“Yeah?” Alan thought for a minute. Then he said, “But if I try to be myself — both myselves — what if you don’t like that? I mean, I’m not even sure exactly who that Alan is.”
I thought about all the ways people tried to find themselves, whether it was searching for birth parents or reading books or making art. It was never ending. You’d get one answer and see another question. I said slowly, “I guess figuring out who you are takes time. Maybe it takes your whole life.”
“You’re not sure yet?” Alan asked.
I looked up. Alan was grinning.
“Not yet. But I’m working on it. And I know one thing about me. I’ve learned that being honest is really important to me. So I’ll like you no matter what, as long as you’re honest.”
Alan put one hand over his heart and raised the other. “I promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”
Then he reached out and caught my hand. “Now, when is my next date with the Baby-sitters Club?”
“Put the bowls of potato salad at each end of the table so the tablecloth doesn’t blow away,” Kristy ordered. “And don’t forget to cover the food, or you’ll have flies all over it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Cary Retlin. He gave an exaggerated bow, hoisted one of the two huge bowls of potato salad from our kitchen counter, and headed out the door to the backyard.
Alan grabbed a flyswatter from a hook on the wall by the door and said, “I’ll stand guard over the food.”
Kristy rolled her eyes. But she said, “You don’t get off that easily, Alan. Fill those glasses with ice and set them out on the table.”
Just then, Stacey came into the kitchen and grabbed two more bottles of soda. “We’re almost ready,” she said.
Kristy waved an impatient hand. “Salt, pepper? Mustard, ketchup?” she barked, one eye on the oven.
I took pity on her. “I’ll watch the cookies, Kristy. I can load some stuff into the dishwasher while I do it. You go make sure everything is running smoothly.”
“Okay,” said Kristy, and charged out of the kitchen after Dawn.
We were having a Saturday picnic in my backyard: Alan, Kristy, Dawn, Mallory, Jessi, Stacey, Abby, Mary Anne, Cary, Pete, and Erica. Kristy’s brother Charlie, who’d given Kristy, Abby, and the potato salad a ride to my house, had also decided to hang around and had somehow made himself chef in charge of the gas grill. Wrapped in an apron, he was tending hot dogs, veggie burgers, and buns as they cooked. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the neighborhood kids didn’t find their way to the food and festivities before it was over.
It was a party. It was a celebration. I’d gone whole artistic hog: streamers, balloons in the trees, a “found-art” centerpiece made of pinecones, leaves, flowers, and an assortment of costume jewelry. We’d all brought our favorite food. Dawn and Mary Anne were busy putting the finishing touches on homemade ice cream, and Alan and I had made M&M cookies.
I slipped the cookies out of the oven. I heard Kristy say, “Abby, Jessi, stop playing soccer and come help set the table.”
Alan grinned. “She’s bossy.”
“Organized,” I corrected him, smiling back. “She prefers ‘organized.’ ” I pulled the cookies out of the oven.
Alan cleared a space on the table and put down a trivet so I could set the cookie sheet on it.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Nothing any organized person wouldn’t have done.”
“Chips,” Pete called through the door. Without pausing, Alan scooped up a bag of chips and said, “Go long!”
He fired the chips through the doorway as if they were a football.
“Touchdown!” Alan shouted, and then I heard a shriek and a crash. Pete had collided with Mary Anne and a bowl of dill pickles. Both of them were now wearing pickles, and Pete had fallen on the bag of chips.
“Who threw those chips?” I heard Kristy shout.
“Could I tell just a little lie now?” Alan asked me.
“No,” I said, trying not to laugh.
Alan went to the door, fell to his knees, and threw out his arms. “It was me,” he said. “I cannot tell a lie. I put Mary Anne and Pete into this pickle.”
Abby laughed, and I saw Cary shake his head and grin. Pete rolled off the bag of chips and held it up. “Good-bye, Mr. Chips,” he said.
Abby laughed harder.
Kristy rolled her eyes. Then she said to Alan, “On your feet. This is your punishment. You have to pick up all the pickles. And then you have to say, ‘If Alan Gray picked a peck of pickled peppers, how many pecks of pickled peppers did Alan Gray pick?’ three times very fast before you can have dessert.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Alan, jumping to his feet.
“Come on,” Mary Anne said to Pete, “let’s go wash off the pickle juice.”
Alan turned to me. I rolled my eyes. “You’re too much,” I said.
“As long as I’m not too much for you,” he answered, sounding anxious and hopeful.
“No,” I replied, touched.
“Good.” He smiled. It wasn’t a goofy grin. It was a sort of special smile, one that he seemed to have saved for me. Then he said, “I like going out with the BSC. Really I do. But I guess I’d like to think of just you as my, uh, girlfriend.”
I gulped. Possibly I blushed. Then I said, “Okay, boyfriend.”
Alan’s smile was huge and wonderful.
I smiled back. “Better go pick that peck of pickled peppers,” I said.
We had a grand picnic, flies, pickle juice, smashed potato chips, and all. As Mary Anne and Dawn dished out ice cream at the end and I stuck cookies in each bowl, I looked up and down the two picnic tables we’d put together and felt happy to my toes.
Alan, who was sitting next to me, stood up after he’d been served his dish of ice cream. “Attention,” he said.
Then he recited the pickled-pepper tongue twister three times.
Perfectly.
When he had finished, he bowed, reached down and grabbed my hand, and raised it in his.
The table broke into cheers and applause. My face turned red, but I didn’t let go of Alan’s hand.
Whatever happened, Alan and I and all my friends were in it together.
And whatever happened, with Alan Gray around, it was bound to be pretty amazingly interesting.
The author gratefully acknowledges
Nola Thacker
for her help in
preparing this manuscript.
About the Author
ANN M. MARTIN is the acclaimed and bestselling author of a number of novels and series, including Belle Teal, A Corner of the Universe (a Newbery Honor book), A Dog’s Life, Here Today, P.S. Longer Letter Later (written with Paula Danziger), the Family Tree series, the Doll People series (written with Laura Godwin), the Main Street series, and the generation-defining series The Baby-sitters Club. She lives in New York.
Copyright © 2000 by Ann M. Martin
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business e
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First edition, 2000
e-ISBN 978-0-545-87519-6
Claudia and the Disaster Date Page 8