“Excellent!” cried Joey. “Can we see it all?”
“Definitely.” We were in the living room, and I poured the contents of the box onto the rug, which made Joey look nervous. “Don’t worry,” I said. “We’ll clean it all up before your parents come home. I just wanted you to see everything.”
At that, Joey and Nate seemed to forget their worries. They started going through the pile, exclaiming over each “find.”
“Check it out!” cried Nate, holding up a Star Wars figure. “It’s See-Threepio.”
“Can I read this?” asked Joey, picking out an old Encyclopedia Brown book.
The boys had a blast going through my Kid-Kit. Finally, we settled down to play a game of checkers, me against both boys. Joey was a good player, and before long the boys’ team was way ahead. Then Nate started whispering to Joey — I could have sworn he said something like “Better let her win” — and soon after that the game turned around and I ended up with about eight “kings” in five minutes.
After I won, the boys rummaged through the books and games again. Nate picked up a dogeared, ancient copy of The Runaway Bunny and began to look through the pages, while Joey chose some markers. “Do you have any paper?” I asked him.
“There’s some in the desk over there,” he said, “but I’m not sure —”
“It’s just paper,” I said, interrupting him. “Nobody’s going to be upset if we take one piece.” We went to the desk together, and Joey showed me which drawer to open. I pulled out a sheet of plain paper, noticing that Joey was busy rearranging a small bowl of paper clips I’d nudged out of place. He put it back in its original spot, very carefully. I realized that Mr. Nicholls must like a tidy desk as much as he liked a tidy kitchen.
“Oh, no!” Nate suddenly cried. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”
“What is it?” I asked, rushing to him to see what was wrong.
He looked up at me and I saw fear in his eyes. “I — I tore your book,” he said, showing me a page with a tiny tear in it. “I’ll buy you a new one as soon as I can save up my allowance, I promise. Please, I’m really sorry.”
He truly seemed to think I’d be furious with him for making a small tear in an old book. I reached out to pat his shoulder, and he jerked back. “Nate,” I said, pulling my hand away and speaking as gently as I could. “It’s really all right. That book is so old it would be hard not to tear the pages while you read it. I am not mad at all.”
What was going on here? Had the boys had some terrible experience with a baby-sitter? Or was it me? Maybe I had done something to upset them. I watched the boys as they returned — carefully — to reading and drawing. I couldn’t figure out what was making them so nervous.
“How about a snack?” I asked finally. “Are you two hungry?”
Nate nodded. So did Joey. They followed me into the kitchen. I opened the cupboard over the fridge and began to pull down boxes.
“Not those crackers,” said Joey. “We’re not allowed to have those.”
“We can’t have those cookies either,” Nate said, pointing to a bag. “Those are for Dad.”
“Okay,” I said. “How about some fruit?” A bowl full of apples, pears, and oranges was on the counter.
“That’s for after dinner,” Joey said. “But we could have some carrots or celery.”
Finally I’d found something they could eat. But celery didn’t sound too exciting. Unless — “Do you have any peanut butter?” I asked.
Nate pointed to another cabinet next to the fridge. “It’s in there,” he said.
“And is it okay to use some?” I asked.
The boys looked at each other. Then they nodded. “I think it’s okay,” said Joey.
“Great,” I said. I found a knife and began spreading peanut butter onto celery sticks. Just as I’d finished the first one, the doorbell rang. I put down the knife, wiped my hands on a paper towel, and ran for the door with Joey and Nate trailing behind me.
I opened the door to find Mr. Nicholls standing there, looking a little sheepish. “I forgot my keys,” he explained. He came in and looked the boys over. “Have you been good this afternoon?” he asked.
Joey and Nate nodded. Mr. Nicholls looked at me, and I found myself nodding too. “They’re always good,” I said.
“That’s what I like to hear,” said Mr. Nicholls over his shoulder as he headed for the kitchen. He was taking off his suit jacket and loosening his tie as he walked.
The boys and I went into the living room to put the toys and things back into my Kid-Kit. I was just dropping the last of the markers into their box when I sensed someone in the doorway. I looked up to see Mr. Nicholls standing there, holding the jar of peanut butter. I’d forgotten about our snack. It had seemed more important to clean up the living room.
“Who left this open on the counter?” he asked in a very quiet voice.
For a second, nobody answered. “I said, who left the peanut butter open on the counter?” Now his voice was much louder.
The boys didn’t answer. I saw them draw closer together. I was so surprised that I couldn’t say a word.
“I’m going to ask one more time,” said Mr. Nicholls. And then he began to shout. “WHO LEFT THE —”
“I did,” I said quickly. “It was me. I’m sorry. I was making us a snack when the doorbell rang, and —”
“No problem,” said Mr. Nicholls calmly. “Please forgive me for hollering. I thought it was one of my dumb, slobby sons who did it.”
I was shocked. I’d never heard a parent talk that way. But Nate and Joey didn’t even seem to notice.
“Now, can I offer you a ride home?” asked Mr. Nicholls. He sounded relaxed, even friendly.
“Thanks, no,” I said quickly. “I can walk. It’s not far.” I could not fathom the idea of being alone in a car with Mr. Nicholls just then.
On my way out, I remembered something. “Hey,” I said to the boys and their father. “Tomorrow there’s going to be a planning meeting for the St. Patrick’s Day parade. I’ll take you guys, if you’d like to come, and if it’s okay. They’ll meet lots of kids there,” I pointed out.
“I suppose it’s all right,” said Mr. Nicholls. I could tell he was still trying to be nice. “As long as you promise to tell me if my boys misbehave.”
“Sure,” I said. I knew Joey and Nate would behave just fine. They were good kids. I glanced at them on my way out, and when I saw their faces I could tell they were sorry to see me leave. I knew then that they hadn’t had a bad experience with a baby-sitter.
I wasn’t the one they were afraid of.
Since Mal and Jessi were going to be sitting for Mal’s brothers and sisters on Friday afternoon, they offered to host the St. Patrick’s Day planning session. By the end of the day the kids had finally agreed on a great idea for the parade, but the process hadn’t exactly been smooth.
The Pikes’ lawn may never be smooth again either.
The kids were pretty excited about St. Patrick’s Day. Jessi sensed that the moment she arrived at the Pikes’ with her sister, Becca (who’s eight), and Becca’s friend Charlotte Johanssen (also eight).
“Top o’ the mornin’ to you!” yelled Adam, one of the ten-year-old Pike triplets, when Becca and Charlotte entered the yard. It was one of those warm, springlike days early March can bring. The grass was just beginning to turn green, little sprouts of tulip leaves were starting to push up in the flower garden, and a lone robin patrolled near the apple tree.
“It’s not morning, silly,” answered Charlotte.
“Top o’ the afternoon, then,” called Byron, another triplet.
The third triplet, Jordan, was hanging upside down by his knees from a branch of a nearby tree. “Bottom o’ the afternoon,” he shouted, cracking himself up. “Get it? Because I’m upside down?”
Becca and Charlotte exchanged a Look, rolling their eyes. They may be younger than the Pike triplets, but, as Becca once pointed out to Jessi, “girls mature faster than boys.”
&nb
sp; Claire and Margo, Mal’s youngest sisters (Claire is five, Margo’s seven), were busy playing “I Spy” — with an Irish twist. Everything they described had to be green and something else.
“I Spy with my little eye,” chanted Margo, “something green and fuzzy.”
Claire looked around. Then her eye lit upon Jessi. “Jessi’s sweater!” she yelled. “My turn.” She looked around again. “I Spy with my little eye … something green and slimy!”
“Boogers!” cried Nicky, her eight-year-old brother.
“Ew,” said Margo.
“Nicky!” yelled Claire, stamping her foot. “You’re not even playing. And anyway, I don’t see any boogers.”
“I do,” said Nicky with a wicked grin. “They’re hanging out of your nose.” Laughing, he ran off before Claire could catch him.
“What did you see, anyway?” asked Margo curiously.
“A frog,” said Claire, pointing. “That plastic one we lost last fall. I guess it isn’t slimy, but a real frog would be.”
Vanessa wandered over and picked up the frog. “I wonder if this frog is Irish,” she said. “Can you imagine him dancing a jig?” She paused to think. “A pig doing a jig would rhyme better,” she mused. “Maybe the frog should be dancing a jog.”
Vanessa wants to be a poet when she’s older. (She’s nine now.) She spends a lot of time thinking up rhymes.
Mal and Jessi were sitting on the porch, watching all of this, when Kristy showed up with her stepsister, Karen (she’s seven); her stepbrother, Andrew (four); and her brother David Michael, who’s seven like Karen. The kids scattered to play with their friends, and Kristy plopped down next to Mal and Jessi.
“How’s the planning going?” she asked.
Mal and Jessi looked at each other. “Oops,” Mal replied.
Jessi smacked herself on the forehead. “I knew there was something we forgot!”
Kristy folded her arms and frowned. She was about to say something when Mal and Jessi started laughing.
“Just kidding,” said Mal. “We thought we’d let the kids hang out for a bit first.”
Kristy relaxed. “Good idea,” she said. She stretched and yawned. “This sun feels great.”
The three of them sat and chatted for a while until the sounds of arguing interrupted their peace.
“You faker,” Nicky was yelling.
“It’s not real,” shouted Claire. “No fair!”
“You don’t win the race,” said Becca. “Cheater, cheater,” she began to chant.
“What’s going on?” Mal asked.
Adam, who was the one everyone was yelling at, answered, “We were having a contest to see who could find the first four-leaf clover because it’s like a shamrock and it’s Irish. Plus, it’s lucky.”
“Uh-huh,” Mal said. She knew there must be more.
“And I found one,” said Adam. “See?” he held up his fist.
Mal leaned close to look. “It sure looks like one,” she said.
“Make him hand it over,” cried Margo.
Mal held out her hand. Reluctantly, Adam gave her the “shamrock.” It fell apart in Mal’s hand. “It’s two clovers you were holding together,” she said. “The others are right.”
Adam hung his head. “I was just playing.”
“I know,” said Mal gently. “No big deal.” Then she looked around. “Oh, my lord,” she cried. “This is a big deal. What did you guys do to this lawn?” She could see dozens of bare patches where the kids had been pulling up clumps of grass in their hurry to win the contest. “What a mess!” she wailed. “We have to fix this up.”
“How about later?” called Kristy. I’d just arrived with Nate and Joey, and Kristy had decided it was time to start planning.
Mal took one last look at the lawn, sighed, and agreed. “How about if we all sit on the grass over here?” she asked.
Kristy, Jessi, and I helped round up all the kids. As we were organizing them into a circle, I heard Nate say to Joey, “Better not sit on the grass. You might stain your pants.”
Joey nodded. “Okay. I’ll sit on that stone,” he said, pointing to a flat rock. “You can sit on your jacket because it’s dark. Stains won’t show.”
Ordinarily, I would have told my charges not to worry. Now, after I’d seen Mr. Nicholls blow up over an open jar of peanut butter, I wasn’t so sure. The boys were probably right to be careful. But it made me sad.
“Okay,” said Kristy, after she’d whistled for everyone’s attention. “Some of you have mentioned wanting to march in the St. Patrick’s Day parade that Stoneybrook is sponsoring this year. Any ideas about what we could do that would be special and fun?”
Andrew, who was sitting between Joey and me, said something I couldn’t quite hear.
“Speak up, dummy! Nobody can hear you,” said Joey.
Andrew looked as if he were about to burst into tears.
I was shocked. I hadn’t heard Joey talk that way before. I could see that my friends were surprised too. “Joey, calling names can hurt people’s feelings,” I said. “You could ask him nicely.”
Joey looked ashamed. “I didn’t mean —” he began. “Sorry,” he said to Andrew. “I just wanted to make sure everyone could hear your idea.” He looked at me as if to ask if that was better. I nodded.
“What was it, Andrew?” asked Kristy.
“I said I wanted us to have a marching band with big hats,” he said. Everyone cracked up.
“I know what he means,” Kristy said. “We went to the St. Patrick’s Day parade in New York City once, and Andrew loved those guys in the big, tall, furry hats. They play bagpipes.”
“We could do that!” cried Margo.
Kristy rolled her eyes. She hates bagpipes.
“I don’t know,” said Mal. “I think it might be pretty hard to learn to play bagpipes by St. Patrick’s Day.”
Kristy shot Mal a grateful look.
“Well, how about just the marching part?” asked Becca. “We could learn to do a march together.”
“What if we dance instead of march?” asked Karen. “I remember those dancing girls in the parade.” She stood up and did an imitation of an Irish dancer, feet moving quickly and arms held straight down by her sides.
“Hey, that’s great!” said Joey, sounding more like the boy I knew. He stood up and started dancing too.
“Irish dancing,” mused Jessi. “That sounds like a great parade idea.”
“But I was thinking of a float,” I said. “Something with an Irish theme. And the kids could be dressed like leprechauns, and —”
“A float is too complicated,” said Kristy. “You have to build it, and paint it, and everything.”
“And paint is too messy,” Nate agreed. I had a feeling he was worrying again about staining his clothes. “Let’s just be dancers.”
“Can we at least make costumes?” I asked. The dancing sounded good, but I wanted to be involved too, and I don’t know much about dance.
Everyone agreed that costumes would be great, and we started thinking of ideas. Then, suddenly, Claire rolled over in the grass and gave a loud shriek.
“What is it?” asked Mal, rushing to her.
“I found one! I found one!” She was on her feet now, dancing around, holding something in her fist. Guess what it was?
A genuine four-leaf clover.
“Who’s the bounciest baby,” I sang as I walked around the kitchen with Lynn on my hip. “Who’s the jounciest girl?”
Lynn giggled. She loves the little songs I make up for her.
I tested the formula I was heating. Nope, still too cold. I walked around some more. It was late Saturday afternoon, and before long I was going to have to leave Lynn in order to sit for the Nicholls boys. Now, I’d enjoyed sitting for the Nicholls boys, and I was looking forward to sitting for them again. But I didn’t want to go just then. It meant giving up my last few hours with Lynn. While I was away, Peaches and Russ would come by to pick her up and take her home. “I hope your mommy
and daddy had a great vacation,” I told my cousin, rubbing noses with her. “I mean really really great, so they’ll do it again soon!”
Lynn gurgled her agreement. She was such a happy baby.
I thought of Joey and Nate. Had they been happy babies too? Or had they always been nervous and shy? I had a feeling I knew the answer. Their personalities probably had a lot to do with the environment they’d grown up in. Mr. Nicholls was not exactly the sweet, loving, supportive type of parent I was used to. But I didn’t want to judge him. I knew he was probably raising his kids the way he believed was right. Every parent has different ideas about how to bring up good kids.
“We’re lucky, you and I,” I told Lynn as I nuzzled her neck. I didn’t remember my parents ever yelling at me or Janine the way Mr. Nicholls yelled at Joey and Nate. And I knew neither Russ nor Peaches would ever blow up at Lynn for doing something as minor as leaving a jar of peanut butter out on the counter.
I chatted with Lynn some more as I fed her a bottle and burped her. Then I changed her one last time and dressed her in the blue romper she looks so great in.
Finally, reluctantly, I gave her one more kiss and handed her over to my mom. It was time for me to leave for the Nichollses’.
* * *
“Well, hello, Claudia,” said Mr. Nicholls, opening the door wide. I had to admit that he was always very nice to me. In fact, his friendliness made me doubt my memories of how stern he could be. Maybe I’d exaggerated his yelling and his strict rules.
“Honey, Claudia’s here,” he called up the stairs. Then he turned back to me. “You’ll be giving the boys dinner,” he said. “Everything’s ready to stick into the microwave, and there’s plenty for you as well.”
He checked his watch, then looked up the stairs again, tapping his foot impatiently. “Let’s move it, slowpoke,” he yelled harshly. Then he grinned at me and shook his head. “Women,” he said.
I didn’t know what to say. After all, I am — or will be soon — a woman myself. And I didn’t think it was very nice of him to speak to his wife that way, even if he was joking. But I didn’t feel it was my place to challenge him, so I just gave him a weak smile in return.
Claudia and the Terrible Truth Page 3