The Friendship War

by Andrew Clements

  By now Ellie has figured out what I’ve been doing, and she gives me a dirty look on her way past.

  But these three trades are a surprise. I had expected that having so many more buttons around was going to shut off all the demand, like Ben said.

  Then I see something: My fancy buttons are still scarce, so they’re still in high demand. And it doesn’t matter that they’re surrounded by oceans of ordinary buttons. Also, demand for Ellie’s Originals ought to stay high, because her stuff is all that I’m accepting in trade for my scarce, fancy buttons!

  As I get on my bus, lots of the colorful new buttons from the playground are changing hands. And again, such active button trading surprises me.

  I’m starting to think that my big economics experiment has resulted in only one real change: I now have four fewer boxes of buttons at home in my bedroom.

  And, of course, I am still missing one best friend.

  I’m almost home on Wednesday afternoon, and my phone rings—the name Hank comes up on the screen. I don’t really want to talk to him, but I also don’t want to be rude.

  “Hi, Hank.”

  “Hi. I just got home. I compared the buttons I picked up on the playground today to some of the buttons I got from your tray at lunch that first day we all brought stuff, and I’m pretty sure they’re the same buttons.”

  I don’t say anything, so he keeps talking.

  “The colors, the material, the sizes, the design—they’re all the same. And there’s a tiny mold mark on the back of some of the dark red buttons—and the mark on the ones I got from you is identical to the mark on the ones I picked up outside on the field today.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Yes. Interesting. So, I think you spread those buttons on the field at school. And I’d like to know if that’s true. I’d also like to know if this is part of your war against Ellie.”

  “Um…I’d rather not say.”

  “Oh. Okay, fine. Have a nice day.”

  “Wait! Don’t hang up.”

  “I’m still here.”

  “You’re right—I did put the buttons around on the playground, but it’s not part of my war with Ellie. It’s an experiment to see if I can stop the fad. I’m just…I want it to stop.”

  “And you think flooding the school with more buttons is supposed to make them disappear? Doesn’t make sense.”

  “Well, Ben told me some stuff about supply and demand, and if the supply of something goes way up, then the demand is supposed to go way down. For example, if there were thousands of doughnuts everywhere, people would get sick of them and wouldn’t want them as much.”

  “Yeah…I see how that might work with doughnuts. But what if this fad is more like a forest fire—and you just added a lot more trees?”

  “Like I said, it’s an experiment.”

  “Right. I get that. But…how many buttons did you put out on the field?”

  I almost say, I’d rather not talk about it.

  But I don’t.

  “Can you come over here?”

  “To your house? Now?”

  “Yes, now. To my house.”

  * * *

  —

  When the doorbell rings, Mom and I get there at the same time.

  “Hi, Mrs. Hamlin. Hi, Grace.”

  Hank’s out of breath from his bike ride, but I’m glad it took him a while to get here. My clothes are all put away for the first time in weeks.

  “Come on in, Hank. It’s nice to see you.”

  He nods at my mom. “Thanks—good to see you, too.”

  She’s a little surprised. I didn’t tell her he was coming.

  “Hank came over to see my…collection. In my room. And if we want any snacks, we’ll get them ourselves, okay?”

  “Sure, that’s fine. I’ll just be in my office.”

  My room looks less messy now, but my closet is still a wreck, so I moved the three boxes of buttons out of there and stacked them in front of my tall bookcase.

  Hank stands still, just inside my door, and slowly looks around.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve had a new friend in my room. But no one else really paid much attention to my stuff. Hank looks like he’s scanning every single object, sort of the way my new phone takes a panoramic photo.

  He points at my dresser. “I’d recognize those anywhere!”

  He walks over and picks up the blue glass jar full of small gray buttons.

  “I’ve got at least this many at my house—the exact same buttons!”

  “Yeah, I dumped a lot of them on the playground.”

  “So…you got them from the mill, right? In Massachusetts?”

  “Good guess.”

  “More like a deduction. You showed some buttons along with the other stuff you got from the mill, so I figured you must have gotten more than you brought to school. And from the start, you’ve always had plenty—plus you never seemed worried about giving buttons away.”

  He nods at the stack in front of the bookcase. “Are there more in those boxes?”

  “Yes. More buttons.”

  “So, how many buttons did you dump at school?”

  “Four boxes.”

  “Wow! And you’ve still got three huge boxes left?”

  “Actually, you should look under my bed.”

  “No—really?”

  “Really.”

  Hank drops to the floor, lifts the dust ruffle, then lets out a long, low whistle. “Whoa! Is it okay if I pull some of these out and see what you’ve got here?”

  “Sure—you can look at all of them.”

  I sit back in my big encyclopedia armchair as Hank opens box after box. And now I know how my mom and dad feel when they watch me opening presents.

  On his fourth box, Hank finds some fancy buttons.

  “Look at these—I can’t believe it!”

  “Yeah, I love those—and I’ve got two other boxes like that.”

  “No way! Some of these are worth a fortune! These bright red-and-yellow Bakelites? One of these would sell for ten dollars—and you’ve got a dozen, and they’re still on the original store display card!”

  Five or six boxes later, Ben shows up in my doorway.

  “Hank—long time no see! So…did Grace make you take the oath of silence? About not telling anyone that she’s a crackpot button hoarder?”

  Hank looks lost. He shakes his head.

  “Very funny, Ben. You can go now.”

  “Because she made me swear that I wouldn’t tell a soul. You must be a very special young man.”

  “Mom! Ben’s bothering us!”

  She calls up the stairs, “Ben—come here, please.”

  “Coming, Mother.” Ben grins at us. “Well, you two have fun, all right?”

  I’m blushing nine shades of pink, but Hank doesn’t seem to notice. He’s already deep into a fresh box of brilliant-blue celluloid buttons, comparing all the different sizes.

  After the last box is opened, Hank leans back against the end of my bed, his long legs stretched out straight on the floor.

  “Whew—your grandfather sent all these from Massachusetts?”

  “Yup—they arrived the first week of school. On a big wooden pallet.”

  He’s quiet for a moment, then says, “I know Ben was teasing, but does anyone else know you’ve got all these?”

  “Me, Grampa, my mom and dad, Ben, and now you. That’s it.”

  “Well, you’re not a crackpot! If Ben had any idea how much money these are worth, he wouldn’t be making fun of you!”

  “Yeah, but until you told me, I didn’t know they were worth anything. I just wanted them, just…to have. So I might be a little goofy after all.”

  “But the buttons fit right in—with all your other stuff, I mean. Eve
rything you have, it’s all…really interesting.”

  He gets to his feet.

  “I should put all these boxes away now. I told my mom I’d be home by four.”

  “That’s all right—I’ll shove them under the bed later. And while everything’s out, go ahead and take whatever you want. For your collection.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that. But thanks for the offer.”

  “I’m serious—take some. There’s a plastic bag right there on my dresser.”

  He goes to the dresser and finds the bag. And then he stops and picks up something else.

  “This is that pinwheel button! What happened?”

  I shrug. “It broke.”

  He’s got the three pieces up close, studying them.

  “This didn’t just break….I can see marks on it, like it got jammed into a crack and then bent sideways, or maybe hit with something. This is tough material, so it took a lot of force to snap the pieces like this.”

  He looks at me, questions in his eyes.

  I don’t want to explain. But I don’t want to lie to him. At all.

  So I take a deep breath and tell him everything—me giving the button back to Brooke, her trading it for a new bracelet, and then me getting the button from Ellie again, broken. And then me getting the new bracelet from Brooke—for revenge.

  “And there on the dresser, that folded paper? That’s the little handmade envelope Ellie used to return it.”

  He picks it up, reads the note, puts it back.

  “And now you and Ellie are at war.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you’re also sick of buttons.”

  “Yes.”

  “This explains a lot. Thanks for telling me.”

  “Except I don’t want to be at war with Ellie!”

  He smiles at me. “Yeah, I knew that.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah.”

  I can’t think what to say next.

  He puts the plastic bag back on my dresser. “Listen, I’ll get some of these buttons later, okay? I’ve really got to leave now.”

  “Okay.”

  I follow him down the staircase and outside onto the front porch.

  “Thanks again,” he says. “For asking me to come over.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Yup—see you tomorrow.”

  I watch him pedal away—a little tall, a little awkward, his helmet perched on his head.

  And as much as I don’t want to be at war with Ellie anymore, if all these problems and all this stupid drama are the price I needed to pay to get to know Hank better? Then I don’t have any regrets.

  Not one.

  I’m setting the kitchen table before dinner when Dad comes in with a box under his arm.

  “The UPS driver just left this out front—it’s addressed to you and your mother.”

  He hands me a package about the size of a shoebox.

  “It’s from Grampa!”

  Ben says, “Here’s a wild guess: more buttons.”

  And I know Ben’s right.

  Mom moves the salad bowl off the counter. “Put it here!”

  She’s more excited than I am, and the knife she uses to slit the tape still has juice on it from cutting tomatoes.

  “Oh yeah…just like I said—more buttons!” Ben is so pleased with himself. I have to resist telling him he’s sort of been acting like a jerk today.

  But I can’t resist a different comment.

  “Yes, you’re a genius at predicting the contents of packages—a lot better than you are at predicting the effects of adjusting supply and demand…like with that thing that you told me to do.”

  “I…I never told you to do anything!”

  “What did Ben tell you to do?”

  Dad seems very interested.

  “Oh, nothing. I’m just teasing—right, Ben?”

  “Yeah, you’re hilarious!”

  Inside the box are two envelopes laid on top of the buttons, one addressed to each of us. Mom opens hers and begins reading aloud, and I can see Grampa’s handwriting on the cream-colored notepaper.

  Dear Carolyn,

  After some gentle prompting from Grace, I’ve begun sorting through your mother’s upstairs sitting room and study. These buttons were with her sewing things. They reach back several generations, and you’ll probably be able to spot a few from some of your old clothes. If you have any questions about any of the other buttons, I’m sure Grace can teach you all you need to know!

  Over the next few months, I’ll be sending along a few things that you might want to keep. All the rest will be going to a local charity, where I hope they’ll do some good.

  This process was hard for me to begin, but now that I’m well into it, I’m finding so many happy memories, especially of the years when you and your brothers shared this home with us.

  Thanks for being such a wonderful daughter, and I hope we can all get together this fall or winter.

  With all my love,

  Dad

  Mom’s voice is shaky as she finishes, and she has to brush away a tear. But she makes herself smile.

  “Such a sweet, sweet man. So, let’s hear your letter, Grace.”

  But I don’t want to get emotional in front of everyone, and I probably would.

  “Um…I’d rather open it later. Is that okay?”

  “Sure, that’s fine.”

  * * *

  —

  After dinner and the kitchen cleanup, I’ve got Gramma’s buttons upstairs, laid out across my bedspread.

  Grampa was right—they go back to the 1800s. I spot five or six bone buttons right away, plus dozens of shoe buttons, a category we had to add when Hank and I were sorting our thrift store collection. A shoe button looks sort of like a small pea that’s been sliced in half, with a rounded top and a flat back. Shoe buttons are usually black, with one little wire loop on the back side. Interesting, but I’ve seen plenty of buttons recently. What I really need right now is words.

  And as I begin reading the letter, I can hear Grampa’s voice, strong and clear and kind.

  Dear Grace,

  Well, I finally found the courage to go through your grandmother’s things. Courage might sound like a strange word to choose, but being here in the world on my own again is a new experience, and sometimes it can feel a little scary. However, I’m finding that new experiences seem to be exactly what I need.

  Speaking of newness, our mill building is looking less and less like a graveyard every day! The outside brick has been sandblasted clean, a crew of masons is making sure the walls are sound and weatherproof, and some of the new windows have already been installed. I’ll text pictures soon!

  I hope that sometime you’ll tell me a little more about your friend Hank. How’s that going? I also hope that you and the unforgettable Miss Emerson have gotten back onto common ground. From my brief time meeting her, I can guess she’s not always an easy person to be with. But sometimes friends who make demands on us are the ones worth keeping—and sometimes they’re also the ones who most need a true friend. You’ll know what’s best.

  As I’m sure you can understand, a grandmother is not allowed to pick favorite grandchildren. But I know for certain that you have a very special place in your grandmother Marjorie’s heart, just as you do in mine. And that will never change.

  Our time together was the best week of my summer, and I can’t wait till you come back for the Grand Reopening of Burnham Mills—keep your suitcase handy!

  With all my love,

  Grampa

  I cried at the funeral last summer, but this feels different. I’m crying now because I love Grampa, and I’m crying because Gramma would be disappointed
in me, and I’m crying because both of them would tell me I’ve been mean to Ellie. And I have. Trying to end the fad? Totally selfish. Everyone else is having fun, and Ellie’s being creative, and kids are making things and learning all kinds of stuff, and what am I doing? I’m acting mean and stupid and selfish and spoiled—everything I’ve accused Ellie of being. And I’m also crying because Hank was so sweet this afternoon. He knew that I don’t want to be at war with Ellie anymore—he knew that.

  The tears have made some little splashes on Grampa’s letter, and I finally stop. But I don’t stop thinking. Because unless I do something, the tears will be a lie—like making a promise and not keeping it.

  So I put Gramma’s buttons back into their box.

  Then I do my homework, still thinking.

  I hug my mom when she comes to say good night—a long hug.

  And I keep thinking and thinking.

  And by the time I begin to fall asleep, I know what I need to do.

  Ellie’s face looks like she might shove me off the sidewalk. Or worse.

  So I say it again, as sincerely as I can: “We really need to talk—please?”

  “Fine.”

  She’s cold and suspicious, but I was expecting that. I also knew we wouldn’t be able to talk out here with all the buses arriving.

  “Let’s go inside to the library, okay?”

  “Whatever.”

  I picked the library because we’ll have to be quiet in there—less chance that we might start yelling at each other.

  I hold the door open, and Ellie walks in and then turns right.

  So far, so good.

  But I can see the stiffness in each step, impatience in every gesture. Ellie’s looking for a fight.

  And even though I tried to prepare for this logically, I know that this isn’t like solving a math problem.

  It’s more like untangling a knot. Or maybe melting an iceberg.

  Inside the library, I walk to a table way in the back, and Ellie follows and sits down across from me.

  “What do you want?”