I mean, I really love science, but he’s a superwonk—if he gets interested in something. Regular math, and the kind of science study we do in school? He’s mostly bored by it. But archaeology? Hank’s an expert, especially about the Incas and the Mayas. Mars exploration and how orbits and gravity work? Total geek. Climate change? Seriously nuts on the topic.
And now buttons, or is it buttonology?
I’m reaching for a plate of pizza when someone taps me on the shoulder—a fifth-grade girl I don’t know.
“You’re Grace, right?”
“Yes….”
“Good, ’cause I heard you’ve got some great buttons—could I see them?”
“Sure, but first I have to get my lunch.”
“Oh, right—sorry. I just didn’t want them all to be gone. Because I’ve got some I want to trade, if you want to. My name is Sarah.”
“Well, you can be first in line
, I promise.”
I mean that as a joke.
But within two minutes after I find a place to sit near the back of the cafeteria, Sarah and three other kids are standing near my table. In a line. Watching me eat.
I’ve got my bag of buttons on the table, but the pizza tastes great, and I’m not going to rush.
I’m not going to look at Ellie’s table either. Not once.
Hank starts poking through the bag. “You know, most of these buttons are celluloid.”
“Celluloid?”
“Yeah. It’s pretty much the first plastic. And these buttons are old, too—probably from the 1930s or so. They’re what button collectors call vintage. This one with the carrot on the yellowish background? It’s another kind of early plastic called Bakelite. This one button would probably sell on eBay for at least ten dollars, maybe twice that. I got a look at the eight buttons Brooke picked out—probably worth fifteen or twenty dollars, easy.”
I pull the pinwheel button out of my pocket. “What about this one?”
“Hmm…looks like celluloid—great design, and pretty old, too. Might sell for five or six dollars.”
Which means I lost money on my trade with Brooke.
But I don’t care. I love my pinwheel.
As I take a drink of milk, I realize something: Hank didn’t have to come sit with me. Also, Hank didn’t have to tell me all this. He could have offered me trade after trade, picking out the best of my buttons.
Now, Ellie? If she knew what Hank knows? She would have snapped up every great button I own, and never thought twice about it! She would have grabbed up all the—
I hit the brakes in my head.
Do I actually know what Ellie would have done?
Of course not. And it’s bad science to jump to a conclusion like that.
It’s also mean.
Still, it’s a decent theory. Because that saying “Pretty is as pretty does”? It also works with “friendly.”
And Ellie banning me from her table?
Not friendly.
I think of all the times I’ve let Ellie have her own way, never complaining, never letting it bother me. Then I push back just once, and BAM—cut off.
So…yeah. Hank.
And as I turn to look at him sitting there studying a celluloid button shaped like a fish, suddenly I’m thinking the clearest thought I’ve thought all day: Maybe I don’t actually need a best friend right now.
Maybe I just need a better one.
It’s Saturday afternoon, and I’m going on a button hunt with Hank.
Dad likes Hank. They’re both into numbers. And also materials—the science of what stuff is made of. My dad has been a Hank fan ever since that day in fourth grade when he started talking about how a strand of spider silk is five times stronger than a strand of steel that’s the same thickness, and that Kevlar is stronger than either of them. My dad knew that already, but still, he was impressed. Then Hank began talking about the specific gravity of the three different materials, and the way their molecules link up. And when Hank told him how some butterfly wings get their strength and flexibility from these weird structures called gyroids? That sealed the deal. Hank and Dad became science buddies.
Today’s adventure with Hank got started yesterday at lunch when that girl Sarah and three other kids were lined up to see if I wanted to trade any of my fancy buttons. I told Hank how I was looking to get some larger buttons, and that they didn’t have to be special like the pinwheel—just big, and sort of interesting.
So Hank became my button-trading advisor.
I left the cafeteria with four more large buttons: three made of celluloid, and a dark green beauty with carvings on it made of Bakelite. Because of Hank, I only had to trade away five of my smaller specialty buttons.
Out in the hallway, just before I headed for math and Hank went toward the gym, he said, “I’ve got an idea about where we might find some good buttons to collect, or to trade—whichever. Interested?”
My favorite thing about what Hank said? He used the word we—one of the friendliest words ever.
Of course, I was interested, and Hank told me his idea, and I liked it.
And that’s why I’m climbing into the back seat of his mom’s car.
“Hi, Hank—hi, Mrs. Powell.”
“Hi, Grace. I don’t think I’ve seen you since the open house at school last October. You’ve gotten taller!”
I never know how to answer when grown-ups say stuff like that.
Hank looks sideways at his mom.
“Kind of an obvious thing to say, Mom. It’s been almost a year—Grace wouldn’t be shrinking, would she?”
“Just making friendly conversation, Henry.”
“It’s Hank.”
Mrs. Powell backs the car out of our driveway, and as she starts forward, her eyes find me in the rearview mirror.
“Hank says that you’re the one who started this buttons fad at school. And he told us about the other things you found at that old textile mill in Maine.”
“It was in Massachusetts, Mom.”
“Sorry—Massachusetts. Did you ever imagine kids would get so interested in buttons? Because some people find them absolutely fascinating!”
“Very funny, Mom.”
Hank turns so he can see me from the front seat. “So, you brought some money?”
“Fifteen dollars. How about you?”
“About the same. That ought to be enough, except there’s no guarantee that we can find any buttons for sale. I hunted around online for places that run estate sales for families—which is how I found the three shops we’re going to try first.”
Mrs. Powell takes a quick look at Hank.
“Three shops? I thought we were going to one store in Sheridan Grove—which is already a twenty-minute drive, practically in Wisconsin! Why don’t we just go to a nice antiques shop, maybe in Clifton Woods?”
“Because the people who run antiques shops charge high prices. We’re looking for a bargain, so we’re going to thrift shops. And Sheridan Grove is nowhere near Wisconsin.”
The drive is more like forty minutes, and Mrs. Powell is not happy, especially when we arrive at the address Hank gave her.
“Carrie’s Thrift Barn? This place looks pretty run-down!”
“It’ll be fine, Mom. C’mon, Grace, let’s go.” And he opens the car door.
“Wait—you are not going in there by yourselves!”
“Fine. But let us go first, and when you come in, keep away from us, okay?”
The look on her face? Her feelings are hurt, and right away Hank says, “Sorry, that sounded bad. All I mean is, you look like you’ve got plenty of money because you do, and people who look that way don’t get bargains at places like this.”
She stares at Hank. “How do you know things like that?”
“Research.”
I’ve been to tons of garage sales with my mom, but this is my first time ever inside a thrift store. It’s a big place with a low ceiling, and there are three or four women, some alone and some with kids, walking up and down the long aisles, picking things off racks, putting them back, and sometimes holding shirts or coats or dresses up against their kids to see what might fit. I spot a couple of guys, too. A lot of the clothes are really nice. Even Ellie would like some of the tops and skirts I look at. And then it strikes me—some of these might have actually been Ellie’s, before she got tired of them and jetted over to London or Paris for all new ones.
But that’s a mean thought, and I shove it away. Ellie is not going to poison my Saturday.
The front door chimes, and Hank’s mom walks in and starts wandering around, trying to avoid us. Hank was right. His mom does not look like the other shoppers here.
“Over there,” Hank says. And he points at a hand-lettered sign hangin
g on a string from the ceiling: ESTATE SALES—NEW ARRIVALS.
The stuff below the sign is mostly still in cardboard moving boxes, and a lot of them have been written on with markers—labels like family room, downstairs bedroom, and basement. The boxes are spread around on the floor, with the flaps open and the contents jumbled. I know that I’m looking at leftovers from the lives of other people, other families, and I can’t help feeling a little sad.
Not Hank. His mind is like a laser beam.
“You check through that bunch over there, and I’ll start right here with this group, okay?”
“Got it.”
Kitchen utensils, board games, puzzles, toys, clothes, plates and bowls and glasses, purses, hand tools, shoes and boots, sheets and towels—so much stuff. And looking for buttons feels like hunting for a quarter on a soccer field. Which is something I’ve done before. Unsuccessfully.
But I begin to see a pattern, see the way this house was organized. There were two bathrooms, probably one upstairs and one downstairs, because there are two boxes of bathroomy stuff. And there was definitely a family room because four boxes have that label—duh. And I keep trying to think, if this were my house, and I had some sewing stuff, where would I keep it? And as I’m thinking this, out in the middle of eight or ten boxes, I spot a flap with the label downstairs hall closet. I have to kind of wade out to it, trying not to step inside any boxes. And once I’m there, I know I’m getting warmer. The downstairs hall closet was definitely the catchall at this house, the place to stick whatever doesn’t quite belong anywhere else. At our house, there’s a drawer in the kitchen like that. And also the utility closet in the laundry room. Plus half the basement.
There are actually three boxes of stuff from this same closet. And in the second one, I find a basket, and it’s the sewing stuff. But it’s not a big basket, only about six inches across and four inches deep.
And down on the bottom, I see some buttons, maybe twenty, mostly small and mostly white.
Dead end.
There are several bundles of folded fabric in the box, and some of the cloth is so old that it’s sort of yellowed, almost brittle. But I spot a deep blue fabric with yellow ducks printed on it, and when I lift it out to get a better look, underneath it there’s a large round cookie tin with a snowy winter scene on the lid. And written on the top with a green marker? One word: buttons.
The Friendship War Page 6