Holiday Time

by Ann M. Martin

  “Good idea,” said Audrey. “That is what I am going to do too. Do not worry. I am sure we will both come up with yummy dishes.”

  Sara smiled at Audrey. “I am sure you are right.”

  “Can you come to my sleepover tomorrow night?” Karen asked Pamela. It was lunchtime, and the girls in Ms. Colman’s class had surrounded Pamela at a lunch table. Most of the girls had, anyway. Sara noticed that Natalie, Tammy, and Nancy were sitting at another table. Audrey was still in the lunch line, but Sara had saved her a place.

  Pamela took another bite of her sandwich. “I guess so,” she answered.

  “Great!” Karen exclaimed.

  Audrey sat down next to Sara.

  “Pamela is coming to my sleepover tomorrow night,” Karen told Audrey. “We will have so much fun. No party poopers allowed.”

  Sara thought that was a mean thing to say about Nancy.

  “I got out my sleeping bag last night,” said Audrey. “Do I need to bring anything else?”

  “Just your nightgown and a tooth-brush,” Karen said. “Hey, Pamela, do you want to play foursquare? The snow has melted from the blacktop.”

  Pamela sighed. “I guess,” she said.

  Karen, Pamela, Hannie, and Leslie ran outside to play.

  “Let’s hurry and finish our lunches,” said Sara. “Then we can get in line to play foursquare.”

  “Do you like foursquare?” Audrey asked. “You have never played it before.”

  “Sometimes I play,” said Sara. “I want to see if Pamela is a good player.”

  Audrey wrinkled her nose. “Pamela is not very friendly,” she said. “I have tried to talk to her a couple times, and she acts as if I am a big baby or something.”

  “No she doesn’t,” said Sara. “Pamela is very cool. She wears great clothes.”

  “That does not make her a nice person,” said Audrey.

  “Pamela is fine,” said Sara. “She just has to get used to us. Are you done with lunch?”

  “Yes. But I do not want to play foursquare. I think I will go to the library instead.”

  Sara shrugged. “Okay. See you later.”

  On the playground, Sara got in line behind Ricky Torres.

  “We put up our Christmas tree last week,” Ricky was telling Ian. “On December first. It practically touches our ceiling.”

  “I am going to help my dad put up our Christmas lights this weekend,” said Ian. “Our house will look so cool.”

  In the foursquare game, Bobby knocked Pamela out. She frowned and went to the back of the line, next to Sara. Sara gave her a big smile, but Pamela did not smile back.

  “I am going to the mall this weekend,” said Sara. “I will have my picture taken with Santa.”

  “We are going to go on Saturday,” said Ricky. “Maybe I will see you there.”

  “Are you going to have your picture taken with Santa?” Sara asked Pamela.

  Pamela looked at her. “I have never had my picture taken with Santa,” she said. “He is not even the real Santa, you know.”

  “I know that,” said Sara. “He is just Santa’s helper. But it is fun to have your picture taken with him.”

  “It is for babies,” said Pamela.

  Sara had not thought of it that way. Was Pamela right?

  KAREN’S SLEEPOVER

  “I am not sure I want to do this,” said Sara.

  She and her mother were waiting in line to have Sara’s picture taken with Santa.

  “Why not?” asked her mother.

  Sara looked at the line of kids waiting. Many of them were much younger than her. Some were actually babies. But some kids were older than Sara too. Sara was not sure what to think. She had asked Audrey about it. Audrey did not think it was babyish.

  “Pamela thinks it is for babies,” Sara had told Audrey.

  “Pamela is silly.”

  Sara did not think that Pamela was silly. She thought Pamela was great.

  “It is almost our turn, sweetie,” said Mrs. Ford. “I think it would be nice to have your picture taken with Santa. But it is your decision.”

  Sara looked at Santa. She decided she was too old to have her picture taken with him.

  “I do not want to,” she told her mother.

  “Oh. Well, that is too bad,” said Mrs. Ford. “I like looking at all of your Santa pictures. But you can always change your mind before Christmas, if you want.”

  “Now, let’s go to the bookstore,” said her mother. “We can look at some Kwanzaa cookbooks. Maybe we will find a better recipe for you to try.”

  That afternoon Mr. Ford dropped Sara off at Karen’s father’s house. (Karen lived at two houses: her mother’s house and her father’s house. That was because her parents were divorced.) Karen’s father’s house was very, very big.

  “Hi, Sara,” said Karen. “Thank you for coming. We are all in the playroom.”

  Karen’s playroom was decorated with balloons and crepe-paper streamers. It looked very partyish. Jannie, Leslie, Hannie, Pamela, Natalie, and Audrey were already there. They had spread their sleeping bags out on the floor. Sara spread hers out next to Audrey’s.

  “Pamela does not have a sleeping bag,” Audrey told her. “She only sleeps in beds.” Audrey rolled her eyes.

  Sara did not think that was so strange. It sounded kind of cool. She almost wished she had not brought her own sleeping bag.

  Karen’s sleepover was a lot of fun. The girls ate pizza on the floor in the playroom, like a picnic.

  “We do not have a playroom,” said Pamela. “We have a den.”

  Sara thought den sounded much more grown-up than playroom. At her house they called it a family room. She could not tell if that sounded babyish or not.

  After dinner they watched The Wizard of Oz. Sara thought it was scary. She could tell that Pamela did not.

  “Aiiee!” Audrey screamed when the flying monkeys grabbed the scarecrow. She held on to Sara’s arm.

  Sara gently pushed Audrey’s hand away. Pamela was smirking at Audrey. “It is just a movie, Audrey,” Sara said.

  Audrey looked at her in surprise.

  The rest of the sleepover was very exciting. The girls made Slice ’n Bake cookies. (They got into a food fight. Well, everyone except Pamela did.) Karen and Nancy made up over the phone, and Nancy came to the party. Then Charlie (one of Karen’s older stepbrothers) told a spooky story. There was a big thunderstorm, and the electricity went out. Then the lights came back on again.

  It was very, very late when everyone finally climbed into their sleeping bags and went to sleep. (Pamela went to Karen’s room and slept in her bed.)

  The next day everyone’s parents picked them up. After Pamela left, Audrey said, “I do not think she had a very good time.”

  “I do not think she is very much fun,” said Hannie.

  “She was a party pooper,” said Nancy.

  “She does not count,” said Karen. “Forget about her.”

  Sara frowned. Pamela seemed so cool and grown-up. Why were the other girls picking on her?

  OKRA IS MAJORLY YUCKY

  “Ew,” said Sara. Carefully she cut another piece of okra.

  After school on Tuesday, she had started making her new recipe: stewed okra. Okra is a vegetable. It is about as big as a man’s thumb, and is filled with small seeds. Her mother made it sometimes, and Sara knew it was yummy.

  Mrs. Ford had given Sara a knife that was not too sharp, but sharp enough to cut okra. After cutting up the okra, Sara was going to mix it with a can of tomatoes and the other ingredients, then microwave everything.

  “Ew,” Sara said again. She did not remember okra looking like this. Every time she cut it, long, stringy strands of goo stretched between the pieces. It was disgusting.

  Mrs. Ford came into the kitchen. “Everything going okay?”

  “Is it supposed to look like this?” asked Sara, wrinkling her nose.

  Her mother glanced at the pile of cut okra. “Uh-huh. That looks fine.”

 
“Okaaaay.” Sara took a deep breath and began cutting again. Her hands were getting sticky. The cutting board was sticky. Her knife was sticky. Maybe something was wrong with the okra.

  “Ew, disgusting,” said Marcus, peeking over Sara’s shoulder.

  “Mommy!” called Sara. “Marcus is bothering me!”

  Marcus picked up a piece of okra. He pretended to sneeze loudly into his hand. “Oh, excuse me!” he said, stretching long okra strings between his fingers. (Sara’s stomach felt funny.)

  Finally all the okra had been cut up. It was oozing in a pile on the cutting board. Sara tried not to look at it. She put tomatoes, onions, and spices into a microwave-safe mixing bowl. She scraped the okra into it. The cutting board looked like a bunch of slugs had held a party on it.

  Then she microwaved everything.

  When Sara took out the bowl, it smelled okay. And it looked okay, until she stirred it. Then she saw the long, stretchy strings. Her mother had said they would go away as the okra cooked. But they had not. Suddenly Sara felt that she could not look at the casserole for one more second. It was completely gross. No way would the kids in Ms. Colman’s class eat it. Pamela Harding would take one look at it and say, “Ew. Gross.”

  Sara began to scrape it into the disposal. Then she remembered what her mother had said about the cookies. She had said that Sara was wasting food. Was Sara wasting all this okra? Probably.

  “What can I do?” Sara whispered to herself. “I cannot eat this. I cannot ask my friends to eat it. But I do not want to waste food either.”

  The kitchen door pushed open, and Frederick wiggled his long body through the opening. He snuffled at Sara’s feet in a friendly way, then went to his dish to see if he had food. He did not. He had already eaten his breakfast, and it was not dinner-time yet.

  Ah. “Here you go, boy,” said Sara. She scraped the okra casserole into Frederick’s bowl. “Try this. If you eat it, it will not be wasted.”

  Frederick sniffed the mess in his bowl. He licked the edge.

  “Is it too spicy?” asked Sara. “Just give it a try. I bet you will like it.”

  Frederick looked at Sara, then wagged his tail. He bent his head and took a small bite of okra. He began to eat the casserole. Sara watched him. He liked it!

  “Good boy, Frederick,” she said.

  PAMELA: YES OR NO?

  When Sara arrived at school on Monday, Audrey was not making snowcats under the oak tree. She was swinging slowly.

  “Hi,” said Sara. “What are you doing?”

  “I am listening to everyone,” said Audrey. She pointed at Karen, Hannie, and Nancy. They were playing hopscotch.

  “They have all decided they do not like Pamela,” said Audrey. “They are against her. But look at Jannie and Leslie and Terri.”

  Jannie, Leslie, and Terri were sitting at Pamela’s feet. Pamela was sitting on a big tree root. She was talking and waving her hands. Jannie and Leslie and Terri were laughing.

  “They are for Pamela,” said Audrey. “And there are Natalie and Tammy.” She pointed to where they were playing foursquare with Ian and Chris. “Natalie and Tammy are not for Pamela or against her.”

  “Why would anyone be against Pamela?” asked Sara. She sat down in a swing next to Audrey. “She wears the coolest clothes. She acts so grown-up. She knows about all kinds of things.”

  “But is she nice?” asked Audrey. “Is she friendly?”

  “She is being friendly to Leslie, Jannie, and Terri,” Sara pointed out. “And she has been nice to me.”

  Actually, Sara could not remember a specific nice thing that Pamela had done. But that was because Pamela had just started school. Sara was sure that once Pamela got to know everyone better, she would seem nicer and friendlier.

  “So you are for Pamela,” said Audrey.

  Sara frowned. “There is nothing wrong with Pamela.”

  “If you say so,” said Audrey. “Hey, how did your latest recipe turn out?”

  Sara was glad to talk about something besides Pamela. She groaned loudly to show Audrey how bad her okra casserole had been. “It was awful,” she said. “I did not even finish it. I have to find a new recipe.”

  “Me too,” said Audrey with a smile. “I tried making matzo balls. They are dumplings made of special flour. My mommy makes them to put in chicken soup. They are usually very soft and light, like feathers.”

  “The ones you made were not light?” asked Sara.

  “Well, my daddy is using one as a paperweight for his desk now. What does that tell you?” Audrey kicked her shoe against the rubber blacktop under the swing.

  “Not light,” said Sara.

  “Right,” said Audrey.

  After lunch Ms. Colman asked the class to separate into their holiday groups. The Kwanzaa group met in the corner by the windows.

  “I have been thinking,” said Sara. “There are six of us in our group. And there are seven days of Kwanzaa. Each day has a special meaning. We can each represent a day. Someone will have to be two days.”

  “We can make decorations too. And wear traditional African costumes,” said Jannie.

  “My mommy can help us,” said Sara. “She knows all about stuff like that.”

  Just then, loud voices across the room interrupted them.

  “You be quiet, Pamela!” Karen was yelling.

  Pamela giggled. “You are mad because you are such a baby,” she said. “You and your baby Christmas elf.”

  “I am not a baby!” Karen said, putting her hands on her hips. “And the Christmas elf is fun. My family has been doing the Christmas elf ever since I was born.”

  “Maybe it is time to move on,” said Pamela.

  Karen took a step forward. For a moment it looked as if she might slap Pamela. But Ms. Colman was too quick for her.

  “Girls, please,” said Ms. Colman. “You do not seem to be showing much holiday spirit. I would like you to apologize to each other. Then try to work together peacefully in your group.”

  “I am sorry,” Pamela said cheerfully.

  Karen glared at her. Then she muttered, “I am sorry.” She did not sound as if she meant it.

  Sara turned back to her own group. She wished everyone would try harder to make Pamela feel welcome.

  NO PICKLED HERRING

  “Hmm,” said Mrs. Ford.

  “Maybe I forgot to put in the water,” said Sara.

  Sara’s Liberian rice bread looked more like a brick than a loaf of bread. It was solid and very heavy, although it had sounded easy to make. Sara had mixed the ingredients together, and her mother had put the pan in the oven.

  “I do not think we can eat this,” said Mrs. Ford.

  “I guess not,” Sara said. She felt very discouraged. She had tried several recipes now, and none of them had turned out well.

  “Are you going to try it again?” asked her mother.

  Sara shook her head. “I will do something else. I do not know what. But I will think of something.”

  After Mrs. Ford left the kitchen, Sara broke off the hard, dry crust. She scooped out the doughy inside and called Frederick. Although he coughed once or twice, he was able to get most of the bread down.

  At least it is not being wasted, Sara thought.

  “I wonder if Frederick feels all right,” said Mrs. Ford.

  “Why?” asked Mr. Ford. “Is something wrong with him? Marcus, could you please pass the rolls?”

  “Here,” said Marcus, handing his father the basket of rolls. “These are safe to eat. Sara did not make them.”

  “That is enough, Marcus,” said Mrs. Ford. “I am worried about Frederick because he has not been eating very much lately.”

  Sara stopped in mid-chew.

  “No?” said Mr. Ford. “I give him breakfast every morning. He always looks happy to get it.”

  “He does eat breakfast,” said Mrs. Ford. “But he has not eaten his dinner in days.”

  Mr. Ford glanced at Frederick, sleeping on the floor. “He does not look any
skinnier,” he said. “In fact, he looks fatter.”

  “It is very strange,” said Mrs. Ford. “I hope he is okay.”

  “We will keep an eye on him,” said Mr. Ford. “Could you please pass the meat loaf, Marcus?”

  Sara looked down at her plate. She knew why Frederick was not eating his dinner.

  Later that week Sara went to Audrey’s house after school. Audrey had not had success with any of her recipes either. The girls had decided to team up. Maybe together they could create the perfect dish.

  “Have you ever had pickled herring?” asked Sara.

  “No,” said Audrey. “It is preserved fish. Like sardines. My parents eat it. And my brother, Abram, eats it too, when he is home.” Audrey’s older brother was away at college.

  “Okay, well, let’s try it,” said Sara.

  The recipe was simple, and the girls did not have to cook anything. Together they carefully double-checked the ingredients, then mixed them in a bowl. Audrey dumped the pickling mixture over the small fish fillets.

  “The recipe says to wait for two weeks,” said Audrey. “But we do not have that much time. We have to present our food next Friday.”

  “Maybe we should just taste it now,” said Sara.

  Each girl took a tiny bite of pickled herring.

  Sara made a face. “This cannot be people food.”

  Audrey shook her head. “I know we did everything correctly,” she said. “But there is something wrong. This is just too yucky.”

  “Maybe penguins would like this,” said Sara, giggling.

  Audrey laughed too. “Or maybe it is just for grown-ups. Or snobs, like Pamela Harding.”

  Sara quit giggling. “Pamela is not a snob.”

  “Oh, sure she is,” said Audrey. “She is always bragging about something. It is always her mother this, her sister that. All she talks about is how much better her old house was, and her old school. Haven’t you heard her?”